If She Only Knew

by Lisa Jackson

  “You remember it?” He was incredulous.

  “I wish. I only know about it because Joanna brought it up. I thought you might know where it is—where I might put it when I take it off.”

  “Probably in here somewhere, I’d guess.” He motioned with a sweeping hand to her bedroom.

  “It’s not. I looked. Top to bottom. Isn’t that strange? Joanna thinks that I always wore it and that someone at the hospital might have stolen it.”

  “I doubt it. Maybe you should look again.” Alex shifted from one foot to the other, then checked his watch. “You’ve had a lot to take in the past few days, Marla. The ring is the least of your worries.”

  “Joanna said it was a gift from my father.”

  “Conrad gave you lots of gifts.”

  “Did he?” That surprised her. She’d seen enough photographs of her stern-faced father and when she’d looked at them, trying to conjure up some memory of the man, she’d intuitively felt that they’d never shared so much as a joke together, that he didn’t really like her. She’d sensed that Conrad Amhurst was a self-driven man who had little time for his children and she had no sensation that he’d ever been close to her, that in fact, just the opposite was true. Though she couldn’t recall him, she felt in her gut that he hadn’t liked her, that she’d somehow been a disappointment.

  Perhaps it was because she was his daughter; not a first-born son. That archaic way of thinking should have gone out with the Dark Ages, but she had the sense it still very much existed; her son James was a prime example of being the exalted prince while his older sister held a grudge, with a very large chip on her shoulder, for being ignored.

  “Your father showered you with things,” Alex said. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat, then leaned against the doorjamb.

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, God, Marla, cars, stocks, bonds, a building. You name it, he gave it to you.”

  “That’s the problem, Alex, I can’t name anything. Except the ring.” She rubbed her neck and rotated her head. God, she was tired. “As I said before, I want to see my father,” she said.

  “I know, I know,” he snapped. “You don’t have to nag me. I’ll arrange for you to meet the old man in a couple of days, okay, but let’s not make any plans tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll sort things out.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  “I imagine you will,” he said without a trace of humor, then went into his room. Marla was too exhausted to come up with a response. She waited until she heard his door close, then tore off the rest of her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Despite the horror of the night, despite her conflicted feelings about Nick, despite the feeling that there was something very, very wrong here, she was asleep the second her head hit the pillow.

  Nick finished his drink, stripped to his boxers and flopped onto the bed. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to sleep, but images of Marla, some of the younger woman he’d known so intimately, others of this new woman, older, but warmer, a woman without a memory, without a past, a woman who still responded to him, haunted him.

  Had someone tried to kill her? But who? Why? And why did Alex want him living here in the house so badly? This all felt wrong, as if he were stepping into a carefully laid trap.

  Why did Marla look so much like Pam Delacroix—the mystery woman. Friend? Acquaintance? Who the hell was she?

  He heard the door to the suite shutting and then footsteps retreat down the hallway. Probably nothing more than Alex needing a drink just as he had. But he sat up in bed, instantly wary. Hadn’t Marla claimed she’d felt someone near her bed? Hovering over her? Someone threatening to kill her?

  Quietly Nick rolled to his feet, crossed the room and opened the door to the hall just as the elevator door closed. Heart pounding, he walked into the unlocked suite and to Marla’s room where she, exhausted, lay sleeping as if dead to the world. Clenching his jaw so tightly it ached, he resisted the urge to touch her cheek. Gritting his teeth, he checked on the baby and even cracked the door to Cissy’s room when he heard the soft purr of an engine and the clunk of the garage door opener being activated.

  Someone was leaving? At this hour of the night?

  Nick walked to the window of Cissy’s room and saw the taillights of Alex’s Jaguar flash brilliantly as he paused until the electronic gates opened. The Jag shot through and disappeared down the hill. Nick checked his watch. It was after one-thirty in the morning.

  Where the hell was his brother off to?

  To meet someone.

  But who? And why?

  It has something to do with Marla.

  The next few days passed in a fog of pills and pain as Marla’s atrophied muscles began to work. Tom, as Alex had told her, was quick with the medication, or a tray of pulverized food that she could barely swallow and every time her mind began to clear, she would become drowsy again. The shades were drawn, one dim lamp set on low, the room, she thought dazedly, seeming more like a death chamber than a bedroom.

  She didn’t know night from day, had no strength, could barely move.

  But she sensed this wasn’t right. Every time she began to think clearly, to gain some strength, the mental fog rolled in again and she was lost. Asea. Rolling in and out of consciousness and feeling a bleak, heavy despair.

  “No more pills,” she’d insisted groggily on the second, or was it the third day? “I’m . . . I’m too out of it.”

  “But you’re healing.” Tom was helping her eat some kind of pea soup.

  “No . . . there’s something wrong . . .” But he insisted and when she complained to Alex, he’d stroked her head and told her she was getting so much better. Nonetheless she was dazed, drugged, and aside from getting up to use the toilet, she’d been nearly confined to her bed.

  “I’m worried about her,” Eugenia had said when she’d come in to visit with the baby. Marla’s arms ached to hold little James, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as sit up. “Shouldn’t we call Dr. Robertson?”

  “I’ve already talked to Phil,” Alex said. “This is normal.”

  “I don’t think so.” Eugenia shook her coiffed head and Marla tried to say something only to nearly fall asleep again.

  “Marla’s exhausted, needs rest, so Phil prescribed pain pills and a mild sedative, just to make sure that she’s strong again.”

  “But—”

  “Shh. Let her sleep.” Alex had shepherded his mother out of the room, but Marla heard him say, “I’ve talked to Phil. Her reaction is fairly normal, but he’s changing Marla’s pain medication to something that won’t make her quite as groggy.”

  That thought was heartening, but she really didn’t care. Not even when she opened an eyelid and saw Cissy standing over her bed, her face a mask of worry, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. “Jeez, Mom, are you gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah,” she managed, her tongue thick. “I’ll be . . . fine . . .” She said and fell asleep again, feeling herself begin to drool on the bed. She slept for hours . . . or was it only minutes . . . or even a day . . . when she heard the next voice. Nick’s voice.

  “This isn’t right.”

  Marla cracked open an eye to see his concerned face. She caught the image of his bladed features and lips pulled into a thin line of vexation. “I’m taking her to see the doctor.”

  There was someone else in the room. The damned nurse stepped out of the shadows and into her line of vision. “Mr. Cahill left precise instructions that she wasn’t to be disturbed,” Tom countered and Nick threw him a defiant glare, daring Tom to challenge him again.

  “Tough.” Nick stuffed Marla’s slippers into his jacket pocket.

  “Mrs. Cahill is my responsibility.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Gently Nick reached down, gathered Marla into his arms and over her weak protests carried her to the elevator.

  “You can’t do this!” Tom yelled after them.

  “Watch me.” The elevator door opened and they stepped inside. Marl
a caught a glimpse of the nurse, his face mottling with rage, his lips thin and white. The door shut.

  “You don’t have to carry me,” she protested.

  “Like hell.”

  On the main floor he strode out the front door. The air outside was brisk. Cold. The chill of winter present in the morning air. Nick started down the front steps. Lars, gardening rake in hand, stepped from between two ancient rhododendrons, and blocked Nick’s path.

  “What are you doing?” Lars demanded.

  “Taking Mrs. Cahill to see a doctor.” Nick shouldered past him and Marla, feeling a fool or a wimp, tried to slide from his arms. He held her fast.

  “Does Mr. Cahill know about this?” Lars asked suspiciously.

  “I hope so.” Nick’s face was drawn, his features harsh, his stare uncompromising as he strode to his truck. “I hope someone had the presence of mind to tell the bastard that I’m taking his wife to the hospital.”

  “This . . . this is ridiculous. I can walk,” she insisted though she wasn’t sure that her legs would hold her or that her blurry mind could function.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Really.” But her head lolled back and she felt like a moron, letting some man determine her fate. “I’m . . . I’m not going back to the hospital.”

  “I think it’s time we found you another doctor.”

  Her head was beginning to clear as he opened the door of his Dodge. He removed her slippers from his pocket and dropped them onto the floor, then took off his jacket and threw it over her shoulders. “Don’t argue with me,” he said as he slammed the door.

  “I think I should make my own decisions,” she said, cranking open the window a crack just as the roar of an engine caught her attention and she spied Alex’s Jaguar through the foggy windshield. “Great,” she muttered as she saw her husband, his face contorted in rage, climb out of his car, flick a cigarette butt into the shrubbery and stride up to Nick.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Alex demanded.

  Nick stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms folded over his chest, in front of the truck. Didn’t answer.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Alex demanded.

  “Taking your wife to see a doctor.”

  “That’s not necessary. Phil’s on his way.”

  “He’s coming here?” Nick asked disbelieving. “A house call?”

  “Yes, here . . . now, what’s wrong with Marla?” Alex started to walk to the passenger side of the truck, but Nick grabbed his arm and planted himself firmly between the passenger door and his brother.

  “Nothing that a decent physician and a lot less pills won’t fix.”

  Alex’s nostrils flared. He jerked back his arm. “This has nothing to do with Phil.”

  “Like hell. He’s the one who’s overmedicating her. It’s his fault.”

  “No, it’s mine,” Alex admitted with an edge of defiance. “I wanted Marla to take it slow and rest. To recover. Phil was only doing what I asked.”

  “Shouldn’t that have been Marla’s decision?”

  “Probably but she was so freaked out and paranoid, I took charge. Remember she was seeing things—people in her room, for Christ’s sake,” Alex said. “I just thought she needed some time to pull herself together.”

  “You arrogant bastard,” Nick growled.

  “But it doesn’t matter now, I’ve called Phil, he’s changing the course of her medication and by morning she should be clearheaded again.”

  “You’d better hope.”

  “Or what? Don’t threaten me, Nick. I made a mistake. It’s over.” He stepped around his brother and approached the truck. “Marla? Look, I’m sorry. I suppose you heard what was just said. I made a mistake.”

  “A big one,” she said, fury streaming through her blood. She looked him square in the eye through the half-opened window.

  “I said, ‘I’m sorry,’ okay? Phil will be here in a few minutes. He wants to see how you’re doing and take you off some of the medications. Just trust me.”

  Never, she thought, I’ll never trust you for as long as I live, but at the moment a Cadillac purred through the open gates with Phil Robertson at the wheel.

  Nick’s gaze turned murderous as Robertson slid out of his car. “You let my brother tell you what to prescribe for his wife?”

  “What?”

  “Some kind of sleeping pills? You let him decide?” Nick accused.

  Alex grabbed hold of his brother’s sleeve. “Now wait a minute, Nick, don’t go jumping down Phil’s throat.”

  Marla forced her feet into her slippers, opened the door of the truck and slid to the ground. Her legs were unsteady, but propped by the door, she managed to stand. “I want to know why I feel so . . . groggy, so dull . . . why I can’t seem to wake up.”

  Phil Robertson’s lips tightened. “Someone should have called me before today.”

  “How long has it been . . . since I saw you in the clinic?” Marla asked.

  “Five days.” The doctor turned up his collar.

  “Five,” she whispered, unbelieving.

  “Let’s go into the house, I’ll take a look at you and I can give you something for your pain that won’t make you so disoriented and sleepy.”

  “I don’t want anything,” she said firmly. No matter what, she needed her wits about her. She couldn’t rely on Nick to bail her out time and time again. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I think you should listen to Phil. He’s the one with MD after his name.” Alex placed an arm over her shoulders.

  She shrugged it off. “No, I don’t think so. Now, listen,” she said her jaw beginning to ache as the medication wore off, “I’m a grown woman. I’ll make all the decisions about what’s happening to me, to my body.”

  “I was just thinking about your best interests,” Alex explained, but there wasn’t any warmth in his eyes and one of his hands curled into a fist before he jammed it into the pocket of his coat.

  “Were you? I don’t think so. Now stop treating me like some frail hothouse flower.” She was still wearing Nick’s coat, her pajamas and her slippers. Despite the chill, she flung Nick’s jacket at him and he caught it on the fly, then she turned back to the house, her legs seeming to gain strength with each stride.

  Men, she thought unkindly. Who needed them?

  She climbed the steps and though still slightly woozy, yanked hard on the front door. One last glance at the threesome told her all she needed to know. Alex was reaching for his cigarettes, rage simmering in his expression, Phil Robertson looked worried, his brow knit, his lips in a tight little knot, and Nick just stared after her, his blue eyes bright with that same sexy, irreverent challenge that she’d found fascinating from the moment she’d woken from the damned coma.

  He alone was the man she could trust.

  Never in his life had Nick been involved with a married woman, hadn’t ever considered it. He lay on the bed, stared up at the ceiling and tried to force Marla out of his mind. Impossible. She was wedged in tight, a seductive image that brought a sheen of sweat to his brow and caused his damned cock to ache. The house was quiet, everyone presumably asleep. Nick rolled over, tried to conjure up any other vision but Marla’s seductive eyes, and couldn’t.

  And she’s just down the hall.

  But she’s Alex’s wife.

  Their marriage is already in trouble. You can see it. He never pays her any attention. She doesn’t remember him and she wants you as much as you want her. Go on, get out of bed. Just go check on her.

  His gut clenched and he threw off the covers. This was nuts. He yanked on a pair of jeans, didn’t bother with a shirt or shoes, opened the door and walked into the hallway where security lamps gave off a dim, barely existent glow that pooled on the carpet. He walked directly to the door of the suite, placed his hand on the knob and stopped. What would he say to her? What would he do? Nothing. He couldn’t do a damned thing.

  Gritting his teeth he went downstairs and poured himself a d
rink. What would be the price of his lust? A family broken? Two kids who would become the product of divorce? Marla would never want to move to Oregon and he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted anyway. He just wanted to kiss her and touch her again, to feel that sizzling connection they’d experienced fifteen years before.

  And you’d love to best Alex, get a little back, admit it. You don’t like the way he treats her and you’ve never really gotten over the fact that she threw you over for your brother.

  “Son of a bitch.” He tossed back his drink, wiped a hand over his mouth and hiked back up the stairs. God, he was a fool. He’d reached the bedroom landing and had started toward his room when the door to the suite cracked open and Marla stepped into the hallway.

  “Oh!” Her hand flew to her chest and her eyes opened wide. “Nick,” she whispered. “You scared me half to death!”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me, neither. I thought I heard Cissy get up.”

  “It was me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “You didn’t.” She seemed flustered and looked back through the door. God, she was beautiful in some kind of satin pajamas that were a size too large from the looks of them, her hair rumpled, sleep still heavy in her eyes.

  “I—I’d like to talk to you,” she said and he had trouble keeping this eyes off the V of her neckline where her pajama top buttoned. The hollow of her throat was visible, that feminine circle of bones he found so fascinating, as enticing as he remembered.

  “I’ll buy you a drink. Full bar downstairs.”

  “Just what I need with all the drugs in my body,” she teased then flashed him a dazzling grin. “Give me a minute to get my robe.” She was through the door in an instant and in the thirty seconds it took her to retrieve the matching wrap, he kicked himself a dozen times. This was stupid. Treacherous.

  But he couldn’t stop himself and as she slipped through the door, he caught a waft of her perfume and his gut tightened. She closed the door with a soft click, then cinched the belt of her robe as they walked down a flight to the darkened living room. Rain drizzled down the ancient glass of the windows. Nick struck a match to the logs stacked in the grate, then poured himself a drink. Marla, looking nervous, her fingers playing with the ties of her robe, stood by the crackling flames.