through the array of clothes, selected a simple black dress and heels to match. As she dressed she couldn’t quite suppress the feeling that she was dressing in someone else’s clothes. The dress was made by a French designer and must have cost a fortune; the shoes, too, were a brand celebrities and Hollywood stars regularly wore. She used the cosmetics in the drawer in the en suite bathroom, but only lightly and, after drying her hair with a blow-dryer, she left it lying about her shoulders.
As she came down the grand staircase she heard Javier’s voice from the study. He was speaking in Spanish and sounded angry. Emelia knew it was probably beneath her to eavesdrop but, even so, she couldn’t resist pausing outside the closed study door. Of course hearing only one side of a conversation was not all that revealing and, although she understood very basic Spanish, he spoke so rapidly she found it hard to follow everything he said. One or two sentences did stand out, however.
‘There is not going to be a divorce.’
Emelia’s eyes widened as she listened even harder, wincing as one or two expletives were uttered before his next statement.
‘The money is not yours and never has been and, as long as I live, it never will be.’
The phone slammed down and, before Emelia could move even a couple of paces down the hall, Javier came storming out of the study. He pulled up short as if someone had jerked him back by the back of his jacket when he saw her standing there with guilt written all over her face.
‘How long have you been standing out here?’ He almost barked the words at her.
Emelia took a layer of her lip gloss off with the nervous dart of her tongue. ‘I…I was just walking past. I heard you raise your voice.’
His expression was thunderous but Emelia had a feeling the anger was not directed at her. He raked a hand through his hair and released a heavy sigh, as if deliberately trying to suppress his fury. ‘Just as well you don’t remember any Spanish,’ he said. ‘I don’t usually swear in the presence of women, but my father’s third wife is nothing but a gold-digging, trouble-making tramp.’
Emelia wondered if she should tell him she could speak and understand a little of his language, but in that nanosecond of hesitation she decided against it. Wouldn’t it seem strange that she couldn’t remember him and yet she could remember every word of Spanish she had learned over the past two years? After all, he had already implied she might be pretending. Why he would think that was beyond her, although, given the conversation she had just overheard, it made her wonder if their marriage had been as happy as he had intimated. She had just heard him say there was not going to be a divorce. Did that mean there had been recent speculation about their marriage ending? Javier had mentioned how the press had made some scurrilous comments about her relationship with Peter Marshall. There would be few men who would cope well with their private life being splashed all over the papers and gossip magazines, but Javier struck her as a particularly proud and intensely private man. There was so much she didn’t know and she didn’t feel comfortable asking in case the answers he gave were not the ones she wanted to hear.
‘It must be very difficult for you, under the circumstances,’ she offered.
He gave her a long look and sighed again, taking her elbow to lead the way to the dining room. ‘My father was a fool leaving Izabella’s mother for Claudine Marsden. That woman is a home wrecker. Why he couldn’t see it is beyond me.’
‘Some men are like that,’ she said. ‘My father is the same.’
He glanced down at her as they came to the dining room door. ‘Did your father contact you while you were in hospital?’ he asked.
Emelia’s mouth tightened. ‘No, why should he? As far as he is concerned, I am as good as dead to him. He told me he never wanted to see me again. I have no reason to suspect he didn’t mean it.’
Javier pressed his lips together, a frown creasing his forehead as he led her to the table. ‘People say all sorts of things in the heat of the moment.’ He paused before adding, ‘I should have phoned him. I didn’t think of it, I’m afraid. There was so much going on at the time. He should have been notified about the accident.’
‘Did I at some point give you his contact details?’ Emelia asked.
‘No, but it wouldn’t have been all that hard to track him down,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to make contact now, just to let him know you are all right?’
Emelia thought about her father with his new wife, who was only three years older than her. After their last insult-throwing argument, she couldn’t see him flying all the way to Spain with flowers and a get well card in hand. He was probably sunning himself at his luxurious Sunshine Coast mansion with his child bride waiting on him hand and foot. ‘No, don’t bother,’ she said, trying to remove the bitterness from her tone. ‘He’s probably got much more important things to see to.’
Javier gave her a thoughtful look as he drew out her chair.
Emelia took the seat, waiting until he sat down opposite to say, ‘Our backgrounds—apart from the level of wealth—are very similar, aren’t they? Your father was estranged from you and mine from me. Is that something that drew us together when we first met?’
His dark eyes held hers for a moment before he answered. ‘It was one of many things.’
‘What were some of the other things?’ she asked.
He poured wine for each of them, his mouth tilting slightly. ‘Lust, lust and more lust,’ he said.
Emelia pursed her lips, hating that she was blushing, hating him for watching with such mocking amusement. ‘I can assure you I would never fall in lust with someone,’ she said. ‘I would only ever love someone I admired as a man, for his qualities as a person, not his possessions or social standing. And I most certainly wouldn’t marry a man on physical attraction alone.’
His mocking smile was still in place. ‘So you must have loved me, eh, Emelia?’ He flicked his napkin across his lap, his eyes still tethering hers. ‘The thing is, will you remember to love me again?’
EMELIA placed her own napkin over her lap, all the time avoiding those black-as-pitch eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck were tingling and her stomach was rolling like a ball going down a very steep hill. Had she felt like this during their marriage? Had her skin felt prickly and sensitive just with his gaze on her, let alone his touch? She desperately wanted to remember everything about him, everything about them—their relationship, the love they supposedly had shared.
Or had they?
The thought slipped into her mind, unfurling like a curl of smoke beneath a closed door. Did he love her the way she had evidently loved him? It was so difficult to know what he felt; he kept himself to himself most of the time. She understood his reluctance to reveal his feelings, given her loss of memory. He might resent looking a fool if she never regained her memory of him. In any case, the doctors had warned him not to pressure her. Was that why he was acting like the perfect stranger, polite but aloof, with just occasional glimpses of his personality? There was so much she didn’t know about him, things she would need to know in order to navigate her way through the complex labyrinth her mind had become. With an effort she raised her eyes back to his. ‘I feel such a fool for not asking you this
