Life Blood: Cora's Choice #1 Read Free

least a dozen feet above my head, was intricately coffered.
    No, it didn’ t seem much like a biotech company at all.
    “Ah, Ms. Shaw.”  The voice came from the shadows at the far end of the room.  It was rich and masculine and dark with some private humor.
    I stepped forward, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.  “Cora,” I offered.
    “Yes, I know.  Please, take a seat.”
    I could make out the shape of the man behind the enormous, gleaming desk, but the discreet lighting seemed designed to conceal his face.  Two massive, armless chairs crouched on their lion’s paw feet in the center of another thick rug.  Cautiously, I took one, sitting on the very edge of the brocaded seat.  The recessed light above me shone directly into my eyes.  I squinted to see beyond it and could only get the impression of wide shoulders and dark hair.
    “Mr. Thorne, I’m sorry.  I think there must have been some kind of mistake,” I began.
    “There has been no mistake.”  That voice again—warm and amber.  It was effortlessly intimate while being entirely polite.
    I shivered slightly and wished that the door was still open to the reception room.
    “I have your medical record here, Ms. Shaw,” the man continued.  Hands emerged from the shadow—strong and masculine, with long blunt fingers.  He flipped open the laptop in front of him with a carelessly graceful gesture, and in the sudden glow, I could make out his features.
    I swallowed hard.  His dark hair was swept immaculately to the side, a long jaw and broad forehead balanced by an elegant, slightly aquiline nose.  It was a face of a Renaissance Italian aristocrat, and it was every bit as handsome now as it would have seemed then.
    I wished suddenly that the gorgeous rug under my feet could swallow me up.
    “Cora Ann Shaw.  T-cell prolymphocytic leukemia.  Terminal.  Is that correct?”
    The cold summary hit me like a blow.  I opened my mouth, and for a moment nothing came out.  He raised his gaze to meet mine.  His eyes were icy blue, and they seemed to look right through me.
    “Yes,” I breathed.  “That’s right.  Dr. Robeson said you could help me.”
    “You must understand that you must first pass the initial tests,” he said, his brow low and stern. 
    “I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t.
    Mr. Thorne opened a drawer and took out a small black case.  He stood and circled the desk until he stood above me, so close that I might have reached out and touched the hem of his pinstripe suit jacket.  He was, I thought inanely, quite tall.
    He set the case on the edge of the desk and unzipped it, opening it to reveal a kind of blood collection kit.  I sat up straighter.  With the alemtuzumab, I had become used to regular injections, but I still wouldn’t say that I was exactly blasé about needles.
    “The results of the screening will indicate if you are a good candidate for the procedure,” Mr. Thorne said.  He selected a needle from the array inside the case, locking it into a holder.  “But you must understand, even if the outcome is encouraging, the treatment is only successful in a small minority of cases.”
    “How small?” I asked, as much to distract myself from his preparations as out of a desire to know the answer.  I could always Google for details later.
    “One in a hundred,” he said.  “Perhaps less.”
    “Oh,” I said in a little voice.  “That is small.”
    “And if the procedure is unsuccessful, it always results in death,” he continued.
    “Wait, what?”  I was taken aback.  “So a one percent chance of cure, and a ninety-nine percent chance of death?  That doesn’t sound like smart odds to me.”
    He looked up from the needle.  His gaze pierced me, his eyes deep and hollow.  As handsome as he was, he didn’t exactly look the picture of health, either.  “What are your chances now?”
    I opened my mouth, then shut it.  My chances were exactly nil.  Put that way, gambling on an outside