Private Vows

by Sally C. Berneathy

Mary sat up behind him and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his broad back, making an effort to comfort him the way he comforted her when she was upset. “Maybe,” she said, “or maybe something else would have happened. Cole, Angela was sick. She needed professional help, the kind of help you couldn’t give her.”

  He laid his hand over hers where it rested on his chest, accepting the attempt at comfort if not the comfort itself. “I tried to get her to see a doctor, but she refused. I even considered having her committed for psychiatric observation, but I thought I could take care of her. She was my wife. I had a duty to her, and I failed in that duty.”

  He turned in her arms and cupped her face in his hands. “Let’s don’t talk about the past anymore tonight, yours or mine. We can’t change the past and we don’t know what tomorrow’s going to bring. All we have is tonight.” He kissed her softly, leaving her lips yearning for more. “I want to make love to you again, Mary. I want to be inside you and around you and completely blot out the rest of the world.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I want that, too.”

  She didn’t want to think about Angela’s story or her own problems. She didn’t want to think about tomorrow when she might be proven a killer, or stalked by a killer, when she might be back with a fiancé she couldn’t remember.

  Though she knew she had been making wedding plans with another man, she found it impossible to believe. How could she make love with Cole, take his body inside hers and scale the heights of intimacy with him, if somewhere in her heart existed love—even a love she couldn’t remember—for another man?

  That was something she’d have to deal with later, but right now all she wanted was to experience again the ecstasy that came when she joined her body with Cole’s.

  Their lovemaking this time was slower with more exploration and mutual discovery of each other’s bodies, though the pinnacle, when it came, was even more resounding than the first time.

  Later as she lay in his arms and felt his breathing deepen and slow when he drifted into sleep, Cole’s words continued to echo through her head.

  He hadn’t loved Angela. He’d felt responsible for her, wanted to take care of her.

  That pretty much described the way he’d felt for her when they first met. Responsible for hitting her with his car, responsible for her memory loss, wanting to take care of her, even to the extent of taking her into his home. And she’d accepted that at the time, partly because she’d felt safe with him but partly because she’d been attracted to him and wanted to stay around him no matter what it took.

  Tonight they’d met on level ground. Tonight they’d made love, giving and taking in equal portions. That’s where she wanted to keep it as long as she could. She was falling in love with Cole Grayson. She knew he would never return that love, certainly not if he knew the truth about her mental condition, about the journal’s appearance on her bed or about the voices.

  Worse, if he knew, he’d again feel responsible for her. He’d feel sorry for her.

  He might never love her, and she might be gone from his life tomorrow if he was able to determine who’d bought the wedding dress. But whatever happened, she wanted him to remember their wonderful lovemaking untainted by the knowledge of her problems.

  She would not, could not tell him about the journal’s mysterious appearance and missing page or about the voices.

  MARY WOKE the next morning with Cole’s arms still wrapped around her. She lay perfectly still, savoring the delicious feeling, storing the memory for all the empty mornings that stretched ahead.

  Today Cole might find the name of the person who had bought her wedding dress.

  Today she might leave Cole Grayson’s house forever.

  Today Cole might discover that her problems ran as deeply as Angela’s had.

  But as the first light of morning streaked through the window, Cole’s chest and stomach were warm against her back. His arms wrapped around her possessively, his legs tangled with hers and his scent mingled with the essence of their night of lovemaking and filled her senses.

  She realized from his quickened breathing that Cole was no longer asleep though he hadn’t moved, either. Was he, too, aware of the ephemeral quality of the moment?

  Then his hand slid from her abdomen to her breast, and he nuzzled her neck. At his touch, her desire rose.

  As they came together in the early light of dawn, their lovemaking reached unexplored, explosive heights though it had an elusive, haunted quality, like maple leaves in autumn that blazed a glorious red even while heavy with the knowledge that the branches would soon be barren and lonely.

  Later as Mary lay in his arms, Cole spoke the words that hovered between them. “If I get on it first thing, we can probably know in a few hours who bought that dress.”

  “That’s great,” she said. “Thank you.”

  No! every fiber of her being screamed silently. She didn’t want to return to a world she couldn’t remember, didn’t want to face whatever had been so horrible that she’d forced it to the darkest recesses of her mind, didn’t want to remember a man she’d promised to marry. She wanted to stay forever in Cole’s arms, feel the early-morning sunshine on her skin, live in the light of the world she’d found.

  But of course that was impossible.

  MARY WAS SITTING in one corner of Cole’s office that afternoon, pretending to read a book while he worked at the computer, when the phone rang. She jumped and the book slid from her lap to the floor.

  Cole gave her a guarded look, then glanced at the caller ID. “It’s the police department,” he said, reaching for the receiver.

  That information should have calmed her, but it didn’t. Was someone calling to tell them another pervert wanted to take her home with him? Or perhaps even that her real fiancé had finally appeared? She wasn’t sure which she dreaded more.

  Cole’s end of the conversation revealed nothing. The caller was apparently doing all the talking, with Cole grunting or muttering “I see” in acknowledgment.

  “We’ll be there in an hour, Pete,” he said, then hung up and turned to her. “Jessica Doyle. Ring any bells.”

  She rose slowly as the name slid into its designated slot in her memory. “It’s my name, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” She thought his eyes begged her to say no, but that was probably only a reflection of her own need, her fear of discovering her identity.

  “I think it is.” She licked her dry lips and sank back into the chair, afraid her shaky legs would no longer support her. “I know it is but only in the way I know the sun is ninety-three million miles from the earth. It doesn’t really have any meaning to me. I don’t feel like Jessica Doyle. I still feel like me.”

  “A man came into the station with one of the posters you and I put up. He claims to know you, and he has a wallet with Jessica Doyle’s identification. The address is Houston, and the driver’s-license picture looks like you.”

  She swallowed hard. “The man—?”

  “Tall and blond. His name is Geoffrey Sloan.”

  Though she didn’t repeat the name aloud, it echoed round and round through the empty chambers of her mind.

  Geoffrey Sloan. The name brought up images of the smiling blond man bringing her a glass of wine, seated beside her at the concert, standing in her doorway holding a huge bouquet of roses, turning from her kitchen sink to greet her with dinner already prepared when she came home from work.

  Suddenly cold, she wrapped her arms around herself as a black curtain dropped between her mind and the returning memories. She didn’t want to remember Geoffrey. She didn’t want him in her life.

  She shuddered. That was a strange and terrible way to feel about a man she must have loved once.

  Though not so strange, she supposed, after last night. Of course she didn’t want Geoffrey. She wanted Cole.

  “Your fiancé?” Cole asked.

  She nodded, the movement jerky and painful, as if every muscle in her body had tied itself into knots. “I guess
.”

  He came over to stand beside her, almost but not quite touching her. He wouldn’t touch her. Not now. Not ever again. “You guess?” he asked, his voice harsh. “Mary, this isn’t something you can guess about. You have to be certain.”

  She clenched her hands into fists, focusing on the pain of her fingernails biting into her palms, anything other than the pain of this moment.

  “We dated. I remember that and I remember him being in my apartment when I got home from work, cooking dinner for me. What else do I need to remember to be certain?” Tears hovered in the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. She was not going to cry. She was not going to show that final sign of weakness.

  He resumed his seat at the computer, turning his back to her. “I’m going to keep checking databases while you pack your things.”

  Pack your things. Of course. Pack her things and leave Cole’s house. She had a name and a fiancé. Cole was no longer responsible for her. She no longer had a place in his life.

  She rose stiffly and took one step toward the door then stopped. “The blood,” she said. “Where did the blood come from?”

  “The kid next door got hit in the nose with a baseball. Caused a hell of a nosebleed.” He spun around in the chair, his forehead dark, his expression fierce. “Just because this guy has your ID doesn’t mean he’s your fiancé. This could be another fruitcake.”

  “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m sure I know Geoffrey Sloan. You don’t have to continue to take care of me.”

  He returned to his computer without responding.

  She climbed the stairs woodenly to the room where she’d made her temporary home, to the room where Cole’s son had once lived. Cole hadn’t been able to protect Angela and Billy or his own mother, and he was working extra hard, going to unnecessary lengths, to protect her in an effort to make up for what he considered his failure with his family.

  She was Jessica Doyle. She knew that for a fact. And all reason and logic told her that Geoffrey Sloan was her fiancé. She would leave Cole and go with Geoffrey even though the idea terrified her.

  She frowned at that thought. There was no reason she should still be terrified of her past. She wasn’t a murderer; the blood on her gown had been explained away. She hated herself for such weakness. Obviously she had become far too dependent on Cole, frightened to leave the safety he’d come to represent.

  At the top of the stairs, she halted with her hand on the railing and looked back.

  It involved more than the safety factor. No matter what Geoffrey had been to her in the past, she didn’t love him now and would never be able to…not when she loved Cole with all her being.

  Maybe she’d never loved Geoffrey at all. Maybe her relationship with him had been like Cole’s with Angela. Maybe he’d wanted to take care of her. She could remember how fragile and lost she’d felt at that restaurant when she’d met Geoffrey. Was she more like Angela than she realized…a frail, mentally ill woman who heard voices and saw menacing figures, a woman a man could only feel pity for?

  Was the nameless terror she’d been running from her own mind?

  As she took her clothes from the drawer of Billy’s dresser and returned them to the shopping bag, she only knew one thing for certain.

  She loved Cole Grayson as a man, not as a protector, even though she knew that whatever strength she’d gained had been given to her by him.

  Against all reason, she hoped that he’d find another man had purchased the wedding gown and she wouldn’t have to leave with Geoffrey Sloan.

  Ten minutes later she descended the stairs carrying all the worldly possessions of Mary Jackson.

  Cole strode from his office to meet her, his dark gaze shuttered. “Geoffrey Sloan put your wedding gown on his platinum credit card.”

  Icy fingers wrapped around her heart. “I see.”

  Cole extended his hand and for one insane moment she thought he was reaching for her, asking her to stay.

  But the diamond ring lay on his palm. “You’ll probably want to put this on.”

  The irrational fear that still accompanied everything tangible and intangible from her past life washed over her, but she refused to accept it. The ring was only an object. It couldn’t hurt her.

  Leaving Cole would hurt. Spending the rest of her life without him was the most frightening terror she could imagine, a terror she had to face.

  Numbly she took the ring from him and slid it onto her finger. The metal was cold against her skin.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  She nodded, unable to speak the horrible lie. She wasn’t ready to go. She would never be ready to leave him.

  Was it only yesterday that Cole had told her she was growing stronger every day? She didn’t feel strong at all. Her legs were so shaky she could hardly stand as she walked through that door out of his house to return to a life she barely remembered and didn’t want.

  Chapter Eleven

  Geoffrey Sloan was handsome and charming and Cole hated him on sight.

  Mary—Jessica—sat stiffly in the chair next to him, across the table from Pete and Geoffrey in the interrogation room Pete had commandeered for this meeting. He could feel the waves of tension emanating from her as she wrapped slim fingers around her cup of vending-machine coffee. One of the posters he’d made up, folded and slightly crumpled, lay in the middle of the table.

  “You still don’t remember, do you?” Geoffrey asked, his model-perfect features molded into an expression of sympathy and compassion.

  “Sort of. Bits and pieces.”

  Was it Cole’s imagination or did Sloan’s face go slightly paler under his smooth tan? Was his orthodontist-perfect smile a shade tight? Did he not want her to remember? Was this man hiding something?

  “‘Bits and pieces’ is a start,” Sloan said smoothly. “When I saw that poster with your picture and the caption Amnesia Victim, I was frankly worried. That worry increased when I came here and Officer Townley told me the amnesia was total. The fact that you’re starting to recover is a good sign.”

  Sloan was saying all the right words. Cole told himself that his suspicion came only because he was having a hard time relinquishing Jessica—his Mary—to another man. He’d always known this day would come and thought he was prepared for it.

  What he hadn’t counted on was the way she’d fit into his arms and his heart so perfectly.

  What he hadn’t counted on was the feeling of despair that had hit him broadside when the call had come from Pete, when he’d known he was losing her, that he’d never again hold her or make love to her, never again taste the sweetness of her lips or smell her white floral scent.

  He knew she still had a lot of problems to overcome and he knew she’d be better off in familiar circumstances. He knew he didn’t have the ability to help her. He knew that, once she regained all her memories, she’d also regain her love for Geoffrey Sloan.

  He knew all those things, but somehow none of that knowledge eased the ache in his gut or the sense that things were not right.

  Pete set a brown leather purse in the middle of the table. “Check inside,” he instructed her.

  Mary lifted the purse carefully. Obviously she had no sense of it belonging to her.

  She took out a slim beige wallet, a gold tube of lipstick, a white comb, three restaurant mints, a couple of pens and a small memo pad. He watched as she opened the memo pad and flipped through the pages…all blank. She opened the wallet and revealed credit cards, as well as her driver’s license with the name Jessica Doyle beside a picture that certainly looked like her.

  Without a word, she opened the memo pad, took the cap off one of the pens and wrote “Jessica Doyle,” then compared it to the signature on the driver’s license.

  “It’s me,” she said softly without looking up.

  If he’d needed final confirmation, that was certainly it. She was not Mary Jackson, the woman who’d shared his life and his bed. She was Jessica Doyle, a woman who belonged to
Geoffrey Sloan.

  Sloan scooted his chair back and rose stiffly, smiling down at her. He seemed a little tense, but Cole supposed that was normal under the circumstances. “Of course it’s you, Jessica. Will that be sufficient, Officer Townley? Can we go home now?”

  “I have a few questions,” Cole said, his voice loud in the small room.

  Pete’s expression was inscrutable. He could have told Cole this was none of his business, but he didn’t. So maybe he wasn’t quite comfortable with this guy, either.

  Sloan shifted his gaze to Cole. “Grayson, right?” he asked. “I understand you’ve been very kind to my fiancée, but I also understand you’re the man who hit her and caused her memory loss. What sort of questions do you have?”

  Cole leaned back and crossed his arms, refusing to be intimidated. “I can see you’re anxious to be on your way, to be reunited with your lovely fiancée. I’ll try to keep this short.”

  Sloan inclined his head in a half nod.

  “So why did it take you so long to get here? Her picture’s been in all the newspapers and on all the television stations.”

  “I was in Houston.”

  “What was Mary…Jessica…doing in Dallas?”

  “The wedding plans were stressful for Jessica. Her parents died in a horrible accident, and she’s been…sensitive…since then.” He looked at her with compassion that bordered on pity and made Cole want to lean across the table, grab the lapels of Sloan’s expensive suit with one hand and break his nose with the other.

  Jessica ducked her head.

  Sensitive? What the hell did Sloan mean by that? Was he saying she was mentally ill?

  Maybe she had a few problems, but Mary—Jessica—wasn’t mentally ill!

  “My father has a condo in the Turtle Creek area,” Sloan continued, “that he uses when he has business up here, so we decided to use it for a couple of weeks to get away. I had to return to Houston to take care of business, but Jessica’s a teacher and has the summer off so she stayed here. I was a little concerned when I couldn’t reach her by phone, but sometimes she retreats like that. She can be a very private person.”