The phone rang. She picked up the receiver on the third ring and, telling herself that the caller had to be Trent, said, “Hello.”
“For the love of St. Peter, why are you still on that godforsaken island?”
She couldn’t help but grin when she conjured up a picture of the crusty man who’d spawned her. “Probably for the same reason you’re forever on a jet between Seattle, Tokyo, Seoul and Sydney. Scheduling.”
He chuckled a little. “Don’t patronize me, girl. I’m worried about you, and won’t feel right until your feet touch down on home soil. What with the storm warnings and all, it’s enough to drive me nuts. I’m lucky I got through to you.”
“It’s good to hear from you, Dad,” she said, flopping back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, watching the blades of the paddle fan rotate slowly.
“Then you’re not still mad at me?”
“No way,” she said, wishing she could remember what they’d argued about before she’d left Seattle. He’d mentioned several times that he hadn’t wanted her to fly to Salvaje, but she couldn’t remember why.
“Good. ’Cause you were way off base.”
“Off base?” she said, prodding him. “I don’t think so.”
She heard him exhale an exasperated breath. “’Course you were. Jim’s above reproach. Always had been.”
“Jim?” she repeated. Jim who?
“Why you thought that you had to investigate him after all these years…I don’t know what got into you.”
Investigate him? She didn’t want to tip her hand, but she was dying to know who.
“He and I go way back, long before he was elected, and I won’t have you trying to smear his name.”
Elected? A politician? Oh, Lord. Her mind spun back to her conversation with Connie at the Observer. “You think I’m on a campaign against Senator Crowley,” she said, gambling.
“Oh, for the love of Mike, of course the senator!” he growled in exasperation. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” she lied, crossing her fingers.
“Well, you must be in love, ’cause you act as if you’ve lost your mind.”
If you only knew, Dad. She wanted to confide in him, to tell him about her memory loss, but a feeling, a strange, uncomfortable warning buried deep in the depths of her mind, held her tongue. There was a reason, a reason she couldn’t begin to fathom, that she couldn’t talk things over with her father. She sensed it now—that unspoken barrier that existed between them had always been there. “So we fought about Senator Crowley,” she said, trying in vain to remember.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before her father said, “Honey, are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” she lied. Why would she and her father argue about the senator? Connie had mentioned that Nikki was interested in some scam the senator might be pulling, but why would her father care? Was her father or his business involved? Did he think she was trying to smear the name of a good man, or did he think the senator was dangerous and he feared for Nikki’s safety, or was there something else…something hidden much deeper in the recesses of her mind?
“When are you coming home?” Her father’s voice was filled with concern.
“Tomorrow—unless the flight is canceled.”
“We’ll talk then.”
“Dad! Wait!” Fortunately he hadn’t hung up. “I…I bumped my head in the accident,” she admitted, hoping the truth might elicit more information now that she so desperately needed it. “So I don’t remember everything.”
“You don’t remember? For crying out loud, what’s going on down there?”
“I’ve got a slight case of amnesia,” she admitted, as rain sheeted against the French doors and wind began to rattle the panes. “Some things slip my mind. Like Crowley.”
Her father swore long and hard under his breath. “I don’t know whether to be worried out of my skull or relieved,” he admitted, adding to her confusion, “but you get yourself on the first plane off that damned island and come home. I’ll call Tom and—”
“Tom?”
“Tom Robertson. Dr. Robertson. The physician you’ve seen all your life. Hell, Nikki, now you’ve really got me worried.”
“I remember you, Dad,” she said, to alleviate his fears.
“Thank God for that!” His voice choked a little. “And when I meet that husband of yours, let me tell you, there’s going to be hell to pay. I don’t know what he’s thinking, letting you—”
“Dad, I’ll be all right,” she said quickly. “Dr. Padillo thinks the amnesia is only temporary, and I’m already remembering a lot more than I did right after the fall. I’ll be okay.”
“Well, I don’t know Dr. Whatever-the-hell-his-name-is from Adam, but I don’t trust him. Could be a damned quack. You come home, Nicole. We’ll take care of you.”
She felt suddenly on the verge of tears. Here, at last, was her rock. “All right, Dad.”
“Damned straight!”
He hung up still muttering oaths at doctors who had gotten their medical degrees by mail or worse! Nikki knew there wasn’t any use in explaining that she had absolute faith in Dr. Padillo. The friendly physician seemed knowledgeable, competent and concerned, and if he’d only spoken more English, she would have been completely at ease with him. As it was, his prognosis had proved right on the money. Her wounds were healing according to his timetable and her memory was returning, in sharp little bits and pieces.
The only wild card so far was Trent. Her husband. The man who, with one cocky smile, could cause her heart to race out of control. The man to whom she’d given herself eagerly in the middle of a downpour.
Tomorrow she’d have answers. Once she went to the camera shop, she’d know if Trent had been with her before the accident. And what if he wasn’t? a nagging part of her mind questioned. What then? Will you be able to sleep with him? Will you confront him? What? Without any answers to those questions, she considered her trip home to Seattle. Surely the familiar scenery would jog her memory.
But what would she do about Senator Crowley, and why did she feel that he was part of the reason she’d chosen Salvaje as a spot for her vacation…her honeymoon?
Her father’s conversation echoed in her brain, names he’d spoken swimming in the murk that was her mind. Dr. Robertson. Senator Crowley. She remembered a slight man with wire-rimmed glasses, an easy, gap-toothed smile and huge nose. Because she pictured him in a white jacket, she assumed he was the doctor. As for Crowley, she had no image of the man. Senator Jim—no, James—Crowley. How had she met him? Why did she care? What was the story that she thought surrounded him? Her skin crawled as she considered the fact that somehow Trent might be involved with the man. Maybe that was why he claimed they were married. Head beginning to pound, she stared down at her wedding ring, a gold band that was too big for her finger, and the circle of gold seemed to mock her.
Yet she’d made love to him. Abandoned herself to him as if he were indeed the man she loved. She couldn’t help blushing when she remembered the intensity of his lovemaking and the wanton, wild way she’d responded, with no thought of the future. She’d lived for the moment, given herself wholly to the man, and now, lying on the bed she shared with him, she closed her eyes and knew, with gut-wrenching certainty, she’d make love with him again.
It was only a matter of time.
*
She must’ve dozed. Groggy, still lying on the bed, she heard the door of the veranda rattle. She rolled over, trying to ignore the sound, but the noise was persistent. As she stretched, she climbed off the bed and noticed the darkness outside. The storm was still blowing hard and Trent had been gone for hours. A pang of worry caused her to bite her lip, but she rationalized that Trent was a man who could take care of himself, probably better than any man she’d ever met. Of course, she thought wryly, she couldn’t remember most of the men she had met. Her stomach growled and she wondered if she should order room service or wait for Trent.
> The rattle sounded again. Rubbing the kinks from her neck, she walked to the glass doors and reached for the knob, when her hand paused in midair. She froze. The hairs on the back of her neck raised. Her throat gave out a strangled scream as she saw him. Someone. A figure on the veranda. The light from inside the room and the pelting rain distorted her view, but she knew very clearly that a man was on her veranda, a man with dark hair and wet jeans and a slick jacket. His features were blurred. He was about Trent’s height and build, but… He vaulted the rail, his jacket billowing as he threw himself against the building, probably to climb down the vines.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she whispered half in prayer as she backed up, fumbling for the interior door, then suddenly stopping. What was to prevent him from going into the lobby and waiting for her? She ran across the room, checked the lock on the veranda doors and quickly threw the drapes closed. She checked the hall door, found it locked as well, and with trembling fingers dialed the main desk.
“I want to report a stranger lurking outside on my veranda, a Peeping Tom or something—”
“Señora, por favor—”
“Get me someone who can speak English. Oh, God! Uh, ¿Comprende Ud.? Do you understand? There was a man, a damned Peeping Tom or worse, on my veranda! ¿Habla Ud. inglés? I need help!”
The lock on the hallway door rattled. Nikki dropped the phone. Heart thudding, she reached for the bedside lamp—a weak weapon, but all she had—and watched in horror as the door swung open and Trent, his hair wet and plastered to his head, the shoulders of his leather jacket soaked, entered. She nearly collapsed against the wall and her fingers let go of the base of the lamp. “Thank God,” she whispered.
Trent took one look at her face and his eyes slitted in concern. “What happened?” he demanded, crossing the room. “Nikki, are you okay?”
She nodded, though she couldn’t find her tongue, and when he wrapped his arms around her, she sagged against him like a silly woman who couldn’t take care of herself. Relieved, she clung to him, trying not to embarrass herself by breaking into tears. He smelled of the outdoors—rainwater, leather and salt air—and though she wanted to crumple into his arms like a lovesick fool, to trust him with all of her heart, to quit torturing herself with worries about him, she stiffened her spine and gently stepped out of his embrace.
“What’s wrong?”
“I saw someone on the veranda.”
“Who?”
She shook her head, trying to conjure up the man’s image. “I don’t know. Some man. It was too dark to recognize him, but he was built like you, had on a dark jacket…bare head…” She noticed Trent’s dripping hair again and his flushed face. He seemed to be breathing hard, but there was no reason for him to spy on her. No reason on earth. Not when he had a key to the room. Her sick mind was playing games with her again.
Trent threw open the drapes and French doors. Rain and wind blew into the room as he dashed outside just as someone began banging on the hotel door. “¡Señora McKenzie!”
In three swift strides, leveling a staying finger at Nikki, Trent was across the room. “Who is it?”
“¡Policía!”
Trent yanked open the door, and two hotel security guards, weapons drawn, burst into the room.
“It’s all right,” Trent assured them, and one of the men, the beefier of the two, walked to the night table, picked up the phone, muttered Spanish into the receiver and hung up.
Nikki wrapped her arms around her middle and sat on a corner of the bed as Trent acted as interpreter. She told him of the man on the deck, and he, in Spanish, repeated it to the two guards. The questions about the man’s identity and description were rapid, and Nikki had to admit that the figure she’d seen was dark and blurry through the rain-washed window.
“We have no idea who it was,” Trent said as the security guards were finishing their interrogation. “At least, I don’t. Nikki?”
She shook her head. Who would spy on her? “I can’t imagine.”
The guards talked between themselves and with Trent, even sharing a joke that Nikki couldn’t begin to understand. They eventually left, apologizing to Nikki for her fright and promising to look for any suspicious characters.
“They assume it was just another burglary attempt,” he said after he’d closed the door behind them. “There have been quite a few in the major hotels around here. A ring of thieves after rich tourists’ money or jewelry.”
“They wouldn’t have found much here,” she said, unconvinced. Her eyebrows drew down over her eyes. “Besides, I’m not sure that it had anything to do with a robbery.”
“Why not?” He threw both dead bolts before sitting on the foot of the bed and nudging off his boots.
“Because I’ve had this feeling that I’ve been followed.”
He cast an interested glance over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything.
“Earlier. When I was riding the horse, I felt it, and then you showed up, so I just assumed you were the reason I felt as if I’d been watched. But now…I’m not so sure.” She tucked her feet up close to her bottom and hugged her knees.
“So you think the man on the veranda might have been following you?”
“Yes. But I don’t know why!” Sighing in frustration, she decided to gamble a little. “I think it might have something to do with Senator Crowley.”
Was it her imagination or did the cords in the back of his neck tighten a little?
“Crowley? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, “but I talked to Connie at the paper and later my dad called. They both brought up our illustrious senator. Connie seems to think I was hoping to do a story on him, uncover some sort of political dirt, I suppose, and Dad…Dad was even stranger. He acted as if he and I had fought before I left for Salvaje, and that the argument had something to do with Crowley.” Stretching, she fluffed her still-damp hair with fingers that shook a little. “The thing of it is, I don’t even know what the man looks like. I could barely remember his name.”
“James,” Trent supplied as he kicked his boots into the closet. “Diamond Jim Crowley. Attorney-at-law, private businessman and senator. A Republican who hails from Tacoma.” He pulled off his jacket and hung it over the back of the vanity chair before stretching out on the bed beside her. “Connie’s right. You were interested in him. You thought he might be involved in something shady.”
“What’s that got to do with Salvaje?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did my father and I fight about him?”
“Because your dad is a die-hard Republican who owns his own business. You obviously don’t remember, but you and your dad have always been about as far apart politically as any two people can get.” He was moving closer to her, his head on the pillow next to her rump. Nikki tried to ignore the feel of his breath, warm even through her robe. She wanted to move away from him, told herself it only made sense, but there was an irresistible pull that kept her seated on the bed, her robe tucked around her legs, her breathing jumping irregularly.
“How shady?”
“Huh?”
“The senator. What was my theory?”
“I don’t know. You wouldn’t discuss it. Very hush-hush. I’m surprised your father and Connie knew about it.”
Connie, too, had insisted that it was something they had to keep quiet. But what? Nikki racked her brain and felt Trent’s wet hair rub against her thigh. Her stomach rolled over slowly as desire began to warm her blood.
“What did you find out at the airport?” she asked to keep her head clear, but his hand encircled her bare ankle. Her heart dropped into her stomach and she could barely concentrate on anything but the warm grip around her leg.
“The storm’s supposed to die down and we’re booked on a flight that takes off at three. Barring any more catastrophes, we’ll be home by midnight tomorrow.”
She should have felt overwhelming relief. Instead the nagging feeling that she wa
s leaving something in Salvaje, something undone, kept teasing at her.
He moved his hand. His fingers gently glided up the inside of her calf. Her throat grew tight and she could barely breathe. Biting her lip, she glanced down at him, his head angled on the pillow so that his gaze met hers.
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” she said in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own.
His palm brushed her knee and moved upward. “I know it isn’t.”
“Maybe we should stop— Oh!” Her protests were cut off when he moved suddenly, shifting on the bed so that his body was stretched over hers, his lips finding her yielding mouth just as his fingers touched her panties.
“I can’t,” he admitted, his lips claiming hers with the same wild passion that had touched her soul only hours before. “Don’t you know that by now? When I’m with you, I just can’t stop.”
*
Trent spied el Perro seated at the bar. The Dog was sipping from a tall glass and trying to make time with a long-legged redhead. The Luna Plata, or Silver Moon tavern, was busy for early afternoon, the air thick with cigarette smoke and laughter, glasses clinking, ice rattling, bawdy jokes thrown about in Spanish. The barkeep, a portly man with a handlebar mustache, was busy making drinks. Waitresses in short ruffled skirts and low-cut tight bodices wiggled quickly between the booths and round tables.
Trent slid into the empty stool next to the Dog. Their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar. As Trent ordered a beer, el Perro whispered something into the redhead’s ear, grinned at her response and patted her on her rear as she slid from her stool. Only when Trent had paid for his beer did the two men move into one of the back booths near a loud poker game that protected their conversation.
“Your woman, she is sly like the fox, eh?” el Perro asked, his dark eyes burning with malicious mirth in the dark tavern.
Trent’s blood boiled a little, but he managed a thin smile. “She’s smart enough.”
Memories: A Husband to RememberNew Year's Daddy (Hqn) Page 13