Sarah found little comfort in any of it. Connor pulled her into his arms, cradled her against his chest and stroked her hair. "For now, let's try to relax, okay? We'll get through this, Sarah. You'll see." She nodded and forced a smile. He kissed her. Though she allowed him to usher her back to bed, she didn't sleep. The names resounded in a wearisome litany through her head. Jack Forrester. Sarah Myers Tierney. Sarah Myers.
Fatigue pressed down on her. As she began to nod off to sleep, a memory jogged her back into wakefulness. Aunt Martha Myers. Her aunt! She clearly saw the image of her face, her neat white hair, her favorite gray cardigan, her gentle smile.
Sarah sat up in the bed. How could she have forgotten Aunt Martha? She'd been the only mother she'd known since…
Memories surfaced in scattered bits. She vaguely remembered her parents and their death in an auto accident when she was a child. She'd lived with Aunt Martha until she moved into her own apartment. In Tallahassee! She'd lived in Tallahassee, Florida.
Leaning back against the pillows, she sifted through the tenuous strands of memories that filtered through the fog in her brain. She recalled random events and people from her childhood, high school and college days. Other details escaped her, though. Too many details. She remembered nothing about her adult life, Jack Forrester or the name "Tierney." Had it been her name?
With a glance at Connor, who had fallen into a deep sleep, she gently disengaged herself from his embrace, climbed out of bed and crept into the living room. It was shortly before midnight. Too late to call the East Coast.
But she had to.
She dialed directory assistance for Tallahassee. "Martha Myers, please, on Lakeshore Drive
." She scrawled the number on a paper Connor had left near the phone.
Her heart sped up. She could know everything with one call. Surely Aunt Martha would know all the important things. Swallowing her inexplicable trepidation, she dialed.
After many rings, a sleepy, warbly feminine voice answered.
Warm tears filled Sarah's eyes. "Aunt Martha, it's Sarah."
"Sarah? Oh, sweet heavens, Sarah! Where are you?"
"Colorado."
"I've been worried silly. Why haven't you called me? It's been so long. And every time I call you, I reach an answering machine. I've left so many messages."
"I'm sorry, Aunt Martha. I was in an accident."
"An accident? Oh, no. Sarah, honey…"
"I'm all right now," she hurriedly assured her, "except that I … I can't remember some things."
"'Can't remember'? Oh, my! That sounds serious. Why in heaven's name didn't Grant call me?"
"Grant?" she replied faintly. "Who's Grant?"
A short silence followed the question.
"You mean, you don't know?" her aunt asked incredulously. "Oh, my, my. You're not home, then? You're not with him?"
Sarah gripped the phone tightly. Home. With him. She didn't like the sound of that. "Tell me who he is. Please."
"He's your husband, dear."
Dread rose up to choke her. Your husband.
She suddenly pictured a face to go with the name—a classically handsome face with wide-set blue eyes and a dimpled smile. Dark, wavy hair. An infectious laugh. Elegance, old-world charm … fairy-tale romance…
Her aunt droned on about how lavishly Grant had courted her; how he worshiped the ground she walked on; how his corporate business had forced them to move to Colorado. Sarah heard only a word here and there. She was too overwhelmed.
Grant Tierney. He'd been the one pushing the wedding band onto her left hand. She remembered little else about him.
Closing her eyes, she forced words through a painfully tight throat. "Were you at my wedding, Aunt Martha?"
"Heavens, no. My doctor won't let me travel that far."
"Did I talk to you after the wedding?"
"Not even once! I waited and waited. I figured you were on your honeymoon, but two months is an awfully long time, even for a man with as much money as Grant."
"I need his phone number. Grant's phone number … and address."
"My goodness, Sarah, you really don't remember them?" It took a while for Aunt Martha to understand how that could be, then another few minutes to find the information.
As she read it aloud, Sarah copied it down.
"One more question, Aunt Martha. Do you know a man named Jack Forrester?"
"Jack Forrester. Hmm. I don't believe so." After a pensive moment, she asked anxiously, "You'll be okay, won't you, dear? I think you should get on the next plane and come home to me until you're well again. Honey and Spice miss you, you know. You remember them, don't you? You were supposed to send for them, once you were settled."
"Thank you for keeping them, Aunt Martha," she murmured. "I'll call you again tomorrow."
She hung up the phone in a daze.
"Sarah?" Connor's deep, sleep-husky voice reverberated from the hallway. "Were you on the phone?"
Not trusting her voice, she nodded.
"Who were you talking to?"
"My aunt," she whispered.
"Your aunt?" With a sleepy squint, he trudged into the living room and sank down into the chair beside hers. "You remembered her?"
Again, she nodded.
He opened his eyes wider, wholly alert now. "What did she tell you?"
Though she tried to answer, the words stuck in her throat.
"Sarah." He frowned and leaned forward. "Tell me what she said."
"I'm married."
He stared at her in thunderstruck silence.
"To a man named Grant Tierney." Her voice shook, and she waited for a moment to steady it. It emerged in a raspy whisper. "I remember him. I remember … marrying him."
Silence throbbed between them.
He shut his eyes. His chest slowly expanded as he inhaled deeply. He sat very still in his chair.
She tried not to think. At all. Not now. Maybe not ever.
"It's late," he finally uttered in a tight, unrecognizable voice. "We … aren't thinking clearly." He opened his eyes. They looked bleak and dazed. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."
Fusing from the chair, he held his hand out to her. She took it. Together they moved toward his bedroom.
His bedroom. A flood of realization washed through her. She dropped his hand and halted in the hallway.
He swung an uncomprehending glance at her. Like a match struck into flame, understanding flared in his eyes.
She couldn't sleep with him. Of course she couldn't sleep with him. She was married to another man.
"I don't believe," he whispered, "that you could have made love to me the way you did—" his throat contracted in a hard swallow; a muscle moved in his jaw "—if you loved another man. Even if you didn't remember him." His stare was hot enough to brand her.
She didn't reply. But in her heart, she had to agree.
He turned and strode to his bedroom. Alone.
Before the sun rose, Sarah hooked Tofu to a leash, walked him into town with her and called Grant Tierney from a pay phone. She couldn't quite think of Grant as her husband.
She'd never made love to anyone but Connor. Her body, heart and soul had burned for him alone. She loved him—intensely, as she'd love no other.
But she'd married someone else.
She didn't want to believe it; didn't want to face up to it. She had to, though. She had to return to the man she'd married and do her best to remember their relationship. Only when she understood herself and the life she'd once led could she move forward in any direction at all.
She'd lain awake most of the night fighting her own demons. Pain and dread had stormed through her, along with the nameless fear. An inner voice issued vague warnings—or maybe memories—of danger.
Why? Could the fear simply be a symptom of the head trauma? Maybe so. But in case it wasn't, she couldn't risk drawing anyone else into the danger. She had to protect both Annie and Connor from becoming too involved in her problems. She had to face her past wi
thout them.
She wouldn't make the call to Grant Tierney from Connor's house. She didn't want his number caught on a caller-identification box, or traced from an outside location.
Don't you trust the man you married? she asked herself.
How could she? She had no idea who it was she actually feared, or whom she'd run from. And she remembered so little about Grant Tierney.
How, she wondered, did Jack Forrester fit into the picture? Was he some deranged stalker who had stolen her away after the ceremony? It could account for her virginal state. Had she then escaped and run from him?
A recorded greeting answered, and she recognized Grant Tierney's voice. Snatches of memories played through her mind—dancing with Grant, sitting next to him on a private jet, dining in an expensive foreign restaurant. On the French Riviera, she believed it had been. She'd been having fun … and she'd been so flattered that a man like Grant would fall in love with her.
She remembered kissing him. A pleasant experience, if memory served correctly, but nothing remotely similar to the blood-stirring passion she'd felt with Connor.
She shut her eyes and gripped the phone. She couldn't think about Connor now. The wound was too raw; the pain too great.
She'd have to leave him. Today.
"Grant," she said into the receiver after the recorded beep had sounded, "this is Sarah. I … I'm coming … home." How odd it seemed, calling any place "home" other than Connor's house. She swallowed a sudden swelling in her throat. "I should be there by late this afternoon."
She hung up the phone and leaned against the brick front of the convenience store, nearly overcome by the pain of leaving. She couldn't afford to feel too deeply. She had to be guided by reason, not emotion. She had to discover her "real life."
At least the memories of Grant reassured her. She remembered him as a gentle, charming man who often made her laugh. Surely he could not have caused the fear.
Even as she thought of it, the fear zigzagged through her like lightning. She pressed her fist to her heart and concentrated on regaining her composure before she made her next call.
Drawing in a deep breath, she called Annie and asked for a ride into Denver. She intended to have Annie drive her just so far, and then she'd send her back to Sugar Falls. She'd take a cab the rest of the way to Grant's house.
She wouldn't let Annie anywhere near Grant's house until she remembered and understood entirely what had taken place after her wedding ceremony … and why her fear had grown by leaps and bounds since she'd heard the names Jack Forrester and Grant Tierney.
She could very well be walking back into some kind of dreadful problem. That was exactly why she wouldn't ask Connor to drive her to Denver. Connor wouldn't allow her to take a cab the rest of the way. At the very least, he'd follow her.
Panic touched her at the very thought. He'd be hurt. Gravely hurt. Any man who helped her would be terribly, terribly hurt…
Why, she wondered wildly, did she believe such a thing? As much as she'd tried to analyze that fear and reason it away, the certainty of it had only grown stronger until it squeezed her heart like a vise.
She would not allow Connor to become involved. She had to handle the situation—whatever it was—in her own way, without him. She'd have to make a clean break from him for his own protection.
She could leave while he was at work, she supposed, except she'd promised to tell him before she left. He'd been too good to her; too kind and caring. He'd asked her for only that promise in return. She couldn't possibly break it.
She'd have to tell him she was leaving. She'd have to make him believe that she'd be fine, that she wasn't frightened, that a loving husband awaited her.
Perhaps he did.
Determined to resist the tears that clogged her throat, she called Annie, who promised to do anything she could to help her. Sarah then returned home—or to Connor's house, she painfully corrected herself.
She found him pacing across the kitchen, the phone pressed to his ear, his handsome face set in grim, anxious lines. Her heart turned over at the sight of him. He was dressed in a dark shirt, jeans and soft leather boots; he looked strong, virile and eminently protective. She wanted to kiss him and hold him forever.
She loved him so damn much!
That was why she had to leave this house without him.
He set down the phone as she walked into the kitchen. "Where the hell were you?" Relief flashed in his troubled gaze. "God, Sarah, when I found you gone, I didn't know what to think. I was about to call the sheriff and go out looking myself."
"I took Tofu for a walk." She stopped a safe distance away from him and grasped the edge of the kitchen counter for support. Be strong, she told herself. Be convincing. "I'm leaving today."
He stared at her in grim silence.
"I, uh, already have my suitcase packed."
His mouth tightened. He crossed his muscular arms, lodged a shoulder against the refrigerator and steadily regarded her. "I saw that."
"I've asked Annie to drive me into Denver. To my, uh—" her voice wavered slightly "—my house there."
"You remembered where you lived?"
"Yes."
"You're not afraid to return there?"
"No. I'm sure now that the fear was groundless."
Connor forced himself to remain where he was. He couldn't touch her now. Couldn't pull her into his arms as he so often had. "I'd like to drive you, Sarah. I want to be sure you get there safely, and that everything's okay once you do."
"No. My … husband … will be waiting there for me."
The pain that had been gripping his heart since last night now tightened to an almost unbearable pressure. "You remember him clearly, then? You remember your relationship?"
"I do." She glanced away from him, her face growing paler than it had been. "And it would be awkward if you brought me home. I'm not quite ready to tell him about … about us."
"About us." She'd made it sound like a tawdry affair. Was that how she saw the time they'd spent together and the love they'd made?
He'd been her first. Her only.
Unable to stop himself, he ventured closer until he stood near enough to touch her. To kiss her. God, he needed to. He needed to remind her of the emotion that powered every one of their kisses. "Do you love him?"
"Yes."
A deep, black chasm opened in his heart. The sharp, stunning pain of it cost him a few moments' breath. What had he been hoping for? That she'd leave her husband, the man she'd never slept with, the man who hadn't issued any bulletins for her or contacted any authorities? Yes.
"There are things," he whispered raggedly, "that I don't understand. Questions that I—"
"Connor," she reprimanded, silencing him with the sharpness of her tone. "Please believe that I know the answers to all those questions, and I'm satisfied with them. I simply don't feel it would be right to—" her breath briefly caught "—to share them with you."
The pain in him intensified.
Regret flickered among the emotions churning in her eyes. He swore he saw love there, too. Was he deluding himself? "I owe you a lot for your help," she said, "and your … your kindness." Her chin quivered, but she went on, "I'll always be grateful."
"Grateful."
"But I need to put my life back together," she whispered.
Her life. She'd found her life, and it didn't include him. He couldn't fault her for that. She was the one acting honorably now; not him. He had to get it through his head that she was married. Another man's wife.
A fine sheen welled up in her beautiful gray eyes, the ones he'd gazed so deeply into while he'd made love to her. "I want to make my marriage work," she said.
He felt the darkness reaching for him—from the cold, hollow depths of the chasm that had once been his heart. "Okay," he heard himself say. "Let me know if you need anything. I'll be at my office." He turned to leave while he still could.
"Connor," she cried, stopping him at the living-room door.
; He braced himself and turned back to her.
"I'm sorry." A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and trickled past her mouth. "I never meant to hurt you."
In that gut-wrenching moment, while emotion held them both in its cruel grip, he was strongly tempted to kiss her, tell her how much he loved her, tell her that he'd die inside without her. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life, and he'd always gone after what he wanted.
But she loved someone else. She wanted her marriage to work. He couldn't willingly destroy it. Even if, by some miracle, she agreed to stay with him, he didn't want her to sacrifice the love she'd vowed to keep sacred. He loved her too much to do that to her.
And he could never settle for her fondness, her gratitude, or her physical passion. He wanted her love … which belonged to someone else.
"You didn't hurt me, Sarah," he softly assured her. "I'll miss you, of course, but…" He ran out of voice, so he lifted a shoulder in a negligent shrug until he found a whisper to replace it with. "We both knew you'd be leaving when you found your … your life." He believed he even managed a small smile. "I've got my life to keep me busy, too."
She bit her bottom lip until it turned white. He dragged his gaze away from her mouth—the mouth another man would be kissing. He had to leave before he exploded.
Dressed in an ecru linen vest and a flowing floral-print skirt, Sarah loaded her suitcase into Annie's trunk and left Connor's house shortly before noon.
The pain of leaving him was excruciating. She sat in silence for most of the two-hour drive to Denver, her throat muscles stiff and aching from holding back tears.
It had taken every ounce of her strength to utter the lies she'd told him. She didn't love the man she remembered as her husband. She would never love anyone but Connor.
He apparently didn't love her in the same way.
"You didn't hurt me, Sarah," he'd said. "I'll miss you, of course, but…" For her, there were no buts. She would miss him from the bottom of her soul. Nothing or no one would fill the void.
What had she expected from him? Men like Connor didn't take strange women into their homes with the intention of keeping them forever. She'd done exactly what Mimsey had insinuated; she'd taken his kindness for more than it had been. Oh, they'd shared some good times, and heart-to-heart talks, and long, wonderful hours of lovemaking. But he'd never meant for her to take their relationship as anything more than temporary. He'd said it himself. "We both knew you'd be leaving when you found your life. I've got my life to keep me busy, too."
SAY AHHH... Page 14