Lover Unbound(126)

The hood was lifted over her head and everything went black.

The front of the robe was buttoned in place over the tail end of the hood, and Cormia tried not to think about when and in what manner those fastenings were going to be freed again. She tried to take slow, deep breaths. Fresh air came in through some vents at her neck, but it wasn't enough. Not by a measure and a half.

Under her dressings all sound was muffled, and it would be difficult for anyone to hear her speak. But then, she had no personal role in either the presentation ceremony or the mating ritual that was to come. She was a symbol, not a female, so her individual response was not required or encouraged. The traditions reined supreme.

"Perfect," one of her sisters said.

"Resplendent."

"Worthy of us."

Cormia opened her mouth and whispered to herself, "I am me. I am me. I am me…"

Tears welled and fell, but she couldn't reach her face to wipe them off, so they ran down her cheeks and her throat, getting lost in the robing.

With no warning, her panic suddenly got away from her, a wild animal set loose. She wheeled around, hobbled by the heavy robes, but driven by a need to flee that she could not harness. She took off in the direction she thought was the door, dragging the weight with her. Dimly she heard shrieks of surprise echoing in the bathing chamber, along with crashing sounds as bottles and bowls and jars were knocked asunder.#p#分页标题#e#

She flailed around, trying to strip off the robing, desperate for relief.

Desperate to be free of her destiny.



* * *





Chapter Thirty-three





In downtown Caldwell, in the northeast corner of the St. Francis Hospital complex, Manuel Manello, M.D., hung up the phone on his desk without having dialed anything on it or having answered a call that had come through to him. He stared at the NEC console. The thing was jacked up with buttons, right out of a Circuit City junkie's wet dreams with all its bells and whistles.

He wanted to throw it across the room.

He wanted to, but he didn't. He'd given up throwing tennis rackets, TV remotes, scalpels, and books when he decided to become the youngest chief of surgery in St. Francis Hospital history. Since then, his palm punting involved only empty bottles and vending machine wrappers snapped into trash cans. And that was just to keep his aim up.

Shifting back in his leather chair, he pivoted himself around and stared out the window of his office. It was a nice office. Big, fancy as shit, all mahogany-paneled and oriental-rugged up, the Throne Room, as it was known, had served as the head surgeon's landing pad for fifty years. He'd been sitting pretty in the digs for about three years now, and if he ever got a break in the action he was going to give the place a makeover. All the Establishment gloss made him scratch.

He thought of the damn phone and knew he was going to make a call he shouldn't. It was just so fucking weak, and it was going to come across that way, even if he was all his usual macho arrogance.

Still, he was going to end up letting his fingers do the walking.

To put off the inevitable, he blew some time staring out the window. From his vantage point he could see the front of St. Francis's landscaped entrance, as well as the city beyond. Hands down this was the best view on hospital grounds. In the spring cherry trees and tulips bloomed in the median of the entrance's drive. And in the summer, on either side of the two lanes maples leafed up green as emeralds until they faded to peach and yellow in the fall.

Usually he didn't spend a lot of time enjoying the scenery, but he did appreciate knowing it was there. Sometimes a man needed to corral his thoughts.

He was having one of those moments now.

Last night he'd called Jane's cell phone, figuring she'd be home from that damn interview. No answer. He'd called her this morning. No answer.

Fine. If she didn't want to spill about that fucking interview at Columbia, he was going to go directly to the source. He'd call the chief of surgery down there himself. Egos being what they were, his former mentor wouldn't hesitate to share some details, but, man, this was going to be an ass burner of a fishing expedition.

Manny twisted around, punched out ten digits, and waited, tapping a Montblanc pen on his blotter.

When the ringing was answered, he didn't wait for a hello. "Falcheck, you raiding dickhead."

Ken Falcheck laughed. "Manello, you have such a way with words. And me being your elder, I'm especially shocked."

"So how's life in the slow lane, old man?"

"Good, good. Now tell me, baby boy, they letting you eat solid foods yet or are you still on the Gerber?"

"I'm up to oatmeal. Which means I'll be well fortified to do your hip replacement anytime you get bored with that walker."