Memories: A Husband to RememberNew Year's Daddy (Hqn), Page 2

  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.”

  Chapter Two

  “SO SHE WAKES up!” the doctor said, poking his head into Nikki’s hospital room. Short and round, with a wide smile, dark eyes and a horseshoe of gray hair, he strode into the room with the air of a man in charge. “Buenos días, you are the sleeping beauty, sí?”

  Nikki felt anything but beautiful. Her entire body ached and she knew her face was scratched and bruised. “Buenos días,” she murmured, glad to finally see someone who might be able to help her.

  The doctor picked up her chart from its cradle at the foot of the bed and scanned the page. His lab coat, a size too small, strained around his belly, and when he looked up and grinned a glimmer of gold surrounded a few of his teeth. Small, wire-rimmed glasses were perched on his flat nose. “I’m Dr. Padillo,” he said as he dropped the chart and moved in close with his penlight, carefully peeling back Nikki’s eyelid and shining the tiny beam in her eye. “¿Qué tal se siente hoy?”

  “Pardon?”

  “She doesn’t speak Spanish.” Trent’s voice caused her to stiffen slightly.

  With the small beam blinding her, Nikki couldn’t see Trent, but she sensed that he hadn’t moved from his post near the window. He’d spent hours sitting on the ledge or restlessly pacing near the foot of the bed.

  “Dr. Padillo asked how you were feeling today.” As the penlight snapped off she caught a glimpse of him, leaning against the sill, one hip thrown out at a sexy angle.

  “The truth?” Nikki asked, blinking.

  “Nothing but,” Trent said.

  “Like I was ground up into hamburger.”

  Padillo’s eyebrows shot up and he removed his glasses. “¿Cómo?”

  Trent said something in quick Spanish and the doctor smiled as he polished the lenses of his wire-rims with the corner of his lab coat. He slid his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose. “So you have not lost your sense of humor, eh?”

  “Just my memory.”

  “Is this right?” he asked Trent and Nikki was more than a little rankled. It wasn’t Trent’s memory that was missing, it was hers, and she resented the two men discussing her.

  “Yes, it’s right,” she said a little angrily.

  Scowling, Padillo checked her other eye, clicked off his light and glanced at Trent, who had shoved himself upright and was standing in her line of vision. His features were stern and the air of impatience about him hadn’t disappeared. Dr. Padillo rubbed his chin. “You are a very lucky woman, Señora McKenzie. We were all worried about you. Especially your husband.”

  “Worried sick,” Trent added, and Nikki thought she heard a trace of mockery in his voice. His cool gaze flicked to her before returning to the doctor.

  Shifting on the bed, she grimaced against a sudden pain in her leg. “I feel like I broke every bone in my body.”

  Padillo smiled a bit, not certain that she was joking. “The bones—they are fine. And except for your—” he glanced at Trent “—tobillo.”

  “Your ankle. It’s sprained but not broken,” Trent told her, though she would rather have heard the news from the doctor himself. The thought of Trent and Padillo discussing her injuries or anything else about her made her stomach begin to knot in dread.

  “Sí. The ankle, it is swollen, but lucky not to be broken.”

  She supposed she should believe him, but lying in the hospital bed, her body aching, Trent acting as her husband or jailer, she felt anything but lucky.

  “Your muscles are sore and you have the cuts and scrapes—contusions. Lacerations. You will be—” he hesitated.

  “Black and blue?” Trent supplied.

  Doctor Padillo grinned. “Sí. Bruised. But you will live, I think.” His dark eyes twinkled as he touched her lightly on the arms and neck, lifting her hospital gown to expose more of her skin as he eyed the abrasions she could feel on her abdomen and back. “This must be kept clean and covered with antibiotic cream so that she heals and does not get the infection,” he told Trent. To underscore his meaning, he pointed at a scrape that ran beneath her right arm and the side of her ribs, and the air touched the side of her breast.

  A tide of embarrassment washed up her face and neck, which was ridiculous if Trent really was her husband. Surely he’d seen her dressed in much less than the hospital gown. Her breasts weren’t something new to him. Yet she was grateful when the thin cotton dropped over her side and afforded her a little bit of modesty.

  The headache that had been with her most of the time she was awake started thundering again and hurt all over. Her entire right side was sore and she was conscious of the throbbing in her ankle. Padillo listened to her heartbeat through a stethoscope and asked her to show him that she could make a fist and sit up. She did as she was bid, then hazarded a glance in Trent’s
direction, hoping that he had the decency to stare out the window, but his eyes were trained on her as if he had every right to watch as the doctor examined her.

  “Ooh!” she cried when Padillo touched her right foot.

  The doctor frowned slightly. “Tiene dolor aquí.”

  “What?”

  “He says you have a pain there—in your foot.”

  “Mucho pain,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  “Sí.” Padillo placed the sheet and woven blanket over her body again. “It will be...tender for a few days, but should be able to carry your weight by the end of the week.” Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat, he added, “We were wondering if you were ever going to wake up.”

  “How long was I—?”

  “You were in a coma for six days,” Trent said, and from the looks of his jaw he hadn’t shaved the entire time she’d been under. She supposed that it was testament to his undying love that he’d spent the better part of a week keeping his vigil, and yet there was something about him that seemed almost predatory.

  Again she looked at his harsh features, trying to find some hint in her memory of the rugged planes of his face. Surely if she’d married him, loved him, slept in the same bed with him, she would recall something about him. She bit down on her lip as he returned her stare, his eyes an opaque blue that gave no hint of his emotions. Desperation put a stranglehold on her heart.

  “The nurse will give you medication for the pain,” Dr. Padillo said, making notes on her chart before resting his hip on her bed. “Tell me about the—Dios,” he muttered, snapping his fingers.

  “Amnesia,” Trent supplied.

  “Sí. Have you any memory?”

  Nikki glanced from the doctor to Trent and back again. She needed time alone with the doctor and yet Trent wasn’t about to leave. “Can we speak privately?” she asked, and Padillo’s brows drew together.

  “We are alone....” He glanced up at Trent, his furrowed expression showing concern.

  “Please.”