Memories: A Husband to RememberNew Year's Daddy (Hqn), Page 3

  “But your husband—”

  “Please, Doctor. It’s important!” She wrapped her fingers into the starched fabric of his white jacket.

  “It’s probably a good idea,” Trent said with a nonchalant shrug. As if he had nothing to hide. “She’s a little confused right now. Maybe you can straighten things out for her and help her remember.”

  I’m not confused about you, she thought, but bit hard on her tongue, because the truth was, she didn’t know a thing about herself.

  Trent let his fingers slide along the bottom rail of the hospital bed. “I’ll be in the hall if you need me.” As he left the room, his boot heels ringing softly, he closed the door behind him, and Nikki let out a long sigh.

  “That man is not my husband,” she asserted as firmly as she could.

  “He’s not?” The doctor’s eyebrows raised skeptically, and he eyed Nikki as if she’d truly lost her mind.

  “I—I’m sure of it.”

  “Your memory. It has come back?”

  “No, but...” Oh, this was hopeless! She clenched a fist in frustration, and pain shot up her arm. “I would remember him. I know it!” Unbidden, hot, wet tears touched the back of her eyelids, but she refused to cry.

  Dr. Padillo patted her shoulder. “These things, they take time.”

  “But I would remember the man I married.”

  “As you remember the rest of your family?”

  She didn’t answer. The haze that was her past refused to crystallize and she was left with dark shadows and vague feelings, nothing solid.

  “Your home? A pet? Your job? You remember any of these things?”

  She closed her eyes and fought the tears building behind her swollen lids. She remembered so little and yet she felt like she was trapped, like an insect caught in the sticky web of a spider, vulnerable and weak. She stared at the IV tube draining into her arm, the iron sides of the bed, the gauze on her arm and the tiny room—her prison until she could walk again.

  If only she could remember! Why was Trent posted like a wary guard in her room day and night? Surely he trusted the hospital staff to take care of her. Or was his concern of a different nature? Was he afraid she might escape?

  She closed her eyes as the questions pounded at her brain. Why the devil was she on this little island off the coast of Venezuela? And why in God’s name wouldn’t this doctor believe her? There had to be a way to convince him!

  “I’ve never set eyes on Trent McKenzie until I woke up a little while ago.”

  “See! That is wrong. He is the one who brought you to the hospital.” Padillo smiled reassuringly. “Give it some time, Señora McKenzie. You Americans. Always so in a hurry.”

  “Please, call me Nikki.”

  “Nikki, then. Do not rush this,” Doctor Padillo said gently. “You have been...lucky. The accident could have been much worse.”

  The tone of his voice caught her attention, and for the first time she wondered how she’d become so battered. “What happened to me?” she asked, looking up at him and trying to ignore the horrible feeling that the man to whom this doctor was going to release her was inherently dangerous.

  “I’ve talked to your husband as well as the policía. They concur. You and Señor McKenzie were walking along the hills by the mission. These hills, they can be very...escarpado...uh, sharp...no—”

  “Steep,” she supplied, her nightmare becoming vivid again. The jagged cliffs. The roaring sea. The dizzying heights and the mission with its crumbling bell tower.

  “Sí. Steep. The path you were on was narrow, near the cliffs, and you stumbled, lost your footing and fell over the edge. Fortunately, you landed on a...saliente—Dios...you call it a...”

  “A ledge,” Trent supplied as he opened the door and heard the tail end of the discussion. His gaze was pinned to Nikki’s and his mouth was a thin grim line. “You slid over the side and landed on a ledge that jutted beneath the edge of the cliff. If you’d rolled another two feet, you would have fallen over a hundred feet into the sea.”

  Her body jarred as she remembered pitching in the air. So the nightmare was real. Oh, God, help me! Her throat closed in fear, but she managed to whisper hoarsely, “And you saved me?”

  His lips tightened a little. “I couldn’t save you from falling over the edge—I was already at the mission. But I heard you scream.” His jaw clenched. “I followed the sound and ran back to the spot where you’d fallen. Fortunately I could climb down and carry you back.”

  Was he lying? “How did you get down to me?”

  “It was tricky,” he admitted as he rolled up the sleeve of a cotton work shirt. “But I’ve climbed mountains.”

  “So you didn’t see me fall?”

  His eyes locked with hers, and he hesitated for a fraction of an instant. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone on ahead.”

  Nikki wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth, but the pain in her body was intense and she knew arguing with these two men was useless. Could Trent possibly be her savior as he claimed, or had he been the man chasing her, the man who pushed her over the edge? But if so, why would he have brought her back for medical care? Oh, Lord, her brain hurt.

  Shuddering, she thought about her nightmare, her feet losing their purchase on the rocky trail, her body pitching toward the rocky shore hundreds of feet below the ridge. Deep in her heart she’d expected that the horrid dream was real, but she shivered with a fear as cold as the bottom of the sea. She hadn’t fallen over the edge, she’d been pushed, chased by someone...someone darkly evil. Her gaze moved to Trent’s face, so severe and determined. It was hard to imagine that he had saved her from death.... She almost cried out, but forced the tremors in her body to subside. She couldn’t show any sign of weakness to this stranger who claimed to be her husband, and she had to come up with a plan, a way to escape the hospital and find out who she was. Oh, God, if her head didn’t ache so badly, if she could bear weight on her ankle, she’d find a way to uncover the truth.

  A shadow crossed her face as Trent bent over the bed. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he promised, his breath fanning her face. He kissed her lightly on the lips and there was a warmth in the feel of his mouth against hers that caused her heart to trip. Was it possible that she’d fallen in love with this brash, uncompromising man? Nikki couldn’t remember anything about her past, but she didn’t believe for a second that she would marry a man so damned intimidating, a man who just by his mere presence seemed destined to dominate everyone he met. Certainly she would have chosen a kinder, wiser individual—a thinking man.

  His lips moved against hers, and it was all Nikki could do to lay stiffly and unresponsively on the bed. Trent lifted his head and, straightening, smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt as he winked at her. The smile curving his lips was positively wicked—as if he and she shared some dark, indecent secret. He patted the edge of the bed, then walked with the doctor out of the room.

  Silently fuming, Nikki thought of a million ways to strangle him. His little show for the doctor was just an act. Or was it? There was no passion in this kiss, not like the one before, and yet she’d felt a spark of emotion, a tenderness she couldn’t equate with Trent McKenzie or whoever the hell he was. She ground her teeth in frustration and willed her memory to surface, but only vague images drifted into her mind. She remembered a grassy field and riding a horse—no, a pony, a spotted pony. She’d been bareback. A dog had trailed after the chubby little horse, nearly hidden in the tall grass. There had been apple trees—an old orchard, perhaps—in the corner of the field and a copse of oak and fir trees on the other side of the fence line.

  Had the pony been hers? She imagined cattle grazing on the stubble in the next field, but the image turned cloudy and she was left with an emptiness that she couldn’t fill. “Damn it all,” she muttered as she tried and failed to summon any other though
ts about her past.

  What about Trent? Your husband? Any memory of him at all eluded her completely.

  She shifted on the wrinkled sheets and sucked in her breath at the sharp pain at her ankle. From the hallway, she heard Trent and Dr. Padillo, talking softly in the flowing cadences of Spanish. Of course they were discussing her, but she couldn’t hear or understand them. Frustrated, she tried to sit up, but fell back against the pillows. If only she could climb out of this bed, march down to the police station, or the airport, or the American embassy, if there was one on this godforsaken island, and demand to know who she was and how she got here.

  Tears threatened, and she stared at the crucifix on the wall. “Give me strength,” she whispered as Nurse Vásquez returned with her medication. She thought of refusing the drugs, knowing she needed a clear mind, but the pain was too great and she was thankful for the tide of sleep the tiny pills would bring her. She swallowed the sedative eagerly, waiting for the pain to slowly erode and drowsiness to overcome her. Closing her eyes, an old commercial message wafted through her brain. Calgon, take me away...

  When she woke up...then she’d try to remember.

  * * *

  “I want her released as soon as possible.” Trent eyed the little man who was the most highly recommended doctor on the island. However, there couldn’t have been more than three physicians on Salvaje, so Trent wasn’t going to linger here, hoping this man knew what he was doing. Too much was at stake.

  “But you have time...you are on your honeymoon.” With a knowing grin, Padillo patted Trent’s arm. “Be patient.”

  “We have to get back to the States.”

  “Why must you leave so soon?”

  “We’d only planned to stay a week,” Trent explained, trying to keep his temper in check. He was used to doing things his own way. Having Nikki in the local hospital was inconvenient. Damned inconvenient. Probably even dangerous. Don’t get paranoid, he told himself, but he hadn’t slept much in five nights and he was strung tighter than a bowstring. Right now, he wanted to shake some sense into the little doctor, to convince Padillo to release Nikki at that very moment, but he couldn’t tip his hand. Not yet.

  “Salvaje is a beautiful place. You should stay here. Enjoy the climate,” Doctor Padillo was saying as a nurse at the lobby waved at him in an attempt to get his attention. “Your wife...she has not seen much of the island.”

  “We can come back.”

  “You Americans,” the doctor said, clucking his tongue. “Always in a rush.”

  If you only knew.

  “I can release her within three days,” Padillo said, though by the gathering of lines between his flat black brows it was obvious to Trent that the doctor wasn’t happy about his decision. “But there are only a few flights to America.”

  “We’ll find one.”

  “Doctor—” the nurse called, and Padillo waved her away, as if she were a bothersome insect.

  “Then I’ll have the necessary papers ready to sign.”

  “Good. Oh, and while you’re at it, I’ll need my wife’s purse and personal belongings.”

  “Today?”

  “Sí. I think she’d like to look through it before she goes home.”

  “If it is lost, the hospital cannot be responsible—”

  “Don’t worry,” Trent said, thinking of the pretty woman with the battered face as she lay in a hospital bed a few doors down the dark corridor. “Just give me her belongings. I’ll sign a release for everything.”

  * * *

  Nikki wasn’t sure of the time. She’d slept so much, she couldn’t keep track, but it seemed as if two or three days had passed, with Trent forever in the room with her, the doctors and nurses flitting in and out, feeding her, forcing fluids down her, fiddling with the IV, concerned that she eliminate, and assuring her she would be fine.

  They seemed worried about infection, anxious about her temperature and her blood pressure, but no one showed the least bit of uneasiness about the fact that her memory had all but disappeared.

  When Nikki had asked Padillo about her amnesia, he assured her that her memory would return and she would remember everything about her past, most likely in bits and pieces at first, but then, slowly, all the years of her life would blend together and she would know who she was, her family, what she did for a living. She’d even remember becoming Trent McKenzie’s bride.

  She wasn’t so sure.

  When she questioned him, Trent was reticent to talk to her about her amnesia. “Don’t worry,” he’d told her. “It’ll come. Take it easy.” She wondered if he’d been coached by the hospital staff or if there was a reason he didn’t want her to remember her past.

  He never gave up his vigil. Sitting with her day and night, refusing the next bed, looking the worse for wear each time she awoke, he was in the room with her. He didn’t bother to shave, but did manage to change into a clean shirt one day. Was he devoted? She didn’t buy it for a minute, yet she was certain that there was something tying them together, something worth much more to him than a wedding ring.

  Had he kidnapped her and brought her to this tiny island off the coast of South America?

  No—for he wouldn’t have alerted the police to her accident, and Padillo himself had talked to the authorities. Unless the Policía de Salvaje were not sophisticated enough to know about crimes committed in the States. Why would they doubt him? He made all the outward signs of caring for her. She, on the other hand, couldn’t remember where she’d lived all her life. Of course they would believe him.

  Her head began to throb, and Trent, sensing she was awake, shifted from his spot near the window to take a chair at the foot of the bed. He propped the worn heels of his boots against the mattress and folded his arms over his chest.

  “Good morning,” he drawled with a sexy smile.

  She glanced at the windows. “It’s afternoon.” Her dry mouth tasted horrible.

  “Well, at least you can still tell time.”

  “Very funny,” she said, wishing her tongue didn’t feel so thick. She moved her arm and was surprised that there wasn’t much pain. Either she was healing, or the medication hadn’t worn off.

  “Feeling better?”

  “I feel like hell.”

  He chuckled. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sunny personality.”

  “Never.” Forcing her gaze to his, she said, “Who are you? And don’t—” she lifted her sore right arm, holding out her palm so that he wouldn’t immediately start giving her pat, hospital-approved answers “—don’t give me any bull about being my husband.”

  His lips twitched and showed a hint of white teeth against his dark jaw, but he didn’t argue with her.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I work for an insurance company.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “You—a suit? No way.” She would have bought a lumberjack, or a cowboy, or a race-car driver, but an insurance agent?

  “Why not?”

  “Give me some credit, will you? I may not be able to remember much, but I’m not a total moron.”

  “Believe what you want.” His grin was smug and mocking and she would have given anything to be able to wipe it off his face.

  “Oh, now I get it,” she said, unable to stop baiting him. “You’ve spent the better part of the last week camped out here on the off chance I’d wake up and buy term life insurance or accident insurance—”

  “I’m an investigator.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “For an insurance company. Fraudulent claims. Arson, suicide, that sort of thing.” Cocking his head to one side, he said, “But the company would probably appreciate it if I could sell you some term—”

  “Enough already. I believe you.” She tried to
sit up, couldn’t and motioned toward the crank at the end of the bed. “Would you—”

  Trent, dropping his feet, reached over. Within a minute she was nearly sitting upright. “Better?”

  She rubbed the back of her hand where the needle marks from her recent IV were turning black and blue—to match the rest of her body. “Yes. Thanks.”

  He seemed less hostile today, and the restlessness which usually accompanied him had nearly disappeared. As he propped his boots on the mattress again, settling low on his back, he actually seemed harmless, just a concerned husband waiting for his bride to recover. She decided to take advantage of his good mood because she couldn’t believe it would last very long.

  “How did we meet?”

  “I was working for the insurance company on a claim from someone who worked with you. Connie Benson.”

  “Connie?” she repeated, shaking her head when no memory surfaced. But the name seemed right. “Connie Benson?”

  “You were both reporters at the Observer.”

  “I don’t—”

  “The Seattle Observer. You told me you’ve worked there for about six years.”

  A sharp pain touched her brain. The Observer. She’d heard of it. Now she remembered. Yes, yes! She’d read that particular Seattle daily newspaper all her life.... She remembered sitting at a table...sun streaming through the bay windows of the nook...with...oh, God, with whom? Her head snapped up.

  “You remember.”

  “Just reading the paper. With someone.”

  He held up his hands. “Not me, I’m afraid.”

  She felt a niggle of disappointment. For some reason she’d hoped that his story could be proved or disproved by this one little facet of information.

  “We met just about five weeks ago.”

  “Five weeks?” she repeated, astounded.

  “Kind of a whirlwind thing.”

  “More like a hurricane. Five weeks? Thirty-five days and we got married?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head, and his eyes grew dark. “I don’t think I’d—”