had light brown hair, he decided, recalling the silky strands that had brushed his collar. Sort of toffee-coloured, he amended, and streaked with butter. Like caramel and cream or corn and coffee. He delighted in the comparisons. And just as smooth.
As far as her face was concerned, that was harder. It was oval, yet she’d had quite a determined chin. Her cheekbones had been high, her cheeks streaked with colour; and she’d had a mouth that he’d badly wanted to kiss.
Ridiculous!
He dispatched the thought instantly, drawing in another unsteady breath. It was no use speculating about their relationship. Until she told him who she was, it was far too dangerous to permit.
Once again he forced back the frightening void that loomed in front of him. He had to stop being so negative about his condition. That doctor—Harper—had said there was no easy answer. It would take days or weeks or months to recover completely.
Or never…
Of course, it was easy for a doctor to say. He didn’t have to live with this terrible emptiness, this lack of knowledge that threatened to drive him mad. He didn’t have to wake up to an awareness that was only partial. He didn’t know his name, his age, his identity. He didn’t have a life.
The brief spurt of optimism he’d been feeling while he was recalling the woman’s image faded. There was no point in pretending he was getting anywhere with that. She was just as much a stranger now as she had ever been. Beautiful, yes, but anonymous just the same.
Which surely proved that their relationship couldn’t be an intimate one, he decided wearily. And, looking back, she had shown little joy in finding he was alive. If his opinion meant anything, she’d seemed to look at him almost critically. As if she was searching for some recognition she hadn’t found.
But that way lay danger. He refused to allow himself to approach the abyss again. She had to know who he was. Why else had she come here? The name—his name—Nathan Wolfe, had meant something to her.
A draught of air cooled his throbbing temples, but when he opened his eyes it was to find a nurse lifting the clipboard from the end of his bed. On it, he knew, were all the details of his present condition. They kept a note of his temperature, his blood pressure and his pulse.
And what else? he wondered. Judging by the way he was sweating at the moment, his temperature was probably way over par. He had only to think of how helpless he was, and his heart started pounding. The symptoms might be physical, but he knew it was mostly due to nerves.
“How are we feeling?” the nurse asked cheerfully, treating him to a gap-toothed smile. Haynes, he thought, frowning. Her name was Nurse Haynes. She’d been on duty last night when he was admitted. Only then he’d barely acknowledged she was there.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling terrific,” he said, the cynicism in his tone barely disguised. He forced a grin to his dry lips to mitigate his sarcasm. “Say, who was that woman who visited earlier today? I did have a visitor, didn’t I? She wasn’t just a vision brought on by all those drugs you’ve been pumping into me?”
Nurse Haynes looked at him over the rim of the clipboard. She had nice eyes, thought Nathan objectively, though not as nice as some others he recalled. Nevertheless, she was his best hope for enlightenment. He didn’t think old man Harper would be making any ward calls tonight.
The nurse lowered the clipboard to rest against her ample bosom. “She didn’t tell you?” she inquired, and his impatience flared anew. Why was it that everyone seemed to think it was necessary to respond to his questions with other questions? Did they think he’d be asking if he knew?
“No,” he replied at last, tersely, seeing no virtue in admitting some half truth. “So who was she? I have a right to know, don’t I? Or is this some guessing game I have to play?”
The nurse’s blonde brows elevated to somewhere near her nairline, and he realised he might have gone too far. He was in no state to make demands on anyone. Least of all some innocent nurse, who was only doing her job.
But Nurse Haynes was evidently disposed to be generous. “Why, Mr Wolfe,” she said, in what he knew instinctively was a Southern accent, “that—woman—as you describe her, is your wife.”
His stomach clenched. “My wife?”
“That’s right.” The nurse smiled. “A Mrs Caitlin Wolfe, from London. England, of course. What did you say to her? I hear she was quite upset when she left.”
He couldn’t believe it. My God, if she’d been his wife, he’d have recognised her, wouldn’t he? She’d been so close; she’d helped him to a drink of water, for Christ’s sake. He’d have identified something about her, even if it was only her perfume.
“I guess it’s come as quite a shock to y’all?” the nurse ventured, suddenly anxious. Was she afraid she’d get into trouble for letting the cat out of the bag? But, dammit, if the woman was his wife, he deserved to know about it. If only so that when she came back he’d have something to say.
And then, as the rest of what she’d said struck him, he stared up at her. “She’s left?” he exclaimed, gulping for air. “Dammit, where’s she gone?”
“Why, to check in to a hotel, I imagine,” responded Nurse Haynes soothingly. She hooked the clipboard back onto the rail and came to take his pulse. “I guess she’ll come back tomorrow. Particularly as she’s come such a long way.”
“Pigs might fly,” he muttered, resenting her suddenly for disrupting his pensive mood. How the hell was he supposed to relax when he supposedly had a wife he didn’t recognise? And why hadn’t she identified herself to him?
“She’ll be here,” declared Nurse Haynes confidently. She released his wrist and slipped her watch back into her breast pocket. “There now, you’ve got something to look forward to. Not everyone’s so lucky, believe me.”
His jaw clamped. He knew that was true. The aftermath of the accident was still horrifyingly fresh in his mind. After all, he was alive, and apart from his loss of memory, apparently not seriously injured. If he could only be patient, he had every chance of making a full recovery.
So why was he feeling so apprehensive? Why did the memory of his—wife—stick painfully in his gut? He had no reason to doubt she cared about him, yet he’d sensed a certain ambivalence in her gaze.
He spent the following day in a state of wary anticipation. Despite the depressed feeling he’d had the night before, he’d slept reasonably well and he’d awakened feeling infinitely brighter. At least he knew who he was, he told himself firmly. And from that basis, he would eventually rebuild his life.
So far as his marriage was concerned, he was determined to be optimistic. If it had been going through a rocky patch—and he had only his instincts to go on—then the accident could work in its favour. If he and—dammit, what had Nurse Haynes said her name was?—Caitlin? That’s right, Caitlin. If he and Caitlin were having problems, they’d have a chance to solve them. They were being given a new start, whether they wanted it or not.
Before lunch, Dr Harper appeared, trailing his usual pack of interns. Evidently, his case had warranted some excitement in the medical school, and he was forced to lie there saying nothing, while every detail of his condition was brought out and discussed in embarrassing detail.
Not
