were total strangers to her.
‘Perhaps I should introduce myself,’ the man said, breaking through her tortured reverie. ‘My name is Javier Mélendez. I am your husband. We have been married for almost two years.’
Emelia felt the cacophonous boom of her heart again. It felt as if her chest wall was going to blow open with the sheer force of it. She struggled to contain her composure, her fingers now clutching at the sheet of the bed either side of her body as if to anchor herself. ‘M-married?’ she choked. ‘Truly? This is not a joke or something? We are legally married?’
He gave a single nod. ‘It is our anniversary at the end of next month.’
Emelia had no hope of disguising her shock. She opened and closed her mouth, trying to get her voice to work. Her brain was flying off in all directions, confused, frightened, lost. How could this be? How could this man be her husband? How could her mind let her down in such a way? How could she forget her own wedding day? What cruel stroke of fate had erased it from her memory? She let out a breath that rattled through her lungs. ‘Um…where did we meet?’ she asked.
‘We met at The Silver Room in London,’ he said. ‘You were playing one of my favourite songs as I walked in.’
Emelia ran her tongue over her lips again as part of the fog cleared in her head. ‘I…I remember The Silver Room…’ She put her hand to her aching eyes. ‘I can picture it. The chandeliers…the piano…’
‘Do you remember your employer?’ Javier asked.
Emelia looked up at him again but his eyes were like glittering diamonds: hard and impenetrable.
‘Peter Marshall…’ she said after a moment, her spirits instantly lifting as the memories flooded back. At least she hadn’t lost too much of her past, she thought in cautious relief. ‘He manages the hotel. He’s from Australia like me. I’ve known him since childhood. We went to neighbouring private schools. He gave me the job in the piano bar. He’s been helping me find work as a private music teacher…’
Something flickered in his gaze, a quick lightning flash of something she couldn’t quite identify. ‘Do you remember why you came to London in the first place?’ he asked in a voice that was toneless, showing no hint of emotion.
Emelia looked down at her hands for a moment. ‘Yes…yes I do…’ she said, returning her gaze to his. ‘My father and I had a falling out. A big one. We have a rather difficult relationship, or at least we have had since my mother died. He married within a couple of months of her death. His new wife…the latest one? We didn’t get on. Actually, I haven’t got on with any of his wives. There have been four so far…’ She lowered her gaze and sighed. ‘It’s complicated…’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It always is.’
She brought her gaze back to his, searching his features for a moment. ‘I guess if we’re married I must have told you about it many times. How stubborn my father is.’
‘Yes, you have,’ he said, ‘many times.’
Emelia pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes, her frown still tight. ‘Why can’t I remember you?’ she asked. ‘I should be able to remember you.’ I need to be able to remember you, otherwise I will be living with a total stranger, she thought in rising alarm.
His dark eyes gave nothing away. ‘The doctor said you should not rush things, querida,’ he said. ‘You will remember when the time is right. It might take a few days or maybe even a few weeks.’
Emelia swallowed a tight knot of panic. ‘But what if I don’t?’ she asked in a broken whisper. ‘What if I never remember the last two years of my life?’
One of his broad shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug that Emelia somehow felt wasn’t quite representative of how he felt. ‘Do not concern yourself with things that are out of your control,’ he said. ‘Perhaps when you are back at home at my villa in Seville you will remember bits and pieces.’
He waited a beat before continuing. ‘You loved the villa. You said when I first took you there it was the most beautiful place you had ever seen.’
Emelia tried to picture it but her mind continued to be a blank. ‘What was I doing in London?’ she asked as soon as the thought popped into her head. ‘You weren’t with me in the car, were you?’
That lightning-quick movement came and went in his gaze again; it was like the hand of an illusionist making something disappear before the audience could see how it was done. ‘No, I was not,’ he said. ‘You were with your—’ he paused for a moment ‘—with Peter Marshall.’
Emelia felt a hand grab at her insides and twist them cruelly. ‘Peter was with me?’ Her heart gave a lurch against her breastbone. ‘Was he injured? Is he all right? Can I see him? Where is he? How is he?’
The ensuing silence after her rapid fire of panicked questions seemed to contain a deep and low back beat, a slow steady rhythm that seemed to be building and building, leading Emelia inexorably to a disharmonious chord she didn’t want to hear.
‘I am sorry to be the one to inform you of this, but Marshall did not survive the accident,’ Javier said again without any trace of emotion in his voice.
Emelia blinked at him in stunned shock. Peter was dead? Her mind couldn’t process the information. It kept shrinking back from it, like a battered dog cowering out of reach of the next anticipated blow. ‘No…’ The word came out hoarsely in a voice she didn’t recognise as her own. ‘No, that can’t be. He can’t be dead. He can’t be…We had such plans…’
Javier’s expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker of a muscle in his jaw revealed an iota of what he was feeling. It was as if he were reading from a script for a role he had no intention of playing. His words were wooden, cool. ‘He is dead, Emelia. The doctors couldn’t save him.’
Emelia felt tears burst from her eyes, hot scalding tears that ran unchecked down her cheeks. ‘But I loved him so much…’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘We’ve known each other for years. We grew up in the same suburb. He was such a supportive friend to me…’ A thought hit her like a glancing blow and her eyes widened in horror. ‘Oh, God…’ she gulped. ‘Who was driving? Did I kill him? Oh, God, God, God—’
He touched her then. His hand came down over hers on the bed just like the doctor’s had done earlier, but his touch felt nothing like the cool, smooth professional hand of the medico’s. Javier’s touch was like a scorching brand, a blistering heat that scored her flesh to the fragile bones of her hand as he pinned it beneath the strength of his. ‘No, you did not kill him,’ he said flatly. ‘You were not driving. He was. He was speeding.’
Her relief was a minute consolation given the loss of a dear friend. Peter was dead? The three words whirled around and around in her head but she wouldn’t allow them to settle. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe this was nothing but a horrible nightmare. Maybe she would wake up any second and find herself lying in her sunny shoebox flat in Notting Hill, looking forward to meeting up with Peter later to discuss the programme for that night’s performance, just as she did every night before taking her place at the grand piano.
Emelia looked down at her hand beneath the tanned weight of Javier Mélendez’s. There was something about his touch that triggered something deep inside her body. Her blood recognised him
