Free Charade by Sandra Brown Page A

life's about. Not my life anyway. I want more. And by more, I don't mean more money and fame. I want something real." She reached for his hands and clasped them. "You're invaluable to me. You were a stalwart friend during the most difficult period of
    my life. I love and admire you. I'm going to miss you like crazy. But you can't continue being my safety net." "I'd rather be your husband." "Romance and marriage don't fit into the picture right now. What I'm going to do deserves my full-time attention. Please give me your blessing and wish me well." He stared into her pleading eyes for several long moments. Eventually he smiled regretfully. "I'm certain that you'll make Cat's Kids an overnight success. You've got the talent, the ambition, and the know-how to achieve anything you want." "I appreciate your vote of confidence." "However," he added sternly, "I'm a sore loser. I still think Bill Webster has dazzled you with his rhetoric about public service programming. It's too bad about his daughter, but I think he took advantage of your sympathy to lure you to his TV station. "With you there, his ratings will soar, and he damn well knows it. I doubt his interest in this project is entirely altruistic. My guess is that you'll learn he's fallible, as human and self-serving as the rest of us." "Bill has given me an opportunity," she said. "But he's not the reason for my decision. His motives have nothing to do with mine. I wanted to make a change in my life. If it wasn't Cat's Kids it would be something else." Dean declined to comment. Instead, he said, "My guess is that you'll come to miss me and your life here so much that you'll soon return." He stroked her cheek. "When you do, I'll be waiting for you." "Please don't hold out for that." "One of these days, you'll come around. In the meantime, I'll do as you ask and wish you well."
    Chapter twelve
    January 1994
    The clock on the desk was old-fashioned, with a round, white face and large, black, Arabic numbers. It had a red second hand that ticked off every second with a rhythmic click, remindful of a heartbeat. The cover of the scrapbook was made of imitation leather, but it was a good imitation, with a realistic grain. Heavy and solid, the volume felt good against the palms that caressed it as one would a pet. In a way it was just that--a pet. A friend who could be trusted to keep secrets. Something to coddle, to play with during idle moments, or when one felt the need for comfort and companionship. And unqualified approval. The pages of the volume were filled with newspaper clippings. Many gave an account of young Jerry Ward's life, his valiant struggle with a congenital heart defect, his transplant and recovery, and finally his untimely accidental death by drowning. Such a tragedy, after all the teen had been through. Then there was the grandmother in Florida. She'd been eulogized
    by friends and family who were devastated by her unexpected death. The woman seemingly had not had a single enemy in her life. Everyone loved her. Following her transplant, her cardiologist said that her prognosis was good. She would likely have lived for many more years if not for that shard of glass that had pierced her lung when she fell through the patio door while watering a Boston fern. And of all days for such a hideous accident to occur--the second anniversary of her transplant. A page in the volume was turned. Memory lane led to October 10, 1993. Three months ago. Another state. Another city. Another heart recipient. Another ghastly accident. Messy, that business with the chain saw. Bad idea. But he'd been an outdoors type, so ... The mission had one glaring flaw--there was no way of knowing exactly when it was accomplished. It might have been already, with Jerry Ward's death, or with one of the other two. But the mission couldn't be assumed completed until all the possible recipients had been eliminated. Only then would it be certain that the heart and the spirit of the loved one had been