Confessions of the Heart

Unaccountably, her thoughts went back to the man in the elevator, and as Anna inserted her key into the lock and opened the door, she wondered why he’d had such a strong impact on her. He was a total stranger. She’d probably never see him again. No reason for her to feel this strange fascination for him.

Except, of course, for the obvious reason. They were both flawed.

Had women shunned him because of his appearance?

Somehow Anna couldn’t imagine that.

Closing the door behind her, she took off her soggy raincoat and tossed it into the powder room just off the foyer, an action that once would have been unthinkable to her.

“Laurel, I’m home!” She brushed fingers through her damp hair as she walked into the living room.

When there was no response, Anna decided she must have beat her stepmother home. Then she heard voices coming from the den, and she hurried down the hallway toward the sound.

“Laurel!”

As Anna entered the room, the first thing she saw was her stepmother’s pale face, and she knew immediately something had happened. Something terrible.

Laurel stood in front of the television, so engrossed in whatever was on that she hadn’t bothered to sit. She didn’t appear to hear Anna’s approach, either, but then she glanced up. “Anna! Oh, I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve been so worried—”

She actually swayed on her feet, and Anna rushed to her side, clutching her arm. “Laurel, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I still can’t believe it,” she murmured, one hand to her throat.

“What?” Anna’s gaze was drawn to the television screen then and to the news alert that had interrupted an afternoon talk show Laurel loved. A female reporter stood on the street in front of a large home in an older, upscale neighborhood.

But Anna caught only a word or two of the woman’s report because her stepmother started to babble. “He must have left the hospital right after we did. The police think he was lured home and the killer was waiting for him—”

Anna gripped Laurel’s shoulders. “What are you talking about? Waiting for whom?”

All Laurel could manage was to point weakly at the TV where the reporter’s calm, clear tone was a surreal contradiction to her agitation.

Anna turned once again to stare at the screen. The reporter was in the middle of her recap. “…on the scene live in the Museum District where a prominent Houston heart surgeon was found brutally murdered in his home a short while ago. This has been a Channel Eleven exclusive report. Stay tuned for all the late-breaking developments….”

Anna spun to face Laurel. “No,” she whispered.

Laurel nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “It was Michael, Anna. He’s dead.”

And suddenly all Anna could think about was what her ex-husband had said to her not ten minutes earlier. It would be wrong to blame you, though, wouldn’t it? The real monsters are the surgeons who patch together pathetic, soulless creatures like you from the dead and the dying.

HUDDLED INSIDE the apartment, Anna and Laurel remained glued to the TV that evening, watching several local news broadcasts for the latest developments in Michael’s murder. But the details remained sketchy. He’d been shot to death in the breezeway between his garage and house. None of the neighbors had heard gunfire, nor had anyone seen anything suspicious. His body had been discovered when a woman walking her dog had gone to investigate her pet’s frantic barking and strange behavior. No suspects were in custody, and though the police spokesperson didn’t come right out and say so, it appeared there were no concrete leads.

After Anna went to bed that night, she lay awake for a long time thinking about everything Michael had done to save her life. And now he was dead. Who could have done such a thing?

Deep down, she didn’t really believe Hays had anything to do with the murder, but his words continued to haunt her. When she finally fell into an exhausted sleep, however, she didn’t dream about Michael or her ex-husband. She dreamed about the stranger with the scar.

He was lying naked in bed, watching her undress. His eyes were dark and smoldering, and as she slowly approached him, he reached up, snaking a hand around the back of her neck to draw her down for a long, deep, soul-shattering kiss that robbed her of breath and sanity.

For the longest time, they kissed. His tongue was deep inside her mouth, tangling with hers, mating with hers, making her yearn for an even deeper intimacy.

When they finally broke apart, she traced the scar on his face with her fingertip, and he let her for a moment. Then he grabbed her hand, pulling her on top of him, and she came willingly. Eagerly. She moved over him, and their bodies joined so frantically, she cried out. The stranger’s hands slid downward, grazing her breasts, tracing her waist, grasping her hips as he set a powerful rhythm. Anna’s head fell back. She could feel herself losing control. In another moment…

She woke up, gasping for breath. Her skin was on fire. For a moment, she thought it was the aftermath of the dream, but then she realized her elevated temperature and heart palpitations signified something far more dangerous.

Her body was rejecting her new heart….

Chapter Three

Anna climbed out of her car in San Miguel and stood in the baking heat. July in South Texas could be brutal and she was only a week out of the hospital. She’d rushed this trip. She knew that. She should have given herself another few days to build up her strength, but it was too late to turn back now. Somehow she knew if she got back in her car and drove away she might never work up enough courage to come here again. And if she left now, her self-doubts might never be laid to rest.

Everything about Anna’s surgery and transplant had been almost textbook perfect. Michael had been so pleased by how readily her body had accepted the new organ and how quickly overall she’d recovered. Except for taking her daily meds, Anna had started to believe she could have a normal life again.

But Michael’s murder and the organ rejection, coming on the same day, had been two devastating setbacks that had shaken Anna to her core. Both had been grim reminders of how fragile her world had become. Nothing was ever going to be normal for her again, and for the first time since the transplant, she’d begun to question whether or not it had been worth it.

Then, on the same day she came home from the hospital, she received a call from Tom Bellows. He’d discovered the identity of her donor. Her name was Katherine Sprague, a thirty-nine-year-old author and teacher who’d died of a gunshot wound to the head, leaving behind a daughter, a husband and a sister, all of whom still lived in San Miguel, a small town about thirty miles south of San Antonio.

But even more distressing than hearing about the family Katherine Sprague had left behind was the news of how she’d died. She’d put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger. Anna was alive because of another woman’s utter despair.

Over the next few days, Katherine Sprague’s suicide continued to haunt Anna. For hours on end, she pored over the notes Tom had faxed her regarding his investigation. She ordered all of Katherine Sprague’s novels and read each of them in one sitting. She scoured the Internet for every scrap of information she could find. The research gave her something to focus on other than her own health problems and Michael’s death. It gave her a purpose, a mission. It gave her a mountain.

But Anna also knew that her natural curiosity and interest in her donor’s life was quickly becoming an obsession. She couldn’t put Katherine’s death to rest no matter how hard she tried.

And so she’d decided to come to San Miguel. Not to confront Katherine’s family with the reality of her transplant, but to, in some subtle way, touch Katherine’s life the way she’d touched Anna’s.

She shivered despite the intense heat. She’d never particularly believed in destiny or fate, but she couldn’t deny the connection she felt to the dead woman, or the strange pull she experienced as she stared up at Katherine Sprague’s sprawling Romanesque-style mansion with its arched windows and towering palm trees.

Located on the edge of town, the house was perched atop a small hill that provided a sweeping view of the San Miguel River. The spacious grounds were lush and colorful, but even with the exotic ambience—or maybe because of it—the mansion had a brooding quality, a faint air of isolation even though the nearest neighbor was just down the street.

There was something about that house…

Anna could almost feel the whisper of its secrets along her backbone.

Before she lost her nerve, she hurried up the paved walkway, climbed the steps to the wide stone veranda, and rang the front doorbell. Perspiration dampened her blouse as she waited for her first encounter with Katherine’s family.

A man answered the door. He was tall and well built, with broad shoulders, dark hair and piercing gray eyes that seemed to gaze at Anna with more than a fair amount of suspicion.

But the impression might simply have been her own conscience, she decided, trying to calm her nerves.

He was dressed in dark clothing that provided very little contrast to the deep shadows in the hallway behind him. For a moment, he appeared little more than a shadow himself.

Except for those eyes…

Anna’s breath quickened, and she experienced an odd sense of dеj? vu as she gazed up at him.

Then the moment was over as he inquired impatiently, “Yes?”

Anna cleared her throat. “I’m—my name is Anna Sebastian. I’m here to see Gwen Draven. I believe she’s expecting me.”

“She lives in one of the guest cottages around back, but she’s not there.” His tone was blunt, still impatient. Not the least bit inviting. “She said something about running an errand. I guess she forgot she had an appointment.” His gaze swept over her, and Anna winced inwardly at what he must see. A woman who, at thirty-four, should have been in the prime of her life, but instead was too thin, too pale, too fragile-looking to be considered attractive.