Wife With Amnesia (6 page)

“I want you. Make no mistake about that. And I'd like nothing better than to carry you over to that bed and make passionate love with you all night.”

Claire's heart jumped at his words. Another shiver of
excitement shot through her blood, along with a jolt of fear. “Matt, I—”

“But as much as I want that, I know you don't feel the same way right now. So I'm going to sleep in the guest room tonight, tomorrow night and every night until you tell me that you want me to share this room with you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, both relieved and disappointed.

After showing her where everything was in the adjoining bathroom, he pulled back the bed covers and laid out her pajamas. ‘I'm going down to lock up for the night. I'll be back up in a few minutes with your medication.”

“Okay,” Claire told him as she picked up the ivory silk pajamas.

He paused at the doorway. “Sure you don't need any help?”

“No, thanks,” she said, but as he left the room, Claire couldn't help feeling a twinge of regret.

 

Matt pulled the bedroom door closed behind him. Leaning against it, he squeezed his eyes shut and battled the desire that clawed at his gut. He could still taste her, feel the imprint of Claire's body pressed against him, smell her scent on his skin. For a few moments downstairs when she had kissed him back, and again when he had first brought her into the bedroom, she had been his Claire again. It was as though nothing had changed between them, as though she had never walked out on him, as though the past six months had never happened.

Only, those six months had happened, Matt reminded himself. She just didn't remember them. And no matter how much he loved and wanted Claire, he couldn't afford to rush her.

He needed to stick to his plan if this was going to work, Matt told himself. Sucking in a breath, he opened his eyes and headed downstairs. And the only way to make it work was to earn her trust. Otherwise, when Claire's memory returned, he didn't stand a chance of her forgiving him.

Too bad patience had never been one of his strong suits, Matt thought as he put on a kettle of water to make tea. While he waited for the water to heat, he recalled the terrified look on Claire's face when that storm had rolled in earlier and the way she had clung to him. The fist around his heart squeezed tighter as the unwelcome images painted by the investigator's report came back to haunt him.

All too easily he could envision Claire as a frightened toddler, cowering inside that confessional box in the empty church while a hurricane raged outdoors. Anger churned anew inside him at the details he'd gleaned from the report, making him grateful that even prior to the assault and her amnesia, Claire held no memories of that time in her life. Remembering his earlier decision to speak to the police detective about the details unearthed in the investigation, Matt eyed the kitchen clock. Late, but not too late, he decided. Withdrawing the detective's card from his shirt pocket, he reached for the phone.

When he hung up the phone fifteen minutes later, Matt had his emotions and his hormones firmly under control once more. Content with his decision to meet with Delvecchio the next day, he placed Claire's medication on the tray with the tea and headed upstairs.

Outside the bedroom door, Matt paused as a flicker of regret rushed through him. He'd spent many a night imagining Claire sleeping in their bed again—and in none of those fantasies had he envisioned her sleeping in
that bed alone. Soon, he promised himself. Balancing the tray, Matt rapped his knuckles against the door and stepped inside.

And he nearly swallowed his tongue.

Faster than a streak of lightning all thoughts about being patient and winning Claire's trust went straight to hell. So did his ability to speak. All he could do was stare. And want.

Sitting on the bed in a puddle of silken sage sheets, Claire was an erotic dream come to life. The ivory silk pajama top she wore whispered over her curves and skimmed the tops of her thighs. Her long legs were bare save for the bandage on her left ankle. Matt retraced the path with his eyes, noting the way the swish of silk caressed her hips, her rib cage, how the vee at her throat dipped, revealing milk-pale skin and offering him a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. When her nipples puckered beneath the sheer fabric, Matt forgot how to breathe.

“Matt…”

Her smoky voice rippled over him, obliterating any remote possibility that he could think clearly. He couldn't. Not when the only thought running through his brain was that she had murmured his name in that same way while lying naked in his arms, her body joined intimately with his.

At the clinking of china, Matt yanked his attention to the tray now bobbling in his unsteady hands.

As though Claire had been caught under the same sensual spell as he, she suddenly scrambled beneath the covers…and cried out in pain.

“What is it?” Matt demanded, shoving the tray down on the bedside table and rushing to her side.

“My…my ankle,” she said, her voice shaky, her eyes
dark with pain. “I must have twisted it when I pulled the covers.”

“Let me have a look,” he said, and reached for the comforter to pull it back.

“No!” Claire clung to the thick coverlet. “I'm okay,” she added more calmly, but from the white-knuckle grip she had on the coverlet, he didn't think so.

“You're sure?”

She nodded, swiped her tongue over her lower lip—a dead giveaway to the fact that she was nervous.

Biting back a groan at the innocent gesture, Matt leaned over to pick up the matching pajama bottoms that had fallen to the floor during her haste to get beneath the covers. The fabric was soft and as smooth as satin—like Claire's skin, he thought, rubbing his thumb along the sleek, cool surface. Calling himself ten kinds of fool for torturing himself this way, Matt let out a slow breath and waited for the need clawing inside him to pass.

“The bandage on my ankle is kind of bulky. I…I couldn't get the bottoms on over the bandage,” she explained. “That's why I'm not wearing them. The bottoms, I mean,” she told him as she reached for the ivory silk and crumpled it in her fists.

Matt grimaced. He certainly didn't need her to remind him that she was half-naked. The image of Claire sitting on the bed in that whisper of silk was permanently imprinted in his mind and no doubt would keep him awake most of the night. And he damn well better get himself under control, he thought. Giving himself a mental kick, he jammed his fingers through his hair to keep from reaching for Claire. “Sorry. I guess I should have realized that would be a problem. I'll get one of your nightgowns.”

“No,” she said quickly. She pulled the covers up
higher and anchored them under her arms. “I'm fine now. Honest.”

Too bad he couldn't say the same, Matt thought as he contemplated the cold shower he was going to need.

“Is that tea?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking her clue to change the subject. “I made you some of that herbal blend that you like to drink before going to bed.” He poured a cup, added a spoon of honey and a touch of milk, then handed her the cup.

“Thanks,” she said and took a sip. “It's good,” she told him and stared down at the cup, her eyes suddenly bleak.

“Hey, what's wrong?”

“I just realized that I didn't even know how I liked my tea. I guess it's a good thing you remember how I drink it.”

The sadness in her voice ripped at him. So he sat on the edge of the bed. “Your memory will come back, Red. Just be patient. Give it time.”

“I know. It's just that sometimes…”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes I wonder if the reason I don't remember is because I don't want to remember.”

Matt tensed. “Why would you think that?”

She shrugged. “I'm not sure. It's as though this door inside my head starts to open, but then I feel nervous…scared even…and I have this urge to run and hide. And then the door slams shut again.” She stared down at her tea as though she were ashamed of the admission.

Matt took the cup from Claire and set it on the tray, then he caught her hands in his and held them. “You don't ever have to worry that I'll think you're foolish because of what you feel. I won't. And you don't have
to be afraid to tell me what it is you're feeling or thinking. As for these feelings you're having about running away, it's probably because you were attacked. That's bound to shake up anyone and make them feel at least a little frightened.”

“I guess you're right.”

“Of course, I am,” he teased. He kissed her knuckles, fought back the urge to draw her into his arms. “I want you to trust me. I promise that I won't let anyone hurt you ever again. Okay?”

“Yes,” she told him, and gave him a tentative smile. “And I do trust you, Matt.”

“Good. I swear I won't let you down.”

“I believe you,” she whispered before telling him good-night.

And when he retreated to the guest room and slid beneath the cool sheets, he told himself he would keep his promise to Claire. He would never let her down again. He would regain her trust and her love so that when her memory returned, she would repeat those same words to him and mean them.

But until that time, he would keep his word to her. He would protect Claire and make sure that no one ever hurt her again.

“I
've been thinking over what Detective Delvecchio said at the hospital the other day,” Claire began the next morning while she poured herself a second cup of coffee. “You know, about the possibility that the attack on me was a kidnapping attempt.”

Matt looked up from the biscuit he'd slathered with butter. A frown slashed between his brows. “Red, I don't want you worrying that someone is going to try to kidnap you. That's not going to happen. Besides the fact that I think Delvecchio is off base with his theory, I have no intention of leaving you alone. Either I'll be here with you or Emma will. So don't be worrying over it.”

“I'm not worried.” The truth was she was more at ease today than she had been at any time since awaking in the hospital. It felt good…right…to be here sharing breakfast like this with Matt. She could almost imagine being his wife.

“I'm glad. Because you can trust me, Claire. I promise, I won't let anything or anyone ever hurt you again.”

“I know. And I do trust you,” Claire told him. “What I'm trying to tell you is that I think you're right. I think the detective is off base with his kidnapping theory, too.”

Matt paused with the remainder of the biscuit suspended somewhere between his plate and his mouth. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“How come?” he asked, his expression wary.

“My wedding ring.”

Matt put down the biscuit and shoved his plate aside. “Your wedding ring?”

She nodded. “Last night I noticed you were wearing one, but I wasn't. So I checked my jewelry box this morning. I found my watch and some other jewelry there, but not my wedding ring. The mugger must have taken it when he took my wallet. So, you see, his motive must have been robbery after all. He just didn't get to finish the job.”

“Red…”

“I realize we'll need to let Detective Delvecchio know that we made a mistake when we reported that nothing else had been taken besides my purse. And I'm afraid you'll need to describe the ring to him since I don't remember what it looks like or what it's worth.” She took another sip of coffee and continued. “But maybe if you have a picture somewhere—”

“Red, your wedding ring wasn't stolen. I have it and your engagement ring.”

The relief she'd experienced crumbled—right along with her neat little theory. She stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “You have them?”

“Yes.”

“But I don't understand.” There had been no mention of a wedding ring or an engagement ring in the police report which listed the items that had been in her possession when she'd been taken to the hospital. “Why do you have my rings?” she asked puzzled. “Why wasn't I wearing them?”

Something flickered in Matt's eyes, but was gone so quickly Claire thought she might have imagined it. “The stone in your engagement ring was loose. I was supposed to take it to the jeweler and have it repaired.”

“Oh,” she said, mulling over that bit of news. “I just assumed since we married so quickly that we'd simply exchanged bands.”

“That was the plan,” Matt informed her. “But I wanted you to wear my ring before the wedding, so I gave you an engagement ring.”

“But if the stone in the engagement ring was loose, why did you take the wedding ring, too?”

Matt wrapped his hands around the coffee mug in his hands. “I was going to have both rings cleaned for you while the stone was being fixed.”

“I see. Did you?”

He stared into his coffee a moment, then met her gaze. “Actually, I never got around to it. The rings are still in the desk in my study.”

“Could I see them?” she asked, hoping that seeing them might trigger her memory.

“Sure. I'll get them.”

When he returned a few moments later with the black velvet box in his hand, Claire had the distinct impression that Matt was ill at ease. She was about to ask what was bothering him when he opened the box and placed it on the table in front of her. And the question went right out of her head. “Oh, my,” she murmured, awestruck by the
sight of the marquis-cut diamond set in a thin band of gold. The stone measured at least three carats and appeared flawless. A matching wedding band sat nestled in the bed of velvet beside the diamond ring.

“Look familiar?”

“No,” she admitted and wondered how any sane woman would forget something so gorgeous. “They're beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Claire flushed at Matt's declaration. She certainly didn't feel beautiful in her loose-fitting blouse and long skirt with her hair an untamed mass of red curls and no makeup. But the rings were another story. They were beautiful and elegant. And she wasn't sure how she knew, but she was certain that Matt had chosen these rings himself. She ran her fingertip over the diamond. “That's strange,” she said. “The stone doesn't seem to be loose.”

“You're right. It doesn't,” Matt conceded, his expression guarded, his eyes fixed on her instead of the ring.

Telling herself she was imagining things, Claire attempted a smile. “Maybe I just thought the stone was loose.” Removing the wedding band from the box, she read the inscription, “‘All my love today, tomorrow, always…Matt.'”

“That hasn't changed,” Matt whispered when she lifted her gaze to his. “It's still true.”

Claire swallowed past the lump in her throat, but there was nothing she could do for the ache in her chest. She so wanted to remember him, to remember this special love that they had shared. Removing the ring from the box, she started to put it on her finger.

“Wait. Let me.” Taking her left hand, Matt slid the wedding band onto her finger first and then he followed
with the diamond ring. Still holding her hand, his expression was solemn as he looked into her eyes. “You're everything to me, Claire Gallagher. Everything that I want, everything that I need in this world and the next. I love you today, tomorrow, always. Nothing—not time or even death—will ever change that.”

A shiver went through Claire at his words, at the weight of the rings on her finger, at the feel of him holding her hand. Instinctively she knew that Matt had held her hand like this before, that he had said these same words to her before. When? On their wedding day when he'd first put the wedding band on her finger? No, more recently than that. She was sure of it. For a second the haze clouding her mind shifted, cleared. She could feel that door to her past inch open another crack, and she tried to see beyond the fog, to catch the memory lurking behind it. But suddenly the overwhelming urge to run washed over her again. Her breath coming fast, Claire pushed to her feet, ready to flee.

“Claire!” Matt caught her by the shoulders, hindering her efforts to escape. “What is it? What's wrong?”

Inside she started to shake, and she grabbed on to Matt. She clung to him, determined to push open that door and face down whatever waited there in her memory. But just as quickly as the door opened, it slammed shut again. Groaning in frustration and relief, she went limp and dropped her head against Matt's shoulder.

“For God's sake, Claire, what is it?”

At the sharp note in Matt's voice, Claire rubbed at her temple. “For a moment I thought…I almost remembered…”

Gently Matt tipped her face up so that she could see his eyes. “Remembered what?”

“I thought…I thought I remembered you holding my hand, saying those same words to me before.”

“I did,” Matt told her, his expression somber.

“When?”

Matt's hesitation stretched for what seemed an eternity, and she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he said, “The last time was about two weeks ago.”

Two weeks, she repeated silently, processing the information, willing herself to remember. Nothing. “Why can't I remember it? Why can't I remember
you?
”

“You will. When you're ready, all of it will come back,” he assured her while he traced a finger along her cheek to the shell of her ear. He slid his hand to cup the back of her neck. “Until then, we'll take it slow.”

But
slow
didn't match the quickening beat of her pulse beneath Matt's touch. Nor did
slow
match the liquid heat that spilled through her when she glimpsed desire burning in his eyes as he looked at her. And
slow
certainly didn't begin to describe the way her heart raced as she arched her back and lifted her mouth for Matt's kiss.

Whatever she was afraid of, whatever it was in her memory that made her feel this need to run and hide each time that door to her mind inched open, it wasn't this. It wasn't Matt, Claire told herself as she welcomed the crush of his mouth.

She didn't feel even remotely afraid when his muscles flexed beneath her fingers and he drew her closer, anchored her to him. Nor did she feel the need to run when he pressed her against his heat and deepened the kiss. And she certainly didn't feel the need to hide when she wrapped her arms around his neck. She flattened her breasts against his chest and filled herself with Matt's taste, with Matt's touch. The blood pulsed in her veins so fast and hot that Claire didn't hear the sound of the
front door opening or the sound of footsteps that stalled at the doorway.

Not until Matt lifted his head did Claire realize they were no longer alone. “Good morning, Emma. As usual, your timing is impeccable,” Matt said dryly.

“Morning, Mr. Matthew.”

Claire peeled herself away from Matt. Breathing deeply, she willed her pulse to slow down, her skin to cool from the heated need that still flowed in her blood. “Morning,” Claire managed to say.

“Morning, Miss Claire. You're looking much better today, getting some color back into your cheeks.”

From the amused glint in Emma's eyes, Claire suspected the housekeeper knew that the color blooming in her cheeks had nothing to do with her health and everything to do with Matt. Embarrassed, Claire smoothed her hand down her blouse. Silently she admitted to herself just how close she had come to ripping open the buttons of Matt's shirt.

“If you're not finished with breakfast, I can start cleaning upstairs,” Emma offered.

Matt glanced at Claire. “Are we finished?”

Heat bloomed in Claire's cheeks anew because she knew it wasn't finishing breakfast that Matt was asking her about. Swallowing, she said, “Yes. I think I've had enough for now.”

 

For now it was enough that Claire wanted him, Matt told himself two hours later as he sat behind the desk in his office at Gallagher's corporate headquarters. His In box bulged with mail, messages and an assortment of things demanding his attention. Matt ignored it all and stared across the desk at Detective Anthony Delvecchio, who continued to silently flip through the private inves
tigator's reports about Claire's childhood. As he waited for the detective to finish, Matt's thoughts turned back to this morning…and to Claire.

Need, deep and dark, fisted in his gut as he recalled Claire's taste, her touch. Every cell in his being had screamed for him to lead her upstairs, to tumble with her onto that big, soft bed and feed the hunger that had held them both in its grip. Emma's arrival had come in the nick of time, because he'd been dangerously close to doing just that.

And had he done so, it would have been a mistake. Because he wanted more from Claire than for her to feel desire for him. He wanted more from her than love. This time he wanted what she hadn't given him before. This time he wanted Claire's trust.

I trust you.

God, how he'd wanted to believe she'd meant those words. He'd wanted it so badly that he'd almost convinced himself it was possible that Claire did trust him and that she would still trust him when her memory returned. Then she had asked about the rings. While he hadn't outright lied to her, he had told her half-truths, Matt admitted with disgust. She
had
told him she thought the stone in her ring was loose and he
had
planned to have the rings cleaned. Only that had been six months ago when she'd returned the rings to him before she'd walked out—not a few days ago as she obviously believed.

Matt thought about the way Claire had looked at him when he'd slipped the rings on her finger. The desire and hope in her eyes had been a marked contrast to the tears and regret he'd witnessed two weeks ago.

Two weeks.

Had it only been two weeks since she'd agreed to have
dinner with him for his birthday? It seemed like a lifetime had passed since she'd sat across from him at that candle-lit table and apologized for not getting him a gift. The only thing he'd wanted for his birthday was her. So he'd set the box with her rings on the table between them and, taking her hand, he'd told her what was in his heart. That she was everything he wanted, everything he would ever need, and he had asked her to give their marriage another chance.

And she had turned him down.

Oh, she'd cried, said that she still loved him. But she didn't think they could make the marriage work. She'd claimed they were all wrong for each other, that she wasn't the right kind of wife for him. He'd listened to what she'd said and to what she hadn't said—that she had forgiven him, that she trusted him with her love.

He wanted Claire to love him again—but this time he also wanted her to trust him. Had he earned her trust the first time around, maybe he wouldn't have lost her in the first place. Because if she had really trusted him, she would never have believed that she didn't belong with him. He didn't intend to make that mistake again.

The sound of Delvecchio slapping the file shut yanked Matt from his musings. “I don't suppose it does any good to tell you that you should have turned this information over to me right from the start.”

“I'm giving it to you now,” Matt informed the scowling police detective.