Читать книгу Mysterious Vows - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 9

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.