Читать книгу One Snowbound Weekend... - Christy Lockhart, Christy Lockhart - Страница 9

Even though the heartbeat of sensual awareness pulsed between them, she realized Shane was telling her what she wanted to hear, nothing more. Angie studied the pine-green depths of his eyes and saw the shadow of deceit. “Why are you lying to me?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, scattering a lock of dark brown across his forehead. “Can we postpone this until you’re feeling better?”

Angie prided herself on her strength. Without it, she would never have walked away from her father and the marriage he’d been arranging for her.

She’d shown courage in defying expectations, and she wouldn’t stop asking questions now.

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Shane said, severing the contact of their gazes. He pushed to his feet and headed into the bathroom.

Restless and confused, she tossed the colorful Navajo blanket back from her shoulders and moved to the fireplace, crouching to ruffle the dog’s fur. Hardhat was adorable, especially with the red bandanna tied around his neck. It was odd that she couldn’t remember their dog. It was even stranger that she couldn’t remember her fight with Shane, no matter how hard she tried.

But their lovemaking…that she remembered….

He returned, freezing when she saw her petting the dog. “The doctor said you need rest.”

“How did we end up getting a dog?”

“Hardhat was a stray on a construction site in town. One day he followed me home and never left.”

“When?”

Carefully, his expression neutral, he said, “Recently.”

“Stop with the half truths, Shane.”

His knuckles whitened against the bottle of peroxide.

“How recently?” she repeated.

“Angie—”

“You told me we’d talk about it,” she reminded him.

“Later. I said we’d talk about it later.”

She stood and squared her shoulders, facing him. “We made an agreement to always be open and honest with each other. Do you remember?”

He put the first aid kit and the peroxide on the coffee table. “I’m not keeping secrets.”

“Then help me understand.” She loved Shane with her whole heart and soul. If something was wrong, she’d do anything, anything to fix it.

Ignoring the thudding ache in her temples she asked, “Why don’t you want me to touch you? You usually encourage me to feel your body, massage the knots out after you’ve worked all day, wash your back when you shower and then dry you before you carry me to bed….

“Do you remember the day we moved in here? You were determined we’d have some kind of honeymoon. Sarah stayed with Kurt Majors’s family and you insisted we make love in nearly every room of our new home in the first twenty-four hours. We tried the kitchen first.”

His nostrils flared, and a corresponding awareness cascaded through her insides. “What happened between us?” she asked quietly.

“Dammit, Angie, the doctor said—”

“Forget the doctor, Shane.” She took a step toward him. His breathing changed, and she took a second step. “This is about you and me. About us.” Stopping only inches from him, she placed her hand on his chest, feeling his strength beneath the soft cotton of his flannel shirt. “I want answers.”

“I don’t think you’re up to it.”

He placed his hand on top of hers, holding her still and not letting her hand wander. That wasn’t like him. Nor was the tension sketched beside his eyes.

“Let me decide that, okay? I need to understand why the man I married is acting like a stranger. I need to know why you’re shutting me out.”

Indecision clouded across the green of his eyes, making them murky. Eventually he sighed. “You asked if we had a fight. We did.”

“We’ve had other fights.”

“Not like this.”

“Worse?”

“Yeah.”

Wind slashed against the large windows, shaking them in their wooden casings.

Why couldn’t she remember? Something so important should fill her mind, shouldn’t it?

“Leave it at that, Angie.”

“But—”

“You’re here, you’re safe. There’s time for the rest later.”

“Was it bad enough to ruin our relationship?”

“Angie—”

“Was it?” she repeated breathlessly, demandingly.

“Yeah.”

She swallowed the information, but didn’t know what to do with it. Nothing made sense, and the harder she tried to remember, the more fuzzy her brain became.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the roar in her head and the ache in her heart.

“I need to clean that cut on your forehead.”

“Shane—”

“Don’t be so stubborn, Angie. Give in.”

She didn’t want to, but she knew he was right. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “For now.”

He released his hold on her, and her hand fell to her side, her palm still warm.

“Sit on the couch.”

When she did, he crouched in front of her and poured peroxide on a cotton ball.

His touch tender, he feathered her hair back from her forehead and said, “This may sting.”

“No more than this awkwardness between us.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“You made me promise that I’d never give up on us. And I won’t.”

Their gazes locked, and the spikes of pain in his eyes stole her breath. She’d seen that kind of hurt there before, when he’d told her about his mother and the way she deserted him on his ninth birthday.

The ache in his eyes had intensified when he’d confided that he’d proposed to Delilah Clark, a girl he’d gone to high school with. Delilah said she’d marry him as long as he got rid of his sister.

Angie had held him that night, promising him she’d never walk out on him, no matter what.

Now, just like then, she wanted to cradle him. But this time, she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, she hugged her arms around her middle so she wouldn’t do anything she’d regret.

He applied ointment and a bandage, his fingertips barely glancing off her skin.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You need to take off those wet clothes.” He stood and capped the brown bottle, sliding it on the coffee table. “I’ll get you a couple of aspirin first.”

He offered his hand and she hesitated. He might not want her touch, but she craved his.

Patiently he waited, his mouth a tight line, revealing nothing. In fact, if she hadn’t seen the thready pulse in his temple, she might have thought he felt nothing.

Finally, desperate for the connection, any connection, she slipped her hand against his palm. Maybe if she broke past the barrier of ice…

For a moment, his fingers closed around hers. Warmth and longing flooded her as he slowly pulled her up.

She swayed toward him. Her hopes of him softening died in that instant. He simply steadied her, then released her before turning on his booted heel. His steps away from her seemed to echo her loneliness off the hardwood floor.

Tears from Shane’s rejection stinging her eyes, she crossed to their bedroom only to gasp aloud at the sight of it.

“Angie!” he called. “Are you okay?”

She heard his boots thundering on the flooring, but she couldn’t answer. Instead, she frantically grabbed hold of the doorjamb.

There were no traces of her anywhere in this room.

Their mismatched set of furniture—bought at a yard sale—was gone, replaced by a set of solid oak pieces. A bedspread, colorful with a southwestern design splashed on the fabric, lay across the mattress. But where was her pastel-colored quilt with the wedding-ring pattern?

“Angie?” he asked again, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Where are my things?” Pulling away, she moved into the room, dropping to her knees and yanking open the bottom right-hand drawer where she usually kept her lingerie. She found his socks and briefs.

She slammed the drawer and reached for another, where she should find belts and hair accessories. Nothing. Frantically, she yanked open a third drawer and started shoving aside his sweaters hoping to find something—anything—of hers.

“Stop.” Kneeling next to her, he clamped his hand around her wrist.

She looked up at the man she’d sworn she’d love forever, the man she’d given herself to, body and heart.

And she didn’t recognize him.

“Answer me, Shane. Where are my things? Why is there no trace of me in this room? Was our fight so bad that you’d kick me out of your life like this?”

“You’ve got clothes in the closet.”

Her breath rushed out. “In the closet?”

“On the shelves.”

She didn’t remember….

He slowly released his grip, but he didn’t move away.

“But that’s not all,” she said softly, momentarily squeezing her eyes shut. “You’ve changed, Shane. You’re not the man I married.”

“I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

He still had the same good looks, the same scar beneath his chin from the childhood bike accident, the same angular jaw, the same intensely green eyes, the same thick, dark hair begging to be mussed, the same cleft in his chin where she’d rested her finger earlier.

He was still the same, yet so much…more. “You’re harder.” Broader, stronger, more rigid. More man. “Less loving. I remember the way you’d smile when you saw me, the way you’d reach for me, the way you’d carry me in here.” Her voice broke as she finished, “The way you’d make love to me…”

He cursed softly. His eyes lightened a shade. If she didn’t know otherwise, she might have thought she’d glimpsed tenderness.

But then it was gone, and night returned to the pine-forest depths of his eyes. Swimming in a sea of confusion, she got to her feet.

“When did we get this furniture?” she asked.

“I ordered it from the Mountain Majesty catalog you like.”

Drawing her brows together, she whispered, “When?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.” She reached her hand to her forehead, and suddenly it became shockingly, frighteningly clear. “The accident. Our fight… I’ve forgotten, haven’t I? I’ve blocked it out.” Her heart raced. “I’ve lost part of my memory.”

“There’s time for all this later.” He stood but thankfully didn’t move toward her. “When you’re feeling better, when you’ve rested.”

“That’s what you talked to Dr. Johnson about, isn’t it? My memory loss.”

“Angie—” he warned.

Suddenly she was more afraid than she ever remembered being. “How much, Shane? How much time have I lost?”

“I don’t know.” He spoke slowly, soothingly, his reassuring cadence the only lifeline she had to hold on to. “The doctor said it could be posttraumatic amnesia.”

Her knees weakened. “What does that mean?” She sank onto the bed she didn’t remember sharing with him.

“He won’t know, exactly, unless he runs a complete neurological examination.”

Twisting her hands together, she softly said, “And because of the weather, you can’t get me to the hospital.”

He nodded.

“So you’re stuck with me.”

“We’re stuck with each other.”

Oh, how she’d wanted him to deny it, to tell her that being with her wasn’t a hardship.

“Your memory could come back all on its own.”

She twisted her hands together. “When?”

“Anytime.”

“What happens if it doesn’t? What if it never comes back at all?”

“Don’t,” he warned, the word a soft growl. Devouring the distance in a couple of quick strides, he took hold of her upper arms, but there was nothing intimate about his grip.

“We don’t have any information, so we can’t hazard a guess. Dr. Johnson wouldn’t.”

She struggled to take it all in, but she was shivering, as if the cold was devouring her from the inside out.

“The best thing you can do is follow the doctor’s orders. Rest, and change out of the wet clothes so you don’t end up with a cold, as well.”

“But—”

His grip tightened. “Do us both a favor. Quit arguing.”

He released her, and the temperature plummeted. The howling wind and driving snow only made it worse.

Shane crossed to the closet and returned with a pair of sweatpants and matching shirt. At least these were familiar.

She grabbed for the hem of her damp sweater, only to wince when her muscles protested.

A pulse ticking in his temple, he offered his help.

“Thanks,” she said.

He eased the sweater over her head, dropping it onto the floor and scooping up the sweatshirt. As he helped her into the soft fleece, his fingers skimmed her bare skin, raising awareness deep inside her.

She glanced at him, and he refused to meet her gaze. He wasn’t looking at her.

Tears stung again, and she tried to blink them back.

“What about your jeans?”

“I can manage.” Better that than having a man touch her who no longer wanted to…

When she stood and fumbled with the zipper’s small tab, he said, “I’ll do it.”

His motions were deft and sure, not that that was a surprise. He’d undressed her dozens of times.

Yet there was something different knowing he was angry, recognizing he didn’t want to be near her, realizing their marriage was no longer the happily-ever-after fairy tale she believed it to be.

He shimmied the damp, stiff denim past her hips and down her thighs. Kneeling, he held the jeans while she stepped out of them.

Breath froze in her lungs.

His gaze swept upward as he looked at her, pausing midway up her body.

He sucked in a shallow breath, his eyes narrowing. Her body quickened in response to his unspoken need.

He touched her, gently.

Then, swearing softly, he dropped his hand, pushed to his feet and grabbed the aspirin he’d carried into the room.

Uncapping the bottle, he shook out two tablets and placed them on the bedside table, alongside a glass of water. “Call me if you need anything.” The door closed behind him with a sharp click.

She needed so much from him—needed to be held, caressed, loved…the very things he wasn’t offering.

Her head thundered. She wanted things back the way they had been before… Before… Before the fight she couldn’t remember.

She’d demanded answers, and Shane had given a few. Maybe he’d been right in guessing she was better off not knowing. His honesty hadn’t solved anything, it had only made it worse.

Finally, the pain ricocheting inside her head won. Angie gave in. Telling herself that maybe her memory would return if she rested, she pulled back the bedspread and crawled beneath the blanket.

She lay down and inhaled Shane’s scent, that of mountain air and citrus spice. Another small thing that was familiar in a world tipped upside down. She found comfort in it.

She gave a soft sigh of relief. He might be angry, but he hadn’t shut her out completely. When he’d taken off her jeans, sensuality had arced between them. That gave her a glimmer of hope.

She’d always been a fighter, and more than once Shane had said he admired that about her. Well, he’d never seen her fight like this before. She wanted Shane’s love back, and she’d do anything to get it.

The only problem was, she didn’t know where to start because the enemy was inside her own head….

She wasn’t the only one with memory problems.

Shane shoved the bottle of aspirin back on the shelf in the kitchen and slammed the cupboard door.

Pivoting, he strode into the living room, Hardhat on his heels.

What the hell was Shane thinking, allowing his gaze to caress her the way his hands once had, forgetting the way she’d callously turned and run from their vows and commitment?

Oh, it was easy to forget, when all he could do was remember the way they’d talk and laugh, the way he shared his darkest secrets with her, her responses, soft and sensual, daring and demanding…her scent, perfume and shampoo mingling with feminine temptation…the feel of her yielding to his desires….

Having her pressed against him transported him back five years to a time he’d believed in love, and more, had actually taken a leap and trusted her with his heart.

Of all people, he should have realized that integrity didn’t exist in the female species. His mother had proved that, and so had Delilah.

He’d decided never to get involved with a woman again. That resolve had lasted until he’d seen Angie at her aunt Emma’s coffee shop. Angie had served him more than a drink—she’d served him sunshine and warmth, all with a bright smile. And the concrete encasing his heart had started to chip away.

He’d thought she was different, and when she’d married him, he’d known she was different.

Two months later, he’d learned his lesson. No woman, not even Angie, had integrity.

Grabbing his coat, he shrugged into it. He’d left the pile of wood outside, and if instinct proved right, it would only be a matter of time before the storm prevented him from going outside at all.

He opened the door and icy wind lashed at him, viciously chewing on his earlobes.

Suited his mood fine.

Hardhat tucked his tail between his legs and slunk back to the hearth. The dog might be a traitor, but he wasn’t dumb.

Needing an outlet for the emotional energy churning in his gut, Shane battled his way to the woodpile, grabbed an armload of split pine and hauled it through the snow.

He opened his eyes wide in the driving wind, trying to vanquish the image of light brown hair and haunted blue eyes. It didn’t help. He couldn’t get rid of her, no matter how hard he tried.

Her arrival on his doorstep—a place not easy to find—brought dozens of questions to mind, mainly, why was she here? Was his home her destination? And if it was, why?

The Dear John letter she’d left behind stated she didn’t want him to seek her out, said she never wanted to see him again, swore she’d never loved him. Their marriage had been a mistake, their love a lie.

His gut twisted as he remembered the pain, the disbelief, the grief that paralyzed.

He still hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he’d traveled to Chicago to seek her out. There, her father had set him straight, saying that Angie had grown up, realized she’d made a mistake in marrying a poor boy and begged her father to come and get her, bailing her out of her mistake.

Shoving aside the intrusive thoughts, Shane struggled back through the front door. He was determined to find out what the hell she wanted with him, what havoc she intended to wreak, and get her back out of his life.

After stacking the first load of wood in the storage closet, he went back for a second, then third, ignoring the soft sounds drifting from the master bathroom.

She was supposed to be asleep. Then again, she’d never been great at following orders, especially his.

By the fourth trip, he’d exhausted himself battling the elements. With the door bolted against the raging fury, her soft sounds became more difficult to ignore.

Water ran. Obviously she was drinking from the same glass he’d used earlier this morning, an intimacy a wife would automatically take.

He swallowed.

She thought they were still married.

He dropped his outer clothes near the door and strode to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and stabbing the embers. Hardhat barked a protest as metal slammed against concrete.

Squatting, Shane reached for a log and tossed it on the grate. It promised to be a long day, even longer evening with his ex-wife tucked between his sheets.