Rolfe moved towards her, his hands going to her waist. He studied her face, his eyes very dark and enigmatic. Then he tightened his grip and lifted her down, and she felt his lips brush her forehead before he let her go. ‘Maybe we were in too much of a hurry back then. This could give us another chance.’
‘Another chance?’
‘To get to know each other again,’ he suggested. ‘It’ll be…different this time.’
‘I want to get to know you,’ she told him, still feeling breathless. ‘Thank you for being so understanding.’
His continued scrutiny of her turned curious, even puzzled. He nodded. ‘It could be…my pleasure,’ he said rather obscurely.
She looked away from the disturbing light in his eyes. ‘Do you mind if I wander around—familiarise myself with the house?’
‘It’s your home, Capri. Would you like me to come with you?’
‘In case I get lost?’ She gave him a pale smile. It was a big house, but hardly a castle.
‘In case you want to ask questions.’ His eyes cooling, he asked abruptly, ‘You’re not faking this, are you?’
She blinked. ‘Faking?’
Impatiently, Rolfe shook his head. ‘No, of course not,’ he answered himself. ‘There’s no reason—’
‘Well, you’d know better than me about that!’ she said with a spurt of indignation. ‘Why would anyone want to fake amnesia? It’s no picnic!’
‘It was just a thought.’
‘You have very strange thoughts!’
‘You don’t know the half of them.’ His eyes held hers, sending hot shivers down her spine. He moved away from her. ‘Go and take your tour of the house,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in the lounge if you want me. You do know where that is?’
‘Yes, we passed it on the way in.’
She left it until last, after she had seen the several bedrooms and another bathroom, the utility room, and one that must be Rolfe’s office, with bookshelves, filing cabinets and a desktop computer. And a room that held a sewing machine, a work-table strewn with paper templates, and shelves filled with pattern books, fashion magazines, and piles of fabric, a sumptuous collection of colour and texture. A dressmaker’s adjustable form stood in one corner, and here too there was a computer, with a box of disks beside it.
She retraced her steps to the wide lobby-cumpassageway and the double doors leading to the lounge. Like the rest of the house, the large room was furnished with taste and discernment—she could almost picture the words in some glossy magazine.
Rolfe was sprawled on a long off-white sofa, reading a newspaper and listening to something she vaguely thought was Mozart. She said, ‘I found the sewing room.’
‘Yes?’ He swung his feet onto the carpet and picked up a remote control, muting the music to a low background sound.
‘Am I a dressmaker?’
Rolfe smiled with a hint of incredulity. ‘A dressmaker? You’d hate to be called that. Come over here.’ He indicated the space on the sofa beside him and folded the paper, putting it aside on an elegant glass table.
Tensely she walked over and sat down, leaving two feet of space between them. ‘It doesn’t look like a home sewing room,’ she said. ‘It’s a workroom. What did I do?’
‘You do some fashion design,’ he said patiently. ‘You’re quite talented. Although…’
‘Although what?’
He shrugged ‘You’ve come close to winning awards a couple of times, but…your temperament isn’t suited to steady work. You have flashes of inspiration, work on them like mad for a few weeks, and need as many weeks to recover—and, I suppose, to allow the creative juices to flow again. It isn’t a style that adjusts well to the business world.’
Digesting that, she glanced around the room. The long sofas arranged in a U-shape with glass end tables, and the group of chairs around another, larger glass table looked comfortable enough. The pictures on the walls were originals and she recognised the signatures on a couple of them.
The drapes that Rolfe had drawn against the night were textured faille silk, well chosen to complement the turquoise carpet used throughout the house, and in the daytime to frame the view of the sea and echo its colours.
Everything was beautifully co-ordinated and money had not been stinted. But she felt like a visitor here. ‘Who decorated the rooms?’ she asked. ‘And who designed the house?’
‘One of Auckland’s top architects did the house. And we hired an interior designer. You wanted perfection and insisted on expert advice. What’s the matter?’
She had shifted restlessly, oddly dissatisfied. ‘Nothing. It’s a lovely room.’
It was a lovely room, only it seemed to lack warmth. She supposed that in summer the cool effect might be an asset.
The music had stopped. ‘Was that Mozart?’ she asked.
‘Yes—I know you’d prefer something a bit livelier. The tapes and discs are over there under the player. Why don’t you choose one?’
Hesitantly she got up and went over to the built-in unit holding the music centre, knelt and opened the top drawer.
Rolfe said, ‘Most of yours are in the second drawer down.’
She opened the next drawer. The first few labels meant little, but then she found a CD that she lifted out with delight—an album by a New Zealand group that had made the pop charts both in their home country and overseas. ‘This is one of my favourites!’
‘Yes.’ Rolfe had approached silently across the carpet and was standing just behind her, looking over her shoulder. ‘You used to play it a lot.’
And her subconscious had remembered. ‘Can we play it now?’ She twisted to look up at him.
‘Feel free.’
She turned back to the music centre, inspecting the rows of buttons and dials. It took her a minute to locate the CD component. ‘Here?’ she asked, checking.
‘Right.’
She slid out the disc that was already there and replaced it with the new one. Nothing happened, and Rolfe said, ‘You need to press the “play” button.’
Her fingers hovered as she read the labels on the various buttons, then touched one. ‘This?’
‘Yes.’
The music began, barely audible, and she asked, ‘Where’s the volume control?’
‘Here.’ His lean fingers turned the knob. A hand briefly lighted on her shoulder, then he offered it to help her up.
Taking it, she rose to her feet. ‘Thank you. Don’t you like pop music?’
‘Some.’ He let go her hand. ‘These guys are musicians. They know what they’re doing.’
‘So we have tastes in common.’
He regarded her strangely. ‘I guess we do.’
Her lips parted, her tongue caught for a moment between her teeth. ‘Of course we do, or we’d never have married.’
His laugh was brief. ‘That’s a remarkably naive view of marriage, for you.’
‘For me?’
‘For anyone,’ he amended swiftly. ‘Don’t they say opposites attract?’
‘Do they? I mean, yes, I know people say that but…I’m not sure it’s a good basis for marriage. Are we opposites?’
‘Some people might have thought so,’ he allowed. ‘But we were both willing to take a gamble on our relationship. Perhaps for different reasons.’
‘Different reasons? What were they?’
He was silent, staring down at her. ‘I can’t speak for you,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. And as for myself…’ Shrugging, he turned away to go back to the sofa. ‘I suppose I was in love.’
‘You suppose?’ Following him, she stopped short as he sat down, facing her.
When he looked up his eyes had a strange, glazed glitter in them. His smile twisted. ‘All right,’ he said, and reached forward, his hand closing about her wrist to tug her down beside him.
He retained his hold, looking at the hand he held, his thumb stroking over the back of it. ‘I don’t know what else to call it.’ His voice was low and strained.
He�
�d called it lust earlier, she remembered. Lust at first sight, he’d said, describing their meeting.
‘It’s not my habit,’ he told her, ‘to take a woman I’ve just met to bed—no matter how willing she is. For months I could hardly see straight for wanting you. You were…an obsession.’
‘And you resented it.’ She stated the fact baldly.
He seemed startled, his eyes meeting hers, searching her face. ‘Maybe I did in a way. I wasn’t used to that level of…distraction.’
‘Distraction?’
‘I have a demanding, complex business to run. Ever since I left university I’ve been building it, expanding it. There wasn’t time for much else in my life. Or energy. And then suddenly there was you. For a time I felt as if I’d lost control.’
‘You’d hate that.’ She knew as surely as if he’d spelled it out for her that Rolfe liked being in control of himself, of his life.
And of his wife? The wayward thought made her shiver inside. Just how had he felt, how had he reacted, when she’d insisted on visiting Australia without him? She’d sensed anger in him several times since she’d woken in that hospital room—anger controlled and usually well concealed, but simmering beneath the surface.
Rolfe released her hand and sighed, settling into the corner of the sofa, one arm laid along the back. ‘Hate it?’ he repeated. ‘The most exciting sex I’d had in my entire life?’
‘Sex?’ Capri clamped her hands together. ‘You just said you fell in love.’
‘Sometimes it’s hard to separate the two. Harder, they say, for men than women. Perhaps that’s true.’
‘Perhaps,’ she agreed tentatively. ‘I don’t think I would have found it so difficult.’
‘Don’t you?’ He regarded her pensively.
Her gaze slid aside. Maybe she was wrong. At this moment she was fighting a strong urge to close the small space between them and rest her head against his chest, feel his arms about her. Could that be love? Perhaps her body, her heart, remembered what her mind refused to give up to consciousness.
‘Listen.’ He tipped his head back, angling it to concentrate on the music from the hidden speakers. Two voices blended against a subtle, haunting melody.
Burning like a rocket
exploding into stars
most splendid in its dying
is this love of ours
The song was called ‘Fire in the Sky’. She loved the tune, but the words saddened her, telling of a love that had flared briefly, incandescently.
too bright to last the distance
a fire in the sky.
‘He knows,’ Rolfe murmured.
‘He?’
‘The guy who wrote the song.’ He turned his head, his eyes half closed and gleaming, his mouth cynical. ‘Doesn’t he?’
‘It isn’t like that with me!’
Rolfe’s attitude was relaxed but very still. Something stirred in those almost-hidden dark eyes. ‘How would you know?’ he enquired softly.
‘I know if I really loved someone it would be for ever. Not some flash in the pan, like in the song.’
‘You sound as though you mean it.’
‘I just know that’s how it is, for me.’
‘Really.’ Although he still hadn’t shifted his position, his hand was tightly gripping the back of the sofa. ‘And yet you left me.’
‘Left you?’ She stared at him.
Rolfe stirred then, sitting up but not meeting her eyes. ‘To go off to Australia without me.’
‘But that was a holiday…wasn’t it?’ Doubt sneaked in and a hollow feeling opened in her stomach. ‘Do you mean I didn’t intend to come back? But…if we were separated, I’m here under false pretences—’ The thought was frightening. If their marriage had ended, if he didn’t really want her here, she had no right to be with him, and where could she go? A sliver of fear chilled her.
‘We weren’t separated,’ he said quickly. ‘I refused to drop everything and go to Australia at a moment’s notice, that’s all. We…argued over it.’
‘So I went anyway. But I wouldn’t have walked out on you over that—would I?’
Rolfe studied her quietly. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t. But you see, you left no word.’
It was a calm, unemotional condemnation. She’d gone with no explanation, no promise to return? That was more than thoughtless. Even if they had quarrelled, it was cruel. Surely more so than he’d deserved.
She swallowed, and her voice, when she finally spoke through her shock and shame, was husky. ‘Were you very angry?’
His hand released the sofa-back as he spread the fingers, palm upwards. ‘Does it matter? It’s all in the past. We both probably said things we shouldn’t have, and you wanted to punish me. There’s no point in going over it all now.’
Another song had begun, and Rolfe turned away from her, listening to the music. His eyelids lowered, and she thought he must be tired. Flying across the Tasman, keeping watch at her bedside, then organising the flight home with her and driving here from the airport would have exhausted most people. He hadn’t rested this afternoon as she had. Possibly he had even spent some hours catching up on work that must have been abandoned when he made the unscheduled journey.
She had lots more questions but they could wait. Trying to relax, she sat back against the cushions and listened.
When the disc had finished Rolfe got up and removed it. ‘Want to play another?’ he asked her.
‘I think I’ll go to bed. I know I’ve already had a rest, but…’ It seemed to have been a tiring day, with the flight from one country to another, and the emotional stress.
‘Fine.’ She wondered if he was relieved. ‘Do you have all that you need?’
‘I’m sure I’ll find everything. Goodnight, Rolfe.’
He came over to her and lifted her face with a hand under her chin. His eyes searched hers as though asking permission, and then he bent and brushed a kiss across her cheek. ‘Sleep well,’ he said.
In the bedroom she opened drawers and found satin and lace bras, sexy panties, slinky slips in several colours, heavily edged with lace, and a dozen or more nightgowns, some short and sassy, some long and glamorous, several folded under matching semi-transparent wraps frothed with lace.
Had she ever worn these enticing, blatantly sexy gowns? She supposed she had.
She shook out the plainest she could find, a deep red satin gown with shoestring straps, a cross over bodice, and a skirt that hugged her hips and brushed her ankles and was slit high in front.
The satin slipped over her skin when she drew the garment on, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing-table mirror as she bent to close the drawer, the low-cut bodice exposing the full curves of her breasts. She straightened, staring at her reflection, and had a momentary fantasy of Rolfe standing behind her, sliding his arms about her, pulling her back against him.
Shaking her head impatiently, she backed away and was about to get into the big double bed when a thought hit her.
Returning to the drawers, she opened all of them one by one, rummaged among the laces and satins and the stored woollens and T-shirts and several pairs of track pants. Then she went to the wardrobe for a riffle through the hangers, confirming she’d missed nothing in there.
Back in the bedroom, she stood wrapped in thought before slowly climbing into bed. Rolfe had made it clear he didn’t intend to join her there tonight, and she’d been grateful for his consideration, his sensitivity.
But he had not had time to remove everything of his from a room they had previously shared. No way.
Yet there wasn’t one vestige of evidence that he had ever used this room as his own. No clothing, no masculine toiletries, not so much as a comb. Nothing. Every personal possession here was overtly, overwhelmingly, feminine.
So for how long had she and Rolfe, her husband, had separate rooms?
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS fully daylight when Capri woke. In the bathroom there was a lingering warmth and dampness.
Rolfe must have used the shower not long ago.
She pulled on jeans and a shirt over a bra and pants from one of the drawers she’d rifled through last night. Rolfe was in the kitchen, a half cup of coffee and a crumb-dusted plate before him. When she entered he put down the folded newspaper in his hand. ‘Good morning. How are you feeling?’
‘I feel fine.’ Her head no longer hurt and her bruises were already fading. ‘How did you sleep?’
His eyes flickered. ‘All right.’ He stood up and pulled out another chair. ‘Can I get you some toast—coffee?’
‘Thanks, I can manage. Why don’t you sit down?’
She found the bread on the counter near the toaster and dropped in two slices.
‘I’ve finished anyway.’ He drained his cup, put it together with his plate, and carried them to the dishwasher. ‘I need to go to the factory today. Will you be all right? Hallie will be in later—the cleaner.’
‘We have a cleaner?’
‘Twice a week. It’s a big house. Do you want me to stay until she arrives?’
She could see he was anxious to go but unsure about leaving her. ‘It’s all right. I can explain.’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said with sudden decision, ‘I’m not sure you should be alone yet. I’ll just make a couple of phone calls and let people know to expect me a bit later.’
By the time he’d done that and come back to the kitchen, she’d finished her toast and coffee.
She offered him another cup, but he shook his head, instead prowling restlessly as she put her dishes in the machine and wiped up crumbs from the bench.
‘Hallie will do that,’ he told her.
‘I suppose so, but I was taught to clean up after myself.’ How had she known that?
Wife to a Stranger Page 4