The Other Amanda. Lynn Leslie

uncle?”

      “No luck so far. Mr. Chambers is at that hospital administrators’ conference in Dallas. We called his service and left a message. His wife wasn’t home. We left a message for her to call the hospital immediately.”

      Amanda. Beautiful Amanda. Wild Amanda. Cruel Amanda.

      He shut off that train of thought, knowing he was going to have to stop thinking of her as Amanda and start treating her as if she were any other patient. Otherwise he’d be useless to her.

      “Where is she now?”

      “Dr. Johnson ordered a CT scan and an MRI. They’re finishing up now.”

      “Blood work done? Cross-matched?”

      “Done. We have her records in the hospital computer. A positive. Penicillin allergy. Everything checks out.”

      The half-formed idea that someone had made a crazy mistake died a quick death. He relaxed his iron grip on the chart, took a deep breath, then thrust it back at Bonnie.

      “Notify security that I need to get into Randall’s office.”

      “What for?” She recoiled at his glare and clasped the clipboard to her chest like a shield. “Okay, Jonathan. Sorry I asked. You go up there, and I’ll have security meet you.”

      Too impatient to wait for an elevator to the administration wing, Jonathan took the steps two at a time. The stairwell smelled of fresh paint, far removed from the life-and-death struggles going on below.

      Amanda…

      Light spilled into the hallway, where a security guard stood in the doorway of Randall Chambers’s office. Jonathan nodded to him before pulling the door shut.

      He scanned the bookshelves until he found the oval silver frame. Sunlight streaked an eighteen-year-old Amanda’s blond hair, and her blue eyes flashed in her tanned face as she smiled for the camera, one arm draped around her uncle Randall’s shoulders.

      Hers was a smile that wasn’t easily forgotten. Jonathan hadn’t seen it in the flesh for ten years. Not since the night he’d walked into his parents’ lake house and found her in bed with someone else.

      A sudden realization of how young he had been, Amanda even younger, took him aback. Arrogant and wild, they’d shared a summer romance full of great sex and lots of laughs. He hadn’t even known he was halfway in love with her until that night. Then he’d been too hurt, his ego too bruised to deal with the consequences. He’d just walked away.

      It had taken him a while to get over her, with the help of a luscious nursing student he vaguely remembered. He hadn’t thought about Amanda in years. But now he needed those memories, this picture, as old as it was, to do what had to be done.

      The door slammed against the wall. Startled, Jonathan looked up to find Carl Johnson looming in the entryway.

      “Bonnie told me you were up here. The patient’s being prepped for surgery. I found a subdural hematoma. She should make a full recovery—maybe some temporary memory loss—if no complications set in. As soon as I’m done, if she’s stable, you can work your magic.”

      “ER trauma team find anything?” Jonathan asked matter-of-factly. He kept his hands busy slipping the picture from its frame.

      “Deep bruising at the throat and sprained wrists. She must have tried to fight the guy off.”

      “Was she raped?” The thought made him freeze.

      “Nope. All her serious injuries are cranial. Some psycho. Maybe he was interrupted before he could finish.”

      “Let’s go.”

      Jonathan’s confidence built with every step he took toward the OR. Amanda wouldn’t suffer for what she’d gone through tonight, he’d see to that. He was the best at what he did.

      Johnson glanced at the picture he held. “Heard she was Randall Chambers’s niece. That her? She was a babe.”

      “This is at least ten years old, but it’s the best I’ve got unless Randall or his wife shows up.” Jonathan’s answer was clipped. He could hear stress edging every word.

      So could Dr. Johnson, whose eyes narrowed with speculation. “She’s lucky to be alive after a beating like that. I’ve never seen a worse craniofacial separation. You’ve got a night of it, buddy. Are you up for it? You were in the OR with the McKay burn for eight hours.”

      Some of Jonathan’s youthful arrogance had never faded. It was part of what made him such an excellent plastic surgeon. “Don’t worry. You do your job and I’ll do mine. I’ll give Amanda back her face.”

      SHE DRIFTED IN an endless black void. Cool, caressing darkness. She felt safe and comforted.

      Safe.

      The angel had said she was safe with him.

      Suddenly vibrations of sound disturbed her sea of quiet and she stirred. He had asked her to stay with him. Had he come for her at last?

      Another echo of sound reverberated through her. This time, an awareness, a feeling, ebbed to life at her center. She felt a pinpoint of heat in all her cold emptiness.

      The sound gradually formed a pattern that beckoned her. It was his voice. She struggled toward it, but the pattern tightened into a knot of pain—pain pulsing through the darkness, engulfing her. She found she couldn’t fight any longer. It was too excruciating to continue toward him. She had to escape from the pain. She turned to the darkness, and it took her, obliterating the sounds, a peaceful world where she could drift in oblivion.

      She felt safe again.

      

      THE VOICES RETURNED. This time she couldn’t keep them at a distance.

      A sob cut through her silent black world. Then a cry, as if someone were in pain, the rough edge of a strong voice—his voice. This time with his voice came comprehension.

      “Dr. Johnson explained to you that Amanda is out of danger, barring any unforeseen complications. This semicoma is to be expected. It’s aiding in her recov ery. I feel safe in saying she’ll wake up in the next few days.”

      She trusted his voice. His strong, deep, comforting voice. He had helped her breathe, promised her she’d be safe. She sighed, a deep shuddering sigh of relief. If he said she would recover, recover she would.

      “Do you have any questions?”

      She clung to the sound of his voice. But to hold on to it she had to allow the other voices, the intruders, into her world.

      “The poor dear. How she would hate all these awful bandages,” a woman’s voice complained.

      “I still can’t believe there’s no brain damage after she had that seizure.” A man, insistent and concerned.

      “Are you certain she’s all right, Jonathan?” A soft, breathy whisper.

      She fought against their doubts, fought to control the fears their words stirred inside her, where heat moved in slow circles, warming her.

      “Randall, I explained to you that the subdural hematoma was successfully evacuated by Dr. Johnson. Posttraumatic seizures are common. They can occur up to two years after surgery. We’re treating her with carbamazine for seizure prophylaxis.”

      “Oh, my God! She just moved her hand. I swear I saw the fingers move on her right hand!”

      “It was an involuntary reflex, Margaret. Perfectly normal. When I remove most of the bandages tomorrow, you’ll be able to see the progress she’s made in the last week.”

      “The poor dear looks…so…awful.” The cry gurgled into a deep sob. “I know she would so hate to…to be hideously scarred.”

      “Mother, you’ll make yourself sick with all this crying. You heard Jonathan. She will recover. He is the best reconstructive surgeon