Table of Contents
February 1998
Academy Award-winning actress Cassandra White lies comatose in critical condition following a vicious attack. A mysterious, dashing man arrives at her hospital bed and surprises everyone by identifying himself as her husband, Chase Tessier. When were they married? What happened to their love? Would she want him by her side were she conscious? As Cassandra slowly recovers from her injuries, a series of suspicious accidents indicates that the assailant who left Cassandra for dead still longs for her demise. But that's not in Chase's game plan. He defends and protects Cassandra even when it appears that she has betrayed him.
They learn how to love each other anew and end with a new beginning. A good read for new and old fans alike, Katherine Stone's latest promises to be a crowd-pleaser.
Interviews & Essays
Before the live bn.com chat, Katherine Stone agreed to answer some of our questions.Q:
What is your medical specialty?
A:
Internal medicine and infectious diseases.
Q:
What do you think is the most romantic historical figure? Why?
A:
As a group: soldiers, patriots, pioneers -- people who put their lives on the line for others -- and for principle. People who are honorable, noble, and self-sacrificing.
Q:
Did you always want to write the types of books you're writing?
A:
Yes, I'm a true romantic at heart.
Q:
What are your favorite love stories? Books, I mean.
A:
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, Dr. Zhivago by Boris Pasternak, and Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë.
Q:
What is the most romantic vacation spot?
A:
Monte Carlo: the sparkling blue Mediterranean, the charming villas, the fairy tale castle, the tropical flowers, the elegant casinos, and most of all, the sense of privacy -- of romance with one's loved one -- that one feels when everyone else is speaking a different language (in this case French, romantic in itself). I've taken my readers to Monte Carlo, the south of France, and even an imaginary Mediterranean principality (l'Ile des Arcs-en-Ciel, the Island of the Rainbows) many times!
Read a Sample Chapter
Bed of Roses
By Katherine Stone Warner Books
Copyright © 1999 Katherine Stone
All right reserved. ISBN: 0-446-60622-7
Chapter One
Westwood Memorial Hospital, Los Angeles Thursday, November First Not one of the celebrity journalists recognized him, and they would have, had he been a power broker in this town of glittering fantasies and celluloid dreams. The reporters assembled outside the ICU were the best of the best, celebrities in their own right, so renowned they had been permitted to congregate here, close to her and far from the hordes of lesser media huddled outside in the rain.
Quite obviously this man, this tormented stranger nearing their elite circle, had come from that torrential storm. Raindrops spilled from his night black hair onto his stunning yet ravaged face. It was a treacherous journey past ice gray eyes to unshaven cheeks to jaw muscles with worry. The tempest had drenched his charcoal gray suit as well. But with the clothes as with the man, the dampness in no way diminished the elegance, the sophistication, the style.
This man was not a force in Tinsel town, the journalists knew; but he was a force somewhere. The savvy band of reporters recognized power when they saw it. This was a man accustomed to being in command-a man for whom doors opened, crowds parted, even as they were parting.
There were, of course, other patients in the ICU. But not one of the select assembly of news people entertained for an instant the notion that this man was a player in another-but anonymous-human drama. He was here because of the drama that engaged them all-the life-and-death struggle of Cassandra Winter, the actress who had appeared from nowhere to take Hollywood by her own dazzling storm, a five-year tempest of talent-and of success-that seemed unstoppable.
Until now.
The journalists' assumption that this gray-eyed stranger was here because of Cassandra might have remained just that, for he had almost reached the double doors through which they could not pass. But then he spoke.
It was a command, hoarse, harsh, laced with a desperateness that seemed as foreign to him as he was to them. "How is she?"
"Out of surgery," the most seasoned reporter replied.
"That's all we know," another embellished.
"Alive," a third whispered, a response uttered less to report than to reassure.
But it was a false reassurance, for even though the journalist didn't qualify "alive" with "still" or "barely," the unspoken words haunted the air like gossamer ghosts, invisible yet menacing.
The elegant outlander vanished then, as precipitously as he had appeared, leaving in his wake a bewildered silence. Indeed, the media luminaries were beginning to wonder if he had been a phantom in his own right-a mirage of their own fatigue-when they heard through the closing double doors a startled greeting from within.
"Sir? May I help you?" The ICU clerk sat at a desk in the nurses' station. When her words had no impact on the sudden intruder, she rose to make her presence known.
Perhaps he sensed her movement, perhaps not. He certainly didn't look at her. But he did stop. To get his bearings, the clerk realized. His eyes, wild and searching, scanned the vast expanse of gleaming technology until he found the glass-walled cubicle in which their celebrity patient lay.
Loudly and urgently, the clerk repeated, "Sir?"
His gaze did not falter, did not flicker. The wildness had not been conquered, but it was contained, and something else, new and fearsome, smoldered in the dark gray depths: rage at those who blocked his view-the famous man who stood without and the physicians and nurses who hovered within.
"I'm here to see Cassandra."
"Oh, well," the clerk temporized as she awaited the reinforcements summoned by her fervent plea. They were almost here, and it was a gratifying show of support-two uniformed police officers, the unit's head nurse, and Natalie Gold, agent to an elite and glittering galaxy of stars.
"Is there a problem?" the head nurse asked.
"He wants to see Ms. Winter."
The police officers, who had sauntered over with deceptive nonchalance, shifted subtly yet ominously; and Natalie Gold frowned; and the head nurse, although mindful of the potential significance of his request, behaved according to protocol.
"I'm sorry, sir. Only family members are permitted to see her."
A bitter coldness glinted in his winter gray eyes as he gazed at the man who stood outside the glassy walls. "He isn't family."
"Well, no," the nurse conceded. "But he's Robert Forrest. The actor? And, more important, Ms. Winter's-"
Lover. Chase preempted the pronouncement with a dismissive wave of his hand. The gesture was slight, and not menacing on its face. But from the man who had been standing statue still, even the faintest motion was startling and so commanding that the nurse recoiled and was silent.
"Robert Forrest is not her family," Chase repeated.
"Nor has he been permitted into her room." The new voice was quiet, like Chase's own, yet filled with authority; and it belonged to a man, like Chase, accustomed to being in charge.
A cop, Chase decided even before he turned. The conclusion was undeterred-in fact, enhanced-by the Ivy League clothes the man wore and by the serene appraisal of his intelligent gaze. The top cop.
"I'm Lieutenant Jack Shannon." Jack edited the usual tag line, "Homicide." Cassandra Winter was not dead-yet, although murder was clearly what her assailant had had in mind. "And you are ...?"
"Chase Tessier."
"Tessier," Jack echoed. The surname and its pronunciation were French, although Chase was not. "Tessier" was familiar to Jack on a number of counts. He selected the common thread, the fertile land that sustained the roots of the majestic family tree. "From Napa Valley?"
"Yes."
"And you feel you should be permitted in Ms. Winter's room because ...?"
"Because she's my wife."
"That's a lie!" Natalie Gold broke her silence with a burst of righteous indignation. Her annoyance crescendoed as the elegant man-with the heart-chilling eyes-shifted his glacial gaze to her. "I would know if Cass had a husband, had ever had a husband."
"Apparently you wouldn't, whoever you are."
Natalie Gold did not deign to offer her name. It had been years, decades, since anyone who was anyone had failed to recognize her. Nor did Natalie concede that she might not have known about a husband; that, unlike her other celebrity clients, Cassandra Winter never confided in her at all. "She is my client, and my friend. I would have known, as would Robert, whom I also represent and with whom Cass has been sexually-"
"We have an open marriage."
Hollywood's premier talent agent narrowed her eyes and looked significantly at the other commanding presence in the uneasy circle. "You know who he is, don't you, Lieutenant Shannon? He's the monster who assaulted Cass, who broke into her home and beat her. He's come to finish what he started-he has to, because if he doesn't, she'll identify him the moment she wakes up. Maybe he is her husband, a terrible mistake she made years ago."
It was Natalie Gold who then made a terrible mistake. She looked from the impassive homicide lieutenant to Chase Tessier-at which point any fantasy Natalie might have harbored that men with lethally good looks were incapable of murder was severely dashed.
"Talk to me, Mr. Tessier," Lieutenant Shannon suggested calmly. "Convince me I should let you see her."
Chase reined in his fury, an act of immense control, its only release the single, impatient pass of a powerful hand through rain-soaked hair. "I was in Paris when I heard the news. I had just arrived. There was a flight leaving for L.A. within the hour. I was on it. I cleared customs at LAX forty-five minutes ago."
"You were in Paris on business?"
"Yes." To receive an award, meaningless without her. Was that why he had thought of nothing but her throughout the flight? That-and the fact that the gaily costumed flight attendants sent the constant reminder that it was Halloween. Her birthday. His thoughts on that long transatlantic flight had been haunting, urgent ... and prophetic. She was in trouble. She needed him. On his return from Paris, he would go to her, talk to her, help her. To hell with his pride.
"During the brief time you spent in Paris-or on either of the flights-did you happen to see anyone you knew?"
"A colleague met me at Charles de Gaulle. He's the one who told me about Cassie."
"No one calls her Cassie," Natalie interjected.
"I do." I did.
"Do you have your passport, Mr. Tessier?"
Chase answered by plumbing the depths of the inside pocket of his rain-drenched charcoal suit, an exploration that yielded both his passport and airline ticket.
Jack studied the documents, then looked at Chase. "I'll need the name and phone number of that colleague. Sometime. For the record. But I believe you, Mr. Tessier. I believe you were en route to Paris at the time of the assault."
"Just like that?" Natalie queried.
"Just like that," Jack confirmed. "Passports are examined fairly critically these days."
And Jack had been studying Chase Tessier fairly critically as well. He saw tightly controlled emotion, and frantic worry, and a desperateness that had nothing to do with a murderer worried about loose ends. And if, this time, Lieutenant Jack Shannon's uncanny instincts were dead wrong? Cassandra Winter was under constant guard, a relentless surveillance designed to thwart a killer's bedside assault.
"I assume you can prove that you're married."
"Yes." Chase frowned, shrugged, and confessed softly, "I don't carry our marriage certificate with me." I carry only the memories. "It's in a safe-deposit box in St. Helena. As soon as the bank opens I'll have a copy faxed to you." As soon as the bank opens. It was just dawn on this storm-ravaged Southern California day, hours until the bank opened, and he needed to be with Cassie now, now. "May I?"
Jack nodded. "Assuming her doctors say it's okay."
Chase whispered his gratitude even as he began his journey toward the glass, toward her. Emotionally it was a solitary journey. But he was accompanied by Lieutenant Shannon, who informed the officer stationed beside the door that Chase Tessier would be permitted to pass.
The exchange was overheard by the man, the lover, whose vigil at the glassy wall was so intent that he had been unaware of the commotion-until now. Now the famous blue eyes, dark circled from lack of sleep, blazed with the passion for which Robert Forrest was so renowned. "What the hell is going on?"
"I've just informed the officer that Mr. Tessier may be permitted into her room."
"Instead of me?"
"Mr. Tessier is her husband."
"Her what?"
"He has a legal relationship-and therefore a legal right-to be with her."
"And I have no rights, even though I love her? And she love me? What about Cass, Lieutenant? Her rights? I can assure you she doesn't want him at her bedside, whoever he claims to be. She wants me, me."
Chase barely heard the actor's outraged queries-although later the words would taunt and goad. Every ounce of his being, of his heart and of his soul, was focused on her.
He was so close now, close enough to see at last ... and what Chase saw-at last-evoked a silent scream deep within.
Save for the rise and fall of her chest, forced by the rhythmic sighs of a breathing machine, she was absolutely still. Motionless. Without life. Her gold and sable lashes-the tiny fans that could dance, could flutter, could conceal-hid everything now. They were as lifeless as she, aflicker neither with nightmares nor with dreams-and yet, in their stillness, so very far from peace.
Her skin, always so pale, was translucent, except where savage blows had created massive purple blotches, grave-stones of violence on pristine snow. A silvery helmet shrouded her head, and a spiderweb of brightly colored wires floated in that air above, rainbowed conduits between her wounded heart-so wounded before this-and the cardiac monitor pulsing nearby. Her heartbeats raced across a tiny screen, emerald green symbols of shock and despair.
Cassandra Winter wore bruises, and a helmet, and tubes and wires, and little else. The flimsy cotton gown provided by the hospital was functional, of course, and perhaps even necessary-permitting professionals virtually unimpeded access to her neck, her limbs, her chest, her heart.
But don't you know how modest she is? Chase's own heart implored. And that she is cold? Always
Except when I am loving her.
Except when we are one.
His silent queries to mere-and well-intentioned-mortals were eclipsed by anguished demands to a more malevolent force. What monstrous whimsy of fate had chosen her for this torture? By what cruel destiny had she, she, come to this place?
She. His forlorn and lovely Tinkerbell. His bold and sassy vixen. The droopy-faced enchantress who had sauntered into his life eight years ago.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Bed of Roses by Katherine Stone Copyright © 1999 by Katherine Stone. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
loading...