Michael shrugged. “A patient is a sick person. I don’t judge a sick person’s personal life.” He grinned. “But I sure hope his doctor suggests someone else.”
While his friends chuckled, he made a connection between the don and the recent murder of Carl Bridges.
“Wasn’t Carl the one who defended you guys when you were accused of negligent homicide in the death of Mercado’s niece?” he asked Flynt and Tyler.
Flynt nodded. “Spence and Luke were also involved. We were having a big reunion celebration out at Luke’s place, all of us having survived the Gulf War and made it home in one piece. Naturally the beer was flowing pretty freely. For some stupid reason, the four of us and Haley went for a boat ride. The boat overturned, and Haley drowned. Her family used its influence to have us tried for manslaughter. Carl saved our bacon. It was a bad time for everyone.”
Michael dealt with pain on a daily basis, both physical and mental, in his patients and in the relatives who worried about them. He recognized it in his friend and was sorry to have reminded him of the past.
“I was half in love with Haley,” Flynt continued softly, sadly. “I guess we all were. She was beautiful, with thick dark hair and flirty eyes and a smile to melt your heart. She was also smart. And funny. She could imitate almost anyone after hearing them once.”
“Could Carl’s death have been some kind of revenge thing from the Mercado family?” Michael asked.
Tyler spoke up. “Not for something that happened years ago. They’d have offed him, and probably us, as soon as the trial was over and we walked out of the courthouse. Haley’s brother, Ricky, was a friend. He might have intervened with his uncle for us. Who knows?”
Daisy Parker, aka Haley Mercado, slipped into the lady’s lounge, thankful that it was empty at the moment, and slid into a chair.
She crossed her arms over her chest, holding in the need to cry and rant against fate. It had been terrifying to face Carmine Mercado and his henchman, Frank Del Brio, in the café, not that either man suspected who she really was.
When the Mafia boss had approached Flynt Carson’s table, she’d wanted desperately to listen in.
Perhaps it had been foolish to return to Mission Creek, which held so many bad memories for her. But along with the pain, there had been one wonderful one, a night so special she would never forget it.
A sob caught in her throat. At present, her life was unbearably lonely, and she longed for an end to this charade. Please, she prayed, let the FBI complete their investigation of the Texas Mafia soon. She wanted the case finished. She wanted an end to spying and trying to overhear conversations as she worked in the café and grill at the posh country club.
More than that, she wanted things that were probably never going to happen—a quiet life, the husband of her dreams, their children happily playing in the sun.
At the thought of home and family, she nearly gave in to her anger and grief. She was positive her own mother had died at the hands of a Mafia enforcer. She would help the FBI by finding out anything she could.
Straightening, she vowed to keep her word. Holding in the useless tears, she returned to work.
Later that afternoon, swimming laps in the community pool at Mission Ridge, Michael mused on the ill mob boss. Carmine Mercado had been dressed in an expensive suit. His manner had been arrogant, but with a certain Old World directness not without charm. It would certainly be interesting to have him as a patient.
Still smiling at a mental picture of him operating, with a bunch of thugs milling around the sterile room, all with tommy guns hidden under their green surgical scrubs, he went home, showered and shaved, then dressed in casual slacks and a blue shirt.
Rolling the sleeves up on his arms as he headed for the garage, his thoughts turned to the ordeal at hand. Susan Wainwright, at her age and level of health, would be an ideal candidate for a new heart.
He grinned with wicked humor. She’d be furious when she saw him at dinner tonight. The idea still amused him when he arrived at the Carson ranch, all 15,500 acres of it.
Susan heard the purr of an engine and knew Michael had arrived. She wished she hadn’t come, but Rose had asked her to help with the meal, since her morning sickness was acting up and apt to occur at any time of the day or night.
A funny ping went through Susan at the thought of a child. It wasn’t that she was jealous—Rose was the most wonderful sister one could imagine—it was just…
Okay, maybe she was envious, but only a little.
A heaviness swept over her spirits at the lie. This past year, as it became harder and harder to stick to her practice schedule, several truths had crept up on her.
First, dancing was hard work. Few lead ballerinas made it much past thirty, because the job was so hard on the knees and feet. She’d had no injuries in that department, but one never knew when it could happen. Besides, lately she was so tired all the time.
Second, she’d become aware of loneliness in her life. It didn’t seem as if she would ever find the one person meant for her, someone who would understand her drive as a dancer and let her live her life.
And third, she’d probably never have children.
Watching Rose and Matt, seeing the glow in their eyes for each other had awakened something inside her.
Envy, yes. But more than that. A longing for something she couldn’t exactly define.
A mate?
She grimaced. Most men she met didn’t take her career seriously at all. They didn’t seem to understand that she’d spent years getting where she was, that she’d started dance lessons when she was four years old. Twenty-three years of unrelenting effort. One couldn’t let up for a second and expect to remain at the top of the pyramid.
She’d expended just as much sweat equity in her career as most men had in theirs, and a heck of a lot more than some of them had.
“Hey, Michael.” She heard Matt call a greeting to the famous doctor. Her heart pounded furiously.
Arrogant ape, implying she was self-centered and bratty to cause her family concern over her condition.
It was her life, her body, her heart!
Only she could decide what to do about it. So far, she’d done fine, showing their family doctor and the cardiologist from her youth that she could make it with her “child-size” heart.
“The salad’s ready,” she announced.
Rose glanced up with a smile from the chocolate icing she was spreading over brownies. “Good. The potatoes are done. I turned the oven off. Josie, would you mind taking the steaks out to Matt? Oh, and see if Michael would like a glass of wine or iced tea rather than beer.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Josie smoothed the tablecloth and placed the crystal bowl of floating roses in the center.
Flynt’s wife, Josie, was also expecting. There must be a fecundity in the Texas air these days, Susan thought. Josie was a natural mother. Susan had watched her earlier with Baby Lena, who was asleep in the guest room at present.
“I’ll set the table,” Susan volunteered, shaking off thoughts of babies and such things. She felt a tad self-righteous about helping her sister. That should show the baboon she was as nice as anyone.
Except she wasn’t as nice as her big sister. Nor as beautiful. Rose, with her black hair, violet eyes and fair, delicate skin, was truly lovely. She had depth to her, a quietness within, as if she’d always known who she was and where she was going.
Susan sighed. She’d been something of a rebel, stubbornly packing off to Houston and trying out for