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Chapter One
Dr. Jacob White pulled up to the large house in the Hamptons, pulling his Lexus to a smooth halt in the curving driveway. There was a crisp snap to the air. Fall was coming, and this place would go from the heights of the summer bustle to the dormancy of winter weather. Strange place to keep a patient, he thought as he rang the doorbell. Still, he wasn't here for the nightlife. He was here to cure someone who couldn't be cured.
In short, he was here to do his job.
A maid, dressed in a simple gray uniform, opened the door.
"I'm Doctor White," he said. "Mrs. Jacquard is expecting me."
She acknowledged this with a silent nod, then gestured for him to enter the house. The interior was sumptuous: dark wood paneling, lots of moldings. Everything expensive, tasteful, understated. He walked down a long corridor to a sitting room, where Mrs. Jacquard sat on a suede divan. She stood with effort. Although he would guess she was only in her sixties, she moved like someone much older. Her Chanel suit demurely projected old money and high society.
Which would explain the exorbitant amount she was offering to pay him, he thought. Not that he particularly needed the money, but it showed she was serious.
"Doctor White," she said, offering her hand. He shook it carefully, since everything about her seemed fragile. He sat after she did. "I'm so glad you've agreed to help my daughter. We've come very close to losing hope."
"I can't promise anything," he said off--handedly, "but I'm looking forward to the challenge."
Mrs. Jacquard cleared her throat, her tone hesitant. "She's been treated by a lot of doctors over the past six years."
Jacob smiled. She's never been treated by me, he thought.
"I should hope my record for recovery would speak for itself," he replied instead. "In any case, I will certainly do all I can for your daughter."
She nodded, her movements birdlike, small and delicate. "I suppose that's all we can ask," she said softly. "So many of the best minds in your field—Richards, Bjornsen, Hataki—have declined to treat her, saying there was no possibility of recovery."
That caused Jacob to start. The names she'd rattled off so casually were the ultimate experts in neurology. The fact that they'd turned down her case as hopeless made him feel uneasy. He hadn't done as much research into this case as he normally did before taking on a case.
He felt he hadn't needed to.
She was known in medical circles as "Sleeping Beauty," practically an urban myth among the neurological community: a young woman in a mysterious coma for six years, with no clear causation and no response, after a multitude of treatments. Curing her would be like finding the Holy Grail. When Mrs. Jacquard called, he found himself tempted by the challenge.
Now, he had to see if he had what it took, to find the solution to a puzzle that had all his peers stumped.
He all but rubbed his hands together, eager to get started. "I'm going to need all her case files," he said.
"So you mentioned," she said. "I've had all of her files put in your room. I hope you don't mind that we've set up a room for you here?"
"Not at all." He wasn't planning on sleeping much, anyway. There was too much work to be done. "It will be much more convenient this way. I'll settle in after I get a look at my patient."
Her eyes narrowed, and he wrestled with a surge of impatience. "Doctor White . . . what, exactly, do you know about my daughter?"
He shrugged. "I know that she was on a vacation in the Caribbean, that she fell into a coma, and that there was no clear reason for what caused it."
"You've heard the rumors, then." Her cultured voice was tinged with bitterness.
"Yes." He shrugged again. There was no point in denying it.
"My daughter did not use drugs," she said sternly. "There was no group orgy, no rough sex that caused head trauma, no use of hallucinogens. She's a good girl. She's always been a good girl." She cocked her head, her bright eyes studying him. "Do you believe that?"
"Absolutely."
She stared at him, as if gauging the honesty of his reaction. After long moments, she relaxed against the back of her divan. "You mean that?"
"Of course."
"How could you tell?" she asked with a small smile.
"Because if she'd done any of those things," he answered, "it would have shown up for other doctors, and you wouldn't need me."
Her face fell.
"Mrs. Jacquard, I'm not here to judge your daughter," he said. "I've heard tons of crazy rumors, certainly, but I will tell you this: I am one of the best. I will go over the case files, but I am willing to bet that the reason your daughter is still under is because something was missed . . . something simple but vital. If there's anything nefarious in her past that might have contributed to her state—and consequently, might help wake her up—then I'll find it and use it. If that's a problem, then perhaps we shouldn't continue."
He waited, his body completely relaxed.
Her brow furrowed. Then she nodded.
"They said you might be a tad brusque," she remarked.
"I'm sorry for that," he answered. "But I get the job done."
"I certainly hope so." She stood, with some effort. "Well then, let's show you your patient."
He followed her down yet another corridor. The whole house seemed to have a strange silence to it, thick enough to touch. It was claustrophobic. He ignored the sensation, focusing instead on his excitement. This was the case that would be the signature for his whole career, he thought, his heart accelerating slightly.
She opened a door, pausing to look at him expectantly.
"This is my daughter."
Ravish
Excerpted from Ravish: The Awakening of Sleeping Beauty by Cathy Yardley
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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