Triple Threat (20 page)

He took a sip then sank back against the pillow. “Better. What happened?”

“The police said one of the lights came down. You were lucky. It missed your head and caught you on the shoulder. But you lost consciousness when you fell.”

He didn’t feel lucky. More like cursed. Maybe Marisa had a point.

Marisa.
She’d been standing right next to him. Nick tried to sit up. “Marisa. Is she...?”

“She’s fine.” His mother brushed a lock of hair off his forehead and held out the cup for him to take another sip. “You pushed her out of harm’s way.”

“Good.” With a relieved sigh, he closed his eyes. After a few minutes, he felt strong enough to open them again and brave the fluorescent glare. “How did you know I was hurt?”

“Your girlfriend called me.”

“Holly?”

“She’s lovely, Nicky. And she obviously cares for you a great deal.”

That was both exactly what he wanted to hear and what he didn’t. The more she cared about him, the harder it was going to be for him to leave her when the time came. “Where...?”

“She went to get me some coffee.”

Damn, his mom was good. They spent most of their lives three thousand miles apart, and she could still finish his sentences for him.

“Dad?” he ventured, for some perverse reason needing her to voice what he already knew.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I tried. You know how stubborn he is. He calls it ‘tough love.’”

“He’s got the ‘tough’ part down. ‘Love’? Not so much.”

“He’s a fool.” A rogue tear rolled down her cheek and she swiped it away.

“It’s okay, Mom.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re here. I’m surprised he agreed to that.”

“He didn’t.” More tears, which his mother wiped with a tissue she pulled from her sweater. She had a pile going on the bedside table. “But I told him I had to come. That you’re our son, whether he liked it or not.”

Nick rubbed his forehead, convinced he’d entered the twilight zone. Either that or the light had hit him harder than anyone realized. Because he could have sworn his mother said she’d stood up for him against his father for the first time in, well, ever. “I’m sure that went over big.”

She lifted her free hand, palm up, in an “oh, well” gesture. “He’ll learn to deal with it if he wants his shirts pressed and dinner on the table at six.”

“Seriously, Ma.” Gritting his teeth, Nick managed to pull himself up a few inches, which his mother took as an invitation to force-feed him some more water. “He must be pissed as hell. He’s probably trashing the place as we speak. You can’t go back there.”

“Your father’s better now about throwing things. But he’s still unforgiving about dinnertime. And only light starch on his shirts.”

Nick groaned. “For God’s sake, Ma. You’re his wife, not a servant. I’m hiring a housekeeper and a cook. Hopefully, they can keep each other sane working for Dad. And you’d have time to do something for yourself for a change.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“What about the community garden? You used to love it there.”

“Yes, I did.” Her gaze became unfocused and her smile seemed faraway. “There’s nothing quite like a row of sunflowers standing guard over ripe vegetables.”

Her voice drifted off and he sat in silence, watching her daydream about gardens past.

Was she losing it? She seemed so much smaller—and not just physically—than she had when he was growing up. In their weekly phone calls, she always steered the conversation to him, as if she had nothing to say about her own life. Probably because she didn’t have much of one. His father had cut her off from everything—and everyone—she loved.

“So go back. You belong there. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to have you.”

“But how would I explain it to your father?”

He sighed. “Refuse to use the staff if you want, but I’m paying for them either way.”

“Nicky!” His mother adjusted his blanket so it came up under his chin, making him feel a little like one of the mummies at the Museum of Natural History. “Such a waste. You wouldn’t dare.”

“Look at me, Ma.” He shook off the blanket. “I’m not kidding.” Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner? He couldn’t believe after so much time it was this easy. The sliver of a person left in his mother’s shell needed some time away from his father and out of that house of depression and angst.

“Well, then.” She made a little humming sound, like her planning gears were kicking into motion. “I wouldn’t want your money to go to waste. You work so hard. I’ll tell your father they’re my birthday gift. Would that be okay?”

Thank God.
“That’s fine, Ma. Whatever works.”

She stood and leaned over the bed rail to give him a gentle hug. “Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself, too. You work too hard. Enjoy yourself a little more. Maybe take that nice girl of yours on vacation.”

“How about I take my two best girls on vacation when the show closes?” Nick asked when she reluctantly released him. By then he’d convince Holly to come clean about their relationship, at least to their friends and families. “The south of France sound good? Brad and Angelina offered to let me use their château in Brignoles.”

“Brangelina?” She sucked in a breath and flushed, yet another victim of celebrity fever.

“Still reading the gossip rags, I see.” He chuckled.

She ignored the dig, still lost in a starstruck trance. “I don’t know, Nicky. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Nick’s headache faded, and a weight lifted off his chest. “You won’t, Ma. Honest. They’ve got, like, thirty bedrooms. And a moat. I’ll have my travel agent get you a passport and ticket.”

“What will I tell your father?” He started to say he’d take care of the old man, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Never mind. I know.” She bounced on her toes like a giddy schoolgirl. “I’ll tell him it’s my Christmas present.”

* * *

H
E WAS AWAKE
. Holly paused with her hand on the doorknob and listened, letting her heart flutter through its celebratory happy dance. The doctors said he’d be fine, but this was better. This was proof.

She could hear Nick’s voice alternating with his mom’s, both thick with emotion. She waited, not wanting to interrupt what was obviously a sensitive moment. When Nick dropped Brad’s and Angelina’s names, she figured the moment had passed and the coast was clear. With a not-so-subtle cough to announce her presence, she pushed the door open and went in.

“Here’s your coffee.” She handed the disposable cup to Nick’s mother and planted a kiss on the side of his face. “You scared us to death.”

He looked pale and haggard. She took a deep breath to avoid the onset of another crying jag.

“I’m sure you two could use a few minutes to yourselves.” Nick’s mother rose and crossed to the door. “I’m going to call your father. He might not admit it, but he’ll want to know you’re all right.”

The
whoosh
of the door echoed in her wake.

Holly fiddled with a thread on her shirtsleeve, not sure where to begin now that they were alone. She looked around the cold, antiseptic room and shivered, the pervasive smell of disinfectant, mixed with sickness, making her stomach churn. Memories of her last hospital visit overwhelmed her.

The pain.

The loneliness.

The loss.

“You okay?” Nick’s voice, warm and gentle, snapped her out of her trance.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’ll be fine. Just tired.”

“They’re probably going to want to keep you overnight for observation. You were woozy for a while there.”

“I think in this case I can live with one night.” He managed a suggestive eyebrow waggle and she flushed, remembering the one-night, no-strings ultimatum she’d given him in New York. She’d been way off base that time. Hopefully, today’s prediction was more accurate.

A flash of pain crossed Nick’s face and he grimaced, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back into the pillow. Her heart lurched and she ached to crawl into the tiny bed with him, press herself against his back and soothe him with her entire body.

Not good.

It was time for some damage control. She took a long, deep breath and silently chanted what had become her inner mantra:
be casual.

In a month, the show would be over and he’d move on to his next project. His next girl. All she had to do was use that time to wean herself off him, like a smoker on the nicotine patch. Except there wasn’t a patch or gum to help her get over Nick. She’d have to do that all by herself.

His life was so different from hers. Brad and Angelina. European castles. Red-carpet premieres. Pretending she’d fit in was like acting out a play in her bedroom. Pure fantasy.

“I should go. You need to rest. Plus, the gang in the waiting room’s probably desperate for news. Someone’s got to stop them from storming the nurses’ station.”

He cracked one eye open. “Don’t you want to wait for the doctor?”

“Your mom’s got that covered. And I’ll be back soon for a full report.” She stood and started to release his hand, but he managed to hang on and pull her toward the bed.

“Can I get a goodbye kiss?” Both eyes open now, he mustered a smile, still devastating, even at half strength.

I love you.

Words she’d never hear from him.

And never say.

“Sure you’re up for it?”

“Just a small one.” He tapped his cheek with one finger. “Right here. To speed my recovery.”

“Well, if it’s for your health...” She bent down, lightly bussed his cheek, then scurried back a safe distance.

The man was her kryptonite, and she needed to survive their contact. Distance was essential.

“I feel better already.” With a low moan that contradicted his words, he closed his eyes again and relaxed his grip on her hand.

Holly slipped from his grasp and out the door. Her footsteps quickened as she made her way down the hall to the waiting area, where a mob of anxious cast and crew members—and media and fans, if news of Nick’s accident had leaked out—would swarm her for information the second she came through the security door.

She rounded the corner and braced herself for the explosion. No matter what was on the other side of that door, one thing was sure. She’d be safer with the crowd out there than in that suffocatingly small hospital room, alone with Nick.

19

“
C
AN
I
GET
you some coffee, Mr. Damone? Or maybe a water?”

Nick was about to snap. He could get his own damn drink if he was thirsty. All the tests were negative and the doctor said he was ready for anything, but the way everyone at the theater was babying him, you’d think he was Tiny freaking Tim.

Then he saw the fresh-faced PA’s earnest expression, and his words died in his throat. It wasn’t this guy’s fault Nick was in a pissy mood. What was his name? Les? No, Wes. He seemed like a decent guy, always the first one to jump up and offer assistance. Nick had seen him doing everything from ironing costumes to hanging lights.

“Thanks, Wes. Water would be great.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Damone.” Wes ran off in the direction of the greenroom.

“And you don’t have to rush,” Nick called to the PA’s back. “It’s not like I’m going to have you fired if you’re not back in ten.”

Like some people.

He stretched his legs and turned his attention back to his script. He had twenty minutes before rehearsal started, and with opening night less than two days away he needed every one of them to review Ethan’s eleventh-hour blocking changes.

Cast and crew trickled in, greeting Nick and asking how he was feeling. Marisa gave him her cell number and told him to call her anytime—day or night—if he needed anything, and even Malcolm offered to bring him dinner and run lines together. He answered them politely but noncommittally, crumpling up Marisa’s number and stuffing it in his pants pocket, then went back to work, burying his head in his script until the one person he wanted to see showed up.

Holly.

She’d stayed with him last night, waking him every couple of hours to make sure he was okay. But she hadn’t slept with him. Not in the biblical or the literal sense. She’d insisted on taking the pullout in what passed for a living room, saying he needed a good night’s sleep. Alone. And this morning, she’d left as soon as he was awake, claiming she had to meet with Ethan and the Aaronsons before rehearsal.

“Here’s your water, Mr. Damone.” Wes appeared at Nick’s side, handed him a bottle and scurried away before Nick could even thank him.

“Okay, everyone.” Ethan stood center stage, flanked by Holly’s firefighter friend, Cade, and a police officer. The Aaronsons hung back, stage left, but there was no sign of Holly. “Take a seat.”

“What’s with the cop?” Malcolm asked, sliding into the seat next to Nick.

“Looks like we’re about to find out.”

“As you can see, some members of local law enforcement are here today and they’re going to be with us for the rest of our run.” Ethan held up a hand to stem the uproar that arose at his announcement. “Be patient, and Sergeant Chang will explain everything.”

Ethan gestured to the police officer, who stepped forward. “The accident that injured Mr. Damone is under investigation. Until we determine the cause, Lieutenant Hardesty from the fire marshal’s office and I will be checking IDs at the stage door and patrolling the backstage area. During performances, we’ll have extra security in the house, as well.”

“So you think someone was trying to hurt Nick?” one of the stagehands asked from the back row.

“We haven’t ruled anything out,” Cade stepped in to answer. “But with the fire, and the other suspicious incidents in New York, anything’s possible.”

Jesus Christ.

An audible hum spread throughout the theater, and Nick gripped the water bottle so tight the plastic crackled in his fist. Even after the arson, he hadn’t wanted to believe someone was targeting them. Fires happened every day. So did power outages and food poisoning. He’d been too muddled in the hospital to put the pieces together, but now that his brain was semifunctional again, his near miss was too much for him to write off as coincidence.