Читать книгу Wife To A Stranger - Daphne Clair - Страница 8

HIS lips touched hers, sure and firm but not demanding, lingering only moments before he moved away. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you inside.’

A smart little hatchback runabout occupied the other space in the garage. Rolfe said. ‘That’s yours. You probably shouldn’t drive for a few days, though.’ He took both bags from the car and put a hand on her waist to lead her to the house. Inside, she stood in a wide, terracotta-tiled hallway and looked about. ‘How long have we lived here?’

‘Two years,’ Rolfe said matter-of-factly. ‘Since we were married.’

She swallowed a dismaying desire to turn and flee. She’d been married to this man for two years, yet she knew nothing about him. Except that he was doing his best to cope with a situation that must be as difficult for him as it was for her. ‘I…’ She gazed around again, helplessly. ‘It’s not…familiar.’ The disappointment was sickening. She’d been sure that once she was home everything would fall into place. But this didn’t feel like home.

Rolfe touched her arm. ‘I’ll show you…the bedroom. Maybe you’d like to rest for a while.’

‘I am tired,’ she admitted. ‘Although I seem to have slept a lot today.’ Her skin felt stretched, her eyes heavy.

He ushered her into a spacious room overlooking the sea. The carpet was deep turquoise, the furniture white with touches of gold, the sumptuous cover on the double bed patterned in several shades of blue and green.

Most of the wall facing the ocean was tinted glass. Sliding doors opened onto a broad tiled terrace under the roof of the house, and a huge sloping archway outside the room framed the sea.

‘It’s a glorious view,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ He had put down the plastic bag that she thought of as holding all her worldly possessions. ‘Can I get you a drink or something? Make you a coffee?’

‘No, thanks. I think I’ll lie down for a while.’

‘Sure.’ He paused. Evidently sensing her nervous tension, he touched her cheek with his hand, the thumb rubbing gently over her skin, waking a tiny tremor of sensuous response deep within her. ‘It’ll be all right, Capri,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing here to frighten you.’ He dropped his hand. ‘Have a good rest. I’ll be around if you need anything. Just yell.’

‘Thank you.’ She watched him leave, still carrying his bag. He closed the door and she stood feeling lost. Hesitantly she approached the long dressing-table against one wall, touched a rather ornate gold-decorated hand-mirror lying on the white surface, and lifted a cutglass perfume bottle, removing the stopper to sniff it. It was the same scent as the one Rolfe had bought her before they left Australia. Spicy, faintly earthy—a very sexy perfume. ‘Your favourite,’ he’d said.

Turning, she opened a door and found a walk-in wardrobe filled with clothes. She touched some of the garments, moved them along on their hangers. They were all her size, colours that suited her. Most of them looked expensive. Easily thirty pairs of shoes sat neatly in pairs along the floor. It seemed an awful lot.

Fingering a peacock-blue silk dress, she frowned. Rolfe was presumably quite well-off. He had a thriving business, and this house in its exclusive coastal enclave was certainly not cheap real estate.

Perhaps she had come from more modest circumstances? Where had they met? She must ask him later.

Nothing here had triggered her elusive memory, and her shoulders drooped as she left the wardrobe and opened another door into a white and turquoise bathroom.

Here too the floor was carpeted. There was a roomy glass-fronted shower, a marble bathtub almost big enough for two, and all the taps were large and goldplated.

Seeing another door on the opposite side of the bathroom, she tapped on the panels and opened it on a bedroom identical to the one she’d come from, right down to the bedspread, on which Rolfe’s overnight bag sat.

She closed the door quickly, her emotions a mixture of shame and relief. Was he going to sleep there?

Rolfe was her husband and she’d been away for two months. Instinctively she knew that he was a man who appreciated sex—his virility was so much a part of his personality she couldn’t be unaware of it The way he looked at her and touched her made her conscious of her femininity, and even that brief welcome-home kiss in the garage had held a hint of sexuality, of passion.

But although she’d reacted blindly to his masculine attraction since she’d woken to see him waiting for her return to consciousness, what she had told him in the hospital was the truth. So far as she was concerned he might have been a total stranger. And she wasn’t a woman who would—or could—make love with a man she scarcely knew.

How could she know that with such certainty? she wondered, stripping the cover from the bed in the room that was evidently to be hers.

Moving slowly, she removed her shoes and lay down, glad to have her head rest on cool, clean linen. She supposed that although her mind for some reason refused to remember events, places or people, deep down she was still the same Capri she’d always been. Personality remained, even when memory was absent. Her essential self hadn’t altered. It was a comforting thought.

She woke to gathering darkness, the room dimmed and the sea outside grey and sleek with gold highlights.

Momentarily disoriented, she sat up and pushed back her hair. The room, the view were alien to her. Remnants of a dream clung. Familiar voices, a house with tall pale trees around it…

Then she remembered the hospital, Rolfe, the journey home, and the wardrobe full of expensive clothing.

She swung her feet to the thick carpeting and crossed to the dressing-table.

There were three drawers along the top, all holding a variety of makeup and grooming products—bottles, jars, mascara wands. She found a comb and closed the drawer, deciding she needed a shower.

In the bathroom a brass shelf held a stack of thick, clean towels above a heated rail. She hung her clothes from a brass hook and stepped into the shower.

Recessed shelves held scented soap and bottles of shampoo and matching conditioners. The water was hot and forceful. She let it run over her for several minutes, shampooed her hair, and closed her eyes to allow the spray to rinse out the foam.

A sound made her turn her head, and through the steam she saw Rolfe standing in the doorway from her bedroom.

Her immediate reaction was to raise one hand across her breasts and lower the other in the Venus pose.

‘Are you all right?’ Rolfe demanded.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

He nodded and withdrew, closing the door.

Stupid, stupid, she chided herself, turning off the water. She grabbed a towel and rubbed at her hair, then quickly took another, dried her body and wrapped the towel about it, tucking the ends firmly under her arms.

When she entered the bedroom Rolfe was standing at the window, reminding her of the first time she had seen him.

No, not the first time, she corrected herself. The first time she remembered seeing him…

He glanced over his shoulder at her, and then reached to draw the curtains across the window. ‘People walk along the beach.’ He turned to face her. ‘Now and then one of them will climb the bank. You don’t want to entertain peeping Toms.’ The room seemed smaller now, more intimate. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’ His slight smile was crooked. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t think…and I was a bit worried. You’re only just out of hospital—’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It was…silly of me to be so—’

‘Shy?’ he suggested as she groped for the right word. ‘It certainly didn’t seem like you, Capri.’ His gaze slid over her, making her conscious of her nakedness under the towel.

She felt her body flush. ‘I…suppose I’d got over any shyness with you, after being married for two years.’

‘Oh, I think quite a while before that.’

‘Does that mean we…?’ She paused. ‘I mean, were we…lovers for a long time before we got married?’

‘Several months.’ His eyes glittered and narrowed, as if her thoughtless query had evoked some erotic memory. ‘You’d better get dressed. You’ll be cold.’

It wasn’t in the least cold—the house was surprisingly warm—but she turned to the wardrobe she’d discovered earlier, then hesitated. ‘What should I wear? Are we…do you have any plans for this evening?’

‘Don’t tempt me.’ Again that disconcerting flare of sexual awareness lit Rolfe’s eyes, and she put a hand on the edge of the towel that covered her breasts, nervously checking it was secure.

His voice changed and became crisp. ‘Wear whatever you’re comfortable in. I assumed you wouldn’t feel like eating out tonight, so I got a few supplies in while you were asleep.’

If he knew she’d slept, then he’d looked in on her before. How long had he watched her while she was oblivious?

Mentally she shook herself. He’d been concerned. ‘Do you want me to cook?’ she asked him.

‘Good lord, no! I can rustle up some kind of meal.’

She couldn’t stand around wearing nothing but a towel. Turning to the walk-in wardrobe again, she murmured, ‘Excuse me,’ went in and half shut the door.

When she had dressed and come out again Rolfe had gone. About to close the door of the wardrobe, she paused, surveying herself in the mirror on the back of it. The loose cream silk shirt and dark green trousers suited her colouring and they fitted perfectly. Yet she felt as though she was wearing someone else’s clothes.

Her hair was still damp. She went into the bathroom and hunted in the drawers under the vanity unit, coming up with, as she’d half expected, a hand-dryer. There was a safety plug near the basin, and in ten minutes her hair was dry—silky soft and bouncy with the underlying wave that had always created problems.

Always? For a moment memory seemed almost within her grasp. And then there was nothing.

She brushed the style into shape, then padded back to the wardrobe and, after a brief indecision, slipped her feet into bronze pumps, one of the few pairs of shoes that didn’t have high heels. Then she opened the door and ventured into the turquoise-carpeted passageway.

The aroma of frying meat led her to the kitchen, a spacious room that gleamed with stainless steel and whiteware. Rolfe turned from the stove top set into one of the wide counters. He smiled, his eyes studying her thoroughly and making her skin prickle, not unpleasantly.

‘Can I do anything?’ she asked.

‘Finish off the salad if you like.’ He indicated a glass bowl half filled with lettuce leaves. ‘You’ll find tomatoes and cucumber in the fridge.’ Turning back to the stove top, he took a pair of stainless-steel tongs from a wall rack to flip the chops over.

Looking about, she found the refrigerator, first opening the door of the matching freezer by mistake.

She placed the vegetables on the bench and rummaged in a drawer for a few seconds before Rolfe looked around and asked, ‘What do you want?’

‘A knife?’

He directed her to the wooden block by the refrigerator where she found several knives of different sizes. By the time she’d finished the salad, Rolfe was turning down the heat under the chops. A beeping noise made her look at the microwave oven at one end of the workbench.

‘Can you turn those spuds?’ Rolfe asked her.

She opened the door and dealt with the two potatoes in their jackets, then restarted the machine.

When she turned away again Rolfe was watching her with a curious stare.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘You seem to be familiar with the microwave.’

She hadn’t thought about it. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, momentarily pleased. Perhaps if she just let things happen without thinking too much, skills and memories would return to her. ‘I must have used it before.’

‘Frequently.’ He gave her a slightly taut grin. ‘As soon as the potatoes are done we can eat.’

Rolfe carried their plates to an adjoining dining room while she brought along the cutlery they needed. He’d already flung a cloth over the small table that fitted into a half-circle of windows. A longer table flanked by highbacked chairs occupied most of the remaining floor space.

The curtains were open, and moths and insects flung themselves against the dark glass. A particularly loud thump made Capri glance up from cutting into her baked potato, and she gasped at the huge brown winged beetle, long feelers waving madly, trying to gain access through the window.

‘It’s only a huhu.’ Rolfe got up to jerk the curtains closed over the window, then sat down again.

The beetle hurled itself twice more at the window, and then apparently gave up and flew away. Relieved, she said, ‘The insects here are pretty rampant.’

‘Only at night. How’s your chop?’

‘Fine. You’re a good cook.’

‘I have a few basic skills.’

‘I’ll do the cooking tomorrow.’

He looked up, a fork poised in his hand, then nodded. ‘If you feel up to it.’

She helped him clear the table, and watched as he placed the dishes in a machine. ‘It hardly seems worth it,’ she commented, ‘for just a few dishes.’

He straightened, closing the lid, and his brows lifted slightly. ‘You’ve always had a firm belief that laboursaving devices are there to be used.’

‘Well…I suppose…’ She shrugged. There was some sense in that.

For a moment she had a weird sensation of being lost in a dark, unknown place, blindly groping for something to cling to.

‘Capri?’ Rolfe’s hand was on her shoulder, his eyes probing hers. ‘What is it?’

‘I just…I don’t know. For a minute I…didn’t know where I was.’

He grasped both her shoulders, but not hard. ‘You’re home, Capri,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’

Something snapped. ‘It’s not all right!’ she retorted sharply. ‘I feel like an intruder in my own bedroom, my own wardrobe, I don’t know my way around, and I can’t even remember where the damned knives are kept!’

He gave a small, not unsympathetic laugh, but in her oversensitive state even that stung.

Her voice notched a note higher. ‘It’s not a joke! And how do I know you’re really my husband? I’ve no recollection of being married to you!’

And that, she realised, remembering the wedding photograph in her bag, was a pretty stupid thing to say.

The smile had disappeared from Rolfe’s mouth. ‘Believe me, I don’t think it’s at all funny, Capri. But I am your husband, and you’re my wife!’

The air had thickened between them, and everything seemed to go still. She was overwhelmingly conscious of his strength, his nearness, his masculinity, and her breath caught in her throat, a tiny pulse hammering at its base.

He drew in a breath too, and she remembered that moment in the hospital when he’d seemed to be affected by the scent of her, and she’d seen his nostrils dilate and his eyes darken as they did now.

His hands slipped from her shoulders to the bare skin of her arms. His expression went taut and purposeful. ‘Maybe this will help,’ he said, and pulled her closer, his arms sliding about her as her head involuntarily tipped back, and then he caught her mouth under the warm impact of his.

The kiss was intimate and insistent, the warmth and hardness of his body pressing against hers, unfamiliar and a little frightening, even though her blood sang and her lips involuntarily parted under his persuasion. His hold was firm but deliberately gentle, as if he had remembered that her bruises were still tender.

Now her head was cradled against his arm, and his mouth demanded a response that she gave at first tentatively and then with increasing passion, until he shifted their positions and manoeuvred her up against the workbench, and with his strong hands under her arms lifted her and sat her on the counter, his mouth freeing hers and his hands going to the buttons of her blouse.

But the mindless spell had broken. ‘No!’ Her fingers closed frantically over his, stopping him.

‘No?’ His voice was hoarse, and he spread his hands under the feeble constraint of hers, big palms cupping her breasts through the flimsy fabric. Then his expression tightened. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘You didn’t hurt me, but—don’t, Rolfe! I’m not ready for this.’

‘Damn it, Capri—’

She gripped his wrists, her cheeks hot and her body trembling. ‘Please—’

His hands moved to her face, his eyes subjecting her to a hard, furious inspection. ‘Are you saying you don’t want me?’

‘I’m saying I don’t want…this.’ She still held his wrists. ‘I know you have every right, but—’

‘Right?’ He dropped his hands then and stepped back. ‘The time is long past when a man could claim his right to his wife’s body, Capri. Do you think I’d force my way into your bed?’

‘No! No, I don’t think that.’ Her hands clenched on the counter on either side of her. ‘But…please try to understand. I’m not…comfortable about going to bed with someone I…feel I hardly know.’

Rolfe gave a short, disbelieving laugh. ‘Really?’ It was obvious she’d thrown him off balance, his rigid control cracking. His eyes were hard and brilliant as onyx. ‘It didn’t stop you before!’