by Lisa Jackson
A cynical smile slashed his jaw. “Then I’ll help.”
Her heart cracked a little, and she noticed the handsome lines of his face disguised by the scruffy beard and dark glasses. It would be too easy to fall for him, to trust him because she didn’t have much of a choice. But she was still her own woman, and though she’d grown to depend on him, she had to trust her own instincts, make up her own mind. “My father mentioned that I was going to Salvaje. I’d told him. But I hadn’t mentioned you.”
“Your choice.”
“Why wouldn’t I tell him?”
“Because you were afraid he might try and talk you out of it,” Trent said simply, turning his face to the horizon again. “You and your dad don’t always get along, Nikki, and he didn’t like you taking off to some small island so far from what he considers civilization.”
“So I snuck behind his back?” she asked, disbelieving.
“You just didn’t mention me.”
“Why not?”
He snorted and his eyes turned frigid as he assessed her. “Because you were afraid he wouldn’t approve of me.” He leaned an insolent hip against the rail and crossed his arms over his chest. “From what little I know of your old man, you were probably right. Ted Carrothers would probably hate me on sight.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he had someone else picked out for you.”
“Dave,” she said, without thinking.
“That’s right.” The corners of his mouth pinched in irritation and he shoved his sleeves over his elbows. “Remember him?” She shook her head, and he grinned that wicked smile. “Well, he was a real Joe College type. Big, blond, shoes always polished. Went to Washington State on a football scholarship and graduated at the top of his class. Ended up going to law school and joined a firm that specializes in corporate taxes. Drives a BMW and works out at the most prestigious athletic club in the city.”
“This was a guy I dated?”
“The guy you planned to marry,” he corrected.
“You know him?”
“I know of him.”
Was it her imagination or did he flinch a little?
“How?”
“I checked him out,” he said with more than a trace of irritation.
“When?”
“Before we left Seattle.”
She wanted to argue with him, but there was something in his cocksure manner that convinced her he had his facts straight, that she had, indeed, been the fiancée of the man he described. “I assume you know why we broke up?”
He lifted a shoulder. “He was too conventional for you. Your dad loved him. Even your mother thought he was a great catch, but he wanted you to give up your career and concentrate on his. You weren’t ready for that.”
“Thank God,” she whispered, then, realizing how that sounded, quickly shut her mouth. But it was too late. Trent’s eyes gleamed devilishly, and Nikki was left with the distinct impression that he’d been conning her.
She plucked a purple bloom from the bougainvillea and twirled the blossom in her fingers. Could she trust Trent? Probably not. Was he lying to her? No doubt. But what choice did she have?
He slapped the peeling wrought iron as if he’d finally made an important decision. “I’ve got to go out for a while. Check things at the airport. You want to come?”
She shook her head. “I’d like to clean up, I think.”
“Just keep the door locked behind me.”
“Afraid I might run off?” she asked, unable to hide the sarcasm in her words.
He glanced at her still-swollen ankle. “Run off? No. But hobble off—well, maybe. Though even at that I don’t think you’d get far. Besides, there’s really nowhere to run on this island.”
Her temperature dropped several degrees at the realization that she was trapped. Her mouth suddenly turned to dust.
Trent cocked his head toward the French doors. “Come on, I’ll help you into the bathroom.”
“I can manage,” she said stiffly, and to prove her point, she stepped unevenly off the veranda, walked into the bathroom and locked the door firmly behind her. Wasting no time, she turned on the taps of the tub and began stripping. As steam began to rise from the warm water, she glanced in the mirror, scowled at her reflection and noticed the greenish tinge to the bruises on her rump and back. The scabs were working themselves off, but beneath her skin, blood had pooled at the bottom of her foot and ankle. “Miss America you’re not, Carrothers,” she told herself, then stopped when she realized her name was now McKenzie.
“Nikki McKenzie. Nicole McKenzie. Nicole Louise Carrothers McKenzie.” The name just didn’t roll easily off her tongue. She settled into the tub and let the warm water soothe her aching muscles. As best she could, she washed her hair and body, then let the water turn tepid before she climbed out of the tub and rubbed a towel carefully over her skin and hair.
Wrapping the thick terry cloth around her torso, she walked into the bedroom, but stopped short when she found Trent lying on his side of the bed, boots kicked off, ankles crossed, eyes trained on the door.
His eyelids were at half-mast and his gaze was more than interested as it climbed from her feet, past her knees, up her front and finally rested on her face.
“I—I thought you’d left,” she sputtered, clasping the towel as tightly as if she were a virgin with a stranger.
“I decided to wait.”
“Why?”
“It didn’t make sense to leave you alone in the bathroom where you could slip and hit your head, or worse.”
“I’m not an invalid!”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“And I don’t need a keeper.”
He let that one slide. “I just wanted to be handy in case you got into any trouble.”
“The only trouble I’ve gotten into is you,” she said, willing her feet to propel her toward the bureau where she snatched clean panties, bra, shorts and T-shirt from one of the drawers. It crossed her mind that he’d unpacked her clothes, touched her most intimate pieces of apparel, but she ignored the stain of embarrassment that crawled steadily up her neck. After all, if she could believe him, they’d been intimate—made love eagerly. So who cared about the damned underwear?
She started for the bathroom. “Don’t leave on my account,” he remarked, and when she turned to face him, her wet hair whipping across her face, she saw a glimmer of amusement in his cobalt eyes, as if he enjoyed her discomfiture.
“You mean I should just let the towel fall and dress at my leisure?”
“Great idea.” He stacked his hands behind his head and watched her. Waiting. Like a lion waits patiently for the gazelle to ignore the warning in the air and begin grazing peacefully again.
Just to wipe the smirk off his face she wanted to let go of the damned towel, stand in front of him stark naked and call his bluff. Would he continue to tease her, playing word games, or would he avert his eyes, or, worse yet, would he, as he’d implied earlier, be unable to control himself and sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed? How would she respond? With heart-melting passion? Oh, for crying out loud!
She turned on her heel and with as much pride as her injuries would allow, marched rigidly into the bathroom.
“Don’t forget the antiseptic cream,” he ordered as she slammed the door shut. Wrinkling her nose, she mimicked him in the mirror, trying to look beyond her skinned face and scabs. Some of the smaller scrapes were beginning to heal and her eye wasn’t as discolored as it had been. “And stay inside,” he ordered from the other side of the door. “The doctor warned you about getting too much sun.”
“Yes, master,” she muttered under her breath. Her teeth ground together as she thought of him barking orders at her. It seemed as if all her life someone was continually ordering her around
. Her parents, her older sisters, her teachers, her editor at the paper, and now Trent.... She froze, her heart hammering wildly. She remembered! Nothing solid, but teasing bits of memory that were jagged and rough had pierced the clouds in her mind. Little pieces of her personality seemed to be shaping. Suddenly she was certain that she’d always been stubborn, resented being the smallest sister, the youngest woman on the staff of the Observer!
She’d also resented the fact that her work had been looked upon with a wary eye, just because she was young and sometimes because she was a woman. She’d had pride in her work, a great passion for journalism and an incredible frustration at not being taken seriously.
She wanted to share the news with Trent, to tell him that it was truly happening, her memory was coming back, but she held her tongue. She still didn’t remember anything about him, about her trip to Salvaje, about the reasons she married him.
And what if she suddenly remembered that it had been he who had been chasing her, he who had pushed her over the cliff? She couldn’t really believe that he’d want to hurt her, as he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so since the accident, but there was something deep in her unconscious mind, something dark and demonlike and frightening, that warned her to tread softly with this man. If he were dangerous and her memory was the key to uncovering his deception, he might turn violent.
A shudder of fear ripped through her. Take it slow, Nikki, she told herself. You can’t trust him. Not yet. Until she had something more concrete, she’d keep her small discovery—that her memory was beginning to surface—to herself.
By the time she’d dressed, dried her hair and applied some salve to her face, he was gone, and she was grateful to be alone.
With the aid of her dictionary, she dialed room service and managed to order a pitcher of iced tea. She found some bills in her wallet and gave the waiter a healthy tip before locking the door behind him.
On the terrace, she poured herself some tea and looked through the pictures in her wallet again. There was one she’d missed earlier—a snapshot taken in the wilderness. A rushing river and steep mountains were the backdrop and two people were embracing before the camera. She recognized the woman as herself, but the man—blond and strapping with even features—wasn’t Trent. Dave, she mouthed, though she felt no trace of emotion as she touched his photograph with the tip of her finger. No love. No hate. No anger. As if he’d been erased from her mind and heart forever.
“What a mess,” she said, but decided not to dwell on her misfortune. She’d been feeling sorry for herself for nearly a week, but it was time to take charge of her life. She wasn’t laid up any longer. She could walk, though admittedly she wouldn’t win any races just yet, but she didn’t have to depend upon Trent or a bevy of doctors to take care of her. She was a grown woman, and, if everyone were to be believed, a strong-willed and independent person who could handle her own life. An investigative journalist, for crying out loud.
She should be able to figure out if Trent was who he claimed to be. She watched the lemon dance between the ice cubes in her glass and decided that it was time to find out if Trent was her husband or an impostor.
Before it was too late. Before she made a horrible, irrevocable mistake.
Before she slept with him.
Chapter Four
THE MAN WAS known as el Perro, the Dog, and Trent thought the name fit. Small and wiry, with long black hair tied in a stringy ponytail, el Perro slouched behind the wheel of the beat-up old Pontiac, squinting moodily through the smoke curling from the cigarette dangling at the corner of his mouth. His beady black eyes were ever vigilant as he surveyed the empty, dusty road. Harsh sunlight baked the hood of the car, filtering through the grime on the windshield and causing the temperature in the Pontiac to rise to over a hundred degrees, despite the fact that the windows were down.
The car was parked on a desolate patch of ground. Dry weeds grew heavy between the two dusty tracks on the hillside. Far in the distance, the sea was visible. Below, the town of Santa María stretched along the beach, whitewashed buildings almost blinding as they reflected the sun, and high above on the hill, the ruins of the mission were visible through the trees.
El Perro drew on his filterless cigarette, pulling smoke deep into his lungs. “You want me to watch this one.” He jabbed a grubby fingernail at the photo of Nikki with her sisters, a copy Trent had made.
“Yes.”
“Qué bonita.”
Trent couldn’t argue. Nikki Carrothers was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met. Her smile was nearly infectious, her green eyes intelligent and warm, her hair thick and lustrous. But it wasn’t her beauty that intrigued him. No. His fascination for her went much deeper. Too deep. He felt as if he were drowning. Nikki messed with his mind. She had from the first time he set eyes on her. He slid his gaze away from the photograph and gritted his teeth.
“She is in danger, eh?”
“She’s in danger and she’s dangerous. Both.”
El Perro chuckled. “A tigre, ¿sí? Wild like the island.”
“She’s my wife,” Trent said with a meaning that bridged the language and social barrier between the two men. Silently he cursed the fact that he had to deal with this lowlife. But el Perro came highly recommended. The best on Salvaje.
“You need another man to watch your wife?” With a disgusted snort, the sullen man said, “I trust no one but myself with my woman. No other man—”
Trent grabbed the front of el Perro’s shirt, the sweaty cotton wadding between his fingers. He shoved his face so close to the native’s that he could see the pores in the smaller man’s skin and acrid smoke from the Dog’s cigarette burned Trent’s eyes. “Get this straight, amigo, you’re not to lay a hand on her, you’re not to speak to her and you’re not to be seen by her. You got that?” He gave the shirt a jerk.
El Perro’s eyes slitted and he drew hard on his cigarette. Smoke drifted in angry waves from his nostrils. “You do not frighten me,” he snarled, though his eyes grew black as the depths of hell. “For your money, I will watch your woman. She will never know that I am near.”
“Good.”
Releasing the other man’s clothing, Trent settled back against the broken springs of the car, reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small envelope. He tossed the payment onto the stained seat and climbed out of the Pontiac, leaving the door ajar. “The rest when the job is done.”
“How will I know when it is finished?”
“I’ll find you,” Trent vowed, surprised at the force of his emotions.
El Perro grinned lazily, showing off a slight gap between stained front teeth. “It is not always easy to find the tracks of the Dog, eh?” He tossed the butt of his cigarette out the open window.
“I’ll find you,” Trent promised, his lips drawing into a cruel smile. “You can bet on it.”
* * *
No suits!
Not even a sports jacket. Nikki rifled through the clothes in the closet, searching for a clue to Trent’s identity. She’d worked quickly, her fingers dipping into each of his pockets, rummaging through a denim jacket, two pairs of jeans, a pair of shorts and several shirts. For all her efforts, she discovered an opened pack of gum, loose change in American money, and a pair of nail clippers.
“Okay, Nancy Drew, what next?” she asked herself as she hobbled into the bathroom. His shaving kit was there and it held nothing more than shaving cream, a razor which obviously didn’t get much use, a bar of soap, toothpaste and a brush. “Great. Just great,” she muttered under her breath and wondered when he’d return. How much time did she have? If he were to be believed, the airport was overflowing with concerned tourists trying to make connections back home, and he would be standing in line for hours.
Feeling like a traitor, she picked up the telephone and with the aid of the operator, managed to get through
to the hospital, though Nurse Sánchez was not on duty. Nor could Mrs. Martínez come to the phone. In heavily accented English, the hospital operator assured Nikki that Nurse Sánchez would call her when her schedule permitted.
“Great,” Nikki mumbled in frustration as she eased back on the bed. There had to be a way to check him out. Another way. She picked up her address book and flipped through the pages, stopping at the section marked M, but nowhere in the pages had she scribbled Trent’s name, address or telephone number.
Though the little book was half-full of entries, there wasn’t even a notation for the man she’d married.
Names that were vaguely familiar caused little sparks to flare in her memory, though the faces that swam in her mind were blurred and fleeting.
In the section for people whose surnames started with J, she found Janet Jones, then saw that the address had been crossed out with a note to look under C, where her sister Janet had landed after resuming use of her maiden name.
Her sister’s face came to mind, and she remembered a teary confrontation where Janet had confided that her husband, the love of her life, had left her for another woman, a younger woman with no children and a lot of money. Janet had been nearly suicidal and she’d sworn off men for the rest of her life. It had been raining heavily outside, the water sheeting the windows of her apartment....
Nikki sucked in her breath. Suddenly she remembered where she lived—a small walk-up in the Queen Anne section of Seattle. The rambling old house had originally been built in the 1920s, and later divided into four apartments. Her studio was located on the uppermost floor in quarters originally designed for servants. The ceilings were sloped, the windows paned dormers, but there was a brick fireplace, tons of closet space under the eaves of the old manor, and a gleaming hardwood floor. Long and narrow, the roomy apartment was filled with plants and antiques.
Heart racing, Nikki remembered the braided rug she’d picked up at a garage sale, an antique sewing machine she used as an end table and a rolltop desk positioned near the windows. Her computer table was in the corner near a built-in bookcase and her lumpy couch, a hand-me-down from...from...oh, Lord, who gave her the camel-backed couch? Her great-aunt Ora!