Mystery Wife

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by Annette Broadrick




  Mystery Wife

  ❖

  Annette Broadrick

  Copyright© 1994 by Annette Broadrick

  Australian Copyright 1994

  New Zealand Copyright 1994

  Philippine Copyright 1994

  First printing April 1994

  First Australian Paperback Edition August 1994

  ISBN 0 373 09877 4

  ANNETTE BROADRICK

  believes in romance and the magic of life. Since 1984, when her first book was published, Annette has shared her view of life and love with readers all over the world. In addition to being nominated by Romantic Times as one of the Best New Authors of that year, she has also won the Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award for Best in its Series for Heat of the Night, Mystery Lover and Irresistible; the Romantic Times WISH award for her heroes in Strange Enchantment and Marriage Texas Style!; and the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Awards for Series Romance and Series Romantic Fantasy.

  A Note from the Author

  I hope that you enjoyed Alisha's story. Her story has circled in my head for several years. It was one that I knew I had to tell at some point in my writing career.

  Have you ever wondered what would happen if you lost your memory? Would the person you are still be there, hidden away from your conscious mind? Just think about how unnerving it would be to have the people around you tell you all sorts of things about you that were painful to hear, things that made no sense to your idea of the kind of individual you feel you are.

  It would take a very strong personality to withstand such an onslaught of confusing information. The most heroic thing a person could do, in my opinion, would be to hang on to a belief in yourself when no one else believed in you.

  Raoul is a man of honor and integrity faced with some very tough choices. His quiet strength and stubborn tenacity intrigued me. I knew that he would have to be a very special man, because Alisha is a very special woman.

  Chapter 1

  She fought her way to the surface, frantically struggling to escape the swirling darkness filled with demons that grabbed and pulled at her, battering her until she thought her skull would burst with the pain. Whimpering from the effort exerted, she forced herself to continue, her terror giving her the necessary strength.

  Exhausted from her labors, she managed to open her eyes.

  She flinched at the brightness, squinting her eyes.

  Diffused sunlight poured through a tall, narrow window draped with sheer curtains, dappling the glistening sheen of highly polished flooring with an abstract pattern of shifting leaves arid fingerlike branches.

  The pain in her head did its best to consume her, eager to blind her to her surroundings, but she valiantly fought to ignore the invader threatening to suck her back into the nightmare.

  She stirred in an attempt to shift her weight, but her body ignored her signals.

  Where was she?

  Once again she peered around the room, her eyelids heavy and painful, searching for something familiar to give her a clue.

  Nothing looked familiar. Nothing at all. The walls glowed with a soft peach tint. A delicate water-color hung on one of the walls. A pair of burgundy oversize leather chairs sat on either side of a finely crafted table. An elegant lamp graced the table.

  With great care she turned her head, nevertheless paying the price for movement. Wincing, she closed her eyes and rested, wondering if appeasing her curiosity was worth the accompanying pain.

  Eventually she opened her eyes once more in order to study the room from her new perspective. The bed where she lay looked wholly out of place with the exquisite furnishings. There was no disguising its utilitarian design. Only then did her gaze move past the end of the bed and focus on the door, its heavy wooden surface broken by a small glass window in its center.

  At last she had found something identifiable, which was comfortingly close to familiar. She was in a hospital.

  Pleased with her discovery, she allowed her eyes to close as a reward, welcoming the dark relief from the glare of the sunshine. Instead of easing, however, the pounding, clanging beat in her head seemed to escalate.

  She forced herself to concentrate on something other than the persistent, mind-crippling pain. A hospital. I'm in a hospital.

  She began to identify the different areas of her body. Her legs were heavy but otherwise did not ache. She was able to breathe without hindrance. Her arms lay on either side of her body... her right hand felt weighted down. She peeked at her hand and saw the obvious signs of her stay—a drip stand with a tube running down to the back of her hand where it disappeared beneath a gauze bandage. A black machine with a video screen beeped its scrawling message in a steady, monotonous tone not far from her right shoulder.

  With her left hand she touched her face and discovered a thick bandage wrapped around her forehead. She must have suffered some kind of head injury, which certainly explained the throbbing, pounding pain that seemed so real she could almost see it bouncing in front of her eyes.

  What had happened to her? Where was she?

  Voices impinged on her consciousness for the first time since she'd awakened, and she forced herself to listen, hoping to have some of her questions answered. The voices were hushed and feminine, speaking Parisian French. She attempted to focus on what they were saying, but her head hurt too much for her to concentrate. She caught a word here, a phrase there, but she couldn't catch enough to make sense of their conversation. They spoke the language like natives, rapid-fire and sure of their phrases.

  She smiled to herself, impressed with their ability, and wondered where they had learned to speak so well. She'd like to commend their teacher for being able to eradicate their Texas drawl, something she'd never been able to accomplish with her own students.

  So. She had managed to come up with a few answers. She was in a hospital with French-speaking women nearby. Now if she could only remember what had happened to her to place her in a hospital, she would feel more in control of her situation.

  She forced herself to think back, to discover her last memories. The effort needed to pursue her newest line of deductive reasoning made the pounding in her head increase its throbbing beat until it seemed to fill the room, causing the walls and ceiling to waver in time to the beat.

  Unable to produce the strength to fight off the waves of pain, she allowed her concerns to slip away, allowed her mind to blank out into a shimmering silver screen of nothingness___

  The next time she opened her eyes she felt a new sense of serenity. Although she didn't understand why, she felt safe and protected lying there in the spacious room. She had no more answers now than the last time she'd regained consciousness. Nevertheless, she knew that no one would harm her. How could she know that she was safe? Somehow her subconscious seemed to be reassuring her.

  She lay quietly and stared out the window, enjoying the view of the tree outside her window. Springtime. The new green shoots were so delicate and determined. Springtime. Always a time of hope and renewal. She would get better. She would remember. Spring offered the magic of rebirth. ... She faded away into a restful, healing sleep.

  Hours later a slight noise drew her into wakefulness once again. She was no longer alone when she opened her eyes this time. A nursing sister stood beside the bed, checking the drip and making adjustments. The young woman glanced down at her. When she realized she was being watched, the nurse gave a start, her eyes wide.

  "Oh! Madame DuBois," she said in French. "You're awake! Merciful God, we must let your husband know!" The nurse rushed out of the1 room, leaving her alone once more.

  A sense of surprise stirred within her. She lay there, silently repeating what she had just heard.

  Madame DuBois?

  Her husband?


  She tested the words and phrases, repeating them carefully in her mind.

  It was no use. Neither the name nor the person meant anything to her.

  They must have her confused with someone else. She no longer had a husband.

  Why did that thought seem so painful?

  She would have to tell the nurse when she returned that there was an obvious mix-up... some kind of mistake had been made. She didn't even know a Madame DuBois. She would be polite, of course. She always tried to be polite and patient with a person's mistake. After all, human beings were not created to be perfect, she often reminded her students. They were created to learn how to experience love and joy and the abundance of life.

  So she would explain that she couldn't possibly be Madame DuBois because her name was—

  She paused, feeling a little silly. Well, of course she knew who she was, she was just a little confused at the moment. Obviously the pain in her head had something to do with an injury she'd sustained. The constant throbbing was distracting. Her name would come to her. She knew it would. So she was patient and she waited, but nothing came to mind.

  Nothing.

  After several long inexplicably blank minutes passed, a queasy sense of panic began to form within her, as though trickling through her veins. What was going on? Just because her head was pounding didn't mean her brain couldn't function, did it?

  Did it?

  The panicky feeling inside her grew.

  All right. She reminded herself that it was not surprising she might feel confused. Obviously she had been injured in some way or she wouldn't be in a hospital. All she needed to do was to stay calm. She would allow her mind to drift back, to remember___

  She couldn't remember much of anything. Brief pictures without sound—like a silent film running too fast—flashed through her mind without a hint of explanation.

  Was it possible she really had a husband, that she was actually Madame DuBois, even though she couldn't remember that name or her life? She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, the pressure calling her attention to their swollen state. She forced herself to open her eyes slowly and with a certain amount of precision, as though in some way her sight might have an effect on the door to her memories.

  Perhaps the door had gotten jammed while she'd been unconscious and was now having trouble functioning upon command.

  How long had she been unconscious, anyway?

  The mystery was too much for her pain-filled mind. This time she actively sought oblivion, where there was no pain or confusion, slipping silently into a darkness no longer inhabited by sadistic, punishing demons.

  The darkness now held only a soothing sense of peace and protection.

  "Cherie?"

  The sound of a deep male voice rumbling softly nearby irresistibly drew her from her place of painless safety, impelling her to seek out the source of the unusual term of endearment.

  She opened her eyes.

  Muted light from a small lamp nearby cast shadows over most of the tall, lean figure of the man standing beside the bed. The soft glow highlighted his long, tapered fingers resting on the railing. She couldn't seem to draw her gaze away from the sight of his large, capable-looking hands. His grip on the railing had caused his knuckles and the tips of his fingers to turn white. Drowsily puzzled by this obvious sign of tension, she allowed her gaze to wander upward, toward his shadowed head. The light glinted along the side of his face, bringing into prominence the plane of his high cheekbone and strong jawline, leaving his eyes veiled in shadow.

  She licked her lips, painfully aware of how dry her throat was. "I—" She paused in her efforts to speak and swallowed painfully. Despite her efforts, she hadn't made a sound.

  "Would you like some water?"

  There! This time she heard the strain in his voice—his carefully modulated voice. She didn't understand why he had spoken to her in French.

  She nodded and watched the graceful movement of his hands as he poured water from a crystal pitcher into a small glass with a bent straw. He brought the straw to her lips and waited while she gratefully wet them.

  "How are you feeling, cherie?"

  "My—um—my head... hurts." Her voice sounded strange to her ears, as though she hadn't heard it in a long while. She had answered him in the same language, but her tongue had felt awkward wrapping around the vowels, as though it were out of practice.

  "It's not surprising, is it? You're lucky to be alive."

  "What happened?"

  He frowned, two vertical lines appearing above the bridge of his aquiline nose. "Don't you remember?"

  She heard the surprise in his voice and was almost amused at the idea that anyone thought her capable of coherent explanations about anything. If she knew what had happened or why she was here she would most certainly share the knowledge with the handsome stranger standing so stiffly beside her bed.

  As swiftly as her amusement surfaced, it disappeared, leaving her feeling confused and inadequate. She would very much like to have the answers to give to this stern, self-assured male. She felt a desire to impress him with a coherent summary of her present situation.

  She frantically searched for something—anything—that might be flitting through her mind at the moment, but the images sporadically appearing were too fleeting to interpret.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured after several uncomfortable moments. "I'm afraid I don't remember much of anything at the moment."

  Silence stretched between them. She studied his grim expression, wondering who he was and why he was so concerned. She heard her own voice before she realized she had spoken her question aloud.

  "What's your name?"

  If anything, his expression grew more grim. "Raoul."

  A strong sense of pleasure swept over her. "I've always liked the name Raoul," she replied with a tentative smile, then wondered about the medication she was being given. Her slurred words sounded as though she'd been drinking, and for some reason she had a tendency to blurt out whatever thought happened to cross her mind at any given moment.

  "You don't know who I am?" he asked after another long silence.

  Guess she was going to have to stay after school. She hadn't done her homework. He expected her to know him, she could tell. She tried to placate him with her most charming, conciliatory smile. "Please don't be offended. I mean, it isn't anything personal, you understand." She couldn't believe how difficult it was to enunciate each word. Pausing to gain some control over her tongue, she eventually confessed with a grin, "I don't even know who J am."

  He didn't seem to appreciate her lame attempt at humor. When he didn't respond, her unruly tongue continued with "Would I he to you?" blithely ignoring the fact that she was obviously irritating her visitor.

  He stiffened, a move that surprised her, since his ramrod-straight posture had seemed too rigid to be improved upon. "On many occasions," he muttered with poorly concealed bitterness.

  She blinked at the obvious explanation for his inexplicable demeanor. This man didn't like her. From what he'd just said, he might have good reason. However, she had a strong impulse to argue with him. She might not know who she was, but she knew very well that she didn't he. She'd always had an aversion to the idea. Lies could get so complicated. Truth was much simpler.

  Impulsively she reached out and touched his hand. He flinched, but didn't pull away. "I'm sorry if I've hurt you. I'm afraid I'm at a distinct disadvantage here. I don't recognize you at all. Are we related?"

  She heard a slight hitch in his breathing, but otherwise he gave nothing of his thoughts away. He seemed to be searching her face for some kind of answer before he murmured, "I'm your husband."

  No! She could feel the immediate denial rising in her throat and she fought not to betray her reaction. How could she possibly deny their relationship if she couldn't remember exactly who she was? He seemed to be in-no doubt as to her identity.

  "I see," she responded after a moment, feeling very vulnerable. "So I really am Madame DuBois
."

  "Ah. Then you at least remembered part of your name," he replied with a touch of irony.

  "I'm afraid not. The nursing sister called me that. I thought she must be mistaken." Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she asked, "What is my first name?"

  "Sherye."

  "Oh! I thought you were using the French endearment."

  "It's spelled S-h-e-r-y-e."

  She allowed the name to circle in her head, saying it to herself several times. Why didn't it sound familiar? If she'd been called by that name all her life, wouldn't she feel some sense of positive identification when she heard it?

  "How old am I?"

  "Twenty-six."

  She pondered that piece of information. Once again pictures flitted through her mind. "Have we been married long?"

  "Six years."

  Another surprise. She frowned. "Why, I was just a child when we married!"

  The look he gave her was filled with cynicism. "I doubt that you were ever a child, Sherye. Not in the sense you mean. You began modeling when you were eleven years old. By the time we met, you were light-years away from the innocence of childhood."

  There was so much new information in that statement that she had trouble taking it all in. Once again bitterness seemed to surround the man who claimed to be her husband. What kind of marriage did they have? She hesitated to ask. When she thought about the rest of his statement, she slowly rolled her head on the pillow in a negative gesture that renewed the pounding in her head.

  "I'm not certain why you're so angry with me," she finally said, "but I do know that I couldn't possibly be a model. That you should suggest such a career for me strikes me as ludicrous."

  Without a word he turned and walked away. She watched him go and wondered if she'd offended him by arguing with him. However, instead of leaving, Raoul opened a side door she hadn't noticed before and disappeared into another room. He appeared almost immediately with a hand mirror. He returned to her side and flipped on the lamp beside her bed, then handed her the mirror.

 

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