Page 183 of The Billionaire's Secret

"Shit." My heart begins to thud, "Just say it."

"I don’t know, I promised her I wouldn’t."

"Who?"

"Victoria."

"You and she spoke?"

"At the hospital that day, and I’d been hoping for the two of you to come to your senses. Hell, I’d hoped she would tell you herself. Not that I should be breaking doctor-patient confidentiality... But I warned her."

"Fuck that. If you don’t tell me right now—"

The sound of honking reaches me over the line.

"Bloody cunt," he swears.

"What?"

"Not you. This fucker who’s trying to overtake me—what the hell—?" he swears aloud again. There’s more honking, the sound of brakes screeching.

"Weston, what the fuck—?"

The sound of metal scraping against metal, then Weston’s voice comes on the phone again, "Shit, Saint, this is not over not by a long shot. She’s preg—"

The line goes dead.

"The fuck?"

I glare at the receiver. My fingers tremble and my knuckles are white. How strange. I place the phone back in the cradle. Then reach for my phone. She’s what? She’s…fine. She has to be. And Weston? Shit, my heart begins to race. The noise in my head clears. He was in an accident. I need to get to him. I reach for the phone and dial my operative.

Half an hour later, I race up the corridor of the Whittington hospital. My investigator had tracked down Weston with a speed that had impressed even me. Well, I owe her a small fortune—but she’d delivered. This time, I barrel into the private room, and swerve. A jug of water misses me narrowly and crashes to the floor behind me.

"The fuck?"

I glance at Weston, sprawled on the hospital bed. His arm is in a sling, cuts and bruises mar his face, and his shirt is torn… Other than that, he seems fine. Which is more than I can say about the white-faced nurse who turns to me.

She throws up her hands, "Are you family?"

"A friend."

"Fine. Then," she thrusts a small plastic cap filled with pills at me, "you make him take those."

She brushes past me.

"Hold on, is he okay?"

"He won’t be able to use his arm for a little while." She raises her shoulders.

"The fuck?" He snarls, "I am a surgeon. I need to use my hands."

She winces, then turns and scurries from the room.

I turn to face my friend. Sweat beads his forehead and dirt smudges his face.

"You okay?"

He sets his jaw, "Totally."