Eleventh Hour by Catherine Coulter

medallion of veal and stared at one of the paintings on the dining room wall.
    Albia said, “It was a bad time. Would you please pass me the green beans, Nicola?”
    Elliott told stories of college days. All of them involved girls that both men had wanted. His stories were funny, utterly charming, and many times he made himself the dupe, but still, it was a very strange thing. “Then, of course,” he said, “there was Melissa—no, let’s not speak of her this evening. I’m sorry, John. Another toast. To Albia, the loveliest lady in Chicago.” And while he drank the toast, he looked at Nick and she wanted to slap that oily look off his handsome face.
    Over a dessert of crème brûlée, Nick felt a sudden cramp, then another, this one stronger, more vicious. She had to excuse herself to run to the bathroom, where she got sick, and soon felt so ill, so utterly miserable, that she just wanted to curl up and die.
    The pain was ghastly, her belly twisting and knotting. She threw up until she was shaking and sweating and couldn’t stand. She remembered hugging the toilet with Elliott, John, and Albia standing next to her, not knowing what to do until Albia said, “I think we should call an ambulance, John. She’s really sick. Elliott, go wait downstairs for them. Go, both of you! Quickly!”
    And here she was in a hospital bed and they’d pumped her stomach. She remembered now that they’d told her about that before she fell asleep again, thanks to something very nice they’d given her. At least her stomach was calm. In fact, her belly felt hollow, scooped out, shrunk down to nothing at all. It hurt, but it was a dull ache, as if she’d been hungry for too long.
    She remembered now that after they’d pumped her stomach, she lay on the hospital gurney feeling like she’d been bludgeoned with several baseball bats. Just on the edge of blissful drugged sleep, she remembered all those mad eyes staring at her from behind ski masks in her dreams, breathed in the smell of the exhaust from the big dark car that had nearly flattened her into the concrete.
    It was so very dark. She turned her head just a bit and saw a flashing red light. What was that?
    Then she heard a movement. Someone was in the room, close to her. She nearly stopped breathing.
    She whispered around that miserable tube down her throat, “Who’s there?”
    A man, she knew it was a man, and his breathing was close to her, too close.
    “Nicola.”
    Thank God, it was John. Why had she thought it could be Elliott Benson? There was no reason for him to be here.
    She started crying, she couldn’t help it.
    She felt his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, Nicola. You’ll be fine. You must stop crying.”
    But she couldn’t.
    He rang the bell. In just a moment, the door opened, flooding the hospital room with light from the hallway. Then the overhead light in the room went on.
    “What’s the problem, Senator?”
    “She’s crying and she’ll choke if you don’t get that tube out of her throat.”
    “Yes, we have an order for that, once she is awake.” She was standing over Nicola now, saying, “This isn’t fun, is it? Okay, this won’t be pleasant, Nicola, but it’s quick.”
    After the tube came out, her throat felt like it was burning inside.
    The nurse said, “Don’t be alarmed about the pain in your throat. After all that’s happened, it’ll be sore for a couple more days.” The nurse took a Kleenex and wiped her eyes, her face. “You’ll be just fine now, I promise.”
    She got the tears under control. She took a dozen good-sized breaths, calmed her heartbeat. “What happened?”
    “Probably food poisoning,” John said. “You ate something bad, but we got you to the emergency room in time.”
    “But what about you? Albia? Are you ill?”
    “No, we’re fine. So is Elliott.”
    “It appears,” the nurse said as she took Nicola’s pulse, “that only you ate whatever was bad.” She eased Nicola’s arm back under the