29. Stuart
STUART
Reaching Brooke, I drop to my knees and press my fingers against her wrist as my heart threatens to pound out of my chest.
“Brooke, can you hear me?” I ask. She doesn’t answer.
My hand is so shaky that I’m not sure if I can feel anything. I lower my head, holding it below her nose, hoping to feel her breath against my cheek. I might sense a little air, but I’m not sure. If she’s breathing, it’s shallow.
I check for a pulse in her neck. Feeling a faint beat, I let out a sigh. I have to get her help quickly.
I’m not sure who to contact. I can’t trust security or, apparently, Mr. Broadmoor. Hell, I’m not sure there’s anyone here who I can trust. I don’t dare risk being seen carrying Brooke. The only option is to sneak her out. That will require changing her clothes.
Looking around the cluttered basement, I spot a stack of uniforms like the servers are wearing. That will work. I quickly change her clothes, careful not to jostle her too much. I spot a baseball cap on a shelf. Tucking her hair under the cap, my hand grazes a large bump on the back of her scalp.
She moans, “I hurt.”
“I’m so sorry, darling. You’re going to be okay. Just hold on and stay quiet. I’ll get us out of here.”
A wave of fear rushes over me, knowing she likely has a concussion. I’m going to kill the bastards who did this to her. But first, I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.
Hurrying, I gently place my arms under her and lift, cradling her body against my chest. Slowly climbing the stairs, I protect her head and minimize the noise.
At the top, I extend the fingers of my right hand just beyond Brooke’s body to turn the doorknob.
Fortunately, no one is in sight, so I head toward the kitchen.
There should be a back door that we can sneak out of.
I walk into the kitchen with Brooke in my arms. Servers hustle in and out while chefs shout orders.
One of the male servers stops me, asking, “What happened to her?”
Thinking quickly, I say, “She’s had a bit much to drink, I’m afraid. I’m going to find somewhere she can sleep it off. Is there somewhere she won’t be noticed?”
“Check the corner by the back door.”
“Thanks, mate.”
I’m able to slip behind some shelving units, weaving my way to the back door. I put Brooke in a corner where she’s mostly hidden by a large cabinet. She’s conscious but in a daze from the head injury, so I remind her, “Stay quiet if you can, okay?”
“Uh huh,” she mumbles, leaning her head against the wall.
I just need to find a phone or borrow a car to get us out of here.
Scanning the area for a landline, I’m surprised to see one of the servers pull out a mobile phone and start texting.
Rushing toward him, I say, “Hey, mate. Could I borrow your phone? I need to call my ride.” I pull a hundred-dollar bill from my pocket, hoping he’ll hand over the phone quickly.
“Sure, man,” he agrees, pocketing the cash.
I call my driver, indicating that it’s urgent that he arrive ASAP. Handing the phone back to the server, I say, “Thanks. I’m glad you had a mobile. I didn’t think we could bring one tonight.”
“They made an exception for kitchen staff in case we ran out of ingredients or something.”
“Lucky for me.”
I quickly go back to Brooke, pick her up, and slip out the back door. We wait in the dark, shielded by a tall oleander bush.
It feels like an eternity before my driver pulls up. He stops, and I step from behind the bush. When he sees me holding Brooke, he hurries to open the door, and I slide in, laying her carefully on the seat.
“Hurry. Head to the hospital. There’s no time to lose. She has a head injury.”
“Yes, sir.”
He closes the door and runs back to the driver’s seat, taking off like a rocket.
I remove my jacket and roll it into a ball, gently placing it under Brooke’s head. Kneeling on the floor of the limo, I hold her in place as our driver expertly maneuvers the turns without causing Brooke too much further distress.
As we pull into the drive for the hospital’s emergency entrance, Brooke moans again, murmuring, “My head really hurts. Did someone try to kill me?”
“You’re safe now. We’re at the hospital. You’re going to be okay,”
She has to be. I’m not going to lose her.
“I know there’s something I need to tell you. I just can’t remember what it is right now,” she whispers.
“Just rest. We’ll talk later. First, we’re going to let the doctors look at you.”
“Okay. That’s probably a good idea,” she mumbles.
Air rushes in as the door to the back of the limo opens. I pick up Brooke and place her onto a waiting gurney. Two medics roll her into the emergency room.
I stop briefly to give my driver instructions that can’t wait. He nods and drives off to carry out my orders.
I hustle through the sliding glass doors to rejoin Brooke. At the desk, I ask where she is.
The receptionist says, “We can only allow relatives in the examination area. Are you related to her?”
I panic. I won’t let them keep me away from her. So, I say the only thing I can think of, “Umm. Yes. I’m her husband.” I swallow hard, not sure what made me take that leap, but it’s done.
“Of course, then. Go through the door on the left. The nurse at the desk will direct you to her.”
I don’t think twice and rush through the door. For tonight, if anyone asks, Brooke is my wife.
After numerous scans and tests, the doctor finally tells us that I was right. Brooke has a concussion. They want to keep her overnight for observation. He also warns that she may have some memory gaps for the next day or so, but he expects her to make a full recovery.
My shoulders finally relax. Tonight has been a rollercoaster of emotions. I’m exhausted mentally and physically. But that doesn’t matter because she’s going to be okay.
As the doctor is about to leave, he explains to Brooke, “They’ll transfer you to a room shortly. I’ll make sure to tell the staff that your husband is welcome to stay in the room with you tonight.”
Brooke scrunches her eyes, starting to say, “He’s . . .”
I interrupt, squeezing her hand a little harder than necessary as I say, “Thank you, doctor. Have a good evening.”
She turns to me, a look of concern on her face. “Do I have amnesia? I’m sorry, but I don’t remember us getting married. I remember us doing other very pleasurable things. You’d think I’d remember my own wedding.” Tears start to well in her eyes.
“Oh, love, of course, you would remember your own wedding. I had to tell a little fib, or they wouldn’t let me stay with you. I couldn’t bear to leave you alone and not know if you were okay, so I might have said I’m your husband.”
“Are. You. Kidding? You didn’t.”
“I did,” I admit sheepishly.
Before we can talk further, a couple of guys come to move her to a regular hospital room. I follow, playing the part of the dutiful husband.
Hopefully, she won’t reveal my lie because I have no plans to leave her side. Whoever tried to kill her may try again. I’m determined to stop them. It would help if she can tell me exactly what happened. Unfortunately, that must wait until she gets some rest and her memory returns.
I kiss her on the cheek and sit in the chair next to her bed. For the rest of the night, I hold her hand, watching the rise and fall of her chest.
I need reassurance that she’s breathing.