didn’t say that.’
The light from the X-ray box emphasised his pallor, and the lines of tension etched around his impossibly sexy mouth, but neither of those things detracted from his extraordinary good-looks.
‘Not in so many words,’ he said hoarsely. ‘But if you can’t find out what’s wrong with me and work out how to put it right, it amounts to the same thing.’
‘It’s not that simple, Cristiano. The good news is that you’re looking at a healthy brain. Those X-rays show that your recovery from the accident has been remarkably complete.’ She picked up the top sheet from the file and frowned slightly as she studied it. ‘All your stats are excellent—proving that your reflexes and responses far exceed those of the average fit male your age. My investigations have been exhaustive, and I can state categorically that there’s no physiological cause of the symptoms you’ve been having.’
He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You’re saying that it’s all in my mind?’
‘The brain is a very complex organ. Physical injury is easy to see, but psychological damage is harder to measure. The palpitations and flashbacks you’re suffering while driving are very real symptoms, but their cause is nothing I can specifically identify or treat.’ She paused, rearranging the papers on her desk, her large diamond eternity ring flashing in the lamplight as her hands moved. ‘I believe,’ she began again carefully, ‘that they are directly related to your memory loss. In itself, that’s not a problem, but because your subconscious has blocked out memories of the crash you haven’t yet been able to process them and move on.’
‘But what about before the crash?’ Cristiano’s voice was like sandpaper. ‘Why can’t I remember that either?’
‘Retrograde amnesia,’ Dr Fournier said gently. ‘It’s not uncommon. Many people experience some degree of memory loss after a head trauma. The length of time that’s lost is significant—the fact that you’ve only got a gap of twenty-four hours is good news.’
Cristiano gave a hard, abrupt laugh. ‘Is it?’ Silhouetted against the gathering darkness outside, his broad shoulders were absolutely rigid. ‘Will I ever get them back?’
‘It’s impossible to say. There are no guarantees. Sometimes memory comes back in its own time.’
He swore in Italian, softly and savagely. ‘I can’t wait for that. The Grand Prix season starts in six weeks.’ Thrusting a hand through his hair, he gave a ragged, bitter laugh. ‘Suki’s invited every sports journalist and team sponsor on the planet to this ridiculous event tonight to celebrate my return to the circuit. Silvio has rediscovered religion thanks to the miracle of my recovery.’
Dr Fournier’s voice was deliberately soothing. ‘Have you talked to the people you were with that night? Sometimes you just need a trigger for the memory to return…’
Cristiano gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘I was alone. The last thing I remember is getting into the car for qualifying.’ He had been over it time and time again. He remembered the click of the harness as he’d got into the car, and after that nothing. Sometimes, just as he was drifting off to sleep or waking up again, he thought he caught the echo of something that was a memory rather than a dream, and desperately tried to hold onto it, but the harder he tried the more elusive it was. ‘Suki tells me I did an interview with someone from Clearspring Water, but that can’t have taken long. After that I must have gone home.’
Leaning against the windowsill, he dropped his head into his hands for a moment as despair and self-disgust overwhelmed him. Against the odds he had survived a crash that should have killed him, come round from ten days in a coma and dragged himself from an Intensive Care bed back to the cockpit of a racing car. He had built up his strength, and driven himself ruthlessly and relentlessly to regain fitness, harnessing the same determination and focus that had made him so successful before.
Now everything he had worked for was slipping through his fingers. And there was nothing he could do about it—because while he could control his body and work harder, train longer, push himself further, his brain still let him down.
‘Don’t forget that you are lucky to have survived, Cristiano.’
He raised his head and looked at the doctor with an expression of infinite despair. ‘If I can’t race again, I might as well not have.’
Dr Fournier tapped her finger thoughtfully against her compressed lips. ‘When was the last time you had a holiday?’
He shrugged. ‘Relaxing has never really been my thing.’
‘Maybe you should try it. You’ve pushed yourself as far as you possibly can physically, so maybe now it’s time to give yourself a rest. Take some time out to think.’
‘No thanks.’
He had spent his life trying to avoid having time to think. Escaping from introspection had always been one of the driving forces behind everything he did.
Dr Fournier shrugged one cashmere shoulder. ‘It’s the best shot you’ve got of getting your memory back. Since you left hospital you haven’t stopped pushing yourself—almost as if you have to prove to yourself that you’re not just as fit as you were before the accident, but fitter, stronger, better. You’ve done it, Cristiano—congratulations. Physically, you’re in peak condition. However, mentally…’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’ He gave her a glacial smile. ‘You don’t need to remind me about my mental failings.’
‘Needing time to get over a trauma like you’ve had isn’t a failing—and I’m not saying this as your doctor; I’m saying it as your friend. I have a chalet in the Alps, near Courchevel. It’s pretty isolated, but a housekeeper keeps it stocked up with the essentials and the skiing is great.’ She opened the top drawer of her desk and took out a set of keys. They gave a silvery jangle as she held them out to him across the desk, looking at him steadily. ‘It’s yours for as long as you want it.’
And, because he had run out of options, because he was desperate, because it was the only glimmer of hope left on an increasingly dark horizon, Cristiano found himself leaning forward and taking them from her.
‘Go, Cristiano,’ she said gravely. ‘Go soon.’
Chapter Two
‘OMIGOD—you will never guess who’s just arriving…’
Kate jerked her head up, almost stabbing herself with the mascara wand, as Lisa’s shriek of excitement ricocheted off her taut nerves.
‘OK, tell me.’
Lisa, already dressed and ready to go in a skin-tight silver dress that showed off her magnificent figure to perfection, was stationed at the French windows looking out over the front of the hotel to where the Monaco Casino lit up the night like an elegant ocean liner. The guests for the Campano party were already arriving: a steady procession of shiny, sporty, expensive cars pulling up in front of the Casino’s famous Belle Epoque frontage to disgorge their glamorous occupants while Lisa gave an increasingly excited commentary.
‘Oh…no, wait a minute…it isn’t,’ she said now, her voice suddenly flat with disappointment. ‘I thought it was Maresca, but it’s not…Too short…’
In the mirror, Kate’s
