“Were you so certain I’d come?”
“As certain as I was that you were Deborah. And now I’m more certain than ever. I’ll say it again. Deborah Steele is one of a kind. Since you can’t know that, take it from someone who does.” It was a warm compliment and I sensed no seductiveness in it. Here, I started to think, was someone whom I might be able to trust. Trust wasn’t something that had been coming easily to me. I got the feeling from the little Greg had told me, it never had. But I must have trusted him in the past. He’d said I’d confided in him.
“It’s going to be all right, Deborah. I promise.”
I managed a small smile. “I have to confess, Mr. Eastman—”
“Greg. I’ve been Greg ever since we first met, two years ago. What do you confess, Deborah?”
Her smile deepened a little. “I confess, Greg, that your confidence is a bit contagious.”
He smiled back—a smile at once charming and ingenuous. “Progress already. Won’t Dr. Royce be pleased.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’ll phone up to Nick and let him know we’ll be on our way.” Then, realizing I might feel he was moving too fast, he hastened to add, “As soon as you’re ready.”
Having all but sealed my fate, I felt a flurry of nervous anticipation. No amount of sitting around the hospital would make me any more ready than I was. Not that I was the least bit ready psychologically, mind you.
“I just need to pack and tell Dr. Royce—”
“Good,” Greg said cheerily. “Then we’ll make it up to Raven’s Cove in time for dinner.”
The rain started as Greg guided his sunny yellow Miata sports car onto the New York State Thruway. Flicking on his windshield wipers, he asked, “Are you okay?”
“It’s just…the rain,” I replied, not knowing whether Dr. Royce had told him anything about that.
“It should clear up,” he said with an overabundance of confidence that the cloud-laden skies didn’t support.
But it wasn’t only the rain. It was my growing sense of unease. All I could think, now that I was actually on my way, was that I shouldn’t have jumped into this so impulsively. Dr. Royce had tried to talk some sense into me. He’d even suggested phoning Nicholas and having him come down to the hospital to meet with me a few times…
“Why didn’t he come?”
Greg gave me a blank look.
“Nick.” I felt somehow foolish speaking his name.
“I only just told him about finding you a few hours ago. And his editor was up there. He would have come…Would you rather he’d have…?”
“No. I don’t know,” I answered shakily. Saying that, I was struck by how little I knew about Nicholas Steele. It was beyond me at that point to think of that stranger, a writer of macabre stories, as my husband. In my rush to begin my real life again, I’d pushed this rather crucial but certainly troubling part of it aside.
Greg must have picked up on my distress, because he started to tell me about him. “I should have brought along a picture of Nick. I could have pulled off a jacket cover from one of his books lying around my office.” He winked at me. “I’m not only a close friend, but an avid fan. Well, let me ease your worries. He’s real easy on the eyes. Tall, dark and Hollywood handsome. Although I’m always teasing him about getting a haircut. He keeps it long and pulled back in a ponytail. A real rogue pirate. Women find him witty, charming and incredibly sexy, and most men are envious as hell of him.”
“Are you?” I turned scarlet. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid, inappropriate question. Please forgive me.”
Greg merely laughed. “It wasn’t stupid or inappropriate. You always did have a habit of speaking your mind, Deb. Loss of memory notwithstanding, there’s no reason that should have changed about you. And the answer is yes. As envious as the next guy.” There was a slight pause, a quick glance in my direction, as he added, “Maybe more so.”
My face remained flushed, but Greg seemed amused, letting the innuendo slide by.
“Not that Nick’s perfect, mind you. He can be a bit intimidating until you get to know him. He’s very self-contained, exceptionally disciplined, an impossible perfectionist.”
I gave him a nervous look.
Greg quickly attempted to alleviate my anxiety. “A perfectionist when it comes to his work, that is. He sets incredibly high standards for himself, but he’s not one of those people who expects those around him to necessarily follow suit,” he assured me, following the remark with a dry laugh. “Otherwise we’d never have become friends.”
I gave the private investigator a curious look. He laughed again. “Compared to the illustrious Nicholas Steele, I’m just an ordinary slob, Deb.”
I didn’t think he was ordinary, but I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. “We should be there in another hour or so,” Greg said a few minutes later.
Another hour? So soon? As if to amplify the mounting tension I was feeling, the rain began falling harder and the car was buffeted by the accompanying winds. The quick, steady rhythm of the windshield wipers seemed to mirror my rapid heartbeat. What had I gotten myself into?
My silence, and no doubt my rigid posture, clued Greg in to my anxious mood. Without thinking, he reached out and patted my knee in what I knew was meant to be a calming gesture. Still, I couldn’t suppress my automatic response.
My sharp cry of alarm at his touch nearly cost Greg control of the car. He managed, after a few panicky moments, to pull over. There was a truck stop up ahead on the highway. He drove into the parking lot. Both of us were shaken up at this point.
“I’m sorry.” We both said the same words at the same time. Greg laughed. I managed a weak smile.
“We can go inside, get a cup of coffee and wait the storm out,” he offered.
I shook my head, chiding myself for overreacting. I had to somehow get it into my head that every touch wasn’t a threat. Even though all memory of the assault was absent from my mind, I was paranoid. The storm and this trip only heightened it.
I took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as Dr. Royce had taught me. I could feel some of the color return to my face. “I’m all right now. Please, let’s go.” I felt foolish and self-conscious and was greatly relieved when Greg started for the exit ramp without a word.
To my amazement and I’m sure Greg’s relief, by the time we neared Sinclair a little over an hour later, the skies had cleared. When we approached the small main drag of the quaint mountain town, the streets were actually dry, the descending sun casting a warm golden hue over the picture-postcard landscape.
The setting, far from stirring any memories, was completely unfamiliar to me, but my spirits perked up nonetheless. There was something warm and friendly and easygoing about the village. Good vibes, I thought, smiling.
Greg was delighted with the change in me. “You’re already looking more like your old self,”
