One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents

by Susan Stephens

  Certainly, it just hadn’t seemed possible that this stunning man, this multi-multimillionaire with everything in the world that he wanted—a hundred times over—and every woman in the world prepared to fall at his feet could possibly want anything to do with plain, simple, unimpressive Rebecca Ainsworth.

  And it seemed that Rebecca Ainsworth was whom he remembered. Not the fact that she had ever become Rebecca Petrakos. She didn’t know what she could tell him about what had happened in the time he couldn’t recall, but there had to be something. If she announced now, starkly and matter-of-factly that she was his wife—his alienated wife, the wife he had thrown out of his home with the furious order never, ever even to think of coming back there—did she even know if he would believe her?

  She remembered once being told how an amnesia victim ‘forgot’ the time they didn’t want to remember. That the condition could be as much psychological as it was physical. And if that was the case, had Andreas forgotten her because he couldn’t bear to remember that they had been married? Some time soon, inevitably, he must get his memory back properly. And then he would know only too well just who she was.

  Her heart lurched painfully at the thought. But still she wasn’t brave enough to give him the truth and risk her instant dismissal.

  ‘Andreas, you know I’m not one to fuss unnecessarily,’ was all she could manage uncomfortably.

  ‘Then I’m glad you’re here to save me from someone who might.’

  Andreas’ tone said that that was the end of the matter, no chance of discussion, and she was still wondering just how she could take this any further when he shifted in the bed, pulling himself up even more against the pillows.

  ‘Come here.’

  It was pure Andreas; pure command. If he had snapped his fingers he couldn’t have made it any more autocratic. In spite of herself, Becca pushed herself up from the arm of the chair, turning towards him, then hesitated when she saw the way that the powerful hands had closed over the bed coverings, about to throw them back.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Her voice went up at the end of the sentence, revealing her shock and unease. When they had been together Andreas had always slept naked and the thought that he might reveal more of his powerful body than he was doing already made her blood run hot and then cold as if she was in the grip of some dangerous fever.

  ‘I have to get up.’

  The black eyes that met her shocked blue ones were wide and steady. No trace of anything other than straightforward openness lurked in their depths and his mouth showed no hint of quirking into any sort of a smile. Any double meanings or ulterior motives were in her own mind, her uncomfortable conscience making her edgy.

  ‘And as I’m not yet as steady on my feet as I’d like to be, it might be advisable if my nurse—you—was close at hand in case of any problems.’

  At least he was wearing pyjama trousers, Becca realised on a shudder of relief as the way that Andreas flung back the coverings revealed his long legs covered in navy-blue cotton. But with his chest and arms bare, there was still far too much of the beautiful olive-toned skin on display for her personal comfort.

  Before the accident, he must have been working out more than ever because every inch of his upper torso was taut and toned, the muscles sharply defined, and there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on the powerful ribcage, the narrow waist. The soft hazing of jet-black hair reminded her painfully of the way that she had loved to smooth her fingertips over its softness, feeling the contrast between it and the satin skin beneath.

  Should she offer a hand to help him? Her pulse jerked at the thought of his fingers closing over hers, her throat drying painfully so that she had to swallow hard to relieve it. After all these months apart from him, she had managed to convince herself that her response to Andreas’ hardcore male sexuality had been a form of mental aberration, a brief spell of madness that had taken her over, driving her out of her sane mind and into a world in which her normal, controlled responses no longer ruled her actions.

  But now all she had had to do was to come into his presence once again—to move closer at his arrogant command—and suddenly it was all happening all over again. It was as if she breathed in the intoxicating drug of seduction simply by being in the same atmosphere as him, drawn to him irresistibly, her senses drugged into instant submission. And coming close to him only made it so much worse. She could catch the intimately personal scent of his skin, see the way that the sunlight glinted on his silky black hair as he moved his head…

  ‘Here…’

  Her voice was gruff and ungracious, made that way by the discomfort of her thoughts as she held out an arm to offer him support. Just at the last minute she suddenly had a loss of nerve that had her angling it so that her forearm, covered in the white cotton of her jacket, came closest to him rather than the bare skin of her hand.

  ‘Thank you…I think.’

  Andreas’ tone of voice, the slightly cynical twist to his beautiful mouth, told her that he had noticed her hesitation, and the careful adjustment, and misinterpreted her reasons for it.

  ‘You were not joking when you said that you don’t intend to fuss.’

  ‘I’m sorry—I…’

  Whatever she had been about to say vanished from her mind as she felt him take hold of the support she offered, strong fingers closing around her upper arm, the heat of his palm searing her skin through the soft cotton. It was as if he had attached a live electrical lead to her skin and the resulting current had raced along every nerve, fusing her thoughts. And when he put his weight onto his grip and got to his feet she was lost completely.

  ‘Andreas…’

  His name left her lips in an involuntary gasp as a response burned its way up to her brain and flashed heated memories that she had tried to erase onto a screen in her mind. From nowhere came images of the way that he had touched her before, the effect that the feel of his hand on hers had created—the things that it had led to. Her skin tingled in response to those imagined caresses, her mouth dried in wanting, longing for the feel of his lips on hers, and a rush of liquid heat flooded into her innermost core.

  Without being aware of it she swayed towards him in a moment of desperate weakness, only catching herself as the movement brought her so close to the lean, powerful body that she could catch the scent of his skin, still warm from the bed, inhale the clean, masculine essence of him and feel it burn all the way down her senses. The hyper-efficient air-conditioning in the room became less than useless as a fire of response raged through her body.

  The truth was that a tiny part of her wanted him to realise who she was—wanted to have the real facts out in the open and done with. But at the same time she was terrified of the repercussions of that, personally and healthwise. Until she knew just what had been said about this memory loss that Andreas was suffering from, whether it was temporary or permanent, and what the doctors had recommended, she didn’t dare take any risks. And on a personal level, as soon as he realised who she was then how would he react? Would he even let her stay or would he throw her out of the house as he had done barely a year ago, with the words, ‘If I never see you again it will still be too soon,’ echoing in her ears?

  ‘Becca…’

  Andreas’ tongue seemed to curl around the syllables, turning them into a very different sound from the one she was used to. Hot tears burned at the backs of her eyes, threatening her hard-won composure with the memory of hearing him say her name in that special way as she had lain in his arms, her head pillowed on the broad expanse of his chest, hearing the heavy thud of his heart slow gradually from the hectic pace created by the fierce passion of their lovemaking.

  She didn’t know if her own heart was jolting in sensual response to her memories, his touch or panic-stricken fear of the possible repercussions if—when—he realised how their relationship had changed from the one he believed it was.

  ‘Becca…’ he said again and her shocked senses, dangerously alert to everything abo
ut him, caught the change in tone, the slight thickening of his accent on her name, the faint roughness of his voice that told her without words that his mood had changed.

  Curiosity had given way to interest, annoyance blending into awareness so swiftly that only someone who knew him well would notice.

  But Becca knew this side of the man too well. It was the Andreas she knew more than any other. The sexually driven man who had taught her all she knew about passion, about desire—and most of all about pleasure. She knew that when his eyes darkened so much that they seemed all black, when his voice rasped in his throat in just that way, that he was turned on, hotly aroused by what he saw.

  And she had enough experience of seeing this response to know when it was directed at her.

  ‘An—Andreas…’ she tried, her voice shaking and sounding almost as rough as his.

  He shook his head, slowly, silently, his eyes dropping down to watch her mouth as she spoke.

  And she knew that look too. Knew the way his own mouth had opened very slightly, the slow, heavily indrawn breath. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted it so much that it absorbed all his thoughts, took all his concentration.

  He wanted to kiss her and she wanted him to do just that.

  Her whole body was one stinging burn of awareness from the toes that curled inside her soft leather sandals to the prickling lift of each tiny hair on her scalp. She barely felt the point at which his hand was clamped around her arm, the warmth of his palm lost in the rush of heat that scoured her skin, stripping away one much-needed protective layer and leaving her raw and yearning beneath.

  But who would he be kissing? The woman he had once asked to be his wife, then flung his wedding vows in her face as he rejected her and forced her out of his house before they had even been married for twenty-four hours? The woman he couldn’t remember. Or would he kiss the girlfriend—the mistress—he believed she was? The woman he didn’t remember ever asking to marry him.

  And if he did kiss her would the moment that their lips touched jolt something in his brain, loosening whatever blockage kept him from recalling her?

  She would risk it, she knew. From the moment that he had touched her, she had been lost. Adrift on the heated sea of physical hunger that he had always been able to wake in her.

  She wanted him to kiss her. Wanted it so much that it was like a thundering, pounding refrain inside her head, so heavy and loud that she felt sure he must either hear it declared out loud, or read it burning behind the eyes she couldn’t find the strength to drag away from his stunning face.

  Kiss me.

  She could almost believe that she’d said the words herself, they sounded so loud and clear in her thoughts.

  Please kiss me.

  Andreas drew in a breath, heavy and low, then let it out again in a sigh. His head was angled slightly to one side, his gleaming black eyes hooded under heavy lids, the lush, thick lashes brushing his cheeks for a moment as he looked down, taking in her upturned face in a single, sweeping glance.

  ‘Beautiful…’ he murmured, his voice even huskier than before.

  ‘I…’

  Becca tried to speak and failed, ending up with her mouth slightly open simply because she couldn’t make herself close it. She felt as if she was surrounded by Andreas, by the warmth of his body, the scent of his skin. Just inches away from her she could see the way his powerful chest rose and fell with each breath he took, almost hear the beat of his heart underneath the smooth, olive-toned flesh. It was as if the world had ceased to exist. As if there was only the two of them and the heated, sensual bubble they had created around them.

  With that black-eyed gaze holding her still, frozen hypnotised, he lifted his hand and touched the backs of his fingers to her skin at her temple and then trailed them slowly down her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, her chin. When the strong fingers reached her still open mouth, moving over the outline of her lips, it was all that Becca could do to hold back a moan of response. The temptation to part her lips even more, to let her tongue slide out and curl over that stroking fingertip, to feel the slightly salty tang of it on her tongue, remember how it had been to taste him all over, anywhere—everywhere—was almost irresistible.

  But just as she drew in her breath, taking some of the essence of him in with it, fighting the primitive, carnal hunger that had suddenly reached out to enclose her, she hesitated for a second, for the space of a single heartbeat, suddenly terrified, painfully, cruelly aware of how far from wise such an action was.

  And the next moment she could only be grateful for that sudden flash of control, of self-preservation. Because unexpectedly that stroking hand slowed, stilled, and then was abruptly snatched away, the rush of cold air where its warmth had once been and the sense of loss cruel enough to force her to bite down hard on her lower lip to hold back the cry of shock that almost escaped her.

  ‘I think not,’ Andreas said sharply, the tone of his voice putting distance between them more effectively than the single step he took, backwards and away from her. ‘This is not a good idea.’

  While she was still recovering from a rejection that had had as much emotional force to her as a cruel slap in the face, he turned on his heel and strode away from her, flinging open a door in the opposite wall that obviously led to an en suite bathroom.

  ‘I need a shower—I’ll come down when I’m ready. Get Leander to show you to a room. We’ll talk about how we handle this later.’

  Just like that, she was dismissed and he strode into the bathroom, the door slamming behind him. A moment later she heard the key turning firmly in the lock as if he felt the need to make very sure it was secure against…

  Against what? Did he think that she might actually try to go in there after him? That she was weak enough, foolish enough—desperate enough to try to follow him to fling herself into his arms?

  Just what had she shown in her face when he had touched her? How much of herself, of her innermost thoughts had she given away? Knowing that he didn’t remember the truth about their relationship, had she been stupid enough to let her expression reveal the pain it had brought her in the time he couldn’t recall?

  Or perhaps his sudden reaction just now was because he was beginning to remember?

  Becca found that she was trembling all over, her legs shaking beneath her so that she didn’t feel they could support her any longer. Weak and unable to keep herself upright, she sank down onto the bed, covering her face with her hands. But her respite was brief because almost immediately she jumped up again, unable to bear the way the sheets were still warm from his body, still imprinted with the scent of his skin.

  She could still feel him all around her, enveloping her in warmth. In her memory she could taste his kisses on her lips as strongly as if he had actually kissed her just now and not just dismissed her without a second’s thought. But in her mouth the sense of rejection was bitter, reminding her cruelly of how she had once felt when he had denounced and banished her from his life on the black day that had been their wedding day.

  If I never see you again it will be too soon.

  The words rang inside her head, reminding her of the pain and disillusionment she had felt at that time. The same hurt and bitterness that she was risking feeling all over again just by being here.

  ‘Oh, Becca, Becca, you idiot!’ she reproved herself harshly as she moved as far away from the bed as she could.

  She had trapped herself well and truly and the only way to get out of this was to admit to Andreas just what had happened…

  ‘Oh, no…’

  The words escaped from her lips in a whisper at the thought of confronting the cold, heartless anger she knew her husband to be capable of if she told him the truth. And besides, hadn’t she read somewhere that it was foolish, even dangerous to tell someone suffering from amnesia the truth about their situation? It was forbidden, wasn’t it? And she certainly wasn’t about to take the risk of confronting Andreas with something he couldn’t possibly want to know.

/>   But he had asked for her.

  That was what Leander had said, wasn’t it?

  Wasn’t it?

  The truth was that she was so emotionally battered by everything that had happened in the last few weeks that single events were beginning to blur into one big, confused and confusing mass. She had barely recovered from the curt, totally businesslike reply Andreas had sent to her first enquiry before the phone call about the accident had come through, and as soon as she had heard that she had been on the plane out to Greece, to this tiny island that Andreas called home—and that once she had hoped, dreamed would be her home too.

  She couldn’t remember too clearly the actual words that had been used. But there was no way she would be here now if Andreas hadn’t actually given his permission for her to be here.

  But had that been before or after he had lost his memory? And was it the lover he believed she still was that he had asked for—or the wife he had rejected so completely?

  Behind the door of the bathroom, the noise of the shower running jolted her back to the present, dragging her thoughts in the last possible direction that she wanted them to go. It was impossible to hear the driving sound of the water and not think of the times when she had had the freedom to join him in the shower, to share the hot water as it pounded down onto Andreas’ hard, lean body, cascading over the bronzed skin, flowing down from the broad, straight shoulders, past his narrow waist, over the tight curves of his…

  ‘No!’

  Becca shook her head sharply as the word escaped her, just the image of what she was remembering enough to drive her into motion, pushing her towards the door as fast as she could go.

  ‘I can’t take this—can’t do it…’

  She would find Leander, explain that there had been a mistake. A terrible mistake.

  And then she would get out of here.

  She would run from Andreas as she had run a year before. Putting as much distance between him and herself as she possibly could.