Lori, Runaway Wife

Chapter 1

The accident occurred on a wet day in February at exactly seventeen minutes past six. Lori Becker, a young nursing intern, was pushing a cart stacked with empty dinner trays when she heard the first distant wail of an approaching ambulance. The sound jerked her to a stop. Her stomach clenched. Perspiration dampened her hands. Abandoning the cart in the silent corridor of the Queens General Hospital maternity ward, Lori stepped into a patient’s room to look out a window.

Unlike her hospital colleagues who went about their duties, calmly indifferent to the coming and going of ambulances, Lori was not immune to their siren’s cry. To her, the strident keening of a speeding aid vehicle conveyed disaster—a serious illness, a devastating injury or imminent death. Her heart bled for those suffering strangers as she recalled how seven years ago she too rode in an ambulance, weeping and holding her dying father’s hand.

Standing by the window, Lori brushed back a strand of silvery blond hair as she peered through the rain-spattered glass. The distant incandescence of the red and blue lights spotlighted the gloom of the wintry evening. The sirens grew louder and the flashing red signals grew brighter as an ambulance and a police car careened towards the hospital’s emergency entrance. As Lori watched, a second, and a third ambulance whirled to a stop beyond her line of vision. In her mind’s eye, Lori could see paramedics lifting gurneys out of their vehicles. She visualized orderlies, dashing out into the rain to roll the conveyances and their injured passengers into the building and in a vivid flash-back, she saw her own semi-conscious self being similarly transported from a first aid van into the hospital.

An urgent voice crackled over the intercom summoning nurses and doctors. The name of one doctor caught Lori’s attention. Doctor Coyle, calling Doctor Coyle, the voice blared insistently. Lori knew and admired Dr. Coyle. He was the chief OB specialist. A pregnant woman must have been hurt, Lori thought to herself.

A horrific accident, she heard a passing nurse exclaim to a friend. Six car collision on Van Wyck expressway. We’re going to be busy tonight.

Turning away from the window, Lori glanced at the woman occupying the room. Yolanda Gomez had been nursing her newly born daughter. Oblivious to the sirens and the turmoil beneath the window, mother and babe were sound asleep. The infant’s rounded cheek pressed against her mother’s breast. Tiny fingers, curling into a half-closed fist, rested under the baby’s chin. The peaceful scene mesmerized Lori and a bitter yearning stirred her heart as she gazed at the sleeping pair with tenderness and sorrow. Involuntarily, Lori’s right hand pressed against her abdomen, against the empty space that once held a budding life.

Before leaving Lori attended to the sleeping child. It wasn’t safe to leave an infant in a mother’s bed. She gently lifted the baby and settled her in the nearby bassinet. Lori then pulled a sheet and blanket over the young mother’s uncovered breast and left the room.

Returning to her task, Lori steered the loaded cart toward an elevator. As she approached, the door slid open. A nurse and an orderly darted out, pushing a gurney that carried an unconscious woman. The sheet covering the patient’s body barely concealed the rounded mound of the woman’s abdomen, suggesting a full-term pregnancy.

Lori stood aside as the nurse and orderly drove the gurney at a trot towards the delivery room. Close on their heels, running with an awkward limp, came a tall, deathly pale, disheveled man.

The wide doors to the delivery room opened and closed, swallowing the woman and her attendants. Denied entrance, the distraught man braked to a stop. For a few seconds, he stood as if stunned. Finally, bracing the back of his wet trench coat against a wall, he allowed his lean frame to lower itself until he sat hunched on the floor. His head and shoulders drooped, his well-shaped, long-fingered hands dangled aimlessly between his upraised knees.

Leaving her cart outside the elevator, Lori hurried over to the crouching man.

Sir, she said, addressing the stone-like motionless figure. Please, sir, she repeated laying a soft hand upon his rain-drenched shoulder, let me take you to the waiting area.

After a pause, the man raised his head. His thick, brown hair, shades darker than Lori’s platinum blondness, fell in a damp wave over his forehead. His strong, aristocratic features were those of a man in his early thirties. At this moment, however, his ash-gray eyes, with their black, dilated pupils and the pallor of his firmly molded lips gave the appearance of sudden aging.

Recognizing the man Lori gasped. Her heartbeat accelerated and a rosy flush suffused her pretty young face.

Mr. Damion, she whispered in awe, staring at him with widened, disbelieving eyes. You’re Ian Damion.

You know who I am? His voice was low and his speech seemed to come with difficulty.

Oh, yes, Lori answered, staying outwardly composed despite her inner turmoil and excitement. I’ve seen your photo in book stores and on the jacket of your books, and, of course I’ve seen you on television.

Acknowledging Lori’s response with a slight nod, Damion folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

Staring at him, Lori kept quiet. Yet, there was so much that she longed to say. So much that she kept hidden within her. Here he was, the man of her dreams and her secret yearning. But, there was nothing she could dare to tell him. Since her early teens, from the moment she first saw Ian Damion broadcasting the evening news, she had fallen in love with him. Ian’s first bestsellers, the exotic and romantic mystery novels, Murder At Midnight and Death In Darkness fanned her infatuation into an obsessive passion. She lived through his books. His stories enchanted her, bringing love and comfort into the emptiness and despair of her existence.

Choking back the words that she wanted to say, Lori assumed her professional role.

Mr. Damion, she said, leaning down and touching his shoulder with trembling fingers, can you get up? May I take you to the waiting room? You’ll be more comfortable there. I’ll get you some coffee.

Ian opened his eyes, then slowly, favoring his right leg, and left shoulder, he began pushing himself up off the floor.

You’re hurt, Lori exclaimed, putting out an arm to assist him.

No, he grunted with a shake of his head, I’m okay. With a final thrust of grim effort Damion straightened himself upright against the wall.

You should see a doctor.

No need. A couple of paramedics checked me over. Nothing’s broken. I’m just banged up a bit. It will pass.

Ignoring Lori’s obvious concern and standing at his full height of two inches over six feet, Ian looked down at the young nurse and with a flip of his right hand indicated his readiness to follow her to the waiting room.

They walked slowly. His leg and body aching more than he cared to admit, Ian noted that Lori was matching her pace to accommodate his limping gait. Compared to him, she was a tiny thing, barely five-feet-four and slender to the point of thinness. Even in his troubled state, he couldn’t help recognizing how attractive she was. Her presence was, in fact, a welcoming distraction that lightened the heavy weight of his depression. With the observant eye of a journalist and author he studied Lori. Her pale hair glinted with the aureateness of Chardonnay. Long, golden lashes fringed a pair of startling, delphinium-blue eyes. Their brightness matched, yet outshone the muted blue of her hospital uniform: slacks, a t-shirt and a long, loose jacket with two large pockets at the hem. Nevertheless, despite her remarkable eyes and hair, despite her soft, curving lips, her flawless skin and a pert, little nose, he wouldn’t call her beautiful. Her sweet gentleness, however, was more appealing than sheer beauty.

As they made their slow progress down the wide corridor of the maternity ward they by-passed hurrying nurses, orderlies pushing empty gurneys and visitors, laden with flowers, soaring balloons and fuzzy stuffed toy animals—family and friends on their way to welcome a new life into the world. Ian noted this passing parade but he was more conscious of his companion’s covert glances. Fixing his own eyes on the rapt expression on Lori’s face, Ian spoke with a touch of irony.

I presume you read my books?

Like a ray of sunlight, a radiant smile lit her face.

I did and I loved them! You’re a marvelous writer. Your mystery novels are the best I’ve ever read. I can hardly wait for your next book. Will it be published soon?

Soon enough, I imagine, he answered sullenly and gave a heavy sigh, cynically classifying Lori as yet another silly, prating fan. How he hated the fuss and fury that marketing his novels entailed. The chattering, giggling females who stormed his book signing sessions with blatant adoration in their eyes and avid bids for sexual attention, embarrassed and repulsed him. With a surge of anger Ian found himself rejecting the initial affinity he felt for Lori. Although this blue-eyed nurse was not behaving like those cloying admirers, her smile, the lilt of gladness in her voice filled him with dread. Something deep and dark within him was blinded, repelled by her brightness. He wanted to turn away from her like a creature of the night that shuns the light of day. But there was no escape. In Lori’s presence, despite his strong, life-long resolve to allow no one to touch his heart, he felt vulnerable. Especially now, while he was still haunted by the nightmare of the accident and the paralyzing fear that the injured woman and her unborn child might not survive.

Quick to note his deepening depression and attributing it, correctly, to the trauma of the accident, Lori curbed her tongue. They took their last steps to the waiting room in silence.

Furnished with a beige couch and matching chairs, a coat rack, a TV set and a table set with a coffee urn, paper cups, packets of sugar and creamer and plastic spoons, the room was utilitarian but not unattractive. Cretonne drapes blooming with coral and blue flowers shut out the darkness. Two large paintings, one of a pregnant woman in a rose garden and the other of children playing on a beach decorated the pale peach walls.

Ignoring the stab of pain in his left shoulder, Ian removed his wet coat and hung it on the rack. Turning his head, he surveyed the seating arrangement and with a heavy sigh slumped down into an armchair next to a lighted lamp and a stack of magazines on a small table. The room’s deliberately cheerful décor annoyed him. In his present state of emotional anguish and physical discomfort, a stark, gray-walled cell would have been more appropriate.

Leaning back in his chair, Ian was drifting off into semi-consciousness when Lori approached carrying two steaming cups of coffee, one for Ian and one for herself. The rich aroma of the freshly brewed beverage roused him to full consciousness. Ian accepted Lori’s offering and took a tentative sip. The coffee was hot and sweet. He looked at Lori. You put sugar in it?

Yes, Lori replied, sitting down on an adjoining chair with her own paper cup of the bracing brew. You were almost in shock. You needed a bit of sweetening.

Ian nodded without comment as he drained the coffee with a few quick gulps.

Thanks, he said, placing the cup on the table. I needed that.

Drawn to the man whom she had admired so ardently from afar; Lori dawdled over the drink. Anxious to prolong their time together, she studied him through lowered eyelashes. He was a handsome man. His tall, muscular body was beautifully proportioned, with broad shoulders and chest, narrow hips and long legs. His thick hair, no longer damp, had the rich gloss of strong English tea. His deep-set smoke-gray eyes with their intense gaze, both somber and seeking drew her like magnets. The shadow of bitterness that etched his mouth did not detract from his appearance. On the contrary, Lori thought, it added mystery to his well-formed features. It aroused compassion in her breast, an errant desire to press her lips against his mournful mouth and kiss away that imprint of sadness. Suddenly a dry, malicious voice from the past appeared to hiss in her ear, You, slut, you should be ashamed.

Blood rushed to her cheeks. Embarrassed by her imprudent thoughts, Lori turned away and took a final sip of coffee. It was still warm and its warmth silenced that chilling voice.

What happened? she asked, regaining some composure and breaking the heavy silence that had fallen between them.

Car accident. Ian frowned, staring at the floor. Head-on collision. I was driving Francine’s car. We were going to Trattoria Giuseppe for dinner. We both like Italian food. As you know, it was raining buckets. Daylight was fading. The road was wet and slippery, poor visibility. Suddenly a speeding SUV, coming from the opposite direction, skidded into the oncoming traffic. It happened so suddenly. I tried to veer aside, but there was no way I could avoid a collision. We were hit, head-on, full force. The next instant, the car behind us slammed into the rear of Francine’s Volvo. We were jammed in a vise, between two cars. I remember hearing the screech of brakes, the grinding crunch of metal as one auto after another crashed into each other.

Ian sighed, reliving the noise and confusion of the accident. Lori noticed a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead as Ian lifted a trembling hand to wipe it away.

I had an airbag, Damion continued in a monotone, it saved my life. Francine took the full brunt of the impact and was thrown out of the car.

How awful, Lori’s vivid blue eyes misted as she visualized the disaster. Wasn’t she wearing a seat belt?

Ian shook his head. She said she could no longer tolerate any restraint across her body. She’s pregnant, you know.

Lori nodded. Yes, I know. How far along is she?

Ian pulled at his collar as if it were suffocating him. She was due to deliver in a few days. She’s a large, tall woman. I could understand how a seat belt would hamper her at this stage so I didn’t insist. It’s my fault… His quiet voice trailed off.

How bad is it? Lori ventured after a pause.

Staring at the floor, his head and shoulders sagging, Ian answered as if in a trance.

It’s pretty bad, head trauma; broken bones. They, his voice quavered, they say she might not live, but they’ll try to save the baby. It’s my fault. I should have insisted on buckling that seat belt.

Before Lori could reply, Ian gave a dry sob and turned aside. Her heart contracted with sympathy. Unthinkingly, she laid her slim white hand upon his arm. The warmth, the firmness of muscle and bone beneath the texture of his Harris Tweed jacket jolted her like an electric current. Her palm tingled and she jerked it away as hot waves of desire coursed through her body.

Ian’s shoulders were shaking. A silver tear, like a drop of mercury seeped through the fingers covering his face and rolled slowly down his pallid cheek. Sensing his need to be alone, Lori rose from her chair. I have to finish my work, she said before moving away. My shift is almost over. I’ll come back to see you before I go home.

When Lori returned to the waiting room almost an hour later, Damion was still sitting where he had sat before, still slumped over, still staring at his feet. He was not alone. A young man and a gray-haired matron were sitting on the couch, conversing in half-whispers. An expectant father and a grandmother-to-be, Lori concluded with a nod and a smile in their direction, as she approached Ian.

Mr. Damion?

This time when Lori addressed him, Ian quickly raised his head. A hint of a smile moved across his lips.

I saw Dr. Coyle, Ian announced without preamble. He came here to talk to me.

Oh. Lori took a deep breath. What did he say?

There was a metallic gleam in the man’s gray eyes as they met Lori’s questioning gaze. I have a son, he said gravely. Delivered by C-section.

Lori felt a surge of joy as she lowered herself into the adjoining chair. Is the baby all right?

Yes. Ian’s voice lost some of its heaviness. The prognosis is excellent. All vital signs normal, a full term infant.

Oh, that’s good news, a fine healthy baby, Lori exclaimed with sincere delight, then, she sobered, remembering the child’s mother. She leaned towards Ian, her hands clasped tightly to her breast to avoid embracing the man in a show of caring and concern and something else. Desire, prurient sexual desire coursed through her veins to ripple all the way down to her toes. She felt as if she had stepped waist-deep into a warm pool of swirling water. Shame, said the chiding voice. Lori bit her lower lip, curbing that sudden wild, physical yearning. She swallowed to relieve the tightness in her throat.

"What about the baby’s mother? How is she?"

Ian rubbed his temple as if he had a headache. Still breathing, but still critical. Comatose. Her right hip is broken; the bones in her right arm are also shattered. She’s in surgery now. There may be internal injuries; I don’t know for sure.

I’m so sorry, Lori said quietly. It’s possible that your wife’s injuries may not be as severe as they seemed to be at first, she added, hoping to comfort Ian, and sincerely hoping that what she said would prove to be true.

As she spoke; their eyes met and connected, held. It seemed to Lori that Ian’s gaze was making a judgment, measuring her, perhaps even trying to penetrate her soul.

I have something to tell you, he said at last. The baby is my son, and I’ll make him legally mine, but Francine is not my wife. We’re both unmarried and prefer to remain single.

With wide eyes and parted lips, Lori stared at Ian, stunned by what he told her.

Did I shock you? he asked bluntly.

N-no, Lori sputtered, shaking her head. I… I was surprised, that’s all.

Life is full of surprises.

Before Lori could respond, Ian leaned back in his chair, turning his face away from her. A curtain seemed to have fallen between them.

Ian’s features hardened, the lines of bitterness became more pronounced. In the silence that surrounded them, a wave of darkness, rising out of a hidden depth, engulfed him once again.

Beware, an inner voice chided him, take care, that girl is dangerous, her youth, her charming sweetness will entrap you like a net at a time when you are most vulnerable. Remember the betrayals, the rejections you suffered in the past. Even SHE, SHE who should have loved you and cared for you more than anyone in this world, discarded, abandoned you. Trust no woman. Save yourself. Lock your heart against all feminine wiles, before one of them rips out your heart again and spills your life’s blood.

In his mind, Ian argued with that imperative voice. Leave me alone. There is no danger here. I’ll be gone in a few days, never to see Lori again. All I want, all I need is her comforting presence, just for now, for a little while to ease my pain.

Lori sensed his sudden withdrawal, the sudden rift between them. Why, she wondered, at a loss as to how to proceed. His confession, and now this mood swing, confused and troubled her. Did he regret confiding in her, or was it something else, something that she had said or done. Her own feelings were equally unfathomable to her. Was she glad or disappointed to learn that Ian was unmarried? For almost ten years he was the center of her dreams and yearnings, a beloved but unreachable phantom. But now that she had met him face to face, it was like finding the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow and not knowing what to do with it. He was an image that had come to life and the reality overwhelmed her.

She was deeply attracted to him and felt as if she had encountered a long lost love. His nearness evoked strong, forbidden and here-to-fore unknown impulses. Yet, he was a stranger. There was so much that she needed to know about this man, so many questions that she wanted answered, but could not ask.

What happens now? Lori imagined herself asking Ian, thinking about his baby. Who will take care of your son? Now that you’re a father will you marry Francine? If not, why not? Why aren’t you married to each other? Are you perhaps already tied to another woman? Do you have other children?"

Her thoughts, the curtain between them was suffocating Lori. Her heart was pounding. She felt faint as from a lack of oxygen. With a gasp she brushed aside her thoughts and the scrim that had fallen between them.

I have something for you, she said, finding her voice, and breaking through the silence.

What is it? Ian asked with a faint smile. Another cup of sweetened coffee?

Lori shook her head, bouncing her Chardonnay-blond ponytail. No, it’s something more nourishing. Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled out a plastic-wrapped sandwich. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten a thing all day. I hope you like turkey with lettuce, cheese and mayonnaise, Mr. Damion?

Ian thanked Lori with a smile that showed his even, white teeth. And please call me Ian, Lori, he said, eyeing the nametag on her jacket.

All right, Ian. Lori replied, savoring his name on her tongue as she would a lemon drop.

Before unwrapping his sandwich, Ian reached into a back pocket and pulled out his wallet, opened it and held out a five-dollar bill. Let me pay you for the food.

Lori flushed, embarrassed. No, please, that isn’t necessary.

Yes, it is. If you don’t take the money, I won’t eat the sandwich.

I… I haven’t any change, Lori