by Кей Хупер
Kane swiveled his chair away from the drafting table and looked at her with lifted brows. "Bored, Syd?"
"Is that the only reason I ever visit my favorite brother? Because I'm bored?" Her voice was slow and lazy.
"I'm your only brother — and yes, usually." But he smiled to remove any sting from the words.
She smiled in return, the pale gray eyes they shared amused and tolerant. "All right, so nothing much is going on today in the residential arm of Macgregor and Payne, and I thought you might like somebody to buy you lunch. I ran into Dinah yesterday, and she said she'd be tied up all day, so ... "
An architect herself, Sydney had chosen to specialize in residential work, whereas Kane's preference was commercial; it was an easy and profitable partnership. There were only three years between them — at thirty-two, Sydney was the younger. Her marriage had kept her working only part-time until her husband's accidental death more than two years previously; she was now fully involved in the family firm.
As for her personal life, though there was certainly interest from just about every male she encountered, she had been unwilling, so far, to begin dating again.
"Well," Kane said, "if you're buying ..."
Lunch was pleasant, and the remainder of the afternoon hectic. In fact, he wasn't able to leave the office until after seven-thirty. Determined not to be late, he rushed to pick up the Chinese food and get to Dinah's apartment, but even so it was well after eight when he got to her building.
Dinah's jeep wasn't in its parking space.
Both relieved and irritated, Kane parked his car and went inside. The security guard knew him well enough just to wave a greeting.
He let himself into Dinah's third-floor apartment with his key, fumbled for the foyer light, and took the food to the kitchen. As usual, the place was very tidy; not only was Dinah naturally neat, but she had a cleaning service come in once a week — and by the fresh scent of lemon in the air, Kane knew the apartment had been cleaned today.
Maybe that was why it felt so ... empty. He went around the living room lighting lamps and turned on the television. He changed out of his suit into jeans and a sweatshirt, and waited.
By nine o'clock, he was hungry and angry.
By ten o'clock, he was worried.
He couldn't remember Dinah being so late before without calling. And even if her cell phone did have a dead battery, there were pay phones, weren't there?
All over the city, there were pay phones.
Kane called her office and got her voice mail. He left a brief message asking her to call him if she came in or checked before coming home. She never carried a pager, so his options were limited.
All he could do was wait.
By eleven he was going often to the front window to look searchingly out at the busy streets. By midnight he was pacing the floor.
He only just stopped himself from calling her boss.
He reminded himself that Dinah was a grown woman, no fool, and able to take care of herself. She would certainly be unhappy with him if he pushed the panic button when she was just tied up with something and had forgotten to phone.
He told himself that several times.
The streets outside got quieter and grew shiny in the streetlights because it had started to rain.
It got later.
And later.
And Dinah never came...
FAITH
She opened her eyes abruptly, as though waking from a nightmare, conscious of her heart pounding and the sound of her quick, shallow breathing in the otherwise silent room. She couldn't remember the dream, but her shaking body and runaway pulse told her it had been a bad one. She closed her eyes and for several minutes concentrated only on climbing down.
Gradually, her heart slowed and her breathing steadied. Okay. Okay. That was better. Much better.
She didn't like being scared.
She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling.
Gradually a niggling awareness of something being different made her turn her head slowly on the pillow so that she could look around the room.
It wasn't her room.
Her other senses began waking up then. She heard the muffled, distant sounds of activity just beyond the closed door. She smelled sickness and medicine, the distinct odors of people and machines and starch. She noted the Spartan quality of the room she was in, the hospital bed she was lying on — and the IV dripping into her arm. All of that told her she was in a hospital.
Why?
It took a surprising effort to raise her head and look down at herself; her neck felt stiff, and a rush of nausea made her swallow hard. But she forced herself to look, to make sure all of her was there.
Both arms. Both legs. Nothing in a cast. Her feet moved when she willed them to. Not paralyzed, then.
Good.
With an effort, she raised the arm not hooked to the IV until she could see her hand. It was unnervingly small, not childlike but ... fragile.
The short nails were ragged and looked bitten, and the skin was milky pale. She turned it slowly and stared at the palms, the pads of her fingers. No calluses, but there was a slight roughness to her skin that told her she was accustomed to work.
Afraid of what she might find, she touched her face with light, probing fingers. The bones seemed prominent, and the skin felt soft and smooth. There was no evidence of an injury until she reached her right temple. There, a square adhesive bandage and a faint soreness underneath it told her she'd suffered some kind of cut.
But not a bad one, she thought, and certainly not a big one. The bandage was small, two or three square inches.
Beyond the bandage, she found her hair limp and oily, which told her it hadn't been washed recently. She pulled at a strand and was surprised that it was long enough for her to see. It was mostly straight, with only a hint of curl. And it was red. A dark, dull red.
Now why did that surprise her?
For the first time, she let herself become aware of what had been crawling in her subconscious, a cold and growing fear she dared not name. She realized — she was lying perfectly still now, her arms at her sides, her hands clenched into fists, staring at the ceiling as if she would find the answers there.
She was only slightly injured, so why was she there? Because she was ill? What was wrong with her?
Why did her body feel so appallingly weak?
And far, far worse, why couldn't she remember...
"Oh, my God."
The nurse in the doorway came a few steps into the room, moving slowly, her eyes wide with surprise.
Then professionalism took over, and she swallowed and said brightly, if a bit unsteadily, "You...you're awake. We were ... beginning to wonder about you, Fa... Miss Parker."
Parker.
"I'll get the doctor."
She lay there waiting, not daring to think about the fact that she hadn't known her own name, and still didn't beyond that unfamiliar surname. It seemed an eternity that she waited, while cold and wordless terrors clawed through her mind and churned in her stomach, before a doctor appeared. He was tall, on the thin side, with a sensitive mouth and very brilliant, very dark eyes.
"So you're finally awake." His voice was deep and warm, his smile friendly. He grasped her wrist lightly as he stood by the bed, discreetly taking her pulse. "Can you tell me your name?"
She wet her lips and said huskily, "Parker." Her voice sounded rusty and unused, and her throat felt scratchy.
He didn't look surprised; likely the nurse had confessed that she had provided that information. "What about your first name?"
She tried not to cry out in fear. "No. No, I... I don't remember that."
"Do you remember what happened to you?"
"No."
"How about telling me what year this is?"
She concentrated, fought down that icy, crawling panic. There was nothing in her mind but blankness, a dark emptiness that frightened her almost beyond words. No sense of identity or knowledge. Nothing.
Nothing.
"I don't remember."
"Well, try not to worry about it," he said soothingly. "A traumatic event frequently results in amnesia, but it's seldom permanent. Things will probably start to come back to you now that you're awake."
"Who are you?" she asked, because it was the least troubling question she could think of.
"My name is Dr. Burnett, Nick Burnett. I've been your doctor since you were admitted. Your name is Faith Parker."
Faith Parker. It didn't stir even the slightest sense of familiarity.
"Is ... is it?"
He smiled gently. "Yes. You're twenty-eight years old, single, and in pretty good shape physically, though you could stand to gain a few pounds." He paused, then went on in a calm tone completely without judgment. "You were involved in a single-car accident, which the police blame on the fact that you'd had a few drinks on top of prescription muscle relaxants. The combination made you plow your car into an embankment."
She might have been listening to a description of someone else, for all the memory it stirred.
The doctor continued. "It also turned out to be highly toxic to your system. You appear to be unusually sensitive to alcohol, and that, along with the drug, put you into a coma. However, aside from the gash on your head, which we've kept covered to minimize scarring, and a few bruised ribs, which have already healed, you're fine."
There were so many questions swirling through her mind that she could grab only one at random.
"Was... was anyone else hurt in the accident?"
"No. You were alone in the car, and all you hit was the embankment."
Something he'd said a minute ago tugged at her.
"You said ... my ribs had healed by now. How long have I been here?"
"Six weeks."
She was shocked. "So long? But ..." She wasn't sure what she wanted to ask, but her anxiety was growing with every new fact.
"Let's try sitting up a bit, shall we?" Not waiting for her response, he used a control to raise the head of the bed a few inches.
When she closed her eyes, he stopped the movement. "The dizziness should pass in a minute."
She opened her eyes slowly, finding that he was right. But there was little satisfaction in that, with all the questions and worries overwhelming her. And panic. A deep, terrifying panic. "Doctor, I can't know I have insurance, and if I don't, I don't know how I'll pay for six weeks in a hospital. I don't even know what address to give the cabdriver when I go... go home."
"Listen to me, Faith." His voice was gentle. "There's no reason for you to worry, especially not about money. Your medical insurance from work hadn't started yet, but arrangements have already been made to pay your hospital bill in full. And I understand that a trust fund has been set up for you when you leave here. There should be plenty of money, certainly enough to live on for several months while you get your life back in order."
That astonishing information made her panic recede somewhat, but she was bewildered. "A trust fund? Set up for me? But who would do that?"
"A friend of yours. A good friend. She came to visit you twice a week until..." Something indefinable crossed his face and then vanished, and he went on quickly. "She wanted to make certain you got the best of care and had no worries when you left here."
"But why? The accident obviously wasn't her fault, since I was alone ..."
Unless this friend had encouraged her to drink or hadn't taken her car keys away when she had gotten drunk?
"I couldn't tell you why, Faith. Except that she was obviously concerned about you."
Faith felt a rush of pain that she couldn't remember so good a friend.
"What's her name?"
"Dinah Leighton."
It meant no more to Faith than her own name.
Dr. Burnett was watching her carefully. "We have the address of your apartment, which I understand is waiting for your return. Miss Leighton seemed less certain that you would want to go back to your oh, apartment i believe is one of the reasons she made it possible for you to have the time to look around, perhaps even return to school or do something you've always wanted to do."
She felt tears prickle and burn. "Something I've always wanted to do. Except I can't remember anything I've always wanted to do. Or anything I've done. Or even what I look like ... "
He grasped her hand and held it strongly. "It will come back to you, Faith. You may never remember the hours immediately preceding and following the accident, but most of the rest will return in time. Coma does funny things to the body and the mind."
She sniffed, and tried to concentrate, to hold on to facts and avoid thinking of missing memories. "What kinds of things?"
Still holding her hand, he drew a visitor's chair to the bed and sat down. "To the body, what you'd expect after a traumatic accident and weeks of inactivity. Muscle weakness. Unstable blood pressure. Dizziness and digestive upset from lying prone and having no solid food. But all those difficulties should disappear once you've been up and about for a few days, eating regular meals and exercising."
"What about ... the mind? What other kinds of problems can be caused by coma?"
The possibilities lurking in her imagination were terrifying. What if she never regained her memory? What if she found herself unable to do the normal things people did every day, simple things like buttoning a shirt or reading a book? What if whatever skills and knowledge she'd needed in her work were gone forever and she was left with no way to earn a living?
"Sometimes things we don't completely understand," the doctor confessed. "Personality changes are common. Habits and mannerisms are sometimes different. The emotions can be volatile or, conversely, bland. You may find yourself getting confused at times, even after your memory returns, and panic attacks are more likely than not."
She swallowed. "Great."
Dr. Burnett smiled. "On the other hand, you may suffer no aftereffects whatsoever. You're perfectly lucid, and we've done our best to reduce muscle atrophy and other potential problems. Physical therapy should be minimal, I'd say. Once your memory returns, you may well find yourself as good as ever."
He sounded so confident that Faith let herself believe him, because the alternative was unbearable.
Trying not to think about that, she asked, "What about family? Do I have any family?"
"Miss Leighton told us you have no family in Atlanta. There was a sister, I understand, but I believe both she and your parents were killed some years ago."
Faith wished she felt something about that. "And I'm single. Do I... Is there..."
"I'm sure you must have dated," he said kindly, "but evidently there was no one special, at least not in the last few months. You've had no male visitors, no cards or letters, and only Miss Leighton sent flowers, as far as I'm aware."
So she was alone, but for this remarkably good friend.
She felt alone, and considerably frightened.
He saw it. "Everything seems overwhelming right now, I know. it's too much to process, too much to deal with. But you have time, Faith. There's no need to push yourself, and no reason to worry. Take it step by step."
She drew a breath. "All right. What's the first step? "
"We get you up on your feet and moving." He smiled and rose from the chair. "But not too fast. Today, we'll have you gradually sit up, maybe try standing, and monitor your reaction to that. We'll see how your stomach reacts to a bit of solid food. How's that to start?"
She managed a smile. "Okay."
"Good." He squeezed her hand and released it, then hesitated.
Seeing his face, she said warily, "What?"
"Well, since you might want to read the newspapers or watch television to catch up on things, I think I should warn you about something."
"About what?"
"Your friend Miss Leighton. She's been missing for about two weeks."
"Missing? You mean she she stopped coming to visit me?"
There was sympathy in his dark eyes. "I mean she disappeare
d. She was reported missing, and though her car was found abandoned some time later, she hasn't been seen since."
Faith was surprised by the rush of emotions she felt.
Confusion. Shock. Disappointment. Regret. And, finally, a terrible pain at the knowledge that she was now completely alone.
Dr. Burnett patted her hand, but seemed to realize that no soothing words would make her feel better. He didn't offer any, just went away quietly.
She lay there staring up at the white, blank ceiling, which was as empty as her mind.
He laughed at her, the sound rich with amusement.
"Well, bow was I to know you couldn't boil water without ruining the pot?"
"I just forgot," she defended herself with spirit. "I had more important things on my mind."
He shook his head, fair hair gleaming like spun gold and a wry expression on his handsome face. "To be honest, I'm glad there are a few things you don't do well. If you were Perfect, I wouldn't know how to cope. "
She reached out a hand and touched his face, the backs of her fingers stroking downward in a quick caress. Her hands were strong and beautiful, well kept, the neat oval nails polished a vivid red. She felt the slight bristle of his evening beard, a scratchiness that was familiar and pleasant, even erotic. It made her breath catch at the back of her throat, and her voice emerged more husky than she had expected.
"I may not be Perfect, but I'm starving. And since I ruined dinner, I thought maybe we could go out."
"Only if you're buying," he said, still humorous even though his eyes darkened in response to what he heard in her voice. "I refuse to buy dinner for a woman who ruined three pots and really stunk up my kitchen.
"You needed new pots anyway, she said, and danced away, laughing, when he lunged at her. But she didn't try too hard to escape, and when his hands were on her, strong and sure and exciting, she let herself melt against him. Their bodies fit together as though they'd been designed to, and his mouth on hers was still a shock of wild, overwhelming pleasure, instantly seductive. But as always, the warning voice in her bead told her not to yield completely, to hold back something of herself because she knew how this would end, she knew it. And as always, she ignored the warning and reached eagerly for what he offered.