Instead of looking at the mirror, she stared up at the man revealed in the light. Yes, he was very imposing... aristocratic. .. and no doubt arrogant, as well. His eyes were a dark gray, almost charcoal, surrounded by a heavy fringe of black lashes that in no way detracted from his masculinity.
She certainly had excellent taste in men. Too bad she seemed to have alienated him so badly.
"Aren't you going to look at yourself?" he asked, a strange note in his voice.
Reluctantly she raised the mirror and forced herself to peer at her reflection. If he was trying to convince her that she had the looks of a model, he'd certainly missed the mark. She'd always heard that love was blind, but he seemed more angry than in love. Maybe he just suffered from poor vision.
"Well?" he asked.
"Well, what?" she replied, lowering the mirror and looking back at him impatiently.
"What do you see?"
With almost a groan she forced herself to look into the mirror again. "A pasty-looking face with dark circles around the eyes. The most vivid and eye-catching feature I can see at the moment is the technicolor bruise that isn't completely covered by the head bandage." She made herself meet his gaze once again. "Why? What do you see?"
"A face that's been on every major fashion magazine in the Western world. With your wide-set green eyes, high cheekbones, pouting lips and—"
"Pouting," she repeated with a sense of renewed interest. She looked again. After a moment she murmured, "I wouldn't call them pouting, exactly. Maybe they're a little full." She squinted into the mirror, then widened her eyes without blinking. "At least you got the eye color right." She touched her bandaged head. "What did they do to my hair?"
"The doctor assured me he had to shave only a small portion that can easily be covered until it grows out."
She peered at the pale woman in the mirror again before she shrugged. "Well, all I can say is I must have looked considerably better at eleven than I do at twenty-six. What happened? Did I lose my looks and decide to retire at twenty and get married?"
"You didn't intend to retire right away. Unfortunately for your professional plans, your pregnancy—"
"My pregnancy!" His words set off a series of internal alarms, all clanging within her head with earsplitting dissonance. She pushed herself up on one elbow, her head spinning. She forced the next words, carefully enunciating each one. "Are you saying that we have a child?"
He nodded, watching her closely. "Yes. We have a five-year-old daughter, Yvette, as well as a fourteen-month-old son... Jules."
Too weak to stay propped up on her elbow, Sherye sank back onto the bed, but the move merely increased the spinning and whirling going on inside her head. She stared up at the ceiling, tying to find something tangible to hang on to in this strange new world she'd found.
"This is all just too bizarre," she muttered, finally. After another long silence she sighed, nodding her head slightly. "I know what this is. I'm having some kind of a dream. They've got me on pain medication and I'm hallucinating. I'll wake up in the morning and I'll laugh at this whole thing...." She closed her eyes, tugging the sheet up over her shoulders. She lay there for several minutes, trying to regain her equilibrium.
"Well," she murmured to herself some time later as though she were alone, "this is quite a dream you're having. A husband, two children and a modeling career. If that doesn't win prizes for creativity, it should."
She drifted off to sleep, glad to be escaping the confused feelings that had swamped her during the telling of this tall nighttime tale. As she drifted off to sleep she muttered, "Boy, I've got great taste in.dream men, that's for sure."
Chapter 2
Sunlight flooded the room the next time Sherye opened her eyes. She was grateful to discover that the pain in her head was much improved, thank God. Not wanting to take a chance of reawakening the throbbing intruder, she carefully moved her head on the pillow—and saw her visitor from the night before asleep in one of the leather chairs.
She caught her breath, aware that her pulse rate had suddenly gone into overdrive. The man was real.. .she hadn't dreamed him, after all.
The light in the room revealed her visitor in detail, and finding him asleep gave her a much-needed moment to adjust to his presence, not only in her room but in her life, as well.
The man across from her was Raoul DuBois.
Her husband.
Or so he said.
As far as she was concerned, she had no connection with Sherye or Raoul DuBois. The names meant absolutely nothing to her. Somehow she would have to deal with her new situation. Now that the pain in her head had lessened, she was feeling more capable of coping with this strange new world she had discovered when she'd regained consciousness.
She took the opportunity to study Raoul DuBois while he slept.
His long, athletically built frame looked cramped in the chair. His head rested at an uncomfortable angle on the back of the seat while his legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent.
He wore a cream-colored silk shirt with chocolate brown trousers. A matching suit jacket lay across the arm of the other chair. His tie had been loosened and draped drunkenly across his chest.
This man was Raoul DuBois. Her husband, she reminded herself once again.
She shivered, remembering his attitude toward her. She wished she knew more about their relationship. Why had he acted so cold, so aloof, so bitter? Feeling as he so obviously did, why had he stayed with her through the night?
She stirred, restless, wondering if she dared try to sit up. How she hated feeling so powerless! She wanted to take charge of her life instead of passively lying there waiting for the next event to take place.
She had an unquenchable desire to find out more about herself... to find out all the missing pieces of her life and her past. Raoul had mentioned their children, a thought that created so much longing within her that she felt certain if she were to see them again she would remember at least their part in her life. She had always wanted children. She knew that without a doubt, even if she didn't understand exactly how she could have such strong and fixed opinions of who she was.
Take her present situation, for example. She felt just as strongly about who she was not. She knew quite well that she was not, nor had she ever been, a model. If they could be wrong about her profession, they were no doubt wrong about who she was, as well.
Obviously there must be some mistake in identification. She would discuss the mix-up with someone in charge of her case as soon as possible. There was no reason for her to panic. She would stay calm until she could—
As though on cue, the door opened with a soft whishing sound. A slight, trim man wearing a hand-tailored suit entered, closely followed by two nursing sisters. From the corner of her eye she saw Raoul stir and straighten.
"Ahh. Good morning, Monsieur and Madame DuBois. It is good to see you awake, my dear," the man said, striding to the bed and taking her hand. "Your husband has been extremely worried about you, as have we all." He nodded to the other man before returning his sharp-eyed gaze to her. "No doubt you have many questions, which we'll try to answer for you." He stroked her fingers while unobtrusively checking her pulse. "I'm Dr. Pierre Montand. You've been unconscious for several days and under my care since your husband had you transferred to our hospital."
She glanced at Raoul, who had risen from his chair and was running his hand through his thick, dark hair, a move that did more to tousle than to tame. From the doctor's comments she decided that if Raoul had arranged for her to stay in such luxurious surroundings he must care enough about her to want her well tended.
"How are you feeling this morning?" Dr. Montand asked, continuing to monitor her pulse.
"The pain in my head is much better, but I'm very confused at the moment. My memory seems to be in something of a muddle." She smiled at him in an attempt to lessen the appearance of criticism. "I really think there's been some kind of a mistake. Although I can't remember exactly who I am at the m
oment, I'm positive I'm not Sherye DuBois." She kept her gaze away from the man across the room, not wanting to see his reaction to her statement.
Dr. Montand's gaze sharpened. He gave Raoul a quick glance before returning his attention to her. "You must remember that you've received a fairly severe injury to your head, my dear. It isn't unusual that you may be somewhat confused." Once again his gaze sought out Raoul's, as though checking to see if the man wished to comment. When Raoul remained silent Dr. Montand continued. "I don't think you need to concern yourself with the possibility that your identity has been confused with someone else's. I understand that the police were able to identify you at the scene of the accident from the registration of your car, as well as the papers you carried in your purse. Even if there had been some doubt in the minds of the authorities, your husband recognized you as soon as he saw you."
Sherye looked from the doctor to Raoul, trying to read something in their expressions. If she wasn't who they said she was, what would be their purpose in lying? What she had to decide was whether or not she was going to trust these people to tell her the truth.
"I don't remember the accident at all," she explained with a hint of frustration. '
"Which isn't uncommon in cases such as yours. I know all of this is difficult for you. I would like to recommend that you give yourself some time. A trauma of this nature can cause a multitude of problems. A temporary memory loss isn't unusual. Fortunately the mind has marvelous healing abilities. I'll be working with you during your stay here. We have proven exercises as well as counseling techniques that we can implement to assist you in stimulating your memory." He released her hand and gently laid it across her waist. "Just be thankful that you survived with no more injuries than you received." He brushed his hand against her cheek. "You're doing quite well, all things considered."
She eyed him for a moment, wondering if this was the time to bring up the next item that was bothering her. Why not? If she was losing her mind as well as her memory, she might as well be aware of it now.
"Why is everybody speaking French?"
There was another exchange of glances between the two men, while the nursing sisters stared at her with varying degrees of astonishment and dismay.
After the brief, nonverbal exchange with Raoul, the doctor was the one who answered.
"Yes, I can see how confusing everything must seem to you. Your husband explained that you are an American, but since you've lived here in France for several years, you have a good command of the language."
She stared at the doctor in disbelief. "We're in France?" she whispered, unable to disguise her shock.
"But of course," Raoul replied. "Where do you think we are?"
"Texas!" she blurted out, then paused, rubbing her head where the ache never seemed to go away, unable to understand why she'd thought about Texas. As soon as she said the word, pictures flashed across the screen of her mind-tall buildings, multilaned highways, azaleas in bloom, the state flag...
"That's a very good sign of your returning memory," Raoul pointed out. "You're originally from Dallas. I understand you lived there for the first ten years of your life."
The doctor frowned. "Can you remember anything from that time of your life?''
She closed her eyes in an effort to recall something useful. After a moment she sighed and said, "Just brief pictures, I'm afraid. Nothing helpful."
Once again she looked to Raoul. "Can you tell me about the accident? Were you there?"
Her question seemed to catch him off guard. He hesitated, his body tensing, before he finally answered. "No. You were alone. According to the police investigation, you must have lost control of your car on a sharp curve. The car went over a steep embankment. Luckily you were thrown clear...since the car burst into flames upon impact. A passing motorist saw the flames and stopped. He saw you lying just over the edge of the embankment."
Sherye shivered at the thought of how close she had come to dying. "You're right. I'm lucky to be alive." At least she better understood why her head ached so badly. She must have hit it against something when she was thrown out of the car.
"Here," the doctor said. "Let's get these bandages off and see how your head looks. I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that we only had to shave a small portion of your hair.. .just the area around the wound. Luckily, because of the length of your hair, your scar will be covered." He smiled at her. "It would have been a shame to destroy that beautiful red hair of yours."
"But my hair isn't—" she began, then stopped, feeling foolish and uncertain. Nothing seemed to make any sense to her at the moment.
Only Texas seemed real to her. Nothing else. Not a husband, nor children, nor France.
The nurses efficiently unpeeled the bandages. The doctor examined the area around the wound, eliciting more than one wince from her. She bit her bottom lip to stop from groaning at one point.
"I believe we can leave the bandages off now," he said after a moment. "I'm quite pleased to see that you are healing nicely." He stepped back so that he could see her face once again. "I know you must feel overwhelmed. All you need to do at the moment is to rest and regain your strength. We'll give nature a chance to work her healing magic. You're really doing very well."
Feeling like a child who had been praised for eating all her vegetables, Sherye allowed herself to drift off to sleep once more, accepting the reassurance that everything would soon be all right.
❧
Four days later she didn't feel quite so reassured. Although the pain in her head had continued to lessen, none of her puzzling memories could be explained. Nor could she accept the fact that she had absolutely no memories—not even a glimmer—of anything having to do with France, her marriage or her family.
Her body continued to heal, however, and she was now strong enough to move around without help, which gave her some sense of progress. She could at least shower without assistance, as well as take care of her personal needs. Assuming that much control over her life and body was comforting, but her continued lack of memory unnerved her more than she would admit to others.
For the past three days Raoul had come to visit her each day. She felt ill at ease with him, given their circumstances. Her lack of any memory with regard to their relationship gave him an edge that made her uncomfortable. She didn't like having to ask him to tell her about their life together. It wasn't that she thought he would he to her, exactly, but she definitely felt that she was getting only one side of their story. There was something about his attitude where she was concerned that made her wonder why he was so antagonistic. She found what he wasn't telling her—about her attitude toward him and their children—mystifying. Surely her memories could shed some light on their relationship and perhaps explain his aloof behavior.
She'd been glad yesterday when he'd told her that he needed to leave for a day or so, in order to check in at home as well as his business. According to Raoul, home was a chateau that had been in his family for over a hundred years. He had explained that they lived there with his widowed mother and a sister who had never married.
His explanation immediately conjured up some kind of foreign movie in her mind, possibly starring Charles Boyer... certainly nothing she'd ever lived.
The doctor had suggested that once she was able to return to the familiar surroundings of home her memory would no doubt become more clear. Perhaps he was right, but at the moment Sherye had no desire to leave the now more familiar safety of her comfortable room and the surrounding hospital grounds.
She wasn't ready to meet more people she should remember but couldn't. Every time she thought about her two children, she panicked. What must they think of a mother who didn't remember them? She kept hoping that she would wake up one morning and every memory would be back in place, plugging the holes in her mind that made her feel so hollow and disoriented. Most especially, she wanted to be able to greet Raoul when he returned with the news that she recalled everything about their relationship.
Now sh
e needed to shower and prepare for a session with the therapist who was working with her. She walked into the bathroom, mentally bracing herself for a routine glimpse into the mirror. She still hadn't grown accustomed to her flaming red hair that cascaded around her shoulders and neck, giving her a strange, unfamiliar look.
She knew that her natural color was a very pale blond, almost white. She'd never worn it down, preferring to keep it pulled away from her face out of her way. She had memories of sitting at her dresser each night, putting it into a loose braid to sleep. The shorter length around her face and the color were all wrong.
When she had mentioned to Raoul that she wasn't a natural redhead, he'd told her that a photographer had convinced her to change the color early in her career to enhance the contrast between her light complexion and hair.
She still had difficulty accepting the idea that she had been a famous model. Sometimes she felt as if she was truly losing her mind. Either that, or she'd been given someone else's memories in some kind of cosmic brain implant.
After showering, she dried her hair, despairing of doing anything with it other than allowing it to fail about her face, framing her pale skin with fiery color. Her eyes seemed to gleam with added color, as well. She closed her eyes, picturing the person she knew herself to be—a slender woman who easily blended in with a crowd. She wore little makeup. In short, she did nothing to call attention to herself.
The seductive-looking woman staring back at her in the mirror was still slender, but the frothy underwear Raoul had brought her seemed to accent her slender waistline and the gentle curve of her hips. The bra was engineered in such a way as to thrust her breasts up and together into a provocative cleavage. The high-cut briefs made her legs seem longer and more shapely.
Raoul had explained that these were her clothes that she had purchased herself. He'd brought them from home. She studied herself in the mirror, trying to see herself shopping for such items, but couldn't. Turning away, she returned to the bedroom and slipped into one of the dresses he'd brought. The color matched the sea green hue of her eyes, its silky texture gliding down her body in a sensuous caress.
Mystery Wife Page 2