her why she was here. It must have been a shock. Hell! It was something more than that to him. But he still had the feeling there was something she was trying to hide.
“Nothing—personal,” he replied at last, his headache rapidly overtaking his will to speak to her. He was too weak to play word games, and he half wished she would go. That surge of sexual attraction had all but dissipated, and he just felt tired. Deathly tired, actually. He could hardly keep his eyes open.
She was still watching him, warily, he thought, his imagination refusing to give in. He guessed she was trying to decide whether she believed him or not, and that was strange. Why would she think he might lie? What might he have done to make his answer seem so untenable? In the present circumstances, she must surely realise his limitations. For Christ’s sake, he was lucky to be alive.
Or not …
“You don’t remember going to see your father?” she ventured, and it was a great temptation to yell that he didn’t know who the hell his father was. But at least she’d supplied another piece of the jigsaw. He had a father, if no one else. He wasn’t completely alone.
“No,” he sighed, finding the strength to answer her somehow. “Believe it or not, I didn’t know I had a father until you said so. Or—a girlfriend, either,” he added weakly. “Perhaps if you told me your name …?”
Her lips parted. “I’m not your girlfriend!”
Her denial was absolute, and his hands curled helplessly into fists. For God’s sake, she couldn’t be his sister! He recoiled from that solution with a tortured breath.
“Then who…?” he began, but the effort defeated him. Behind his eyes, the darkness was rising, albeit against his will. With a sense of shame, he felt his senses slipping. The woman, whoever she was, dissolved.
When he opened his eyes again, it was evening. He knew it was evening because the long blinds had been lowered over the windows in the wall opposite, and there were lamps glowing all about the ward. It was strange how in such a short time the place had become familiar. But—God!—it was the only point of contact that he had.
His head wasn’t aching quite so badly now. Even when he moved his head on the pillow, he didn’t get the awful hammering he’d had before. The shaking in his limbs had receded to an occasional spasm, and he actually felt as if he might be able to sit up.
He could smell food and he wondered what time it was. Early evening, he surmised, judging by the muted activity in the ward. They’d be serving supper soon, and then they’d allow the patients to have visitors. At least, that’s what he seemed to remember had happened the night before.
His lips twisted at the word: remember. It was ironic, really, how some things seemed so clear. Like the night before, when he’d been transferred to this bed, and they’d been serving chicken soup for supper. He wondered what it would be tonight and if he’d be allowed to eat.
He closed his eyes for a moment as if to test his powers of perception. Yes, opening them again was definitely not the effort it had been. Last night, he’d felt as helpless as a baby. Which was silly, really, when he hadn’t been badly hurt.
He closed his eyes again, and this time the image of the woman he had seen earlier that day swam into his vision. Her vivid gaze seemed so real that he opened his eyes once more, half-convinced he’d find her sitting beside his bed. But there was no one near him; the activity of the ward went on around him. Had she really existed? he wondered, or had he dreamt the whole thing?
He shifted restlessly, and a drift of perfume brushed his consciousness. She’d been wearing perfume, he remembered. He’d noticed it when she’d put her arm around him and lifted the glass of water to his lips. The scent of her must have lingered on his pillow. So, she hadn’t been a dream; she’d actually been there.
Such a distinctive fragrance, he reflected, luxuriating in the memory. Cool and somehow innocent, yet purely sensual in its appeal. He knew instinctively it was the kind of perfume he liked to smell on a woman, and he briefly entertained the thought that she’d worn it just for him.
Yet when he’d suggested she might be his girlfriend, she’d been so affronted. As if the idea was too ridiculous to be borne. So—what? If not his sister, could she be his—wife? Dear God, he thought, if that were so, surely he would have known.
Or would he? Excitement stirred. The idea that he might be married to the beautiful creature who’d leant so confidently over his bed was tantalising. And it was an idea that, once having taken root, was hard to shift. Was that why she’d hurried to his bedside? And was she nervous because they’d had some altercation before he left?
But he’d been going to England, he reminded himself uneasily. And she hadn’t been with him, so far as he knew. No, she couldn’t have, to be so calm and collected. So had he been going to see her? Did they live apart?
She was English. He remembered that. Or if not English, then she’d lived there for some considerable time. God, if only he knew what had caused their separation. He knew so very little about himself.
As another thought struck him, he lifted his left hand and examined his third finger. But there was no ring—not even a sign that one had been there. But that meant nothing, he told himself fiercely. Not all men wore wedding rings. He frowned. Had she?
Refusing to let the insidious waves of panic scramble his already tortured senses, he made an intense effort to remember everything he knew about her. As if she were part of some imagined identity parade, he summoned up her image. Blue eyes simply weren’t enough. He needed to recall her face in intimate detail.
But the features he forced back into focus were no more familiar now than they had ever been, and the knowledge that he could meet someone from his past without feeling any sense of identification almost frightened him to death. She’d known his father, he reminded himself desperately, which meant she had a part in his life. But what part? And for how long? And where was his father? The questions scared him more each time he struck out.
Panic almost overwhelmed him. He could smell the cold sweat that had broken out all over his useless body. Fighting it back, he struggled to find something to hold on to. But terror had him firmly in its grip.
Christ, what would he do if he never regained his memory? If the black hole he called a brain refused to work? What did people do in circumstances like this? Did they all feel so helpless? God, he thought, he’d have given anything for a shot of a single malt.
He blinked rapidly, feeling the incipient twinges of the headache he seemed to have had forever gnawing at his temple. It seemed as if whatever way he turned there was no relief. Dammit, he wasn’t a chicken; he had to overcome this. But for someone who seldom got headaches in the normal way, it was draining his strength.
He swallowed. Now, how had he known that? he wondered shakily, clinging to the thought like the proverbial drowning man. How did he know he wasn’t a slave to migraines, or suffer hangovers whenever he drank? And he did enjoy a drink; he was fairly certain. Oh, Lord, was his memory slowly coming back into life?
Afraid to explore something that still seemed so fragile, he turned his attention to what he had been trying to do before. With a determined effort, he forced the woman’s face back into his consciousness. She must hold the key, if he could only remember what it was.
Her face seemed familiar now, but he knew that was just an aberration. Because he’d been concentrating on her image for so long, it had acquired a recognisable
