Intimate Strangers

by Denise Mathews

  "That's were I'll stay," Sara said, sitting up in bed. "I'll go to Annapolis." She chuckled to herself when she remembered she had been going to do that before she had regained her memory. But the big difference now was that she could remember the address.

  She didn't have to worry about money, her savings account was very healthy, so she could afford the upkeep on her own. Her father and Roarke's father had been partners in the construction company, and when her father had been killed, she had inherited his share, put into a trust for her to be administered by her grandmother. As the business had grown through Roarke's expert leadership after his father had died, so had her personal wealth.

  At one time she had offered to sign over her share of the business to him, but Roarke wouldn't hear of it. The only thing he would let her do was give him her power of attorney to make all the business decisions, so she still received her share of the profits.

  She would have to figure out how she could get to Annapolis. She was still a little fuzzy about the accident, but from what she could remember and from what Roarke had told her, her car had been totally demolished.

  "I could rent a car," Sara said out loud again. Her voice echoed around the room and sounded hollow in the empty apartment.

  Tears spilled over her lashes again. She didn't think it was possible that she could cry anymore, but she did. She had thought when she regained her memory that she would be whole once more, but without Roarke in her life, she would never be whole, she loved him completely.

  The accident had changed her. It had been the impact that burst her from her cocoon, turning her from a child into a woman—a woman who knew she could love only one man—a man she could never have, a man who would never know that his childlike bride had finally grown up.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By the time dawn was streaking the sky, she had mentally gone over her entire life with Roarke several times. One of her last thoughts before she drifted off into a fitful sleep was that she had been so stupid, but he hadn't been much smarter. They were really both to blame for their failed marriage, just as Roarke had said.

  When she woke up, it was late and her head felt thick and her eyes were heavy-lidded and swollen. She groped her way to the kitchen and made some coffee, and when it finished brewing, she sat in the living room waiting for it to revive her. But the coffee didn't do its usual job, and she thought a shower might help her feel better.

  After her shower she went to the closet, wondering what she could find to wear temporarily. She'd have to return to the house and get some of her own clothes. She opened the closet door and was dumbfounded. These were her clothes! None of the clothes in the closet were Suzanne's. Suzanne had lied to her! Suzanne wasn't living here, all these clothes were her very own.

  Sara was angry. How could Roarke love someone like Suzanne? Even when she couldn't remember Suzanne, there was something malignant about her. Was Roarke so completely blind where women were concerned?

  As she dressed in corded jeans and a western shirt, she continued to mumble to herself about Roarke's stupidity. She was making the bed when she heard the doorbell ring. "Now, who in the world could that be?" she muttered to herself as she stalked to the door to answer it. I hope it's Suzanne! If it is, I'm not going to let her know I have my memory back. I'll string her along until she gives me the right opening and then let her have it, she resolved to herself.

  Sara opened the door, prepared to do battle but was surprised to see it was Roarke's body filling the entire door frame. He looked extremely tired, his face was drawn, and his eyes were puffy. Sara wondered why he looked so bad. Could he have been out all night celebrating?

  "May I come in?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.

  Sara stood aside and motioned for him to come in. She didn't know what to say and a terrible sense of loss was clutching at her.

  Roarke looked around at the open boxes and the pictures spread out all over the sofa. He sat down and picked up a picture that was lying beside him. "What made you decide to look through all this?" he inquired, holding the picture up so she could see it.

  "I saw those boxes with my name on them in the closet and I dragged them out here to see what they were." Sara shrugged her shoulders.

  "Did it help?" he asked tonelessly. Sara didn't detect the old sarcasm in his voice she had half-expected.

  Sighing, she sat in a chair across from him. "Yes, as a matter of fact it did. I was reading through an old diary of mine and I've remembered… everything. After all this time I thought I'd never remember, but all it took was going through those boxes," Sara pointed to the things scattered around the living room.

  "You remember everything?" He seemed to choke on the question.

  Sara watched his face intently. It blanched white and then color crept up from his neck. There was no happiness, no love, nothing that would give her any hope of being able to straighten out this mess that they called their marriage. All her thoughts, all her conclusions were accurate. He didn't love her. Their marriage had been to make a dying old woman happy and consolidate a business.

  Sara got up and started pacing the room. "Yes, I've remembered all of it, Roarke, all of it!" She couldn't look at him, she was afraid he would read the lie in her eyes. He wouldn't end this farce so she had to, and it was breaking her heart.

  "I've decided to go to Annapolis. The place is mine and I need somewhere to stay. I have to make a new life for myself. I want a divorce. I don't want to be trapped in this marriage any longer." Sara glanced at him out of the corner of an eye and thought she could see his hands shaking. Was her news about wanting a divorce such a relief to him that he was having trouble controlling his excitement? Was he that much in love with Suzanne? Did the prospect of being able to marry her soon make him shake in anticipation? She had to quit torturing herself. This is the way things are between them and she would have to accept it.

  "I see." He took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and fumbled with his lighter. "You don't have a car; how do you plan to get to Annapolis?" Roarke took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out in a long stream. He ran his hand nervously through his dark hair. His skin was ashen-colored and taut over his high cheekbones and his face seemed more angular than usual.

  She cleared her throat. "I plan to rent a car. After I'm settled in, I'll buy one. Although I guess I'll have to make several trips to move all my clothing and painting equipment." She sat down again, still keeping her distance from Roarke.

  Roarke stood up, stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray, and walked over to her. "Are you sure this is how you want it?"

  Sara nodded her head; she couldn't speak. She knew if she tried, her resolve would weaken and she'd tell Roarke how much she didn't want to leave him, how much she loved him.

  "I'll drive you to Annapolis. I'll also contact someone to move you. I'll have Martha pack your things at the house. Just let me know when you're ready to leave." His last words were whispered. He turned abruptly and left the apartment, closing the door carefully but firmly behind him.

  Sara was emotionally exhausted. Her hurt went so deep, no tears could ease it. He couldn't wait for her to be out of his life. Even moving her own things was too slow to satisfy him. Roarke's seeming eagerness to be rid of her and all her possessions hurt her beyond anything he had done to her so far. Now that she had her memory back, he couldn't wait to unburden himself of the responsibility he felt for her. Finally he would be free of her, and he couldn't wait.

  She wandered around the apartment for hours, thinking about Roarke, their marriage, and her love for him. She touched well-loved things and remembered how and where she had bought them or when Roarke had given them to her. She lavished the photos of Roarke with her unrequited love. Walking by the door to her studio, she suddenly remembered it was locked and got the key from the dresser drawer. Unlocking the door, she moved among her beloved paintings. They were hanging all over the walls and stacked against them. Roarke and Annapolis were her favorite subjects. Roark
e's face was everywhere. She remembered after she left him, on the nights when she couldn't sleep, she would get out of bed and paint for hours, cursing the strokes that weren't right, the colors that muddied, and not cursing her life. It had absorbed her, her painting. It had kept her sane, kept her functioning.

  She wasn't aware of how much time had passed during her reminiscences of the past until she looked out the window and realized it was getting dark. Sara knew she needed a positive plan of action. Thinking of the past would not do her any good. Now that she could remember, she must let the past go. She was a complete person once more and, like anyone else, dwelling on the past would not change anything that had happened.

  Sara laughed to herself mirthlessly at this ironic change in her life. For months she had lived in despair because she couldn't remember, and now that she had remembered, she knew she must put it all behind her.

  Burning tears filled her eyes and threatened the composed facade she was desperately trying to hide behind. She angrily wiped the tears from her face. There would be time for tears later. She had to take action and make arrangements to get out of Roarke's life as fast as she could.

  She decided to call Roarke and ask him if he could take her to Annapolis tomorrow. She would pack a few suitcases and be ready to leave by morning. The sooner she could get away from him, the sooner she could heal her smashed life.

  Now that she had made her decision, she wanted to tell Roarke and get it over with quickly. She called everywhere she could think of, but no one had seen Roarke or heard from him in the past few hours. He seemed to have disappeared completely. It dawned on her that Roarke was probably at Suzanne's, but she refused to call him there. She left messages on his office recorder and with Bradley. Now she'd just have to wait for him to return her call.

  Sara curled up on the sofa, but her mind kept going back to Roarke. Was he in Suzanne's arms? Was he excitedly telling her that they could get married now because Sara had agreed to a divorce? Were they in bed, making love?

  "So what!" Sara said aloud. "If they are in bed, it has nothing to do with me anymore." The sound of her voice echoed around the silent room long after her words faded into oblivion. She bolted off the sofa and stood in the middle of the room, her tautly drawn nerves making it impossible for her to sit still.

  She looked at the diary and the pictures still scattered around the room and decided to finish going through them. It would cause her excruciating pain, but once she had finished, she could seal both boxes and put them away. She hoped she could as easily seal up the past as she could the boxes.

  There were newspaper clippings about charity events and functions they had attended. Their lives had been one of social togetherness and smiles for the society pages, but their private life the last several years of their marriage had been one of arguments, accusations, and bitterness.

  The ringing of the doorbell startled her. Glancing at the clock on the table, she wondered who could possibly be visiting at this time of night! She froze before she got to the door. What if it were Roarke again, what would she do? She just couldn't face him right now! Her determination would crumble if she had to face him one more time today. She stood in front of the door, wringing her hands with indecision.

  If it were Roarke, he was persistent. The constant ringing was grating on her nerves. She'd have to answer it; he wasn't going to go away. Taking a deep breath, Sara forced herself to open the door. The breath she'd been holding escaped from her in a rush. Roarke wasn't standing in the open doorway—it was Suzanne.

  Before Sara could utter a word, Suzanne brushed passed her and marched into the living room. She held the door open, half-expecting Roarke to be close behind Suzanne but, looking up and down the hallway, she didn't see him anywhere. Closing the door slowly, she wondered what Suzanne wanted. She had just about had it, and the amazing amount of gall this woman possessed was unbelievable.

  Striding back into the living room, Sara said impatiently, "What do you want, Suzanne?" Of all the people to have to bother me at this time! Sara's thoughts exploded. She couldn't understand why Suzanne was here, but she really didn't care. She was tired of Suzanne and all her conniving. All Sara wanted to do was get her out of the apartment and out of her life.

  "I want to know what you think you're doing." Suzanne's voice was full of contempt and her mouth was curled in a sneer. She stood in the middle of the living room, hands on hips, and her face suffused with anger and hatred.

  Sara shuddered. "I don't understand what you're talking about, and I really don't care to know. I have nothing to say to you. Would you please just leave," Sara said emphatically, pointing to the front door.

  "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what you said to Roarke," Suzanne said just as emphatically, and sat down in one of the chairs.

  Resigned to the inevitable, Sara also sat down. Obviously she couldn't forceably throw her out, so she'd have to listen to her. Sara did notice though that Suzanne wasn't her usual cool, assured self. As a matter of fact, as Sara looked at her more closely, there was something decidedly wrong. She was usually perfectly made up, coiffed, and dressed, but tonight, she had a neglected, wild look. What did she do, rush right over here from a warm bed after making love with Roarke to rub salt in Sara's wounds? Sara was disgusted.

  Suzanne's eyes glittered and her agitation was clear as she took out a cigarette and it fell on the floor. Fumbling with the pack, she pulled out another one, ignoring the one that had fallen.

  With cold anger Sara watched as Suzanne attempted to regain her composure. She was now in command of the situation, not this unkempt woman. Sara smiled inwardly.

  "I want to know what you said to Roarke when he was here this afternoon," Suzanne demanded again.

  "And I told you before, I don't know what you're talking about. I said a lot of things to Roarke this afternoon. If you knew he was here, you must know what we discussed," Sara stated coolly. She wouldn't let herself be baited into giving Suzanne any information.

  Suzanne sat back into the chair, relaxing a little as she inhaled deeply on her cigarette. "All right, Sara, I'm not going to waste any more time or words on you. If you think you've won, you're sadly mistaken." Suzanne was purring now, restraining her earlier agitation.

  Watching Suzanne was amazing. She was a completely different person from the woman who had walked into the apartment. Her outward appearance was still the same, but now she was a cat on the prowl—smooth and confident. Sara decided to remain silent because, she mused, two could play the same game.

  "Roarke didn't give me a blow-by-blow account of what went on here, but he did let me know that you have once more played on his sympathy for you. Do you think you can hold on to a man very long with pity?" Suzanne smiled smugly at Sara. "You can't, you know. Pity can become a very boring emotion." Suzanne paused, waiting for Sara to say something, and when she didn't, she became plainly irritated again.

  "Roarke and I may be finished for the time being, but it's not permanent. You can count on that! You may have won him back temporarily through pity, but you won't be able to keep him through pity. He'll get tired of pampering you and long for a real woman, and that real woman will be me!" Suzanne smiled, a look of satisfaction giving her back her appearance of superiority.

  Sara stood up. "If that's all you have to say, you may leave now. What is between Roarke and me is none of your business." Sara was furious but pretended to be weary of this conversation. She was completely mystified; she had no idea what Suzanne was talking about, but she would not give her the satisfaction of asking for an explanation.

  Shock passed over Suzanne's face and then rage, a rage Suzanne barely concealed. It frightened Sara, but she knew not to show the fear she felt. She was determined not to let Suzanne get the upper hand.

  Suzanne rose from the chair but didn't move toward the door. She just stood rigidly in front of Sara. "I won't let you have Roarke," she snarled. "I've cultivated this relationship for two long years and I won't give him up to some
silly woman who's never grown up. You can never give him what I can. I understand his business and I'm an excellent hostess. I have connections in society and I can introduce him to all the right people," Suzanne pointed out imperiously.

  "What about love?" Sara asked simply, in a quiet voice.

  "Love!" Suzanne spat out. "You've got to be kidding. What does love have to do with anything? It's mutual usefulness that keeps a marriage viable, not love. You are a child, Sara. Love!" Suzanne's sarcastic laughter filled the room.

  "No, Suzanne, I am not a child," Sara said calmly and quietly. "In fact, I've grown up quite a bit, especially the last few hours. I know what game you're playing, Suzanne, and I've known for years."

  Suzanne gaped at Sara incredulously. "You… you remember?"

  "Didn't you tell me I didn't have amnesia, Suzanne? Didn't you sit right there"—Sara pointed to the chair—"and tell me you didn't believe I had amnesia and was playing a childish game on Roarke?"

  "But… but you did have amnesia! I knew when I walked in on you and Roarke in the study that night that you didn't remember me. I knew, because you hated me so much you would have never been able to cover that hatred. I used that hatred to get Roarke and I used your amnesia to try to get rid of you."

  "Yes, you used, Suzanne. But no more. I feel sorry for you. I really do if all the pleasure you derive from life is trying to hurt people and use them, I feel really sorry for you. Now, will you please leave!" Sara demanded.

  Suzanne sauntered lazily to the door. Her green eyes were slits and smoldered with hatred. With her hand on the knob, she turned to Sara. "Sorry? You feel sorry for me? Don't waste that emotion on me. You're going to need it for yourself. You know, Sara, I'm almost convinced that you and Roarke deserve each other. When he called me this afternoon and told me to stay out of his life, I was furious. He said he would never marry me because he didn't love me." Suzanne's laughter sounded shrill in Sara's ears. "I think I'll leave you two to each other. Let's see how long it takes Roarke to get tired of love and you. He'll be glad to come back to me. Then you'll have lots of time to feel sorry." Suzanne slammed the door behind her.