CHRISTMAS CAPTIVE (Decorah Security Series): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novella Read online

  “She wants the best for her grandson.”

  “Then why doesn’t she come to the estate herself?”

  “She’s not in good enough health to make the drive here.”

  The woman snorted. “She has enough money to take a medi helicopter.”

  The conversation was interrupted by another voice.

  “You’re the new nurse?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s about time. You’d better come upstairs right now.”

  The comments came from a tall man in his early forties who had walked up behind the housekeeper.

  “And you are?” Hannah asked.

  “Richard Harkness, Jordan’s cousin. You’re needed immediately.”

  Alarm shot through her as she took in the tone of his voice.

  “Has Mr. Campbell taken a turn for the worse?”

  Her heart started to pound as she waited for the answer. She’d just gotten here, and she had no idea what she would be facing now.

  “That’s not for me to say, is it?” Richard Harkness snapped.

  Chapter Four

  Stepping into the house, Hannah got a quick impression of dark paneled walls, high-end antique furniture and portraits in gilded frames as she followed Harkness across the foyer. At the back of the house, she glimpsed a parlor with a massive Christmas tree in the corner. Before they reached it, her guide turned off toward a sweeping staircase. She was tempted to ask the cousin why Mr. Campbell wasn’t being cared for in a hospital, if the family was worried about his condition, just to see what he would say. But she kept the question locked behind her lips. No point in starting off with any more hostility than necessary.

  “I assume you were filled in on the case,” Harkness said over his shoulder as she followed him up the stairs.

  “Yes,” she answered when she reached the wide upper hall, lined with more paintings, some landscapes and some portraits. There was no time to stop and take a closer look, because Harkness hurried her along to a room about a third of the way down the hall.

  Opening the door, he walked inside, and a heavy-set, gray-haired woman in a white uniform rose from the small desk that sat beneath one of the three large windows. Two of the windows flanked a king-size four-poster bed, its beautifully carved posts and headboard rising toward the high ceiling. Beyond it was a fireplace with two comfortable chairs pulled close. Another wreath hung over the fireplace.

  The other nurse, presumably Mrs. Fahrenhold, from the description Hannah had gotten, looked her up and down, taking her measure, Hannah thought. She was taller than Richard Harkness, and she looked like she could lift patients out of bed by herself while she changed the sheets.

  “It’s about time you got here,” she snapped. “I’ve been working all day, and I need a break.”

  So that was the emergency, Hannah thought with an inward sigh.

  “We’ll pay you time and a half,” Harkness said to the other woman.

  “Double time,” she corrected, and Hannah wondered who was really in charge here.

  Hannah held out her hand. “I’m Hannah Andrews. I’ll get started immediately,” she said, although she was tired from the drive up from San Francisco, out of uniform, and on edge from this brief encounter with the Campbell household.

  The woman ignored the hand. “Ava Fahrenhold. We’ll talk later. My notes are on the desk. You’ll find everything in order.” Without another word, the woman bustled out of the room, leaving Hannah and Harkness standing near the door.

  “This way.” He led her further into the room, and as she followed him around the screen that shielded a hospital bed, she forgot everything but the man lying pale and still in front of her. With her heart pounding, she took several steps closer.

  Frank Decorah’s pictures and video clips of Jordan Campbell had all depicted a handsome, vital man in the prime of life. He liked horseback riding, skiing, and hiking as well as taking his motorboat out. He’d been smiling, tanned, his dark hair windblown. Unless he was in a tuxedo and his hair was tamed for some formal event. She’d found herself immediately drawn to that man, even though she’d never met him. Now, unaccountably, she was still attracted, even though he looked very different from the guy in the pictures. It was almost like his spirit was far away. And it was her job to draw him back to himself. That wasn’t exactly what Frank Decorah had hired her to do. Frank had wanted information. Hannah wanted the man to return to himself.

  Reaching out a hand, she touched his arm, relieved that she could feel muscle tone beneath her fingers. Someone had obviously been putting him through an exercise routine. At least his body was in decent shape.

  “Hello. I’m Hannah Andrews, your new nurse,” she murmured, knowing this first contact with him would set the tone for their relationship. Or was that putting too much importance on this moment?

  She waited with her breath shallow for some response, but there was no sign he even knew she was in the room. Obviously she had pumped herself up to expect too much.

  “He can’t hear you,” Harkness said.

  “Perhaps he can,” she answered. “Unconscious patients are often aware of what’s being said around them.”

  She caught the uncertain expression on the cousin’s face. Had he said stuff in front of Jordan that he wouldn’t really want him to hear if he were awake?

  When Harkness said nothing more, she turned back to the man she’d been hired to help.

  He was lying in the high, railed bed, as still as death. She had to look closely at his chest to see that he was even breathing. Her heart ached as she noted the purple smudges that marred the skin under his eyes. His dark lashes made a startling contrast against his pale skin. A growth of beard darkening the lower half of his face only added to his ill and disheveled appearance.

  He was dressed in a hospital gown. Dark chest hair peeked out at the top of it. A light blanket hid the lower part of his body. His right arm was hooked to an IV line, and she was glad to see that there was plenty of liquid in the bag.

  Hannah swallowed hard around the lump that had formed in her throat.

  “Jordan?” she questioned.

  Once again he didn’t answer.

  “He doesn’t respond when I talk to him,” Harkness muttered.

  Maybe he doesn’t want to, she thought.

  Trying to stay objective, she picked up Jordan’s wrist and began to take his pulse. Sixty-five—nice and steady. In a hospital he would have been hooked up to monitoring equipment, but she had to use a conventional cuff and stethoscope to take his blood pressure.

  Conscious that the cousin was still behind her and that she was being watched closely, she released the bulb and listened for the rush of blood to come back to Jordan’s artery as she watched the gauge.

  “How is he?” a female voice asked.

  Startled, Hannah turned quickly. Two women were standing at the edge of the hospital screen. One was a blond in her forties. The other seemed to be a few years younger. The older woman wore a holiday sweater set in bold green and red. The younger one was in slacks and an expensive knit shirt with a scarf in a candy-cane motif.

  The older woman crossed to Richard Harkness, reached for his hand, and knit her fingers with his. Her companion stood with her arms folded across her chest. Neither of them came close to the unconscious man.

  “His blood pressure and pulse are both normal,” Hannah answered.

  “I’m Paula Harkness, Richard’s wife,” the one in the holiday outfit said. “And this is Jordan’s sister, Stephanie.”

  Hannah had been sure it was her. “You’re the one who found him unconscious?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you happen to go out there?”

  “He hadn’t come back from his outing, and I was worried.”

  “Lucky for him.”

  “Yes.” She changed the subject and said, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Hannah Andrews.”

  “The new nurse. We’ve had several.”

  “And
others quit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Hannah pressed.

  “I really don’t know. Maybe we should have a third shift.”

  “That would be helpful,” Hannah answered.

  Stephanie cleared her throat. “I hope you can also take charge of my brother’s physical therapy for the time being,”

  Hannah frowned. “I thought a physical therapist was on staff.”

  “He disagreed on the treatment protocol.”

  “Disagreed with whom?”

  “Dr. Stanford. The doctor thought it would be better if we got someone else. Until then, he hopes you and the other nurse can keep Jordan in good shape.”

  “I’ll try,” she said. What else could she say? That she thought her patient ought to be in a hospital, where there wouldn’t be any question about whether or not he got the proper treatment? Not if she didn’t want to find herself back on the road in about five minutes, heading home.

  “I’m sure you’d like us to let you do your job,” Stephanie said, motioning to the others to follow her out. She paused in the doorway. “We’ve already had dinner, but we can send up a tray for you.”

  “That’s fine, thanks.”

  When the door closed behind them, Hannah let out a sigh of relief. She hardly knew these people, but she knew enough to realize she didn’t like them. She sincerely hoped her contact with them would be minimal.

  Turning back to Jordan, she said, “They’re gone.”

  As before, he didn’t answer, and she wondered if this was the time to try and communicate with him. Not just with words but with her special talent.

  In addition to her normal nursing duties, that was what she’d come for. And she was anxious to do it, but she wasn’t in the best mental shape herself. And she didn’t want anyone walking in on her when she was trying to forge a bond with Jordan that transcended the normal bonds of time and space.

  She grinned at the way she’d put it, then said aloud, “As I told you, I’m your new nurse, Hannah Andrews. I’m here to help you.”

  He said nothing.

  “Together we’re going to make sure you get better.” She gave a small laugh and added what she’d thought earlier, “Actually, I’m here to bridge the normal bonds of time and space. Do you think we can do it?”

  He still didn’t respond.

  Unable to stop herself, she pressed the back of her hand to his cheek, then traced the outline of his lips. Did they quiver under her touch, or was that her imagination?

  “We’re going to get to know each other,” she said. “But I can wait a little while.” Switching the subject, she said in her most cheerful voice, “We’re going to get you well enough to get you out of this bedroom and into your beautiful garden. Would you like to feel the salt air on your face?”

  As before, he was silent.

  After laying aside the blood-pressure equipment, she crossed to the desk and quickly read the notes from the doctor and the nursing staff, noting the turnover of personnel. Why had so many nurses quit? Had someone made an effort to drive them away?

  The farther she read through the notes, the more puzzled she became. As far as she could tell, there was no medical reason why Jordan was still in a coma. Yet he lay in bed, unresponsive.

  Returning to him, she stared down into his face.

  “What is it?” she whispered. “What’s keeping you from waking up?”

  His eyes were still closed, and he said nothing. Switching her attention, she lowered the metal bars on the side of the bed, then began to check his body, moving his arms, making a more careful assessment of the muscle tone—assuring herself that his physical deterioration had been minimal. It looked as if the PT had been doing the right things, and she planned to keep it up.

  “Your arm muscles are in good shape,” she said, then pulled the sheet and blanket down and ran her hand along one leg before bending it, lifting his leg and moving the knee toward his chest.

  The action pulled up his short hospital gown, exposing his genitals. She couldn’t help herself. She stared at them. His penis was exceptionally long and thick, and she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about what kind of lover he would be. Again. Because she’d speculated about that when she’d watched the videos of him and seen his masculine but graceful movements.

  “Stop it,” she told herself. “You’re here to wake him up, not make love with him.” But the thought flickered through her mind that that might be an effective way to communicate with him.

  She was still holding the sheet when she heard the door open, then footsteps approaching. Quickly she dropped the sheet and took a step back as Mrs. Estes walked in, holding a tray covered with a red and white checkered napkin.

  The housekeeper gave her a measuring look. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Assessing his physical condition,” Hannah answered, feeling her cheeks redden.

  Mrs. Estes’s expression seemed to say, “I’ll bet,” but she didn’t voice the comment, only set the tray down on the table across from the bed. “You can put this out in the hall when you’re finished, and I’ll pick it up later.”

  “Thank you.”

  When the woman had left, Hannah breathed out a little sigh. Crossing to the table, she lifted the cover on the tray and found slices of chicken breast with some kind of curry sauce, rice pilaf, and peas. And there was also a scoop of what looked like raspberry sorbet.

  Her stomach was in knots, and she wished she could get rid of the food by flushing it down the toilet. Instead, she forced herself to take a few bites of the chicken and rice. Then she picked up the cup of sorbet and ate a bite.

  “This is good,” she said to Jordan. Returning to him, she held the spoon under his nose, then put a little on his lips. It was cold of course, and she saw a shiver go through him. Then his tongue flicked out the barest bit and tasted the confection.

  Good.

  She blinked. Had she heard that word inside her head? Had Jordan spoken to her?

  “Jordan?”

  Um.

  Elation leaped inside her. He’d responded to the smell and the sweet raspberry taste, and then he’d spoken to her. Unless she was making it up.

  “Do you want more?”

  Before he could answer, someone spoke behind her.

  She’d been so focused on Jordan that she hadn’t been aware of anyone else coming in.

  “What are you doing with that spoon?”

  “I’m . . . stimulating his sense of taste,” she said as she turned around to face Richard Harkness, the cousin who had escorted her up here.

  Lord, was there going to be a parade of visitors into the sickroom? Well, she probably should expect it, since she was the new nurse, and they’d want to have a look at her.

  “Is that good for him?”

  She swallowed. “I hope so.”

  Harkness looked from her to Jordan. “Can an unconscious patient respond to . . . stimulation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, my cousin is a very . . . um . . . dynamic guy, with many appetites. Food was always one of them.”

  She nodded tightly, not liking the tone of his voice.

  “And there are others you might investigate,” he said. “You know, in the interest of research into his condition.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed look. Was he suggesting that she initiate a sexual relationship with the patient? So he could catch her at it and get her dismissed?

  She might have commented, but she wasn’t going to say anything that would put her in a questionable position.

  “I’ll leave you to your duties,” he said.

  She nodded, relieved when he left the room.

  He always was a bastard.

  “What?”

  Before Jordan could answer—if he was going to answer, a loud bang in the hall made her jump. She hurried to the door and stepped out, seeing a dolly with a chest of drawers lying on its side.

  A tall, balding man wearing jeans and a tee shirt looked at her apo
logetically.

  “Sorry.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was taking this chest to your room, and the wheel caught on the carpet. You’re the new nurse, right?”

  “Yes. I’m Hannah Andrews.”

  “Carl Padilla.” He hesitated for a second. “I guess I’m the jack-of-all-trades around here.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she answered, thinking that she didn’t particularly care for the man.

  “You come up from San Francisco?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to get down there.”

  “Yes, well, I should get back to my patient.”

  His eyes flicked to somewhere behind her. “Just a minute.”

  “Yes?”

  “This chest okay with you?”

  “Of course.” Before he could say something else, she turned and went back into Jordan’s room.

  Her patient was lying in bed where she’d left him. Only now he seemed different. Less responsive, more sunk into a comatose state.

  Chapter Five

  Hannah stared at Jordan’s still features, making her wonder if she’d made up the words she’d thought he’d spoken.

  “Jordan?” she asked again, hearing the hope and also the disappointment in her voice as she looked closely at his face. He’d seemed more awake. Now he had apparently slipped back into a deeper sleep.

  But the incident had given her reason for optimism. She was sure he had communicated with her. And he could do it again. She hoped.

  She paced to the door, then back again as she thought of Harkness’s snide suggestion. Did he know something she didn’t? Was a sexual relationship the key to reaching Jordan? Had he asked his wife to try it out?

  She made a low sound and shook her head, hating the direction her mind was wandering.

  Deliberately, she forced herself into another tactic. Turning back to Jordan, she said, “I’m going to give you a shave, now. I don’t know about you, but when I’m sick, I always feel better when I get cleaned up.”

  She hurried across the room, through the dressing area, and into the palatial white marble bathroom. Beside one of the twin sinks was a tray holding a razor, shaving cream, a bowl, and a washcloth. She struggled to keep her hands steady as she ran the water until it was hot, filled the bowl, then carried the laden tray back into the bedroom.