Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9)

by Heather Wardell

  The tears stop as if she's turned off a faucet. "You'll regret this."

  He doesn't speak, and neither do I, and she turns and stomps out.

  Once the door slams behind her he locks it and turns to me. "I'm so sorry."

  "I don't think I'd cheat on you," I whisper. "But I can't say for sure."

  He brushes his hand over my hair. "You didn't. I'd bet everything I've ever owned on it." Sadness flickers over his face. "I cheated on you, I know the signs."

  I snuggle my shawl closer around my shoulders. "She's still got keys to the house, you know."

  He nods. "No point asking for them back, she'll have made copies."

  I try to figure out how to say "Then why bother saying she needs permission?" but before I can he pulls his phone from his pocket and places a call.

  "Yes, you installed the locks on this house when we moved in and now we need an emergency lock change. Tonight. That's fine, I'll pay by credit card."

  He reads off the card numbers, and I watch my husband pushing his mother further out of our lives and wonder what Donna would have given to see that happen.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "Well, this is it," Ryan says, his voice as nervous as I feel.

  After he kicked Claire out, we spent the evening at home because the locksmith didn't arrive until nearly nine. I didn't mind not going out, though, because instead we sat chatting over our meals from his freezer then inspected the house in more detail and flipped through photos to see what I could recognize. Nothing, as it turned out, but I liked being with him.

  I still do, and I wish we were staying home today instead of about to go into the flagship office of the company I apparently founded. I haven't recognized anything he's shown me so far and I don't think it's going to change here, and I feel sadder every time I fail to remember. The euphoria I felt after Ryan's kiss last week didn't stay with me: he probably wasn't even halfway back to Ottawa before I was again lost in the dark mists of my sadness. I want to remember and I want not to be sad and I don't seem to be able to make either of those desires a reality.

  Ryan hands me a key ring, holding a particular key out to me, which I use to unlock the front door of the big old brick house that I turned into an office building. "I did the same thing in Toronto," I comment as the door creaks open.

  He holds it for me and nods. "Donna's always liked the ambiance of the older places."

  The apartment I wanted in Toronto was very old, I remember. The one Ryan picked for me was not. Our house is at most three years old. Interesting.

  We go inside, locking the door behind us, and Ryan shows me around. The reception area, the small conference rooms, a collection of tiny offices for my media consultants when they're not off advising someone... everything's done in the same sort of sleek elegant neutrals I used at our house.

  "Don't I have my own office?" I ask when he seems to be done with the tour.

  "Of course. It's upstairs so I was saving it for last. Let's go."

  He leads me up the dark wood stairs, which squeak a little, and opens the frosted glass door at the top.

  The office could be picked up and dropped into our house and it would fit the décor perfectly, all pale wood and frosted glass and various light shades of beige. Since it's in the house's attic the ceiling is sloped on both sides. A desk sits in one side's slope, with low wooden filing cabinets behind it, and a black leather sofa. Huge skylights flood the room with light, and though I know the city's noise is only two floors down the office feels removed from all that.

  I love it. I'd add a little color, maybe some vibrant glass pieces atop the filing cabinets, but it's so peaceful and beautiful just the way it is.

  I say, "It's gorgeous," and Ryan murmurs, "Sometimes I think she was happier here than at home."

  I turn to him, surprised, and he flushes. "She said once that she felt in charge here, under control, and that everywhere else she didn't feel that way, at least not to the same level. So it makes sense she'd like it, that you'd like it."

  Sure, but that's not how he said it. He sounds like I wasn't happy in our house.

  I let it go for now, though, because I want to look around more. I go behind my desk and settle into my black leather chair, then try the desk drawers.

  All locked.

  "The keys are on the ring," he says, and I unlock the drawers. They're full of usual office stuff, pencils and pens and other boring things, and a clearly well-used daily planner.

  I pull that out. "Don't I use my phone for this? I found a bunch of Donna's appointments in the calendar."

  He nods. "She copied everything into that phone. But Nadine is a technophobe so it's easier to have her write appointments into the paper book than listen to her complain about having to use a computer."

  I laugh. "Why have an assistant who's afraid of computers?"

  He smiles. "Donna always said it didn't matter because Nadine's so good at everything else."

  I flip through the book, and Ryan comes to stand beside my chair. "We went through this top to bottom looking for clues. Nadine felt bad, since there is the odd personal note in it, but we agreed it was important."

  I nod. "Makes sense." I've stopped on the week before I left. Only one appointment stands out. I turn back a few weeks, checking each Friday, then say, "I saw this in the phone. A massage every Friday afternoon?"

  "Yup, for nearly two years now. I must admit I don't know where, and neither did Nadine so we couldn't cancel it, but Donna was always so refreshed and relaxed Friday nights so it must have been a good place."

  "Their phone number's not in my contacts list?"

  Ryan shakes his head. "We checked."

  Our eyes meet and I know we're both thinking the same thing: was Donna really getting a massage or was she meeting some man?

  "It wasn't an affair," Ryan says firmly. "I don't believe it."

  I shake my head. "You always know what I'm thinking."

  He shuts his eyes tight for a moment as though I've thrown acid in his face, and I realize he's not really that perceptive. He didn't know Donna was leaving, after all. So much planning, all the work she must have done, and he hadn't known anything about it, or about her redecorating of her home office either. Huge parts of her life had been closed to him. She had closed them to him.

  "Ryan, I'm sorry," I begin, but he holds up a hand to stop me.

  "Nothing to apologize for. I told you that before and I still mean it." He takes a deep breath. "Feel free to look around as much as you want, in any cupboard or drawer."

  I start with the 'key files' section in the desk, and we spend an hour or so sitting on the couch talking about some of the files. He doesn't know everything about them, of course, but a lot of them are celebrities so he knows who they are and can fill me in when I have no idea who these people are.

  The "people die of exposure" line I threw at Jake and Hannah when they wanted me to go on television appears in a file. I tell Ryan I'd said it, and he says, "You told all your clients that, not to give anything away for free just for exposure. You wanted them to make sure they got what they deserved."

  So I somehow remembered that phrase even though I don't remember the job itself. I sigh. "The things I do and don't remember are making me crazy, Ryan."

  He wraps an arm around my shoulders. "You're not crazy. Never think that. It'll be okay."

  I don't know how it'll ever be okay, but I hope he's right. I rest my head on his shoulder and he cuddles me closer.

  It feels so good I don't want to move, but eventually he says softly, "We should keep looking at the files, right?"

  I make myself sit up straight. "I guess so."

  He releases me and reaches for another file. "How about this?"

  We go through several more, then he says, "Oh, that one," when I pick up the file of one Misty Will. "Greatest challenge of your career."

  I flip through the pop star's file and see references to drinking binges, wild nights with a movie star, possible pregnancy, a
nd then freeze. Nearly everything is typed, but on one sheet there's a hand-written note that says, "Hide the pre-marital sex side. SOME people still disapprove."

  It's in my handwriting.

  I show Ryan and he nods. "She found that the toughest part of this job. So many clients were fooling around on their partners, or going through partners like they go through rehab clinics, and she hated it. But she had to hide that, since she'd have lost most of her clients if she didn't, and she hated that too."

  I look back at the sheet, then flip it over. I pushed so hard with the pen that my letters are engraved on the back side. "I really did hate it, didn't I?"

  Such a passionate issue for me and I don't remember.

  He nods again then clears his throat. "How do you feel about it now? I mean, what do you remember feeling?"

  I consider this. "Back in high school I thought I'd wait until I got married. I don't remember being a zealot about it or anything, though. But now I run an abstinence charity, so I guess I am."

  He starts to reply but I cut him off. "Hey, what about you? Are you involved in the charity?"

  He shakes his head.

  "But do you believe in it? Or were you a stud before you married me?"

  I'm trying to lighten the mood, since he seems tense and nervous, but he flinches at my joking comment and I realize I'm not helping. "Sorry, I--"

  He speaks over me. "I saw too many friends mess up their lives with pre-marital sex so I decided not to."

  "Not to," I repeat, before I realize what he's saying. "We didn't... we were both..."

  He raises his chin as if he's going to nod but instead looks deep into my eyes. "That wedding night was the best night of my life."

  I should be touched by this, the thought of us two virgins making love for the first time after our wedding, but all I can think is, 'Thank God I didn't sleep with Jake.' If my husband's that committed to no pre-marital sex, he couldn't be thrilled if I-- Wait. "But you had an affair. Didn't that include sex?"

  To my surprise, he shakes his head.

  "No? You didn't cheat?"

  I can see he doesn't want to look me in the eye but he doesn't look away as he says, "I did cheat. I just didn't sleep with her. We did... other stuff, but when it got to that, I couldn't." He sighs. "That night, that we almost did, was the night I came home and confessed to Donna. I didn't want to ever get to that point again."

  Other stuff. I don't want to think about it. "So you didn't have sex with her and you think that makes it okay?"

  His eyes flash. "No way. I know the whole thing was wrong. I hate myself for it, and I wish you did too. Wish Donna did, I mean."

  "Maybe she did. We don't know."

  "I do know. She didn't care, didn't even react."

  "You said she cried that night."

  He waves that aside as if crying herself to sleep was a regular occurrence for Donna. Sadly, it probably was. "But after that, nothing. She never got mad, never screamed at me. It was like she didn't care at all, like it didn't matter."

  Anger for Donna floods me and I stand and glare down at him. "Bullshit, Ryan. Of course she cared. How could she not? She loved you and you cheated on her. Maybe you didn't actually screw Colleen but it sounds like you were close enough that you might as well have. And now you're saying Donna didn't react enough so she must not have cared? Of course she cared. Hell, I care. And unlike her, I'll tell you. You did a shitty thing to her, you basically broke that trust you shared, and there's no way she wasn't mad because I'm furious and I don't even remember it!"

  He stands up too. "Then why didn't she tell me? Why did she pretend not to care? Why'd she say it was okay?"

  I move closer. "And I thought you were smart. She loved you, you big idiot. She didn't want to lose you."

  "Well, I don't want to lose you either!"

  We stare into each other's blazing eyes for a moment, then he catches my face in both hands and kisses me hard. The explosion of heat and hunger between us takes me over and all I can do is kiss him back.

  Our first kiss, the first I remember anyhow, was full of love. This one is hotter than my anger and sets every last cell of my body alight with desire.

  Ryan backs me to the desk, still kissing me with unbelievable passion, and when my butt touches the desk I jump up without thinking. He catches hold of my hips and raises me higher, and I land softly on the desk, the whole thing as fluid as if we've done it a thousand times.

  He growls deep in his throat and jerks my hips toward his and I wind my legs around him and pull him even closer and we keep kissing, bodies and mouths locked together, the passion between us so high I can't think.

  Then he jerks backward and frees himself from my legs and stumbles back across the room.

  We stare at each other, both panting. My whole body is pounding and I want him more than I'd ever thought possible. It hurts not to have him against me.

  But what hurts more is the look on his face, part yearning and part horror.

  "I can't. I can't."

  He might have to because I'm not sure I'll survive if he doesn't. I remember the teenage boys in high school moaning about 'blue balls' but until now I didn't know how that would feel.

  Legally, I could take this man right here on my desk, or on the couch or the carpet or up against the wall. He's my husband. Of course, given how turned on I am I don't care about the legalities. I want him. I need this burning heat to consume us both then leave us different, changed.

  Leave us together.

  That's what I want, I realize. I want to be with him. "If... Ryan, maybe I'll remember if we do."

  He shuts his eyes. "I promised Donna I would never again touch anyone else."

  "But I'm not anyone else, I'm--"

  "Kate. You're Kate. I've been trying to pretend you're Donna. You look like her, you sound like her, and God help me you kiss like her. But you're not her. And I won't break my promise to her. I've broken too many but not this one. I can't."

  I take a few deep breaths, trying both to get my head around this and to calm my body, then say, "So if I don't get my memories back, you'll never be my husband for real?"

  He opens his eyes and looks at me, his gaze full of both the passion we shared and a deep sadness, then says, "I am Donna's husband. And that's the way it's going to stay."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A few moments after his ultimatum, Ryan says, "I need some air. I'll go get us coffee if you'd like some."

  I nod, too overwhelmed to speak. Not a single thing I've seen has triggered even the hint of a memory. I may never get them back. And then I'll be Kate forever.

  Kate, without Ryan.

  He looks at me, then turns and leaves without another word. I'm not offended, though; there's nothing else to say.

  I wait, taking deep breaths, until my arousal subsides enough to let me think.

  I need to unlock my memories. Nothing else matters. Even if I end up learning something that stops me wanting to be with Ryan, I need to know what's happened in the lost fifteen years. Seeing the city where I live hasn't done it, so I'm left with Bubbly Words as my main option. Ethan told me I probably had a chain of things that lead to being able to unlock it, so I will search this office, and the one at home, and--

  I slide off the desk where I've been sitting since Ryan lifted me up there and drop onto the couch, stunned by how quickly 'the place where Ryan lives' has become 'home'. I've only spent one night there! But being with him just seems right.

  Focus, Kate. Donna. Whoever the hell you are. Start looking for the key.

  I get up and work my way through the desk drawers one at a time, pulling out anything that seems even a little strange.

  Another fortune cookie fortune: "May grace be with you." Interesting, since there's a grace-related one in my wallet. Donna must have wanted to live her life with a little grace.

  A quote by someone called Eaton Dudley. "If I'm downright mad and downright upset, it's down to me to handle what's left." I'm not sure wha
t it means but it's interesting so I snap a picture of it with my phone so I can review it later. For good measure I photograph the fortune too, then put both items back in their places. It doesn't feel right to take them away with me.

  A digital picture frame with a cracked screen. Its power cord is wrapped around it, so I start it up and keep looking around while it runs through a self-check cycle. Maybe one of the pictures will be useful to me.

  Ryan returns just as the frame shows its first picture, the same furry texture as I found on a photo in my wallet. He starts to speak, but I say, "Come here, quick! What is this?"

  He races to my side and has a second to see the picture before the frame moves on to showing a gorgeous sunset. A second is all he needs, though, even with the cracked screen. He laughs, sets down the tray of coffees, and says, "Cat fur."

  "Pardon?"

  "I had a cat when Donna and I met. She had amazing tortoiseshell fur. Donna loved it and took tons of close-up pictures trying to get all the fur colors into one shot. That was her favorite one."

  "That makes sense, then," I say, and tell him about finding that picture in my wallet.

  He nods. "She was so proud of it."

  Was. I don't like him using the past tense to describe his wife. At the beginning he kept using the present, but he seems to be over that. I miss it.

  We stay quiet for a moment, then he says, "Here's your coffee. What else did you find?"

  I show him the quote and the fortune, neither of which mean anything to him either.

  "Where have you not looked yet?"

  "I'm nearly done with the desk, but there's still..." I gesture to the row of low filing cabinets behind me.

  "I do think we should check," he says, "but I know that Nadine takes care of those files. The odds that Donna hid something wildly significant in there are pretty low."

  "Still..."

  He nods. "Yes, we should check."

  For the next hour or so, we do. I finish with the desk while he starts at the far right cabinet, and then I take on the left-most cabinet after I find nothing interesting in the desk. When we meet at the middle, neither of us has found anything new.