Читать книгу Wife With Amnesia - Metsy Hingle - Страница 10

Twenty-five years later

“Where’s my wife?”

Her eyes snapped open at the whiplash demand in the man’s voice. Jerking upright in the bed, she winced as pain exploded inside her head. She groaned, lifted an unsteady hand to her aching head and froze as her fingers met a thick wad of gauze along her right temple.

“Damn it, I want to see my wife—now!”

The impatient command sliced through her pain and confusion. Angling a glance toward the sound of that hard voice, she spied the door slightly ajar and frowned. Apprehension skittered down her spine as she stared at the unfamiliar door, the tan-and-white tile flooring.

Where on earth was she?

Dropping her hand to her lap, she spotted the plastic ID bracelet circling her wrist. “Claire Gallagher,” she read aloud the name stamped on the band and waited for it to strike a chord of familiarity, some sense that the name belonged to her. When none came, nerves twisted into knots in her stomach. Suddenly anxious, she kicked at the sheets tangled around her legs, and pain streaked to her left ankle. Gasping, she clutched at her ankle and felt something tug on her arm.

With her heart hammering, Claire swung her gaze to her left, and the breath stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat at the sight of the IV contraption attached to her arm. One look at the tube and painful-looking needle taped to her hand had her stomach pitching.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. She was going to be sick.

Panic swimming in her blood, she clamped a hand over her mouth and willed herself to calm down. She needed to breathe slowly, try to focus, she told herself as she drew in several breaths. There was an easy explanation for this. There had to be. She simply had to sort things out.

Quickly she took stock of her surroundings—the narrow bed she occupied, the sterile white sheets and khaki-colored blanket twisted around her legs. Swallowing past the nerves that still tightened her throat, she swept her gaze over the rest of the room. A pair of utilitarian chairs filled one corner. A chrome table with a plastic water pitcher and a cup stood against the wall. Uninspiring beige drapes hung across a window. Even without the telltale ID band and IV strapped to her arm as clues, the decor alone screamed the word hospital and did nothing to settle her uneasiness. Slumping back against the pillows, Claire tried to think, tried to remember. But it was difficult doing either while her head and ankle continued to throb relentlessly. Everything ached. Even her hair seemed to hurt.

What on earth had happened? Had she been in some kind of accident? When? Where?

Fingering the bandage on her head, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember…something…anything that would tell her what had caused her to end up in a hospital.

But between the hammering in her skull and that hum of voices outside her door, concentration proved impossible. Besides, everything seemed so hazy. Just a vague recollection of a man in a white coat waving his hand in front of her face while shining a light in her eyes and asking her how many fingers she saw.

“Either you take me to see my wife now, or I’ll find her myself.”

Claire’s pulse kicked again. She pressed her fingers to the space between her brows and wondered for a moment why the man’s voice had such an unsettling effect on her. Did she know him? There was something about his voice…something that tugged at the fringes of her memory. But whatever it was, the memory stayed just out of reach. Giving up, Claire tried to focus on her own dilemma. But the more she tried to remember what had happened and how she had ended up in a hospital, the more her head hurt.

“You can go back to your station, Nurse Galloway. I’ll handle this.”

Claire jerked her head up and winced at the movement. But she recognized the second man’s voice—the doctor who had wanted her to count his fingers.

“Try to get a grip, Matt. You’re making a scene.”

“Yeah? Well unless I see my wife in the next ten seconds, I’m going to make an even bigger one.”

And he would make good on the threat, Claire thought, as she listened to the exchange between the doctor and the other man. There was no mistaking the steel in the angry man’s voice.

“You know, pal, I didn’t have to notify you that she was here. When they brought her in, she was barely conscious and didn’t have any ID. It was just pure luck that I was the one on duty and recognized her. Considering the situation between you two, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I broke some sort of hospital confidentiality rule by calling you. Don’t make me regret making that call, Matt.”

“Aw, hell, Jeff. I’m sorry. It’s just when you said she’d been hurt, and that the guy had used a gun, I…I guess I went a little crazy.”

“A little?”

“All right. A lot. It’s just…I was afraid that…I thought—” His voice broke. “Hell, it doesn’t matter what I thought. The way things have been between us lately, she probably won’t even want to see me. But I need to see her, Jeff. I really do. I need to see with my own eyes that’s she’s all right.”

“Take it easy, man. No one’s trying to stop you from seeing her. But she’s been drifting in and out of consciousness since they brought her in. Give me a second to find out if she’s awake yet, and then you can go in.”

“Jeff, wait! First, I need to know what to expect. Be straight with me. How bad off she is. Is she…is she going to make it?”

Poor guy, Claire thought as she heard the anguish in his voice. Chiding herself, she turned away from the door. She had no right to eavesdrop, to listen to his anxiety over his wife’s condition, she told herself. Besides, she had enough problems of her own to worry about—like why she was in a hospital and why couldn’t she remember how she had ended up here.

“Damn, I could kick myself! I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t realize you thought— I never meant to imply that her injuries were that serious. They’re not.”

“But you said the mugger used a gun.”

“He did. According to the witness, the guy hit her on the head with one.”

Finding it impossible to concentrate on her own situation while the drama unfolded outside her room, Claire gave up and listened.

“The blow to her head was the most serious of her injuries. It took a dozen stitches to close up the gash and she’s probably going to have a doozy of a headache. She’s also got a sprained ankle, some nasty scrapes and bruising from being shoved to the ground. But the bruising will fade and the cut on her head should heal with little or no scarring.”

“But you said there were complications.”

“I said there might be complications. She’s suffered a serious blow to the head, Matt, and whenever you’re dealing with a head injury that’s always a possibility—”

A voice squawked over the PA system, cutting off the rest of the doctor’s explanation as well as any response that followed. After a few more seconds in which more announcements followed, Claire could make out only low-pitched murmurs and the squeaking wheel of a passing cart. Finally she gave up trying to pick up the threads of their conversation again.

Just as well, she thought with a sigh. To listen took concentration on her part, and concentration took energy. And suddenly she was feeling incredibly tired. Weariness washed over her, stealing the last of her reserves. Her eyelids felt as if they were weighted with lead. Keeping them open or even trying to think became impossible. So she gave up the battle.

But the moment Claire’s eyelids fluttered shut, storm clouds seemed to engulf her, muddling her senses, dragging her deeper and deeper into some dark abyss. She was running. Faces and voices became jumbled. The need to escape grew stronger. Someone was chasing her. Hide, a voice whispered inside her head. Fear climbed in her throat as she ran and ran. She tasted the salt of tears, heard someone weeping, but still she ran.

Don’t stop! Run! Hide!

The voice urged her on, and Claire continued to run. She ran and ran, racing through the shadows. She fell. She got up. She ran harder still, ignoring the ache in her side, the burning in her lungs. And as Claire slipped into the well of unconsciousness that beckoned, she could have sworn she heard the rumble of that whiskey-rough voice from the hall once again. And this time he was calling her name.

“Claire? Claire, can you hear me?”

Pain knifed through Claire’s skull, and she whimpered as she battled through the heavy fog surrounding her.

“Shh. It’s okay.” His breath was a soft rush of air against her chilled skin. Warm, callused fingers caressed her cheek. Instinctively she moved closer toward the source of that heat. “That’s my girl. Try to wake up, sweetheart. Open those pretty brown eyes for me.”

Another missile of pain fired inside her head, but Claire muscled through it. She wanted, needed to get closer to that warmth, to see the face that belonged to the voice that had comforted her during the long night of dark dreams. When at last she managed to force her eyes open, two things registered simultaneously. First, the man’s face was every bit as compelling as his voice. Cary Grant handsome with jet-black hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, a square, uncompromising chin and eyes the color of flint. And second, she didn’t have a clue who he was.

He stared down at her with an intensity that she found disturbingly intimate. “Welcome back,” he said in a voice that packed a sensual punch and sent a shiver of awareness through her.

“Thanks,” she murmured and worked to put a name with his face.

“You feeling okay? I can call the doctor….”

“No,” she told him, wanting a moment to get her bearings. She was in a hospital, and her name was… Claire. Claire Gallagher, she recalled after a quick glance at her wristband. And the GQ hunk watching her with anxious eyes was… She frowned, tried to remember. A flutter of panic danced along her spine when she came up blank. Pushing to sit up, she winced as the movement set off new explosions of pain in her head and ankle.

“Hey, take it easy,” he soothed. “Head hurting?”

She nodded, only to wince when the movement elicited another stab of pain in her head.

“I’ll call the doctor and see about getting you something for the pain.”

“No. Wait. Please. It was only a twinge,” she told him. “I’m okay.” And she didn’t want to take anything that would make her feel fuzzier than she did already.

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m all right. Honest.”

“I’m glad to hear one of us is,” he said, giving her a halfhearted grin. “I was scared spitless when Jeff called and told me you were hurt.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Keep doing that and you’re going to pull it out.”

He grimaced at her remark. “Reflex, I guess. Like I said, I was worried. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out every hair on my head has turned white,” he told her, another half smile curving his mouth.

It hadn’t, Claire noted. His hair was as black as coal and had a tendency to curl just at the edges. He looked and sounded so familiar. So why couldn’t she remember who he was or how he fit into her life?

“God. I was so scared I was going to lose you,” he said, his voice raw. All traces of humor gone. He squeezed his eyes shut a moment. “When Jeff called and said they’d brought you in, I thought…I was so afraid…”

“Don’t,” she said, moved by the anguish in his voice, in his eyes. Reaching out, she touched his clenched fists. “I’m all right.”

He stiffened momentarily at her touch. Something dangerous flashed in those steel-colored eyes. But before she could pull her hand back, he closed his fingers over hers, held. “I know. It’s just that…” He whooshed out a breath. His expression grim, he continued to stare at her while he seemed to engage in some inner struggle. “I’m sorry. I know how much you hate it when I push. But after last night…after thinking that you might…” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I guess you’re just going to have to add one more sin to my list of transgressions. Because God help me, I’ve got to do this.”

And before she realized his intent, his mouth touched her own. He brushed his lips against hers in a kiss so soft, so gentle, that instead of pushing him away, Claire rested her palms against his chest. Muscles flexed beneath her fingertips, and she could sense the strength, the tightly leashed control, the fire held in check. The sweetness of his restraint moved something inside Claire. Curling her fingers in his shirt, she returned his kiss.

When he lifted his head, he stared at her. Sure she’d made a mistake, Claire started to retreat. But before she could, he angled his head and his mouth came crashing down on hers again. Then his mouth was shaping hers, claiming her lips in a hungry kiss that made her blood heat, made her heart thunder in her chest. For a moment sanity deserted Claire. Her senses whirled beneath the searing demand of his mouth. Feminine need shuddered through her, throbbed in her womb. Instinctively she arched her body toward him.

His groan hit Claire like a slap. Shocked by her actions, she snapped open her eyes. Sweet heaven, what on earth had she been thinking? She didn’t know this man—not even his name. Shaken, she unclenched her fingers from his shirt and shoved at him—hard. He released her at once, and had she been standing, she was sure she would have fallen. “Wh-who are you?” she demanded, hating the tremor in her voice, a tremor that she realized wasn’t caused by fear alone.

Eyes narrowing, desire still glittering in their gray depths, he watched her with the same intensity that he’d kissed her. Out of nowhere the image of a wolf tracking its prey raced through Claire’s mind. Whoever this man was he was dangerous. Maybe not physically, because she didn’t think he would harm her, but on some deeper, more personal level. “I asked who you were,” she said, unnerved by his silence.

“Matt.”

“Matt,” she repeated, sampling the sound of his name on her lips. She waited for some flicker of recognition, some memory to go with the name. When none came, her head began to throb in earnest. Pressing her fingers to her temple, she closed her eyes and ran his name, his face, his kiss through her mind again.

Nothing. No inkling that she knew him, that she remembered him. All she encountered were more blank pages. Her heart picked up a panicked beat at that realization, and she was forced to acknowledge that her memory was filled with far too many blank pages. Swallowing hard, she opened her eyes and found his gaze fastened on her as though he were sizing her up. The idea that he might be, unnerved her—almost as much as her inability to remember.

“Do I know you?” she blurted out and immediately regretted asking the question. Of course she must know the man, Claire reasoned. Why else would he be at the hospital? And why else would he have planted that toe-curling kiss on her?

“Yeah. I guess you could say you know me,” he said, his mouth hardening, his dark brows slashing in a frown. “After all, I am your husband.”

“M-my husband!”

Matt clenched his jaw as the color drained from Claire’s face. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut. For a few moments when she had kissed him back, he had thought…he had allowed himself to believe that she still loved him, that she had forgiven him.

Frustration and disappointment slammed at him like punishing fists. He jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her again. Damn, what an idiot he’d been. Only an idiot would have let himself believe that Claire’s brush with violence had somehow changed things between them and wiped out the six miserable months since she’d left him.

Now as he stared at her too-pale face, saw the bewilderment clouding her cinnamon-brown eyes, he bit back a curse at his own lack of caution. How could he have been so reckless? Jeff had warned him that something like this might happen. That the blow to Claire’s head and her disoriented state could be an indication of something more serious.

Only he hadn’t heeded Jeff’s warnings to take things slowly. No, he’d been too eaten up with guilt for failing to protect her. And he’d been scared spitless that he might lose her forever. When she had finally opened her eyes, looked up at him and hadn’t turned away, he’d been too staggered by relief to think beyond the fact that she was all right.

Then she had touched him. And his ability to think at all had gone right out of the window. Claire’s touch, the softness of her voice after so many months without both had been like a lifeline being thrown to a drowning man. So, he’d snatched it, held on to it with both fists. Kissing her hadn’t been an option. Suddenly it had been as necessary to him as taking his next breath. And without considering the consequences, he had given in to his own selfish needs.

“We’re married?”

Her question yanked Matt from his self-recriminations. “Yeah,” he replied, frowning. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that she was having trouble remembering things. Probably some kind of memory loss because of that blow to her head. What he didn’t know was how extensive that memory loss was or how much he should tell her. If she didn’t remember him and their marriage, she evidently didn’t remember that they were separated, either. Should he tell her? he wondered, reluctant to reveal that piece of news when beneath her confusion a trace of desire still lingered in her eyes. Selfish bastard that he was, he decided to say nothing. He would rather cope with her confusion and anxiety than have Claire revert to the polite civility she’d treated him with since their split.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice fragile. She rubbed at the spot between her brows again. “Things are a bit fuzzy. And I…I seem to be having a little trouble remembering things.”

“It’s all right,” Matt soothed, hating that she felt the need to apologize to him when he was the one who had failed her. But then, Claire had always been quick to assume responsibility when things went wrong. While, in truth, the fault had never been hers. No, the fault lay with the heartless woman who had abandoned a battered little girl in a hurricane twenty-five years ago. The fault lay with the legal system that had failed that little girl. And the fault lay with him—for not recognizing how deeply Claire’s insecurities ran. For not considering that his attempt to find answers for her about the past would only open old wounds and be interpreted as his dissatisfaction with her as his wife. The fault was most assuredly his for not realizing that his actions would lead Claire to believe that he was one more person to whom she had given her heart only to be rejected.

“I’m sure everything will come back to me in a minute. I mean, a woman just doesn’t forget her husband,” she said, the lighthearted remark at odds with the distress etched on her face.

Matt gave her what he hoped passed as a reassuring grin. “I think forgetting a husband is a forgivable offense,” he told her, wanting to ease her anxiety. “Especially if the woman doing the forgetting has a concussion and an egg-size lump on her head that needed stitches.”

She lifted a hand to the bandage. “I have stitches?”

“About a dozen according to Jeff.”

“Jeff?”

“Jeff Peterson,” he explained. “Or I guess I should say Dr. Jeff Peterson. He’s the doctor who treated you when you were brought into the emergency room last night. He also happens to be an old friend.”

She frowned again, pinched the bridge of her nose as though she were trying to process the information. “I, uh, I think I remember him. But everything’s still a bit hazy. What happened?” she asked. “How did I hurt my head?”

Matt hesitated, once again unsure how much he should tell her or if he had already said too much. “Maybe I should get Jeff and let him explain—”

“No.” She caught his hand when he started to leave, and Matt’s body tightened at the feel of her fingers against his skin. “You tell me.”

Matt didn’t move, didn’t breathe for several seconds as he bit back the rush of memories her touch evoked. Vivid memories of her looking at him with desire in her eyes, of those silken fingers touching other parts of his body, of him touching her…

“Matt?”

He slammed the brakes on the dangerous turn his thoughts had taken. “You were mugged,” he told her, going from lust to fury in a heartbeat at the jarring reminder of what Claire had endured. Murderous thoughts sprang to life inside him toward the lowlife who had hurt her. No matter what happened or how long it took him, he vowed, he would make the scumbag pay for hurting Claire.

“Mugged,” she repeated.

What little color had crept back into her cheeks disappeared. Blasting himself for being so blunt, Matt said, “Take it easy. You’re safe now.”

“It’s just that I can’t remember,” she explained. “And the things I keep imagining…” She whooshed out a breath. “What happened?”

When he remained silent, she whispered, “Please, Matt, tell me. I need to know.”

“You were pistol-whipped,” he said, spitting out the ugly truth. “There was a witness, a woman, who saw the whole thing. She said the guy hit you in the head with the butt of his gun, then he shoved you to the ground. That’s how you sprained your ankle.”

The fingers holding his hand tightened. And though it didn’t seem possible for her to be any paler than she already was, her face grew even whiter. “Was I— Did he—”

“No,” Matt snapped, realizing where her thoughts were headed. Cursing his lack of finesse in explaining, he tipped up her chin so that he could see her eyes. A fist closed around his heart at the fear and shame he read there. For that alone, Matt could murder the guy who had attacked her. “He never touched you. Not in that way. The scumbag stole your purse. But that’s all he stole from you. Nothing else. I swear it.”

A breath shuddered through her lips. “I… Thank you,” she murmured.

Guilt ripped at him. That she would actually thank him gnawed at him something fierce and compounded the guilt he’d felt since getting Jeff’s call. She was his wife, damn it. He loved her, and it was his job to protect her. Yet, not only had he failed to protect her, he had hurt her in a way no mugger ever could. How could he love her as he did and have been so blind to her feelings? If only he could go back. If only he could make things right.

“I don’t remember.”

“Which is perfectly understandable. You’ve suffered a head injury. Sometimes even the smallest of bumps can cause some memory loss.”

“You don’t understand,” she countered. “I can’t remember anything. Not you. Not the attack. Not anything!”

“All right, take it easy. You probably have some kind of temporary amnesia,” Matt offered and hoped he was right about the “temporary” part. Other than the little Jeff had explained to him, what he knew about head injuries and amnesia wouldn’t fill a nutshell. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. Your memory is going to come back.”

“When?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it will.” He drew her into his arms, wanting to erase the panic he heard in her voice, saw in her eyes. Running his hand up and down her spine, he could feel some of her tension begin to melt beneath his caress. When she relaxed against him, rested her head on his shoulder, his own chest tightened. Closing his eyes, Matt savored the pleasure of having Claire in his arms again. After so many months without her, of wondering if he would ever get to hold her like this again, the feel of her body nestled against his was like a welcome spring shower following a long winter’s drought.

Claire eased back a fraction and stared up at him. Matt waited for the questions he knew were already forming in that too-sharp mind of hers, questions that would demand and deserve answers. Answers that he was reluctant to give her.

He studied Claire’s face, struck anew by how much he loved her, how much he needed her tenderness and warmth in his life. The bandage on her head was a shock of white against the dark fire of her red hair. Her pallor still bore traces of the ordeal she had suffered, as did the frown pleating her brow. Yet even in the ghastly hospital lighting sans makeup, Claire was just as beautiful now as she had been the first time he had seen her.

He thought back to that day over two years ago when she’d bluffed her way into the kitchen of his family’s restaurant, pretending to be a food inspector and demanding to see one of the owners. The restaurant had been in need of a new pastry chef, but she hadn’t wanted the job. No, Claire had wanted to provide the restaurant with her desserts—even though a host of other firms offering the same service had already been turned away. But that hadn’t stopped Claire. No, his Claire had insisted on being given a chance to prove herself. Just taste her white-chocolate cheesecake, she’d dared, and if he didn’t agree it was the best cheesecake he’d ever eaten, she would work as his pastry chef free of charge for a full month. He’d taken one bite of the dessert sample she’d smuggled into the restaurant in her bag and he’d conceded that she’d won the bet. He’d ordered a dozen of the cheesecakes and asked her out to dinner. And he had made up his mind before they’d gotten through the appetizers to make Claire his wife.

Claire hadn’t succumbed so easily, he admitted, a smile curving his lips as he remembered.

She had fought him most of the way claiming it was too sudden. They were too young. They were worlds apart in social standing and money. But he hadn’t been swayed. He’d approached his decision to marry Claire with the same determination with which he’d approached his business. Failure was not an option. And he hadn’t failed. He’d married Claire a scant three months after their first meeting.

Unable to resist, Matt trailed a finger down her cheek, felt her telltale quiver at his touch. Her skin was still as smooth as a magnolia petal, her overripe mouth a dusky-rose hue that he knew was only a shade lighter than the nipples of her breasts. Desire churned inside him as he lowered his gaze to her breasts hidden beneath the ugly hospital gown. He remembered how perfectly those breasts filled the palms of his hands, how they tasted when he took them into his mouth, how her breath hitched when he flicked his tongue over the tips.

“What happens if my memory doesn’t come back?”

Jerking his gaze back up to Claire’s face, he slammed the door on the sensual images that had him hard and aching for her. “It will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Trust me. Your memory is going to come back.” He just hoped that when it did, he wouldn’t lose her again.

“But what am I going to do in the meantime if I can’t remember anything or anyone?”

Her question hit him square between the eyes. This was his chance, Matt realized, feeling like a man who’d been dealt four aces. This was the chance he’d waited for, prayed for—to be able to go back, to make things right between the two of them. And before his conscience kicked in, he said, “You’re going to let me take care of you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. I’m your husband, and I love you.”

“But it seems…unfair. I mean, I don’t remember you or anything about our marriage.” She flushed. “You’re a…you’re a stranger to me, Matt.”

Matt smiled as the plan began to take shape in his mind. “Then I guess I’ll have to do my best to make you fall in love with me all over again.”