Читать книгу A Husband To Remember - Lisa Jackson - Страница 7

Voices, distant and jumbled, echoing from somewhere in the darkness, somewhere just out of reach, beckoned to her.

“You wake up now,” a woman said in thickly accented English. “Dios, it’s time for you to stop this sleeping. Señora, can you hear me?”

She tried to respond but couldn’t, though the voice had become familiar and kind, one of the voices that ebbed and flowed on the tide of her consciousness. She’d heard many voices often in the darkness and knew that they were friendly. They were voices she could count on, voices that would help—unlike the voices in her dreams, the voices that caused her to scream in silent horror as she replayed the chase through the jungle over and over.

If only she could open her eyes.

“Señora—can you hear me? ¿Señora?” The nurse was trying to talk to her again. “Your husband...he is here. Waiting for you to wake up.”

Husband. But I don’t have a husband...

She swallowed. Lord, was that sand in her throat? And the taste in her mouth—horrid and bitter. Metallic. Her stomach burned and her eyelids peeled back for an instant. Light streamed through the swollen slits, causing an explosion of pain in her brain. In an instant, she saw a huge woman leaning over her—a woman in white, with large breasts, worried expression, dark skin and black hair pulled into a tight bun covered with a stiff white nurse’s cap.

Intelligent brown eyes stared into hers, and the nurse began speaking in rapid-fire Spanish that she couldn’t begin to understand. Where was she? A hospital, she guessed, but where?

She couldn’t focus, couldn’t read the name on the pin clipped to the nurse’s huge bosom. “The doctor, he is on his way, and your husband, we have told him you are waking up.”

I’m not married, she tried to say, but the words wouldn’t form, and another wave of blackness engulfed her.

“Oh, no...she is sinking again...” More Spanish as the nurse barked orders.

The darkness was peaceful and calm and cool.

“We are losing her again!” the big nurse’s voice called from the darkness. “¡Señora! ¡Señora! You wake up. You just wake up again!” She felt strong fingers around her wrist, moving quickly, trying to edge her back to consciousness, but the sinking had begun and she floated steadily downward to the black void, grateful for the relief it brought.

“Nikki!” A man’s voice called to her, but it was too late.

Nikki?

“Your wife, she will wake up soon,” the nurse said.

I’m no one’s wife. I’m... Panic seized her as she searched for a name, a memory, anything she could recall. But there was nothing.

“Nikki, please. Wake up.” The husband again. Husband? Her eyes fluttered for a second and she focused on a hard face, a very male face. Severe, bladed features, thick brows and stormy blue eyes pierced through the fog in her mind. His lips were thin and sensual, his nose a little crooked, and she was certain that she’d never seen him before in her life.

“Nikki, come on. Wake up...”

But the darkness washed over her again, pulling her into its safe, silent vortex, to a place where she didn’t have to wonder about her past and she didn’t have to think why this man, this stranger, was claiming to be her husband.

* * *

The fragrance of carnations and roses drifted through the ever-present odor of antiseptic, and she heard music, a soft Spanish ballad interrupted by occasional bouts of static as the melody drifted through her sleep, dragging her awake. She tried to stretch, but her muscles rebelled and she felt as if she’d been lying in one spot forever. She ached all over and her head—Lord, her head—pounded with an intensity that brought tears to her eyes.

Slowly lifting a painful eyelid, she stared at a ceiling of white plaster. The lights were dim, but waning daylight streamed through a single window and kept the room from total darkness. She blinked and swept her gaze around the room—a hospital room, from the looks of it, with white stucco walls, tile floor and two single beds, one bare of bedding and unoccupied.

She felt, rather than saw, the man. Turning her head slightly and sucking in air against the pain, she faced a stranger who was slouched in the single chair. Unshaven, shirt wrinkled and rolled at the sleeves, jean-clad legs stretched in front of him, he was tall and swarthy, his features set and grim, his lips clamped shut in a harsh, thin line. His gaze was trained past her to the hallway door, and the sound of the music accompanied muted voices and the rattle of a cart being pushed through the corridor.

A tingle of foreboding touched all her nerve endings when she looked at him. There had to be a reason he was here—but what? And who was he? Mean-looking, with a square jaw that meant business and shoulders wide enough to hide the back of the chair, he appeared not to have slept for the past week. Aside from his rumpled clothes, his black hair was mussed and hung past his collar, and there was an air about him that seemed almost dangerous.

As if he suddenly sensed that she was staring at him, his gaze swung quickly back to the bed, and eyes as blue as the Caribbean focused on her with such unerring intensity that a shiver of dread chased up her spine. Don’t be silly, she told herself. He’s obviously a friend. And yet there was something disturbing about him, something she should remember, something important. Something desperate. She tried to remember, but pain screamed through her head.

She expected him to smile, but instead the corners of a blade-thin mouth tightened a bit when he saw that she was awake.

“Nikki.”

Was that her name? It seemed to fit, and yet... She tried to say something, ask him who he was, but her voice failed her and her mouth felt gritty and dry. She licked her lips and tried to sit up, but pain exploded in her head.

“Hey, wait a minute.” He was on his feet in an instant, big, callused palms pressing gently on her shoulders as he held her down. “Take it slow, Nikki. You’ll get your chance to talk, believe me.”

He knew her, but she was certain she’d never seen him before in her life.... No, there had been an instant of wakefulness when these same cold blue eyes had searched hers. She willed herself to remember, but the pain in her head caused her to wince and she felt like she might throw up. There was something she should know about him. Something important.

He offered her a sip of water from a glass on the table, bending a straw so that she could drink. The water was warm and tasted slightly metallic, and after a few swallows she shook her head and he set the glass back on the tray.

“Who...who are you?” she asked, her voice rough and squeaky, like a neglected instrument that needed tuning.

For just a second she thought his eyes slitted suspiciously. “You don’t know?”

“No... I...” Panic gripped her as she searched her memory, or what had been her memory. Nothing surfaced. Nothing. Not just about this man or this hospital or herself. “I...I don’t remember....” But how could that be? She tried to concentrate, but no single event of her past—no person, no place, no favorite pet or book—would swim to the surface of her memory. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered, her heart hammering, her palms beginning to sweat. “I don’t remember....”

He shoved his hair from his eyes and seemed about to say something, but stopped himself short, and the sharp glance he shot her way said, without words, that he didn’t believe her.

“Who are you?” she demanded. She knew instinctively that she shouldn’t show any kind of weakness to this man.

“You’re serious about this amnesia?” he scoffed in a whisper.

“I don’t—”

Suddenly he leaned over the bed, took her face between his hands and pressed his lips upon hers with the intimacy of a kiss that bespoke of a thousand kisses before. His lips molded against hers with a warm possession, and her heart, already beating in fear, began a wild tempo that pulsed through her veins. He groaned softly into her mouth and whispered, “I’ve missed you, Nikki. Oh, God, I was scared.” His lips claimed hers again with a depth of passion that caused her to tremble and melt inside before she could collect her senses.

Stop this madness. Stop it now!

Even though his mouth and hands were persuasive, she couldn’t respond, because deep in her heart she knew the kiss wasn’t right—the passion and caring of this man were all wrong. There wasn’t any logic involved in her thinking, just a gut feeling that the man wasn’t being honest with her. She tried to struggle, but the IV tube in her arm restrained her and his mouth moved slowly, sensually against hers.

“Thank God you’re safe.” Again he kissed her.

A quiet cough from the doorway caused him to stand straight and flush up the back of his neck. Embarrassed, he managed a smile for the nurse who filled the doorway. “She’s awake,” he said, shrugging with the innocent guile of a child caught stealing a cookie from the jar. All trace of the coldness she’d sensed in him had been quickly hidden.

“Dios. We thank the Virgin.” The nurse, a big, buxom woman with copper-colored skin and eyes as black as obsidian, moved to Nikki’s bedside. Smothering a smile over the tender scene she just witnessed, she shooed the man back away from the bed where he suddenly hung like a lovesick puppy.

Nikki tried to explain. “I don’t know what’s going on, but—”

“Shh, Señora. Please.” With trained fingers, Nurse Consuela Vásquez, according to the nametag pinned to her ample bosom, took Nikki’s pulse, blood pressure and temperature. Nikki tried to protest, to ask questions, but she was told by the big woman to wait. “First we see how you are doing. Then you tell us everything. Okay?”

Impatiently Nikki waited, wanting to wiggle from beneath the stranger’s stare, for his eyes, as she was examined, never left her. Finally, when Nurse Vásquez had checked the IV bag and scratched Nikki’s vital information on her chart, she offered Nikki a sincere and relieved smile. “Well, Señora Makinzee, you wake up. ¿Qué tal se siente hoy?”

Nikki’s brows drew together and she shook her head. “I...I don’t understand. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“She wants to know how you feel,” the man interjected.

“Like I’ve been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.”

“¿Cómo?”

The corners of the stranger’s mouth curved upward just a little as he explained to the nurse, and Consuela Vásquez chuckled.

“Sí. You are lucky to be alive. Your husband...he save your life.”

Nikki’s gaze moved to the man leaning over the bed. He wasn’t smiling any longer and his gaze had suddenly become unreadable. Like a chameleon, always changing. “He did?” she whispered, her heart hammering and sweat collecting along her spine. She wanted to confide in the nurse, to explain about the frightening blackness that seemed to be in the spot that should have held her memory, but hesitated, wondering if it would be wise to admit as much while this man—this man who had kissed her so passionately while she was lying helplessly in the bed—was standing nearby. “My husband? But I’m not married.”

The nurse’s smile collapsed. “He is your husband, señora.”

Nikki shook her head, but a jagged streak of pain ripped through her brain and she was forced to draw in a sharp breath. “I’m not married,” she said again, her gaze locking with that of the stranger, the man claiming to have married her. Was it her imagination or did the skin around the corners of his mouth tighten a little?

“But, Señor Makinzee—”

“McKenzie. Trent McKenzie.” His eyes didn’t warm as he said, “You remember, we were married just before we came to Salvaje for our honeymoon.”

Dear God, was he telling the truth? Why would he lie? But certainly she would remember her own wedding.

“My name is—” She squinted against the blinding pain, trying to see through the door that was locked in her mind.

“Nikki Carrothers,” Trent supplied.

That sounded right. It fit, like a favorite pair of old slippers.

“Nikki Carrothers McKenzie.”

The slippers were suddenly too tight. “I don’t think so,” she said uncertainly. Could she possibly have been married to this man? Eyeing him, she mentally removed several days’ growth of beard, the tired lines of strain around his eyes, the unkempt hair. He could be considered handsome, she supposed. He was just shy of six feet with a thick chest that tapered to slim hips and muscles that were visible whenever he moved. Lean and mean. For there wasn’t a trace of kindness in his eyes and she knew that undying love wasn’t one of the reasons he’d had for staying at her bedside.

“No memory?” the nurse asked.

Try, Nikki, try. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, willing her memories—her life—to come back to her. “None. I...I...I just can’t,” she reluctantly admitted, her head throbbing.

Consuela’s worried expression deepened. “Dr. Padilla will be in soon. He will talk to you.” She turned questioning eyes to Trent and then, after promising a sponge bath and breakfast and a pill for pain, she hurried out the door with a rustle of her crisp uniform. Trent followed the nurse into the corridor, and though Nikki strained to listen, she heard only snatches of their conversation which was spoken in whispered Spanish. What was she doing here in this foreign country—in a hospital, for God’s sake—with no memory?

Her heart thudded and she tried to raise her arms. Her left was strapped to the bed, the IV taped to her wrist. Her right was free, but ached when she tried to move it. In fact, now that the pain in her head had eased to a dull throb, she realized that she hurt all over. Her legs and torso—everywhere—felt bruised and battered.

Your husband. He save your life.

Her throat tightened. What was she doing with Trent McKenzie?

She glanced around the room, to the thick stucco walls and single window. Fading sunlight was streaming through the fronds of a palm tree that moved in the wind just outside the glass, causing shadows to play on the wall at the foot of her bed. The window was partially opened and the scent of the sea wafted through the room, mingling with the fragrance of the roses, two dozen red buds interspersed with white carnations in a vase on the metal stand near the table.

The card had been opened. Pinned to a huge white bow, it read: “All my love, Trent.” These flowers were from that hard-edged man who claimed he was married to her? Nikki tried to imagine Trent McKenzie, in a florist’s shop, browsing over vases of cut lilies, bachelor’s buttons and orchids. She couldn’t. The man who’d camped out in her hospital room was tough and suspicious and had a cruel streak in his eyes. No way would he have sent flowers. And no way would she have married him.

But why would he lie?

If only she could remember. Her head began to throb again.

Somewhere down the hallway a patient moaned and a woman was softly weeping. Bells clanged and footsteps hurried through the hushed corridors. Several people passed by the doorway, all with black hair and dark skin, natives of this island off the coast of Venezuela. When Trent had mentioned Salvaje to her, Nikki had flashed upon a mental picture of the tropical island. The picture had been from a brochure that touted Salvaje as a garden paradise, a quaint tropical island. There had been pictures, small captioned photographs of white, sandy beaches, lush, dense foliage, happy natives and breathtakingly beautiful jagged cliffs that seemed to rise from the sea. Nikki’s pulse skyrocketed as she remembered a final photo in the brochure, a picture of an abandoned mission, built hundreds of years ago at the highest point of the island. The mission with the crumbling bell tower and weathered statue of the Madonna. The mission in her nightmare.

She convulsed, her heart hammering. What was she doing here on Salvaje, and why did this man, the only other American she’d seen, claim to be her husband? If only she could remember! She slammed her eyes shut, fighting against the bleak emptiness in her brain, and heard the steady click of boot heels against the tile.

He was back. Her body tensed in fear, but she forced her eyes open and told herself that he’d inadvertently given her a glimpse of her memory when he had mentioned Salvaje, the Wild Island, and if she could, she should try to get him to give her more information, hoping that any little piece might trigger other recollections.

He strode to her bed, towering over her with his cynical demeanor and lying eyes. Nikki, tied to the rails, forced to lie under a thin sheet and blanket, felt incredibly vulnerable, and she knew instinctively that she hadn’t felt this way before the fall. “Dr. Padillo has been called,” Trent said with a little less rancor. “He’ll be here within the hour. Then maybe we can get you out of here.”

“Where will we go?”

“Back to the hotel and pack our bags. Then we’ll grab the first flight to Seattle as soon as you’re well enough to travel.”

Seattle. Home was the Pacific Northwest. She almost believed him. “We have a house there?” she asked, and she noticed the hardening of his jaw, the slight hesitation in his gaze.

“I have a house. You have an apartment, but we planned that you’d move your things over to my place once we returned.”

“We...we got married in Seattle?”

His gaze, blue and hard, searched hers, as if he suspected that she was somehow trying to trip him up.

“By a justice of the peace. A quick ceremony before we came here for our honeymoon.”

No big wedding? An elopement? What about her family—her parents? Surely they were still alive. Her stomach knotted as she tried to concentrate on Seattle—the city on Puget Sound. In her mind’s eye she saw gray water, white ferries and sea gulls wheeling in a cloud-filled sky. Memories? Or a postcard she’d received from some acquaintance?

Trent rubbed his shoulder muscles, as if he ached from his vigil. She watched the movement of his hands along his neck and wondered if those very hands—tanned and callused—had touched her in intimate places. Had they scaled her ribs, slid possessively along her thigh, cupped her nape and drawn her to him in a passion as hot as a volcano? And had she, in return, touched him, kissed him, made love to him? Had she fingered the thick black strands of his hair where it brushed his nape? Had she boldly slid her hand beneath the waistband of his worn jeans? She bit her lip in frustration. True, Trent was sexy and male and dangerous, and yet...if she’d made love to him, if her naked body had twined with his, wouldn’t she remember?

He turned to face her, catching her staring at his back, and for a second his hard shell faded and a spark of regret flashed in his eyes. Nikki’s lungs tightened and she could barely breathe, for beneath the regret, she also saw the hint of physical desire. He glanced quickly away, as if the emotions registering in his eyes betrayed him.

“Who are you, really?” she asked.

His jaw slid to the side. “You honestly don’t remember me?”

“Why would I lie?”

“Why would I?”

She lifted the fingers of her left hand just a little, wiggling her ringless fingers.

His lips thinned. “Hospital rules. Your jewelry, including your wedding ring, is in the safe.”

“No tan line.”

“No time for a tan. We just got here when you fell.”

“I fell?”

“On the cliffs by the old mission. You’re lucky to be alive, Nikki. I thought...you could have been killed.”

Fear took a stranglehold of her throat. “I don’t remember,” she lied, not wanting to hear any confirmation that her nightmare had been real, that the terror-riddled dream that had chased her in her sleep wasn’t a figment of her overactive imagination.

The back of her throat tasted acrid. “Were you chasing me up on the ridge?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

He hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. “You were alone, Nikki,” he said, and she knew he was lying through his beautiful white teeth. “There was no one else.”

“Where were you?”

“Waiting. At the mission. I saw you fall.” His face went chalk-white, as if he relived a horrid memory. “I think it would be best...for you...to go home. You’d feel safer and forget the accident.”

Accident? The breath of fear blew through her insides, and she wished she could run again, that her body would support her and she could get away...to...where?

“I don’t think I’d feel safer—”

“But you would be. With me.”

“I don’t even know you,” she said, stark terror beginning to seize her throat.

Sighing, he shoved a hand through his unruly mane. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this. The doctor doesn’t want you getting upset.”

Her patience snapped and she threw caution to the wind. “I can’t remember anything! I don’t remember my life, my job, my parents, my family, and I certainly don’t remember you! I’m already way past upset!”

His mouth twisted heartlessly as his cruel mask slipped easily back into place. “I think we’d better wait for Padillo. See what he has to say.”

There was an edge to his voice that caused sweat to gather at her nape. She couldn’t remember the men she’d dated, but she would swear on her very life that none of those men would look like a rough-and-tumble backwoodsman with hawk-sharp eyes, angular features and scuffed boots. She noticed the beat-up leather jacket tossed carelessly over the back of his chair and the worn heels of his boots. He moved restlessly as if he were a man used to looking over his shoulder. Her throat went dry with fear. He was a con man? Someone sent to kidnap her? Or was he really her husband?

Her mind raced with a thousand reasons why she might be kidnapped, but she didn’t think she was rich or famous or the daughter of some tycoon. She didn’t feel like a political radical or a criminal or anything.... But for some reason this man wanted her, or the people in the hospital, to think that they were married.

She couldn’t remember much, but she was convinced this impostor was not her husband.

But who would believe her on this island? Certainly not Nurse Vásquez, who obviously thought that Trent was besotted with her. But maybe the doctor. If she could talk to Dr. Padillo alone, perhaps she could convince him that something was very wrong.

Trent peered out the window, as if he were searching for someone in the parking lot below.

“I think if I really was married to you, I’d know it,” she said.

“You’ll remember,” he predicted, though no warmth came over his face. He rested his hips on the sill, his gaze shifting from her to the crucifix mounted on the wall, the only decoration in the otherwise stark room. “As soon as I get you out of here.”

“But you can’t,” she said, desperation creeping into her soul. Alone with this man—with no recollections of the past?

He smiled with cold patience. “I’m your husband, Nikki, and now that you’re awake, I’m going to ask the doctor to release you as soon as you’re well enough to go home.”