Pivoting in his tracks, Roarke stopped short and sneered scathingly, "Well, who have you been practicing with? You sure didn't forget how to please a man!" He reached over and smashed his cigarette into an ashtray.
Sara's hand flew to her mouth. She felt as though he had slapped her. "What… what on earth do you mean, who have I been practicing with? Aren't I married to you?" Her eyes glittered then narrowed with anger. "You've been insinuating things ever since I came home. You always seem to bring other men into our conversations. You've made me wonder what kind of a wife I was. Did I cheat on you? Just what in the hell are you talking about?" She wanted to cry. Somehow the spell was broken. Somehow Roarke had managed to crush the tender feelings that had warmed her body.
"How do I know what you've been doing or who you've been doing it with? We haven't lived together for two years!" He froze, clenching his fists by his sides.
Rising to her knees, the sheet falling in a jumble around her hips, she sputtered, "We… what?"
Walking toward her, he ground out through gritted teeth, "I didn't want you to know. At least not now and not like this."
Sara reached up and, with balled fists, pounded on his chest, tears streaming down her face. "You bastard," she seethed, "you used me!" He grabbed her fists as she crumpled back down onto the bed. Sobbing, she cried, "That's why I felt like this, like I don't belong. This is why Martha… you bastard," she screamed again, "you told Martha and Bradley not to tell me. How could you? You tell me you don't trust me! And you've been lying to me ever since I woke up in the hospital. Pretending you were so happy I was alive." She buried her face in the pillow and with her voice muffled she sobbed, "Oh, why wasn't I killed? Why did I have to live? Go… go away, Roarke."
Sitting on the bed, Roarke grabbed her shoulders and, as he turned her to face him, he shook her violently. "Don't ever say that again! I don't ever want to hear you say that again." He pulled her close to him and limply she buried her face in his chest. She just couldn't stand to look at him. "Sara, Sara, I didn't mean to tell you like this, it just slipped out. Believe me, I have my reasons for not telling you about our separation."
Quietly, in a low growl, Sara said, "Why should I believe you? Roarke, let me go. I don't want you to touch me. You used me, and I'll never forgive you for that."
"I needed you and you needed me," Roarke replied coldly, dropping his hands off her shoulders.
"Need? I didn't just need you, I wanted you. My mind might not remember you, but my body hasn't forgotten you." Sara dropped her head to her chest, her long, blond hair falling down across her face like a curtain. "You said you needed me, but not once have you said you wanted me. Do you equate love with sex?"
"Sara, don't be ridiculous. This conversation is getting us nowhere." He got up off the bed, grabbed another cigarette, lit it, and paced around the room. Then, stooping over, he picked up his trousers and put them on, the cigarette tightly clenched in his lips. He walked over to the window and stood with his back to her.
Sara lay back against the piled-up pillows. "Roarke, this is maddening. Tell me about it You said one of the great things we shared was our bed. What else did we share? Why did we separate?" She saw his shoulders heave with a deep intake of breath.
In a voice so low that Sara had to strain to hear him, he said, "We were happy when we were first married, but as the years went by we seemed to grow apart. Two years ago you packed your bags and moved out. We've been apart ever since. After we separated, you didn't want a divorce, and I agreed. On the night of your accident, when Ted Maxwell called and told me you had been seriously hurt, I went to the hospital and that was the first time I'd seen you in several months." He drew heavily on the cigarette and turned back to her. "Sara, I don't think we should discuss this anymore."
"What do you mean? You might not want to discuss it, but I certainly do. What sort of marriage did we have? Why did we separate? Answer me! Whose fault was it?"
Sara watched him walk across the room and pick up the rest of his clothes. At the bathroom door he paused. "No one's fault and both our fault."
Stunned, she spat, "You are an insensitive brute. So, it's just, hit the sack and leave, huh? You got what you wanted. Well, at ,, least you acted like you enjoyed it." She could feel her lips curl in a sneer as she spoke.
Roarke shook his head disgustedly. "In the last few years we were living together, that's about the only thing I did enjoy."
Fury distorted her features. "That's why the marriage failed. That's called lust, not love. How many times did you make me feel used like I do now?" She turned her back on him and buried her head into the pillow again.
To her surprise, she felt a light touch on her arm and heard Roarke's deep voice say softly, "Sara, why do we do this to each other? This was such a wonderful evening. Let's not let it be soured and disintegrate in our fingers. I didn't ever mean for you to feel used. That thought never entered my mind."
Sara hesitantly rolled over to face him, lighting back the tears of anger and hurt. "Did we always fight like this? Is this what you're telling me? I didn't start this tonight, you did. It started out to be such… such a beautiful evening. Why do you hate me so much, Roarke? What did I ever do to you?"
"Sara, don't say that! I don't hate you. My God, it's anything but that. I…" He looked away from her then spoke again. "Look, I want you to get well, but as I said before, I want you to remember on your own. I'll help you, but I will not discuss our marriage or break-up. Right or wrong, I think your memory should come back automatically without any prodding from me." He took her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to feel used. For one beautiful moment the Sara I used to know, the loving, passionate Sara, showed in your eyes, and I forgot you couldn't remember. I was swept away by our passion and it's been so long. Then when you asked me afterward if our lovemaking had always been that good, I guess I was still under your spell and was shocked by your question and thought you were playing games again. You seemed to remember everything… everything we liked to share in bed."
"Roarke…"
The sound of insistent knocking on the bedroom door interrupted her. Calling out "What is it?," Roarke moved to stand in front of the closed door.
Bradley's voice seeped through the heavy wood. "Sir, I'm sorry to disturb you. You have an urgent call from California. I tried to explain to the party calling that you didn't wish to be disturbed, but they insisted it was very important they speak with you. I was to tell you it concerned some negotiations you're involved in." Bradley sounded upset and embarrassed that he was forced to intrude on their privacy.
"I'll be right there," Roarke replied gruffly. Throwing on his shirt and slipping into his shoes, he said, "Sara, you'll have to excuse me. I'm in the middle of pounding out a contract, and this could be vitally important. We'll continue our conversation some other time. You go to bed now and get some rest, and I'll see you tomorrow." He left her before Sara could utter a word.
She sat as though turned to stone. She couldn't believe he could walk away from her as if they had been having a casual chat. Conversation! This was her life they were talking about!
She didn't have many more answers than she had before. She just had more questions. He kept talking about her game-playing and that he forgot she had amnesia. How could he forget that? What kind of games had she played? Had they really loved each other? Or had they confused lust with love? Why did he want her to remember on her own? He could help her so much and wouldn't. Why had she left him? Was it her fault and he resented it, or was it his fault and he felt guilty?
Then a flush spread through her when she recalled how she had totally surrendered herself to him, a heat that was new to her but apparently not to the old Sara. The remembrance of her joy and peace after they made love confused her. If she .had initiated their separation and if she had left the house willingly, finished with Roarke, why had she given herself now with such abandonment, such unqualified rapture?
Sara stretched out on the bed, rolled over onto her stomach, and propped her chin in the palms of her hands. Her face flushed again as she recalled how her body seemed to know his touch and divine his every wish and desire. Maybe it did appear to Roarke that she remembered, but she knew it was instinct, not memory.
Sara rolled over and stared at the ceiling. She still didn't know how she felt or what to do. Roarke was willing to help her, not as much as she wanted, but at least was willing. And what about the intimate side of their relationship? Tonight the desire that had tried to surface before was fully aroused and satisfied. Did she want to pick up a marriage that had been over for two years and share his bed? Especially when she knew that marriage had left a bitter taste in his mind. Then it hit her! Is the choice even mine?
Roarke had again accused her of playing games. Had he decided in his unfathomable mind to play some counter-game to the one he thought she was playing? Her body flushed as she thought of how Roarke's hands had played their melody across her skin. Would he use this as part of his game? She couldn't stand him to humiliate her along with everything else. She dozed as her mind mulled over the new twist her life had taken.
Someone or something was chasing her down an endless tunnel. The blackness enveloped her. The only light she could see was a pinpoint in front of her. As she ran, her hands felt what seemed to be hundreds of doors on either side, but when she grasped the knobs to turn them, they all opened to reveal brick walls. She could sense a presence hovering somewhere in front of her, but when she reached out to grasp for it, she touched nothing but air; the presence had moved somewhere ahead of her. She felt if she could just reach this unknown entity before the thing chasing her could catch her, she would be safe. She was running faster now, but suddenly she felt a hand grab her shoulder and a scream tore raggedly through the black air.
"Sara, Sara! Wake up!"
Roarke's command filtered through her nightmare-laden mind and she realized she was the one who was screaming. Sara thrust her body into a sitting position and opened her eyes. The light on her nightstand was on, and Roarke was sitting on the edge of her bed with his hands gripping her shoulders. Her robe clung to her sweaty body; her hair hung in her eyes and dry sobs wracked her body.
"Oh, Roarke, I had another terrible nightmare. When will they ever stop!" she said with a wrenching moan, and flung herself into his arms.
He smoothed her hair away from her face and rocked her back and forth, trying to calm her. "Shhh, Sara, it's all right now. You're awake and the nightmare's over." His voice washed over her like a lullaby. He kept rocking her back and forth, holding her tightly in his arms. He pressed his lips to her forehead and held her against his heart, waiting for her sobs to ease.
"Don't you understand? Can't I ever make you understand? Whether I'm awake or asleep, my life is a nightmare—one long terrible nightmare. I just can't go on. I can't remember and you won't help me and half the time I don't even think you believe me," she wailed.
"I believe you," he murmured, still trying to calm her.
She jerked away from him. "You don't believe me. You're just saying you do to calm me down. You're humoring me as though I'm crazy." Sara pulled herself out of bed and started limping around the room, wringing her hands, a wild look in her eyes. "Maybe I am crazy. Ted wants me to see a psychiatrist, so that has to be it. That has to be the answer, I'm crazy!" Sobs shook her body. She knew she was almost beyond the point of no return.
Roarke flew across the room and tried to take her into his arms again. "You're not crazy, Sara."
"Don't touch me," she snapped as she wrenched her body out of his grasp. "You don't want me, you won't help me, and I don't even think you like me." Sara ran her hands through her long, dark blond hair, and impotent fury replaced the sobs. She looked like a wild woman, with her hair flung in every direction and her amber eyes narrow slits that shot out sparks of yellow fire mixed with the liquid of her glistening tears.
Roarke grabbed Sara's shoulders and started to shake her. "Sara, snap out of it, pull yourself together." He was practically shouting at her, his face tight from fear, afraid that he would not be able to calm her down.
She blinked her eyes in confusion and stared at him. She didn't attempt to pull away this time.
"Sara, please…" He tried to soothe her with a calmer, quieter tone of voice. Roarke guided her across the room to the bed and they both sat down facing each other. "You know what you've said isn't true. You're upset because of this nightmare." He gently pushed back the matted hair laying on her cheek. "You said this was another nightmare. Have you had others?"
Sara slowly nodded her head, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes.
"Why haven't you told me you were having nightmares?"
She dropped her hands into her lap, bowing her head to stare at her fidgeting fingers. "I didn't tell you about the dreams because I didn't think you'd be interested."
Roarke gave her a bewildered look and put his hand over hers. "I could use a cup of coffee. How about you? Will you be okay while I'm downstairs?"
Sara looked at him blankly and nodded her head. "I'll be fine," she whispered.
When she was alone, Sara was almost too numb to think. She got up from the bed and stumbled into the bathroom, rinsed her face with cold water, then lethargically walked back into the bedroom and sagged down on the bed like someone in a trance.
Her insides were writhing and she could feel every nerve throbbing throughout her body. I can't stand anymore tonight, I just can't stand it, she fretted. Exhaustion weighed heavy on her. She felt that it was a massive effort to take one breath after another.
I just hope he doesn't start on me again. I'd probably curl up in a ball and fade away if he did. She shivered with the thought.
Roarke came back carrying a tray that held two steaming mugs. He set the tray on the table and carried the mugs over and sat down on the bed beside Sara. "Martha heard me rattling around in the kitchen and insisted on making hot chocolate for us."
Sipping the hot, spicy liquid, some life seemed slowly to ebb back into Sara's spiritless body. She was still feeling somewhat confused, but the hysteria she had felt earlier seemed to be dwindling away.
"Are you feeling any better?" Roarke asked. "Do you feel like talking?"
"I don't know. Are we going to have another conversation?" she asked in a snide tone of voice. "If we are, then forget it."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Laughing bitterly, she answered, "You said earlier that we'd continue our conversation later. Is this later? My life is one big mess, most of which I don't remember, and you act like it's just another topic for a casual conversation. You should have brought us a cup of tea, isn't that what ladies drink? You know, tea and conversation."
"What the hell has gotten into you?" Roarke shook his head. "Sara, why is it you take everything I say the wrong way? No matter what I say or do I feel I'm wrong." His voice cracked and he put the mug to his lips. His black hair fell over his forehead and the lines around his mouth looked deep and dark.
Spontaneously Sara's hand went out and she touched his cheek. He was as vulnerable as she was. "Roarke, I don't do it on purpose. One minute you seem to care and are compassionate, and the next you're putting that damned wall between us. You keep me off-balance all the time. When you say something, I never know whether you're being sarcastic or whether you really mean it. I don't know how to think or how to act anymore. I . don't know what to do… I just don't know."
His eyes bored into hers. "I don't know what to think either. But you shouldn't take everything I say and twist it until I don't recognize that I've said it or even know why I said it. Please, just trust me that I know what's best for us." His eyes begged her as his hand crept up and held hers tightly against his cheek.
Sara looked into his face, searching for what she thought she heard in his voice and her breath caught in her throat. The man sitting beside her was the Roarke that she had sketched during her fl
ashback. His eyes were warm and soft and his mouth was curved with a smile of compassion. Somewhere inside her something began to melt and her heart started to swell. The emotion flowed through her body until her fingers tingled. She realized with a shock that it was love that flowed through her withered heart and filled her with warmth. She loved Roarke! She shook her head in disbelief. She loved this man, this enigma.
Quietly, so as to not let him know the turn her mind had taken, she said, "If you really think you know what's best for us, then I'll go along with you, because I sure don't know. I'm willing to trust you. Don't ask me why, but I am. But one thing you have to understand is that my life is like a nightmare. It's like living with only your sense of touch alive and burning yourself everywhere you turn!" Sara put her cup down on the nightstand and turned back to Roarke. "I said I'm willing to try to trust you. But are you willing to trust me? If you'll think back, you know there were times you doubted that I have amnesia. And sometimes I feel like the only emotion you feel for me is pity."
"I don't pity you, Sara." Roarke's eyes had a sincerity she couldn't doubt. "Maybe the trouble has been me, pitying myself. I have had my doubts that you have amnesia, especially on the day you were to come home from the hospital and I saw Ted Maxwell, kneeling at your feet, holding you. I thought you were playing another game. I thought Ted was another spider you wanted to attract into your web," Roarke said flatly, his eyes never moving from Sara's face.
Sara listened to him intently. She didn't like what she was hearing. She got up and went over to the window. She felt she needed some space between them if she were going to objectively absorb what he was telling her. "Good grief, what kind of a person was I? Obviously I was really a witch or you'd never have jumped to that conclusion. A spider spinning webs! Is that what you think of me?" Sara put her hand up to rub her temple and turned to face Roarke. "Won't you change your mind and start at the beginning and tell me everything? Tell me every last detail," she said with an edge of sorrow to her voice.
Intimate Strangers Page 7