6. Family Ties
6
FAMILY TIES
RICHARD
I had navigated high-stakes business negotiations, fended off ruthless corporate takeovers, and made million-dollar decisions before breakfast—but nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for the call from Rex and Chelsea in the Maldives.
Paris was sick? Their news hit me hard. I cancelled my evening plans and flew straight to Albany in my helicopter. I was skeptical about the first woman Miriam’s matchmaker lined up for me anyway. Madeline Mays would have been my date for drinks. As a high-profile divorce attorney, no matter how attractive, a woman known for mastering divorce procedures hardly evoked thoughts of a forever type of love in my mind.
After I landed at the hospital, I asked the nurse at the front desk for Vivian and Paris Kingston.
“Are you a relative?” the nurse asked with a raised eyebrow in true gatekeeper fashion. I was about to say no, but given Rex’s marriage, we were sort of family.
“Yes,” I replied.
The nurse couldn’t find their names in the system—until I remembered Vivian had married Adrien. “Uh, try Bardeaux. Paris Bardeaux,” I suggested, irritated at the mere thought of that asshole. Knowing that Vivian had chosen to return to him after our night together all those years ago, I loathed how quickly I’d judged her for it.
Since coming face to face again with Vivian at Rex’s wedding, the woman invaded my head in an endless parade of fragmented visions I couldn’t fight. I struggled daily to stretch my memory of the events that brought us together in the beginning—when everything happened in Paris.
“Okay. Here she is. Pediatrics, purple floor. Just follow the purple signs to the purple elevators,” he instructed, pointing to a plum-colored arrow on the wall.
I eventually located their room and noticed the door wasn’t fully closed, so I peeked inside. Paris was lying in bed, clutching the same stuffed tiger I recalled from Holly Creek, watching a show on the TV, while Vivian sat on the bed’s edge holding her hand, clearly worried about her daughter. The room wasn’t private; in the next bay, another family hovered around a coughing child.
I frowned, realizing Rex hadn’t given me much detail about what I was walking into. All I knew, after my first conversation with Paris—especially our discussion about camels and pyramids—was I’d do anything to ensure the little darling remained happy and healthy. No child should have to suffer through hard times.
I had long donated to children’s charities, sponsored several little leagues and inner-city sports programs, and was the first donor New York Presbyterian Hospital called on to cover expenses for families in need. So, flying up in my helicopter to see Paris was hardly an imposition on my time, but more like a passion project.
My mother always said I would follow in my father’s footsteps—a path I assumed meant both in business and family life. I was once on top of the world as head of Buchanan Energy, about to marry and start a family—until my ex shattered those dreams. After I cancelled our wedding, I resigned as CEO and wandered the globe without a care.
Yet after Rex’s wedding, those old dreams dared stir again.
I knocked and then slipped my head into the room. “Hello?”
Vivian gasped and sprung upright from the bed at the sight of me. “What are you doing here?” Despite the worry lines on her face and the dark circles under her eyes, seeing her sent my pulse racing.
“Chelsea and Rex got your message and didn’t want you and Paris to face this alone. They’re rushing back from their honeymoon as fast as they can—” I began.
“They don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.”
“They insisted I be here until they arrived. So I dropped everything and flew up in my chopper,” I explained, standing a few feet away.
“You… dropped everything? For us?” she asked, blinking in disbelief.
“Yeah. I did.” I softened my gaze as I looked at her daughter with a gentle smile and waved.
“Hey, you’re the man who rides camels,” she chimed with a playful wave back.
“Yep. Hello again, Paris. I’m Richard. I brought you something—a book on deserts from the natural history museum. I think you’ll like the pictures in it. May I?” I asked, offering the book and raising my eyebrows at Vivian.
She nodded, and I stepped bedside to hand the heavy volume to Paris. It was so weighty it nearly slipped from her grasp into her lap. This oversized photo book, with its glossy pages, might have been perfect as a coffee table centerpiece in my penthouse, never seriously looked through, but here it served a practical purpose. Paris couldn’t turn the pages fast enough, absorbing each picture like a sponge.
“Thank you,” she smiled, then her little tongue worked a loose tooth.
“You’re welcome. When you’re feeling better, I’d love to take you and your mother to the museum, okay?” I proposed. Paris nodded eagerly.
Vivian sighed, chewing her cheek. “That was really kind of you.”
“Happy to help.” Her sweet scent—vanilla, sugar, with a hint of roses—familiar and enchanting, wafted over me, despite the bleached hospital smell. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she clipped, with a weak smile she probably hoped covered the truth.
A giggle from Paris diverted my attention to where she pointed at a humorous photo of a camel with lips curled, as if laughing.
She bombarded me with questions: “What is he laughing about? What do camels eat? How do they sleep with humps on their backs?” Her bright, inquisitive eyes made it hard to believe she was ill, but her pale skin and hollowed cheeks hinted at it.
“Paris, ma chère petite fille, that’s too many questions,” Vivian admonished, casting a sheepish grin my way.
“No. Not at all. I’m happy to answer them.” I did, every question as best I could until her thirst for knowledge was satisfied for the moment. Vivian’s face beamed with pride as she moved to the other side of the bed, draping an arm around her little girl as they continued exploring the book.
I eventually sat in the chair nearby, lingering my gaze upon them—which couldn’t be dragged away if my life depended on it—as if I admired a priceless painting in the Louvre Museum of the Mona Lisa with her child. If Leonardo da Vinci had ever painted one. If he had, it would far and away eclipse the single Mona Lisa that drew millions of visitors each year.
Eventually, Paris quieted as exhaustion must have overcome her, and she drifted off to sleep. It seemed to be a good time to pull Vivian aside to talk about her daughter’s condition, but then someone knocked at the door.
“Vivian, can I have a word?” A man said. I presumed the doctor, but couldn’t tell at first what with the curtains drawn around the space.
“Yes.” She stepped behind the curtain to confer, and I peered through a gap, eyeing the man carefully while catching snippets of their conversation.
“We want to run more tests on her—especially on her kidneys—but first we must address her anemia. Unfortunately, her blood type is rare, so only certain compatible donors will work. We’re aiming for a direct transfusion of fresh blood, which is ideal for her situation,” he explained professionally, though I couldn’t miss his unprofessional gaze lingering on her chest.
I didn’t entirely blame him—if the dictionary had to illustrate the epitome of beauty, the image of Vivian would be there, in my opinion. Still, she struck me as someone who neither noticed nor cared about the number of men ogling her as she walked through a room.
“What if you can’t find anyone?” Vivian’s tone betrayed her anxiety.
“Don’t worry. Our staff is already calling known, compatible donors. In the meantime, how about I bring you a cup of coffee and keep you company? Worst case, if we don’t have a donor by morning, we’ll use stored blood.” He ended with a wink, and that was too much for me. Was he the type of doctor to prey on single mothers?
“What blood type does Paris need?” I interjected, parting the curtain and stepping behind Vivian. Startled, the doctor looked up. I rested my hand on her shoulder as if protecting something that belonged to me.
“Oh, you must be the father. Adrien Bardeaux?” he asked, brow creased while consulting the papers in his hand.
I seethed. “I’m Richard Buchanan, a family friend. And you’re… Dr. Handle,” I replied, reading his name tag and making a mental note to look up his background later. He seemed too young to be here. Definitely too flirty.
Albany might be a decent regional hospital, but I knew exactly how to leverage my influence and money to ensure Paris received the finest care. “I’m AB negative; will that work?”
His eyebrows nearly met his hairline. “Actually, that’s a match—and it’s perfect. We can screen you and get started in a little while.”
“The sooner, the better, wouldn’t you agree?” I nodded firmly with a stern look that wasn’t meant to be friendly. Once he left the room, Vivian turned toward me, and I softened my expression to one of genuine concern for her.
“I can’t believe you’re a match,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“My timing has always been impeccable,” I replied with a wry smile. Oh, the irony—I’d started the day scheduled to meet a match my mother had arranged, and instead, I became the match for a little girl in dire need. I didn’t mind the switch one bit.
“You seem to have a knack for heroism—from that night in Paris, to the van fiasco with the cakes, and now,” she remarked.
“I assure you, only the two of you receive my heroic efforts. Now, can you fill me in on the situation.”
She told me everything she knew, which wasn’t much, unfortunately, until the doctors ran more tests. It took everything in me to refrain from cupping her face and kissing her worries away.
“It’s awfully nice of you to be here, and I’ll be sure to thank Chelsea when she’s back for sending you. Seriously, though, you don’t have to stay after donating the blood. I don’t know how long this will take. And I’m sure you’re a very busy man,” she finished and took in a deep breath.
“Hey. I’ll have none of that. I’m here as long as you need me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll check on the transfusion arrangements,” I assured her, and left the room.
I wandered the hall until I found an empty waiting area. There, I called an old friend in New York—Dr. Noah White, CEO of the prestigious Presbyterian Hospital, one of the top medical institutions in the country. We had a long history, considering my family’s generous donations over the years, including our support for their recent cancer research center expansion, named in my father’s honor. Rex and I had posed for photos alongside Dr. White at the groundbreaking ceremony earlier this year.
Thanks to that conversation, he quickly connected me with Robert Acoste, the CEO of the Albany hospital. I rode the elevator to his top-floor administrative office, and after a brief exchange, we reached an understanding: only the VIP treatment for Paris. My donation to fully fund a new medical research project they’d been eager to launch in the region helped seal the deal.
Acoste immediately arranged a private room for Paris. I insisted that her entire hospital stay be charged to my black card, but he declined, stating that the donation covered the best care they could provide. Not stopping there, I demanded that the other family sharing the current room also have all their expenses handled by the hospital.
At my command, my accountant transferred the funds for the research project without delay. I left Acoste with one final warning: “Dr. Handle seems rather handsy. I suggest you replace him with someone more professional before you have a misconduct lawsuit on your hands.”
Acoste’s face paled to an unhealthy shade of white. I headed back downstairs, satisfied that I had done everything possible to improve the situation for Vivian and Paris.
When I returned to the room, the nursing staff and a new doctor were hustling to move us to a private room, expediting the testing and blood transfusion process immediately.
While Vivian prepared Paris with a talk about the transfusion procedure, an attempt at keeping her calm about it, I paced the hall. I texted Rex full details for Chelsea about Paris’ condition, unsure when they’d see it.
Vivian made no comment about the room upgrade and speed at which things were happening until I was finally hooked up to the machine that would process my blood for Paris.
“I know you must have done something to get us in here and push things along. I’m not sure whether I should be thankful or angry at you for interfering,” Vivian whispered, sitting beside me and leaning in close so the nurse wouldn’t overhear.
“I’d prefer your thanks, but it’s really unnecessary. I’d do anything to help you,” I insisted.
“We would have managed fine without your involvement, you know,” she said, crossing her arms and legs as her foot twitched nervously—a gesture that only deepened my respect for her independence. Not that it was a test, but if it were, Vivian aced it—whereas my ex had used my money and influence to extremes, leaving me wary of women’s motives when it came to my family’s fortune.
“I have zero doubts you would have survived. You’re a fighter, Vivian—anyone can see that.” For every second she’d had to go it alone as a single mother in this world, I respected her. “But I vowed to look after you while Rex and Chelsea are away. I’m certain if my brother were here, he’d have done the same as I have.”
“Maybe. I’m not so sure.”
“We’re family now, aren’t we? Buchanans take care of their own.” I leaned on our loose familial connection for a moment to draw her in.
She cocked her head. “I’m just Chelsea’s cousin. I don’t know that it qualifies me and Paris for your undivided attention today.”
“Oh, it definitely does.” I held back a smile, amused by her remark, as she slid over to where Paris waited for my blood. Vivian had captured my interest in more ways than mere thin family ties, more than even I could comprehend. I wasn’t so sure she felt the same, though.
The nurse attached a finger monitor and instantly my pulse displayed on a screen. Paris waved at me from her bed, and I waved back and gave a thumbs up. She giggled and put a thumb up back. What a little sweetheart.
Between her and her mother, any man would be lucky to call them his daughter and his wife—but the idea of another man beside them…? My free hand gripped the armrest too tight— I suddenly wanted to be that man.
“Sir, try to relax. Your pulse is getting overworked about something,” the nurse monitoring me admonished while the beeping sped up on the screen beside me.
“Sorry. I don’t know why,” I murmured. I rested my head back and squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling, willing the beeping to slow back down. Once it did, I opened my eyes again—to Vivian’s concerned face beside me.
“Is everything okay, Richard? You’re flushed,” she said, placing a hand on my forearm. The beeping sped faster again as her touch set off fireworks up and down my arm.
“Yeah. Fine. This, er, always happens to me when I donate blood. No need to worry. Go on back to Paris.” I nodded with a reassuring smile, hoping I covered up the fact that my pulse lost it’s damn rhythm because it was her, simply standing there, making my body go crazy.
“Your heart rate is uh… rather responsive to certain people in the room,” the nurse snickered.
“No. Probably just nerves.”
“Right. We can go with that if you want. But the machine never lies,” she winked, glancing at the screen, then at me, amused.
I cleared my throat and closed my eyes again, gathering my composure, but my body betrayed me.