Forgotten Lullaby

by Rita Herron

  Only the bright slivers of sun washing the room brought her back to reality. She needed to tell Grant about her visit to the doctor. She hoped the intimacies they’d shared through the long soulful night would enable him to bear the news. For a fleeting second she contemplated lying, keeping the truth to herself. But that wasn’t an option. Whether or not she remembered falling in love and marrying this man, she knew she was falling in love with him again. And she owed him the truth. They would deal with it together.

  “Grant?” she whispered.

  His reply was long in coming, and he turned toward her, nuzzling his morning beard against her cheek before he answered. “Yeah?” Even as he spoke, one large hand covered her breast, teasing her senses and momentarily making her forget what she wanted to say.

  She ran her toe up and down his muscled calf. “That was wonderful.”

  His chuckle tickled her neck, the hairs on his chest brushing against her arm and side tantalizingly. “Baby, it was so good I don’t know if I’m going to be able to walk for a while.”

  Emma smiled, secretly pleased to hear him sound so content. “Well, we could stay here until you’re feeling better.”

  “If we stay here, I’m gonna love you again.” He pulled her hand to show her how easily he could reach excitement again.

  She swallowed, her own impulses rising in response. “Your body is heavenly.”

  He chuckled again and put his tongue in her ear. “And yours is like heaven and hell mixed together. Wonderful and fiery and hot and sinful at the same time.”

  Touched again by his bedroom voice, she turned and looped her arms around his neck. He slid his hands over her breasts, cupping her, then lower to her buttocks and pulled her into the cradle of his thighs, gently making circles on her hips with his fingers.

  She looked at him. His blue eyes were gleaming, his smile was wicked and wonderful, and his hands danced erotically across her body. “I need to tell you something,” she murmured, praying the time was right.

  “Yeah, like we were meant for each other,” he said.

  Smiling, she wiggled her hips, a shiver rippling up her spine when he swelled and surged against her thigh. “I do think we were meant for each other,” she said in a soft voice.

  He stilled, the teasing in his expression mellowing as he studied her face. She realized she’d given him a flicker of hope and chided herself for her wording.

  “Grant, I saw the doctor yesterday.”

  Tension tightened his muscles, then worry ripped the earlier contentment off his face completely. “Was it a checkup, or weren’t you feeling well?”

  “I asked him to run tests to find out if my memory loss was permanent.” She squeezed his shoulders, willing him not to pull away. “I was going to try hypnosis if it was psychological.”

  The look in his eyes frightened her almost as much as his silence. “And?”

  She kissed his cheek, then his lips with as much feeling as she could render without bursting into tears, then curled her hands into his hair. He still hadn’t moved. She forced herself to look into his face and watch his reaction. “He did X rays and showed them to me. He said it…the amnesia is physical. Hypnosis is out.”

  The barest of nods was his only response. Emma exhaled shakily.

  “So he’ll do more tests later?”

  The strained sound of his voice made her wind her legs around his, an unconscious move to keep him from bolting. “He may, but he says most of the swelling around my brain has receded. He…” She paused, begging him to understand. “Grant, the news isn’t good. He doesn’t think I’ll ever regain my memory.”

  THE AMNESIA WAS permanent.

  Grant’s body fell slack as the realization sunk in. The arousal he’d had only moments earlier disintegrated, and his breath hissed out between clenched teeth that had dug into his jaw so hard he tasted blood.

  The last twelve hours, the incredible lovemaking, Emma’s initiative in making dinner and hotel reservations, her announcement of love—all had come on the heels of her discovery. Why? Because she felt sorry for him?

  He searched her face, where the elation she’d felt earlier had transformed once again into concern. Had she made love to him out of some kind of pity? Or misplaced loyalty?

  No, she said she loved him. But how could she when she didn’t remember that love or anything about their past?

  “Grant?”

  The worry in her voice jerked him out of his jumbled thoughts, and he saw the questions haunting her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know it’s not the news you wanted to hear, and I know how much you wanted my memory to return.”

  He realized he’d completely let go of her when her hands caught his and she squeezed his palms. “Please don’t pull away,” she urged in a pained voice. “What we shared last night was…was so wonderful, Grant. I know I don’t remember our past, but—”

  “You knew last night that you never would,” he said, anguish lacing his voice.

  Tears blinded her eyes and he could see the pity in them. “Yes, I knew,” she said in a voice edged with sorrow.

  “Why didn’t you tell me then, Emma?” He jerked to a sitting position. Anger, despair and the reality of what he’d lost all converged on him, colliding with his worst fears. Emma would never remember their love, would never be able to feel the same about him as he did her, and without her memories how could she forgive him for causing this psycho to hurt her? Like sand slipping through an hourglass, he was losing the love of his life. And it was all his fault, because someone blamed him for Faye Simmons’s death. “Did you go through all this…just to soften the blow?”

  She drew back, pulling the covers up to her neck, covering the secrets of her body she’d given to him so wantonly only minutes earlier. He silently cursed himself for putting that hurt look on her face, but he didn’t understand how she could have slept with him without telling him.

  “I told you I wanted to be with you,” she said, her voice quivering. “And I meant it, Grant.”

  Then she whipped the covers off the bed and stood, trembling, and looking so damn vulnerable his heart contracted. “See, I told you I was afraid I’d disappoint you. I guess I was right.” Then she wrapped the covers around her tightly, rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. He lowered his head and cradled it in the palms of his hands, the test results and the guilt over the danger around Emma all crashing down on him. He couldn’t be upset with her; hell, it was his fault she’d been hurt, his fault she didn’t remember him or their marriage or their baby, his fault he was losing her. Seconds later he heard the shower running and what he could only imagine was the sound of her crying, and he felt like the biggest heel in the world.

  But how could they make their marriage work if his wife couldn’t even remember saying their vows?

  EMMA EMERGED from the bathroom, knowing her swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks were a testament to her emotional outpouring. She couldn’t blame Grant for his reaction—she’d been in shock when she’d first heard the news about her amnesia—but after their night of passionate lovemaking, she’d hoped they could weather the truth together, not allow it to drive them apart.

  He was completely dressed, holding his keys in his hands, his face a mask of remorse when he spotted her. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he said in a voice so controlled she could tell it was painful. “I need some time to digest this.”

  She instantly remembered the way she’d gasped his name in the throes of ecstasy and couldn’t meet his eyes. “We’d better go home and check on Carly,” she said.

  He nodded, his movements stiff and jerky and his comment about the sex being so good he’d be unable to walk flitted through her mind. Her hands itched to touch him, but she curled them around her purse straps. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he opened the door, and she wanted to throw him down and ravish him until he laughed and called her name in mindless ecstasy again and again, until he agreed that the past no longer mattered.

  But he wore a solemn tigh
t-lipped expression as he politely escorted her to the car, his flat gaze prolonging the agony as they climbed in and drove home. His silence was like a sword wedged between them, cutting through the trust and affection they’d built over the past few days.

  And when she reached out for his hand as they walked up the driveway to their house, he silently pulled away. She felt like crying again. Somehow she had to make him see that it didn’t matter if she remembered their love before, because she was in love with him now. And the future was all that mattered.

  THE PAST TWENTY-FOUR hours had been hell, Grant decided when he got out of bed and showered the next morning. He hadn’t been able to return to the guest room, but he hadn’t been able to make love to Emma again, either. He’d waited until she fell asleep, then slid in beside her and listened to her breathing while he tried to figure out how to handle his emotions.

  Frustrated, he dressed for work, wondering if he should call Martha or Kate to keep Emma company today so he could go to the office, instead of working at home. And he’d have to ask Warner for another guard for the house. Irritated, he headed to the kitchen to make coffee. But first he called Warner.

  “Do you have any news?” Grant asked without preamble.

  “We’ve looked at all the files on the Simmons case. Can’t locate any of the girl’s family. So far, the only people who went to school with you and live in this vicinity are your sister-in-law and that woman you work with, Priscilla.” Warner clicked his teeth. “There was a guy named Billy Hogan, but he turned up dead a couple of months ago. Stabbed with a butcher knife.”

  “Someone else who knew Faye was killed?”

  Warner cleared his throat. “He was found in his house. He and his wife had a reputation for fighting, so the police arrested her. But she’s been saying she didn’t do it, so I’m checking into it. Matter of fact, I’m on my way out the door right now to meet with her.”

  Grant hung up, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he considered the implications. Another person who’d known Faye in college had been murdered. Had Billy Hogan been one of Faye’s boyfriends? Chilled to the bone, Grant went in search of coffee and found a steaming pot waiting on him, with a note from Emma.

  “Carly and I have gone with Martha to the store. I thought maybe we could take Carly for a picnic if you have time today. I think some fresh air and family time would be good for all of us.”

  He crushed the note and sighed, grateful Martha had accompanied Emma and wishing a simple picnic would cure the problems in their marriage. He cursed himself for being so cynical. The doorbell cut into his thoughts and he went to answer it, suddenly jittery about Emma being out of the house. But Priscilla stood on the porch, her briefcase in her hand. “Mind if I come in?” she asked, shivering as a gust of wind ripped through the trees, rustling the leaves and scattering them across the lawn.

  “Of course not.” He gestured toward the foyer and watched as she shrugged out of her jacket, sweeping her red hair off her shoulder with her fingers. “What’s up, Priscilla? Didn’t you get my message?”

  “Yes,” she said with a faint hint of disapproval. “But I really think you should come into the office, Grant.”

  “I’ve been getting my work done,” he said defensively.

  Priscilla’s green eyes narrowed. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong? You’re still mad because I forgot to tell you about picking up Emma.”

  Grant shook his head, too many other problems crowding his mind.

  Priscilla moved closer to him, one manicured finger lifted. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, Grant. Has something else happened?”

  He shook his head again. “I have a lot on my mind right now, Priscilla. Just give it a rest and let me focus on work.”

  A sympathetic smile tugged at the corners of her ruby-red lips, then her fingernail tapped against his coffee cup. “Why don’t you pour me some coffee and tell me about it? Maybe I can help.”

  “I don’t think anyone can help,” Grant muttered beneath his breath, too tired to play games with Priscilla. He didn’t care about the promotion anymore. “But come on and I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “Is Emma here?”

  “No,” Grant said, leading her to the kitchen. “There’s no one here but me.”

  Priscilla squeezed his arm. “Then let’s sit down and talk.”

  Grant took one look at the genuine concern on her face and lost his resolve. After all, now they knew Emma’s amnesia was permanent, he’d have to tell the people at the office. He might as well start with Priscilla.

  “YOU’RE AN ANGEL, Martha,” Emma said as Martha lifted a sleeping Carly from the car seat and carried her to the house.

  “I’ll put her in her crib,” Martha said, “then help you get that picnic ready.”

  Emma gave a smile, wondering if Martha could read its lackluster quality. A black Lexus coupe sat in the driveway. Opening the front door for Martha, she heard voices coming from the kitchen, so she tiptoed, careful not to disturb Grant in case he was dealing with a client. Even with the renewed tension between them, he’d insisted on working at home to protect her, and she refused to encroach on his business.

  She heard a woman’s voice and hesitated at the kitchen door, her stomach knotting when she heard the woman ask about her and Carly.

  “So Emma’s never going to remember you?” the woman asked, her voice sympathetic. “No wonder you’ve been so upset. What a terrible ordeal for both of you.”

  Emma peeked through the doorway and spotted a gorgeous redhead sitting at the kitchen table with Grant, her hand covering his, their heads bowed close together.

  “It has been. The police still don’t have a clue as to who’s been threatening her,” Grant said, his voice rough with emotion. “I should have told you before about the amnesia, but I kept hoping things would work out.”

  The woman made a soft whispery sound and squeezed Grant’s hand, her red fingernails walking up his arm to massage his shoulder. Emma’s breath caught in her throat. Who was this woman?

  “It’s been so frustrating, Priscilla,” Grant continued.

  Priscilla. The woman who worked with Grant, the one who’d told Emma she should be more supportive of Grant’s career.

  “I’ve tried to remind her about our past, but it upsets her. Now there’s no hope, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Grant’s voice grew shaky. “She doesn’t remember our wedding. Hell, she doesn’t even remember giving birth to Carly.” He lowered his head, his dark hair tumbling over his forehead, and Emma’s fingernails dug into the wooden frame of the doorway. Did Grant think she couldn’t be a good wife and mother without those memories?

  She stepped farther into the doorway, aware they were so absorbed in each other that neither of them heard her.

  “I’m just not sure about our marriage now. I always thought Emma and I would be together forever, but now I don’t know.”

  Tears blurred Emma’s vision and she swiped at them, anger mingling with hurt when Priscilla, arms open for an embrace, reached for Grant. He hesitated, then fell into it, wrapping his arms around her.

  The picnic basket slipped from Emma’s hand and clattered to the floor. Grant instantly pulled away from Priscilla and stood, his chair scraping the floor in his haste, guilt flushing his face. Kate had hinted that Grant’s co-worker was interested in him on a personal level, but she hadn’t believed it. Now she wondered if Kate had been right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Uh, Emma, hi.” Grant knotted the napkin in his fist, grateful to see Emma home safe, but unable to believe she’d walked in at the very second he’d given in and allowed Priscilla to comfort him. He’d been so damn unhappy…but now Emma was looking at him with this shuttered expression. How much had she heard him say?

  Priscilla stood, brushing her short black skirt with those red inch-long fingernails and pasting on a bright smile that looked fake even to him. “Hi, Emma, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Priscilla Weston—I
work with Grant.”

  He cringed at the way Priscilla enunciated the words slowly, as if Emma was hearing impaired or mentally challenged.

  “Hello,” Emma said warily. Her gaze shot back to him, and he saw the unspoken accusations.

  “Priscilla came by to check on one of our projects,” Grant heard himself say inanely.

  “Oh, is that what you were doing?”

  “Well, yes, among other things,” Priscilla babbled. “We miss Grant at work. You really should encourage him to return to the office. We have two very important deals pending, and Grant’s input could mean his promotion and—”

  “Priscilla,” Grant interrupted, “Emma doesn’t need to worry about my business—”

  “Is she right?” Emma asked.

  He hesitated, the question taking him by surprise.

  “Is she right?” Emma repeated, then moved into the room, her limp more noticeable probably because Priscilla instantly zeroed in on it. Insecurity flickered briefly in Emma’s eyes, and he remembered her concerns over her scar. His throat suddenly felt thick.

  “This is the second time Priscilla has told me this,” Emma continued. “Haven’t I been supportive of your career in the past, Grant?”

  He opened his mouth to refute her, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand. “Tell me the truth,” she demanded. “Don’t lie to me because I was in an accident or because I have amnesia. I don’t want your pity, Grant.” She squared her shoulders. “And I don’t want your guilt, either.”

  Admiration and love and guilt all warred within him. And also sorrow for all they’d lost. “You have always been supportive,” he answered honestly. “Although there were times you wanted me to be home more. I wanted to get ahead. I was determined to have a successful career even if I had to work seventy hours a week.”

  “It takes that kind of dedication at first,” Priscilla said. “You don’t understand—”