Wife With Amnesia

She lifted a hand to the bandage. “I have stitches?”

“About a dozen according to Jeff.”

“Jeff?”

“Jeff Peterson,” he explained. “Or I guess I should say Dr. Jeff Peterson. He’s the doctor who treated you when you were brought into the emergency room last night. He also happens to be an old friend.”

She frowned again, pinched the bridge of her nose as though she were trying to process the information. “I, uh, I think I remember him. But everything’s still a bit hazy. What happened?” she asked. “How did I hurt my head?”

Matt hesitated, once again unsure how much he should tell her or if he had already said too much. “Maybe I should get Jeff and let him explain—”

“No.” She caught his hand when he started to leave, and Matt’s body tightened at the feel of her fingers against his skin. “You tell me.”

Matt didn’t move, didn’t breathe for several seconds as he bit back the rush of memories her touch evoked. Vivid memories of her looking at him with desire in her eyes, of those silken fingers touching other parts of his body, of him touching her…

“Matt?”

He slammed the brakes on the dangerous turn his thoughts had taken. “You were mugged,” he told her, going from lust to fury in a heartbeat at the jarring reminder of what Claire had endured. Murderous thoughts sprang to life inside him toward the lowlife who had hurt her. No matter what happened or how long it took him, he vowed, he would make the scumbag pay for hurting Claire.

“Mugged,” she repeated.

What little color had crept back into her cheeks disappeared. Blasting himself for being so blunt, Matt said, “Take it easy. You’re safe now.”

“It’s just that I can’t remember,” she explained. “And the things I keep imagining…” She whooshed out a breath. “What happened?”

When he remained silent, she whispered, “Please, Matt, tell me. I need to know.”

“You were pistol-whipped,” he said, spitting out the ugly truth. “There was a witness, a woman, who saw the whole thing. She said the guy hit you in the head with the butt of his gun, then he shoved you to the ground. That’s how you sprained your ankle.”

The fingers holding his hand tightened. And though it didn’t seem possible for her to be any paler than she already was, her face grew even whiter. “Was I— Did he—”

“No,” Matt snapped, realizing where her thoughts were headed. Cursing his lack of finesse in explaining, he tipped up her chin so that he could see her eyes. A fist closed around his heart at the fear and shame he read there. For that alone, Matt could murder the guy who had attacked her. “He never touched you. Not in that way. The scumbag stole your purse. But that’s all he stole from you. Nothing else. I swear it.”

A breath shuddered through her lips. “I… Thank you,” she murmured.

Guilt ripped at him. That she would actually thank him gnawed at him something fierce and compounded the guilt he’d felt since getting Jeff’s call. She was his wife, damn it. He loved her, and it was his job to protect her. Yet, not only had he failed to protect her, he had hurt her in a way no mugger ever could. How could he love her as he did and have been so blind to her feelings? If only he could go back. If only he could make things right.

“I don’t remember.”

“Which is perfectly understandable. You’ve suffered a head injury. Sometimes even the smallest of bumps can cause some memory loss.”

“You don’t understand,” she countered. “I can’t remember anything. Not you. Not the attack. Not anything!”

“All right, take it easy. You probably have some kind of temporary amnesia,” Matt offered and hoped he was right about the “temporary” part. Other than the little Jeff had explained to him, what he knew about head injuries and amnesia wouldn’t fill a nutshell. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. Your memory is going to come back.”

“When?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it will.” He drew her into his arms, wanting to erase the panic he heard in her voice, saw in her eyes. Running his hand up and down her spine, he could feel some of her tension begin to melt beneath his caress. When she relaxed against him, rested her head on his shoulder, his own chest tightened. Closing his eyes, Matt savored the pleasure of having Claire in his arms again. After so many months without her, of wondering if he would ever get to hold her like this again, the feel of her body nestled against his was like a welcome spring shower following a long winter’s drought.

Claire eased back a fraction and stared up at him. Matt waited for the questions he knew were already forming in that too-sharp mind of hers, questions that would demand and deserve answers. Answers that he was reluctant to give her.

He studied Claire’s face, struck anew by how much he loved her, how much he needed her tenderness and warmth in his life. The bandage on her head was a shock of white against the dark fire of her red hair. Her pallor still bore traces of the ordeal she had suffered, as did the frown pleating her brow. Yet even in the ghastly hospital lighting sans makeup, Claire was just as beautiful now as she had been the first time he had seen her.

He thought back to that day over two years ago when she’d bluffed her way into the kitchen of his family’s restaurant, pretending to be a food inspector and demanding to see one of the owners. The restaurant had been in need of a new pastry chef, but she hadn’t wanted the job. No, Claire had wanted to provide the restaurant with her desserts—even though a host of other firms offering the same service had already been turned away. But that hadn’t stopped Claire. No, his Claire had insisted on being given a chance to prove herself. Just taste her white-chocolate cheesecake, she’d dared, and if he didn’t agree it was the best cheesecake he’d ever eaten, she would work as his pastry chef free of charge for a full month. He’d taken one bite of the dessert sample she’d smuggled into the restaurant in her bag and he’d conceded that she’d won the bet. He’d ordered a dozen of the cheesecakes and asked her out to dinner. And he had made up his mind before they’d gotten through the appetizers to make Claire his wife.

Claire hadn’t succumbed so easily, he admitted, a smile curving his lips as he remembered.

She had fought him most of the way claiming it was too sudden. They were too young. They were worlds apart in social standing and money. But he hadn’t been swayed. He’d approached his decision to marry Claire with the same determination with which he’d approached his business. Failure was not an option. And he hadn’t failed. He’d married Claire a scant three months after their first meeting.

Unable to resist, Matt trailed a finger down her cheek, felt her telltale quiver at his touch. Her skin was still as smooth as a magnolia petal, her overripe mouth a dusky-rose hue that he knew was only a shade lighter than the nipples of her breasts. Desire churned inside him as he lowered his gaze to her breasts hidden beneath the ugly hospital gown. He remembered how perfectly those breasts filled the palms of his hands, how they tasted when he took them into his mouth, how her breath hitched when he flicked his tongue over the tips.

“What happens if my memory doesn’t come back?”

Jerking his gaze back up to Claire’s face, he slammed the door on the sensual images that had him hard and aching for her. “It will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Trust me. Your memory is going to come back.” He just hoped that when it did, he wouldn’t lose her again.

“But what am I going to do in the meantime if I can’t remember anything or anyone?”

Her question hit him square between the eyes. This was his chance, Matt realized, feeling like a man who’d been dealt four aces. This was the chance he’d waited for, prayed for—to be able to go back, to make things right between the two of them. And before his conscience kicked in, he said, “You’re going to let me take care of you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. I’m your husband, and I love you.”

“But it seems…unfair. I mean, I don’t remember you or anything about our marriage.” She flushed. “You’re a…you’re a stranger to me, Matt.”

Matt smiled as the plan began to take shape in his mind. “Then I guess I’ll have to do my best to make you fall in love with me all over again.”

Two

“I’m sorry to put you through this, Mrs. Gallagher, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”

“I understand,” Claire told the police detective as she sat in her hospital bed the following day. “But I’m not sure I’ll be of any more help to you now than I was yesterday. I still can’t remember what happened.”

“So your husband tells me.” His expression earnest, the detective removed a notepad from his inside coat pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper tucked between the pages. “Fortunately your car was parked beneath a streetlight, so the witness who saw you attacked, a Mrs. Williams, got a pretty good look at your assailant. Based on her description, the police artist was able to come up with a sketch of what we believe your attacker looked like. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to take a look at it and see if it sparks your memory.”

Claire hesitated. While she’d been frustrated over her inability to remember even the smallest of things, the prospect of seeing the face of the man who had attacked her made her uneasy.

“Red, you up to this?” Matt asked as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

His use of the pet name, which she’d learned he’d dubbed her because of her hair color, combined with his gentle touch, eased some of the churning inside her. He was her husband. She still had trouble digesting that fact. Yet, since she’d opened her eyes two days ago, Matt had rarely left her side. Each time when she’d become frustrated or frightened at not being able to recall things, there he was assuring her that everything would be all right, that her memory would come back. And as though he sensed her uneasiness now, here he was once again offering his support. Lord, but the poor man must be exhausted, she thought as she tipped her head back to look at his face. Even with several days’ growth of beard shadowing his jaw and worry lines etched around his eyes, he was still incredibly handsome. And sweet. He’d been impossibly sweet and attentive. How on earth could she not remember being married to him?

“Claire?”

She clamped the lid shut on her wandering thoughts. “I’m okay,” she assured him, and turned her attention back to the police detective. Bracing herself, she reached for the sketch.