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  After leaving his physician’s office, Nick continued to deny the information he’d just been given.

  Clearly, it was not possible. He felt fine.

  His mind veered to the appointment he’d had only minutes ago.

  Since his last visit over a year ago, Dr. Warner had replaced his former receptionist with a hot-looking blonde, not a day over twenty. She wore a vibrant pink skirt that barely covered the cheeks of her ass and a sheer blouse that allowed him a view of her black bra. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head in a messy top-knot, secured with a pencil. He shook his head at what currently constituted office wear. What the hell was the world coming to? He followed her wiggling ass to a pair of solid cherry double doors, which led into the inner sanctum of the private office, where life-and-death decisions were made on a daily basis.

  She tapped on the door, then opened it for Nick.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She offered him a killer smile before returning to her desk.

  He nodded in return.

  At six-three, Nick was tall. Those who knew him thought him handsome, with his sleek black hair tinged with just the right amount of gray at the temples. Whiskey-colored eyes matched his deeply tanned skin. At forty-three, Nicholas Pemberton could have easily passed for a man in his late twenties.

  When silver-haired Dr. Warner stood, he towered over his patient. Nick guessed the man to be at least six foot six. Clear blue eyes stared at him as if he were a specimen under a microscope. Nick had never felt totally comfortable around the man. Maybe it was time to switch doctors.

  The doctor extended a large hand across the expanse of his desktop. “Nice to see you, Nick.”

  Nick shook his hand. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Dr. Warner smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t waste time, do you?” He gestured to the chairs across from his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  Nicholas Pemberton sat down in what he knew to be an antique French Louis XVI gilt chair, which faced an enormous desk, custom-made to fit the man who sat behind it.

  He tried an I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude to bolster his confidence. He took a deep breath, hoping it would calm his jitters. “Go on, just spit it out. You didn’t take me away from making millions to discuss my cholesterol.”

  He’d had his yearly physical two weeks ago, after Chelsea, his wife, had reminded him he’d already rescheduled three times. And there he was, on pins and needles, waiting for some life-changing illness to screw things up, or at least that was what he believed. Hell, maybe he’d caught a sexually transmitted disease, and Dr. Warner was just being discreet. He’d been with a woman he’d met in Chicago a few weeks ago. She’d been a helluva romp, but he’d assumed she was clean in the disease department. Yes, that was what it had to be. He’d be a bit more choosy the next time he decided to dip his dick into unknown territory.

  Dr. Warner didn’t mince words. “Your blood tests came back. I think we need a few more tests to rule out a thing or two.”

  He knew it! That bitch. He couldn’t even remember her name. Once he found out, she’d be sorry she ever laid eyes on him.

  Pumped up by his own diagnosis, Nick spoke. “So how bad is it? Can we cure whatever it is with a shot of penicillin?”

  Dr. Warner placed his elbows on the desk, strumming his long fingers against each other. “I wish it were that simple.”

  “Then what is it? Do I need an operation? Dammit, I feel fine. I told Chelsea that when she forced me to get a physical.”

  “Then thank her when you go home tonight. We did a CBC screen.” The doctor opened a manila folder, thumbing through several pale pink papers. “The results are questionable. Your white count is extremely high.”

  “Exactly what do you mean by ‘questionable’? And how high is high?” Nick prompted impatiently. He didn’t have time for bullshit. He had a multibillion-dollar shipping company to run. Pemberton Transport hadn’t become one of the largest shipping companies in the world by sitting on its ass or by his ass waiting for someone else to make him millions. Nick looked at the custom-made Rolex on his wrist. “I have a meeting in an hour. I’ll be lucky to make it at this rate. Just tell me what I need to do, and I’ll make the arrangements.”

  Dr. Warner rolled off the numbers from his blood tests, knowing Nick wouldn’t really comprehend the data just then. He closed the folder. “Very well.” He removed a business card from a side drawer in his desk. “Schedule an appointment with Reeves as soon as possible.” He placed the business card on the edge of the desk.

  Nick scrutinized the card. Dr. Warner observed his patient. The veins in Nick’s neck pulsated, and he would bet anything that his blood pressure had just shot up. He’d seen this reaction in thousands of patients. He’d felt sympathy for most of them. With Nick, it was all he could do to contain his composure. He didn’t like the man; that was the bottom line. Still, the man was his patient, and he was ethically bound to do the best he could for him, no matter the circumstances.

  Dr. Warner saw that Nick’s hands shook when he extended the card to him. “What is this?” Even the man’s voice trembled.

  Dr. Warner hated to be so blunt, but the bastard had asked for it. “It is what it is.”

  “So, you’re saying I have cancer?” Nick shot back. “An oncologist and a hematologist? What the hell!”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “I’m not saying that at all. What I’m suggesting is a specialist. Your blood tests aren’t normal. I wouldn’t want to play guessing games with your health, Nick. I think a second opinion and more extensive tests are needed before an accurate diagnosis can be made.” His malpractice insurance premiums were out of this world as it was. The last thing he needed was some hotshot business tycoon taking him to the cleaners. He’d rather play it safe.

  Nick paced back and forth in front of the large desk. “So you’re saying this is out of your league?”

  He really wanted to slap the son of a bitch, but ethics and etiquette prevented him from acting on his impulse. Dr. Warner had always disliked Nick’s know-it-all attitude and the man himself. The possibility that Nick had a life-threatening illness wasn’t going to change the way he felt about the obnoxious, pompous ass.

  “No, not at all.” The smug bastard, Dr. Warner thought. “I think you need to see a specialist. I could be overreacting. I simply want to play it safe,” Dr. Warner explained, though he knew he wasn’t overreacting. Something was seriously wrong with Nick’s blood tests. Even though he detested the guy, he wanted him to receive the best medical care available. Evan Reeves was tops in his field.

  Hatefully, Nick said, “So what are you waiting for? Make me a damned appointment.”

  Fists clenched beneath his desk, Dr. Warner replied, “I’m afraid you’ll have to do that yourself. Or maybe you can get Chelsea to set something up for you. I wouldn’t waste a lot of time on deciding, Nick. This is serious.”

  Nick stuffed the card in his pocket and stormed out of the office without saying another word. Dr. Warner suddenly felt very sorry for Chelsea.

  He supposed he could have had Sheri, his receptionist, make the appointment. That was part of her duties. If it had been any other patient, he would have set it up himself. Simply put, Nicholas Pemberton rubbed him the wrong way. Always had and probably al ways would.

  Squealing tires brought Nick out of his reverie. He took a deep breath, hoping to clear his head. Exhaust fumes from the line of waiting taxis forced him to cough deeply while he perused the line of vehicles, in search of his driver.

  Surely Warner is mistaken, he thought.

  He couldn’t be ill. Hell, he felt better than he had in years. Though he had to admit, he had been feeling more tired than usual the past couple of weeks, but he’d attributed that to long hours at the office with hardly any sleep.

  He spied his sleek black Town Car.

  Tall, with a C-shaped stoop in his back, Herbert was a wiry old man with a tuft of white hair encircling an otherwise
bald head. Nick opened the rear door before his chauffeur had a chance to get out and perform the duty he’d performed thousands of times for him and his father. For a brief second, Nick had an unexpected pang of compassion for the old guy; Herbert should have retired a long, long time ago.

  “Where to, sir?” Herbert asked in a gravelly voice.

  Good question, Nick thought. “Just drive around for a bit. I need to think.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Nick looked at his watch as they crawled along in the heavy traffic.

  Despite it being the Friday of Labor Day weekend, he’d scheduled a two o’clock meeting with his office staff. It could be postponed. That night he had to attend a banquet for incoming freshmen at NYU. He wanted to skip that, too, but he knew a few of the attending alumni. It would be in his best interest to attend just to rub el bows with a few of Wall Street’s movers and shakers. One never knew.

  “Herbert, take me to the office.”

  The old driver nodded his acquiescence and rammed his foot on the accelerator, weaving in and out of traffic. Twenty minutes later they stopped in front of the Empire State Building, the home of Pemberton Transport’s main offices.

  Nick got out of the car, gave a casual wave to Herbert, then bolted toward the building. He didn’t want to explain where he’d been for the past hour. Stuffing his hands in his pocket, he felt the small square card Dr. Warner gave him. Dr. Reeves. Nick wasn’t sure if he was going to call the guy or not. He’d have him checked out first. If, and that was a big if, he was sick, he would make damned sure he had the best medical care money could buy.

  After going through security like everyone else who entered the building, he rode the elevator up to the thirty-second floor. Rosa, his personal secretary, greeted him in the usual manner. A drink—coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon—and the latest editions of the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, the Japan Times, and London’s Financial Times were customarily on a large coffee table, waiting for his perusal.

  “Mr. Pemberton.” Rosa followed him to his private office. She placed a pot of tea on a side table next to a comfortable sofa. She’d spread the newspapers out for him to view.

  Nick removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and relaxed into the plushness of the cushions. “Thank you, Rosa.”

  “Will you be needing anything for this afternoon’s meeting?”

  Damn! He’d almost forgotten. “Yes. I want it canceled.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Rosa. Just do as I say. I’ve had some terrible news that I have to deal with. Tell the staff I’m unavailable until further notice.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rosa was short and chubby, with coffee brown hair and matching eyes. She’d served him well the past fifteen years, though lately she was becoming a bit too nosy for his tastes. He’d make a note to watch her. If she got out of line, she would be replaced in minutes. Pemberton Transport’s employees were just that. Employees. As his father always said, “If you’re too nice, they’ll screw your eyes out. Too stern, and you’ll be doing the work of fifty.”

  Normally, Nick tried to achieve a happy medium. However, it wasn’t a good day. He needed silence in order to make plans for the future. If something were to happen to him, the business automatically went to Chelsea. While she was smart, Nick knew she’d sell out in a heartbeat if given the opportunity. If only he’d had a son to inherit everything, one he could’ve molded to be just like him. Sadly, as long as he was married to Chelsea, it wasn’t going to happen. Besides, they were too set in their ways to bother with a child. And too old, he thought.

  He took his personal cell phone from the bottom drawer and called Jason Vinery, a very discreet and very expensive private detective he kept on the payroll. Just in case.

  Jason picked up on the first ring. “JV Investigations.”

  “Two things,” Nick said.

  “And a good afternoon to you, Mr. Pemberton.” The last was said with a great deal of sarcasm.

  “I don’t have the luxury of time. I need you to check out a doctor.” Nick looked at the card palmed in his hand. “An Evan Reeves. An oncologist. And I want you to find out the name of a woman I recently…met. I was in Chicago. She was staying at the Fairmont. Find out her name. Then I want a background check on her. See if she’s had any sexually transmitted diseases.”

  “And if she has?” Jason prompted.

  “It’s none of your business,” Nick said angrily.

  “I see.”

  “I’m sure you think you do. Call my private cell when you have news. I don’t want Chelsea or Rosa getting wind of this.” The bastard was paid well for his discretion. How dare the son of a bitch question him?

  Nick described the woman he wanted Jason to check out, told him the dates they were together. Then Nick lied, saying he and the doctor shared a mutual financial interest. He needed to know if the man could produce the financing their venture required.

  With that temporarily taken care of, Nick drank his tea, even though it was only lukewarm. He skimmed a few headlines in the papers Rosa had laid out, but found his attention drifting.

  “Screw it,” he said out loud. He brushed the papers aside in a heap, searching for the cell phone he’d used only minutes ago. After locating it beneath the cushions, he punched in Herbert’s number.

  “Yes, Mr. Pemberton?”

  Reliable as always. Nick could always count on the old guy, he’d give him that.

  “I’m ready to go home.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be waiting at the usual location,” Herbert replied.

  Nick grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa, stuffed the phone in his hip pocket, and locked the door behind him. Rosa had a set of keys to his private office in case of an emergency, but she knew better than to enter without his requesting her presence. If he was gone and something occurred that she considered an emergency, she was instructed to call him immediately.

  Nick made his way to the elevator without encountering any of his office staff. He didn’t want to explain canceling the meeting to anyone. He had too much to consider.

  What if I do have cancer or some other life-altering disease?

  He’d survive because he was a survivor. This was just a blip on the screen of life. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Warner was blowing a little smoke up his ass. He didn’t like the man, and he knew the feeling was mutual. Maybe he wanted to scare him, make him think twice about canceling any future appointments. But Nick knew Warner had scruples. He’d never resort to such ludicrous behavior just because he didn’t like a patient. Most likely, he had something that a few shots and a prescription would take care of.

  With that thought in mind, he stepped out of the elevator, then quickly made his way to the waiting Town Car.

  “Afternoon, sir,” Herbert said while opening the door. “Taking the afternoon off. Very good, sir.”

  Nick nodded, acknowledging the old guy but unwilling to ex plain his unusual change in schedule. Let him think what he wanted.

  His cell phone rang. Caller ID showed it was Jason.

  “What?” Nick barked.

  “Pleasant as ever, I see,” Jason replied.

  “This isn’t a damned social call. Just tell me what you found out.”

  Nick heard Jason’s hateful chuckle over the wires. This would be the last time he would use his services. He didn’t care if he was the best damned private eye in the world. In his opinion, there was al ways someone better. And he would make damned sure to find an agency that would put JV’s to shame.

  “Nada to any sexually transmitted diseases. By the way, her name is Karen Hollister. Your buddy Evan Reeves is listed as one of the top oncologists in the country. Not yet a multimillionaire, but his finances are very sound. Investments are wise. Nothing fishy about either at this point. Do you want me to continue digging until I find something…unscrupulous?”

  Nick pondered the question. One never knew when you might need useful information; however, with the p
eople in question, he didn’t need any more details about either of them. “No. That’s all.

  Send your final bill to my office. I won’t be using your agency in the future.” Nick flashed a sardonic grin. Too bad Jason couldn’t see him.

  “What?”

  “Good-bye.” Nick clicked the END button, preventing further conversation. Jason Vinery had just lost his biggest account.

  Herbert expertly maneuvered the Lincoln through Manhattan’s perpetual traffic, slamming on the brakes when a pedestrian stepped in front of the car.

  Nick grabbed the headrest in front of him. “Damned idiots!”

  Unruffled as usual, Herbert said, “Yes, sir. There are many of them in the city.”

  Nick took a deep breath before responding. “Be careful. I don’t want to die just yet.”

  Herbert chuckled. “Sir, you’re young. You have a long life ahead of you.”

  He wasn’t so sure after the visit with Dr. Warner. “I can only hope,” he replied to the old guy. Suddenly he wished Herbert would stop with the “sir” shit all the time. He was about to speak his mind when they pulled into the underground garage and the spot reserved solely for him, the owner of the luxurious penthouse apartment, which he’d purchased for a song after graduating from college. Being at the top suited him just fine.

  “Nicholas, I wish we didn’t have to attend this tasteless banquet. I don’t understand why you accepted the invitation, and further more, why are we riding with the top down? It’s cold, but I suppose you don’t feel cold. Not Nicholas Pemberton,” Chelsea whined. “I’ve more important things to do than waste my time welcoming a bunch of snotty kids to New York.”

  Nick had deliberately chosen to drive his silver BMW Z8 with the top down. He did what he could to annoy his wife. In fact, when ever the opportunity arose, he took great pleasure in making her miserable. She annoyed the hell out of him. Nick figured Chelsea was just pissed because her updo was becoming an up-down.

  “Get that smirk off your face!” she shouted.

  Nick smiled. Yes, she was pissed. “I don’t have a smirk on my face. I’m simply smiling.”