Passion: In Wilde Country: Book Two

by Sandra Marton

  Amazing, that it would be busy in the middle of a storm.

  Or maybe not so amazing. A quick look told him that the customers patiently waiting to be waited on were probably on the road because they had to be. Truckers, mostly, plus some guys with the weary look of traveling salesmen.

  They were heading to work or heading home, traveling because they had no choice.

  Like Ariel and him.

  He had to get her someplace where she could be helped.

  The line shuffled forward.

  Not one of those facilities the doctor had talked about. Imagining her in a place like that made him shudder.

  Where, then? There had to be small, private residences where a woman with amnesia could be cared for.

  Not that she’d need much care.

  The line inched forward.

  She was, as Stafford had said, a woman who couldn’t remember things, but there was nothing wrong with her intellect. As for her cuts and bruises—they’d heal, as would her wrist.

  The line moved again.

  All she really needed was somebody to prepare her meals. See to it she took her meds. Help her dress and undress and bathe, and, goddammit, the thought of her undressing sent a river of heat from the top of his head straight down to his toes.

  “Mister?”

  What kind of SOB was he to get hot, thinking about a woman in trouble? Ariel needed his protection, not what was happening behind his fly.

  “Hey. Hey, pal.”

  A finger poked into his shoulder. He jerked around, heart slamming in his chest when he found himself face-to-face with a State Trooper.

  If there was a quicker way to stop an erection, he couldn’t come up with it.

  “The line,” the trooper said. “It’s moving, dude. You wanna move with it?”

  “Yes. Sure. Sorry.”

  The trooper shrugged. “No problem.”

  The sight of the trooper had caught him by surprise, but it shouldn’t have worried him. Pastore would sure as hell be searching for Ariel. For him, too, by now, but the odds were zero to none that he’d have alerted the police. He’d want to keep this private.

  Very private.

  He began to worry that he’d left Ariel alone. Yeah, but he’d told her not to open the door. What was she doing as she waited for his return? Sleeping, he hoped. She was obviously exhausted. In the best of all worlds, he’d unlock the door to their room and find her in bed, curled on her side, her eyes closed.

  The line moved up again.

  She had beautiful eyes, even ringed in black and blue.

  Everything about her was beautiful.

  He’d seen her twice now, once wearing some kind of silky-looking dress, her hair carefully arranged, makeup on her face, and then tonight, wearing scrubs, her hair disheveled, her eyes blackened, her face bruised.

  “Good evening, and welcome to McDonald’s.”

  Seeing her that way hurt, not because it marred her beauty—nothing could do that—but because it meant she’d been hurt.

  Deliberately hurt? That seemed more and more possible.

  “Sir? Welcome to McDonald’s.”

  And she needed him. Nobody else. Only him…

  “Mister? You wanna place an order or not?”

  Matteo blinked. The kid behind the counter was looking at him as if he were nuts.

  Maybe he was. Maybe Ariel wasn’t the only one who needed to have her head examined. How else to explain what he was doing out here in the middle of a snowstorm, in the middle of nowhere, on the run with a woman he didn’t know.

  Wrong.

  He knew her. In his bones. In his heart. In his soul.

  “Hey, pal, you getting something or not?”

  “Sorry,” Matteo said, and looked at the kid. It occurred to him that he had no idea what Ariel would eat. Chicken? Fish? A Big Mac? Maybe none of the above. For all he knew, she was a vegetarian. Only one way to deal with the problem. He ordered everything: hamburgers, fish, chicken. Plus two large fries, two large coffees, and two containers of milk.

  If she was a vegetarian, he’d work something out.

  And if he needed to have his head examined, well, he’d work that out, too.

  * * *

  It wasn’t easy, getting back to the motel.

  When he and Luca were kids, their mother had tried to make up for one of the many birthdays their father had missed by buying them what was, even then, an antiquated computer loaded with equally antiquated games.

  One of the games had been a thing called Frogger. He thought of it now as he played a real-life version, dodging trucks and cars, trying to see through wind-driven gusts of snow, slipping and sliding as he made it across the road, loaded down with bags from the drugstore and McDonald’s.

  Getting the key to the motel room out of his pocket took some fancy acrobatics, too, but once he had it in his hand, he realized unlocking the door without giving Ariel fair warning that he was coming in might not be the best idea.

  So he put the bags down on the snowy porch and rapped his knuckles lightly against the door.

  Nothing.

  He rapped again.

  Still nothing.

  Either she was asleep or in the bathroom. Or she wasn’t there at all.

  Anything was possible.

  Matteo cursed, stabbed the key into the lock, turned it…and saw her.

  She was on the bed, asleep, her knees drawn up almost to her chin. Her unbroken arm clutched the pillow; her hair streamed over it like waves of shining gold.

  Her vulnerability, her fragility, her beauty made his throat constrict.

  How could he ever have doubted he’d done the right thing tonight? He had, no question about it, and there was no way he’d abandon her to a so-called facility, no matter how good it was.

  She needed him. Knowing that gave him a feeling he couldn’t put a name to. He only knew he’d never had a feeling like it before.

  The wind brushed icy fingers against the back of his neck. He picked up the bags, stepped inside the room and elbowed the door shut. He dumped the bags next to the old armchair and sat down in it.

  Ariel hadn’t stirred. Wasn’t she cold? The ancient heater was clanking and clinking, but it was cranking out only a pathetic amount of heat.

  He’d drawn back the blankets.

  She should have gotten under them.

  Should he wake her? She needed nourishment. She needed to take the meds he’d picked up for her. He thought once again of how fragile she looked.

  And he needed to hear the sound of her voice.

  “Ariel?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Honey? It’s time for supper.”

  “Matteo?”

  He rose quickly and went to her.

  “Yes, cara. How do you feel?”

  She rolled onto her back and looked up at him through those lovely, wounded eyes.

  “Have I slept very long?”

  “No. An hour. Less than that.”

  Yawning, she struggled up against the headboard, wincing when she accidentally brushed her injured wrist against it.

  “Here,” he said. “Let me help you.”

  “I can do it.”

  There was determination in her words. He thought back to those moments in the hospital when she’d all but breathed fire. Did he have to revise his thinking? She was vulnerable, yes. Who wouldn’t be, in her situation, but fragile?

  Maybe not.

  “I’m sure you can,” he said, “but it’ll be easier if you let me help.”

  He cupped her shoulders, eased her upright and steadied her while he arranged the pillows behind her back. It meant he had to lean forward a little, just enough so her hair brushed against his cheek.

  It felt like silk. He wanted to turn his head and bury his face in that sweet softness.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said briskly. “Okay. Supper. But first…” He reached for the bag from the pharmacy. “These white pills are for pain. The brown an
d white jobs are an antibiotic.”

  “No pain pills.”

  She spoke the words in a way that told him she meant business. He decided not to argue. Instead, he went into the bathroom, took a paper cup from the small stack on the sink and filled it with water.

  “Here we go,” he said, handing it to her.

  “No pain pills,” she said again.

  “Honey…”

  She shrank back against the pillow. “I told you, I don’t like pills.”

  The words were as filled with fear as with defiance.

  “Okay. No pain pills.” He unscrewed the bottle of antibiotic capsules and shook one into his palm She looked at them with suspicion. “Ariel, this is Amoxicillin. It’s an antibiotic. See? The name’s right on the label. They won’t hurt you, honey. I’ll take one first, if that’ll make you feel better.”

  She looked from his face to the capsule. Then she plucked it from his hand, popped it into her mouth, reached for the cup of water and swallowed.

  “Good girl. Now, about this other stuff…”

  “What is it?”

  He checked the label. “Vicodin.”

  “For pain?””

  “Ariel. Honey—”

  “What did I tell you? I won’t take anything like that, anything that makes me feel woozy. Never again.”

  There was a world of meaning in those words. Matteo decided to tuck them away for another time.

  “Okay. That’s fine. How about an ibuprofen?”

  “That’s like aspirin, right?”

  “Right.” He dug into one of the other bags, found the ibuprofen, shook two into his hand. She gave them a wary look. Then she reached for them and downed them with the rest of the water.

  “Excellent,” he said, with such false cheer that he made himself wince. “Okay. Now for dinner.” He reached into the bags of food, took out the contents, opened all the wrappers and arranged the stuff on the nightstand. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I brought a little of everything. Burgers, chicken, fish. What would madam like?” he asked, deliberately miming a bad French accent in hopes of defusing any remaining tension.

  His silly plan worked. She smiled as she looked at the food.

  “Wow.”

  “Wow, indeed. Want to start with a burger?”

  “Does that Quarter Pounder have cheese?”

  She’d recognized the hamburger. Was that meaningful, or did every human being on the planet instinctively know what a Quarter Pounder was?

  “Hey,” he said, with a quick smile, “what would be the point if it didn’t?”

  “Exactly.” She picked up a burger, took a big bite and rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to forget about calories, you should do it right. I know I shouldn’t admit it, but I’m a junk food junkie at heart. The other girls used to tease me about it, but I figured if you’re a dancer, you can dance off those cal…” All at once, she went very still. “Oh.”

  “Easy,” Matteo said softly.

  “Did you hear what I said? I remembered!”

  “Yes. You did.” She was trembling. Matteo took the burger from her and clasped her hand in his. “Can you tell me more?”

  She stared at him, her eyes wild and wide. He could almost see her straining to call up images and memories.

  After what seemed an eternity, her shoulders slumped.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “You talked about other girls. And dancing.”

  “Yes. But I don’t know what it meant. What I meant. I just—I just suddenly could hear—I could hear, like, these laughing voices in my head teasing me about—about eating so much and me saying—me saying we’d work off the calories, dancing.” A shudder went through her. “Matteo? Am I—am I crazy? Have I lost my mind?”

  “No!” Cursing softly, he gathered her in his arms. “There’s nothing wrong with your mind.”

  She gave a wet little laugh.

  “Nothing, except that it’s a blank. How could I talk about dancing without knowing why?”

  He knew why. She’d belonged to The Electric Dancers. The Electric Dance Company. Something like that. Should he tell her so?

  “Matteo?”

  What had Stafford said? Her memory could come back in bits and pieces. If it did, he should be there to offer support, but prompting her could be a mistake.

  “Matteo.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Please. Tell me who I am.”

  “You are,” he said, framing her face in his hands, “an incredibly strong, brave woman.” His gaze dipped to her mouth, rose to meet her eyes. “A beautiful woman,” he added softly.

  “But who am I? Where am I from? What do I do? Why was I on a bus with nothing in my pocket except some money and a card with your name on it?” Her eyes glittered with sudden tears. “I have to know.”

  “And you will.” He took one hand from her face, dug into his pocket, brought out a pristine white handkerchief and dabbed at the tears that had begun running down her face.

  “You know things about me,” she said. “At least tell me what you know.”

  “Here,” he said, holding the handkerchief to her nose. “Blow.”

  She took the hanky from him and blew her nose.

  “You won’t tell me?”

  “Dr. Stafford said it was important to let your memory come back at its own speed.”

  She sighed. “He told me the same thing.”

  “See?” He tipped her face up and smiled. “The guy is consistent.”

  She smiled, too, though her eyes were still damp. It was like watching the sun break through the clouds after a rain shower.

  “When he came in to fill out the discharge papers, he asked me if I knew who you were. I guess he didn’t believe our little act.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth. That I don’t remember you, but that it felt—if felt safe, being with you.”

  “You are safe with me.”

  “I believe you. I just don’t understand how I can trust you, but not know you.” She touched the tip of her tongue to her bottom lip. “And I don’t understand why I have this—this thing about needing to feel safe.”

  Because you’re married to a monster, Matteo thought grimly. Ariel’s eyes locked onto his.

  “But you do,” she said slowly. “You know the reason.”

  Matteo brought her hand to his lips.

  “I have some answers. We’ll find the rest, together.”

  “We? You and I?”

  “Yes. You and I.” He tucked a long strand of gold behind her ear. “We’re going to play Sherlock Holmes.”

  “A famous detective, right?” Her laugh was soft and bittersweet. “Wonderful. I can remember all the important things. Quarter Pounders, fictional detectives…”

  “A girl after my own heart,” Matteo said lightly.

  “Am I? A girl after your own heart?”

  He felt his pulse beating in his ears.

  “Ariel…”

  “Because…” Her cheeks pinkened. “Because the nurse that got me ready to leave the hospital said…she said she thought you and I must be lovers. I know you said we aren’t, but—but if we are, I mean, if we were—”

  What was he supposed to say? That tonight was only the second time in his life he’d set eyes on her? If he did, wouldn’t she want to know more? But he couldn’t tell her more without divulging the sordid details of an unbelievable story, that she was married, that her husband wanted her out of his life, that he’d asked him, Matteo, to make that happen, that she’d begged for his help and he’d walked away…

  Shit, he thought, shit, shit!

  “Matteo?”

  She was watching him with such trust. And with something more, too, something that made his blood thicken.

  “Are you my lover?” she whispered. “Because if you are—if you are—”

  A groan broke from his throat. He drew her into his arms; her face lifted to his, her hand cupped the nape of his neck. Her rosy lips parted and he bent hi
s head and kissed her, gently at first and then with growing passion…

  His iPhone rang.

  He ignored it.

  But it kept ringing and ringing and when it finally stopped, it began ringing again after only a few seconds.

  “Dammit!” He dug the phone from his pocket. “What?” he snapped, before he could think, before he could check to see the caller’s ID.

  “Havin’ a good time, Bellini?”

  Matteo shot to his feet, put a finger lightly over Ariel’s mouth and walked into the bathroom.

  “Tony,” he said, very softly. “You have a short memory. I told you never to call me again.”

  “Listen and listen good, lawyer-man. You think you’re so smart, like when we were kids, but you aren’t smart at all if you thought you could get away with stealin’ my property.”

  “Your property?”

  “My wife, you piece of shit. My woman. I know you took her. Maybe you forgot she belongs to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Forget the lies, Bellini. You got one chance to hand her over. After that, you’re a dead man, right along with her.”

  Matteo’s vision blurred. He was a man who’d spent most of his life controlling his emotions. Losing yourself to your feelings was a weakness. Now, for the first time, he understood that letting yourself feel, really feel, was the very purpose of life, even if what you felt was gut-deep hate.

  “You listening, pal?”

  “You listen, Pastore. You touch her and so help me, I’ll kill you.”

  Pastore laughed. It was the kind of laugh Matteo remembered from their childhood, low and cruel and vicious.

  “Big talk, lawyer-man.”

  Ariel’s hand fell on his arm. Matteo swung around, but it was too late.

  “Matteo?” she said.

  Pastore laughed. “Mah-tay-oh,” he said.

  Matteo punched the phone’s off button.

  “We have to leave.”

  “But why? Who was that you were talking to? What—”

  “There’s clothing in those other bags. Warm stuff. Jeans. Sweaters…” Dammit, what was wrong with him? Pastore could be hours away, in Manhattan, or miles away, in Lake Serene. Getting Ariel out of her hospital scrubs and slippers and into real clothes wasn’t an option.

  The blanket would have to do.

  He hurried back into the bedroom, snatched up the hospital blanket and wrapped it around her. Hell. No way was that sufficient. He grabbed the blanket from the bed and snugged it around her, too.