by Robyn Donald
It was almost as though he’d made a decision—not one he was happy with, but one he could live with.
If she surrendered to the prompting of her heart, what would happen when her memory returned? Did she dare take a chance on that?
The neurologist, a lean, grey-haired man with amused eyes, did some physical tests, examined the small bruise on her scalp, asked her innumerable questions, and finally told her that she looked fine to him.
‘I feel fine,’ she admitted, ‘but why did my memory go?’
‘Usually it’s because of a head wound, but I wouldn’t think that the slight contusion you suffered had anything to do with it. Sometimes it’s simply a matter of the brain wanting a holiday.’
Startled, Aline laughed.
Smiling, he continued, ‘If, for example, you’ve been enduring a difficult period of your life, or you’re faced with an impossible choice, there may be a temporary loss of memory.’
Seizing on the word, she emphasised, ‘Temporary?’
‘Oh, yes, I think we can be quite sure it’s temporary. It will almost certainly come back of its own accord. And as I’m sure you’ve found out, trying to force it doesn’t help.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’ll probably get flashbacks at first, and then more and more will fall into place. Sometimes it’s an instantaneous process. If things haven’t started moving in a week or so Jake tells me he’ll bring you to see me and we can do some tests. However, I don’t think you’ll have to wait that long. Try not to worry.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Thank you very much for coming.’
He got to his feet and smiled again, wryly this time. ‘Oh, Jake’s a force of nature when he wants something done. Thank him, not me.’
When he’d gone, she told Jake what he’d said in a voice that tried so hard to be normal it sounded stilted.
He nodded. ‘It makes sense. If you relax so that it comes back when it’s ready, it should be easier on you.’
Keeping her gaze fixed on the busy harbour scene below, she forced a smile. In spite of everything, she didn’t have the right to devour him with her eyes. ‘Jake, what do I do? You talked about negotiations—’
‘You’re an extremely efficient executive in Keir Carmichael’s merchant bank,’ he said.
It meant nothing. She said bitterly, ‘I won’t be much use there with an empty head.’
‘Even without a memory your head is far from empty,’ he told her calmly.
‘Tell me about these negotiations.’ Perhaps business talk, devoid of emotion, might force a chink through the wall between her present and her past.
Jake sent her a keen glance, but began to talk. Concentrating on his concise, crisp explanation, Aline relaxed as she realised that she understood what he was talking about, but the whole complicated structure he was describing, the huge amounts of money he spoke of, had no significance for her at all, and her part in it seemed just that—a part played by an actor.
‘No good?’ he said, startling her with his astute recognition of her motives for asking. ‘Pity.’
Did he think she was asking for sympathy? Aline flushed, then noticed the newspaper in his hand. ‘Is that the one with the extract?’
‘Yes. Come and read it over here on the sofa.’
After a moment’s hesitation she went across, every nerve wound as tightly as string around a top, and lowered herself onto the cushions. Her stomach dropped into free-fall as he sat down beside her and gave her the newspaper.
The headline was bad enough: ‘Golden-Boy Yachtsman’s Secret Life,’ it screamed. White-faced but resolute, Aline read every word.
Jake’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. He’d hoped to get some indication of whether or not she was lying, but the pale mask of her face defeated him. Even when her mouth tightened it was with distaste at the lurid recounting of Lauren’s private tragedy, not shock or pain.
The neurologist had told him she displayed some of the characteristics of memory loss, but had warned that it would take more than a brief interview to be certain.
In spite of Tony Hudson’s hint that she might be implicated in the mess that was the Connor Trust—and the sneered insinuation from the journalist on the beach that she was Peter Bournside’s mistress—he was almost convinced that she was telling the truth. If she was, then this was the best way for her to read it—with no emotional involvement.
Yet he didn’t dare accept her word that she had amnesia. Was he indulging in wishful thinking, letting his cold, logical brain be swamped by a decadent hunger that seemed to have no boundaries? Women were just as capable of treachery as men, and he hadn’t reached his position in life by trusting foolishly.
Even as his blood ran heavy and hot, he told himself that it was too early to let his guard down, pushing to the back of his mind exactly what he’d do if she was implicated in the losses to the Trust fund.
When she’d finished reading, she scrutinised the photographs. What was going on behind those wide, intensely blue eyes? He was surprised at the fierce protectiveness that engulfed him—and irritated by a ferocious stab of jealousy as her gaze lingered on the photograph of a young man in yachting gear, his smile exultant and rakish.
‘He was very handsome,’ she remarked in a precise voice.
If you liked your men boyish and charming, Jake thought sardonically. ‘Very,’ he said neutrally.
‘I suppose I must have loved him,’ she went on in a distant voice. ‘It all sounds very banal—classic adultery.’ She pointed to the end of the excerpt. ‘Except for that paragraph, which seems to hint at the possibility of embezzlement from the Connor Trust. I imagine that’s why the media is hunting—the suggestion of several million dollars stolen from the people of New Zealand is enough to whet any journalist’s appetite!’
A reluctant admiration goaded Jake. In spite of the article’s careful language—obviously written with the possibility of lawsuits in mind—she’d picked up the most important bit.
Of course, she might know exactly what she was doing.
Casually he said, ‘It’s just a throwaway line, probably put there to whip up interest in the book.’
Aline was rereading the article. ‘I hope he’s got his facts right or he’ll find himself defending a libel case.’
Suspicion rode Jake hard. He prided himself on his ability to read people, but he’d never been able to read Aline. Except for her body’s involuntary response, she’d always been an enigma behind her delicate, fine-boned beauty.
That hadn’t changed, although he’d learned more about her these past couple of days than in the whole of the two months he’d known her. Elusive, hiding that edge of heat with her ice-cool poise, she’d slid through his defences with the ease and stylish skill of a blade forged in fire and tempered in ice.
What was she thinking?
Her lips compressed. ‘It’s like reading about a stranger,’ she confessed, adding with an oblique smile, ‘In fact, at the moment you’re the only person I know in the whole world.’
‘Poor little girl,’ he said mockingly.
Aline hid a stab of pain by frowning at the newspaper. ‘No wonder the reporter asked me if I knew what had happened to the money.’
Jake leaned back into the sofa. ‘Do you think you might?’ he asked almost indifferently.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said quietly, easing away from him and folding her hands in her lap. ‘That book you gave me said that an amnesiac’s basic character doesn’t usually change. I find the idea of stealing money from a charity particularly repugnant.’ Hoping desperately that the book had got it right, she frowned.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jake commanded, getting to his feet. ‘It’s a waste of time because you can’t do anything about it until your memory returns.’
Not reassured, she smiled blindly in his direction. ‘I might wake up tomorrow morning with it intact.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he said smoothly.
CHAPTER NINE
ALINE opened
her eyes to sunlight and the scream of a bird. For an instant she lay frozen in a time warp, but after a heart-thumping moment she sighed and relaxed.
No big, alarmingly sensual Jake beside her, just unrumpled pillows, and outside a gull calling impatiently as it limped along the balustrade around the balcony. And still no memory beyond yesterday morning, but at least this time she wasn’t shaking with unreasoning terror.
And the empty bed beside her meant that Jake no longer wanted to make love with her. Trying to ignore her heavy, desperate anguish, she accepted that for her emotional safety she had to follow his lead and establish some distance between them.
Islands were romantic, isolated places where the usual rules didn’t necessarily apply. Here, in the ordinary, prosaic world, a pragmatic caution was sensible.
Unfortunately it was too late for her. Mingled with the reckless elation rising inside her was the knowledge that in the past couple of days she’d slipped beyond caution’s reach into dangerous, uncharted waters.
‘So your mission for today is to learn to keep your distance,’ she said grimly.
But when she walked into the kitchen Jake looked up, his chiselled mouth curling into a smile, and her heart executed a peculiar somersault that blocked her throat and drove off every rational thought with a blast of pure, shocking need.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Still minus my life before yesterday,’ she said, head held high. Flippantly she added, ‘But I do know who I am, what I am, and where I am, which is more than I knew yesterday morning.’
With frighteningly fast reflexes he snared a piece of toast that erupted from the toaster like a clay pigeon.
Still shaking inwardly from her flashfire of sensation and emotion, Aline masked his impact on her with slow applause. ‘Well caught, sir,’ she said, parodying an English accent.
He bowed and dropped the toast into a rack. ‘My housekeeper insists it would be a wicked waste of money to buy a decent toaster as there’s nothing wrong with this one, but its days are numbered. If I want exercise I play squash or swim, not leap around catching flying toast.’
‘You shouldn’t have let anyone unload a shop full of designer utensils onto you,’ Aline told him. ‘Although they look gorgeous, only a few do the job really well.’
He shrugged. ‘The place was ready to move into when I bought it. I’ve put in a few pieces of my own furniture, but I haven’t bothered with the kitchen.’
‘No elderly, blackened old frying-pan from your days in the restaurant kitchen?’ Aline asked, laughing a little because it was powerfully sweet to stand in the sunny kitchen and talk to him.
‘I’m not a sentimental man, and I travel light,’ he said, turning on the coffee-maker.
Well, yes. No wife, and apparently no lover. Because this made her entirely too happy, she asked, ‘Is this apartment your main base?’
‘I live here as much as I live anywhere.’ He picked up the tray of toast and carried it through another door into the small dining and living-room he’d called the dayroom when he’d shown her around the apartment the previous afternoon.
Last night after dinner they’d sat in the unlit sitting-room and watched the harbour darken and the lights begin to glow while they talked in a fascinating, free-ranging journey that had both satisfied and frustrated her.
Of course she’d welcomed the chance to get to know him better, but she’d missed the undercurrents, the elemental sexual power-play beneath their previous conversations on the island.
Sitting down at the table, she said, ‘Why do you still live here? Your business covers the world, so somewhere central would surely be more convenient.’
‘I’m a New Zealander. It’s my home and I like being here,’ he said evenly. ‘Nowadays you can do business all over the world without leaving the office.’
‘But you still spend a lot of time travelling.’ She reached for her napkin and shook it out,
‘I’ve set up the organisation so that I can cut back on life on the road; from now on I’ll be more settled.’
Aline surveyed her plate with false interest. ‘What do you plan to do with all that leisure?’ she asked lightly.
‘Pay a few old debts,’ he said in a tone that matched hers.
Surprised, she glanced up. ‘Debts?’
‘Quite a few people helped me when I started out. I’m going to find a way to repay their faith in me.’
‘That sounds very noble.’ Michael Connor too had felt the need to pay something back. Perhaps she liked men with a streak of philanthropy in their characters…
His brows rose. ‘Nobility doesn’t come into the equation,’ he said dryly. ‘I believe in justice and meeting obligations.’
‘It sounds suspiciously like nobility,’ she teased. ‘How will you do it? Set up a charitable foundation?’
‘I’ll look at the alternatives.’ He changed the subject courteously but firmly. ‘You’ll have to stay inside again today—your husband’s trust and its missing money are still front-page news. And there’s an excellent photograph of you on that front page.’
With her morning decision fresh in her mind, she said, ‘Still no chance of going home?’
Even before she’d finished he was shaking his head decisively. ‘Not unless you want to tangle with the journalists camping at your front door.’
‘No!’ Controlling the flash of panic, she asked, ‘Are they still at the island?’
‘Two launches have taken up residence in the bay, both supplied with photographers and journalists who look as though they’ve settled in.’
Aline’s mind flew back to the article she’d read in the newspaper. All appetite gone, she put her utensils down and reached for the coffee, pouring herself a cup. She drank from it, then said, quoting from the newspaper, ‘I wonder what happened to “the missing millions”.’ She added, ‘Of course, it could just be a media beat-up without any truth to it.’
‘That’s what the journalists are trying to find out,’ he said, his voice level.
Aware that he was watching her, Aline forced herself to drink another mouthful of coffee, but it tasted bitter and rank. She put down the cup, distantly aware of the slight rattle as her hand quivered. Sombrely she hoped that the real Aline Connor—the woman who lived on the other side of the curtain in her brain—was someone she could respect.
Another thought struck her with sickening impact. Perhaps Jake thought she had something to do with the disappearing money—perhaps that was the reason he’d retreated behind his austere bronze mask.
But why on earth would Jake suspect her? You’re looking for excuses, she told herself, excuses for his withdrawal. He’s probably just bored with you.
‘You’re not eating,’ Jake said.
The stern note in his voice compelled her eyes upwards to the hard angles and unrevealing planes of his face.
After declaring tensely, ‘I’m not hungry,’ she rubbed away at the frown between her brows. ‘If the extract in yesterday’s newspaper is correct, and there are several million dollars missing from the Trust, it will have left a paper trail. It’s not simple to lose sight of that amount.’
‘Could you “lose” it?’ he asked coolly.
‘Overseas investment would probably be the best way of getting it out of the country,’ she said automatically. ‘But two trustees would have to co-sign the cheques, so both those trustees would be party to any theft.’
Jake glanced at her lovely, absorbed face, and silently cursed making love to her. Their passionate union had forged unbreakable bonds between them; whatever happened, he’d never be able to forget this woman.
What was it about Aline—only ever her—that splintered his self-command into useless shards? After talking to Tony Hudson at the christening he should have kept well away from her, but, no, he’d had to act Sir Galahad to her beleaguered maiden, and once he’d spirited her out to the island, in spite of the self-control and inner fortitude he prided himself on, each seductive invitation from her
had shattered his resolve into fragments.
And it wouldn’t take any more than a smile and a glance from her to shatter it again, he thought savagely.
Stressed by his silence, Aline looked into his handsome, arrogant face. What was going on behind those unreadable eyes? An unexpected, unwanted kick of desire, ferociously sweet, untamed and fiery, shocked her into bending her head and staring at her plate.
‘Eat up,’ he told her shortly. ‘One piece of toast isn’t going to keep you going until lunchtime.’
She retorted, ‘You seem to spend your time feeding me.’
‘Would you like me to feed you properly?’
‘I don’t think such drastic methods are necessary,’ she muttered, trying to crush the lazy sensuality his words summoned.
‘Then eat something. You have beautiful bones, but that fine-drawn look is getting a bit too ethereal. Try the strawberries.’
Bemused by the dark voice with its compelling undercurrent, she ate strawberries and yoghurt, then managed to swallow another piece of toast. Jake’s incisive, mordantly humorous commentary on world events eased a little of the pressure.
Aline was sure that normally she didn’t suffer from an inability to make small talk. And then she smiled cynically. How would she know? Perhaps she habitually spent her life racking her brains to come up with a subject that didn’t sound trite or foolish or boring.
‘Why are you biting your lip again?’ Jake asked bluntly.
Flushing, she managed a shrug. ‘I’m so sick of this. At first I desperately wanted to remember, but now I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m better off not knowing, and that makes me feel even worse.’
Jake said curtly, ‘Stop beating your brain. It’ll come when it’s ready.’
Anger and frustration warring for supremacy, she shot to her feet. ‘I can’t wait,’ she said feverishly. ‘What am I going to do if I don’t know how to work—?’
‘Stop it!’ Two long strides brought Jake in front of her. He caught her hands and held them still. In a voice that crackled with authority, he said, ‘You’ve got a week off—that’s another five days, and by then your memory may well have come back.’