by Linda Turner
No! a frantic voice in her head cried out in protest. Don’t do this! Please don’t do this.
But her hands took on a life of their own. In slow motion, they lifted the dirt and carried it up the long length of the still, half-buried form before her. And then, before she was ready for it, her hands were hovering right over the dead man’s face.
She tried not to look, but she couldn’t stop herself. His skin was pasty white, the mouth frozen in a silent scream. With his square-cut jaw, chiseled bone structure and thick cloud of black hair, he might once have been a handsome man in spite of the small scar that marred one corner of his mouth. But not now. Not in death. Death had robbed him of life, of spark, and left behind a bloodless, macabre monster that she knew would haunt her nightmares the rest of her life.
Frozen, so close she could smell the death that rose from him, she felt the trembling of her fingers worsen and could do nothing to stop it. In what seemed like slow motion, the dirt cupped in her hands trickled into his eyes and mouth and nose.
“No!”
Her unholy scream echoed through the apartment like the screech of a banshee. Slumped against the headboard of their bed, where they’d both fallen asleep while he’d held her after she was sick, Joe bolted up, his heart in his throat and his eyes wild and confused. “What the hell! Annie? My God, what’s wrong?”
She didn’t hear him. Devastated, tears streaming down her bloodless face, she bent over, her arms wrapped around her middle, and rocked in misery. “What have I done? Oh, God, what have I done?”
She sounded so horrified, so revolted with herself, he reached for her without thinking. “Honey, you haven’t done anything. What makes you think you have? You were just dreaming—”
“No!” Already shaking her head, she didn’t let him finish… or touch her. Scrambling out of bed, she backed out of reach until she stood all alone, her face etched in despair. “You don’t understand!” she cried. “It wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. I think I killed a man.”
Joe paced the confines of the kitchen like an innocent man who had just been convicted of a felony, more frustrated than he’d ever been in his life. I think I killed a man. Dear God, she’d meant it! She actually thought she’d killed a man. And no amount of talking on his part had changed her mind. She didn’t know how or why or even who the man was, but there was no other explanation for her burying a dead man in a stand of cedars. It all fit, she’d claimed. The blood on her clothes and on the pavement in the parking garage, her desperate need to get clean, the sick despair that had spilled into her stomach at the sight of that cedar branch. She’d killed a man—and someone out there knew it.
She’d been so serious, so sure, that she’d scared the hell out of him. Shaken, he’d immediately hustled her into the kitchen, warmed her some cocoa, then spent the next fifteen minutes trying to convince her that she’d just had a night terror. Granted, it had been a particularly nasty one and horrifyingly real, but it was still a far cry from a memory.
He might as well have saved his breath. Her chin took on that stubborn set he’d come to know too well over the course of their marriage, and nothing he’d said so far had persuaded her that there was no need to call Sam.
“Dammit, this is ridiculous!” Quelling the small niggling doubt that whispered in his ear—dear God, was it possible that she’d done such a thing?—he pushed back from the kitchen table and rose to glower down at her. “I know you—better than you know yourself right now, I might add—and you just haven’t got what it takes to kill anyone. You’re a soft touch, Annie Taylor. If I’d let you, you’d pull every burn off the street into the restaurant kitchen and feed them. You could no more shoot someone between the eyes than you could fly.”
Even to his own ears, his tone was desperate and edged on panic. He couldn’t tell who he was trying to convince—her or himself—and she knew it.
“No one wants to believe that more than I do,” she said hollowly, “but I can’t. The evidence is too damning.”
“A dream isn’t evidence!” he snapped. “Your mind’s just playing tricks on you. You got that damn package with the cedar in it this afternoon and it scared you. So tonight your subconscious came up with a way to explain your fear. That’s all it was.”
It was a logical explanation, and more than anything else in the world, Annie wanted to believe it. But she couldn’t. Not when she could still feel the grit of the dirt on her skin and smell that damn cedar. Just thinking about it made her want to gag. She’d buried a dead man—she knew it.
Her cocoa turning cold in her hands, she pushed it away. “We have to call Sam, Joe. He needs to know about this.”
“No.”
“If you won’t call him, I’ll do it myself.”
“The hell you will!”
She flinched at his roar but her stubborn jaw only lifted a notch higher. “Raising your voice isn’t going to change my mind. Sam said to call him if I remembered anything, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
He wanted to shake her. He wanted to lock her up in their bedroom and not let her go anywhere near Sam or any other cop who might take her ridiculous story seriously. But she’d fight him on that, so all he could do was pretend to go along with her, and in the process, appeal to her maternal instincts.
“All right,” he said flatly. “If you really want to call him, I can’t stop you. But in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s three o’clock in the morning. If you call him tonight, you probably won’t get any sleep the rest of the night. Do you think that’s good for the baby?”
He saw the answer in her eyes and pressed the advantage. “If you really shot someone and buried him, which I strongly doubt, he’s not going anywhere tonight. Waiting another few hours to notify the authorities isn’t going to hurt anything.”
He was right, but she was afraid to close her eyes again, afraid that she’d get caught up in that nightmare again and never find her way home. Swallowing a sob, she shivered and wished Joe would hold her. But she couldn’t ask, and he didn’t take the initiative. Considering the circumstances, she really couldn’t say she blamed him. She’d killed a man. When Joe had vowed to love and cherish her for better or for worse, she doubted that he’d expected worse to include murder.
Jerking to her feet abruptly, she needed to walk, to pace, to work this out in her head, but there was no place to go. No place but back to bed, and she couldn’t do that. Turning away, she stared blindly out onto the balcony. “All right, I’ll wait until the morning to call him, but I can’t go back to bed. I just can’t.”
“You’re not going to dream, honey,” he said softly from behind her.
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“Yes, I can. I’ll sit by the bed and wake you the second I think you’re dreaming.”
Surprised, touched that he would even suggest such a thing, she whirled to face him. “I can’t ask you to sit up the rest of the night. You’ve got to work tomorrow.”
“I don’t need much sleep,” he fibbed easily. “Don’t you remember? Give me a two-or three-hour catnap and I can go for another twenty hours easy. I’m wide-awake, so while you’re sleeping, I’ll just sit by the bed and address the invitations. We never got around to that, remember?”
She should have said no—she couldn’t take advantage of him that way. But she was punch-drunk, she was so tired. She desperately needed to get horizontal, but if she closed her eyes even for a second, the dream would be on her, and she might not be able to fight it off a second time.
“All right,” she agreed. “But only if you promise to go to bed if you get tired. I’d feel terribly guilty if you stayed awake just because of me.”
His fingers crossed behind his back, he nodded solemnly. “On my honor as a Boy Scout. Now will you go to bed before you fall on your face? You can barely keep your eyes open as it its.”
Another time, Annie would have quizzed him about being a Boy Scout, but the last of her energy was spent and she couldn’t manage any more protes
ts. Sighing as he slipped a supporting arm around her waist, she let him lead her to the bedroom.
She didn’t dream, but she didn’t sleep very well, either, and she woke the next morning with sandy eyes and a headache. For once her stomach wasn’t acting up, but she found little comfort in that. Before she even opened her eyes, the events of the previous evening came flooding back. The cedar branch left on their doorstep, the dream, the face of a dead man that was indelibly sketched in her memory. “Oh, God!”
She would have bolted right out of bed, but before she could even think about throwing back the covers, her gaze landed on Joe. He was seated in the chair next to the bed, just as he had been last night when she’d closed her eyes for the last time and drifted back to sleep, only he wasn’t working on the invitations for the restaurant opening as he had been then. Instead, he was slumped in the chair, asleep, his chin resting on his chest and his pen still clutched in his hand, the invitations spread out around his feet on the floor.
Something shifted in her heart, a barrier that she hadn’t even known was there, giving way to a rush of emotions that pulled at her heartstrings and made it impossible for her to drag her gaze away from him. Settling back against her pillow, she studied him quietly, noting the night’s growth of beard that darkened his shadowed jaw, the enticing curve of his sensuous mouth, the sweep of dark lashes that any woman would have killed for. He was, she couldn’t help noticing, an incredibly sexy man. And he was her husband.
That knowledge no longer shook her as it had at first. She’d come to accept the fact that he was a part of her life. She didn’t remember loving him, but at one time, he must have loved her fiercely. She could still see the lingering traces of it in the dark secret depths of his eyes, still feel it in the gentleness of his touch and the way her own heart leapt at the sight of him.
What kind of lover was this man who was her husband? she wondered, her eyes searching as they traveled the lines of his sleeping face. Was he generous and caring and as interested in pleasuring her as he was himself, or were his own needs his only concern? Did he hold her afterward or just roll away and go to sleep? He seemed to be a toucher, but that could be wishful thinking on her part. She couldn’t remember, but she thought she must be the kind of woman who needed the man she loved to keep her close after the loving. Would Joe know that without having to be told? Was he that sensitive to his lover’s needs? Would the time ever come when she would find that out for herself?
Images stole into her mind, hot, intimate imaginings that fired her cheeks and stole her breath. With an ease that shocked her, she could picture herself stroking him, loving him, giving herself totally and completely to him. Just him. Until they were both spent, replete, sated. Just thinking about it left her weak. And hot on a chilly autumn morning.
He shifted slightly, and her heart jerked in alarm. What are you doing, Annie? a voice cried in her head. Get out of that bed before he wakes up and finds you staring at him lake a sex-starved spinster just waiting for the chance to jump his bones!
But even as she moved to throw off the covers, it was too late. The pen slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, barely making a sound. But it was enough to wake him. Wincing, he stirred, rubbing at the back of his neck, and she watched in fascination as he slowly came awake. As rested as if he’d lain on the bed beside her all night, he stretched and yawned with an animal grace that did funny things to her stomach. Then his eyes opened and settled on her as if he’d known all along that she was watching him, and she could do nothing to stop the damning blush that slowly stole into her cheeks.
A sleepy smile tugged up the corners of his mouth, then, before she could even begin to guess his intentions, he leaned over and kissed her. Startled, her heart missed a beat, and she couldn’t for the life of her raise her hands to push him away. He was still half-asleep, she told herself weakly. He’d forgotten that he’d promised not to kiss her again. He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t. But the second his lips settled gently on hers, he showed her in two seconds flat that he was a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
His mouth moved on hers, as soft as a summer breeze, gently wooing, seducing, so different from the heat and flash and hunger of that other time, when he’d caught her so completely off guard. Captivated, she trembled, her eyes closing on a sigh. Her heart murmuring a languid rhythm that seemed to echo in her blood, she wanted to reach for him, to wrap her arms around him and never let go. But she was afraid that if she did, this would all turn into a dream. So she curled her fingers into the covers and focused all her attention on just his mouth. The taste, the feel, the heat of it. How could she have forgotten him? she wondered dizzily. Forgotten this?
Need crawling through him, raking him with silken claws, Joe fought to keep the kiss light and easy. But damn, it was hard! He’d been dreaming about making love with her when he woke up to find her staring up at him from their bed. and it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean over and kiss her. Just a simple good-morning kiss—that was all it had started out to be. But he’d still been caught up in that damn dream and his defenses had been down, his body hot for her. The second his mouth had touched hers, he was lost.
Dear God, he ached for her! It had been too long since he’d kissed her, too long since he held her close and loved her until they were both so weak they could hardly move. She was his wife, dammit, and he wanted her! She might not remember anything about their life together, but she wasn’t indifferent to him—not if those soft little whimpers she made at the back of her throat were anything to go by. He could crawl into bed with her and love her like there was no tomorrow, and she’d never utter a word of protest.
But there was a tomorrow. And a yesterday, one where she might have gotten pregnant by another man. And as much as he wanted to forget that, he couldn’t.
Cursing his raging hormones, calling himself seven kinds of a fool, he reluctantly lifted his head. And nearly kissed her again when he saw the glazed desire in her eyes. Swallowing a silent groan, he forced a crooked smile and told himself to keep it light. “Good morning, sleepyhead. I guess I don’t have to ask you if you slept all right. You were rattling the windows.”
Surprised, her pulse still skipping madly, she gasped, “I was not!”
“You were snoring a beat you could dance to halfway down the Riverwalk,” he claimed outrageously. “I spent most of the night waiting for Alice to break into song downstairs.”
He was so solemn, she might have believed him if it hadn’t been for the twinkle dancing in his eyes. The need humming in her veins giving way to amusement, she laughed. “You’re making that up! Anyway, you’re a fine one to be talking. I don’t need much sleep,” she mimicked. “Give me a two-or three-hour catnap and I can go for another twenty hours easy.”
His grin unrepentant, he shrugged lazily. “So I exaggerated a little.” When she lifted an eyebrow at that, he laughed. “Okay, so make that a lot. My intentions were good. You needed to sleep and you did. Mission accomplished. Now, how about breakfast?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject. “Is the baby up to ham and eggs this morning, or are we sticking with dry toast?”
She knew what he was doing—deliberately mentioning the baby in order to distract her about last night—and for that, she wanted to kiss him. But she’d already done that, and he’d been the one to pull back.
Her pride battered slightly, she forced a smile, determined to keep things as light as he. “I don’t know about the baby,” she said easily, “but if you’re talking scrambled, with hash browns and plenty of ketchup, you’ve got a deal.”
“Somehow I had a feeling you’d say that,” he said dryly. “So I had a whole case of the stuff delivered yesterday. You want ketchup, sweetheart, you’ve got ketchup.” Playfully swatting her on the thigh, he grinned. “So up and at ’em, lazybones. It’s your turn to cook.”
She wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, a gourmet cook, but she had discovered over the last few mornings
that she could handle breakfast quite well, thank you very much. So as soon as she was dressed, she set to work at the stove while Joe made the toast and orange juice. The kitchen was large enough to hold a small army, but every time she turned around, she seemed to find Joe in her path. He teasingly accused her of throwing herself at him, but he was the one who was always brushing up against her, making her laugh and her heart skip. By the time they finally sat down to eat, the last thing she was interested in was food. Breathless and flushed, she was hungry for something a lot hotter than ham and eggs.
But she’d been so upset last night over the package left on their doorstep that they’d never gotten around to ordering pizza. She took one bite of the eggs she’d scrambled, and her stomach reminded her that it had been nearly twenty hours since she’d eaten. With a murmur of pleasure, she dug in.
Given a choice, she would have lingered over the meal for most of the morning, enjoying the food and coffee and Joe’s company. But she couldn’t. Not when last night’s nightmare was still so fresh in her mind. As soon as they were both finished eating, she rose to carry their dishes to the sink. When she turned back to face Joe, her jaw was set. “I want to go to the police station and talk to Sam this morning. He needs to know what I’ve remembered.”
“Honey, that was just a dream—”
“No, it wasn’t,” she insisted stubbornly. “It happened, Joe. I remember.”
Startled, he followed her to the sink, his dark eyebrows snapping together into a straight line over his narrowed brown eyes. “What do you mean, you remember? Are you saying you’ve got your memory back?”
“No. Not much of it, anyway. But I remember kneeling on the ground covering a dead man with dirt.” Haunting bits and pieces of too real images rose before her eyes, sickening her. “I can still see his face,” she said faintly, shuddering. “I didn’t imagine it.”
“You didn’t kill him,” he said flatly. “I don’t care what you dreamed, you didn’t kill anyone.”