Free Promises in the Night: A Classic Romance - Book 2 by Barbara Bretton

Larkin’s sympathy, but she found her attention wandering.
    Even her delight in unabashedly staring at Alex’s handsome face while he took the call was tempered by the growing feeling that she should have stayed home with the heating pad, after all.
    She glanced at her watch and sighed. Next time she’d meet him at the restaurant.
    If there was a next time.

----
    I f he didn’t know better , Alex would have sworn it was Friday the thirteenth. The three shows he had taped before Larkin arrived had snapped and crackled with style and substance—any one of them would have made her sit up and take notice.
    Calls on everything from premature ejaculation to senility to chronic gambling had kept his adrenaline level high and his brain sharp. The shows in the can were dynamite.
    Unfortunately, Larkin hadn’t been there for any of it. The second she walked into the studio and took a seat near the monitor, the dynamite fizzled. It was a good thing Helpline was on cable TV rather than commercial, because any sponsor in his or her right mind would have pulled out after the last forty-five minutes of boredom. The fact that Larkin Walker was still in the studio was a testament to her innate class. If he weren’t the host, Alex would have walked out himself.
    “This is Dr. Jakobs. You’re on Helpline. What’s on your mind?”
    Silence. The connection was still open; he could hear the sound of a TV in the distance. Another case of telephone stage fright.
    “Turn down the volume on your TV,” he said, smiling into the camera to reassure the caller. “The feedback can be very distracting.” The volume was lowered. “That’s better. Now, how can I help you?”
    A woman’s voice, soft and almost impossible to hear. “I, um, I want to—”
    “I’m sorry but we’re having a little trouble with the telephone lines.” Alex motioned for Sal to up the volume but Sal indicated he had done as much as he could. “Could you speak a little louder, please?” A slight flicker of alarm passed through him.
    The voice was more audible now, a little husky, as if she had been crying. “I took some pills.”
    Every nerve in Alex’s body slammed into overdrive. He focused straight into the camera, summoning up his best professionally comforting look. “What kind of pills?”
    “Seconal,” the woman said. “I intend to kill myself.”

----
    T he studio was overheated and stuffy, and Larkin was about to doze off despite her best intentions when the caller’s words sank in.
    “I intend to kill myself,” the disembodied voice repeated. “I planned it all out. Every detail.”
    Instantly Larkin was wide awake. Stagehands who had been playing poker or reading the Daily News suddenly sprang to life. Larkin stood up. Her pocketbook clattered to the studio floor, unnoticed.
    Alex still looked calm and in control. His sense of authority was almost palpable.
    “Have you already taken the pills?” he asked, looking straight into the camera.
    “Oh, yes.” The woman’s words were slurred, the s sound long and drawn out.
    “How many?” He leaned forward, as if he wanted to reach out and grab the caller before she slipped over the edge. “One ... two?”
    Larkin’s heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely breathe.
    The woman on the phone laughed again. “A bottle, dear Dr. Jakobs. I don’t want to make any mistakes.”
    How many times during her years in the Empire Ballet Company had Larkin seen dancers, exhausted by their rigid schedule and racked by pain, gulp down a bottle of Seconal or Valium in an attempt to end their misery? It was obviously a cry for help, but for a few unlucky ones help didn’t arrive in time.
    A man who appeared to be either the producer or director told one of the stagehands to order a trace on the call, then pushed ahead of her to get near the cameraman.
    “Five seconds,” he said to Alex. “We’re cutting off.” The phone connection would be maintained, but the station would run a movie in place