Книга - Mysterious Vows

Mysterious Vows
Cassie Miles


The Bride Had Amnesia…."Maria" couldn't remember her real name, where she'd come from or the mysterious, brooding man who claimed she'd agreed to marry him. She'd awakened with nothing more than a wedding ring–and directions to Jason Walker's secluded island. But would saying "I do" to Jason be a deadly error?Jason never dreamed that his mail-order bride would be so captivating, so sensual–or so dangerous. When time revealed that she wasn't really his true intended, he offered his protection–hoping to discover her identity. He even began to want to offer his love….But could Jason probe the mystery woman's mind–and find the information that her pursuers would kill for?







To Rick, the love I will never regret




CAST OF CHARACTERS


Jason Wakefield Walker the Third—Wounded in a fight for independence, he enters a world of espionage and marries a mail-order bride.

Maria Ramos Hernandez—On the run from enemies too numerous to count, she hides out as a mail-order bride.

Juana Sabatta—The author of Truth, a fiery denouncement of international politics.

Chip Harrington—Though he runs a small-town newspaper, his beat is worldwide.

Edward Elliot—A state senator from Maine who aspires to higher politics.

Wally Babcock—The small-town reverend makes connections all over the globe.

Carrie Kelly—When she translates the works of Juana Sabatta, she is drawn into a web of espionage.

Alice Walker—After she organizes her brother, she is ready to take on the world.

Harvey Epsom—The publisher who dares to insult the establishment.




Mysterious Vows

Cassie Miles







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




Contents


Prologue (#u563e339f-8e6d-5b49-aece-a69db7b6164d)

Chapter One (#u16560deb-7c74-5b33-a65d-a763840ac5db)

Chapter Two (#u43c71bf4-7781-563a-bbd6-ed451daa1d29)

Chapter Three (#ua7d9461a-1895-5eb6-b68e-257f2b8d4c05)

Chapter Four (#ue2ccbdc2-6f06-57f4-bf87-c6a724b22227)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


Helpless. Unable to move. Her body felt limp. Arms and legs, heavy as sandbags. Her eyelids opened, barely a slit. Beneath her cheek she felt the smooth tile that lined the edge of the swimming pool.

The men were still here. Though she was unable to distinguish words or sentences, she heard their voices. Their harsh whispers echoed in the silent summer night.

The gaunt man stood over her. The pointed toe of his boot dug into her rib cage and pain radiated through her body in dull waves. She couldn’t escape from him...could not move.

He nudged her again with his toe. Stop it, she wanted to cry. Leave me alone! But her voice was paralyzed.

He shoved at her body. Did he still have the knife? Did his dirty fingers still hold the syringe?

His hands were on her shoulder. The stench of him disgusted her. He rolled her onto her back and her long black hair tangled across her face. She was on her back at the very edge of the pool. If he pushed her into the water, what could she do? She was too weak to swim. She struggled to move, to fight back, but her muscles would not respond. Helpless! Unable to speak, unable to move. Her vision blurred. She saw her own right hand, weighted by an unfamiliar gold ring, reaching toward safety, trying to grasp...

Then she was falling. Down through the cold, she plummeted. Dead weight. The water consumed her as she fell, soaked her Levi’s and her T-shirt. She lost all sense of direction. Which was up, which way was down? The pool was dark, so dark. And cold. Shock trembled through her.

Can’t breathe. Frantically she flung out with her arms. Had they even moved? My God, was she going to die? A scream boiled up in her throat. No! If she opened her mouth, the water would pour down her throat to her lungs. Suffocating.

The cold roused panic, and she kicked. Her toe scraped the concrete bottom of the pool. Push, dammit, push off.

Her legs curled beneath her, and she thrust with all her might. She ascended, but so slowly. Her lungs ached. Her heart pulsed arrhythmically.

In a gush of relief, she broke the surface. Blessed oxygen flowed into her mouth. A breath, she gasped just one breath, before she was again exhausted.

One breath would be enough. One breath at a time, she would survive.

The liquid cold splashed around her in weak ripples, freezing her arms and legs until she floated motionless in the gelid darkness. With great effort, she turned her head to the side and sucked down a mouthful of air. Then another. Each breath was a desperate struggle.

Though she fought the exhausting paralysis, the cold penetrated to the marrow of her bones. And she felt death approaching. Muerte. Death. Softly, gently, the angel of death glided toward her, dancing on the shimmering blue water, coming for her.

It would be easy to give up. To accept death.

No!

Her body felt heavy as stone, yet she did not sink to the bottom of the pool. Though weak, she was still breathing. It was not her time to die. There were important tasks. Clinging to that hope, she kicked and her legs responded. Her head jerked back, and she began a slow and clumsy dog paddle.

The night was utterly silent.

The men were gone.

In dim moonlight she saw the edge of the pool and the metal ladder, less than five feet away. Beyond that was the chain-link fence and the locked gate that the men had broken.

Only five feet to the ladder. She forced her arms and legs, weighted by clothing, to stroke through the thick, dark liquid. Farther than a marathon. Impossibly far...but her hand grasped the ladder. Her fingers were weak, unable to hold. If she sank again, she would never find the strength to hold on. A sob racked her body. She couldn’t give up. Not yet. She pulled herself up. Every muscle in her body strained.

Night air blasted her face. Shivering, she lurched toward safety, dragging her body halfway out of the pool. Her legs were leaden. She could not feel her feet. Fighting desperately, she clawed her way to safety. Her teeth chattered, and she tasted blood in her mouth.

But she’d made it. She was alive. Still breathing.

She looked back at the mirrored surface that should have been her tomb. And she saw...herself.

Her body was still in the water. She was floating facedown with her long black hair spread around her head like inky tentacles weighing her down.

How could that be? She looked down at her legs, encased in wet Levi’s. Her numb fingers plucked at her clammy T-shirt and twined in the red scarf that encircled her neck like seaweed.

Her hand rose in front of her eyes and she pointed toward the center of the swimming pool. She was there.

Was she dead?

Her mind went blank. Darkness overwhelmed her.




Chapter One


The June sunlight sparkled on the waters of the marina near Boothbay Harbor. The weather was idyllic, as temperate as it gets on the coast of Maine, and Jason Wakefield Walker turned his face upward to catch the warmth. The sun hovered directly overhead, above the masthead of his twenty-five-foot yacht, Elena. The masthead weather vane indicated a light wind from the north. It was noon. He had been waiting since seven o’clock this morning.

His source had left no communications since yesterday. Therefore he assumed there had been no change in plan. His assignment was to wait, however impatiently, for the arrival of Maria Ramos Hernandez.

He sat in the cockpit of the Elena and stretched his long legs in front of him. The sun’s heat penetrated his khaki slacks and eased the constant ache in his injured left leg. It felt good, but Jason was not yet ready to gracefully accept small pleasures. He’d lost too much. Silently he cursed the fate that had broken his body and reduced him to this position.

He was nothing more than a messenger boy. Waiting and sitting when there was so much more to be done.

“Jason!” His older sister, Alice, called to him as she marched surefooted along the marina walkway and stopped at the Elena‘s slip. Hands on hips, she glared at him. “What are you doing? Just sitting here?”

“Thinking.”

“Wasting your time away,” she accused.

“Not at all,” he said, glancing at his cane. “Moments of quiet contemplation befit a man in my position.”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Socrates, but there are some of us who still try to get things done.”

Alice was a human whirlwind who was always busy—giving orders, organizing, cleaning and planning. Long ago, Jason had learned that the best method for dealing with this human cyclone was to take cover and wait until she passed.

Rapid-fire, she rattled off a list of very important tasks. “Have you done all that?”

He nodded.

“Oh? Then, I guess the rest is up to me.” Her forehead puckered in a frown. “She’s not here yet, is she?”

“No,” he said simply.

“Where is she?”

“Maria will be here.”

“I simply cannot believe that you gave her such ridiculous directions.” Teasing, she impersonated his low baritone, “`Meet me at the Boothbay Marina, slip eighty-six.’”

He shrugged.

“Why didn’t you meet her at the plane? Or her bus? It’s the least you could do, Jason. After all, she’s coming here all the way from Central America.”

“She didn’t want it that way,” he lied. He had never spoken to Maria. Only to his source.

“I wonder why. Proving her independence?” Alice theorized. “Maybe she needs to show you that she’s capable of getting around by herself. That’s good. That’s the sort of woman you need.”

“Maybe.”

A windy sigh gusted through her lips. “Oh, Jason. I’m still not comfortable with this. I wish you at least loved this woman.”

“We’ll learn to care about each other and take care of each other,” he said. “Isn’t that what marriage is about?”

“But this? A mail-order bride?”

Jason repeated the cover story that he’d told so many times. “I need a woman on Passaquoit Island. Especially now. With my injuries, I need someone around. I don’t have the time or inclination to shop for a wife. That was why I placed all those advertisements in Spanish newspapers. I’m delighted that a suitable woman has responded.”

“You could hire a nurse—”

“I don’t need a nurse.”

“A housekeeper, then. Why marry the woman?” She frowned. “You’re so eligible, Jason. Thirty-five, single, and fairly well-off. You could still be a doctor, you know, if you went back to medical school and finished your internship. It wouldn’t take—”

“Alice, stop.”

“It’s just that I know so many nice ladies that would make marvelous wives.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“A mail-order bride,” she muttered. “I’ve never heard of such a ridiculous, antiquated concept. And where is she? It would serve you right if she didn’t show up. Tomorrow is the wedding, you know.”

“She’ll be here,” he said.

Of that, he was confident. Maria’s life depended upon fulfilling this complex plan.

Alice checked her wristwatch. “I’ll be with the caterers. I hope you’re doing the right thing, Jason.”

“So do I.”

The afternoon dragged. Slowly, the sun rode the clear blue skies. Wavelets monotonously lapped against the hull, washing away the minutes. He’d already done the chores and cleaning that maintained the Elena in shipshape condition. And, contrary to what he’d told his sister, there was only so much quiet contemplation he could stand.

Using high-powered binoculars, Jason spied on the woodpeckers in the pines and the gulls overhead. He watched the fishing boats retrieve the day’s catch from lobster traps. And he surveyed the shoreline, again and again, looking for Maria.

If something had gone wrong, how would the source contact him? Jason had never met this person. His only source was a voice on the phone and an occasional letter. They had not discussed the possibility of Maria not showing up.

Late in the afternoon, a Friday afternoon, activity picked up at the marina. The graceful sailboats, the sleek motorcraft, the festive party barges received their inhabitants.

Jason far preferred the solitude. The fewer witnesses, the better. From his pocket he took out a one-page letter, the only message he’d received directly from Maria. Though she was an accomplished journalist, English was her second language and the sentences, written in neat script, seemed halting.

Dear Mr. Walker,

My intense gratitude belongs to you. For your proposal and protection, I thank you so much. We shall succeed in our journey. We must.

Between the lines he saw bravery and strength of character. Maria was willing to sacrifice everything for patriotism, for the love of her small Central American country and hatred of injustice. He hoped the privacy and protection he could offer would be sufficient.

At dusk he scanned with his binoculars and saw a woman standing immobile on the shore, staring through the forest of sailboat masts. A family, toting picnic baskets, separated to walk around her. She took no notice.

Maria? She wore Levi’s and a T-shirt. Her long black hair was yanked back in a ponytail. Though she carried no luggage, she wore a red scarf around her throat.

Jason’s heart took a leap. The red scarf was the first signal of recognition.

She stumbled as she walked along the planks of the pier. Even at this distance, he discerned the slump of her shoulders and a drag in her step. The woman appeared to be exhausted, which was not surprising. If this was Maria, she’d just completed a journey of more than two thousand miles.

As he observed her progress through his binoculars, Jason found himself hoping that this was the woman he had been waiting for, the woman he would wed. Despite her exhaustion, she seemed to be reasonably attractive, and his pride was appeased that he would not be stuck marrying an ugly woman. Even if the mail-order marriage was nothing but a cover story, he would be required to introduce her as his bride.

She entered the marina, passed the boathouse.

Using his cane, he climbed out of the cockpit and stood beside the slip. After waiting so long, he felt like running toward her—as if he could run. But the instructions were clear. She was to come to him.

She stood beside the marker for slip number eighty-six, turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were an odd shade of hazel, almost green. Their pale color stood out dramatically against her dusky complexion.

Without saying a word, she held up her left hand and he saw the heavy gold ring inscribed with branches of thorns and a golden rose.

“Maria?”

She looked puzzled but nodded. He held out his hand to help her into the boat. Her touch was cold, trembling. He asked, in Spanish, if she was all right, if she needed anything.

In Spanish, she replied, “Sleep. I must sleep.”

He guided her into the cabin, and she crawled onto the V-berth in the forward hull and thanked him. Before he could question her to find out why she was so late, she was unconscious, curled up on the bed, sound asleep.

In repose, her features were delicate. Thick lashes formed dark crescents on her high cheekbones. Her lips parted as she breathed shallowly.

Her journey had been difficult, he thought. But she was here now, and he would make certain no one harmed her.

While she slept, he motored back to the island. There was a need for haste, and no time for sailing, so he did not hoist the dolphin sail on the Elena‘s mast. They crossed the twenty-two miles of open sea to Passaquoit Island at a smooth, even clip.

* * *

THE HEAVY MIST that blanketed her mind parted, showing light, but her eyelids were closed. Was she dead?

She was falling again, struggling up from liquid darkness. She must be dreaming, but her sensation was utterly real. She struggled against the paralyzing weakness, fought to shake off the cloying miasma that suffocated her. Falling.

She felt an arm at her waist. On her shoulder.

She was not alone.

The hands tightened their grasp.

Her eyelids snapped open. The profusion of light and color startled her. There was sunlight pouring through tall windows. Not darkness. She gulped air, filling her lungs. Her heart throbbed painfully beneath her rib cage. And her head— Oh, God, her head and shoulders ached.

“Maria, cómo está usted?”

She looked into the eyes of a stranger. In Spanish he repeated, “Maria, are you all right?”

“Muerte,” she murmured. Death. The angel of death had been so near she could feel its chilling embrace. “Where am I?”

“On the island.”

An island? She had no recollection of how she’d come to be here. Her mind was blank. Something terrible must have happened, something that had spun her life out of control.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I am your husband-to-be. You are my bride.”

Her husband? Surely that could not be possible. The man was lying to her. She had a vague sense of other men, dangerous men who wanted to kill her. Was he one of them?

She sat bolt upright on the sofa where she had been reclining. Her head rang with fierce pain. Thunderbolts crashed inside her skull. She groaned. “My head.”

“Don’t you remember?” he asked.

Her instincts warned her to play along with him, to tell him what he wanted to hear. “Sí, I remember.”

Her fingers coursed down the length of white fabric of the dress she was wearing. Simple lace at the neck, polished cotton, long sleeves and a full skirt. A wedding gown.

Without knowing how or why, she’d dropped into a strange reality. And she was about to be a bride.

“Maria. We need to do this now.”

He spoke Spanish with the fluency of a native, but she detected an American accent in his inflection and tone. His words were slower than a native speaker’s. “We need to get started,” he said. “We need to get this ceremony under way as soon as possible.”

“What ceremony?” She saw impatience in his dark gray eyes.

“The wedding.”

Her head was pounding. She raised her fingertips to her temples and massaged lightly. Her forehead felt like it might explode.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

Dying, she thought. The misery spread to her neck and shoulders. Yet she said to him, “I will survive.”

“I don’t understand why your head hurts. I’ve examined you thoroughly. You have some bruises and a cracked rib. But I don’t see evidence of a head injury. Do you have a history of migraines?”

“No, but I need an aspirin. Please. Por favor.“

He took her hand. From a small vial, he tapped a blue-and-white capsule into her open palm and passed her a glass of water that had been standing on a table beside the sofa.

Though the pounding in her head threatened to consume her, she hesitated. What had he given her? A drug that would destroy the remnants of her brain? Suspiciously she demanded, “What kind of pill is this? What will it do to me?”

“I told you before,” he said. “I gave you some of this pain medication last night. I use it for my leg, but it seems to work on your headaches.”

If she’d taken one of these capsules before, she should have remembered. But her memory was gone, erased.

“Take it,” he ordered sharply. “There isn’t time for you to have a headache.”

She didn’t know this man. But the pain behind her eyes was so intense that she would have to risk the medication. She couldn’t begin to think until this agony subsided. She tossed back the capsule and washed it down.

“Listen carefully, Maria. No one must suspect there is anything wrong. Comprende? Do you understand?”

She lay back on the sofa, concentrated on breathing evenly while she waited for the pain to lessen. Why was he calling her Maria? That wasn’t her name. It was... An involuntary sob shuddered her body. Her name was...

Oh, God, why couldn’t she remember this basic, essential piece of herself? Calm down. Try to think.

She heard someone else enter the room. A woman.

In English the woman asked, “Is she all right?”

“She’ll be okay, Alice. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t think she’s well. Last night and this morning, she had a weird, blank look. Like she was awake, but not conscious. You should call off the wedding.”

“Maria will be fine. She’s tough. Comes from a tough country.”

“Well, it looks to me like something more serious than a case of prenuptial jitters.”

“Leave this to me.” His voice was harsh. “I know what I’m doing.”

The woman hovered above her. “Maria?”

She opened her eyes. Though it wasn’t her name, she would be Maria.

“Maria, do you need a doctor?”

“I’ll make that decision,” the man said. “Please leave us, Alice. We’ll be ready soon.”

When the woman backed away, Maria wanted to call out to her, to tell her that she needed a doctor, needed to talk to someone in authority. But what would this man—this stranger—do if she caused a problem?

“You’ll be all right,” the man said. “Close your eyes and let the medication work.”

Gradually the aching began to fade. Her mind felt more clear. She sat up, turning her head slowly so she wouldn’t jar the fragile relief.

The man sat in a wingback chair next to the sofa. In spite of his obvious impatience, he was very handsome. There was an aristocratic sculpting to his features. Near his hairline, where his thick, dark hair swept back off a high forehead, she saw the start of a faded scar that extended to the brow above his left eye.

She sensed that she ought to know him, but her memory didn’t seem willing to function. “Cómo se llama?”

“My name? You want to know my name?”

He regarded her with a mixture of astonishment and irritation. Too angry, she thought, to be a caring husband. Why had he brought her here? Who was he?

Her eyes squeezed shut, then she opened them again. She needed to think, to create logic from the crippling confusion that churned inside her brain, making her stupid, foolish, ridiculous. She had to proceed intelligently if she hoped to survive. Of that much, she was certain.

More information. She needed to gather facts.

The small room where they sat was furnished with dark wood antiques, but the wallpaper was light, patterned in gray fleur-de-lis. Sunlight poured through the lace curtains at the windows. They were alone, but she heard the mumblings of other people outside the closed oak door.

“I can’t call off the wedding,” he said. “I promise that the ceremony will be brief. You can get through it, then go upstairs to your room and sleep.”

“What will I be called,” she asked, rephrasing her earlier question, “when we are man and wife?”

“You will be Mrs. Jason Wakefield Walker the Third.”

An impressive name. But she had never heard it before. “And this will be my home. This...island.”

Outside the windows she saw scrub oak and pine. There were only a few wildflowers in splashes of yellow and red. The foliage was not typical of a tropical island where Spanish might be the native tongue, and yet she had spoken only Spanish.

“Please, Maria, try to concentrate.”

“Upon what? Tell me again.”

He sighed and began speaking in a low baritone. In spite of his obvious irritation, the sound of his voice was gentle and soothing.

Though she tried to listen and compile enough data to understand, a darkness rose up behind her eyes and she could feel herself tuning out. Was her delirium an effect of the capsule he’d given her? She stared blankly while he mentioned immigration and their enemies. In a dull voice, he concluded, “It is your assignment, today, to convince our guests that you are delighted to be my wife.”

A swell of organ music resounded from the opposite side of the closed door. “The Wedding March.” Surely she was dreaming.

Her fingers laced in a tight knot on her lap. The worst of the headache had ebbed. “I am feeling much better,” she said.

“I’m glad.” He sounded sympathetic, but his tightly clenched jaw and frowning eyebrows told another story. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

He certainly didn’t behave like a person who was about to be wedded. On the other hand, neither did she.

Maria... She repeated her new name to herself. I am Maria. And Maria had no time for marriage. There was her career to think of. She couldn’t just run off and get married. It would be unprofessional. She’d worked hard to develop her contacts, to become a...

A what? What did she do for a living? In her mind, she envisioned bookshelves, papers on a desk. When she tried to read the pages, to find a clue, the wind blew swiftly through the open window beside the desk and the sheaves of paper drifted and swirled like so many leaves caught in autumn breezes. And the wind came faster. Her mind filled with a white paper storm, and she was cold. Blank. Unable to remember.

“Maria!” he snapped again. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nada,” she murmured. “Nothing.”

She would tell him nothing until she knew if he was a friend or a foe.

There were people who wanted to hurt her, she realized with a shock. There were people who wanted to kill her. An unnatural terror coiled deep within her. Fear was her only certainty, and she must keep her secrets until she regained her ability to think.

He placed a bouquet of red roses and baby’s breath in her hand. Her wedding bouquet. She held the flowers close to her face, inhaling the fragrance.

He seemed gentler when he said, “These are for you, Maria.”

“Gracias.”

“Come along, now. This will only take a minute.”

He stood, and she noticed that his dark gray suit seemed too large for his tall, lean frame. He picked up a polished ebony cane with a silver head. When he walked to the door, his steps were halting. His left leg was stiff. Her first impulse was to run up beside him and help him, but she sensed that he would be displeased by her offer of assistance.

She opened her mouth to speak. What was his name again? “Jason Walker.”

He turned clumsily. Not comfortable with his cane. “Yes, Maria?”

She was about to be married. But did he love her? Did she love him? That seemed impossible. Even if her conscious mind had been erased, the emotion of love could not vanish. Her soul would remember being in love.

When she looked at this man, her heart trembled. Not with love, but with fear. How could she allow herself to be married to a man she couldn’t remember seeing before? She gestured hopelessly. “We cannot do this.”

“We can’t back out now. Your life depends upon it.”

A chill raced down her spine, and she knew he was telling the truth. Her very survival depended upon going through with this ceremony. She must not flinch. In a low, determined voice, she said, “Sí, Mr. Walker. I will marry you.”

“Thank you.” He nodded. “By the way, you look very pretty in your gown. Maria, you make a beautiful bride.”

Jason hobbled from the small parlor, closed the door behind him and forced himself to smile at the guests in the front room. His sister, Alice, bustled up to him. Her china blue eyes were wide with concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine. Maria needs a moment alone.”

“And you, Jason? How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better.” With Alice beside him, he edged across the rear of the room and went into his office. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

“Should I check on Maria?”

“You’d know better than I would.”

“Oh, Jason!” She gave a short, exasperated sigh. “You never did understand women, did you?”

“Apparently not.”

He closed the door to his study.

Maria Ramos Hernandez was not what he’d expected. He’d been told that she was strong and brave, a ferocious fighter when threatened. But no one had mentioned her beauty. And the woman who waited in the parlor to become his bride was a creature of surpassing loveliness. Her thick, wavy black hair tumbled past her shoulders in a riot of curls. Her eyes shone like green emeralds in her dusky complexion. Jason was sorry that this would be a marriage in name only.

When she looked at him with that beguiling innocence, he wanted to touch her, to kiss her ripe, full lips, to soothe her fears.

She had refused to speak of the journey. Since he’d picked her up in his boat, she had done nothing more than sleep, bathe, and take in barely enough food to satisfy a hummingbird.

No doubt, there had been difficulties along her route. Maria had arrived ten hours late with several fresh bruises. Most disturbing, however, was her apparent memory loss. Her short-term memory was gone. She forgot everything he told her from one minute to the next, and must have asked his name half a dozen times.

Alice had been correct when she’d suggested that Maria see a doctor. Though her injuries weren’t immediately life-threatening and her vital signs were good, he was worried about her. He wasn’t sure of her medical history, wasn’t sure exactly how treatment should be handled.

It was dangerous to make any unplanned moves. At his desk, he picked up the telephone and punched out the number he had tried at least a dozen times since Maria had arrived. He allowed the phone to ring and ring. There was still no answer.

He replaced the receiver on the hook. “Damn.”

It was a hell of a time for his source to be missing.

He limped gingerly through the door and skirted the edge of the small gathering of guests and witnesses, greeting some and accepting congratulations from others. Jason took his place beside the reverend, positioning his weight carefully and trying to ignore the constant ache from his shattered leg. The doctors assured him that someday he would be able to move around freely, and he was doing so well now that he barely needed the cane. But there would always be pain.

Jason nodded to his sister and she opened the door to the parlor adjoining the larger room. Everyone turned to catch their first glimpse of the bride. There were gasps when they recognized, as he had, that Maria made a beautiful bride, clad in white, holding her rose bouquet. Her black hair shone with a magnificent luster.

Reverend Blaylock whispered to him, “Very attractive.”

“Yes,” Jason answered. “I know.”

Maria stood frozen in the doorway, her shoulders straight and her small chin lifted defiantly. The woman who played the piano paused with her fingers lifted above the keys, then she started again to play “The Wedding March.”

Maria’s remarkable green-eyed gaze darted left, then right, before fixing upon Jason. Though she stood perfectly still, he could feel the fluttering of her heart, delicate as a captive butterfly. The pleading in her eyes touched him, and he knew she was too frightened to move.

Though Jason hated to be seen walking with his infirmity, he went down the short aisle toward her. When he stood beside her and offered his arm for support, she held on tightly.

Slowly they walked the twenty paces to the front of the room where Reverend Wally Blaylock waited, prayer book in hand.

“Dearly Beloved,” the reverend said. “We are gathered here today to...”

Jason stood, firm and somber. Soon this charade would be over.

The traditional words rolled past like the credits at the beginning of a motion picture. He listened with disinterest. This wasn’t a real marriage, unlike the first time when he’d been wed to Elena, a woman he’d adored. She had been his dearest love, more wondrous than the sun and moon and stars, until death parted them four years ago. He never thought he would love again.

The reverend asked for objections to this marriage. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Jason held his breath. He halfway expected a crew of terrorists or agents from the immigration services to storm his isolated home. But that was absurd. There would be no objections, no specific reasons why he and Maria could not become man and wife...other than the obvious fact that they hardly knew each other.

As he glanced down at her lustrous black hair, a strange sense of possessiveness came over him. He wanted to ease her fears. Softly he asked, “Are you all right?”

“Sí.”

She tightened her grasp on Jason’s arm, clinging to him for physical support as a tidal wave of nausea crashed over her. Her mind reeled dizzily. Her knees felt weak. She needed to lie down, to sleep, to end this horrid sense of disorientation.

Jason rested his hand atop hers and squeezed. He was staring at her. His storm-gray eyes were expectant, as if he were waiting for an answer. But she did not know the question.

The reverend cleared his throat and said, “Do you, Maria Ramos Hernandez, take this man, Jason Wakefield Walker the Third, to be your lawfully married husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

How could she agree? I don’t know this man. I don’t know why I’m here.

“Say it,” Jason whispered.

Her lips parted, but she did not speak. She couldn’t lie, couldn’t pledge her hand in marriage to a man she did not love.

He leaned close and whispered in Spanish. “Maria, this is dangerous. You must go through with this. Now.”

She glanced at the people watching, a well-dressed assemblage of ten or fifteen men and women. Their eyes were polite but cold. Every one of them was a stranger to her.

“I, Maria...” She couldn’t remember her name! Frantically she looked to Jason for help.

“Maria Ramos Hernandez,” he whispered.

“I, Maria Ramos Hernandez, take this man...” His name? “Jason,” she said triumphantly. “Jason Wakefield Walker the Third, until death do us part.”

The reverend concluded the ceremony quickly and said, “You may kiss the bride.”




Chapter Two


Reverend Blaylock repeated, “You may kiss the bride.”

Jason had thought to give her a small, respectful peck on the cheek, but when he rested his hands on her delicate shoulders and saw her trembling smile, he clasped her more tightly than he had intended.

Her gaze was troubled, like a wavering green sea of doubt, but she embraced him as if she meant it, fitting her supple body against his.

She was beautiful. It had been a long time since he’d held a beautiful woman.

His mouth claimed hers. Their kiss was like sweet fire, tasting of honey and desire. And Jason craved more.

Her lips parted, inviting him. Before he could stop himself, he thrust his tongue between her teeth. She startled in his arms. Her body tensed. Then she returned his passion one hundredfold. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. Her hands against his back grasped urgently. The friction of her body rubbing against him drove him wild.

My God! His senses reeled. The intensity of the unexpected passion transported him and he forgot his pain, his bitterness. For the first time in months he felt like a whole, strong man again. Then they separated. The moment passed.

They turned and faced the small group of family and friends who applauded enthusiastically. Except for one, Jason noticed. Edward Elliot, a state senator, clapped twice and allowed his hands to fall loosely to his sides. The usual politician’s smile was absent from his ruddy face.

Jason escorted Maria down the aisle between his guests, and they took a position in the archway leading to the dining room where the long table had been set for the catered buffet. He walked slowly, without stumbling, and used his cane so he wouldn’t have to lean on her for support.

“Congratulations!” his friends and family cried, as if this were a real wedding, a celebration of love and eternal happiness.

He forced himself to return their smiles. With his shattered leg and broken dreams, he was unfit to be any woman’s husband. Maria deserved better. In her pristine white gown she was as lovely and traditional as the miniature figurine that decorated the wedding cake.

She stood beside him. Her thick lashes lifted and she gazed up at him with flashing green eyes. She was his wife. This incredible woman was his bride. Jason would be hard put to remember that their marriage was born of political necessity.

The guests had formed a casual line, and Jason translated their words into Spanish so that she would understand.

“Maria, you know my sister, Alice.”

Alice dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a lace hanky. “Oh, Maria, you make a lovely bride. Muy bonita.” She glanced at Jason. “That’s right, isn’t it? Bonita?”

“Excellent, sis. You’re practically bilingual.”

She grasped Maria’s hands in her own. Abandoning her attempt to communicate in Spanish, Alice rattled off the afternoon’s agenda. “Well, Maria. Here’s what I have planned. A light buffet and, of course, the cake. Hope you like chocolate with white chocolate frosting. Now, the custom in our country is to save the top layer, freeze it, and eat it on the first anniversary. Shall I take care of the freezing for you?”

Maria nodded.

Alice frowned at Jason. “Does she have any idea what I’m talking about?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said.

“Anyway,” Alice continued, “I know you’re exhausted. So, I’ll try to move things along. We can probably ferry almost everyone back to the mainland on Reverend Blaylock’s big powerboat by five o’clock. Then you can relax.”

“Relax?” Reverend Blaylock popped up beside Alice. “That’s not much of a honeymoon, eh?”

“We’ll manage,” Jason said. Though he wasn’t a regular churchgoer, he liked Wally Blaylock. “Any pointers?”

“I think you know the right thing to do.”

Jason gave a perfunctory grin. Unfortunately, he doubted that the right thing would include the traditional honeymoon lovemaking. He swallowed his disappointment and continued to behave in the expected manner of a groom. Beneath his social facade, a strong desire raged within him. Their kiss had sparked emotions he’d thought were dead in his heart.

“My sincerest congratulations,” the reverend said. He addressed Maria in excellent Spanish. “Excuse me for asking, Maria, but are you Catholic? Coming from a Central American country, I expected that you would be.”

“Is the marriage legal?” Jason questioned.

“To be sure.”

“Then, what does it matter?”

“What, indeed?” The reverend grasped Maria’s hand and pumped vigorously. His friendliness seemed sincere. “Don’t be a stranger. I’ll see you in church. Both of you. Right, Maria?”

“I will be there.” She hesitated slightly. “With my husband.”

The reverend stepped aside, and the informal reception line filed past them. Jason introduced an aged aunt and her companion, and a couple he referred to as neighbors.

“Here?” Maria asked him. “Do we have neighbors here on the island?”

“Mine is the only house on the island,” he said. Last night when they had arrived, it had been too dark for her to explore. This morning, she’d been sleeping and dressing. He was looking forward to showing her around. “I hope you will like it here.”

Politely she responded, “I am sure I will.”

As she greeted his guests, it was obvious to Jason that, despite Maria’s nervousness, she’d done this before. She had experience in reception lines and was fully cognizant of the proper social expressions and manners. Though she spoke no English to any of them, she managed to charm each and every one of their guests, men and women alike.

Another surprise, he thought. According to his information, Maria had grown up in a rural village. Though well-educated, she was described as being a person who put her journalism career first and placed little value in social contacts. But the woman who stood beside him had an unmistakable aura of poise and sophistication.

“You’re doing very well,” he complimented.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. She wanted to please him. The passionate force of his kiss—and her own instinctive response to him—had made her think that perhaps she truly was in love with this man. Being in his arms had felt so exquisitely right.

Perhaps she had agreed to this marriage for all the right reasons. Though she could not remember their relationship, it would be truly wonderful if such reasons existed. If there were love between them... She would try, with all her will, to recall.

Another guest stood in front of them.

“Maria, this is Edward Elliot. He’s a senator in the Maine state legislature.”

Edward clasped her hand firmly. “Delighted to meet you. Jason is a lucky man to have found a beauty like you, Maria.”

Jason translated into Spanish, and she murmured, “Gracias.”

“No English?” he questioned.

“A little,” she said. This well-dressed, blustery, red-faced man seemed excessively interested in her. Most of Jason’s guests were content to shake her hand, wish her well and move into the dining area where the buffet was set, but Edward still held Maria’s hand in a tight, sweaty grip.

“I think you know more than a little English,” he guessed. “When you spoke your wedding vows, you had almost no trace of an accent.”

Jason had turned to another guest, and so did not translate.

Though Maria understood every word Edward had spoken, she did not acknowledge the truth in his statement. She sensed danger. It was better not to reveal too much, to hide behind the shield of Spanish. “No comprendo. Sorry.”

He leaned close, speaking for her ears only. “You’ll never get away with this.”

What had he said?

“I can help you. If Jason tries to—”

Another guest jostled them. “Move along, Eddy.”

Edward reached inside his jacket pocket, and his manner became falsely jocular. “If old Jason gives you a hard time, Maria, here’s where to reach me.” He passed her a business card. “If you need anything, anything at all—”

“What are you saying?” Jason interrupted.

“Inviting your bride into town. Or up to the capital in Augusta. It isn’t all that far away, and she might want to see the sights.”

“Maria doesn’t know how to drive,” Jason informed him.

A protest rose to her lips. Of course she knew how to drive! She’d been driving since she was sixteen.

In a flash, a vivid mental image came into her mind. It was more of an impression, a soundless photograph. She saw a forest green Volvo station wagon parked in the dusk. There were trees. She knew the street, the neighborhood, but she could not put a name to it. Two men sat in the car, watching and waiting. Her heartbeat quickened and fear took root in her mind, throbbing as steadily as her returning headache.

“If Maria wants to go anywhere,” Jason said, “I’ll take her.”

“Not if she’s going to be a true American woman,” Edward responded huffily.

Huffing and puffing, she thought. He was like an ill wind that blew no one any good.

He continued. “The first thing she’ll want is independence. Right, Maria?”

She forced herself to look directly at this man, tried to understand what he meant when he said Jason might give her a hard time. Would Jason hurt her? Despite the celebratory buffet and the chattering guests and her pristine white bridal gown, there seemed to be dark, discordant threats all around her. She didn’t know who to trust. This senator? Or Jason?

Alice had returned to stand beside Maria. In her clumsy Spanish, she indicated that it was time to cut the cake. She held up the silver knife and pointed to it, trying to explain, using sign language. Sunlight from tall windows glinted on the dull blade, and Maria recoiled slightly. There had been a knife. One of the men held a knife.

Maria’s breath caught in her throat. She needed to run, to escape from this island before it was too late.

“Smile!” came a command from a short, wiry man with a Nikon aimed and ready to shoot. “Come on, Jason. Stand a little closer to the lady.”

“No photos,” Jason said firmly.

“But this is for the Gazette.” He lowered the camera and nervously raked his fingers through his long, graying hair, tightening his ponytail. “You’re front-page news, Jason. It’s not every day that the most eligible bachelor in the county gets hitched. Now, say cheese.”

Despite his crippled leg, Jason stepped quickly toward him, snatched his camera from his hands and whipped the embroidered strap up and off his neck.

“Hey! Give that back!”

“First, I’d like for you to meet my bride. Even journalists can be civilized.” He forcibly propelled the small man toward her. “Maria, this is Chip Harrington. He is the chief reporter-photographer-editor for the local newspaper.”

“Delighted,” he said, quickly shaking her hand and turning back to Jason. “Now, can I shoot you?”

“It’s like this,” Jason explained in a low voice. “Maria is very tired after her long trip, and she’d rather not pose for pictures right now. She doesn’t feel like she’s looking her best.”

“Man, if this isn’t her best, I’d like to see—”

“Thanks, Chip, for being so sensitive to her concerns.” Jason waved to his sister and gave her the camera. “Make sure Chip gets this back when he leaves.”

“I’ll let you get away with this on one condition,” Chip said. “If I can’t have a picture, I want an interview with Maria. One on one.”

“But she only speaks Spanish,” Alice observed.

“No problemo.” When Chip grinned, his face became a road map of deep creases that radiated from his mouth to around his eyes, crisscrossing on his high forehead. “Sometimes you people forget that I haven’t always lived here in Maine. I covered a world beat, including El Salvador.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Jason said. Chip’s elfish appearance masked a sharp intellect. He was, by trade, a gatherer of intelligence in this country and in Central America. In addition to his weekly newspaper, he regularly contributed to several national publications.

“With your permission, Maria.” Chip spoke in flawless Spanish. “We will talk for five minutes.”

Jason disliked the idea. He felt possessive about his bride. She wasn’t well, and he didn’t want her to face someone as sly as Chip Harrington until she was ready. “I’ll come with you.”

“Give me a break,” Chip said. “She can’t tell the secret of how she landed a prize catch while you’re standing there. Don’t worry, man. I’m not going to quiz her on the prenuptial agreement or anything. This is strictly a fluff piece. Maria? How about it?”

“I will be happy to speak with you. Though I have little to say.” She separated from Jason and went toward Chip. A newspaperman, she reasoned, ought to be able to give her information about the island and about Jason. She needed to know more about her new husband.

Chip Harrington was approximately her own height, and his easy grin made her feel safe. She gestured toward a love seat beside the fireplace, and they sat. Before he could begin his interview, she asked a question of her own. “This island,” she said. “It is so beautiful. Has Jason lived here long?”

“All his life. The Walker family is descended from whaling captains. But I don’t want to talk about history. Tell me about yourself.”

“I am what you see,” she said in a manner that she hoped was disarming. “Is Jason involved in a seafaring trade?”

“No way. He was almost a doctor. From what I hear, he had only a residency to complete his training. But you know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, certainly.” Even with Chip, she needed to be careful not to betray the truth...if she could ever remember what the truth was. “I am so very tired. I forgot.”

“I’ll be brief,” he promised. “So, you’re from Central America. What country?”

“Guermina.” Maria had no idea why she’d chosen that country, but the location sounded right. It seemed equally correct to say, “I look forward to becoming an American citizen.”

“Tell me of your homeland.”

Sharp pictures exploded in her mind. Rapid-fire impressions, as if she were flipping the pages of a book. “So beautiful, lush and green. But so much suffering. Constant warring. Poverty in the cities. There is rain, much rain. Coffee plantations. Volcanoes rise like pyramids to the skies of the Mayan gods.”

Though she knew a great deal about the country, Guermina seemed exotic to her, not familiar as a homeland should be. Just as Spanish was a language she could speak fluently, but it was not her native tongue.

“Maria,” he said, summoning her attention. “Do you know the woman they call Truth? Her name is Juana Sabbatta. She is—”

“I know of her,” Maria said. Her senses prickled. This interview had made a foray into dangerous territory. “A journalist like yourself. A troublemaker.”

“A heroine,” he concluded. “Many people believe she is courageous.”

Her heart beat in double time. A twinge of pain in her forehead warned her that the headache might return. “What could Juana Sabbatta possibly have to do with Jason and me?”

His scrutiny was so thorough that she felt as if she were under a microscope. Then his gaze lifted. She detected a hint of surprise in his voice. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“I know very little.” That much was true. She couldn’t even remember her real name. Maria? Even her name was an alias. Maria was a lie.

Chip asked, “What makes a woman agree to be a mail-order bride?”

She shrugged. How would she know such a thing? Maria wasn’t even sure what a mail-order bride was.

“Come on, Maria. Help me out here. This is romantic stuff. When Jason placed ads in those Spanish newspapers, what caused you to respond?”

“I don’t know.” Had she responded to an ad? She couldn’t remember.

“Why do you suppose he selected you from all the women who wrote back?”

“I cannot say.”

The reporter’s face pulled into a frown. “At least, tell me the logistics. I assume that once you and Jason had decided to be married, he sent money—”

“Money?” she interrupted.

“Pesos. Dinero. For your trip to Maine. Tell me about the arrangements. How does a mail-order bride, like yourself, come into this country? Is there a broker?”

A sour taste invaded her mouth. A broker? From what Chip was saying, she had been imported to be a bride. Jason had advertised and she had answered. The idea disgusted her, and confusion flooded her mind. A mail-order bride?

Though she remembered nothing, she knew that was false. Her sense of pride and self-respect would never allow her to sell herself in marriage...no matter how terrible the circumstance. Why couldn’t she remember? Why hadn’t Jason told her?

She glanced across the room at him, sought the truth in his deep gray eyes. He was watching her carefully. But, of course, he would be. If what Chip said was correct, she was his possession, something he’d bought. It was no wonder that he had kissed her so passionately. She belonged to him. A mail-order bride. Bought and paid for.

What sort of man could do such a thing?

What sort of woman would agree to a forced marriage?

And tonight? When the guests had left, Jason would demand that she perform her wifely duty in bed. The spontaneous wonderment of their kiss became suddenly tawdry and cheap.

Chip was still asking his questions. His voice droned. He touched her forearm. “Maria?”

She jerked away from him. “I am not well,” she said. “I must lie down.”

“But I have a few more questions.”

“Not now.” Quietly she rose and slipped away, finding the small room where she had awakened before the ceremony. She closed the door and went to the window. Beyond a stand of coastal pines, she saw the shimmer of sunlight on water. The Atlantic Ocean was her horizon and her boundary. After everyone else left, she would be isolated on this island. With Jason.

“Maria?” Alice opened the door. “Are you all right? Um, cómo está usted?”

Maria shook her head. The dull aching was back. She sank to the floor beside the window. One hand reached up, rested on the sill, grasping toward freedom. How could she have sold herself? She was so ashamed. No wonder her mind had blanked out the past.

Alice sat on the wingback chair near her. “You’re homesick, aren’t you? Oh, Maria, I wish I could help you.”

But would she? Would Alice help her escape? It seemed doubtful. Alice was Jason’s sister. Her first loyalty would be to him.

“You’re very brave,” Alice said. “I don’t think I could do what you’ve done. Leaving my home and all. You must have been desperate to escape your country.”

Desperate to escape? Yes, Maria thought, I am desperate.

“But you’re very lucky,” Alice said. “Sometimes Jason behaves like a gruff old pelican, but he has a kind heart. And I do believe you will be good for him. After his first wife Elena died...well, he was devastated. I never thought he would marry again. He nursed her all by himself, you know. After the doctors had diagnosed her cancer and said it was hopeless, Jason took care of her—all alone—for months on this island.”

Maria imagined the horror of being trapped here. Dying and imprisoned on a cold island in Maine. Had his first wife been a mail-order bride? “Elena?”

“She looked a little like you. The long, black hair. She was Spanish, too.” Alice gave a little frown. “Well, I’m sure you don’t understand a word of what I’m saying here. I wish I could reassure you, but I guess that’s up to Jason. Now, do you want to lie down for a moment? Or should we cut the cake?”

The door swung wide and Jason maneuvered his way inside. Maria looked at him with new eyes. The tension around his mouth indicated to her that he was holding back his pain. His leg must be bothering him. He didn’t seem like a cruel man, but he was angry. It was strange, she thought, that she could read his emotions more easily than she could understand what was going on inside her own head.

“Leave us, Alice.”

“All righty. But I insist that the both of you come out here and cut the cake. Then the basic ceremonial duties are over, and Maria can rest.”

“We’ll be there shortly,” he said.

Alice left, and he crossed the room. His strides were labored. “Maria, you’ve got to be careful. These people may seem harmless, but we can’t tell. We can’t trust anyone. Not even the reverend.”

She stood, but kept close to the window, as far away from him as possible. Was the danger from other people? Or from him? He was the man who had bought her. Pure rage burned within her, hotter than a forge, but she tempered her emotions. Whatever Jason had done, she’d allowed it. My God, what had happened to her? What insane reasoning had led her to this point? “How could I have gone through with this?”

“What are you talking about?”

He reached for her, and she pulled away. Lithely she darted beyond his arm’s reach.

“Leave me alone,” she said. Her words were English. “Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

But he already had. He had taken her name and her freedom. Though she’d agreed, though she had voluntarily repeated her vows before witnesses, the wedding was a sham. She glared defiantly. “You may have bought a mail-order bride, but I’ll never be your wife.”

“What the hell are you—” He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Never mind. Just come out here, cut the damned cake and let’s be done with this charade.”

“This charade, as you call it, is what you want,” she snapped. “This was your idea.”

“The hell it was. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t be here. Pretending.” He tapped his cane impatiently. “I’m not good at espionage.”

“Espionage?” She switched to Spanish again. This was dangerous. She needed to keep her guard up. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play stupid with me. You convinced Chip Harrington with that wide-eyed innocent act of yours. But you don’t have to trick me. I know the truth.”

“How dare you speak of truth!” It was all a lie. Every word, every gesture. He had contrived to bring her here, to keep her isolated on the island. “Will you force me to stay here?”

“Yes,” he said. “Until I receive different orders, you will stay with me.”

He went to the door and rested his hand on the knob. “We’ll cut the cake, then send everyone home. Pretend that you’re happy, my dear little bride.”

“Never. I will ask the reverend to take me back to—” To where? Where was home? “To a safe place.”

“I don’t know what Chip told you, but you’ve got it wrong, Maria. This island is your safety.” The hard expression in his eyes precluded further discussion. “You will do as I say.”

She could stand and fight, here and now, with little chance of winning. The wedding guests were all Jason’s friends. They would think she had a case of nerves. “Poor thing,” they would say, “she’s homesick.” And she did feel ill. She was weak. Her headache drummed in the back of her head. The muscles in her shoulders and back were taut.

“Maria,” he said. “I’m waiting.”

Later, she promised herself. Later, she would find a way off this cold island. She would regain her freedom.

With her head held high, she went toward him. He offered his arm, and she lightly rested her fingertips on his forearm. His nearness should have repulsed her. Instead she shivered with a purely sensual pleasure. His touch aroused her. Why did she find him so attractive? She should have seen cruelty in his arrogant profile, but instead she saw handsome, chiseled features. The very scent of him excited her. Perhaps she had lost her sense of reasoning along with her memory.

When they left the parlor and went toward the large dining room, the other people seemed dangerous to her. How could she tell what was right, what was safe? Their eyes, as they looked at her, seemed intrusive. Their voices grated on her ears.

“Smile, Maria,” Jason whispered.

Automatically her lips responded.

He led her to a table, to the three-tier wedding cake, and he lifted the knife. He prepared to make the first slice, but Alice stopped him. “You’re doing it wrong,” she said. “Both of you are supposed to hold the knife.”

He took her hand and placed it atop his. His flesh was warm, she thought, and hers was cold. Muerte. Cold as death. She must get away from this island where there was danger all around her, stealing her memories. But where would she go? Who could she turn to when she couldn’t remember her name or what had happened to her?

Her gaze focused on the miniature couple that stood atop the cake. Maria never thought her wedding day would be frightening and joyless.

They sliced the cake.

She tasted the sugary chocolate on her tongue as Jason held a piece of cake to her mouth, and she wanted to spit it out, to spit in his face, in the faces of all these false smiles.

“Now, champagne!” Alice said, directing the ceremonies again. She handed Jason and Maria their fluted glasses. “A toast, Jason.”

He lifted his glass and sunlight from the windows reflected on the rising bubbles. “On this wedding day, I welcome my guests to share in these ceremonies, to eat, to drink, to celebrate. I toast my bride, an admirable and beautiful woman who is far from her homeland, testing her wings, seeking a new life. I hope my home will be a comfort for her. My wish, for you, Maria, is everlasting peace and satisfaction.”

He held his glass toward her, and she tapped the crystal rim lightly before she took a sip.

The guests applauded.

“Maria?”

It was Alice, again. Didn’t the woman give up? Maria couldn’t imagine that there was yet another ritual.

“Maria, you must tell us what you wish for. Jason will translate.”

“No need.” Maria tilted her glass toward them, saluting them. In English she said, “I hope for memories...” Any memory, any chance of regaining her own past. “For fulfillment, for happiness, for freedom...and for truth.”

“For truth.”

She heard the voice of Chip Harrington as he repeated her words. In his eyes she saw a glimmer of recognition.




Chapter Three


The bedroom on the second floor was familiar. She’d been there last night. She’d slept in the bed. Maria stood in the middle of the room and tried to remember the details of the layout. The closet was to the right, and it was a walk-in closet with the racks cleaned and empty, waiting for clothing she did not own. She went to the closet door and opened it. Bare floors, barren racks with hangers. It smelled of cedar. There was a window that cast slanting light on the wood floors. It was exactly as she had remembered.

Relief flooded her mind. She had remembered! She clenched her fists, smiled in triumph. Though only slightly, her memory had begun to function again.

A full bathroom adjoined this room, and the tile around the sink was blue to match the flowered wallpaper. She hurried across the room and flung open the door. Right again! But she had to remember more. These were only details. Yet details would lead to full thoughts, then scenes, then a lifetime.

Returning to the bedroom, she stroked the quilted cotton of the green-and-white spread on the queen-size four-poster, then glanced toward the doorway where Jason was standing. Would he demand to sleep here tonight? To consummate their marriage?

Jason closed the door. With slow, tortured steps, he made his way to the green-curtained windows and lowered himself into a rocking chair. His injured leg stuck out straight in front of him. “Eddy Elliot was right,” he said. “You have no accent. You speak English fluently.”

“Eddy Elliot?” Had she met him?

“The senator.”

“Oh, yes. The man with the red face.” The man who had warned her. She remembered him very well.

Her mind was like a vast white canvas with one small corner filled in. She remembered last night and today. Other memories, from other times, appeared like dots in the distance. They would draw closer, she hoped, until the whole canvas was filled with the tapestry of her past.

“Maria!”

She turned toward him. What else would she recall about Jason? How much did she know about him?

He echoed her thoughts. “I don’t know much about you.”

“That’s the problem with a mail-order bride,” she said, masking her fear with flippancy. “You don’t have that nice, long courtship period to discover each other’s secrets.”

The returning memories had given her a sense of power. Ultimately she would recall everything and regain herself. Maria was sure of that. Maria? It wasn’t her name, but it would have to suffice until she heard the clear voice in her head telling her whether she was Danielle or Carolyn or Marta or Heather.

No, not Heather. She wasn’t a Heather or a Tiffany or a Mandy. Not perky. She’d never been bubbly and bouncy like a cheerleader. She had been studious, loved learning, got straight-A grades. She was an intelligent woman. An educated woman.

The thought pleased her. But if she’d been happy in her life, how had she come here?

“Maria, you must pay attention to what I am saying.”

“Why?” She sank down onto the edge of the bed. Her headache had faded, replaced by a dull pain in her upper back. She touched a tender area near her rib cage and winced.

“It’s dangerous,” he said. “You must know that. Just because you’ve left Guermina, you aren’t safe. There are people who don’t want you here in this country. There are people who want you dead.”

Why did he think she was from Guermina? That didn’t feel right, and yet she sensed that the rest of his statement was true. She was in danger.

My God, what had she done? She studied the chiseled planes of his handsome face. Her gaze lingered on the scar near his hairline. He had been injured, too.

Instinctively she wanted to trust him, to believe that they were on the same side. Why else would he be warning her? Her agile mind supplied a reason. It was possible that he was trying to frighten her to strengthen his hold on her, to make her dependent upon him. “Tell me what you know about me, Jason. Perhaps I can fill in the blanks.”

“How much do you know about yourself?” he asked sharply.

Did he know? Did he know how helpless she was? She tossed her head, masking her ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“Maria, I’m not a fool. It’s obvious that you have sustained some short-term memory loss. I don’t know how much or why. When I examined you yesterday, I found no physical evidence of head injury and—”

“You examined me?”

“Of course, I am trained as a physician and—”

“How much?” she interrupted him again. “How thorough was your examination?”

“Give me a break.” Abruptly he rose from the chair. “I might be crippled, but I haven’t stooped to the level of manhandling an unconscious woman. You were exhausted. You could barely make it from Elena to the house. There was no one else here. I wasn’t sure whether I should contact a doctor or not. I know nothing of your medical history.”

“What would you need to know?”

“Drugs,” he said. “Are you on any special medication?”

“No.” At least, she didn’t think so.

“Are you diabetic?”

“No.”

“This memory loss,” he said. “How far back does it extend?”

To birth, she thought. But she would not confide in him. He was clever and appealing, but she’d be crazy to trust him. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” He matched her cold bravado with his own diffident arrogance. “Then tell me about yourself.”

“I do not wish to recite my life story. Tell me what you know,” she reiterated, “and I will fill in the blanks.”

“I don’t know much beyond your book. Truth. I have a photocopy of it. In Spanish. Not the translation.”

She had written a book titled Truth. Her recollection came into dim focus. The book was about Guermina, the corruption of power, the exploitation of her people, deals with American immigration officials, political scandal on a multitude of levels.

This book, she knew, was the key to everything. “Give me the copy,” she demanded.

“That would be unwise,” he said.

“Why?”

“You know the answer to that question. I have the book locked away in a safe place. The location is indicated on a paper that will be opened in the event of my death. Even if you and I are assassinated...the book will survive.”

Assassinated? “I must have this book. Where is it?”

“How did you learn English?” he countered. “You speak like an American.”

“Then I must have learned from an American.” She had no idea of how she’d gained her knowledge of language. Spanish or English. But it seemed right to add, “I have an ear for languages.”

“What others do you know?”

In flawless French, she said, “I am well acquainted with French though I have only visited that nation briefly. And, of course, Portuguese, because I spent some time in Brazil.”

Images flooded her mind. In memory, she observed herself laughing in an outdoor café. Utterly carefree, she tossed her hair and sipped at strong, rich espresso. Then she was joined by a woman whose dark eyes bespoke a depth of suffering. The woman didn’t belong there. The memory was painful! A physical ache tightened Maria’s chest. She felt as though she were choking, drowning.

When she spoke again, she used English.

“Tired,” she murmured. “I’m so tired.”

She lay back on the pillows, knowing that she must not allow her memory of that woman to become completed in detail. She had to fight it. If she remembered, she would sink back into the pain, the dire sense of helplessness.

But she heard the woman’s voice echoing in her mind, repeating a name: Jason Wakefield Walker. And there were directions: the marina near Boothbay Harbor. The Elena, a sailboat. Slip number eighty-six.

Her gaze snapped back to the present and she turned her head to stare at him. Had the dark-eyed woman been warning her against this handsome man?

Beneath the pillow, covered in fabric that matched the bedspread, she heard a crumpling sound. She reached underneath the pillow and touched a balled-up scrap of paper. A note.

Her fingers closed around it.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Slowly he came toward her. “Maria? What’s wrong?”

“Keep away from me.”

“I won’t hurt you.” He braced himself on his cane and gestured with his free hand. “I married you, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” She sat up on the bed to face him. “Yes. We are husband and wife.”

“And tonight is our honeymoon.” Sardonically he added, “I guess that makes me the luckiest man in the world.”

“Does my bedroom door have a lock?”

“Do you think that would stop me?”

“I would think that—if you’re a gentleman—you’ll respect my wish to be left alone.”

“I don’t believe you, Maria. You’re afraid of your real wishes. When you kissed me at the altar, your body responded to mine.”

“That meant nothing. It was a show.”

“Prove your words.” He caught hold of her arm. His grip was fierce and overpowering. “Kiss me now, Maria. Without passion. Without arousal.”

She stared into his storm-gray eyes. Part of her accepted his challenge. To kiss without excitement? Certainly she could do so. She had reason to believe that Jason was her enemy. Hadn’t he taken advantage of her already? Hadn’t he made her his mail-order bride? The very idea infuriated her. There was no sensible rationale for why a modern woman should have to barter with her heart. Not even to obtain freedom from an oppressed country. Her lips curled in a sneer. “You don’t excite me.”

“We’ll see.”

A part of her conscious mind wanted to kiss him because she remembered the pleasure of the first time. Of all her scant memories to be etched in vivid detail, that was the strongest. A kiss.

“Show me,” he said.

Standing close to him, she lowered her eyelids and lifted her chin. The light pressure of his mouth on hers was pleasant, but not overwhelming. She gritted her teeth, unwilling to show him that she enjoyed the contact.

His hand glided down her arm, leaving a trail of shivering sensation. He took her hand and placed it against his chest. Through the soft, white cotton of his shirt, she could feel warm flesh and the drumming of his heart.

His tongue flicked lightly across the surface of her lips. He kissed her cheekbone, her closed eyelids. He found her earlobe and nibbled.

She groaned with pleasure. This felt so indescribably right. His touch aroused her in ways that were uncontrollable. In the midst of her confusion she needed to cling to him. Her arms encircled him and she fitted her body against his. Her back arched as he nuzzled her throat.

Again he kissed her full on the mouth, and she surrendered to an explosion of desire that blanked her mind and erased any thought, except of him. Pure, tingling delight flamed within her. When he separated from her, she felt dazed.

“Are you all right, Maria?”

“I’m...” She fanned herself with her hand; struggled to regain her self-control. “I’m a little hot.”

“Don’t play with fire, lady. Or else you’ll be burned.”

As he moved slowly away from her, she felt annoyed with herself. And with him. He had no right to test these boundaries, wedding or not. And she had no business responding. Was this attraction the danger she feared so deeply?

Despite her brave thoughts, her voice stammered as she said, “I—I’m still locking my room.”

“Fine. All I promised was that you’d have a room to work and that you would be cared for. I’ll bring you a late dinner after the guests have left.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Later tonight, you will be.”

Before he closed the door he shot her a smoldering glance that, indeed, fueled her hunger. She was like a starving person, ravenous for his embrace, for the feel of his body against hers. The taste of him lingered on her lips. She craved his touch, the flames he kindled within her. Though she looked away, his gaze was branded in the forefront of her mind.

The door closed with a click.

She could not stay here. If she allowed herself to be consumed by this inappropriate desire for a stranger, she would never escape, would never learn of her own life. She needed to concentrate, to remove her mind from thoughts of Jason and imaginings of how it would be to make love with him.

Love? What could she know about love? She was a mail-order bride. Love was not a requirement for this position.

In her closed fist she still clutched the balled-up scrap of paper. Was it a clue? She unfolded the edges and read the words scrawled in Spanish. “You are in danger. Look in the bedside table.”

She pulled open the drawer of the small oak table. Inside was a package of tissues, a sachet of fragrant potpourri, and a gun.

* * *

JASON AVOIDED the wedding revelries that had taken over the lower floor of his house and went to his office where he tried once again to reach his source by telephone. Fifteen rings. No answer.

“Damn.” He’d been told that Maria would stay with him, assume his name and slide unnoticed into the bureaucracy. He had all the necessary documentations and certifications, including a couple of fake identity papers in case they needed them immediately. None of the papers had a photograph. As far as he knew, there were no pictures of this woman.

With any luck, according to plan, she would attain U.S. citizenship before anyone was wise to the fact that Maria Ramos Hernandez was the real name of the fiery journalist, Juana Sabbatta.

Jason had promised that he would marry her. He would give her his name as protection and would keep her safely hidden away on remote Passaquoit Island.

The plan had seemed fairly simple, but he needed contact with his source. Maria was a handful. Not at all what he had expected. Her beauty surprised him less than her diffident attitude. Not that he wanted her to fawn on him and lavish him with praise, but a simple “thank you” would have been nice.

“Damn the difficult woman!”

Rising from the chair behind his desk, he noticed that his right desk drawer was slightly ajar. Though this room had not been locked, the door was closed. Had someone been in here? One of the wedding guests?

The desk drawer glided open when he pulled. Inside, all his papers were in order. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed.

He closed the drawer with a snap. His instincts warned him that something was wrong. Though he might have left the drawer open himself or Alice might have been in here, he didn’t trust simple explanations.

He reached beneath the middle drawer of his desk. On the right side, far enough back to be hidden from view, was the compartment he had built himself. The wood felt smooth and cold to the touch. The compartment was empty. His Beretta was missing.

A dark tension clenched his gut. Trust no one. Danger was everywhere. Though his instructions had been to arrange a typical wedding ceremony, it might have been a mistake to allow all these people onto the island.

Quickly he went to the locked cabinet at the rear of his office. He had other guns, mostly rifles. He took out a flat automatic pistol, checked the clip, then slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. Maria! He had to get back to her!

Surely no one would be fool enough to harm her while all these witnesses were present in the house. But he couldn’t be sure. He had to protect her, against her will, if necessary. Jason took a key chain from his desk drawer. There was scant safety in locked doors, but the locks would, at least, be an obstacle.

Armed and alert to danger, he paused outside his office to lock the door. His first goal was to get everyone off the island as soon as possible. Once he and Maria were here alone, he could protect her more thoroughly. This house was a fortress, built to withstand the battering winds off the northern Atlantic.

He hobbled up the staircase again to the second floor. Looking down the length of the wide hallway lined with oil paintings of Wentworths and Walkers, he saw that the door to her bedroom was standing open. Was he already too late? If anything had happened to her...

His fingers closed around the handle of the pistol. Moving stealthily, masking the tap of his cane against the hardwood floor, he approached her room. He heard the murmur of voices. Then there was a lilting sound, delicate as wind chimes. Maria’s laughter. He had never heard her laugh before.

With his hand still on his pistol, Jason stepped around the doorframe. The scene that confronted him appeared innocent enough. Maria, radiantly beautiful in her wedding gown, sat in a chair by the window. In the opposite chair was Reverend Wally Blaylock, chattering away in Spanish. He waved to Jason. “Come on in. I was just warning Maria about shopping in the local market where the citrus fruit is never quite perfect but the berries are marvelous. And never buy frozen lobster in Maine. They need to be fresh and live, even if they are difficult to control.” He glanced at Maria. “I had the creatures all over the back of my van.”

She smiled brightly, and Jason thought her happiness was a wonderful sight. The sparkle in her eyes captured the essence of sunlight shimmering on clear waters. He wished, someday, that she might look upon him with a smile in her eyes. But for now... “I’m surprised, Wally,” Jason said. “I didn’t know you were so fluent in Spanish.”

“I’d hardly call myself fluent. But I did spend several years as a missionary in Latin American countries. I was even in Guermina for a while.” He reached over and patted Maria’s knee. “Your homeland is very wonderful.”

Jason felt an irrational surge of jealousy. Wally Blaylock was a reverend, not a priest. He was unmarried, and he was flirting with Maria. “Wally, what are you doing here?”

“I came to say goodbye to the bride. I’m heading back to the mainland and taking the majority of your guests with me on the big boat.” He rose to his feet and beamed down at Maria. “It’s been a real pleasure.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Gracias.”

Jason stepped aside so the reverend could leave the room.

“And you,” the reverend said to Jason. “You be sure to bring this young woman into town. Stuck out here on the island, Maria could die of boredom.”

Alone again, Jason closed the door. “I thought you were ill?”

The laughter fled from her face. She averted her gaze, stared through the window. “I couldn’t be rude to the reverend. He’s very nice.”

“Maria, you don’t know that. Your enemies are everywhere. Don’t you understand? You’ve got to be careful.”

She said nothing, but her chin lifted stubbornly, daring him to tell her what to do. This expression of suppressed anger was one he’d become accustomed to. What was the use of talking to her? She didn’t understand! “All right,” he said. “You wanted the bedroom door locked? Fine. I’m locking you in.”

“What? You can’t do that. You can’t keep me prisoner.”

“Watch me!”

He left the room, fitted his master key in the lock. It fastened with a neat click. There! She ought to be safe until he saw that everyone was off the island.

* * *

SHE LISTENED to the tap of Jason’s cane as he went back down the hallway. Had he really locked the door? She gripped the doorknob and tried to twist it. Locked tight! How dare he lock her in her bedroom! His behavior was ridiculous and archaic, locking her up as if she were a medieval princess. What was next? A chastity belt? This was more than an affront to her pride. His behavior bordered on cruelty. “Bastard!”

How could he treat her like this?

Through the slightly open window she heard the distant sounds of people preparing to depart. She hurried to the window of her bedroom prison and stood there, peering out. At the far end of the house the wedding guests were making their way outside into the sunlight.

Maria tried to push the window higher, to open it. If she leaned out, waving and screaming like Rapunzel in her tower, Reverend Blaylock would return. He was a kind man. He would help her. Or would he?

She knew there was danger. The note had warned her. Eddy Elliot had warned her. Jason had repeatedly insisted that she was not safe.

“Jason.” She gritted his name through clenched teeth. She couldn’t trust him. He was the danger. And the others? Without more information, she couldn’t be sure. It was safer to trust no one, to keep a low profile. She would escape from this room, this damned island, by herself. Then she would be free to disappear onto the mainland. But where? How?

She paced the room. She had no money. No clothing except for the wedding gown she was wearing.

If she went to the police, what could they do? She had no name, no identity except for Maria Ramos Hernandez. She paused and corrected herself. She was Mrs. Jason Wakefield Walker the Third. And from what she’d ascertained, Jason was an important man in this part of the world. The police would contact him to pick up his hysterical bride who was spouting a fantastic story about not knowing who she was or where she came from.

She couldn’t go to the police.

Back at the window, she watched the guests following a footpath to the edge of a bluff. Their brightly colored wedding clothing contrasted with the bleak landscape that was only occasionally marked with patches of wildflowers and shrubs. Beyond was the cold, gray sea, another barrier to her freedom. But Jason had a sailboat. She could steal it, aim toward the shoreline, which was not even visible from here. How far was it, how many miles, to freedom?

It didn’t matter. She would escape, take the boat. The Elena. It was named for his first wife who had suffered and died on this island. A cold shudder went through her. Was this Elena’s bedroom? Had she passed away upon that bed?

Confusion whirled in her brain. The aching had returned. Not a devastating pain, but a monotonous, unending throb. Threats were all around her. She was surrounded by danger. Muerte. The overwhelming darkness that she had evaded crept closer.

“No,” she whispered. She would not succumb, would not quit.

First, she needed to get out of this room. If she forced herself through the small opening in the second-story window and dangled from the sill, the drop would still be more than ten feet. Too far. She couldn’t risk injuring herself, making herself even more helpless.

She peered outside. Unfortunately there were no handy trellises or sturdy trees that she could climb down. The vegetation on this windswept, rocky island was sparse. Nowhere to hide.

She tried the door handle again. Could she break the lock? These doors were old, but heavy.

Pick the lock? Maria didn’t recall a background that included that type of talent. She had to think, to use her wits. The bathroom attached to this bedroom had no separate door into the hallway. And the closet?

She pulled open the door and checked that window in case there would be a way to climb down. But there was nothing. Only the wavering sunlight of late afternoon. Soon it would be dusk, then nightfall. Then Jason would come to her room. He had promised dinner. And what else?

The thought of his kisses wakened a new fear within her. He was masterful. He was strong. How could she resist him? And yet, how could she allow herself to be overwhelmed? If she made love to him, she would be more of a captive than before.

Her gaze lifted upward. From the ceiling of the closet a cord dangled from an overhead hatch. She tugged hard on the cord and a ladder descended. There must be additional storage in the attic. And possible escape.

Before climbing up and out of her bedroom prison, she raced to the bedside table and grabbed the pistol.




Chapter Four


“I want to see her,” Alice said, “before I leave.”

“Maria is sleeping,” Jason replied. “She’s exhausted.”

Alice closed the door to his office and confronted him angrily. “I’m going to give you some free advice, dear brother.”

He knew very well that it would do absolutely no good to protest. Jason settled back in the chair behind his desk and braced himself. When Alice had an opinion, it would be stated come hell or high water. “Yes, Alice?”

“Don’t be overprotective of Maria. She’s not an invalid like Elena was. Please, Jason, you must listen to me. I know you adored Elena, but she was a very sick woman. Taking care of her turned you into a recluse.”

Though he didn’t like to hear it, he knew she was right. Elena’s drawn-out death had changed him. Watching her die slowly, unable to help her, had stolen his spirit. After she’d passed away, he had flung himself headlong into his work with the rebels of Guermina. The people of that country had called him courageous. They had not guessed at the truth: he didn’t care if he lived or died. Without Elena, his life was over.





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