Читать книгу A Husband To Remember - Lisa Jackson - Страница 8

“Here it is—home, sweet home.” Trent swung open the door of their hotel room and Nikki felt the cold hand of dread clamp over her heart. So she was here. Alone with her husband.

Swallowing hard, and still holding on to Trent’s arm for balance, Nikki carefully stepped over the threshold of the second-story room. It was furnished with a single queensize bed, a small round table with two chairs situated near the terrace and a single bureau. Matching night tables in an indiscriminate Mediterranean design were placed on either side of the bed.

“Come on. You’d better rest.”

“I’ve done nothing but rest for the past week,” she objected, though leaving the hospital, the bumpy cab ride and walking through the large hotel had been more difficult than she’d anticipated. Doctor Padillo had assured her that she would feel stronger with each passing day, and she certainly hoped so.

Trent hadn’t lied about the problems getting off the island. Never easy, now leaving Salvaje was nearly impossible with the major carrier to the island in a state of flux. “You haven’t found us another flight yet?” she asked, though she guessed from his silence in the cab that his attempts to fly home must have failed.

“I’ll work on it.”

A firm hand on her elbow, he guided her to one side of the bed, pulled down the covers and let her slide onto the clean sheets. She felt awkward and silly. If he were her husband, this was no big deal. If he weren’t...she couldn’t even imagine where being cooped up alone with him might lead.

“There’s a phone here. Good luck getting an overseas line. Everyone who’s stranded here is trying to call out.”

“Great,” she muttered, though she hadn’t expected better. He’d tried to help her make a call to her mother from the pay phone at the hospital. She propped the second pillow behind her head while she scanned the room. It was airy and clean, with a paddle fan mounted from the ceiling and bright floral bedspreads that matched the curtains. The closet door was half-open, and she spied her clothes—at least, she assumed they were hers—hanging neatly. A yellow sundress, khaki-colored jacket and white skirt were visible. She’d hoped seeing some of her things would jog her memory, but she was disappointed again. It seemed as if she’d never put together the simple pieces of her life.

As if reading her thoughts, Trent opened a bureau drawer and withdrew a cowhide purse.

In a flash, she remembered the leather bag. “I bought this in New Mexico,” she said as he handed her the handbag and she rubbed the smooth, tooled leather. “From Native Americans. I was on a trip...with...” As quickly as the door to her memory opened, it closed again and she was left with an empty feeling of incredible loss. “Oh, God, I can’t remember.”

“A man or a woman?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

“I don’t know.” She turned her face up to his, hoping he could fill in the holes, but he lifted a shoulder.

“I wasn’t there. Before my time.” He walked to the door, shut it and snapped on a switch that started the paddle fan over the bed moving in slow, lazy circles.

Nikki wasn’t going to be thwarted. The keys to her life were in her hands and she was determined to find out everything she could about her past. Leaning back against the headboard, she tossed back the purse’s flap and dumped the contents on her lap. Brush. Comb. Wallet. Tissues. Sunglasses. A paperback edition of a Spanish-English dictionary. A pair of silver earrings. Several pens. Address book. Passport. Small camera.

“All the clues to who I am,” she said sarcastically.

“Not quite. I think I’ve got a few more.” Reaching into the pocket of his jeans he withdrew a sealed plastic bag. Inside were a pair of gold hoop earrings, a matching bracelet and a slim gold band.

Her throat seemed to close upon itself, and she had to hold back a strangled cry at the sight of her wedding ring. Proof of her marriage. With trembling fingers she withdrew the tiny circle of metal and slipped it over her finger. “You bought me this?” she asked, her eyes seeking his.

“At a jewelry shop near Pioneer Square.”

She licked her lips and stared at her hands. The ring was obviously a size too large.

“You wanted to keep it for the honeymoon, and we planned to have it sized back in the States.”

“Is that right?” she said under her breath. Why couldn’t she remember standing before a justice of the peace, her heart beating crazily, her smile wide and happy as the love of her life slipped this smooth ring over her finger. Because it didn’t happen!

“I don’t remem—”

“You will,” he told her, his gaze steady as he stared down at her.

She shook her head, mesmerized as she scrutinized the ring. Her head began to throb again. “I should remember this, Trent,” she said, her frustration mounting. “A wedding. No matter how simple. It’s not something anyone forgets.”

“Give it time.”

Give it time. Don’t rush things. It will all come back to you. But when? She felt as if she were going crazy and her patience snapped. “I’m sick of giving it time! Damn it, Trent, I want to remember. And not bits and pieces. I want the rest of my life back, and I want it back now!”

“I’d give it to you if I could.” Plowing his hands through his hair in frustration, he spied her wallet. “Here.” He tossed it into her hands. “Maybe this will help.”

“Maybe,” she said, though she didn’t believe it for a minute. Sending up a silent prayer, she opened the fat leather case and sifted through her credit cards and pieces of ID. Nothing seemed to pierce through the armor of her past, and she was about to give up in futility when she saw the first picture.

“Dad,” she whispered, her heart turning over as she recognized a photograph of a distinguished-looking man with a steel-gray mustache and jowly chin. For a second she remembered him in a velvet red suit and long white beard, tiny glasses perched on the end of his nose, as he dressed up as Santa Claus each year for his company party.... The memory faded and she tried vainly to call it up again.

“Hey...take it easy.” Suddenly Trent sat on the edge of the bed, his warm hand on her forehead. “It’ll come.”

If only she could believe it. “So everyone says. Everyone who can remember who they are.”

“It’s been less than a week since you woke from the coma.”

His harsh features seemed incredibly kind, and she felt hot tears fill her throat. She fought the urge to break down and cry because she couldn’t trust him—even his kindness might be an act. There were other pictures in her wallet, some old and faded, none that she recognized, until she saw the family portrait, taken years ago, before her parents had split up. Her father still had black hair back then; her mother, a thin woman with a thrusting jaw, was a blonde. Her older sisters—why couldn’t she remember their names?—looked about fourteen and twelve, and Nikki was no more than eight, her teeth much too large for her mouth.

“Janet,” Trent said, pointing to the oldest girl with the dark hair. “Carole.” The middle sister with braces. “Your mom’s name is Eloise. She and your dad—”

“Were divorced. I know,” she said, saddened that she couldn’t recall her mother’s voice or smile, couldn’t even remember a fight with her sisters. Had they shared a room? Had they ever been close? Why, even staring at pictures of her family, did she feel so incredibly alone? If only she could sew together the patchwork of her life, bring back those odd-shaped pieces of her memory.

“Look, why don’t you try calling your dad?” Trent suggested, though his eyes still held a wary spark. “He’s still in Seattle and you always have been pretty close to him. Maybe hearing his voice will help.” He snapped up the address book, opened it to the C’s and scanned the page. “It’s still early in Seattle, so you might catch him at home.”

He picked up the receiver and started dialing before she could protest.

“Have you talked with him?” she asked.

“No.”

“You didn’t call and tell him about the accident?”

“I figured he’d take the news better from you. I’ve never met him. As far as I know, he doesn’t even know we’re married, and since your life wasn’t in danger, I didn’t see a reason to worry him.”

“And my mother—”

He held up a hand. “¿La telefonista? Quiero llamar Seattle en los Estados Unidos. Comuníqueme, por favor, con el número de Ted Carrothers...” He rattled off her father’s number in Spanish, answered a few more questions, then, frowning slightly, handed her the receiver.

Nikki’s heart was thudding, her fingers sweaty around the phone. “Come on, Dad,” she whispered as the phone began to ring on the continent far away. She was about to give up when a groggy male voice answered.

“Carrothers here.”

“Dad?” Nikki said, her voice husky. Tears pressed hot behind her eyelids, and relief flooded through her. She felt like she might break down and sob.

“Hey, Nik, I wondered if I’d hear from you.”

“Oh, Dad.” She couldn’t keep her voice from cracking.

“Is something wrong, honey?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she assured him, shooting Trent a grateful glance. “But I did have an accident....” She told him everything she could remember or had been told of her trip, leaving out her amnesia so that her father wouldn’t worry. As she talked, bringing up the fact that Trent McKenzie had been the man who had rescued her, she let her gaze follow Trent, who, whether to give her some privacy or to get some air, left her and walked onto the veranda. The wind had kicked up, lifting his dark hair from his face and billowing his jacket away from his lean body.

“Nikki! You could have been killed!” her father exclaimed, all sounds of sleep gone from his voice.

“But I wasn’t.”

“Thank God. I knew going to Salvaje was a bad idea. I tried to warn you not to go.”

“You did?”

“Don’t you remember? I thought that was why you hadn’t called, because you were still angry with me for trying to talk you out of the trip.”

Now wasn’t the time to mention her loss of memory. “Well, things worked out. And I got married to Trent.”

“You what?” He swore under his breath. “But I’ve never heard you mention him. Nikki, is this some kind of joke? You could give me a heart attack—”

“It’s no joke, Dad. I’m really married.” At least, that’s what everyone tells me. She heard his swift intake of breath. “It...it was a quick decision,” she said, giving him the same spotty information she’d gleaned from Trent.

“To a guy named Trent McKenzie. A man I’ve never even heard of?” Here it comes—the lecture, she thought. “Holy Mary! I can’t believe it. What about Dave?”

“Dave?” A lock clicked open her mind.

“Dave Neumann. You know, the man you’ve been dating for about three years. I know you two had a spat and that you said it was over, but hell, Nikki, that was barely six months ago. Now you’ve gone and eloped with this...this stranger?” Anger, disapproval and astonishment radiated over the phone. “I know you’ve always been impulsive, but I gotta tell you, this takes the cake!”

“You’ll meet him as soon as we get home,” Nikki assured her father, though her stomach was tying itself into painful little knots.

“I’d damned well better. You know, Nikki, for the first eighteen years of your life I got you out of scrape after scrape—either with the law or school or your friends or whatever—but ever since you turned into an adult, you’ve been on this independence kick and nothing I tell you seems to sink in. I warned you not to go to Salvaje, didn’t I? I knew that it would be trouble. Maybe if you’d told me you were going on your honeymoon, or at the very least confided that you’d found a man you were going to marry, things would have turned out differently and you wouldn’t have ended up in some run-down, two-bit hospital!”

She felt her back stiffen involuntarily. “How would your knowing change anything?”

“Hell, I don’t know. But you’ve gotten so damned bullheaded and secretive! Lord, why would you try to hide the fact that you were getting married, unless you were ashamed of the guy?”

“It...it just seemed more romantic,” she said, trying to come up with a plausible excuse.

“Romantic, my eye. Since when have you, the investigative reporter, the champion of the underdog, the girl who fought every damned liberal crusade, been romantic? Don’t tell me he’s one of those long-haired left-wing idiots who chains himself to nuclear reactors or sets spikes in old-growth timber to keep loggers from cutting the stuff.”

“I don’t think so, Dad,” Nikki said, smiling to herself as she watched Trent lean against the railing, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his jacket. She couldn’t imagine him in a protest march.

“Good.” He sounded a little less wounded, as if the news had finally sunk in. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t bring up his name or have the guts to introduce me to him.”

“It’s...it’s complicated. I’ll explain everything when I get back.”

There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line, then a quiet swearword muttered under her father’s breath. “There isn’t something more I should know, is there?”

She felt sweat collect between her shoulder blades.

“I mean, if there was a...problem...you’d come to me, wouldn’t you?”

She bit down on her lip. What was he saying?

“If you’re in any kind of trouble...”

Oh, Dad, if you only knew.

“These days you don’t have to get married. There are all sorts of options....” His voice trailed off, and she realized what he was implying.

“I’m not pregnant, Dad.”

A sigh of relief escaped him. “Well, I guess we can thank God for small favors.”

“I’ll call when I get home.”

“You’d better. Now, wait a minute. Let me get my calendar. Where is the damned thing?” he asked himself, his voice suddenly muffled. “Okay, here we go. So when will you be back home? I’m supposed to take off for Tokyo next week.”

“We’ll be back as soon as we can catch a flight. There’s a problem with the airline we flew on.”

“I read about it. But there are other flights. Try and make it home before I leave.”

“I will,” she promised. They talked a few minutes more and she finally hung up feeling more desperate than ever. She had wanted to confide in her father, tell him that she wasn’t sure of her past, couldn’t remember the man who’d become her self-appointed guardian—her husband for God’s sake—and yet she’d held her tongue. She was an adult now and responsible for herself, and she realized that the animosity she’d felt over the phone only scratched the surface of the rifts in her family.

Slowly, she pushed herself up from the bed and made her way to the veranda. The breeze, warm and smelling of the sea, lifted her hair and brushed against her bruised face. Thick vines crawled up the whitewashed walls of the hotel and fragrant blossoms moved with the wind. Poised on a hillside, the hotel offered a commanding view of the island. From the veranda, Nikki looked over red roofs and lush foliage toward the bay. Fishing vessels and pleasure craft dotted the horizon, and as she cast a glance northward, she saw the sharp cliffs rising from the ocean, the rugged terrain that wound upward to the highest point on Salvaje and the crumbling white walls of the mission tower.

Her heart seemed to stop for a minute and her teeth dug into her lower lip. Fear, like a black, faceless monster, curled her soul in its clawlike grasp, and suddenly she could barely breathe. She held on to the rail in a death grip and her knees threatened to buckle.

Trent had slid a pair of aviator glasses over his eyes and his expression was guarded. “Memory flash?” he asked, his jaw tense.

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Your father shake you up?”

She snorted and blinked against a sudden wash of tears. “A little. He’s not too keen on the fact that he didn’t meet you.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I wonder,” she said. Leaning forward on her elbows, she ignored the cliffs and forced her gaze to the sea, where sunlight glittered against the smooth waves.

“Look. I know you don’t remember me or trust me. That’s all right. I can be incredibly patient when I have to be.” That much she believed. Like a tiger stalking prey, Trent McKenzie knew when to wait and when to strike. That particular thought wasn’t the least bit comforting. His lips grew into a deep line. “But I want you to know that I’ll keep you safe.”

She wanted to believe him. Oh, God, if only she could trust him, but she remembered the girl in the hospital, Mrs. Martínez’s friend, and once again she doubted him. Her gaze flew to his and she trembled slightly. “I think I was the kind of person who took care of herself.”

A cynical smile slashed his jaw. “Then I’ll help.”

Her heart cracked a little, and she noticed the handsome lines of his face disguised by the scruffy beard and dark glasses. It would be too easy to fall for him, to trust him because she didn’t have much of a choice. But she was still her own woman, and though she’d grown to depend on him, she had to trust her own instincts, make up her own mind. “My father mentioned that I was going to Salvaje. I’d told him. But I hadn’t mentioned you.”

“Your choice.”

“Why wouldn’t I tell him?”

“Because you were afraid he might try and talk you out of it,” Trent said simply, turning his face to the horizon again. “You and your dad don’t always get along, Nikki, and he didn’t like you taking off to some small island so far from what he considers civilization.”

“So I snuck behind his back?” she asked, disbelieving.

“You just didn’t mention me.”

“Why not?”

He snorted and his eyes turned frigid as he assessed her. “Because you were afraid he wouldn’t approve of me.” He leaned an insolent hip against the rail and crossed his arms over his chest. “From what little I know of your old man, you were probably right. Ted Carrothers would probably hate me on sight.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he had someone else picked out for you.”

“Dave,” she said, without thinking.

“That’s right.” The corners of his mouth pinched in irritation and he shoved his sleeves over his elbows. “Remember him?” She shook her head, and he grinned that wicked smile. “Well, he was a real Joe College type. Big, blond, shoes always polished. Went to Washington State on a football scholarship and graduated at the top of his class. Ended up going to law school and joined a firm that specializes in corporate taxes. Drives a BMW and works out at the most prestigious athletic club in the city.”

“This was a guy I dated?”

“The guy you planned to marry,” he corrected.

“You know him?”

“I know of him.”

Was it her imagination or did he flinch a little?

“How?”

“I checked him out,” he said with more than a trace of irritation.

“When?”

“Before we left Seattle.”

She wanted to argue with him, but there was something in his cocksure manner that convinced her he had his facts straight, that she had, indeed, been the fiancée of the man he described. “I assume you know why we broke up?”

He lifted a shoulder. “He was too conventional for you. Your dad loved him. Even your mother thought he was a great catch, but he wanted you to give up your career and concentrate on his. You weren’t ready for that.”

“Thank God,” she whispered, then, realizing how that sounded, quickly shut her mouth. But it was too late. Trent’s eyes gleamed devilishly, and Nikki was left with the distinct impression that he’d been conning her.

She plucked a purple bloom from the bougainvillea and twirled the blossom in her fingers. Could she trust Trent? Probably not. Was he lying to her? No doubt. But what choice did she have?

He slapped the peeling wrought iron as if he’d finally made an important decision. “I’ve got to go out for a while. Check things at the airport. You want to come?”

She shook her head. “I’d like to clean up, I think.”

“Just keep the door locked behind me.”

“Afraid I might run off?” she asked, unable to hide the sarcasm in her words.

He glanced at her still-swollen ankle. “Run off? No. But hobble off—well, maybe. Though even at that I don’t think you’d get far. Besides, there’s really nowhere to run on this island.”

Her temperature dropped several degrees at the realization that she was trapped. Her mouth suddenly turned to dust.

Trent cocked his head toward the French doors. “Come on, I’ll help you into the bathroom.”

“I can manage,” she said stiffly, and to prove her point, she stepped unevenly off the veranda, walked into the bathroom and locked the door firmly behind her. Wasting no time, she turned on the taps of the tub and began stripping. As steam began to rise from the warm water, she glanced in the mirror, scowled at her reflection and noticed the greenish tinge to the bruises on her rump and back. The scabs were working themselves off, but beneath her skin, blood had pooled at the bottom of her foot and ankle. “Miss America you’re not, Carrothers,” she told herself, then stopped when she realized her name was now Mc-Kenzie.

“Nikki McKenzie. Nicole McKenzie. Nicole Louise Carrothers McKenzie.” The name just didn’t roll easily off her tongue. She settled into the tub and let the warm water soothe her aching muscles. As best she could, she washed her hair and body, then let the water turn tepid before she climbed out of the tub and rubbed a towel carefully over her skin and hair.

Wrapping the thick terry cloth around her torso, she walked into the bedroom, but stopped short when she found Trent lying on his side of the bed, boots kicked off, ankles crossed, eyes trained on the door.

His eyelids were at half-mast and his gaze was more than interested as it climbed from her feet, past her knees, up her front and finally rested on her face.

“I—I thought you’d left,” she sputtered, clasping the towel as tightly as if she were a virgin with a stranger.

“I decided to wait.”

“Why?”

“It didn’t make sense to leave you alone in the bathroom where you could slip and hit your head, or worse.”

“I’m not an invalid!”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“And I don’t need a keeper.”

He let that one slide. “I just wanted to be handy in case you got into any trouble.”

“The only trouble I’ve gotten into is you,” she said, willing her feet to propel her toward the bureau where she snatched clean panties, bra, shorts and T-shirt from one of the drawers. It crossed her mind that he’d unpacked her clothes, touched her most intimate pieces of apparel, but she ignored the stain of embarrassment that crawled steadily up her neck. After all, if she could believe him, they’d been intimate—made love eagerly. So who cared about the damned underwear?

She started for the bathroom. “Don’t leave on my account,” he remarked, and when she turned to face him, her wet hair whipping across her face, she saw a glimmer of amusement in his cobalt eyes, as if he enjoyed her discomfiture.

“You mean I should just let the towel fall and dress at my leisure?”

“Great idea.” He stacked his hands behind his head and watched her. Waiting. Like a lion waits patiently for the gazelle to ignore the warning in the air and begin grazing peacefully again.

Just to wipe the smirk off his face she wanted to let go of the damned towel, stand in front of him stark naked and call his bluff. Would he continue to tease her, playing word games, or would he avert his eyes, or, worse yet, would he, as he’d implied earlier, be unable to control himself and sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed? How would she respond? With heart-melting passion? Oh, for crying out loud!

She turned on her heel and with as much pride as her injuries would allow, marched rigidly into the bathroom.

“Don’t forget the antiseptic cream,” he ordered as she slammed the door shut. Wrinkling her nose, she mimicked him in the mirror, trying to look beyond her skinned face and scabs. Some of the smaller scrapes were beginning to heal and her eye wasn’t as discolored as it had been. “And stay inside,” he ordered from the other side of the door. “The doctor warned you about getting too much sun.”

“Yes, master,” she muttered under her breath. Her teeth ground together as she thought of him barking orders at her. It seemed as if all her life someone was continually ordering her around. Her parents, her older sisters, her teachers, her editor at the paper, and now Trent.... She froze, her heart hammering wildly. She remembered! Nothing solid, but teasing bits of memory that were jagged and rough had pierced the clouds in her mind. Little pieces of her personality seemed to be shaping. Suddenly she was certain that she’d always been stubborn, resented being the smallest sister, the youngest woman on the staff of the Observer!

She’d also resented the fact that her work had been looked upon with a wary eye, just because she was young and sometimes because she was a woman. She’d had pride in her work, a great passion for journalism and an incredible frustration at not being taken seriously.

She wanted to share the news with Trent, to tell him that it was truly happening, her memory was coming back, but she held her tongue. She still didn’t remember anything about him, about her trip to Salvaje, about the reasons she married him.

And what if she suddenly remembered that it had been he who had been chasing her, he who had pushed her over the cliff? She couldn’t really believe that he’d want to hurt her, as he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so since the accident, but there was something deep in her unconscious mind, something dark and demonlike and frightening, that warned her to tread softly with this man. If he were dangerous and her memory was the key to uncovering his deception, he might turn violent.

A shudder of fear ripped through her. Take it slow, Nikki, she told herself. You can’t trust him. Not yet. Until she had something more concrete, she’d keep her small discovery—that her memory was beginning to surface—to herself.

By the time she’d dressed, dried her hair and applied some salve to her face, he was gone, and she was grateful to be alone.

With the aid of her dictionary, she dialed room service and managed to order a pitcher of iced tea. She found some bills in her wallet and gave the waiter a healthy tip before locking the door behind him.

On the terrace, she poured herself some tea and looked through the pictures in her wallet again. There was one she’d missed earlier—a snapshot taken in the wilderness. A rushing river and steep mountains were the backdrop and two people were embracing before the camera. She recognized the woman as herself, but the man—blond and strapping with even features—wasn’t Trent. Dave, she mouthed, though she felt no trace of emotion as she touched his photograph with the tip of her finger. No love. No hate. No anger. As if he’d been erased from her mind and heart forever.

“What a mess,” she said, but decided not to dwell on her misfortune. She’d been feeling sorry for herself for nearly a week, but it was time to take charge of her life. She wasn’t laid up any longer. She could walk, though admittedly she wouldn’t win any races just yet, but she didn’t have to depend upon Trent or a bevy of doctors to take care of her. She was a grown woman, and, if everyone were to be believed, a strong-willed and independent person who could handle her own life. An investigative journalist, for crying out loud.

She should be able to figure out if Trent was who he claimed to be. She watched the lemon dance between the ice cubes in her glass and decided that it was time to find out if Trent was her husband or an impostor.