Fall From Grace. KRISTI GOLD

      Fall from Grace

      Kristi Gold

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To my mother, Jean,

       for surviving all the storms with such grace.

      Contents

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      CHAPTER 1

      CHAPTER 2

      CHAPTER 3

      CHAPTER 4

      CHAPTER 5

      CHAPTER 6

      CHAPTER 7

      CHAPTER 8

      CHAPTER 9

      CHAPTER 10

      CHAPTER 11

      CHAPTER 12

      CHAPTER 13

      CHAPTER 14

      CHAPTER 15

      CHAPTER 16

      CHAPTER 17

      CHAPTER 18

      Acknowledgments

      Many thanks to Dr. Don Lewis and Linda Carol Trotter,

       R.N., for lending their labor and delivery expertise.

      And as always, to my husband, Steve, for guiding

       me through the ins and outs of neurology.

      Any errors in accuracy are my own.

      CHAPTER 1

      Beat, dammit. Beat…

      As if empowered by the surgeon’s silent command, the lifeless heart resumed a steady rhythm, again taking its place among the living, cheating death. Only then did Dr. Jack Morgan allow himself to relax.

      At this point during surgery, adrenaline normally coursed through Jack’s veins, creating a high that kept him running on all cylinders despite a career that might kill a lesser man. Tonight, he was to-the-bone weary. Too tired for someone still not quite fifty. His limbs felt oddly heavy, weighted with fatigue. But organ donors were few and far between, and failing hearts didn’t give a rat’s ass about his schedule, holidays or his exhaustion.

      After stepping back from the table, he addressed the third-year resident at his side. “You can close, Murray.”

      “Yes, sir.” Her expression reflected gratitude and the same thrill Jack had experienced during his tenure as a student years earlier. That thrill that had been waning for some time now.

      While Murray completed the procedure, Jack surveyed the O.R., absorbing the atmosphere he’d so often taken for granted. This was his domain, among friends and colleagues and those patients who needed his skill. The culmination of all his sacrifice, all his blood, sweat and tears.

      His efforts, though, had not come without a price. No one waited for him at home. No one had for a while. And for some unknown reason, that bothered him more tonight than at any time in his recent past.

      Not one to question moods, Jack gave Murray his verbal approval, along with the standard orders for the recovery process. Then he thanked the team members for a job well done, wished them a happy and prosperous 2007, tossed his gloves and gown into the refuse bin and headed out the double doors to tell the family the father of four now had a new heart and a sound future, barring complications and a lapse into an unhealthy lifestyle. For a brief moment he thought about the motorcycle-accident victim, a twenty-year-old kid who hadn’t lived to see the arrival of the new year. But he didn’t dwell on that. His sanity demanded he remain detached.

      After rounding the corner, Jack stopped at the nurses’ station, where Peg Jennings sat with her half-glasses perched on the end of her nose as she scanned a chart. He sought refuge at the counter and leaned his full frame against the cold Formica ledge, flexing the tingling fingers of his right hand in and out of a fist. “Where’re the Graysons?”

      “On the roof. Where else?”

      Peg was a Dallas Regional Medical Center fixture, with twenty years’ tenure and a wit as dry as West Texas. Jack liked her a lot. She wasn’t inclined to cower and she sure as hell wasn’t impressed with his status. She did have a propensity for sarcasm, though. He didn’t need that right now, considering the bongo drum pounding in his head.

      His annoyance came out in a rough sigh. “What conference room, Peg?”

      “The main one.” She set the chart aside and steepled her fingers beneath her chin, studying him with concern. “Dr. Morgan, you look like hell. Are you okay?”

      “Sure.” Since he’d had less than six hours’sleep the past two nights, not to mention he hadn’t finished lunch or breakfast, he was as okay as could be expected. He needed a solid surface to sleep on, a couple of analgesics, a quick shower—after he met with the family.

      As he turned from the station, a searing pain struck the left side of his skull. He clamped his hands over the sides of his head and fought the shadowy abyss that stretched out before him. Fought like a drowning man not to go under.

      His knees buckled. A feeling of total helplessness screamed through his brain at breakneck speed. Numbness overtook the right side of his body like frostbite in subzero temperatures. He grabbed for the counter, but couldn’t hold on.

      God, no!

      Annie appeared in his hazy mind, an ethereal presence from a dark place this side of hell. Her hands reached out to him, but he couldn’t move. He called to her, a desperate keening cry, yet no sound left his lips. Then she walked away, as she had before.

      Too late, Jack…it’s too late.

      As the blackness closed in, reality settled over him like a thick suffocating fog. For the first time in his life, Dr. Jack Morgan, fearless surgeon, was truly afraid.

      And completely alone.

      

      Stroke.

      The word echoed like a canyon shout in Anne Cooper Morgan’s addled brain, blocking out the flurry of activity in the Intensive Care corridor, where she had been summoned only moments earlier.

      Anne stared blankly at the messenger, Hank Steinberg, Jack’s internist and good friend. Her one-time good friend, before her and Jack’s divorce. “There has to be some mistake, Hank.”

      He scrubbed a hand over his bearded jaw. “No mistake, Anne.”

      Not Jack. No way could this have happened to Jack. As far back as Anne could remember, her ex-husband had never caught a cold, even when their daughter, Katie, had brought several viruses home from day care. Jack was obscenely healthy. An avid runner. In all the years Anne had known him, he’d never missed a day of work over health-related problems. He was immortal in everyone’s eyes, including his own.

      Anne’s shock yielded to harsh reality. “How? Why?”

      “Aneurysm,” Hank said. “He bled out night before last, on New Year’s Eve.”

      “Why didn’t someone tell me before now?” She knew the answer to that—because she no longer had a right to know.

      “I was out of town, so I didn’t learn about it until this morning. I called you as soon as I had the details.”

      Anne needed more details, although true comprehension still escaped her. “What next?”

      “Nan Travers is treating him, which is good, since she’s the best neurosurgeon in town. In a couple of hours, she’ll determine if he’s stable enough for surgery.”

      “If