Wife With Amnesia (5 page)

The sexual spark hovered in the air between them so strongly that Claire worried it would burst into flames. Then she heard the shriek of a buzzer, and Matt pushed to his feet.

“I'd better go check on our dinner,” he said, breaking the crazy spell that had ensnared them both. “Sit tight. I'll be back in a minute,” he told her before disappearing inside the house.

 

Inside the house Matt shut off the annoying buzzer. Snatching up a dish towel from the counter, he removed the casserole dish from the oven and swore as the heat seeped right through the too-thin towel and singed his fingers. Flicking on the cold-water faucet, he stuck his hand under the cool spray. But his reddening fingers didn't come close to the burn he'd felt at Claire's touch. That whisper-soft brush of her fingers against his jaw had been as powerful as a branding iron. His entire body had gone hot and hard in an instant, and the hunger that he'd tried so hard to keep in check had nearly swallowed him whole.

And he had damn well better get under control, Matt reminded himself as he dragged in several deep breaths. Turning off the tap, he dried his hands, then went about stacking plates, silverware and napkins on the tray with the casserole and salad. Dr. Edmond had warned him not to rush Claire. According to the neurologist, the concussion or trauma of the attack or both had been the cause
of Claire's memory loss. Most likely her condition would be short-term. She would remember who she was and the details of her life when she was ready. Until then, he intended to use every one of the days, weeks, or however long he had, taking care of her and trying to win back her trust.

In the meantime it probably would be a good idea to give Delvecchio a call and let him know about the latest bit of info the P.I. he'd hired had discovered about Claire's mother. Chances were he was being paranoid and it had no bearing on Claire's attack. But the detective seemed to think what had happened had been more than a botched mugging. Yet the idea of a possible kidnapping attempt gone wrong didn't feel quite right either. There were many far more prominent families than the Gallaghers in New Orleans—families with much deeper pockets and whose members would make much better targets for a kidnapping ransom. Still, if Delvecchio was right and the assault on Claire hadn't been a random mugging gone wrong, then he wanted to cover all angles to keep her safe. And even as remote as the possibility seemed, he couldn't dismiss the fact that his digging into Claire's past might have made someone jumpy and put her in danger.

Nothing like a healthy dose of guilt to take the edge off desire, Matt thought as he shoved a loaf of French bread into the oven to warm. If he had been, even inadvertently, the reason Claire had been attacked, it was just one more sin to lay at his own doorstep. Not that he didn't already have more than enough to answer for, Matt told himself. Six months ago he had hurt Claire when he'd confessed to hiring a private investigator to locate her parents. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never be able to forget the look of betrayal on her face when
he'd told her that he'd tracked down her mother. Or rather, he corrected with a grim twist of his mouth, what had happened to Claire's mother. He thought she'd be relieved, even feel a sense of closure, to learn that her mother hadn't abandoned her in that church as she'd always believed. Her mother hadn't come back for Claire because she couldn't. She'd been murdered—probably not long after leaving Claire.

Never had he dreamed that Claire would see his actions as a betrayal. That she would believe him unhappy with his nobody wife, as she'd called herself, or that she could possibly think he would find her lacking. How could she have loved him, lived with him for more than a year and believed he could be so shallow? How could he have loved her as deeply as he had and never recognized how deep her scars and insecurities ran? Or anticipate that she would leave him?

He had a second chance, Matt reminded himself. He just hoped to God that he hadn't blown it by deciding to pursue the investigation into her mother's death. For the life of him, he still wasn't quite sure why he had kept the P.I. on the case after everything had fallen apart between him and Claire six months ago. Maybe it was the outrage he'd felt at discovering that Claire's mother's death remained an unsolved murder on the books of New Orleans' finest. Or maybe it was simply learning that the woman's body had been buried in an unmarked grave for those without next of kin or the means to bury them properly. All he knew was that each time he thought of Claire growing up without a mother, with so many shadows looming from her childhood, he hadn't been able to simply walk away and forget it. Ordering the headstone for her mother's grave had given him a measure of peace. Someday he hoped it would do the same for Claire.

But the headstone hadn't been enough, he admitted. He had wanted some sort of justice for the woman who had given birth to his Claire. So, right or wrong he had told the private investigator to keep digging. And as of three weeks ago, the P.I. had finally gotten a lead on the mother's last boyfriend and identified him as Carl Dexter. From the profile he'd been provided by the P.I., Dexter had been as mean and sleazy as they came, a man who wouldn't hesitate to smack around an innocent little girl or to kill that child's mother.

The buzz of the oven telling him the bread was ready pulled Matt from his dark thoughts. First thing in the morning he'd call Delvecchio and tell him about Dexter. Chances were there was no connection between his pursuit of info on Dexter and Claire's mugging, since the guy had virtually disappeared twenty-five years ago. But just to be on the safe side, he'd let the detective know. Wrapping the warm loaf of bread in a towel, he placed it on the loaded tray along with a container of butter and headed out to the deck. “I sure hope that trek on the crutches helped you work up an appetite,” he said as he joined Claire. “Because you're in for a real treat.”

“It smells heavenly,” she said, and smiled up at him.

Matt's heart jumped in his chest. His throat went dry. With the exception of the bandage at her temple, she seemed like the old Claire again. It had been so long since she had looked at him without wariness or hurt in her eyes. It made him feel a little less guilty for deceiving her now by allowing her to believe that they were a normal, happily married couple. Somehow he would make this work, Matt told himself. He would earn Claire's trust again.

“Is that hot bread?”

“Yeah,” he said, and placed the tray on the table.

“I love hot bread and butter.”

“I know,” he said, amused.

“Here, let me help.”

She reached for the loaf at the same time that he did. Matt's breath caught in his lungs as their fingers brushed and that shimmer of electricity shot right through him.

“I guess I did work up an appetite,” she said, giving him an apologetic smile before releasing the bread.

“I'd say we both did,” Matt said as he placed the loaf between them. Giving himself a mental kick, he finished unloading the tray. And as he did so, he promised himself that he would take things slowly with Claire even if it killed him.

 

And it might just kill him after all, Matt decided thirty minutes later as Claire put down her fork and sighed. “If I eat another bite, I swear you'll have to cut me out of these slacks, because I won't be able to get them off by myself.”

Images of stripping Claire out of her pants, of running his hands over the curve of her hips and down those long slender legs had perspiration beading between Matt's shoulder blades and desire burning below his belt. “Not a problem,” he finally managed to get past a throat that had gone from dry to parched in a heartbeat. “But I expect it will take quite a few more of Emma's meals before I need to whip out my trusty scissors again and use them on anything besides the pant's leg.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” she said, laughing, and the easy carefree sound made his chest tighten. It seemed a lifetime since he'd heard Claire laugh like that. “Right now I feel about as stuffed as my ankle looks with that bandage. But it's almost worth it. Everything was delicious. Emma's a terrific cook.”

“She'll be pleased to hear that you enjoyed it.”

“Oh, I did,” Claire told him, and eyed the solitary shrimp covered in a tangy tomato sauce that remained on her plate.

“Go ahead and finish it off,” he encouraged.

Grinning, she swiped the shrimp from the plate and popped it into her mouth.

Matt chuckled at the look of pleasure on her face. Sitting next to him at the table, with her face free of makeup, her hair loose and flowing around her face and shoulders, she looked more like a teenager than a grown woman of twenty-eight. “You've got a little sauce on the corner of your mouth,” he told her.

She flicked her tongue at the corner of her mouth and along her bottom lip. She went from innocent to sultry in the blink of an eye, and Matt went from relaxed to aroused just as quickly.

“Did I get it?”

Matt swallowed—hard—and tried to beat back the rush of desire that roared in his veins. “No,” he managed to get out in a voice hoarse with wanting. Gritting his teeth, he prayed for strength when she repeated the maneuver a second time.

“Is it gone?”

Prayer obviously wasn't going to work, Matt admitted. Unwilling to put himself through that torture again, he decided to take care of the problem himself. “Hang on,” he said. “I'll get it.”

Big mistake, Matt realized the second he touched her. He ran his thumb across the corner of her lower lip and sent the desire already fisting in his gut on a fast track to parts due south. Judging from Claire's quick intake of breath and the combination of confusion and hunger in
her brown eyes, she had stumbled onto the same path with him.

To hell with it, he thought. And before his conscience or reason could kick in, he slid his hand around her neck and urged her closer. He pressed his mouth to hers. Just a taste, he promised himself. But the jolt was immediate and as powerful as a nuclear explosion. Matt lifted his head, gave her a chance to retreat. He would let her go, he swore to himself. But then she looked up at him out of eyes that had gone all smoky with need. When she tipped her mouth up to him again, Matt made a grumbling noise low in his throat and swooped down for a deeper taste.

He devoured that perfect mouth, molding and shaping it beneath his. He could feast on the sweet softness of her mouth alone for hours, he thought as he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. When she parted them for him, pleasure shuddered through Matt and he deepened the kiss.

Then her fingers bit into his shoulders as she returned his kiss. And Matt forgot all the reasons he had told himself this couldn't happen. He forgot that he had sworn he would give Claire time, that he would regain her trust first. He forgot his promise to only take a taste.

No, a taste of Claire would never be enough. Not when he wanted so much more. Not when he wanted all of her. And she would give him what he wanted, he realized. She would give herself to him even though it was too soon and she would regret it later. And if that happened, he would lose her.

Calling upon a strength he hadn't known he possessed, Matt tore his mouth free. He dragged air into his lungs in deep gulps while he battled the urge to haul her into
his lap and pick up where they'd left off. “I think,” he began as he sucked in another lungful of air and forced his gaze away from that tantalizing mouth. “I think I got all of the sauce.”

“W
hat?” Claire asked, doing her best to shake off the sensual haze that still held her in its grip. She tried to concentrate on breathing normally again—which was no easy task, given her body felt all tight and tingly and her mind seemed to have turned to mush.

A frown slashed across Matt's face. “There's no more sauce on your face,” he repeated, his voice gruff.

Claire's fingers went to her mouth, still warm and wet from his kiss, and she could feel the blush crawl up her cheeks. Embarrassed, a part of her wanted to duck beneath the table and hide while another part of her wanted to climb into his lap and have him kiss her again. And both reactions were absurd, she told herself. Matt was her husband. Surely he had kissed her like this before. So why on earth didn't she remember the thrill of his kiss, the heat of his touch? And why did she feel it had
been such a long time since she had been kissed this way?

“I'd better clear this stuff away before the rain hits,” he told her, and began loading their dishes onto the tray.

“Let me help,” she said, starting to get up.

“Don't even think about it. You need to stay off that ankle. I'll only be a minute.”

Not up to arguing, Claire turned her attention to the weather, only now realizing that the brilliant gold and orange sky that had greeted her when she'd first emerged onto the deck had disappeared. Instead of the sinking sun filling the horizon, a sliver of moon struggled valiantly to shine through a forest of black clouds rolling across the skyline. As far as she could tell, the stars had gone into hiding. Flames flickered in the gaslights on the deck. The spotlights from the garden below glittered and provided the only other source of illumination in the night shadows. Suddenly uneasy in the encroaching darkness, Claire rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She glanced toward the door, eager for Matt to return. Thunder grumbled, and Claire nearly jumped out of her skin.

She needed to hide.

The thought came out of nowhere, making her heart race. Despite the damp chill in the air, sweat beaded across her forehead, between her breasts. For a second something tugged at her memory, something frightening and ugly that sent fear climbing up her throat. Instead of reaching for that scrap of memory, she shrank away from it, afraid of what she would find. Fear mushroomed inside her. The urge to hide picked up a panicked beat in her blood.

She needed to run.

She scrambled to get out of the chair, ready to flee.

“The weatherman says we're in for a few showers.
We'd better get you inside before—” Matt swore. He was beside her in a flash, catching her when she would have fallen flat on her face in her haste to untangle herself from the chair and run. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into the house.

He didn't say a word—not a single one—as she clung to him. Long after he sat down on the couch with her wrapped around him and trembling like a leaf in the wind, he remained silent. He asked no questions. He didn't try to reason with her that she was being foolish. He simply held her, his hand rhythmically stroking over her hair and down her back in a soothing motion.

Claire wasn't sure how long she sat there plastered against Matt before the terror that had ambushed her out on the deck began to subside. It could have been minutes or hours that passed before the shaking inside her finally stopped. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was that the drapes had been drawn closed and that candles and lamps had been lit throughout the room, giving it a soft, cozy glow. The next thing she realized was that she no longer could hear the drumming of rain against the windows or the echo of thunder. Instead she heard the rich voice of Harry Connick, Jr., singing an old Sinatra classic and the steady beat of Matt's heart beneath her ear. Curled up in his lap with her head resting against his chest, Claire gradually became aware of him as a man. There was no mistaking the strength in the arms that cradled her. He felt solid, safe, strong—a man to slay dragons, she thought.

Surprised by the romantic analogy her brain had conjured up, Claire took a deep breath to clear her head. As she did so, she caught his scent—that mixture of woods and citrus and male sweat. No longer in the grips of the fear that had nearly paralyzed her, she thought about that
kiss they had shared earlier on the deck. She felt that pull at her memory again. She could see herself in his arms, feel his mouth and hands on her body, taste him on her lips. Claire shivered. It wasn't just a memory that had heat curling low in her belly, she realized. It was a need, a feminine hunger to have Matt kiss her, to have him touch her again.

“Cold?” he murmured, his hand ceasing its slow, lazy strokes down her back.

“No. I—I'm okay,” she told him, flustered as much by her reaction to him as to her wild imaginings.

Great, Claire thought, admonishing herself. She practically freaked out over a little thunder and didn't have a clue why, since her mind was filled with blanks where her memories should be. She had enough bruises on her body to play a game of connect the dots, and her ankle was trussed up like a mummy's. But apparently her female parts were all in full working order because she was sitting here lusting after a husband that she didn't even remember.

“I think the worst of the storm's over now. Feeling better?”

“Yes,” she replied, lifting her head. “Tell me, do I always become catatonic whenever there's a little thunderstorm?”

The question had been meant as a joke, her way of trying to alleviate some of the sexual tension she sensed between them. But one glimpse at his guarded expression and the worry clouding those silvery eyes had her stomach dipping. “I was only kidding.”

“Right. I know that.”

Nerves began to inch their way up her spine again. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, averting his gaze.

Her stomach sank. He was lying. “Do I have some…some kind of phobia that makes me freak out during thunderstorms?”

“Of course not.” He sighed, washed a hand down his face. “Most people don't like bad weather. You're no exception. That doesn't mean you have a phobia about it. Besides, New Orleans gets its fair share of rainstorms. Since you've lived here your entire life, you're used to them. For the most part, storms don't bother you.”

“But sometimes they do bother me?” she prompted.

“Yes. Or at least I suspected they did. You never said anything, but I always got the feeling bad weather frightened you. Today…today was the first time you ever admitted you were afraid. It's also the first time you've ever let me comfort you.”

And Matt had wanted to comfort her, Claire realized with sudden insight. Obviously, the fact that she had allowed him to comfort her now meant a great deal to him, given the thickness in his voice. So how had she failed to recognize Matt's need to do so before now? He was her husband, and he cared about her. She didn't doubt that. It was there in the way he looked at her, in the tenderness of his touch, in the patient way he had dealt with her amnesia.

So why hadn't she turned to Matt before now? Yet another question in the puzzle of who was Claire Gallagher? What made her tick? Didn't she love her husband enough to trust him with her fears? Had she ever loved or trusted anyone? she wondered. And why had a little thunder and rain caused her skin to go all clammy and sent panic racing like wildfire in her veins? Suddenly all the questions running through her mind had her head pounding. She rubbed at her temples.

“Head hurting again?”

“Just a little,” she admitted.

Easing her off his lap so that she was stretched out on the couch, he asked, “How about I get you a couple of those pain pills that Jeff prescribed?”

“No. Really, it's not that bad.”

He studied her face a moment, his eyes filled with concern. “You sure?”

She nodded and attempted a smile. “I think I'm just a little tired.”

“That's no surprise. You've had a pretty full day.”

She liked having Matt grin at her that way, Claire realized as his lips kicked into a grin. She liked him smiling at her almost as much as she liked having him hold her. And considering the state of her memory, she wasn't all too sure that was a good thing.

He kissed the tip of her nose and stood. “It's getting late. Give me a minute to put the kitchen in order, and then I'll help you upstairs so you can get ready for bed.”

He disappeared before she could protest that she didn't need any help and could manage the stairs on her own. What she didn't know was how to manage the desire that had started curling low in her belly again at the mention of going to bed. She could easily envision herself sharing a bed with Matt, kissing him, touching him, making love with him.

And she'd darned well better get her lustful musings under control, Claire told herself as she banished the images from her mind. She could hear water running and the clatter of dishes coming from the next room. Sitting up, she searched the room for sight of her crutches. When she failed to find them, she gave up and began a slow journey across the room. By the time she reached the staircase, she was exhausted. Using the newel post for leverage, she eased herself down and sat on the first step
while she contemplated the steep climb. She had been wrong, Claire decided. There was no way she was going to be able to maneuver those stairs on her own.

“Damn it, Red! What do you think you're doing?”

She whipped her gaze toward a scowling Matt and watched in frustration as he ate up the yards that it had taken her forever to navigate in a matter of seconds. “I was going upstairs, but I couldn't find my crutches.”

An angry frown slashed his brow. “I told you to wait for me.”

“I'm not helpless, Matt, and I don't want to be treated like an invalid. I think I can manage the stairs, if you'll lend me your arm for support.”

“No way. I'm carrying you.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he said firmly. Releasing a breath, he closed his eyes a second, and when he opened them again, his expression had softened. “Listen, you'll probably be up and down these stairs more times than I care to think about during the next few days. Now is my only shot at playing the hero. So humor me, Red. Let me feel macho. Let me carry you upstairs.”

She wanted to argue, would have, but the plea in his eyes made it impossible. “All right. This time. But tomorrow, I do it on my own.”

“Deal.”

And before she had a chance to reconsider the wisdom of her decision, he lifted her up into his arms. A person would have thought she weighed practically nothing as he began to climb the stairs with her. But Matt carrying her was the least of her problems, Claire thought. He followed the curve of the stairway and Claire felt the nerves dancing along her skin again with each step. She recalled that overpowering urge she'd felt to run and hide
earlier. To run and hide from whom? she wondered. From Matt? No, she reasoned. Matt was her husband. He loved her. Did she love him? She was attracted to him, even desired him, she admitted. But did she really love him? She stared at his face, felt that kick to her pulse again. Could she have forgotten him the way she had if she did love him?

She didn't know, Claire decided. What she did know was that despite the sexual pull between them, she didn't remember him. And despite what he might think after that mind-blowing kiss that they had shared, she wasn't ready to be his wife again. Until she was ready…until she knew who she was again, there was no way she could share Matt's bed.

Claire swallowed. How did she go about telling her husband that although she'd crawled all over him downstairs and he made her toes curl when they kissed, she didn't feel comfortable sharing a bed or anything else with him yet?

“This is it,” Matt said and nudged open the door.

Her first glimpse of the room stole Claire's breath and emptied her head of concerns as she took in the details. Like the rest of the house, this room was lovely and elegant in its simplicity. At the heart of the room was a huge four-poster iron bed. The bed's pewter finish was set off by a thick duvet in a shimmering sage damask with layered bed skirts that boasted coordinating trim sashes. Big fluffy pillows of sage, cream and silver were piled at the head of the bed. Crystal lamps with ceramic bases in celadon sat on pewter and glass nightstands. Across the room a cut crystal vase of white roses sat on a glass-top table between a chair and settee in oyster damask. A matching chaise with a striking jewel-colored throw sat opposite the grouping. An antique-white ar
moire took up most of one wall while a dressing table with an assortment of perfume bottles and framed pictures took up another. Floor-to-ceiling windows with billowing sheers filled the far wall. A large ficus and several flowering plants added to the room's charm. “It's lovely,” she told Matt. And it was. The room was also warm, inviting…and totally unfamiliar to her.

“You're responsible. You chose everything in here except the bed,” he told her as he eased her down to the chaise.

“Really?”

“You bet,” he said, and pulled the drapes open to reveal a night sky twinkling with stars now that the storm was over. Returning to her, Matt lifted her healthy foot and started to remove the flat shoe.

Claire yanked her foot up toward her chest, wrapped her arms around it. “I…I think I can manage.”

He hesitated a moment, then stood. “I'll get your pajamas for you.”

“Matt, wait.”

He stopped in front of the chest of drawers and looked back at her. “Yeah?”

Nervous, Claire plucked at the fabric of her slacks. “I know that this is your room, too,” she began. “I mean, I know we're married and you and I…that we…”

Matt retraced his path to her side. “Look at me, Red.”

When she didn't, he tipped her chin up. Desire gleamed in his silvery eyes. And for a moment nerves gave way to excitement as an answering need licked through her.