Книга - Wife With Amnesia

Wife With Amnesia
Metsy Hingle


SHE COULDN' T REMEMBER… He said he was her husband, but Claire had no recollection of New Orleans titan Matt Gallagher– or the luxurious life he claimed they' d shared. Though she couldn' t deny the passion his virile presence aroused, she didn' t dare give in to the rush of powerful emotions. Especially since she sensed her alleged husband wasn' t telling her all… .HE COULDN' T FORGET!When Claire turned up with no memory of their separation, Matt seized the opportunity to reclaim his wife– and protect her from her mysterious assailant. Matt could face any danger– except the danger of losing the love of his life… .









“I Guess You’re Going To Have

To Add One More Sin To My List

Of Transgressions.”


And before she realized his intent, his mouth came crashing down on hers. Then his mouth was shaping hers, claiming her lips in a hungry kiss that made her blood heat, made her heart thunder in her chest. For a moment sanity deserted Claire. Her senses whirled beneath the searing demand of his mouth.

The sound of his groan hit Claire like a slap. Shocked by her actions, she snapped open her eyes.

“Do I know you?” She blurted out the question and immediately regretted it. Of course she must know him, she reasoned. Why else would he be at the hospital with her? And why else would he have planted that toe-curling kiss on her?

“Yeah, I guess you could say you know me,” he said, his mouth hardening. “After all, I am your husband.”


Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!

Popular author Cait London offers you Gabriel’s Gift, this April’s MAN OF THE MONTH. We’re sure you’ll love this tale of lovers once separated who reunite eighteen years later and must overcome the past before they can begin their future together.

The riveting Desire miniseries TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: LONE STAR JEWELS continues with Her Ardent Sheikh by Kristi Gold, in which a dashing sheikh must protect a free-spirited American woman from danger.

In Wife with Amnesia by Metsy Hingle, the estranged husband of an amnesiac woman seeks to win back her love…and to save her from a mysterious assailant. Watch for Metsy Hingle’s debut MIRA title, The Wager, in August 2001. Barbara McCauley’s hero “wins” a woman in a poker game in Reese’s Wild Wager, another tantalizing addition to her SECRETS! miniseries. Enjoy a contemporary “beauty and the beast” story with Amy J. Fetzer’s Taming the Beast. And Ryanne Corey brings you a runaway heiress who takes a walk on the wild side with the bodyguard who’s fallen head over heels for her in The Heiress & the Bodyguard.

Be sure to treat yourself this month, and read all six of these exhilarating Desire novels!

Enjoy!






Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire




Wife with Amnesia

Metsy Hingle





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




METSY HINGLE


Metsy is an award-winning, bestselling author of romance who resides across the lake from her native New Orleans. Married for more than twenty years to her own hero, she is the busy mother of four children. She recently traded in her business suits and a fast-paced life in the hotel and public-relations arena to pursue writing full-time. Metsy has a strong belief in the power of love and romance. She also believes in happy endings, which she continues to demonstrate with each new story she writes. She loves hearing from readers. For a free doorknob hanger or bookmark, write to Metsy at P.O. Box 3224, Covington, LA 70433.


For my children, Cathy, Jimmy, Chrissy and Stephen.

Though you may not have grown under my heart,

you grew in it.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten




Prologue


“Judging by the look on your face, Officer, I take it no one’s claimed the child.”

Seated in the office of Saint Ann’s Orphanage, the child in question remained quiet as a mouse, but she slid a glance to the doorway where Sister Mary Patrick stood speaking to someone in a hushed voice.

“I don’t understand it, Sister.”

It was him—the policeman who had found her hiding inside the confession box at the big church. Suddenly her tummy felt funny. Maybe he had come to tell Sister that she didn’t have to stay here anymore. That her mommy had come back for her just like she’d promised.

“It’s been over a week since the hurricane,” the policeman said. “We’ve run the kid’s picture in the local papers and on every news show in the New Orleans area, but so far nothing. No one’s come forward to claim her or even filed a missing person’s report on anyone matching her description. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“It seldom does,” Sister told him.

“She’s what…maybe three, tops? Just a baby. She has to belong to somebody. So why isn’t somebody looking for her?”

She did belong to somebody. She belonged to her mommy. And her mommy would come for her. She always came back for her.

Sister Mary Patrick glanced back in her direction, and she held her breath, tried to remain still as a statue the way Mommy had told her to do. Finally Sister turned back to the policeman. “I’m afraid we may never know the answer to that. She still isn’t talking. She won’t tell us her name or who her mother is, assuming that she even knows.”

“Do you…you know, think there might be something wrong with her?”

“The doctors say no. She obviously understands what’s being said to her because she does whatever she’s told to do. But for whatever reason, she refuses to speak. The doctors believe she’s suffered some kind of trauma. And it’s obvious from the bruising and marks on her that the child’s been physically abused.”

The policeman made an angry face that reminded her of Carl. Suddenly afraid, she wanted to run, to hide again. Instead she clutched the teddy bear tight. She had to stay here for now, she told herself. She had to be a good girl and wait. Just like she’d promised.

“Promise you’ll be a good girl, kitten, and don’t make any noise. Mommy’s got to take care of something, make sure that Carl can’t find us. Then I’ll be back for you.”

Thunder grumbled outside, and she grabbed at her mommy’s skirt. “No leave me, Mommy! I ’fraid. The sky’s mad at me.”

“The sky’s not mad at my baby girl. It’s just a storm, sweetie. That’s all. Okay?”

“’Kay.” She brushed tears from the sore cheek where Carl had hit her that morning.

“You’ll be safe here until I come back. But remember if anyone finds you, don’t say a word to them. Don’t even tell them your name. Just be a good girl and do what you’re told. And don’t worry, Mommy will come back for you.”

“So what’s going to happen to her?” the policeman asked.

“We’ve made arrangements with the State for her to remain here at Saint Ann’s.”

“You mean until someone adopts her, right?”

A sad expression crossed Sister’s face. “Of course adoption is what we hope for for all of our children. But most couples looking to adopt want an infant. I’m afraid her age will be a strike against her. Her refusal to speak, and the fact that she’s been abused, makes adoption less likely for her. But if we’re lucky and the Lord is willing, we’ll eventually be able to find a good foster home to take her.”

Sister was wrong. She didn’t need any foster home. Her mommy was going to come back for her just like she promised.

“She’s so little,” the policeman said. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“It isn’t. But then it isn’t fair for a child so young to have eyes that look so old. Unfortunately, that’s how it is with most of the children who come to us. That’s why we need your prayers.” Sister touched his arm. “Would you like to say hello to her?”

“I…uh, sure. Why not?”

Sister led him into the room and over to the chair where she sat. “Claire, you remember Officer Jamison, don’t you? He’s the nice policeman who brought you to us. He came by to see how you were doing.”

“Claire?” the policeman repeated from his crouched position in front of her.

Sister wrinkled her nose. “Somehow Jane Doe didn’t strike the other sisters and me as right for a little girl. Since you found her during Hurricane Claire, it seemed an appropriate choice. So until she tells us differently, we’ve decided to call her Claire.”




One


Twenty-five years later

“Where’s my wife?”

Her eyes snapped open at the whiplash demand in the man’s voice. Jerking upright in the bed, she winced as pain exploded inside her head. She groaned, lifted an unsteady hand to her aching head and froze as her fingers met a thick wad of gauze along her right temple.

“Damn it, I want to see my wife—now!”

The impatient command sliced through her pain and confusion. Angling a glance toward the sound of that hard voice, she spied the door slightly ajar and frowned. Apprehension skittered down her spine as she stared at the unfamiliar door, the tan-and-white tile flooring.

Where on earth was she?

Dropping her hand to her lap, she spotted the plastic ID bracelet circling her wrist. “Claire Gallagher,” she read aloud the name stamped on the band and waited for it to strike a chord of familiarity, some sense that the name belonged to her. When none came, nerves twisted into knots in her stomach. Suddenly anxious, she kicked at the sheets tangled around her legs, and pain streaked to her left ankle. Gasping, she clutched at her ankle and felt something tug on her arm.

With her heart hammering, Claire swung her gaze to her left, and the breath stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat at the sight of the IV contraption attached to her arm. One look at the tube and painful-looking needle taped to her hand had her stomach pitching.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. She was going to be sick.

Panic swimming in her blood, she clamped a hand over her mouth and willed herself to calm down. She needed to breathe slowly, try to focus, she told herself as she drew in several breaths. There was an easy explanation for this. There had to be. She simply had to sort things out.

Quickly she took stock of her surroundings—the narrow bed she occupied, the sterile white sheets and khaki-colored blanket twisted around her legs. Swallowing past the nerves that still tightened her throat, she swept her gaze over the rest of the room. A pair of utilitarian chairs filled one corner. A chrome table with a plastic water pitcher and a cup stood against the wall. Uninspiring beige drapes hung across a window. Even without the telltale ID band and IV strapped to her arm as clues, the decor alone screamed the word hospital and did nothing to settle her uneasiness. Slumping back against the pillows, Claire tried to think, tried to remember. But it was difficult doing either while her head and ankle continued to throb relentlessly. Everything ached. Even her hair seemed to hurt.

What on earth had happened? Had she been in some kind of accident? When? Where?

Fingering the bandage on her head, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember…something…anything that would tell her what had caused her to end up in a hospital.

But between the hammering in her skull and that hum of voices outside her door, concentration proved impossible. Besides, everything seemed so hazy. Just a vague recollection of a man in a white coat waving his hand in front of her face while shining a light in her eyes and asking her how many fingers she saw.

“Either you take me to see my wife now, or I’ll find her myself.”

Claire’s pulse kicked again. She pressed her fingers to the space between her brows and wondered for a moment why the man’s voice had such an unsettling effect on her. Did she know him? There was something about his voice…something that tugged at the fringes of her memory. But whatever it was, the memory stayed just out of reach. Giving up, Claire tried to focus on her own dilemma. But the more she tried to remember what had happened and how she had ended up in a hospital, the more her head hurt.

“You can go back to your station, Nurse Galloway. I’ll handle this.”

Claire jerked her head up and winced at the movement. But she recognized the second man’s voice—the doctor who had wanted her to count his fingers.

“Try to get a grip, Matt. You’re making a scene.”

“Yeah? Well unless I see my wife in the next ten seconds, I’m going to make an even bigger one.”

And he would make good on the threat, Claire thought, as she listened to the exchange between the doctor and the other man. There was no mistaking the steel in the angry man’s voice.

“You know, pal, I didn’t have to notify you that she was here. When they brought her in, she was barely conscious and didn’t have any ID. It was just pure luck that I was the one on duty and recognized her. Considering the situation between you two, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I broke some sort of hospital confidentiality rule by calling you. Don’t make me regret making that call, Matt.”

“Aw, hell, Jeff. I’m sorry. It’s just when you said she’d been hurt, and that the guy had used a gun, I…I guess I went a little crazy.”

“A little?”

“All right. A lot. It’s just…I was afraid that…I thought—” His voice broke. “Hell, it doesn’t matter what I thought. The way things have been between us lately, she probably won’t even want to see me. But I need to see her, Jeff. I really do. I need to see with my own eyes that’s she’s all right.”

“Take it easy, man. No one’s trying to stop you from seeing her. But she’s been drifting in and out of consciousness since they brought her in. Give me a second to find out if she’s awake yet, and then you can go in.”

“Jeff, wait! First, I need to know what to expect. Be straight with me. How bad off she is. Is she…is she going to make it?”

Poor guy, Claire thought as she heard the anguish in his voice. Chiding herself, she turned away from the door. She had no right to eavesdrop, to listen to his anxiety over his wife’s condition, she told herself. Besides, she had enough problems of her own to worry about—like why she was in a hospital and why couldn’t she remember how she had ended up here.

“Damn, I could kick myself! I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t realize you thought— I never meant to imply that her injuries were that serious. They’re not.”

“But you said the mugger used a gun.”

“He did. According to the witness, the guy hit her on the head with one.”

Finding it impossible to concentrate on her own situation while the drama unfolded outside her room, Claire gave up and listened.

“The blow to her head was the most serious of her injuries. It took a dozen stitches to close up the gash and she’s probably going to have a doozy of a headache. She’s also got a sprained ankle, some nasty scrapes and bruising from being shoved to the ground. But the bruising will fade and the cut on her head should heal with little or no scarring.”

“But you said there were complications.”

“I said there might be complications. She’s suffered a serious blow to the head, Matt, and whenever you’re dealing with a head injury that’s always a possibility—”

A voice squawked over the PA system, cutting off the rest of the doctor’s explanation as well as any response that followed. After a few more seconds in which more announcements followed, Claire could make out only low-pitched murmurs and the squeaking wheel of a passing cart. Finally she gave up trying to pick up the threads of their conversation again.

Just as well, she thought with a sigh. To listen took concentration on her part, and concentration took energy. And suddenly she was feeling incredibly tired. Weariness washed over her, stealing the last of her reserves. Her eyelids felt as if they were weighted with lead. Keeping them open or even trying to think became impossible. So she gave up the battle.

But the moment Claire’s eyelids fluttered shut, storm clouds seemed to engulf her, muddling her senses, dragging her deeper and deeper into some dark abyss. She was running. Faces and voices became jumbled. The need to escape grew stronger. Someone was chasing her. Hide, a voice whispered inside her head. Fear climbed in her throat as she ran and ran. She tasted the salt of tears, heard someone weeping, but still she ran.

Don’t stop! Run! Hide!

The voice urged her on, and Claire continued to run. She ran and ran, racing through the shadows. She fell. She got up. She ran harder still, ignoring the ache in her side, the burning in her lungs. And as Claire slipped into the well of unconsciousness that beckoned, she could have sworn she heard the rumble of that whiskey-rough voice from the hall once again. And this time he was calling her name.



“Claire? Claire, can you hear me?”

Pain knifed through Claire’s skull, and she whimpered as she battled through the heavy fog surrounding her.

“Shh. It’s okay.” His breath was a soft rush of air against her chilled skin. Warm, callused fingers caressed her cheek. Instinctively she moved closer toward the source of that heat. “That’s my girl. Try to wake up, sweetheart. Open those pretty brown eyes for me.”

Another missile of pain fired inside her head, but Claire muscled through it. She wanted, needed to get closer to that warmth, to see the face that belonged to the voice that had comforted her during the long night of dark dreams. When at last she managed to force her eyes open, two things registered simultaneously. First, the man’s face was every bit as compelling as his voice. Cary Grant handsome with jet-black hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, a square, uncompromising chin and eyes the color of flint. And second, she didn’t have a clue who he was.

He stared down at her with an intensity that she found disturbingly intimate. “Welcome back,” he said in a voice that packed a sensual punch and sent a shiver of awareness through her.

“Thanks,” she murmured and worked to put a name with his face.

“You feeling okay? I can call the doctor….”

“No,” she told him, wanting a moment to get her bearings. She was in a hospital, and her name was… Claire. Claire Gallagher, she recalled after a quick glance at her wristband. And the GQ hunk watching her with anxious eyes was… She frowned, tried to remember. A flutter of panic danced along her spine when she came up blank. Pushing to sit up, she winced as the movement set off new explosions of pain in her head and ankle.

“Hey, take it easy,” he soothed. “Head hurting?”

She nodded, only to wince when the movement elicited another stab of pain in her head.

“I’ll call the doctor and see about getting you something for the pain.”

“No. Wait. Please. It was only a twinge,” she told him. “I’m okay.” And she didn’t want to take anything that would make her feel fuzzier than she did already.

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m all right. Honest.”

“I’m glad to hear one of us is,” he said, giving her a halfhearted grin. “I was scared spitless when Jeff called and told me you were hurt.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Keep doing that and you’re going to pull it out.”

He grimaced at her remark. “Reflex, I guess. Like I said, I was worried. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out every hair on my head has turned white,” he told her, another half smile curving his mouth.

It hadn’t, Claire noted. His hair was as black as coal and had a tendency to curl just at the edges. He looked and sounded so familiar. So why couldn’t she remember who he was or how he fit into her life?

“God. I was so scared I was going to lose you,” he said, his voice raw. All traces of humor gone. He squeezed his eyes shut a moment. “When Jeff called and said they’d brought you in, I thought…I was so afraid…”

“Don’t,” she said, moved by the anguish in his voice, in his eyes. Reaching out, she touched his clenched fists. “I’m all right.”

He stiffened momentarily at her touch. Something dangerous flashed in those steel-colored eyes. But before she could pull her hand back, he closed his fingers over hers, held. “I know. It’s just that…” He whooshed out a breath. His expression grim, he continued to stare at her while he seemed to engage in some inner struggle. “I’m sorry. I know how much you hate it when I push. But after last night…after thinking that you might…” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I guess you’re just going to have to add one more sin to my list of transgressions. Because God help me, I’ve got to do this.”

And before she realized his intent, his mouth touched her own. He brushed his lips against hers in a kiss so soft, so gentle, that instead of pushing him away, Claire rested her palms against his chest. Muscles flexed beneath her fingertips, and she could sense the strength, the tightly leashed control, the fire held in check. The sweetness of his restraint moved something inside Claire. Curling her fingers in his shirt, she returned his kiss.

When he lifted his head, he stared at her. Sure she’d made a mistake, Claire started to retreat. But before she could, he angled his head and his mouth came crashing down on hers again. Then his mouth was shaping hers, claiming her lips in a hungry kiss that made her blood heat, made her heart thunder in her chest. For a moment sanity deserted Claire. Her senses whirled beneath the searing demand of his mouth. Feminine need shuddered through her, throbbed in her womb. Instinctively she arched her body toward him.

His groan hit Claire like a slap. Shocked by her actions, she snapped open her eyes. Sweet heaven, what on earth had she been thinking? She didn’t know this man—not even his name. Shaken, she unclenched her fingers from his shirt and shoved at him—hard. He released her at once, and had she been standing, she was sure she would have fallen. “Wh-who are you?” she demanded, hating the tremor in her voice, a tremor that she realized wasn’t caused by fear alone.

Eyes narrowing, desire still glittering in their gray depths, he watched her with the same intensity that he’d kissed her. Out of nowhere the image of a wolf tracking its prey raced through Claire’s mind. Whoever this man was he was dangerous. Maybe not physically, because she didn’t think he would harm her, but on some deeper, more personal level. “I asked who you were,” she said, unnerved by his silence.

“Matt.”

“Matt,” she repeated, sampling the sound of his name on her lips. She waited for some flicker of recognition, some memory to go with the name. When none came, her head began to throb in earnest. Pressing her fingers to her temple, she closed her eyes and ran his name, his face, his kiss through her mind again.

Nothing. No inkling that she knew him, that she remembered him. All she encountered were more blank pages. Her heart picked up a panicked beat at that realization, and she was forced to acknowledge that her memory was filled with far too many blank pages. Swallowing hard, she opened her eyes and found his gaze fastened on her as though he were sizing her up. The idea that he might be, unnerved her—almost as much as her inability to remember.

“Do I know you?” she blurted out and immediately regretted asking the question. Of course she must know the man, Claire reasoned. Why else would he be at the hospital? And why else would he have planted that toe-curling kiss on her?

“Yeah. I guess you could say you know me,” he said, his mouth hardening, his dark brows slashing in a frown. “After all, I am your husband.”



“M-my husband!”

Matt clenched his jaw as the color drained from Claire’s face. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. For a few moments when she had kissed him back, he had thought…he had allowed himself to believe that she still loved him, that she had forgiven him.

Frustration and disappointment slammed at him like punishing fists. He jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her again. Damn, what an idiot he’d been. Only an idiot would have let himself believe that Claire’s brush with violence had somehow changed things between them and wiped out the six miserable months since she’d left him.

Now as he stared at her too-pale face, saw the bewilderment clouding her cinnamon-brown eyes, he bit back a curse at his own lack of caution. How could he have been so reckless? Jeff had warned him that something like this might happen. That the blow to Claire’s head and her disoriented state could be an indication of something more serious.

Only he hadn’t heeded Jeff’s warnings to take things slowly. No, he’d been too eaten up with guilt for failing to protect her. And he’d been scared spitless that he might lose her forever. When she had finally opened her eyes, looked up at him and hadn’t turned away, he’d been too staggered by relief to think beyond the fact that she was all right.

Then she had touched him. And his ability to think at all had gone right out of the window. Claire’s touch, the softness of her voice after so many months without both had been like a lifeline being thrown to a drowning man. So, he’d snatched it, held on to it with both fists. Kissing her hadn’t been an option. Suddenly it had been as necessary to him as taking his next breath. And without considering the consequences, he had given in to his own selfish needs.

“We’re married?”

Her question yanked Matt from his self-recriminations. “Yeah,” he replied, frowning. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that she was having trouble remembering things. Probably some kind of memory loss because of that blow to her head. What he didn’t know was how extensive that memory loss was or how much he should tell her. If she didn’t remember him and their marriage, she evidently didn’t remember that they were separated, either. Should he tell her? he wondered, reluctant to reveal that piece of news when beneath her confusion a trace of desire still lingered in her eyes. Selfish bastard that he was, he decided to say nothing. He would rather cope with her confusion and anxiety than have Claire revert to the polite civility she’d treated him with since their split.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice fragile. She rubbed at the spot between her brows again. “Things are a bit fuzzy. And I…I seem to be having a little trouble remembering things.”

“It’s all right,” Matt soothed, hating that she felt the need to apologize to him when he was the one who had failed her. But then, Claire had always been quick to assume responsibility when things went wrong. While, in truth, the fault had never been hers. No, the fault lay with the heartless woman who had abandoned a battered little girl in a hurricane twenty-five years ago. The fault lay with the legal system that had failed that little girl. And the fault lay with him—for not recognizing how deeply Claire’s insecurities ran. For not considering that his attempt to find answers for her about the past would only open old wounds and be interpreted as his dissatisfaction with her as his wife. The fault was most assuredly his for not realizing that his actions would lead Claire to believe that he was one more person to whom she had given her heart only to be rejected.

“I’m sure everything will come back to me in a minute. I mean, a woman just doesn’t forget her husband,” she said, the lighthearted remark at odds with the distress etched on her face.

Matt gave her what he hoped passed as a reassuring grin. “I think forgetting a husband is a forgivable offense,” he told her, wanting to ease her anxiety. “Especially if the woman doing the forgetting has a concussion and an egg-size lump on her head that needed stitches.”

She lifted a hand to the bandage. “I have stitches?”

“About a dozen according to Jeff.”

“Jeff?”

“Jeff Peterson,” he explained. “Or I guess I should say Dr. Jeff Peterson. He’s the doctor who treated you when you were brought into the emergency room last night. He also happens to be an old friend.”

She frowned again, pinched the bridge of her nose as though she were trying to process the information. “I, uh, I think I remember him. But everything’s still a bit hazy. What happened?” she asked. “How did I hurt my head?”

Matt hesitated, once again unsure how much he should tell her or if he had already said too much. “Maybe I should get Jeff and let him explain—”

“No.” She caught his hand when he started to leave, and Matt’s body tightened at the feel of her fingers against his skin. “You tell me.”

Matt didn’t move, didn’t breathe for several seconds as he bit back the rush of memories her touch evoked. Vivid memories of her looking at him with desire in her eyes, of those silken fingers touching other parts of his body, of him touching her…

“Matt?”

He slammed the brakes on the dangerous turn his thoughts had taken. “You were mugged,” he told her, going from lust to fury in a heartbeat at the jarring reminder of what Claire had endured. Murderous thoughts sprang to life inside him toward the lowlife who had hurt her. No matter what happened or how long it took him, he vowed, he would make the scumbag pay for hurting Claire.

“Mugged,” she repeated.

What little color had crept back into her cheeks disappeared. Blasting himself for being so blunt, Matt said, “Take it easy. You’re safe now.”

“It’s just that I can’t remember,” she explained. “And the things I keep imagining…” She whooshed out a breath. “What happened?”

When he remained silent, she whispered, “Please, Matt, tell me. I need to know.”

“You were pistol-whipped,” he said, spitting out the ugly truth. “There was a witness, a woman, who saw the whole thing. She said the guy hit you in the head with the butt of his gun, then he shoved you to the ground. That’s how you sprained your ankle.”

The fingers holding his hand tightened. And though it didn’t seem possible for her to be any paler than she already was, her face grew even whiter. “Was I— Did he—”

“No,” Matt snapped, realizing where her thoughts were headed. Cursing his lack of finesse in explaining, he tipped up her chin so that he could see her eyes. A fist closed around his heart at the fear and shame he read there. For that alone, Matt could murder the guy who had attacked her. “He never touched you. Not in that way. The scumbag stole your purse. But that’s all he stole from you. Nothing else. I swear it.”

A breath shuddered through her lips. “I… Thank you,” she murmured.

Guilt ripped at him. That she would actually thank him gnawed at him something fierce and compounded the guilt he’d felt since getting Jeff’s call. She was his wife, damn it. He loved her, and it was his job to protect her. Yet, not only had he failed to protect her, he had hurt her in a way no mugger ever could. How could he love her as he did and have been so blind to her feelings? If only he could go back. If only he could make things right.

“I don’t remember.”

“Which is perfectly understandable. You’ve suffered a head injury. Sometimes even the smallest of bumps can cause some memory loss.”

“You don’t understand,” she countered. “I can’t remember anything. Not you. Not the attack. Not anything!”

“All right, take it easy. You probably have some kind of temporary amnesia,” Matt offered and hoped he was right about the “temporary” part. Other than the little Jeff had explained to him, what he knew about head injuries and amnesia wouldn’t fill a nutshell. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. Your memory is going to come back.”

“When?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it will.” He drew her into his arms, wanting to erase the panic he heard in her voice, saw in her eyes. Running his hand up and down her spine, he could feel some of her tension begin to melt beneath his caress. When she relaxed against him, rested her head on his shoulder, his own chest tightened. Closing his eyes, Matt savored the pleasure of having Claire in his arms again. After so many months without her, of wondering if he would ever get to hold her like this again, the feel of her body nestled against his was like a welcome spring shower following a long winter’s drought.

Claire eased back a fraction and stared up at him. Matt waited for the questions he knew were already forming in that too-sharp mind of hers, questions that would demand and deserve answers. Answers that he was reluctant to give her.

He studied Claire’s face, struck anew by how much he loved her, how much he needed her tenderness and warmth in his life. The bandage on her head was a shock of white against the dark fire of her red hair. Her pallor still bore traces of the ordeal she had suffered, as did the frown pleating her brow. Yet even in the ghastly hospital lighting sans makeup, Claire was just as beautiful now as she had been the first time he had seen her.

He thought back to that day over two years ago when she’d bluffed her way into the kitchen of his family’s restaurant, pretending to be a food inspector and demanding to see one of the owners. The restaurant had been in need of a new pastry chef, but she hadn’t wanted the job. No, Claire had wanted to provide the restaurant with her desserts—even though a host of other firms offering the same service had already been turned away. But that hadn’t stopped Claire. No, his Claire had insisted on being given a chance to prove herself. Just taste her white-chocolate cheesecake, she’d dared, and if he didn’t agree it was the best cheesecake he’d ever eaten, she would work as his pastry chef free of charge for a full month. He’d taken one bite of the dessert sample she’d smuggled into the restaurant in her bag and he’d conceded that she’d won the bet. He’d ordered a dozen of the cheesecakes and asked her out to dinner. And he had made up his mind before they’d gotten through the appetizers to make Claire his wife.

Claire hadn’t succumbed so easily, he admitted, a smile curving his lips as he remembered.

She had fought him most of the way claiming it was too sudden. They were too young. They were worlds apart in social standing and money. But he hadn’t been swayed. He’d approached his decision to marry Claire with the same determination with which he’d approached his business. Failure was not an option. And he hadn’t failed. He’d married Claire a scant three months after their first meeting.

Unable to resist, Matt trailed a finger down her cheek, felt her telltale quiver at his touch. Her skin was still as smooth as a magnolia petal, her overripe mouth a dusky-rose hue that he knew was only a shade lighter than the nipples of her breasts. Desire churned inside him as he lowered his gaze to her breasts hidden beneath the ugly hospital gown. He remembered how perfectly those breasts filled the palms of his hands, how they tasted when he took them into his mouth, how her breath hitched when he flicked his tongue over the tips.

“What happens if my memory doesn’t come back?”

Jerking his gaze back up to Claire’s face, he slammed the door on the sensual images that had him hard and aching for her. “It will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Trust me. Your memory is going to come back.” He just hoped that when it did, he wouldn’t lose her again.

“But what am I going to do in the meantime if I can’t remember anything or anyone?”

Her question hit him square between the eyes. This was his chance, Matt realized, feeling like a man who’d been dealt four aces. This was the chance he’d waited for, prayed for—to be able to go back, to make things right between the two of them. And before his conscience kicked in, he said, “You’re going to let me take care of you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. I’m your husband, and I love you.”

“But it seems…unfair. I mean, I don’t remember you or anything about our marriage.” She flushed. “You’re a…you’re a stranger to me, Matt.”

Matt smiled as the plan began to take shape in his mind. “Then I guess I’ll have to do my best to make you fall in love with me all over again.”




Two


“I’m sorry to put you through this, Mrs. Gallagher, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”

“I understand,” Claire told the police detective as she sat in her hospital bed the following day. “But I’m not sure I’ll be of any more help to you now than I was yesterday. I still can’t remember what happened.”

“So your husband tells me.” His expression earnest, the detective removed a notepad from his inside coat pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper tucked between the pages. “Fortunately your car was parked beneath a streetlight, so the witness who saw you attacked, a Mrs. Williams, got a pretty good look at your assailant. Based on her description, the police artist was able to come up with a sketch of what we believe your attacker looked like. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to take a look at it and see if it sparks your memory.”

Claire hesitated. While she’d been frustrated over her inability to remember even the smallest of things, the prospect of seeing the face of the man who had attacked her made her uneasy.

“Red, you up to this?” Matt asked as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

His use of the pet name, which she’d learned he’d dubbed her because of her hair color, combined with his gentle touch, eased some of the churning inside her. He was her husband. She still had trouble digesting that fact. Yet, since she’d opened her eyes two days ago, Matt had rarely left her side. Each time when she’d become frustrated or frightened at not being able to recall things, there he was assuring her that everything would be all right, that her memory would come back. And as though he sensed her uneasiness now, here he was once again offering his support. Lord, but the poor man must be exhausted, she thought as she tipped her head back to look at his face. Even with several days’ growth of beard shadowing his jaw and worry lines etched around his eyes, he was still incredibly handsome. And sweet. He’d been impossibly sweet and attentive. How on earth could she not remember being married to him?

“Claire?”

She clamped the lid shut on her wandering thoughts. “I’m okay,” she assured him, and turned her attention back to the police detective. Bracing herself, she reached for the sketch.

Her first thought was that the man looked ordinary—like someone she might pass on the street or see in line at the bank or the grocery store. Early to midfifties, she estimated. The baseball cap covered his forehead and most of his hair, except for the straggly ends that hung around his too-narrow face. His nose was long, slightly crooked, and his lips curled into what she considered a cruel twist. Shifting her attention to his eyes, a chill chased down her spine. There was something about his eyes…something lifeless and cold in the way they stared up at her…that licked at the edges of her memory—and made her heart begin to pound with fear.

“Does he look familiar, Mrs. Gallagher?”

Claire yanked her gaze from the sketch to the detective. “No,” she said quickly and shoved the picture back at him. Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she tried to shake off the fear that had raced along her nerve endings when she’d looked into those cold evil eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize him.”

“Are you sure? For a moment, I thought—”

“She said she doesn’t remember,” Matt said, sliding a protective arm around her shoulders.

“I’m sure,” Claire told the detective. She leaned against Matt, grateful for his presence after her reaction to the man’s picture. Noting the detective’s skeptical expression, she said, “I don’t recognize him. If it seemed otherwise, it’s because seeing his face and knowing that he attacked me shook me for a moment. But I honestly don’t remember him.”

“Perhaps something will come back to you later,” the detective suggested. He tucked the notepad and drawing back into his coat pocket. “In the meantime, we’ll start circulating his picture on the streets, see if we’re able to get a lead on the guy.”

“I want the man who did this to my wife behind bars, Detective Delvecchio.”

“So do we, Mr. Gallagher. Unfortunately, due to your wife’s amnesia, we don’t have a whole lot to go on.”

“You have an eyewitness and a sketch of what the man looks like,” Matt pointed out.

“And we’re pursuing both of those leads. But even if we do come up with a suspect and are able to make an arrest, we’re going to need your wife to identify him as the man who attacked her.”

“Which I can’t do unless my memory returns,” Claire said aloud as the full impact of her situation hit her again.

“I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

The neurologist that Matt had brought in had told her that her memory could come back tomorrow, next month or even a year from now. Or it may never come back at all. The thought of not being able to remember the bits and pieces that made up her life, that made up who she was, caused the ever-present knot in her stomach to twist a little tighter.

“You’ve got to give yourself some time. It’s only been a few days,” Matt told her as though, once again, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Yes. I’m sure you’re right.” But the few days already felt like an eternity.

“Thank you again for your time, Mrs. Gallagher.”

“You’re welcome, Detective,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be of more help.”

“Like your husband said, it’s only been a few days. But if you should remember something, anything at all about what happened that night, I’d appreciate it if you would get in touch with me.”

“I’ll do that,” she assured him, and took the business card he offered.

He inclined his head toward Matt. “Mr. Gallagher.”

“Detective.” Matt shook the other man’s hand, then ushered him toward the door. “I’d like you to keep me informed of any progress you make.”

“Of course.” Detective Delvecchio started to leave, then paused. He rubbed at his jaw, and Claire could have sworn she saw speculation in the man’s hazel eyes as he looked from Matt to her and back again.

“Was there something else, Detective?” Matt asked.

“I understand your wife is going to be discharged from the hospital tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” Matt replied. “The neurologist recommended she stay an additional night for observation, but she should be released sometime tomorrow. Why?”

“I’m probably just being overcautious, but it might be a good idea if she isn’t left alone at home until we catch this guy.”

“She won’t be. I’ll be with her. And when I’m not, my housekeeper or someone in my family will be staying with her.”

“Is that really necessary?” Claire asked.

“It’s just a precaution, ma’am. But I think it’s better if you have someone with you until we find this guy and put him behind bars.”

Alarms went off in Claire’s head. “Why?” she asked, an uneasy feeling skittering down her spine.

“Like I said, it’s just a precaution,” Delvecchio told her.

Claire narrowed her eyes, stared at the burly police detective. “I wouldn’t think that sort of precaution is necessary in a mugging case. Is there something you haven’t told me, Detective?”

“Red, you heard the man. It’s just a precaution.”

Ignoring Matt, she pressed on. “Detective?”

“Call it the gut feeling of an old cop. I just think it would be a good idea if you’re not left alone.”

“She won’t be,” Matt said, and started to usher the detective out of the room.

“Detective, wait. Do you think he’s going to come after me again?”

He hesitated. “He shouldn’t. From all indications you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, the victim of a random mugging.”

“Is that what you think it is? A random mugging?”

“What he thinks doesn’t matter,” Matt insisted. “No one’s going to hurt you again.”

Dismissing the angry look Matt shot the detective, Claire persisted. “Detective Delvecchio, I’m asking for your professional opinion—that gut feeling you mentioned. Do you think the attack on me wasn’t random and that he might come after me again?”

“Right now I have no reason to believe it was anything more than what it appears to be and this feeling in my gut is just indigestion. If that’s the case, the guy is probably long gone and won’t bother you again,” he informed her.

“But?” Claire prompted.

“But on the off chance that I’m wrong, and my gut is right, this wasn’t a random mugging, I’d rather err on the side of caution and make sure that you’re protected.”

Claire could feel the color drain from her cheeks. She fisted her fingers in the sheets. A shudder ran through her as she thought of those cold eyes in the police sketch. “But you said he stole my wallet. What makes you think his goal was more than robbery?”

“Delvecchio, why don’t we discuss this outside?” Matt suggested.

“No,” Claire returned. Ignoring Matt’s scowl, she said, “I’d appreciate an answer to my question.” When he didn’t answer, Claire said, “Detective Delvecchio, I may have lost my memory, but I haven’t lost my brain or my ability to think. Since I’m the one who was attacked, I believe I have a right to know why you think I might still be in danger.”

The detective sighed. “To be frank, ma’am, I find it strange that this guy would attack you as he did and just take your purse. According to the report from the hospital admitting clerk, you were wearing some pricy jewelry when they brought you in—jewelry that could have been fenced for a nice chunk of change. If fast cash was his motive, why didn’t he take it?”

“Maybe he was scared off. You said that this Mrs. Williams witnessed the whole thing. Or maybe he didn’t have time to finish the job because she surprised him.”

The detective scratched at his head. “That’s the other thing that’s been puzzling me. The man attacked you beneath a bright streetlight, where he could clearly be seen. Yet he made no attempt to conceal his face with a mask or a stocking. I’ve checked out the crime scene. It would have made more sense for him to make a grab for your purse before you reached the car. There was less chance of him being seen that way, and you were clearly more vulnerable.”

“Maybe you’re dealing with a dumb crook,” Matt offered.

“And maybe we’re not dealing with a crook at all,” Claire suggested. “That is what you’re suggesting isn’t it? That my attacker’s motive wasn’t robbery?”

“Yes, ma’am. The truth is, the Gallagher name is fairly well known in the New Orleans area because of your husband’s family’s restaurants and the family’s social prominence. You folks are mighty visible. There’s hardly a week that goes by without some member of your family having their picture splashed across the society pages or on the TV news at some big to-do in the city. From where I’m standing, that makes any one of you a prime target for kidnappers.”

“Kidnappers,” Claire repeated, stunned by the idea.

“It is a possibility,” the detective replied. “One that I don’t think we should rule out. Maybe the reason this guy just grabbed your purse and didn’t go for your jewelry or your car was because it was really you that he was after. Maybe he intended to kidnap you and hold you for ransom, but was scared off when Mrs. Williams showed up. Hitting you and taking your purse might have just been a ruse to cover what he was really after—you.”

“Oh, my God,” Claire murmured, both appalled and frightened by the scenario the detective had just outlined.

“I’ve had about enough of your theories, Delvecchio. All you’re doing is upsetting my wife, so I’d appreciate it if you would leave and go find the man who attacked her,” Matt said, his voice clipped, his expression deadly.

The detective didn’t argue. After exchanging a look with Matt, he nodded and left the room.

“Hey, it’s all right,” Matt soothed as he sat on the bed beside her. He caught her by the shoulders. “Look at me, Red.”

Claire tipped up her chin, stared into those compelling gray eyes filled with concern, with worry.

“Listen to me. Even if Delvecchio’s cockamamie theory about an attempted kidnapping is right, and I’m not at all sure that it is, nothing is going to happen to you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you ever again. All right?”

Claire nodded, but inside she had this sick, uneasy feeling. Was it possible that someone had actually tried to kidnap her? Suppose they decided to try again? Panic paralyzed her for long seconds as she realized that if someone did try to kidnap her, she wouldn’t even know what number to call to let someone know she was being held for ransom.

“Claire.” Matt gave her a gentle shake. “Sweetheart, I know how hard this must be for you. You don’t remember me, the love that we shared. But I do love you. More than you can possibly imagine. All I’m asking is that you trust me. Give me a chance. Give us a chance. Will you do that?”

“I’ll try.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, drew his finger gently along her cheek. “That’s all I can ask.”

But it wasn’t all that he wanted. Desire still shimmered in his eyes as he caressed her jaw, stared at her mouth. A flutter of feminine heat flickered, spilled slowly through her system. While she might not remember Matt or her life with him, on some level her body remembered him.

“Trust me,” he murmured, and pressed his lips gently against her own. He drew back a fraction, looked her in the eyes. “I know this is difficult for you, but promise me you won’t dwell on anything Delvecchio said.” When she nodded, he continued, “That’s my girl. I want you to just concentrate on getting better. Tomorrow, when I take you home, everything won’t seem so unsettling as it does now.”

But how did she tell the man she was married to that it wasn’t just the detective’s kidnapping theory that had the nerves knotting in her stomach? It was the prospect of going home with a husband who was for all intents and purposes a stranger to her.



He was walking a thin line, Matt conceded as he turned the wheel of the Mercedes and headed down the street toward home. And that fine line he’d been treading since he’d made the decision not to tell Claire that they were separated seemed to be growing even finer now that he was bringing her home. He’d managed to move back into their home the majority of her clothing and essentials out of the apartment she’d lived in during the past six months. For all intents and purposes, it looked as though she’d never been gone.

And he felt as guilty as sin for the deception.

His intentions weren’t all self-serving, he reasoned in an effort to lessen the foul taste that deceit left in his mouth. If Claire knew the truth, she never would have agreed to come home with him today. Memory or no memory, she was still the same maddeningly independent person she had always been. She would rather walk through fire than ever admit she actually needed anyone’s help. Matt sighed as he recalled what a problem that had proven to be for him in their marriage. Growing up in a close-knit and loving family, he’d always known he could turn to his family for help—be it financial, physical or emotional. After all, that’s what family was all about, sharing good times and bad. It had taken him a long time to understand that Claire’s refusal to share her burdens with him had been born out of her fear of being rejected and not out of distrust.

Claire needed him now, he told himself. Someone had to take care of her, and the fact remained that she had no one else. Who better to fill the job than her husband? Because despite their separation, he was still her husband—at least for the time being. Taking care of her was his responsibility. But more than that, it was what he wanted to do, what he needed to do. He wanted to be there for Claire. To show her that he wasn’t like everyone else she’d cared about in her life—ready to abandon her and forget her. Most of all he wanted to prove to her that she could count on him, that they could make their marriage work because they belonged together.

And when her memory comes back? What then, Gallagher? Suppose this little plan of yours blows up in your face and she walks out on you for good?

There was the distinct possibility she would do just that—walk out on him—because she would be furious when she found out what he had done. No question about it. But it was a risk he had to take, Matt decided as he drove the car to a stop in front of their house. Because unless he could win Claire’s love and trust again, he didn’t have a prayer of winning her forgiveness and a second chance.

“This is where I live?”

Matt snapped his attention back to Claire. Wide-eyed, she stared at the house as though she were seeing it for the first time. Giving himself a swift mental kick, he reminded himself that in a sense she was seeing it for the first time. If she didn’t remember him, she probably didn’t remember the house, either. “This is where we live,” Matt told her, and felt the prick to his conscience at the half-truth.

“It’s so beautiful.”

“That’s what you said the first time I brought you here,” he told her. And it was true. Nestled between ancient oaks, the old Southern charmer of stuccoed brick had been painted to look like sandstone block, and the front porch had been done in a shade of soft white. The lush green lawn sprawled from the front door to the sidewalk. And the carefully tended gardens were bursting with the yellow day lilies and white roses Claire had insisted on planting when she’d moved in after their marriage. He’d fallen in love with the old house when he’d first seen it five years ago and had taken great care to restore it. But it had been Claire who had made the place a home. He decided against parking in the garage for now, so that Claire had the benefit of entering the house through the front entrance. Exiting the car, he came around to the passenger side and opened her door. “Trust me, it didn’t look nearly this good when I bought it.”

“The gardens are lovely.”

“Thanks to your green thumb,” he told her.

“I did the gardens?”

“Sure did. And you oversaw restoration of the courtyard.”

“There’s a courtyard?”

“Right over there,” he said, pointing to what looked at first like a second entryway.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see it.”

“Why don’t we get you settled first, and then I’ll give you the grand tour?”

“I’d like that,” she said with the first real enthusiasm he’d seen her exhibit since he’d arrived at the hospital to take her home. Carefully swinging her legs around to the side, Claire started to get out of the car when Matt scooped her up into his arms. “What are you doing?” she demanded, her body stiff even as her arms circled his neck.

“Making sure you stay off that ankle,” he informed her as he strode toward the house.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can walk.”

“Humor me,” he teased as he climbed the stairs of the porch. “It makes me feel useful.”

“But it’s foolish. I don’t need—”

Matt cut off her protests with his mouth. The kiss had simply been a reflex, a means of preventing her from telling him what he already knew—that she didn’t need him. Claire had never needed him, not the way he had needed her.

But he hadn’t counted on that kiss being so sweet or on lingering a moment longer to sip, to taste, to explore. He certainly hadn’t counted on Claire’s lips softening beneath his own and tempting him until all he could think about was losing himself in her, with her. Nor had he counted on lifting his head and seeing cinnamon-brown eyes filled with desire or on her lips parting invitingly until he couldn’t resist one more taste. And Matt positively hadn’t counted on having the door he was leaning against suddenly opening and nearly sending him sprawling on the floor with Claire in his arms.

“Sweet heavens, Mr. Matthew,” Emma Dubois chided even as she provided him with a steadying hand. “What on earth is it you think you’re doing, mauling poor Miss Claire on the doorstep for all the world to see? And the poor dear just home from that wretched hospital?”

“I wasn’t mauling her, Emma. I was kissing her,” Matt said to his housekeeper, not even bothering to point out that the so-called wretched hospital was one of the best medical facilities in the South.

Emma huffed as she shut the door behind them. Folding her arms, she arched her brow imperiously. “And what would your sainted mother have to say if she was to hear you’d been putting on such a show for the neighbors, I wonder?”

Matt sighed and wondered whether he should try explaining to Emma again that she worked for him now—not his mother. Of course since the half-Irish, half-French Emma was practically a fixture in his family, he would probably be wasting his breath. Still, he tried. “Since my mother is no saint—at least not judging by the earful she gave the staff at the hospital when they refused to let her see Claire in the emergency room—my guess is she’d say that she hoped I enjoyed myself.”

“As if Mrs. G. would spout such nonsense,” Emma replied. She looked down her nose at him like he was still a boy—one who had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

It amazed him how she still managed to pull off that particular trick, since the woman was a full foot shorter than his own six feet. No doubt the fact that she’d changed his diapers and paddled his bottom on more than one occasion had something to do with it, Matt conceded. “Tell you what, Emma. Why don’t I kiss Claire again and you can call my mother and ask her?”

“Matt, please.”

“Behave yourself,” Emma told him. “You’re embarrassing the poor girl.”

Evidently Emma was right, Matt decided at the sight of the color flooding Claire’s cheeks. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Sorry.”

“You can put me down now,” Claire told him.

“He’ll do no such thing. You’ve a sprained ankle according to what Mrs. G. and Mr. Matthew told me and you shouldn’t be putting any weight on it, lamb.”

“But I—”

“Besides, Mr. Matthew, here, is as strong as an ox,” Emma replied, her expression going from stern to loving as she addressed Claire. “He can carry you into the den. I’ve set up a tray of coffee and some of those little chocolate cakes that you like so much.”

“You heard her, Red. It’s best not to argue with Emma.”

“But I don’t want either of you to go to all this trouble,” Claire protested.

“As if it’s any trouble. Why, if you’d known how worried I was when I heard you’d been hurt…” Emma snatched a tissue from her apron and sniffed, then straightened her shoulders. “I’d better go see to the coffee.”

“Who exactly is she?” Claire whispered as Matt followed Emma down the hall.

“Believe it or not, she’s the housekeeper.”

“The housekeeper?”

“Yeah,” he said with a chuckle. “Hard to believe, considering she’s the one giving the orders around here.”

“I heard that, Matthew Gallagher.”

“I swear the woman’s got eyes and ears in the back of her head,” Matt complained.

“A body certainly needed them with you around as a boy,” Emma informed him as she waited while he positioned Claire on the big overstuffed chair and propped her ankle up on the ottoman. “Don’t you pay him any mind, Miss Claire,” Emma told her as she shooed Matt out of the way so she could fit the breakfast tray table over Claire’s lap.

When Matt reached for one of the chocolate cheesecake squares on the tray, Emma swatted his hand. “Those are for Miss Claire.”

“What about me?”

“There’s more in the kitchen if you want some.”

“See what I mean?” Matt countered and was rewarded by a grin from Claire.

He was treated to several more of Claire’s smiles during the next thirty minutes as Emma regaled her with stories of his youth. And while Emma fussed over her like a mother hen over her baby chick, he fielded call after call from his family, checking on Claire.

By the time he had repeated Emma’s instructions on heating the casserole she’d prepared for their dinner and closed the door behind the housekeeper, the troubled look he’d noticed sneaking into Claire’s eyes several times during the afternoon was back. For the life of him, Matt couldn’t quite figure out what was behind it.

Claiming a corner of the oversize chair beside her, he asked, “So how’s the head feeling?”

“Tender,” she replied, and ran a finger along the edge of the bandage affixed to her temple. “I was hoping that coming here would help me to remember.”

“Has it?”

She shook her head and lifted her gaze to his. “I can’t believe I don’t remember Emma.”

Matt grinned. “She is a hard one to forget.”

“She really loves you and your family a great deal.”

“And you,” Matt amended. Giving in to the need, he reached for her hand. “She loves you, too, Red. All of my family does—and me most of all.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she told him, averting her eyes.

Sighing, Matt released her hand. “There I go pushing again. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, touching his arm when he started to rise. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You’ve been wonderful, Matt. You, your family, everyone. I just…I just wish I could remember.”

The disappointment etched across her face ripped at him. “Don’t be so tough on yourself. You heard what the doctor said. You just need to give yourself time.”

The smile she gave him was soft. Slow. Warm. “You’re a nice man, Matthew Gallagher.”

Matt winced. “Nice? Whatever you do, please don’t say that I’m sweet. If you do, you’re liable to find out that I’m not nice at all.”

“But you are sweet…and kind…and patient…”

“Stop!”

She chuckled at his protest. “It wasn’t meant to be an insult. Those are all good qualities.”

“Trust me, Red,” he said, his voice gruff. “No man wants to hear a woman describe him as though he were some kind of saint.”

Her lips twitched. “Somehow I doubt that anyone would mistake you for a saint.”

“Thank heaven for that.”

“So, what descriptive terms does a man want to hear a woman use to describe him?”

“Oh, the usual ones,” he told her, his mouth kicking up at the corners. “Sexy…virile…stud…”

“I get the picture,” she said dryly, a flush climbing her cheeks.

“Sorry. I just couldn’t resist teasing—not when you blush so prettily.”

He watched her struggle to regain her composure. When she did, the lighthearted moment had passed. “It all seems so strange. Not knowing anything about myself, about you, about us.”

Matt hesitated. “The doctor said to let your memories come back on their own.”

“I know, but it’s frustrating not remembering even simple things. Things like…like how long we’ve been married.”

“We were married two years last month.” And their wedding anniversary had been one of the most miserable days of his life, because they hadn’t celebrated it together or even been living under the same roof.

“Two years,” she repeated as though trying to grasp the concept.

“I’d better get that,” he said at the sound of the phone, grateful for the excuse to drop the topic of their marriage. He couldn’t help feeling guilty for deceiving her about their relationship. Yet, he saw no alternative—not if he hoped to win Claire back.

And win her back he would, Matt told himself a few minutes later when he returned to the den. “That was my sister Maggie. She was checking to see if you needed anything.”

“You have a big family,” she said, and the troubled look was back in her eyes.

“We have a big family,” he corrected.

“But they all seem to be your family, Matt. It was your sisters and your parents that came to the hospital to see me, and they’re the ones who’ve called. What about my family? Why haven’t my parents or my siblings come to see me?”

Matt struggled with how much he should tell her. “You’re an only child,” he finally replied, deciding it would probably be okay to tell her that much. As far as Claire had known, she’d had no siblings. And in that damning search that he had started, to locate her parents, the investigator hadn’t turned up any siblings either.





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