The Amnesiac Bride

by Marie Ferrarella

  What was she asking him that for? “You know you do.” He opened the closet and took out a navy blue pair of slacks. If he had his way, jeans would be the only clothing anyone would wear, but there were certain requirements to this game. He took a shirt out that was the color of corn bleached by the sun. That ought to do it. “Now hurry up, we have to be—”

  He stopped talking as he turned to look at her over his shoulder. She was still standing there, in the center of the room, looking like a lost waif.

  He’d never seen her like that before. Zane let the clothes drop on the bed.

  Instincts he had long ago learned to trust with his life nudged their way forward. “My God, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Very slowly, biting her lower lip to keep it from trembling, she nodded. She fought the tears she suddenly felt rising again.

  “Yes.”

  The hoarse response echoed in the hotel suite, the sound framed by the four walls. Beyond the window, seven floors down, the people who flocked to Las Vegas to divert themselves, or to win easy money that turned out not to be so easily wooed, were busy going about their business. They could have been a thousand miles away for all the difference they made.

  Stunned, Zane sank down on the bed, his green eyes never leaving her face. If she was lying, he’d know. And if this was a joke, he was going to kill her. Slowly. “You’re telling me you have amnesia?”

  What did it take to make him understand? “I’m telling you I don’t know who I am.”

  She wasn’t kidding. She was serious. What the hell am I supposed to do now? he wondered.

  She thought he looked more devastated by the revelation than she did and didn’t see how that could be possible. But then, if they had just been married...

  Her fingers curved around the photograph she’d hastily shoved back into her pocket when he’d woken up. “Are you my husband?”

  Thoughts were colliding in his brain like megabytes of information being processed in a computer. The question brought him up abruptly. He looked up at her, surprised.

  “What?”

  She pulled out the photo and looked at it again, then raised her eyes to his face. “Are you my husband?” she repeated.

  For the first time, she looked down at her hand. There were rings on it. Huge, magnificent rings. The diamond engagement ring gleamed and shot off rays as it trapped a sunbeam within its sphere. The glow reflected off the diamonds encrusted in the gold band beneath it.

  Her mouth formed a perfect O as she stared at the light show. The stones were large enough to have their own zip code.

  At least one of them, she thought, was very, very rich.

  Zane scrubbed his hand over his face. This was going to complicate everything. Why hadn’t she been more careful last night? He’d told her to stay in the hotel room, but she had been stubborn and followed him. And then she’d fallen.

  The laugh he uttered was purely reflexive, a throwaway sound.

  “I’m—” Debating, he made a decision and hoped it wasn’t the wrong one. There’d be hell to pay eventually if it was.

  Zane moved toward her and put his hands on her shoulders again. Hoping against hope, he looked into her eyes one more time.

  No, this wasn’t a joke. She’d never carry one this far. Damn it, anyway. He should have locked her up in the room last night. But it was too late for remorse now. He’d have to play the hand he’d been dealt. He always had before. But this time, he had a feeling it was going to be harder than usual to bluff.

  A practiced smile slid across his lips. With just the smallest bit of effort, Zane forced it to his eyes. A man did what he had to do to survive. “Yes, I’m your husband.”

  She had the photograph and the rings, yet his assurance couldn’t penetrate the invisible wall wrapped around her. Couldn’t nudge a single memory to the fore. She bit her frustration back.

  “Then you’d know my name.”

  His eyes touched her face, her hair, with such familiarity she thought she should remember at least a kernel of something. But she didn’t.

  Taking her hands in his, Zane nodded. “Yes, I know your name.”

  Maybe if she heard it. “What is it?” she asked hopefully.

  This was going to take some time, Zane thought. And time was the one thing they didn’t have in abundance. Not if this thing was going to go off on schedule. But he couldn’t just ignore the situation, either. Damn, but this was a mess.

  Trying to be as gentle as he could, Zane took her by the hand and sat her down on the bed.

  “Your name is Whitney. Whitney Bradshaw.” He searched her eyes to see if that made any impression on her.

  She could almost feel him delving into her mind, looking for something as hard as she was looking for it herself. Maybe he was her husband. There was no reason to doubt him just because she couldn’t remember. Why would he lie?

  Powerless to make a connection with the name, she shook her head in response to the unspoken question that hung between them.

  All right then, here goes, he thought. “Actually, your name’s Whitney Russell now. We were married two days ago in a chapel just outside of Las Vegas. We’re in Las Vegas right now. The Hotel Zanadu.”

  She didn’t know a single thing about herself outside the fact that she had, at least once, watched a TV program about a time traveler, yet what he was telling her didn’t sound right. Didn’t feel right. She didn’t think she was the kind of person who would have been happy settling for a ceremony in Las Vegas. Something told her she had more taste than that. More of a sense of tradition.

  And then there were the clothes.

  Confused, she pulled out the photograph from her pocket and held it up to him again.

  “Aren’t these very fancy clothes for Las Vegas?” If she was just going to run off with him, why had she bothered bringing such an expensive-looking gown with her?

  Zane sighed. Whitney might not be in there at the moment, but she’d left behind her annoying habit of picking things apart. He might have known the worst traits would remain.

  “You insisted,” he told her, the smile on his lips never fading. “You said you wanted a memorable photograph of your wedding, even if the place wasn’t.”

  “Why Las Vegas?” The rings didn’t look fake. The gown certainly wasn’t. That meant there was money enough for a huge wedding.

  His smile widened. This time, there was just the slightest trace of amusement in his eyes. “You were in a hurry.”

  In a hurry. That, like the nickname he had called her, almost struck a chord before fading away. She held the photograph in both hands, looking down at it. Willing herself to remember, to grasp the half memory before it became a ghost.

  Like sugar in the rain, it was gone.

  “Was anyone else there?” She raised her eyes to his. “My parents? Brothers? Sisters?” She tried to conjure up faces to go with the labels. They didn’t come.

  He continued to watch her eyes as he answered. “You don’t have any.”

  “Not even... a brother?” Her lips surrounded the word. She’d said it before. Brother. To whom?

  “You had one,” he said quietly, reaching for her hand. “You told me he died.”

  Died. Someone died. A brother. Her brother.

  Whitney sighed. She was alone. That would account for some of the emptiness she felt. But not all. A newlywed shouldn’t feel as if she were hollow. Should she?

  “Then there’s just you?” she asked Zane, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  Guilt raced through him. He squelched it. Mustering the most sympathetic look he could, Zane covered her hand with his own and squeezed it.

  “Just me.”

  She nodded, absorbing the information. “What’s your name?”

  “Zane. Zane Russell.” He could see that didn’t mean anything to her, either.

  Very lightly, he brushed aside her hair and looked at the bump she’d sustained last night. It didn’t look very big now. He’d been concerned enough about it
at the time to force her to go to the emergency room even when she’d stubbornly refused. X rays hadn’t shown any cause for alarm. There were no signs of a concussion. The doctor had assured him she’d be fine after a night’s rest.

  Fine. Yeah, right. The man had probably gotten his degree from the back of a matchbook cover.

  Zane rose to his feet, his hand still wrapped around hers. Quinton slept in late. That gave them a few hours’ leeway.

  “Look, why don’t we go back to the hospital?”

  Doubt filled the hollow spaces. “Back?”

  It was going to be a matter of force-feeding her all sorts of information. He knew the danger in that. He was going to have to be very careful.

  Zane nodded. “I took you there last night, after you hit your head. Community General.”

  The name meant less than nothing to her. “How did I happen to...?”

  He anticipated her question. The scenario was one he’d thought of last night, while driving her home from the hospital. In case anyone should ask.

  “In the pool. The one on the roof. It was late, and we had it to ourselves. I guess we got a little carried away,” he said vaguely, then flashed her a dazzling smile when he saw more doubt in her eyes. “After all, we are on our honeymoon. Anyway, you slipped and hit your head on the side of the pool.”

  Had they been skinny-dipping? The way he phrased the explanation made her think that they might have been. She tried to picture that in her mind and couldn’t. The tinge of embarrassment rose up to color her cheeks, anyway. She put it out of her mind. There were more important concerns to deal with.

  “Was I unconscious?”

  “No, that’s why you resisted.”

  “Resisted? You?” That seemed hardly likely. She might not remember Zane Russell, but there was no denying that something within her remembered the chemistry between them. Even now, highly confused and disoriented, she was aware of it. Aware of an underlying strong pull between them.

  It was all she needed to convince her that he was telling the truth. Whether or not she remembered it, she was his wife.

  “No, going to the hospital. I had to force you to go to the emergency room.”

  Again, something vague whispered along the perimeter of her mind. Someone being ushered into a car. Was it her? Was he the one doing the ushering? Her head began to ache again.

  “You forced me,” she repeated.

  Despite the gravity of the situation, his mouth curved. “You’re stubborn.”

  So what exactly did she have here? A name and a face, neither of which were even vaguely familiar. And a few scraps of information. How did it all fit together?

  “I’m stubborn and I play practical jokes and I have no family.” She blew out a deep breath. “Not much to build on, is it?”

  Zane thought of his own background. “Some have had less.” He wished he could tell her more, but now wasn’t the time. Instead, he slipped his arm around her. “C’mon, get dressed and we’ll see what the doctor has to say.”

  Before she could answer, there was a sharp knock on the door.

  Chapter 2

  The rapid knock came again.

  “Room service,” a baritone voice on the other side of the door sang out.

  Zane hadn’t ordered anything.

  He looked at the door, then glanced over his shoulder toward the closet, debating. There wasn’t time for that. Besides, it would raise too many questions. Her questions.

  Zane made no move to open the door. “I didn’t send for room service.”

  “No, sir. Compliments of Mr. Richard Quinton, sir,” the voice on the other side of the door cheerfully told him. “He left orders last night to bring you the biggest, best breakfast our kitchen has to offer.”

  “Oh.” Some of the tension left his shoulders. But when Whitney reached for the doorknob, Zane caught her by the wrist. She looked at him, growing steadily more confused. He shook his head, moving his body between her and the door. “I’ll get it.”

  Her head still felt incredibly fuzzy, but Whitney was certain that she’d seen a warning glance pass over his face just as he’d grabbed her wrist. Why was he being so cautious? It was only room service. It just didn’t make any sense.

  But then, nothing did.

  Whitney moved to the side, watching Zane. He opened the door a crack, then a little farther, before finally stepping aside.

  Her attention was drawn away from Zane to the cart the bellman was pushing in before him. The top of the mobile table was completely filled with covered dishes. There was just barely enough room for their place settings. Even the empty coffee cups were placed in the center of the plates.

  The bellman wheeled the cart over near the window. With a Hourish, he began uncovering the various dishes while slanting an appreciative look toward Whitney. There were hot cakes, waffles, sausages, bacon, toast, ham and eggs prepared two different ways. When he was finished, the bellman handed Zane a note.

  Unfolding it, Zane found that it said simply, “Eat hearty. Richard Quinton.”

  Curious, Whitney stood on her toes and read the words over Zane’s shoulder. She looked back at the array of hot food.

  “Who’s Richard Quinton?”

  Tossing the note aside, Zane slipped the bellman a five-dollar bill he pulled out of his jeans and then closed the door on the younger man. The sash on Whitney’s robe had come undone and her robe was hanging open. It was evident that the bellman had been desperately angling for a better view. Not that Zane could blame him.

  He crossed to the cart and picked up one of the empty plates.

  “Somebody whose life I saved yesterday.” There was comfort in the fact that though the title had been temporarily obscured, Zane could still read Whitney like a book. He saw the question in her eyes. “We were on the golf course. Quinton and the woman with him—Sally, I think he said her name was.”

  Zane knew damn well what her name was, knew everything that was necessary to know about the pair, down to the size of their underwear and where they went to school. He’d always prided himself on being thorough, but there was no point in saying that now. It would only generate more questions.

  “They were playing ahead of us,” he continued. “Rather slowly, I might add.”

  He helped himself to only the toast, taking two servings of raspberry jam to go with it. “Anyway, suddenly this car comes out of nowhere, barreling down the slope. Someone must have forgotten to put on the emergency brake.”

  Zane poured coffee into a cup, then pushed it toward her. Turning the second cup over, he filled it to the brim. He liked his coffee black and hot, and strong when he could get it. This looked more like tea. Weak tea at that.

  “And?” Whitney prompted.

  “And if I hadn’t pushed him out of the way, Richard Quinton would have died on the thirteenth hole holding a nine iron in his hand.”

  He said it so simply, as if he was accustomed to saving people’s lives on a regular basis. Was he? Was he a fireman or a doctor? Somehow she didn’t think so. She studied him as she picked up her coffee cup. The aroma was vaguely tempting. She sipped and frowned, then poured in cream. The aroma was deceptive.

  “Looks like yesterday was a busy day.” Unconsciously, she touched her forehead for emphasis. “Too bad I can’t remember it.”

  Zane perched on the arm of the sofa and ate. The toast was dark and crisp, just the way he liked it.

  “You will,” he reassured her.

  At least he sure as hell hoped she would. He didn’t want to think about the alternative right now. If he had no control over it, it made no sense to dwell on it until he could come up with a plan.

  Zane nodded toward the cart. “I guess the kitchen hasn’t heard about cholesterol yet.” He watched her fill her plate. Whitney was taking something from each dish. “Hungry?”

  She hadn’t realized she was until the cart had been brought in. At the sight of the food, she had felt her stomach tightening and twisting into a knot, growling. It was as
empty as her head. But this at least she could do something about.

  Whitney iooked up from the plate, placing her hand protectively over the side to keep the sausages from falling off.

  “Yes, very.”

  Zane picked up his last piece of toast. “Well, that hasn’t changed any. You always ate like a horse.” The assessment wasn’t flattering, but it was accurate; His eyes washed over her silhouette. As long as he’d known Whitney, there hadn’t been an ounce of excess fat on her. “Near as I can figure it, it changes into pure energy the minute it passes your lips. Same principle as an old-fashioned steam engine.”

  She knew what he said was true, even if she couldn’t remember anything specific to confirm it. Even now, confronted with this all-enoompassing hole in her memory, she could feel adrenaline beginning to build. Adrenaline accompanied by an insatiable curiosity.

  “I’m active?”

  Zane grinned. Here, at least, he was on safe ground. The word active didn’t even begin to cover it. “Indefatigable.”

  She liked that, liked the description a lot better than being told that she ate like a four-legged creature who lived in a stable.

  The grin on his face struck a distant chord, like a church bell being rung in a neighboring town. She liked his grin, liked the way it seemed to ripple straight under her skin. The way he was looking at her made her wonder if he meant indefatigable to apply to everything, or if he was referring to something specific.

  Something sexual.

  Had they slept together before they’d gotten married? she wondered. Or was this honeymoon a virgin run?

  The thought brought a smile to her lips, but she didn’t ask. Some questions were going to have to be worked up to.

  Zane rubbed his thumb over his fingers, getting rid of the crumbs. What was going on in that head of hers? He would have sold his soul to know. Or at the very least, leased it.

  Zane set the plate back on the table. She was still looking at him. “What?”

  There was so much to learn, so much to experience all over again for the first time. A myriad of possibilities began to suggest themselves to her. She had a feeling that she was accustomed to making the best of things.