He knew. He knew she was feeling at a loss to know how to deal with the obvious crossed wires in the communication. Yet all he said was, ‘A punctual woman, and a beautiful one too.’
Then, reaching out to close the manila file, he picked it up and said lightly, ‘Hang on just five seconds while I put this away, then we will go and eat…’
Stepping into his own room, he was only five seconds. But he still came out wearing a grey linen jacket that completely transformed him from a mere casual diner to a stunningly chic one.
Only a man with Italian blood running in his veins could have done it. Only a man with a great deal of sensitivity could have pulled it off with such quiet aplomb.
She was impressed. She was grateful. She was seduced. He won her full attention by hypnotising her with his deep-toned, smooth, sexy, American accent, and with the quick smile that would suddenly flash out, adding a dangerous charm to an already dangerously attractive face.
They shared a table for two in a corner of the restaurant, where they talked quietly about innocuous things, like food and wine and the leisure industry. His concentration on her and whatever she had to say was so intense that she felt it like a constant buzz of awareness from fingertips to head. His eyes never left her. And his well-shaped mouth was firm but edged with a sensuousness that persistently reminded her of that kiss.
A kiss she had known. A kiss she had enjoyed. A kiss she had responded to without having to think. Even now, as she sat here watching that mouth move as he talked, she could feel its pleasurable pressure burning against her lips.
Attraction. She was aware of a physical attraction pulsing softly in her blood. She liked it. She was beginning to like him. Samantha started to relax, lower her guard, and even caught herself laughing once or twice.
Then he ruined it by picking up his glass of blood-red wine, swirling it round in thoughtful silence for a second or two, and saying levelly, ‘I have a confession to make.’
Her eyes leapt to his, the green softened by what had been happening to her sharpening into instant wariness. His mouth went awry, as if in acknowledgement that he was about to spoil what had so far turned out to be a perfect evening.
‘When I said I had to go out on business this afternoon I allowed you to assume it was hotel business, but it wasn’t,’ he explained. ‘What I actually did was spend some time with your doctor.’
Her coffee cup rattled as she put in back on its saucer. ‘Why would you want to go and do something like that without me there?’ she protested.
‘Because I had some very sensitive things to tell him and I felt they would be better said without you there to hear them.’
‘About me,’ she presumed, her soft mouth tightening to hide a deep stab of hurt.
‘About the both of us,’ he said, making it clear.
Her eyes flashed with resentment. ‘He isn’t supposed to discuss me with anyone!’ she said tightly, feeling hunted suddenly, strangely, frighteningly, angrily hunted.
‘He didn’t. He just listened while I talked, then advised me on the best course to take with this problem we have.’
This problem, Samantha repeated to herself. How good of him to let me know what I am. ‘And his advice was what?’ she prompted coldly.
‘That we take it very easy from here on in,’ he replied, watching her, his eyes never leaving her face for a moment. ‘He agrees with me that your memory is not buried quite so deep as you assume it to be. Your reaction to me is enough to substantiate that. But he advises no brutal question-and-answer sessions. No intense probing, but to allow things to come out in a slow, natural everyday way because he thinks the fainting thing is worrying. So we have to tread very carefully if we are not to cause further problems. And he wants to see you before we go back to London. He—’
‘London?’ she interrupted. ‘Who said anything about me going to London?’
‘I did,’ he said. ‘It’s where we live. Or one of the places we live, at any rate,’ he wryly amended. ‘I have a branch office there. We have a house. He suggests we go there and try to pick up the threads of our normal life so that you can—’
‘What normal life?’ she countered tautly. ‘What is even vaguely normal about me going to London with a man I don’t remember, to a house I don’t remember, to a life I don’t remember?’
‘What is normal about not remembering?’
Her face froze over, her awareness that he was only speaking the truth filling her with her own sense of helplessness. But she hated him for making her feel that she had no right to direct her own life because she didn’t have a functioning brain in her head!
‘If, between you, you’ve both already decided on what’s best for me, then why does he want to see me at all?’ Her voice throbbed with resentment.
He did not respond to it. ‘He feels you may need—reassurance that I mean you no harm,’ he explained.
‘Really? Does that include some reassurance that he has my best interests at heart also?’ Her green eyes flashed him a look of scorn. ‘Well, forgive me for not seeing things that way!’
‘Why are you so angry?’ he questioned curiously.
If she didn’t get out of here she was going to toss the last of her wine in his face. ‘Because you went behind my back and discussed my situation without my agreement,’ she sliced at him. ‘And if that isn’t devious, I don’t know what is! And to make it all worse, he actually let you get away with it!’ She could barely breathe she was so infuriated by that!
‘I needed advice and he needed to be in possession of all the facts before he could offer me that advice.’ The arrogant devil was shrugging it all off, as if his answer justified what he had done.
And it did in one way, Samantha conceded. But it certainly did not in another. ‘You could have lied through your teeth to him for all he knows!’
‘I told him the truth,’ he stated quietly.
‘So everyone knows the truth about Samantha but Samantha. How cosy,’ she derided, and got to her feet.
‘Running away again, darling?’ he taunted dryly.
She didn’t bother to reply—didn’t want to, actually. Did not damn well want to! she told herself fiercely as she walked away.
And she did it without a hint of a limp, André grimly noted as he watched her go. She would probably pay for that bit of pride in the morning, he predicted.
Ignoring looks from their fellow diners, who had been keeping a curious eye on them from the moment the altercation had begun, he hissed out a tense sigh, thinking, So much for believing there was safety in numbers. Then he lifted his glass to his lips to swallow what was left of the red wine before getting up to go after her.
As he had known she would be, she was standing by the suite door, bristling with frustration because she didn’t have the means to let herself in so that she could complete her angry exit by shutting herself away in her room before he could get to her.
And he grimly wished she had been able to do that—not for his sake but for her sake. Because her inability to get into the suite without his help was just another example of how out of control of her own life she must be feeling right now.
And she was trembling, he realised as soon as he came up beside her and silently fitted the card into the slot. Stiff-backed, chin up, eyes staring fiercely ahead—but trembling like a fine slender leaf having to fight against the wind that was trying to blow her away.
‘Samantha—’
‘Don’t speak to me,’ she cut in, walking through the door the moment he released the locking mechanism.
He followed her inside, closed the door, and watched her stalk stiffly across the room and shut herself away.
Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, he told himself as a real bone-weariness began to pull at him. It had been a long and gruelling day for the both of them, and he was still suffering the remains of jet lag. A night’s cooling-off period might do them both a bit of good, he decided. And, with a little bit of luck, by the morning she might be seeing the sen
se in what he’d done.
Not that he held out much hope of that, he then admitted with a grimace that was half a smile. Because he knew Samantha, even if she didn’t know herself. She was hot and she was stubborn. And he was in for a battle.
A battle he fully intended to win. For there was no room to back down now. No going back. And the sooner Samantha came to terms with that, the better it was going to be for both of them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE WAS half right on most counts, André discovered the next morning when she appeared for breakfast wearing a dusky mauve outfit consisting of a skimpy camisole-type top and a tight little skirt in a darker shade of mauve. Both of which did hot things to his libido even though her icy demeanour was supposed to be freezing out all of that.
Her hair was back in its screwed-up knot, and she was limping again. It didn’t surprise him but it damn well annoyed him. Would she ever learn to embrace caution?
No, he answered his own question. Caution had never been a word Samantha recognised.
‘I’ll keep that appointment,’ she announced as she joined him at the table.
It was all he was going to get, and wisely he didn’t try for any more, other than murmuring a relaxed toned, ‘Coffee’s hot, juice is cold, take your pick.’ Then he returned his attention to the newspaper he had folded open on the table.
As for Samantha, she refused to react to his non-reaction, though she was pretty sure he was sitting there expecting her to. And even if he did look good this morning, in a bright white shirt and grey silk tie that matched the colour of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, she still hated him and still fiercely resented the way he was orchestrating her life.
It was a resentment which hadn’t faded one little bit by the time she stepped out of the specialist’s consulting room a couple of hours later.
She found André lounging on the corner of the desk belonging to the pretty receptionist, who was looking all smiling and doe-eyed at him.
The little flirt, she thought scathingly. And worse—he was enjoying it! Resentment turned into something really ugly that burned like acid in her chest.
‘If you’re ready,’ she snapped with enough venom to make them both take note of the green sparking in her eyes.
The nurse blushed, but he didn’t. In fact his eyes began to gleam behind the dangerous slits he had narrowed them into. Samantha ignored the both of them and walked as haughtily as she could with a limp towards the exit door, felt him come up behind her and had to fight to suppress the urge to spin round and scratch his flirting eyes out!
‘Watch it.’ The warning was spoken in silken threat right against her earlobe—and suddenly she froze like a statue as a desperate sensation of déjàvu went washing through her.
Sensing the change, he stepped around her so he could look into her face before releasing a soft curse and grimly taking hold of her shoulders. ‘You’ve gone that funny shade of pale again,’ he informed her huskily.
‘Mr Visconte?’ The receptionist’s voice was pitched with fluttering concern. ‘Is your wife feeling ill? Shall I—?’
‘Just get me out of here,’ Samantha breathed tautly. ‘I need some fresh air.’
Without another word he folded an arm across her shoulders to lend support while murmuring a polite goodbye as they made their exit. As soon as they were outside, Samantha moved right away from him. She felt hot and stifled, and had to stand gulping in some much needed breaths of air in an effort to stave off the feelings of faintness while he watched and waited for her to get a hold of herself again.
‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘are you going to tell me what brought it on this time?’
No, I am not, she answered silently. ‘It was just too warm in there, that’s all.’
‘Liar,’ he drawled. ‘You were about to faint again and we both know it.’
Her colour returned—all her hostility returning right along with it. ‘Do we really have to have an inquisition on every small gesture I make?’ she flicked at him.
‘No.’ He shrugged, displaying a frustrating calmness the more irate she became. ‘But if you feel fit to spit, I assume you also feel fit to walk?’
‘Go to hell,’ she said, and limped off down the shallow steps and onto the street.
He fell into step beside her, not touching but close enough to catch her if she decided to fall into a pathetic swoon.
They reached the car. He unlocked the door and saw her inside before going around to climb in beside her. The engine fired but the car didn’t move. Sitting there beside him, staring fixedly ahead, she waited with gritted teeth for what was coming.
As if on cue, the first question arrived. ‘What did the doctor say?’
‘Exactly what you said he would say,’ she replied. “‘Be a good girl. Do as you’re told and everything will be fine one day.’”
Her tone dripped sarcasm. But she couldn’t help it, she felt as if she were fighting for her very life here—yet she did not understand why!
Again, he showed that uncanny knack of latching onto her thoughts by sighing heavily. ‘Why do you feel you have to do battle against me all the time? Did the doctor offer you no reassurance at all about me?’
‘He performed beautifully,’ she assured him. ‘He confirmed that you are indeed who you say you are and I am who you say I am. He then went on to ask me a lot of questions which I have to presume were supposed to give everyone else answers to what is wrong with me—since everyone seems intent on keeping me in the dark about myself! Then he went on to advise me to work with you not against you, because you only had my best interests at heart.’
‘But you don’t believe that?’ he assumed from her acid tone.
‘What right do I have to an opinion?’ She laughed thickly. ‘I’m just the headcase who can’t trust a thing her instincts tell her!’
‘And what are your instincts telling you about me?’
‘They’re telling me that for some reason, known only to you and your new friend my doctor back there, you are about to manipulate me to suit your own purposes!’
‘In what way?’ He wasn’t angry, just curious—which only managed to infuriate her further, because she saw analysis in every question he asked her—just like the doctor.
‘I tell you what.’ At last she turned to lance him with a look. ‘I’ll make a deal with you. For every answer I give you, I get one back.’
He studied the glint of challenge in her eyes for a long moment; while she sat there, wishing he was as ugly as sin because it would make it so much easier to keep him at a distance then. But he wasn’t ugly, he was beautiful, and her throat closed up on a block of tears because she wanted so much to reach out and touch him.
Touch him, taste him, lose herself in him so she didn’t have to think, fight, worry whether or not he was a man she could place her trust in when she couldn’t even trust herself to know what was right.
‘Okay,’ he quietly agreed. ‘Ask.’
It wasn’t the answer she had been expecting. It threw her into turmoil. Sucking in a tense breath, she held onto it as panic began to build with enough power to burst through her skin. Then she said, ‘No.’ She breathed out like a deflating balloon.
‘Because you don’t want to know the answers or because you don’t feel ready to know?’
‘Because I’m sick and tired of the whole stupid subject!’ she cried, filling with hot, pressured air again. ‘It’s boring! You’re boring! I’ve lost my memory, okay?’ she tossed tightly at him. ‘I don’t know you, and for all I do know you could be some raving sex maniac I had to run away from or get devoured!’
He laughed! He had the outright gall to laugh out loud. ‘If there are any sex-mad fiends lurking in this car then they’re sitting in the other seat to mine,’ he said dryly.
‘That’s an absolute lie!’ She gasped, going prickly hot all over at the very suggestion that she could be like that!
For an answer he leaned across the gap separating them and kissed her.
She ignited like brushwood as all those angry emotions running riot inside her swiftly converted themselves into something else entirely, and before she knew it her hand was claiming the back of his head in her urgency to keep his mouth joined with hers.
It was she who compelled their lips to open, she who hungrily deepened the kiss. And it was she who groaned with agonising pleasure when he let her do it all.
And it was also she who shrivelled up with shame when it had to be him who broke the heated engagement. Point well and truly made.
She was surprised when he said nothing but instead merely repositioned himself in his seat and set them moving with a smoothness that utterly belied the tension still sparking between them.
Sex-mad, she repeated to herself, and shivered. Could her brain be suppressing the shame of being raving sex-mad? Dragging her eyes away from him, she fixed them straight ahead and struggled very hard not to suffocate in a sense of self-loathing.
Bringing the car to a halt outside the main doors, he climbed out then came around to her side of the car to watch her alight. His jaw clenched as she paused to exercise the knee a little before trying to walk on it. But he said not a word, didn’t attempt to offer help, and even Samantha was surprised when she reached out to place her hand on his arm as they began moving.
Hard muscle flexed again. She tried to ignore the effect it had on her. If she had any effect at all on him, then he ignored it too. Neither spoke; they just walked, hand to arm as couples do.
But as they walked through the hotel entrance he stopped, then muttered a couple of rich curses beneath his breath.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you aren’t going to like this, and I know I don’t, but there is someone standing at the reception desk we both know.’
‘Who…where?’ she said, hunting the busy foyer at the same time as a shaft of nervous tension straightened her spine.
‘His name is Stefan Reece, and he’s talking to a receptionist right on the end of the desk.’
The Unforgettable Husband Page 7