by Rebecca York
All of the memories—his and hers—made him sad. It was much more gratifying to focus on the here and now—on the woman he held in his arms.
His head had started to pound, but he ignored the pain as he moved farther back into the shed, taking her with him. The door was at an angle that made it close behind them, shutting them inside. In the dark, they clung to each other for support and a whole lot of other reasons.
He hadn’t admitted it, but he had needed so much more from her since the first moment he had touched her. Now, here, he couldn’t resist the pull. Unable to stop himself, he lowered his mouth to hers for a kiss that was almost frantic. His lips moved over hers, and he smiled when he realized she’d been tasting the dish she was cooking on the stove.
But he stopped thinking about the chili as he stroked his hands up and down her back. Seeking more, he lifted the hem of the T-shirt she was wearing and slipped his hands underneath, flattening them against her warm skin, loving the feel of her and the contact that was so much more than he could put into words.
He knew he was arousing her, just as she knew she was arousing him. Holding her, kissing her, touching her was so very sexual, even with the underlying layers of memories from her past and his.
He’d made love with women before, looking for something that he was sure he wasn’t going to find. Sex had always been physically satisfying, but there had invariably been something missing, the same disappointment that had dogged his life.
Again he knew it was like that for her. Searching and never finding. Until now.
I didn’t go out and sleep with a bunch of guys.
I know. I was just thinking how it was the same for you. Disappointing.
The exchange stunned him. Neither of them had spoken aloud, yet he’d clearly heard her respond to his thought. And he had responded to hers.
That was enough of a shock to make him drop his hands and step back. What was he doing? What were they doing?
And he was glad he had broken the contact when the door of the shed opened. Whirling, he found himself staring at Polly Kramer.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No. We were just coming back to the house,” Matt managed to say, hearing the thick quality of his own voice and not quite able to meet the older woman’s eyes.
“Are you all right?” Polly asked Elizabeth.
Elizabeth ran a hand through her hair. “Yes.”
Polly turned back to the house, and Matt waited a beat before asking Elizabeth, “Does your head hurt?”
“Yes. What do you think that means, Doctor?”
He laughed. “I can speculate, but I don’t know.”
By mutual agreement, he turned and walked out of the shed, and she followed. He didn’t have to see her to know she was walking behind him.
He wanted to talk about what had happened between them. The sexual pull. The memories. And something even more startling. Actual words exchanged in their heads.
“You heard what I said?” he asked.
“Yes.”
There was no need to explain he was talking about the silent exchange.
“I turned the chili down,” Mrs. Kramer said when they stepped into the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth answered. She went straight to the pot, stirred it and tasted.
“How is it?” Matt asked, his voice still sounding not quite normal.
“Good.”
“We should eat,” Mrs. Kramer said. “You two sit down, and I’ll serve.”
“I can get us all a glass of water,” Matt said, thinking it was a lame comment. But everything felt stilted now except the intimacy of being with Elizabeth.
“We can serve ourselves from the stove,” Mrs. Kramer said.
They all did, then sat at the table, which would be a perfectly normal thing to do, except that nothing would ever be normal again.
That was a pretty exaggerated way to put it, but Matt knew it was true.
“Where are you from?” Elizabeth asked him, startling him by breaking into his overblown thoughts.
He struggled to deal with the question. “New Orleans.”
“What did your parents do?”
“My dad was an oil company executive. My mom sort of did the country-club thing. They live in Santa Barbara, California, now.”
“Were you an only child?”
“Yes,” he answered, thinking that his mother had told him she’d had a lot of trouble getting pregnant. She’d been torn between wanting another child and not wanting to go through the rigors of a fertility clinic again. Although that had been her decision, she’d made it clear that he hadn’t been the loving son she’d wanted. But he didn’t tell the women he dated any of that.
“Did you grow up down there?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth was staring off into space.
“What?” he asked.
“New Orleans.”
“What about it?”
“I remember stuff about the city. I mean I can picture...Jackson Square,” she said.
“You’ve probably seen pictures.”
“I think I’ve been there. And the French Market.”
“Okay.”
He waited for her to give him more information, but she only shook her head. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
“We’ll assume you’re right.”
“If it’s true, it gives us something in common.”
He nodded, wondering if it was important, and why it might be.
“Do you know how to cook pain perdu?” he asked.
“French toast?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s easy.”
“What about gumbo?”
“I have a general idea of what’s in it, but I’d have to look up a recipe if I wanted to make some.”
“Most people would, I think.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Where are you from?”
The answer to the question lurked below the surface of her mind. “Nice try,” she murmured.
“I thought I’d give it a shot.”
They were all silent for several moments while they ate.
“Well, this chili is delicious,” Mrs. Kramer said, as she spooned up more of the beans and beef mixture.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth answered.
Again they resumed eating, and Mrs. Kramer broke the silence once more as they finished the meal. “How did you get so far north?” she asked Matt.
“I went to medical school at Hopkins. After...” He stopped and glanced at Elizabeth. “After Africa, I decided Baltimore was as good a place as any to practice medicine.”
“You intend to settle down here?” Mrs. Kramer asked.
He involuntarily glanced at Elizabeth again, thinking that everything they said had a double meaning or a subcontext that only the two of them could really follow.
“I...don’t know.” He cleared his throat, changing the subject abruptly as he looked at Elizabeth. “Do you want to try hypnosis?”
“What?”
“With many people, it can help recover memories.”
“You mean now?”
“After we finish eating.”
“You know how to do it?”
“I had a class,” he said. “We could try it.”
Elizabeth gave that some consideration. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“Just sit in a chair and relax.”
“I can clean up,” Polly said.
“You shouldn’t have to,” Elizabeth protested. “You already have a houseguest.”
“You cooked us a delicious meal. I’ll do the cleaning. That’s only fair.”
Matt and Elizabeth got up, carefully avoiding touching each other. They went into the living room where s
he glanced around, then settled into an overstuffed chair, looking apprehensive.
“What should I do?”
“Like I said, get comfortable.”
“That’s difficult.”
For a whole lot of reasons, some of them having to do with her situation and some with him, he knew.
He sat down on the sofa, trying to relax and not having perfect success.
“Lean back. Look up at the line where the wall meets the ceiling.”
“Why?”
“It puts your eyes at the right level.”
She did as he said, and he kept speaking to her in a soothing voice. “Relax now. Relax now. Relax now.”
He saw some of the tension drain out of her features.
“How do you feel?”
“Good.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. We’re just going to see if we can bring back more of your past.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“And when I tell you to wake up, you will. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“We can start with a little mental vacation. Let’s go somewhere where you’d like to be.”
She thought about that. “I’m not sure.”
“Most people like the beach. Does that work for you?”
She waited a beat before answering, “Yes.”
“We’re at the beach. You’re on a chaise, lying in the sun. It feels good on your face and body. The waves are rolling up across the sand.”
“Um.”
“Let’s go a little deeper into relaxation. You go back to the resort where you’re staying. You go inside, and there’s a flight of steps. You go down, one step at a time.”
“Okay.”
“Every step takes you deeper into relaxation.” He could see from her face that it was working.
“What’s at the bottom of the stairs?” he asked.
Her body jerked.
“What?”
“Women. They’re frightened.”
“Why?”
“They’re a long way from home.” Her body jerked again. “I don’t want to be there.”
“Okay.”
Her eyes blinked open, focusing on him.
She looked so lost and alone that every instinct urged him to cross the room and take her in his arms again, but he knew that wasn’t such a great idea, given what happened every time they touched.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“You know what I’m thinking?”
“It’s all over your face.”
“Sorry I’m so transparent.”
“Not to most people, I think.”
“I want to ask about that memory.”
She shuddered. “It’s nothing good.”
“Is it something recent?”
Her vision turned inward. “I think so.”
“But you aren’t sure?”
“I’m betting it has to do with that man who was following me. Maybe I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. And the mob is after me.”
“The mob?”
“You have a better explanation?”
“I wish I knew, but the part about your stumbling into something sounds right.” He thought for a moment. “What kind of women?”
“Young and pretty.”
“What race?”
“Why are you asking?”
“You had a memory of an Asian woman before.”
“These were Caucasian.”
“Okay. Do you think it has anything to do with your job?”
“Good question.” She shook her head. “Maybe it would help to try word association.”
“I think we shouldn’t try to push this any further tonight. You’ve had a tiring day—coming off a mild concussion.”
“Yes, probably pushing to come up with any more answers right now is a waste of time.”
“I don’t want to leave you and Mrs. Kramer alone, with that Wilson guy out there.”
“I think we’ll be all right.”
“But you took off out the back when the doorbell rang.”
She shook her head. “Yeah. I’m jumpy, but that doesn’t mean it’s logical.”
He wrote down his cell phone number and set it on the coffee table. “Call me if anything worries you. Or if you have any memories.”
“I think the latter’s more likely when you’re around.”
He nodded, looking at her hand. It was so tempting to reach out and touch her. They’d get memories, all right. And a lot more.
She looked up at him and away, and it was obvious again that she knew what he was thinking.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Kramer I’m leaving.”
Elizabeth was still in the living room when he returned, and he had to force himself not to stop and touch her. And force himself to leave, for that matter. He’d forged a connection with this woman who didn’t even know her name, and he wanted to strengthen that connection. But nothing had changed as far as his ethics were concerned. He still had no business coming on to her.
Chapter Five
Matthew had been right. Elizabeth was exhausted. She dropped off again almost as soon as she crawled into bed. For a few hours, she was able to sleep. But sometime in the small hours of the morning, a dream grabbed her.
She was on her way to work. And a car was behind her, inching up. There were men in the car, and she knew they wanted to hurt her. Because...
Her hands clenched on the steering wheel as she struggled to grab on to the answer. The only thing she could remember was “the women.”
She’d been trying to help the women. She had to remember that. It was an important clue. But there was no time for clues right now. She had to get away because the men were going to kill her if they caught up. She wasn’t sure why she thought so. But she knew it was true. Well, they were going to question her first, because they wanted to know how she had found out about the women.
She pressed on the accelerator, desperate to escape, weaving down an alley before shooting out onto the street. A truck was in the way, and she slammed into a lamppost.
This time, she woke with a muffled scream, wondering where she was.
Then it came back to her. At least the past day. She glanced at the clock. It was four in the morning, and she knew where she was—at Polly Kramer’s house, the nice woman on the hospital nursing staff who had brought Elizabeth to her home, a woman who couldn’t even remember her name.
At least she knew her first name. Elizabeth. She’d gotten that when she had touched Matt Delano the first time. Something happened whenever they touched. A flood of memories—his and hers. Was she fixated on him because she couldn’t remember anything else about herself?
It was an interesting theory, but she knew it wasn’t true. Whatever had transpired between them was real—and unique. The exchange of information and the startling sexual awareness that pulled them together every time they touched. And then the speaking to each other, mind to mind. She shouldn’t forget about that.
She squeezed her hands into fists. He could help her, but that sexual connection was keeping him away because of his strict code of morality.
Movement at the door made her tense and glance up. Polly Kramer was standing there, staring at her.
Elizabeth relaxed when she saw who it was.
“Are you all right, dear?”
“Yes. I had a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I’m a very light sleeper. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“Was the nightmare a memory?”
“Maybe.” She related the dream.
Polly lingered for a few more moments. “And that’s all you remember?”
“Yes,�
�� she answered, again making the decision not to tell her about what else Matt had pulled from her mind.
When Polly had gone back to bed, Elizabeth lay in the dark, thinking about the broken recollections—trying to force herself past the blank wall before the car chase.
What had she been doing when she got herself into trouble?
Matthew had said all hypnosis was self-hypnosis. Did that mean she could try to do what he’d guided her through before?
She considered the idea, then rejected it. What if she couldn’t wake up and nobody was here to pull her back?
She made a frustrated sound. Every which way she turned led to some new dead end. No, not really new. Just another manifestation of the same old sense of defeat.
She tried to go back to sleep, but that was beyond her. Finally she heaved herself up and went down the hall. Hoping she wasn’t going to wake up Polly, she prowled around the kitchen, checking ingredients in the refrigerator and the pantry. Polly had the makings of a vegetarian minestrone soup. Well, vegetarian except for the chicken broth.
Yes, she could make that and put it in the refrigerator for later.
She stopped and laughed out loud. Was cooking what she did to relax herself?
She didn’t know, but it was something to occupy her mind while she tried to get the rest of her life back.
* * *
CYNTHIA PRICE WAS back at the nurses’ station in the morning when another young man showed up. Last time it had been a guy who had said he was Elizabeth’s brother, although Cynthia had wondered if it was true. This time it was a different story.
“I understand you had a woman here who doesn’t remember her name or anything else,” he began.
“Yes,” Cynthia answered cautiously.
“She didn’t have any identification on her?”
“No purse.”
“She was in an auto accident. Did the police check the car’s registration?”
“That was a dead end. The car belonged to someone else who’s on an extended trip outside the country.”
“Your patient’s a mystery woman.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was thinking I might be able to help her.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m a newspaper reporter with the Baltimore Observer.”
“Never heard of it.”