He didn't consider not picking it up. The action was automatic, reflexive, the same way he'd reach for a scalpel or a suture. His thumb slid across the screen, accepting the call, and he raised the phone to his ear without speaking.

"Denice? Denice, are you there?" Arthur's voice, nasal and eager, filled the speaker. "I've been trying to reach you. You missed our dinner reservation, I was worried-"

"She's indisposed."

Silence. Then: "Who is this? Where's Denice?"

Jasper walked to the window, looked out at the rain that still fell, at the city that continued without regard for the drama unfolding in this room. "She's resting. In my bed. As you can imagine, she's quite exhausted."

"Your-" Arthur sputtered. "Who the hell do you think you are? I demand to know-"

"Dr. Jasper Montgomery." He let the name land, watched it crush the other man through the silence. "Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. And you are...?" He paused, let the silence stretch. "Ah. Yes. Arthur Fletcher. Age fifty-three. History of hypertension, elevated PSA, and-" He clicked his tongue, consulting a mental file that didn't exist. "A man who relies on flashing his wallet and empty promises of yacht trips to impress women half his age. I have absolutely no interest in your existence, nor the time to entertain your bruised ego."

"I-how dare you-"

"I dare quite a lot, Mr. Fletcher. What I don't dare is waste my time on men who pursue women half their age with promises of yacht trips and investment portfolios." Jasper's voice dropped, became something almost gentle. Almost kind. "Denice won't be requiring your services. Not now. Not ever. Do I make myself clear?"

He ended the call. Blocked the number. Tossed the phone onto the bedside table where it landed with a crack that made him wince-old habit, Elek had always said he was too rough with equipment-and turned back to the room.

Denice was awake.

Her eyes were open, unfocused, tracking slowly toward him. She blinked, once, twice, and awareness flooded her expression-confusion, then memory, then the careful blankness she wore like armor.

"Where-" She tried to sit up, winced, looked down at the IV in her hand. "What happened?"

"You fainted." He kept his voice neutral. Professional. "Hypoglycemia. Dehydration. Exhaustion." He listed the diagnoses like ingredients. "You're in a private room. You'll be monitored until your vitals stabilize."

She nodded, slow, her fingers finding the edge of the blanket and pulling it higher. "Thank you."

The word surprised him. He hadn't expected gratitude. Hadn't wanted it. Gratitude implied debt, and debt implied connection, and he was determined to have none with this woman.

"Don't thank me yet." He moved closer, stood at the foot of the bed where she had to look up to see him. "Arthur Fletcher called."

Her face changed. The blankness cracked, showing something underneath-shame, maybe. Or fear. "You answered my phone."

"I did."

"That was-" She stopped. Started again. "You had no right-"

"I have every right." He cut her off, felt the anger rising, the same anger that had driven him to threaten her job, to force her compliance, to take her body without tenderness. "You're under contract. Your body is-" He gestured, encompassing the bed, the IV, the situation. "-relevant to my family's interests. Until that contract is fulfilled, you don't make appointments with other men. You don't miss dinner reservations. You don't-"

"Your family's interests?" Her voice was rising, cracking, the first real emotion he'd heard from her. "You mean my son's life? You mean the child you're forcing me to conceive so you can-" She laughed, a broken sound. "So you can what? Feel like you've done your duty? Like you've honored your precious Montgomery blood?"

"I'm ensuring-"

"You're ensuring nothing!" She was sitting up now, despite the IV, despite the dizziness that made her sway. "You're using me. Using my son. Using-" She stopped, swallowed, and when she spoke again her voice was lower, deadlier. "You don't even know what you're doing. You don't know-"

"Then tell me." He moved before he thought, rounding the bed, catching her chin in his hand. Her skin was still hot, fever-warm, and her eyes-green, like his, like Elek's-were wide and wild. "Tell me what I don't know, Denice. Tell me why you married my brother. Tell me why you look at me like-" Like what? Like he'd destroyed her? Like he was destroying her still? "Like this."

She stared at him. Her lips parted. For a moment-just a moment-he saw something in her expression that looked like surrender. Like confession. Like the truth he'd been chasing since he woke up in this hospital five years ago with a hole in his memory and a name on his lips that no one could explain.

Then the door opened.

"Jasper?" The voice was feminine, familiar, and Denice's face transformed. The wildness vanished, replaced by something harder. Something colder.

Something broken.

Chapter 6 6

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