Читать книгу Claiming His Runaway Bride / High-Stakes Passion: Claiming His Runaway Bride / High-Stakes Passion - Yvonne Lindsay, Juliet Burns, Juliet Burns - Страница 10

Belinda stared around her. She felt as if she’d been totally displaced in her world. Nothing about the ornate stained-glass and rimu wood-framed doors at the front entrance felt familiar, and as her heels clicked on the highly polished wooden floor the faint echo rang out as a taunting reminder of the echoes in her mind. Fleeting. Intangible. Lost in a moment.

“Let me show you our suite.”

“Our suite?”

“Yes, I run Tautara Estate as a luxury lodge for overseas visitors. They pay handsomely for their privacy, I demand mine. Our rooms are to this side.”

Luc led her through another set of panelled rimu doors and down a wide, high-ceilinged, carpeted corridor. To her left was a panel of floor-to-ceiling glass windows giving an exquisite view down through the valley, with Lake Taupo, sunlight glinting off its surface, far in the distance. The tranquil beauty of the scene lay in direct contrast to the nerves leaping and dancing in her stomach.

At the end of the corridor Luc swiped a key card and thrust open the door. Belinda stifled a gasp at the stepdown lounge that spread before her. It was twice the size of her parents’ formal sitting room at their palatial St. Helier’s Bay home in Auckland. Twice the size and, by the looks of it, twice as expensively comfortable.

She walked down the stairs ahead of Luc. Her hand stroked the fronds of the potted palms that guarded the base of the shallow stairs and trailed over the surface of the baby grand piano nestled in an alcove of the room to her left.

“You play?” she asked.

Her fingers grazed the cool ivory of the keys, sending a single discordant note to hover on the air.

“After a fashion,” Luc answered noncommittally.

Belinda lifted her head and met his gaze fully for the first time since they’d left the hospital.

“Did you play for me?”

Suddenly she needed to know. The piano was a beautiful instrument—an instrument of passion, capable of expressing deepest desires and yearnings even when words failed. As she waited for Luc’s response his eyes changed, deepening in colour, becoming the stormy green of a storm-tossed lake. The scar across his cheek paled and she noted the tension in the set of his jaw.

“Luc?” she prompted.

“Yes. I played for you,” he finally ground out.

The light in his eyes changed again, reflecting a heat that flared to unexpected life from deep within her body. She saw the muscles working in his throat, the twin spots of colour that marked the slant of his cheek-bones—sensed the unleashed power of his body. Had he wooed her with music? Had she been seduced by the power of his long-fingered hands as they’d coaxed perfection from the keys of the baby grand? Had he then coaxed perfection from her?

A shiver of longing played down her spine, and she felt her breathing slow, her blood thicken languidly in her veins.

Belinda forced herself to break eye contact, to step further into the room with its luxurious fittings and deeply comfortable furnishings. Despite the value of each piece it was obviously a room that was used and enjoyed. Or at least it had been until they’d been hospitalised.

“I’ll show you the rest of the suite.” Luc’s voice cut sharply across her thoughts.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” she replied as she followed him up the shallow stairs on the other side of the lounge, to the informal dining area and small but functional kitchen. “So you’re completely self-contained here,” Belinda observed as they passed through to another corridor.

“We are.”

Belinda couldn’t help but notice his subtle emphasis on the word “we.”

Luc continued. “The lodge has its own gym and indoor pool, and you can see the tennis court through there.” He indicated a deep-set window that framed a vista out toward the back of the main section of the lodge where a full-size tennis court stood in readiness. “My office is located in the main section of the lodge.”

“Do you have any guests here at the moment?”

“No. Not since the accident.”

Belinda furrowed her brow in confusion. “Is it your off season or something? Couldn’t your staff still have been able to provide their services and the full range of your facilities even while you were in hospital?”

“Certainly they could. I wouldn’t employ them otherwise.”

“Then why?”

“This time had been booked up for personal reasons.”

She hesitated, noting how his hand had tightened on the head of his cane. His limp seemed more pronounced.

“Personal reasons?” she probed.

“Our honeymoon, to be precise.”

He bit the words out as if they were poison past his lips and Belinda flinched at his tone.

Their honeymoon?

“Just how long have we been married?” Her voice shook as she asked the question.

“Not long.”

“Luc? Tell me.” Belinda pushed her back against the wall behind her, certain she’d need its support.

“Belinda, the doctors said you need time. You must take things slowly.”

“How long have we been married?” she insisted, enunciating each word as clearly as she could through a mouth that felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool.

“Just over six weeks.”

“Six weeks? But then that means…” Her voice trailed away weakly. Her legs threatened to give way on her, and she braced her hands against the solid strength of the wall behind her.

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

Luc stepped toward her, but Belinda threw up one hand in protest as he leaned forward to touch her.

“No! Don’t. I’m okay. I’ll be okay. It was just…unexpected, that’s all.”

Six weeks? That meant they’d been involved in the accident shortly after their wedding. But then why would no one give her any details about it? Why couldn’t she remember?

Luc remained silent, his eyes flicking over her, searching for proof of her affirmation that she was indeed all right. He took a step away and turned to throw open double doors that led into a sumptuous bedroom. Her eyes were inexorably drawn to the king-size pedestal bed that dominated the room, dwarfing the exquisite outlook from the French doors that lined the outside wall.

Despite the generous proportions of the room and the bank of glass that allowed the crisp sunlight to warm the air, she felt the walls close in on her as the tension between them tautened like a drawn bow. Belinda could barely tear her eyes from the expanse of fine linen, the teals and blues of the damask duvet cover mirroring the tones and textures of the water in the far distance and the flora outside. She hadn’t stopped to think about their arrangements once they arrived here. What if he expected to sleep with her?

An image imprinted in her mind of her body entwined with Luc’s. Her throat dried, making it difficult to formulate her next words.

“Is this the only bedroom?”

“Yes. When we start our family we will extend this part of the lodge. I already have the plans drawn up.”

“I would prefer to sleep somewhere else.”

“Impossible.”

“What?”

“You’re my wife. You sleep with me.”

“But—”

“Are you afraid of me, Belinda?”

Luc stepped close enough to her that she could smell the subtle tang of his cologne, the lime and spice intertwined into something that sent her pulse skittering through her veins. He lifted a hand to stroke a tendril of her hair back behind her ears. She tilted her head slightly, breaking the tenuous contact even as it began, but not soon enough to halt the heated tingle that danced across the surface of her skin.

“Afraid? No. Not at all,” she lied. Afraid? She was terrified. As far as she was aware, their acquaintance, their knowledge of each other—be it physical or mental—had started from the moment he’d walked into her hospital room only a scant few hours ago.

“Then you think I would force my attention on you?” He cupped the back of her head, stroking her hair, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “I don’t know you.”

“Ah, that’s where you are wrong, my beautiful wife. You know me. Intimately.”

With that he bent down. She was momentarily aware of the almost driven expression on his face before the distance between them closed and the coolness of his firm lips captured hers. She went rigid at the contact and felt his fingers tighten imperceptibly at the nape of her neck. Her lips parted on a gasp of shock and despite her determination not to return his caress she found herself unable to halt the answer of her body to his. The pressure of his kiss firmed, demanded more, and like an automaton she gave it.

She bunched her hands into fists to stop herself from lifting her arms, from curling them around his shoulders and pressing her body against his to ease the ache that made her breasts throb with need. Luc deepened the kiss, his tongue probing past her lips to gently stroke the soft inner recess of her mouth. A spear of desire drove through her from deep within her core. She fought the near overwhelming craving to be touched by him. To be dragged from the fugue of not knowing, to full aching awareness of Luc—of his taste, of his touch.

Abruptly Luc pulled away.

“See, we’re not such strangers after all.” His eyes glittered like chips of aventurine as he pinned her with his unblinking stare. Daring her to deny the way her body had awakened in response to his kiss. “There will be no force, I can assure you.”

He limped toward the door, leaving Belinda standing there, alone.

“Where are you going?” she blurted. As unsettling as she found his presence, and her reaction to it, the prospect of being left alone was even more so. He was the only thing even vaguely familiar to her.

“Missing me already?” His lips fleetingly curved into an approximation of a smile. “I have business to attend to.”

“Business? But surely it can wait. You must be tired. You’re limping worse than before.”

As soon as the words escaped her lips she knew she’d made a mistake. Luc Tanner was not the sort of man who liked to be reminded of his all-too-human frailty.

“Why, Belinda, you sound just like a concerned wife.” He flashed her a smile that had nothing to do with humor. “My business has waited too long already. I suggest you rest until dinnertime.”

He wheeled around on his good leg and left the room, leaning heavily on the cane she instinctively knew he had come to hate with all the seething passion she sensed beneath the cool surface he projected to the world. The seething passion he’d held in check while provoking a clamour in her that she knew already only he could answer.

Who was this man who was her husband? What had drawn her to him? And what on earth about her had drawn him in return?

She pressed shaking fingers against her lips. Had their attraction been purely physical? If her incendiary reaction to his kiss had been any indicator, she could certainly have believed that. But she’d never been overtly sexual. Her relationships had always been…civilised, for want of a better word. She had the feeling that any pretension to civilised behaviour from Luc was a mask. Beneath the surface, at grassroots level, he was indomitably feral.

So what was it, then? Had she been so drawn to the wildness in him, been so desperate to escape the confines of her “safe” world? She’d worked darned hard being the perfect hostess for her father in recent years, years in which her mother’s health had steadily declined. She’d sublimated her own burgeoning career as a landscape designer, settling for the occasional showpiece job for her father’s wealthy cronies. Jobs that had left her feeling as if she’d been appeased, like a fractious child. No matter how many magazines her gardens had been featured in, her family, including her two older sisters, had continued to condescendingly treat it as her little hobby.

Belinda sank down onto the comfortable two-seater couch, positioned to make the most of the expansive view across the valley. She knew everything about her life up until the point where she’d met him. Why couldn’t she remember anything about that time?

Couldn’t remember, or wouldn’t?

The question chilled her to her bones.

She pushed herself up and out of the seat, determined to find something that would trigger a memory. He said she’d been here before, many times. Surely she’d left a piece of herself here. Something familiar.

She hesitated a moment before pulling open a door, almost fearful of what she would find behind it. It was one thing to want to know what had happened in the past, it was quite another to discover it.

A sigh of relief rushed past her lips as she viewed the luxuriously appointed bathroom. A massive spa bath lay along one glassed wall, a double vanity lined another, and set into an alcove was a large shower stall with multiple showerheads. Clearly, everything here was designed with two in mind.

She smiled as she identified her Chanel products in the shower stall, on the bathroom vanity. Her favourite fragrance and lotion nestled side by side as if they had done so forever. She reached out and grabbed the lotion, squeezing out a small blob and smoothing it over her bare arms, taking comfort in the familiarity of its scent.

Inside a drawer she recognised makeup and personal effects. All undeniably hers. Bit by bit the tension inside her started to ease away. As strange as Luc felt to her, this was her home. These were her things.

Emboldened by her discovery, Belinda went to investigate what lay behind the other door from their room. She laughed quietly. Already she was calling it theirs. It must be right.

A spacious dressing room with his and hers large wardrobes set on either side revealed an extensive array of clothing—for both of them. Formal wear, casual wear, in between. Belinda’s fingers lingered over the array of fabrics and designs, hoping for a “ping” of memory. An image to hold on to.

A tremor ran through her as she reached for a garment, still shrouded in the cheap plastic dry cleaner’s bag, and pulled it away from the rest. Even through the protective covering the myriad of crystal beads sparkled like tears embroidered against the cross-over bodice of the ivory satin bridal gown.

Belinda dragged the cover off. Her wedding dress. She should feel something, anything but this emptiness. Surely some sensation, some remembrance should linger in her mind. She shook out the full train of the dress and held the gown to her and studied herself in the full-length mirror. She tried to imagine herself in it, walking toward Luc, ready to pledge her love and her life to him.

Nothing.

A frown furrowed her brow and she felt the beginnings of a headache start to pound. In frustration she haphazardly shoved the bag back over the dress and pushed the hanger back onto the rail. As she did so her hand caught on the dry cleaner’s ticket, attached to the bag. She pulled it off and her stomach lurched as she saw the box that had been ticked for special attention—remove bloodstains—and the handwritten note saying the removal of stains was successful.

Blood. Had it been hers or Luc’s?

She rubbed her forehead and gave a hard mental push through her mind, but all it elicited was a sharper edge to what had started as a dull pain behind her eyes. Whatever she’d locked in the past determinedly remained there.

It wasn’t until she had gone through a few drawers of underwear and other clothing that she found a disreputable pair of jeans and a handful of T-shirts that, despite being laundered, were streaked with green stains. She sank to her knees as she pulled them from the drawer and unfolded them.

Her gardening gear. Her heart began to race. Finally she recognised something. Her hands shook as she kicked off her shoes and peeled away the clothes she’d worn home from the hospital—clothes her parents had brought up to her the night before—and stepped into the jeans. They fit. A little on the loose side, but that was only to be expected after her stay in hospital. She searched for a belt and put it through the loops, adjusting it a couple of notches tighter than the wear on the belt suggested was usual. A smile pulled at her lips as she pulled on one of the T-shirts. Yes, this felt right, and if she could get into the garden maybe she’d remember more.

Leaving her discarded clothing on the floor, Belinda slipped on a pair of rubber-soled flat shoes from the shoe rack and headed for the French doors across the bedroom. She flung them open, stepping out onto the private deck, and inhaled the herbaceous scents on the air.

Stairs led off the deck from the right-hand side, down into the impeccably landscaped gardens. As she danced down them, she cast her eyes around, waiting for that same spark of recognition that had struck when she’d found the gardening wear, but it continued to elude her.

The grounds were extensive and the sun was low in the sky when she found the herb garden. Crushed-shell pathways, edged with old bricks, formed a complex Celtic knot pattern, with lush foliage of a variety of herbs—their scents rich in the evening air—filling the spaces in between. At its central point a sundial was mounted, casting long shadows into the boxed rosemary nearby.

Rosemary—for remembrance. She’d have laughed out loud if the irony hadn’t been so painful. Yet of all the places she’d explored in the garden this was the one area she felt most at home. Absently Belinda snapped off a sprig of rosemary and, rubbing it between her fingers, brought the fragrant herb to her nose and inhaled deeply.

Suddenly she knew. This was her garden. She’d planned and painstakingly directed the position of each plant in its place. The parsley she’d planted herself—she remembered that much—laughing at the time at something her sisters had said about how each time they’d planted parsley they’d fallen pregnant. The hope she’d felt that the old wives’ tale would come true for her struck her square at her centre, and she staggered to the bench seat positioned to make the most of the final rays of the sun.

She remembered. Oh, God, she remembered the garden. It had taken months to get it to this state, but what of the rest? What of the time she must have spent here with Luc, of their growing relationship and their plans for a future together—their love?

The pounding behind her eyes changed in tempo, sharpening to a vicious stab that made her flinch. As her eyes uncontrollably slid closed and Belinda began to lose her grip on consciousness, a question echoed in her head: was this the pain of remembrance or the pain of regret?