The part of the floor that wasn’t covered with a white rug was of clean and polished tile. A ceiling fan moved slowly overhead.
Because Ambrosia stood watching, waiting for a reaction, Annabel said, “It’s a lovely room.”
“Your clothes be in this closet. Mr. Alarcon’s things be in the closet over there.” Ambrosia slid back mirrored doors. “Here be your things,” she said.
There were clothes in the closet, long skirts and short skirts, blouses and dresses and pants. Shoes were neatly arranged in shoe racks on the floor, sweaters and scarves, swimsuits and nightgowns on shelves. The clothes were pretty. But were they hers?
She felt lost, bewildered, and perhaps the hopelessness showed in her eyes, because Ambrosia said, “Why don’t you rest, missus? All that rockin’ on the boat be enough to weigh a body down.”
“Yes, I think I will rest for a little while, Ambrosia.”
“The bathroom be through that door. You want anything at all, you pick up that phone over there and ask for me.” She smiled. “It’s real nice havin’ you back, Miss Annabel. Real nice.”
Back? Annabel thought when she was alone. But was I ever here? Nothing was familiar, not the house, not Ambrosia, not this room. She opened the French doors and went out on the flower-filled balcony that overlooked the sea. Certainly San Sebastián Island was a beautiful spot, a romantic place in the middle of the turquoise sea. Had she been happy here with Luis? Lord, how she wished she could remember. Had she shared this room with him? Had they lain together on that damask-covered bed?
So far, except for the two times he had kissed her, he had not acted as if he expected anything from her. But they were here on his island now. Would things be different? Would he expect her to act like a wife?
A chill that was somewhere between fear and excitement zinged down her spine. Then, because she didn’t want to think about it, she took her shoes off and, curling up on the peach-colored chaise, went almost immediately to sleep.
Luis was waiting on the pool terrace when Annabel came out. She stood for a moment, bewitched by the scene, this perfect merging of sea and sky. She was surrounded by water, only water as far as she could see.
“This is my favorite time of day.” Luis stood and motioned her to one of the chairs at the side of the pool. She was wearing white silk pants with a white silk off-the-shoulder blouse. With her newly acquired tan and her blond hair loose about her shoulders, she looked very pretty, very feminine.
When she was seated he handed her a tall glass. “Your favorite,” he said.
“Vodka and tonic?”
“Gin and tonic. Don’t you remember?”
She took a sip and frowned. “Apparently not. I’m afraid I prefer vodka.”
“Of course.” He picked up a small silver bell, and when a servant Annabel had not seen before came out onto the terrace, Luis said, “Would you bring a vodka and tonic for my wife. And some caviar, please.” He turned to Annabel. “You do remember caviar, don’t you?”
“I think I remember a song about a virgin sturgeon.” She smiled. “Is it a song?”
“If it isn’t, it ought to be.” He took a sip of his drink. “Do you feel all right? No headaches?”
“No, I’m fine. I haven’t had a headache since I left the hospital.”
He knew he’d taken a chance by insisting she leave Nassau with him. He’d checked with the doctor, of course, and Hunnicut had assured him that Annabel was well enough to travel. Hunnicut had even given him a few pamphlets on amnesia, which he’d read before he and Annabel left the island.
“As far as her physical condition,” the doctor had said, “she has recovered well enough from her ordeal at sea. She’ll need to rest, though, and she can do that on the trip back to your island. As far as her memory is concerned, only time will tell. Very little is known about amnesia. Most people regain their memory within a few months, but I’ve read of cases where it’s taken years, even a few where the memory has never come back. You’re going to have to be patient with your wife, Mr. Alarcon. Don’t try to rush her.”
Patience. He had to remember that.
His servant brought her drink, along with a tray with little dishes of caviar, onions, salted nuts, cheese and several kinds of crackers.
She put a bit of caviar on a rye cracker and sprinkled some chopped onion on it. “Delicious,” she said when she tasted it. “I love botanas. I could make a meal out of them.”
“You said botanas. That’s a Spanish word.”
“Is it?”
“You speak Spanish fairly well.”
“I do?” She looked surprised. “I don’t remember.”
“Well, poco a poco.”
“Little by little?”
“That’s right.” He felt a surge of elation because he knew now he’d been right to bring her here. This was a breakthrough, he was sure of it. And though he told himself he didn’t want to press her, he said, “Do you remember anything, Annabel? Anything about the accident?”
She stared down at her drink. “No,” she said. “My first recollection is of waking up in the hospital in Nassau with you and the doctor standing over me.”
“And nothing at all about the boat you’d been on, the people you’d been with?”
“No, nothing.”
“The coast guard thought you’d been adrift for three days when they picked you up. You were only semiconscious, dehydrated and sunburned. You had a concussion, some cuts and bruises.” He waited, and when she didn’t say anything, he went on. “You were the lone survivor. All that was found of the boat you’d been on were bits and pieces of debris. And an allweather jacket that belonged to a man by the name of Zachary Flynn. Do you remember him?”
She shook her head.
“Any of the other people?”
“No”
“Do you have any idea where you were going?”
“No!” Distressed, on the verge of tears, she faced him. “I’ve told you, I don’t remember.”
“All right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just that I thought once you were back here you would start to remember.”
“I don’t.”
He put a little Brie on a cracker and handed it to her. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
For a little while they didn’t speak. The sun sank down into the sea. Luis switched on the underwater lights of the pool, as well as the lights of the palm trees on either side of the terrace. They finished their drinks, and when the servant came to see if they wanted another drink, Luis said, “No, we’ll have dinner now.
“You don’t mind eating outside, do you?” he asked Annabel. “We can go in if you’d rather.”
“No, it’s lovely out here.”
It was a perfect evening, with only the most gentle of breezes drifting in from the sea. A man with a white jacket and white gloves brought a lighted table candle, then a silver bucket with chilled white wine before he served a shrimp and crabmeat cocktail. That was followed by a green salad and broiled pompano amandine, and finally by a mango sorbet.
In spite of the fact that she had no memory of ever having been here before, Annabel found herself enjoying the evening. The food was good, the setting perfect. A Mozart concerto...how did she know it was Mozart? ... drifted out from somewhere inside the house.
Whether or not she was Luis’s wife, whether or not she had been here before, this was a pretty nice way to live. Sooner or later, if he had brought her here under false pretenses, she would find out. Until she did, she might as well enjoy herself and think of this as an island vacation.
But what if he really is your husband? a small voice inside her head whispered. In the half darkness she studied his face as though trying to see beyond the facade of gentlemanly manners to the man inside. The man who said he was her husband.
David, the older man at the dock, seemed to know her and so did Ambrosia. When Luis had told her to go along with Ambrosia, he’d started to say, “Our room.”
Their room.
And again came the question in her mind: Now that they were here, would- he expect to share that room with her? And if he did...?
“I think I’ll go in,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I’m a little tired.”
“Of course.” He rose at once and came around the table. “Is there anything you need?”
“No, thank you.” She looked out over the water. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He took her hand and led her to the edge of the pool. “Sometimes we swim here at night,” he said. “After the servants have left and we’re alone.”
She looked down at the still blue water.
“We swim naked.” He tightened his hand on hers. “And afterward we make love.”
“Luis...” She tried to free her hand but he wouldn’t let her go.
“In the pool or here on one of the chaises.” He turned her toward him and she could see the passion in his eyes. “Sometimes I carry you into the house, into our room.” His voice was low, husky. “Our bodies are still wet, but it doesn’t matter because we can’t wait, we have to have each other. We have to...”
Before she could move away, he put his arms around her and drew her close. “I want you,” he said against the fall of her hair. “Don’t you know how much I want you?”
“Luis ... please.”
“It’s been too long. I need you. I...” With a groan he covered her mouth with his. It was not a tentative kiss, it was possessive, demanding. He ground his mouth against hers, and when she tried to push him away, he held her closer.
“Kiss me,” he commanded. “Just this once, Anna, kiss me as though you remember. Kiss me...”
She was trembling, trying to fight him, trying... But, oh, the arms that held her were strong and solid and good. And the mouth that covered hers was warm, so warm. She didn’t want to; she told herself she wouldn’t. But still, her mouth softened under his and the hands that had tried to push him away crept up around his neck to hold him closer.
“Amor, ” he whispered. “Amor de mi vida.”
The words thrilled her. Remembered words? Or was it simply the warmth of the way he said them, the soft sound of Spanish? Mi vida. My life.
He kissed her eyelids, the curve of her ears, the hollow of her throat. He cupped her breast through the silky fabric of her blouse, and when she moaned, he kissed her mouth, taking her moan, her whisper of pleasure.
“You do remember,” he said. “You do.”
“No!” She pulled back. What was she doing? She didn’t know him. She didn’t... She stepped out of his arms, her breath coming in painful gasps, her body on fire with longing.
“It’s too soon,” she said. “I can’t.”
For a moment he didn’t speak, but at last he said, his voice constrained, “I shouldn’t have tried to rush you. It’s just that having you here...” He turned away from her. “It won’t happen again, Annabel, not if you don’t want it to.” His mouth curved in the semblance of a smile. “Each time I kiss you I tell you that, don’t I? I mean it when I say it. I tell myself I won’t kiss you again, but when I see you as you were that day in the water, or after the storm, or tonight when the air is soft and you’re so beautiful...” He held his hands out to her in an appeasing gesture. “Forgive me,” he said. “I really will try to behave myself.”
He touched her face very gently. “It’s late,” he said. “You’d better go in.”
“Yes.” But still she stood, as though hesitant to leave him, until with a murmured “Good night,” she went into the house.
She found her way back to her bedroom, their bedroom. The sheet had been turned back and there was a bowl of strawberries on one of the bedside tables. She sank down on the bed, trembling with reaction because she hadn’t wanted to leave Luis, because she’d wanted him to make love to her. With her. Because when he had asked her forgiveness, she’d longed to put her arms around him.
“We made love in the pool,” he had said. “Or on one of the chaises. Sometimes I carried you to our room....” Our room.
She made herself get up and undress. She put on one of the nightgowns, and when she hung up the pants and blouse, she began to look through the closet.
The clothes were pretty, most of them pastel shades of blue, pale green, turquoise and ivory. One dress in particular was lovely. She took it out, admiring the silky material and the way it was cut. Perhaps she’d wear it tomorrow night at dinner. It was... She stopped, shocked. Frozen.
There was a tag on the dress. Size eight. Two hundred and fifty dollars.
She stared at the tag. The dress was new.
With shaking hands she put it back. She looked at the other clothes. There were no more tags, but they all looked new, as though they’d never been worn.
She went through the sweaters then, and on a sky blue cashmere she found another tag. She refolded the sweater and put it back.
Luis had lied. He wasn’t her husband. Then why—dear God, why—had he brought her here? What did he mean to do with her?
Chapter 6
Too often now Luis found himself thinking of what it would be like to make love to Annabel, make love until this terrible craving that kept him awake at night was satisfied.
He took a sip of the brandy he’d poured for himself after she left him, and because he knew sleep would be a long time coming, he went into the library. There he searched the shelves for something to read, and when he could find nothing to hold his interest, he went to stand before the portrait that hung above the fireplace.
Alejandro de Alarcon, his great-great—too many “greats” to count—grandfather. Alejandro, captain of the Cantamar, which had gone down somewhere here in the Bahamas in the year 1714 with a cargo of Mexican silver, emeralds from Colombia, gold plates and spoons, necklaces, pearls and a fortune in gold doubloons.
Next to the portrait of Alejandro was the portrait of his wife, the beautiful Maria de Castilla. He had taken her with him on what proved to be his last voyage.
What had it been like that fateful October day when the hurricane winds had come raging across the sea? Did the captain have any warning of the storm to come? Had he tried to reach land before it struck?
In his mind’s eye it seemed to Luis that he could almost see Alejandro at the wheel, trying—as he, Luis, had tried during the storm he and Annabel had been in—to keep the Cantamar on course. But the storm that hit Alejandro had been ten times more fierce. It would have caught him unawares because there had been no charting of hurricanes then, no weather bureau to warn of a killer storm.
How strong had the wind been that fateful day? A hundred and fifty miles an hour? A hundred and sixty? How high were the waves that swamped the ship and carried it into the depths of the sea?
In those last terrible moments when Alejandro knew there was no hope, did he clasp Maria in his arms? Did he cry out when he saw the wave that would carry them down?
And Maria? Did she think of the two sons she had left behind? When the water closed over her head, was there a moment of fear? Or did she feel a sense of peace because she was with Alejandro, holding him as he held her while they faced that final moment together?
They were gone, lost forever in the deep waters of the Bahamas. But the Cantamar was still there, waiting to be found. By him. Because by the right of his heritage she belonged to him.
He’d been searching for her for almost ten years. There had been other ships, a Portuguese galleon and an English ship. He’d made a small fortune salvaging them, but it was the Cantamar he wanted. Cantamar, Song of the Sea, calling to him like a Lorelei.
He would risk anything to find her, not just for the worth of her, but because of Alejandro, because somehow he knew that’s what Alejandro would have wanted. It would be like coming full circle when he found the Cantamar, laying to rest the memory of the captain and his beautiful Maria.
And yes, when he found the ship, what he and his crew salvaged would be worth millions in silver, emeralds and gold doubloons. Gol
d doubloons like the one Annabel had in her pocket when the coast guard picked her up.
She was the key to the mystery of the lost ship. She and Zachary Flynn. Flynn the bastard. Flynn, the man he had hired four years ago to help him find the Cantamar.
On that last day, just the two of them alone on his boat, without his salvage crew, diving at almost two hundred feet, they’d found bottles of brandy that had broken loose from the lost ship. Another few days and he knew they would have found her. They would have if it hadn’t been for Andrew, the hurricane that came raging across the sea with winds up to a hundred and sixty miles an hour, sending waves crashing over his boat, shifting the ocean bottom, hiding the Cantamar once more in the bowels of the sea.
His leg had been broken, his chest and shoulder crushed, and he’d been unconscious from a blow on the head. He came to in the dinghy. His boat was gone and so was Flynn, along with the charts that showed the location of the lost Cantamar.
He didn’t know how long he’d drifted there on that empty sea without water, without food. He’d slipped in and out of consciousness, knowing that the chances of his being picked up were slim. All that kept him alive those last two days when his skin had burned and his tongue had swollen with thirst had been the thought of what he would do to Zachary Flynn if he lived through this. That and the thought of Annabel.
He had whispered her name through lips that were cracked and bleeding. He’d relived every moment he’d ever spent with her and conjured up visions of how she had looked the first time he saw her, the first time he kissed her, the first time they made love. In his mind he had asked her forgiveness for whatever wrong he had done. She’d been so young when they married and, God forgive him, he’d wanted to mold her into his idea of what a perfect woman should be.
Again and again in those terrible days adrift in that lonely sea he had prayed for another chance. In that state of half consciousness he told her again and again how much he loved her. “Love you,” he whispered. “Love you.”
Long-Lost Wife? Page 6