“Trouble.”
“I’m not afraid of a little trouble.”
“But I’m not little.” She tilted her head and studied him. “Cocky, are you?”
“Not cocky if you’ve got the goods.”
“Nothing ever rattles you?”
He shrugged. “Nah.”
“Well, isn’t that just too—Oh!”
She lost purchase, then grasped the limb, only to slip again. He leaped for the nearest branch and began climbing. “Hold on—I’ll get you—”
He felt the tree quake, and his heart sped up from fear that he would be too late. He kept climbing but risked one glance…
She was already halfway down from her branch, reaching for the next handhold.
Grinning. Doing quite fine.
Her skirt rode up, and he could see a flash of pink nylon. She climbed onto the branch just above him and, with a mind-blowing glimpse of shapely thigh, eased down beside him. “I warned you.”
“That wasn’t funny,” he said through clenched teeth, his temper in the red zone. She had him way off-balance. He was dying to touch her but oddly afraid to—he didn’t know how to deal with any of it.
And she smelled like glory.
“Correction. Not nice, but definitely funny. I’ve never seen anyone climb a tree so fast, Prince James.” Her eyes held mingled laughter and a dare, but she extended a hand. “I’ll apologize. You might be more decent than your snotty girlfriend.” Behind her bravado he saw something like…loneliness. “I’m Isabella, by the way.”
He gripped her hand, but the motion shifted her balance. He caught her against him, and once again, he couldn’t breathe, but for a different reason this time. “Hello, Isabella.”
Suddenly, though, she turned shy and slipped from his grasp, headed for the ground, pausing at the base only long enough to grab her own stack of books from under a bush.
She glanced back at where he was still frozen in place. “Better not admit we know each other back in there, Prince James. But it was nice meeting you.” She started to go, then revolved. “And thank you for trying to save me.” Then she took off before he could say a word.
He watched her go, more than a little tempted to chase her down.
She’d been right the first time. She was capital-T Trouble.
He was mesmerized by her.
Oh, Bella. Tonight, James offered up a wordless entreaty for her safety to whatever being might know where she was.
The police sure didn’t. She had left him voluntarily, so without evidence of foul play, there was little they could do. The unspoken message was that maybe she had a reason to stay out of touch, that there might be more to the story of why she’d gone.
He’d given them every bit of information he could imagine they would find useful—forced it on one sympathetic patrolman, actually. Driver’s license and social-security number, license-plate number, full description of her vehicle and a packet of photos.
But he was clear that, barring some report of an accident, locating her was up to him. He’d contacted his attorney for a recommendation and was waiting for the private investigator to call.
Meanwhile, he had no idea if Bella was hurt or…
He shook his head violently at the notion. He would not allow himself to even consider that she was lost to him forever.
She was everything to him, the breath in his body, the marrow of his bones. He’d forgotten that somehow, and they’d slipped from each other’s grasp. Maybe Bella was at fault, maybe he was, perhaps both.
But he remembered it now, and he could only pray that he would find her somewhere, safe and merely angry. Anger he could handle—she had every right to be furious with him.
Oh, love, how did we lose each other? How will we find our way back?
His cell rang, and he snatched it up. The number belonged to his office. He cared less than nothing what might be going on, but he was responsible for the jobs of hundreds of people who depended upon him for guidance, for a steady hand at the helm.
James rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.
And accepted the call.
CHAPTER FIVE
“SOPHIA, IS IT?” Sam bowed over her hand. “This kitchen smells so fantastic that I’ll address you as Yankee Doodle if you’ll promise to share the food with me.” His brown eyes twinkled, but beneath the humor, he looked tired.
“Rough day?”
He ran one palm over his hair. “Probably not over yet. Millie Townsend thinks she’s going into labor.”
“We’d better get you fed, then. Can’t have your hands shaking from hunger, can we, Luisa?” She measured pasta by feel, then dropped it into a pot of boiling water, added a dollop of olive oil and lowered the flame a bit.
“Ah, yes,” Luisa said. “You do know your way around a kitchen.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “Why do you say that?”
“The oil will prevent the water from boiling over. You added it knowingly, just as you concocted the marinara. And you don’t measure. You cook without a recipe. This is—how you say it, Dr. Sam? Not your first rodeo?”
The three of them laughed, and for a moment, she didn’t feel so lonely.
“This is how it begins, Jane—er, Sophia,” Sam said. “Lacking items from your past to jog your memory, the doctors in Denver said the next best thing is activities you performed before. I’ve also checked with a few colleagues from my former days at Johns Hopkins about retrograde amnesia. They say—”
“You trained at Johns Hopkins? Isn’t that one of the premier medical schools in the country?”
“It is.”
“So how did you wind up here?”
“When I could be commanding top dollar in some city, you mean?”
“No. Well, yes, actually.”
“I grew up in Massachusetts, and my family is still there. I tried the big-city gig, but it just didn’t suit me. I wanted to be closer to the practice of medicine, not spending time in risk-management seminars or playing hospital politics. Plus, I always wanted to see the West. Too many cowboy movies as a kid, probably. And I like the outdoors, so—” he held out his hands “—here I am.”
“It’s none of my business, really.”
“As my patient, arguably it is.”
“You’re my friend now. I’m healing fine, except—” She tapped her temple.
“The brain is a funny organ, extremely complex and still more mystery than science. With this condition, one might be a world-renowned pianist and would recognize the instrument, perhaps, but not how to play it at first. Yet simple handling of the keys, over time, might bring back pieces of the past—not only the ability to play, but certain events surrounding performances or important people.
“On the other hand, sometimes special people from the past can do more harm than good because they have expectations of the amnesiac based on prior relationships. They remember everything they’ve ever felt with or about that person, and they respond accordingly, but that response is often too personal and highly uncomfortable for someone who is, in her own mind, meeting them for the first time.”
“You’re saying that even if I do have loved ones who locate me, I still might not recognize them? I’d feel nothing for them?”
“Possibly.”
“But soon I would, right?”
His gaze was troubled. “There’s reason to hope.”
She couldn’t breathe. She’d pinned everything on being found. “Are you saying that I might never regain my memory? That even if someone out there does care about me, nothing will change?” Shaking inside, she set down her spoon and walked to the door.
“Bella, do not worry yourself. Everything will turn out right—”
“Jane—I mean, Sophia—” Sam stood. “Sit down. Please.”
She swiveled. Blinked back hated tears. “I’m not Jane. I’m not Sophia. I’m not…anyone, and you’re telling me—” She clapped one hand over her mouth to stop the torrent of fear and anger. She shoved open the screen and bo
lted.
“Don’t—”
She heard Sam calling, but she couldn’t answer. Instead, she ran as hard as she could, ignoring conifer branches that slapped at her, scratched her. She welcomed the pain that mirrored the roar of anguish building inside her.
What if I never—
Oh, God, the prospect was too horrible. She ran and ran, heedless of her surroundings, until she tripped on a rock and went sprawling to the ground in a small clearing. Bruises not yet healed cried out in protest, but they only added to the cacophony within. She had tried to show courage, to be kind, to nurture patience even on the days when she was most terrified. When she thought she couldn’t bear one more pitying glance or whispered aside. Of the few things she believed she knew about herself, she’d imagined that she might be strong and at least a little brave.
But here, lying on damp, unfamiliar earth smelling of leaf and mold and tangy branches, injured in both body and soul and more alone than she thought she could endure…
She broke. Sobbed until her chest hurt and her head throbbed from the storm of tears. Her heart ached as she gave up all pretense, relinquished every last shred of hope that out there somewhere was one person who loved her. Who would search the world for her. A faint unease she’d been fighting to ignore murmured that she was on her own, that there was no magical soul mate to trust.
That she had no one but herself, in the final analysis. Whatever life she would weave from the broken strands of who she’d once been must begin here.
She rolled onto her back and peered up through endless green branches darkening to the charcoal of night. Up into fading blue sky streaked with clouds stained coral and gold.
She breathed deeply of the crisp air on the verge of cold, and she forced herself to stretch, to inhale the splendor around her, drawing it into the fibers of her muscles, the ruby rush of her blood.
She was alone, but she was alive. She dwelled—for the moment, at least—in a place of great beauty, and back in the house she had fled were two people who had extended the hand of friendship to her, as well as sustenance and shelter.
Begin as you mean to go on. If only she knew who had said that to her, but that was lost, along with so much else, in the shadows of her mind. Regardless, she had the saying to cling to, a North Star to serve as her guide.
Sam hadn’t told her there was no hope, and for an instant, she let herself feel how desperately she yearned for it.
But then she sat up, stretched her arms to the sky and faced the heavens. “Thank you,” she said to whatever force had created this loveliness. Had spared her life.
She would do her best not to ask for more. Instead, she rose to her feet and brushed leaves and grass and seed pods from her hair, her skin and her very ugly dress.
And she smiled. She needed her own clothes, so she would find a way to earn the money for them. Sam could definitely use a gardener, even with fall rapidly approaching. And Luisa wasn’t getting any younger, so perhaps she could share cooking duties. Preparing food had soothed something inside her nearly as much as contemplating the improvements to Sam’s sorry garden had.
Just then, she heard a rustle off to her side.
Sam stood at the edge of the clearing beneath an aspen already mostly gold. “I’m sorry. Most people think I have a good bedside manner, but—” He spread his hands out to his sides.
“The fault isn’t yours. I just got…” She stared off to the side. “Overwhelmed.”
He approached her. “Anyone would. I promise you that every effort is being made to figure out your identity, except…”
“What?”
He frowned. “We could call in the media, splash your face all over television, newspapers, the Internet, but—”
“Go on.”
“It’s a lot of pressure on you, and stress is counterproductive for your condition. There’d likely be a horde of strangers descending, plus all the ghouls and con artists we’d have to weed through. Everyone I consulted advised waiting to subject you to that until you were able to decide for yourself.”
She smiled past her jitters. “Always so thoughtful of me. You’re a wonderful doctor, Sam. A big city’s loss is Lucky Draw’s gain.”
“You’re more than welcome.” His answering smile was both fond and a little sad. “I just wish…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”
She tactfully didn’t inquire further. Too much was jumbled up inside her. She didn’t know whether she’d ever been married, if there was a man in her life. Sam was a very good man, and an attractive one, but—
“It’s getting dark,” he said. “And I didn’t bring a flashlight with me. We’d best be going.” He held out a hand.
She hesitated for a moment, then gratefully accepted it.
They walked in silence back to his house. When they started up the steps of the porch, she decided to press forward. “I need some jeans, Sam.”
He glanced at her as if that was the last thing he expected her to say. “I’ll buy you some tomorrow.”
“Please don’t. I’d prefer to purchase my own, but I have to get a job.”
“You most certainly do not.” He opened the door. “You’re my guest.”
“No.” She halted. “I don’t like being company. I have no idea how long I’ll be here or if I’m ready yet to encourage that deluge of attention. There’s so little I am sure about, but if I think about the whole big picture, I’ll lose what’s left of my mind, so—” she shrugged “—I’m not going to. I have to find a way to exert some control.” She gestured around her. “This is a nice place. I’m not so afraid here. Being fearful really kind of ticks me off. I have a feeling that I might not be a person who’s usually timid.”
He grinned. “I’d say you can take that to the bank.”
“So I insist on earning my keep. I thought I could tackle your landscaping.”
“Or lack thereof.”
“Exactly. No English garden—I don’t mean that. Nothing manicured. But you could use a space for vegetables, and flowers are good for the soul. You have a few, but they’re sadly neglected. It’s the wrong time of year, but the soil could be prepped, so—” Then a thought hit her. “But you might not be able to afford to pay me. I’ll understand if—Or maybe someone else around here—”
He chuckled. “I did the big-city gig first. I’ve got a few shekels saved up.” He glanced behind her. “Heaven knows you’re right about my jungle.”
“I could help Luisa cook, too, and I—”
“Jane.” He gripped her arms. “Sorry—Sophia—”
“I’m sick of auditioning names already,” she interrupted. “Let’s go back to Jane. It’s simpler.”
“If that’s what you wish.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “For now, you require rest as much as anything else. Before you sign on to be my jack-of-all-trades, let’s just take things slow, okay?”
She fought the urge to cuddle against him, out of relief, out of more of that blasted fear. Or other impulses she wasn’t ready to name.
But she couldn’t quite stem the tears, so she ducked her head to hide them. “Thank you.”
He tilted her chin up. For a moment, she had the sense of the whole world holding its breath, waiting.
Sam exhaled sharply. Shook his head.
And bent to place a kiss on her forehead.
She sighed, too, unsure if it came from disappointment or relief.
“Let’s go inside,” he said. “You should eat. Doctor’s orders.”
Confused and tired but also jubilant to have made any sort of start, she only nodded and followed.
CHAPTER SIX
JAMES SHRUGGED OFF his jacket, shoulders sagging. The meeting with the private investigator had been long and grueling. The man was reputed to be the best, but he fell a little short of insulting in his obvious cynicism about whether Bella’s continued absence could be attributed to foul play.
James couldn’t seem to get through to the man how deeply they’d loved each other—
Dear God. He still loved Bella with everything in him.
But he wasn’t at all certain that she loved him anymore. This very room echoed with their last exchange, frightening, most of all, because there had been so little heat in it.
“You’re packing.”
Calmly—too calmly—she’d folded a blouse, tucked it beside other garments. “I thought I’d get away for a bit.”
“Good idea. Where shall we go?”
Her shoulders stiffened. Her eyes, when they met his, were empty of any expression, and the dull gong of fear had reverberated within him.
“I need to think, James.”
“About what?” But he knew.
Disappointment flickered, but she never said a word.
“Bella. Look at me.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t do this, sweetheart. We can work things out. We just have to talk.”
“I can’t discuss this with you. Not after what you’ve done.” She walked to the bathroom. Tried to close the door.
He shoved through. “Bella, you abandoned me first.” Agitation sent him pacing. “You’re never at home anymore—you’re always working. We hardly see each other.”
“And you don’t even understand why, do you?” Two sharp shakes of the head, and she returned to placing her toiletries in the suitcase. “Do you realize who we’ve become, James? We’re your parents. I’m the Stepford Wife, and you’re the bastard who cheats on her.” She blinked rapidly. “I don’t know which is harder to forgive.”
“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? One slip, Bella, one.” He struggled for composure. “It was wrong, so wrong. I still don’t know how—”
“It’s not only that. It’s what’s missing. What I can’t bear anymore.”
“What’s missing? I’ve worked my ass off to give you everything possible. A beautiful home, a life of luxury—”
“You have. And made me a prisoner in it.”
“What?” he thundered. “How can you say that? You know I love you.”
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