Galilee Rising (The Galilee Falls Trilogy) Read online

  It took them all of two months, and the defeat of Dr. Demented's giant robot, to gain national notoriety. The sheer longevity of their partnership garners press as most superhero leagues last only a few battles before they drive each other nuts and go their separate ways. The Triumvirate soldiers on together, making them the most popular squad in the world. They even have their own pillowcases and action figures. They are good at their jobs. They've saved two presidents, four visiting queens, defeated Emperor Cain three thrice, cleaned up the worst Independence neighborhood, and still have time to visit children's cancer wards and raise money for various charities.

  The group dynamic is intriguing too. Tempest does most of the talking when dealing with the press and hostile heiresses. If asked a direct question, the other two will answer, though Nightingale keeps it to monosyllable and appears ready to bolt the first chance he gets. Liberty doesn't have that problem as I learned last night. I think they appointed Tempest as the face of the group because if given the chance, Liberty would run her mouth and get them in trouble. It wouldn't surprise me to find out Tempest was a politician. He's masterful with the press, cracking jokes and flirting with the female reporters. Justice was the same, walking that fine line of serious yet likable. The other two don't seem to mind the spotlight on him. They hang in the back occasionally smiling before flying off side-by-side behind him. Several reporters speculated that Liberty and Nightingale are a couple, though the only proof are pictures of her quickly kissing or hugging him after a battle. There are none of her embracing Tempest, so who knows? I didn't get any of those vibes last night. If anything--

  "Joanna?"

  I snap out of my thoughts and see the board, all ten members, staring at me with their hands up. "What? Oh," I say, raising my hand for the vote.

  "Good," Danforth says. I really hope we didn't just vote to close the free clinic or something. "Then onto the next item on the agenda. The opening of the Rebecca Thornton wing. Joanna?"

  "Right," I say, pulling out my notes. "Um, construction was completed last week and the building inspector will be by next Wednesday to sign off. Beds, equipment, medical supplies, etc. is already being set up as I speak. The first of the families pre-selected have been notified and can move in on schedule barring unforeseen complications."

  "The press have been calling about it," the Chief of Staff says, none too happy.

  "Direct them to Gene Tully in the Pendergast press office," I say. "We still want to keep this thing as low-key as possible, right? Just a few members of the local media?"

  "Yes," Danforth says. "I think this hospital has had more than its fair share of the limelight this year."

  All eyes glance my way, but I remain impassive. "Good," I say. "Is that all for today? I need to go check on the movers."

  "I believe that's it. Meeting adjourned."

  Praise the Lord. I toss my notepad in my obscenely expensive Bherkin bag, my stylist and personal shopper Isolde insisted I needed--she was right, it fits everything--and hurry out before people attempt small talk. I loathe small talk. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Hospital was voted second best hospital in the country seven years in a row and is the third busiest. There are a thousand beds, thirty floors, and it's always bustling. She's Galilee's crowning glory next to the Falls across the river. The finest doctors use cutting-edge technology, new procedures, and new drugs inside these walls. The uber-gene was isolated here thirty-five years ago right on the ninth floor. Now its claim to fame is "The place Justice died." God, do I hate this place.

  As I walk to the elevator, the same elevator where I was held at gunpoint by a psychopathic socialite, the staff eye me as I pass. I'm an international celebrity now, I had to get used to it. The pregnant woman in the wheelchair keeps glancing at me in the elevator apprehensively, as if my unluckiness can be spread like a virus. Got used to that too. She's wheeled off on the maternity floor.

  I'm off on good old twenty-six. It's changed a lot since I first saw it almost a year ago while being pulled out of the elevator shaft by the murderous bastard supervillain Alkaline. I always get a chill when I step onto this floor, as if a part of him is still here. Guess he kind of is. We never would have built this place if not for him. If he hadn't raped and murdered Rebecca, Justin never would have thought to build it. Now families who either can't afford months in a hotel or just need to be around for their child, who is getting long term care at the hospital, have a place to stay. I've had crews working around the clock for a year to build this place. Money was no object. Gone is the storage space it once was, replaced with a high-tech dorm with twenty separate, two bedroom one-bath suites, communal living room and kitchen with a doctors and nurses station at the end. The parents can be with their kid 24/7, nurturing them through their illness. At least some good sprang from the whole ordeal.

  Movers, contractors, painters, decorators, and nurses are all hard at work whipping this place into shape as I make my way down to the living room where my assistant extraordinaire Shannon directs traffic while texting. She was Justin's assistant before, and she's the only reason I haven't bankrupt the company yet. She knows all the ins and outs, all the players and their spouse's names too. As always, she's dressed in sensible designer pumps, pencil skirt, with matching vest and white shirt, brown hair in a chignon like mine. I learned to dress like an executive from her, though I try to avoid skirts. My legs are too stout to pull them off.

  "Isolde called," Shannon says as I approach. "She needs to move your appointment to four, not three. I told her it was fine."

  "Couldn't she just send the clothes?"

  "The suits from Paris arrived, and they need to be tailored." She hands me my phone to pull hers out. "Lane also called. The Japanese deal is going through."

  "Wonderful. How are things here?" I ask, scrolling through my twenty new e-mails this hour.

  "We're having artwork issues. They need your approval on which paintings to buy."

  "I could give a shit. Let the decorators decide, that's why they're here. Just nothing depressing or scary." My phone buzzes, and the display pops up. Harry's calling. My stomach used to clench when I saw his name but since Step Nine, make amends, and he forgave me, I'm happy to hear his voice.

  Looking back on it we were doomed from the fucking start. Forgetting that he was my boss, I was in love with another man, he was considerably older than me, and the timing sucked, we were just too damn different. We both thought the other would change. He's a hopeless romantic who does all he can to see the good in people. It'd take a memory wipe and personality transplant to make me that way. Just not how I'm built. And besides the job and great sex, we had little in common. He read books, I shot guns. I love to travel, he hasn't left this coast in years. He began mentioning kids, I began mentioning goldfish. But if I'm honest, it really came down to the fact he was too good for me. Way too good. Me cheating and him forgiving me just proves it. For whatever reason some people just have a darkness inside them. It can be tiny and it certainly doesn't make you evil, but those without it can never understand or relate. Harry was all sunshine, and I damn sure didn't want to dim that. He's fine though. About a month after we broke up, he began dating this cute ADA who always had eyes for him. They moved in together last month. I had Shannon send a goldfish.

  "Joanna Fallon."

  "Jo, it's Harry."

  "Hi. How is my favorite ex doing this fine day?" Shannon smirks before walking away. The consummate professional.

  The elevator door opens and a strange man in a lab coat steps off, looking around. Probably a doctor who got off on the wrong floor. He's vaguely familiar, but I can't place him.

  "Well, thank you," Harry says. "I just wanted to let you know I received another interesting e-mail last night. Informative too."

  He and I have had this conversation dozens of times. He'll tell me to stop, threaten to turn me in, say he's worried about me, and in the end thank me. I'm only half paying attention. For some reason it's really bothering me I can't remember w
ho that doctor is. This is why Shannon has to accompany me to events, otherwise I wouldn't know who the hell I was talking to. "Really? I love those types of e-mails. They're usually so helpful."

  "It was," Harry says. "Led us right to two murderers. They confessed and everything."

  "Then you should thank whoever sent it, sans lecture this time."

  "Jo…" and he's off. I pull the phone away from my ear. Who the hell is that guy? He's so busy studying the painting of wavy lines, he doesn't notice the men carrying the ladder. He backs up, lifting up his horn-rimmed glasses in case that helps with the exam, and smacks into the ladder. With Harry droning on I don't hear the workman's words, but the doctor appears embarrassed, cheeks turning red. They turn almost purple when he glances up and notices me staring. His thin mouth drops open and eyes pop behind the glasses. It's damn cute. It's far less cute when more workmen pass with boxes and the still befuddled doctor steps to the side to let them pass. His elbow brushes the painting. It falls off its hook onto the ground.

  "Harry, I have to go. You can yell at me later. Say hey to the guys and Bella for me. Bye." I end the call and rush over to the doctor, who turns the painting over, trying to figure out which way is up. "Excuse me. I--"

  "I am so sorry," the doctor says, mortified and still spinning the damn painting. "If it is damaged in any way, I will of course pay. I-I know I'm not supposed to be here. I didn't think you'd be here. Not-Not that that excuses me sneaking in, in-in fact it's worse. I--"

  "It's okay," I chuckle. I'm used to making people nervous but this is ridiculous.

  He hangs his head so he doesn't have to look at me. "I-I'm sorry. I'm not normally so clumsy." I find that hard to believe. Judging from his bushy dark brown hair in dire need of a cut, glasses falling to the end of his straight nose, pasty complexion, wrinkled blue dress shirt and chinos, and scuffed brown penny loafers with actual pennies in them, it wouldn't surprise me if he didn't actually knock down whole buildings on a daily basis. Even when he tries to re-hang the painting, it takes two tries. "I-I'll just go."

  He steps away, but I move to block him. "I'm sorry if this is going to sound rude, but…how do I know you? I can't place it. We have met before, right?"

  Head hung, he says, "Yes. Um, I-I believe it was about a-a-a year ago. I-I'm Dr. Jonathan Ambrose. I just started here." He holds out his long hand for me to shake, which I do.

  I've recently heard the name. If memory serves, I had to approve his hiring and drug study two months ago as a member of the board, but even then the name sounded familiar. Okay, leading neurologist from Independence. Also into infectious diseases and created some retro-virus that saved a million people or something over a decade ago when he was twenty. Youngest person to be nominated for the Nobel Prize in medicine. Since then he developed multiple drugs for Alzheimers, and Parkinsons, then gave away the patents. He's either crazy or rich in his own right. Of course those aren't mutually exclusive. Danforth almost wet his pants when he read that the profits from his multiple sclerosis drug trial would go to the hospital. Potentially billions of dollars if the treatment works. He came here for the trial but also to begin working with our doctors researching gene therapy. But it's not from the hospital that I recognize him from.

  He glances up at me over his glasses, and I meet his eyes for an instant. They're dark blue like sapphires. Only one person I've ever met with eyes like that. "Jem!" I say with a smile. "You're Rebecca's friend. We met at the engagement party the night before she…yeah! You asked me to dance a couple times. You were at the memorial service too."

  "That-That's right," he says, running his hand nervously through his curly hair.

  "Sorry it took me so long to remember. That was a crazy time, the file got lost."

  "Understandable."

  That night comes back to me, well most of it. Rebecca tried to set us up, saying we were "absolutely perfect" for each other, but at the time I was secretly seeing Harry. When he stood me up, I proceeded to get blotto and spent the night flirting and dancing with the cute but shy doctor in front of me. And he is cute. Not classically handsome by any means, more striking. Medium height, a little on the skinny side with a long face, high cheekbones to die for, and a dimple on his left cheek when he smiles if I recall correctly. I may have touched it that night. Even his ears are adorable, sticking out a little too far. Several times that night I almost kissed him but managed to reign myself in. I wasn't a cheater. Then. I saw him at Rebecca and Justin's funerals, but we didn't speak. "And I'm sorry for my behavior that night, just ditching you like that when you left to get me water. A lot of the night is still fuzzy, so I apologize for anything else inappropriate I did."

  "You were fine," he says with a quick smile. "Lo-Lovely even."

  I chuckle. "Kind of doubt that. Not really an adjective people use to describe me, especially when I was drinking, but thank you for that lie. It was just a crappy night for me all around." Jem's face falls. "Not because of you! Dancing and talking with you was the highlight of the night."

  "I stepped on your feet," he says with a grimace. "A lot."

  "That must be one of the things the alcohol erased. Lucky you, huh?" God, I feel like a moron. Change the record, Jo. "So, um, how are you finding our hospital? The board thinks you're the Second Coming, so whatever you want, we'll no doubt give you."

  "The facilities, the staff are all wonderful, thank you. I am sure I-I shall be content and productive here."

  "Good. Like I said, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Forty virgins, the Crown Jewels, name of a good pizza place, it's all doable. Just give me a call."

  "Thank you. I will remember that."

  "Joanna!" Shannon shouts down the hall. "We need you!"

  Ugh. "I'm sorry, I have to go. It was nice to see you again, Dr. Ambrose."

  I'm about to step away when he says, "Jem." When I turn back around, I find him lifting his head, those wonderful eyes meeting mine. "Please, call me Jem."

  I smile. "Welcome to Galilee Falls, Jem. See you around." I spin and walk down the hall. Don't know why, but halfway down I glance back and see him stealing glimpses at me too. A lovely tingle wiggles through me from head to toe. Haven't felt that in awhile. It brings a private grin to my face.

  "Who was that?" Shannon asks when I reach her.

  "An old, new friend."

  *

  I attempt to force the cute doctor out of my thoughts, which is easier said than done when the rest of the day is spent in boring as hell meetings about contract appendices and profit sharing points. I don't know how Justin didn't stick a pencil in his ear during these things. So my mind wanders to dimples, dancing and doctors.

  He's not my usual type. I like my men tough, confident and put together. But it's been over nine months since I got laid, and that last time was beyond awful. Hell, I barely remember it. I'm just bored, depressed, horny and lonely. Never a good combination. The real problem is I have to stay that way for at least three more months, per my sponsor. No relationships for at least a year. Stupid program. Wonder if that counts for men I met before I became sober. I should get my lawyers on that one.

  Not that I'm sure Jem's interested in my grandfather clause. Last year was a fucking lifetime ago. He could be married with a baby on the way by now. And I did ditch him without a second thought. Men don't take kindly to that type of thing. He did seem eager to get away from me today, though that could just be the shyness. I remember it took a lot that night to get him to speak a word to me, and then it was about work, the crappy state of the world, or the happy couple. In my drunken haze, I could have mistaken politeness for flirting. I tend to think I'm a sex bomb when plastered. Just another thing I miss about booze.

  Okay, this is moot anyway. I learned my lesson from Harry. I don't belong with good, uncomplicated men. I just end up dragging them into the abyss with me. And I don't really have time to date. I wake at six, dress, get to the office by seven, meetings, meetings, meetings usually until eight unless I have a gala or p
arty, which is once every two weeks on average. I spend most weekends at the office, and the rest of my free time is devoted to my side project. I haven't been sailing in weeks. Hell, I don't even have time for a quickie. No cute doctors for me.

  I arrive at the mansion at eight after a grueling two hour marketing meeting to find my bland food waiting in the kitchen. Dobbs must have gone to bed early. I scarf the food down right at the counter before going into the living room. A lot of wasted days spent in here watching movies or playing video games with my best friend. Now I just come in here for access to Doris. Tonight is no different. I open the fireplace and step in. The sound of typing echoes up the ramp. Someone's down there. My stomach clenches with fear, and I stop walking. The smart part of my brain knows who it is but the irrational side runs through all the scenarios. Robbers, a villain, even a ghost are possible. Yeah, I'm being ridiculous. I continue down, and sure enough a familiar purple costumed man furiously types on the computer. His back is to me, and if he notices my presence he doesn't let on. "Hello," I say.

  He stops typing but doesn't turn around. "Hello," he says before clacking away again.

  "Did Dobbs let you in?"

  Nightingale doesn't answer for a few seconds, then says, "No."

  "I don't know if I'm really comfortable with you guys popping over whenever you damn well please, especially if I'm not home."

  More silence, then, "Sorry."

  I roll my eyes. Obviously not a conversationalist. "But you're going to do it anyway, aren't you?" I ask, walking over.

  "Yes."

  I wheel the spare computer chair to his side. He glances at me, then back to the monitor with what looks like an essay on it. "What are you doing?" I ask as I sit.