Wife With Amnesia (2 page)

“Matt.”

“Matt,” she repeated, sampling the sound of his name on her lips. She waited for some flicker of recognition, some memory to go with the name. When none came, her head began to throb in earnest. Pressing her fingers
to her temple, she closed her eyes and ran his name, his face, his kiss through her mind again.

Nothing. No inkling that she knew him, that she remembered him. All she encountered were more blank pages. Her heart picked up a panicked beat at that realization, and she was forced to acknowledge that her memory was filled with far too many blank pages. Swallowing hard, she opened her eyes and found his gaze fastened on her as though he were sizing her up. The idea that he might be, unnerved her—almost as much as her inability to remember.

“Do I know you?” she blurted out and immediately regretted asking the question. Of course she must know the man, Claire reasoned. Why else would he be at the hospital? And why else would he have planted that toe-curling kiss on her?

“Yeah. I guess you could say you know me,” he said, his mouth hardening, his dark brows slashing in a frown. “After all, I am your husband.”

 

“M-my husband!”

Matt clenched his jaw as the color drained from Claire's face. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut. For a few moments when she had kissed him back, he had thought…he had allowed himself to believe that she still loved him, that she had forgiven him.

Frustration and disappointment slammed at him like punishing fists. He jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her again. Damn, what an idiot he'd been. Only an idiot would have let himself believe that Claire's brush with violence had somehow changed things between them and wiped out the six miserable months since she'd left him.

Now as he stared at her too-pale face, saw the bewil
derment clouding her cinnamon-brown eyes, he bit back a curse at his own lack of caution. How could he have been so reckless? Jeff had warned him that something like this might happen. That the blow to Claire's head and her disoriented state could be an indication of something more serious.

Only he hadn't heeded Jeff's warnings to take things slowly. No, he'd been too eaten up with guilt for failing to protect her. And he'd been scared spitless that he might lose her forever. When she had finally opened her eyes, looked up at him and hadn't turned away, he'd been too staggered by relief to think beyond the fact that she was all right.

Then she had touched him. And his ability to think at all had gone right out of the window. Claire's touch, the softness of her voice after so many months without both had been like a lifeline being thrown to a drowning man. So, he'd snatched it, held on to it with both fists. Kissing her hadn't been an option. Suddenly it had been as necessary to him as taking his next breath. And without considering the consequences, he had given in to his own selfish needs.

“We're married?”

Her question yanked Matt from his self-recriminations. “Yeah,” he replied, frowning. He didn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that she was having trouble remembering things. Probably some kind of memory loss because of that blow to her head. What he didn't know was how extensive that memory loss was or how much he should tell her. If she didn't remember him and their marriage, she evidently didn't remember that they were separated, either. Should he tell her? he wondered, reluctant to reveal that piece of news when beneath her confusion a trace of desire still lingered in her eyes. Selfish
bastard that he was, he decided to say nothing. He would rather cope with her confusion and anxiety than have Claire revert to the polite civility she'd treated him with since their split.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice fragile. She rubbed at the spot between her brows again. “Things are a bit fuzzy. And I…I seem to be having a little trouble remembering things.”

“It's all right,” Matt soothed, hating that she felt the need to apologize to him when
he
was the one who had failed her. But then, Claire had always been quick to assume responsibility when things went wrong. While, in truth, the fault had never been hers. No, the fault lay with the heartless woman who had abandoned a battered little girl in a hurricane twenty-five years ago. The fault lay with the legal system that had failed that little girl. And the fault lay with him—for not recognizing how deeply Claire's insecurities ran. For not considering that his attempt to find answers for her about the past would only open old wounds and be interpreted as his dissatisfaction with her as his wife. The fault was most assuredly his for not realizing that his actions would lead Claire to believe that he was one more person to whom she had given her heart only to be rejected.

“I'm sure everything will come back to me in a minute. I mean, a woman just doesn't forget her husband,” she said, the lighthearted remark at odds with the distress etched on her face.

Matt gave her what he hoped passed as a reassuring grin. “I think forgetting a husband is a forgivable offense,” he told her, wanting to ease her anxiety. “Especially if the woman doing the forgetting has a concussion and an egg-size lump on her head that needed stitches.”

She lifted a hand to the bandage. “I have stitches?”

“About a dozen according to Jeff.”

“Jeff?”

“Jeff Peterson,” he explained. “Or I guess I should say Dr. Jeff Peterson. He's the doctor who treated you when you were brought into the emergency room last night. He also happens to be an old friend.”

She frowned again, pinched the bridge of her nose as though she were trying to process the information. “I, uh, I think I remember him. But everything's still a bit hazy. What happened?” she asked. “How did I hurt my head?”

Matt hesitated, once again unsure how much he should tell her or if he had already said too much. “Maybe I should get Jeff and let him explain—”

“No.” She caught his hand when he started to leave, and Matt's body tightened at the feel of her fingers against his skin. “You tell me.”

Matt didn't move, didn't breathe for several seconds as he bit back the rush of memories her touch evoked. Vivid memories of her looking at him with desire in her eyes, of those silken fingers touching other parts of his body, of him touching her…

“Matt?”

He slammed the brakes on the dangerous turn his thoughts had taken. “You were mugged,” he told her, going from lust to fury in a heartbeat at the jarring reminder of what Claire had endured. Murderous thoughts sprang to life inside him toward the lowlife who had hurt her. No matter what happened or how long it took him, he vowed, he would make the scumbag pay for hurting Claire.

“Mugged,” she repeated.

What little color had crept back into her cheeks dis
appeared. Blasting himself for being so blunt, Matt said, “Take it easy. You're safe now.”

“It's just that I can't remember,” she explained. “And the things I keep imagining…” She whooshed out a breath. “What happened?”

When he remained silent, she whispered, “Please, Matt, tell me. I need to know.”

“You were pistol-whipped,” he said, spitting out the ugly truth. “There was a witness, a woman, who saw the whole thing. She said the guy hit you in the head with the butt of his gun, then he shoved you to the ground. That's how you sprained your ankle.”

The fingers holding his hand tightened. And though it didn't seem possible for her to be any paler than she already was, her face grew even whiter. “Was I— Did he—”

“No,” Matt snapped, realizing where her thoughts were headed. Cursing his lack of finesse in explaining, he tipped up her chin so that he could see her eyes. A fist closed around his heart at the fear and shame he read there. For that alone, Matt could murder the guy who had attacked her. “He never touched you. Not in that way. The scumbag stole your purse. But that's all he stole from you. Nothing else. I swear it.”

A breath shuddered through her lips. “I… Thank you,” she murmured.

Guilt ripped at him. That she would actually thank him gnawed at him something fierce and compounded the guilt he'd felt since getting Jeff's call. She was his wife, damn it. He loved her, and it was his job to protect her. Yet, not only had he failed to protect her, he had hurt her in a way no mugger ever could. How could he love her as he did and have been so blind to her feelings? If only he could go back. If only he could make things right.

“I don't remember.”

“Which is perfectly understandable. You've suffered a head injury. Sometimes even the smallest of bumps can cause some memory loss.”

“You don't understand,” she countered. “I can't remember
anything.
Not you. Not the attack. Not anything!”

“All right, take it easy. You probably have some kind of temporary amnesia,” Matt offered and hoped he was right about the “temporary” part. Other than the little Jeff had explained to him, what he knew about head injuries and amnesia wouldn't fill a nutshell. “Don't worry, you're going to be fine. Your memory is going to come back.”

“When?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “But it will.” He drew her into his arms, wanting to erase the panic he heard in her voice, saw in her eyes. Running his hand up and down her spine, he could feel some of her tension begin to melt beneath his caress. When she relaxed against him, rested her head on his shoulder, his own chest tightened. Closing his eyes, Matt savored the pleasure of having Claire in his arms again. After so many months without her, of wondering if he would ever get to hold her like this again, the feel of her body nestled against his was like a welcome spring shower following a long winter's drought.

Claire eased back a fraction and stared up at him. Matt waited for the questions he knew were already forming in that too-sharp mind of hers, questions that would demand and deserve answers. Answers that he was reluctant to give her.

He studied Claire's face, struck anew by how much he loved her, how much he needed her tenderness and warmth in his life. The bandage on her head was a shock
of white against the dark fire of her red hair. Her pallor still bore traces of the ordeal she had suffered, as did the frown pleating her brow. Yet even in the ghastly hospital lighting sans makeup, Claire was just as beautiful now as she had been the first time he had seen her.

He thought back to that day over two years ago when she'd bluffed her way into the kitchen of his family's restaurant, pretending to be a food inspector and demanding to see one of the owners. The restaurant had been in need of a new pastry chef, but she hadn't wanted the job. No, Claire had wanted to provide the restaurant with her desserts—even though a host of other firms offering the same service had already been turned away. But that hadn't stopped Claire. No, his Claire had insisted on being given a chance to prove herself. Just taste her white-chocolate cheesecake, she'd dared, and if he didn't agree it was the best cheesecake he'd ever eaten, she would work as his pastry chef free of charge for a full month. He'd taken one bite of the dessert sample she'd smuggled into the restaurant in her bag and he'd conceded that she'd won the bet. He'd ordered a dozen of the cheesecakes and asked her out to dinner. And he had made up his mind before they'd gotten through the appetizers to make Claire his wife.

Claire hadn't succumbed so easily, he admitted, a smile curving his lips as he remembered.

She had fought him most of the way claiming it was too sudden. They were too young. They were worlds apart in social standing and money. But he hadn't been swayed. He'd approached his decision to marry Claire with the same determination with which he'd approached his business. Failure was not an option. And he hadn't failed. He'd married Claire a scant three months after their first meeting.

Unable to resist, Matt trailed a finger down her cheek, felt her telltale quiver at his touch. Her skin was still as smooth as a magnolia petal, her overripe mouth a dusky-rose hue that he knew was only a shade lighter than the nipples of her breasts. Desire churned inside him as he lowered his gaze to her breasts hidden beneath the ugly hospital gown. He remembered how perfectly those breasts filled the palms of his hands, how they tasted when he took them into his mouth, how her breath hitched when he flicked his tongue over the tips.

“What happens if my memory doesn't come back?”

Jerking his gaze back up to Claire's face, he slammed the door on the sensual images that had him hard and aching for her. “It will.”

“What if it doesn't?”

“Trust me. Your memory is going to come back.” He just hoped that when it did, he wouldn't lose her again.

“But what am I going to do in the meantime if I can't remember anything or anyone?”

Her question hit him square between the eyes. This was his chance, Matt realized, feeling like a man who'd been dealt four aces. This was the chance he'd waited for, prayed for—to be able to go back, to make things right between the two of them. And before his conscience kicked in, he said, “You're going to let me take care of you.”

“I can't do that.”

“Sure you can. I'm your husband, and I love you.”

“But it seems…unfair. I mean, I don't remember you or anything about our marriage.” She flushed. “You're a…you're a stranger to me, Matt.”

Matt smiled as the plan began to take shape in his mind. “Then I guess I'll have to do my best to make you fall in love with me all over again.”

“I
'm sorry to put you through this, Mrs. Gallagher, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”

“I understand,” Claire told the police detective as she sat in her hospital bed the following day. “But I'm not sure I'll be of any more help to you now than I was yesterday. I still can't remember what happened.”

“So your husband tells me.” His expression earnest, the detective removed a notepad from his inside coat pocket and withdrew a sheet of paper tucked between the pages. “Fortunately your car was parked beneath a streetlight, so the witness who saw you attacked, a Mrs. Williams, got a pretty good look at your assailant. Based on her description, the police artist was able to come up with a sketch of what we believe your attacker looked like. If you don't mind, I'd like you to take a look at it and see if it sparks your memory.”

Claire hesitated. While she'd been frustrated over her
inability to remember even the smallest of things, the prospect of seeing the face of the man who had attacked her made her uneasy.

“Red, you up to this?” Matt asked as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

His use of the pet name, which she'd learned he'd dubbed her because of her hair color, combined with his gentle touch, eased some of the churning inside her.
He was her husband.
She still had trouble digesting that fact. Yet, since she'd opened her eyes two days ago, Matt had rarely left her side. Each time when she'd become frustrated or frightened at not being able to recall things, there he was assuring her that everything would be all right, that her memory would come back. And as though he sensed her uneasiness now, here he was once again offering his support. Lord, but the poor man must be exhausted, she thought as she tipped her head back to look at his face. Even with several days' growth of beard shadowing his jaw and worry lines etched around his eyes, he was still incredibly handsome. And sweet. He'd been impossibly sweet and attentive. How on earth could she not remember being married to him?

“Claire?”

She clamped the lid shut on her wandering thoughts. “I'm okay,” she assured him, and turned her attention back to the police detective. Bracing herself, she reached for the sketch.

Her first thought was that the man looked ordinary—like someone she might pass on the street or see in line at the bank or the grocery store. Early to midfifties, she estimated. The baseball cap covered his forehead and most of his hair, except for the straggly ends that hung around his too-narrow face. His nose was long, slightly crooked, and his lips curled into what she considered a
cruel twist. Shifting her attention to his eyes, a chill chased down her spine. There was something about his eyes…something lifeless and cold in the way they stared up at her…that licked at the edges of her memory—and made her heart begin to pound with fear.

“Does he look familiar, Mrs. Gallagher?”

Claire yanked her gaze from the sketch to the detective. “No,” she said quickly and shoved the picture back at him. Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she tried to shake off the fear that had raced along her nerve endings when she'd looked into those cold evil eyes. “I'm sorry. I don't recognize him.”

“Are you sure? For a moment, I thought—”

“She said she doesn't remember,” Matt said, sliding a protective arm around her shoulders.

“I'm sure,” Claire told the detective. She leaned against Matt, grateful for his presence after her reaction to the man's picture. Noting the detective's skeptical expression, she said, “I don't recognize him. If it seemed otherwise, it's because seeing his face and knowing that he attacked me shook me for a moment. But I honestly don't remember him.”

“Perhaps something will come back to you later,” the detective suggested. He tucked the notepad and drawing back into his coat pocket. “In the meantime, we'll start circulating his picture on the streets, see if we're able to get a lead on the guy.”

“I want the man who did this to my wife behind bars, Detective Delvecchio.”

“So do we, Mr. Gallagher. Unfortunately, due to your wife's amnesia, we don't have a whole lot to go on.”

“You have an eyewitness and a sketch of what the man looks like,” Matt pointed out.

“And we're pursuing both of those leads. But even if
we do come up with a suspect and are able to make an arrest, we're going to need your wife to identify him as the man who attacked her.”

“Which I can't do unless my memory returns,” Claire said aloud as the full impact of her situation hit her again.

“I'm afraid so, ma'am.”

The neurologist that Matt had brought in had told her that her memory could come back tomorrow, next month or even a year from now. Or it may never come back at all. The thought of not being able to remember the bits and pieces that made up her life, that made up who she was, caused the ever-present knot in her stomach to twist a little tighter.

“You've got to give yourself some time. It's only been a few days,” Matt told her as though, once again, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Yes. I'm sure you're right.” But the few days already felt like an eternity.

“Thank you again for your time, Mrs. Gallagher.”

“You're welcome, Detective,” she said. “I'm sorry I wasn't able to be of more help.”

“Like your husband said, it's only been a few days. But if you should remember something, anything at all about what happened that night, I'd appreciate it if you would get in touch with me.”

“I'll do that,” she assured him, and took the business card he offered.

He inclined his head toward Matt. “Mr. Gallagher.”

“Detective.” Matt shook the other man's hand, then ushered him toward the door. “I'd like you to keep me informed of any progress you make.”

“Of course.” Detective Delvecchio started to leave, then paused. He rubbed at his jaw, and Claire could have
sworn she saw speculation in the man's hazel eyes as he looked from Matt to her and back again.

“Was there something else, Detective?” Matt asked.

“I understand your wife is going to be discharged from the hospital tomorrow.”

“That's right,” Matt replied. “The neurologist recommended she stay an additional night for observation, but she should be released sometime tomorrow. Why?”

“I'm probably just being overcautious, but it might be a good idea if she isn't left alone at home until we catch this guy.”

“She won't be. I'll be with her. And when I'm not, my housekeeper or someone in my family will be staying with her.”

“Is that really necessary?” Claire asked.

“It's just a precaution, ma'am. But I think it's better if you have someone with you until we find this guy and put him behind bars.”

Alarms went off in Claire's head. “Why?” she asked, an uneasy feeling skittering down her spine.

“Like I said, it's just a precaution,” Delvecchio told her.

Claire narrowed her eyes, stared at the burly police detective. “I wouldn't think that sort of precaution is necessary in a mugging case. Is there something you haven't told me, Detective?”

“Red, you heard the man. It's just a precaution.”

Ignoring Matt, she pressed on. “Detective?”

“Call it the gut feeling of an old cop. I just think it would be a good idea if you're not left alone.”

“She won't be,” Matt said, and started to usher the detective out of the room.

“Detective, wait. Do you think he's going to come after me again?”

He hesitated. “He shouldn't. From all indications you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, the victim of a random mugging.”

“Is that what you think it is? A random mugging?”

“What he thinks doesn't matter,” Matt insisted. “No one's going to hurt you again.”

Dismissing the angry look Matt shot the detective, Claire persisted. “Detective Delvecchio, I'm asking for your professional opinion—that gut feeling you mentioned. Do you think the attack on me wasn't random and that he might come after me again?”

“Right now I have no reason to believe it was anything more than what it appears to be and this feeling in my gut is just indigestion. If that's the case, the guy is probably long gone and won't bother you again,” he informed her.

“But?” Claire prompted.

“But on the off chance that I'm wrong, and my gut is right, this wasn't a random mugging, I'd rather err on the side of caution and make sure that you're protected.”

Claire could feel the color drain from her cheeks. She fisted her fingers in the sheets. A shudder ran through her as she thought of those cold eyes in the police sketch. “But you said he stole my wallet. What makes you think his goal was more than robbery?”

“Delvecchio, why don't we discuss this outside?” Matt suggested.

“No,” Claire returned. Ignoring Matt's scowl, she said, “I'd appreciate an answer to my question.” When he didn't answer, Claire said, “Detective Delvecchio, I may have lost my memory, but I haven't lost my brain or my ability to think. Since I'm the one who was attacked, I believe I have a right to know why you think I might still be in danger.”

The detective sighed. “To be frank, ma'am, I find it strange that this guy would attack you as he did and just take your purse. According to the report from the hospital admitting clerk, you were wearing some pricy jewelry when they brought you in—jewelry that could have been fenced for a nice chunk of change. If fast cash was his motive, why didn't he take it?”

“Maybe he was scared off. You said that this Mrs. Williams witnessed the whole thing. Or maybe he didn't have time to finish the job because she surprised him.”

The detective scratched at his head. “That's the other thing that's been puzzling me. The man attacked you beneath a bright streetlight, where he could clearly be seen. Yet he made no attempt to conceal his face with a mask or a stocking. I've checked out the crime scene. It would have made more sense for him to make a grab for your purse before you reached the car. There was less chance of him being seen that way, and you were clearly more vulnerable.”

“Maybe you're dealing with a dumb crook,” Matt offered.

“And maybe we're not dealing with a crook at all,” Claire suggested. “That is what you're suggesting isn't it? That my attacker's motive wasn't robbery?”

“Yes, ma'am. The truth is, the Gallagher name is fairly well known in the New Orleans area because of your husband's family's restaurants and the family's social prominence. You folks are mighty visible. There's hardly a week that goes by without some member of your family having their picture splashed across the society pages or on the TV news at some big to-do in the city. From where I'm standing, that makes any one of you a prime target for kidnappers.”

“Kidnappers,” Claire repeated, stunned by the idea.

“It is a possibility,” the detective replied. “One that I don't think we should rule out. Maybe the reason this guy just grabbed your purse and didn't go for your jewelry or your car was because it was really
you
that he was after. Maybe he intended to kidnap you and hold you for ransom, but was scared off when Mrs. Williams showed up. Hitting you and taking your purse might have just been a ruse to cover what he was really after—you.”

“Oh, my God,” Claire murmured, both appalled and frightened by the scenario the detective had just outlined.

“I've had about enough of your theories, Delvecchio. All you're doing is upsetting my wife, so I'd appreciate it if you would leave and go find the man who attacked her,” Matt said, his voice clipped, his expression deadly.

The detective didn't argue. After exchanging a look with Matt, he nodded and left the room.

“Hey, it's all right,” Matt soothed as he sat on the bed beside her. He caught her by the shoulders. “Look at me, Red.”

Claire tipped up her chin, stared into those compelling gray eyes filled with concern, with worry.

“Listen to me. Even if Delvecchio's cockamamie theory about an attempted kidnapping is right, and I'm not at all sure that it is, nothing is going to happen to you. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you ever again. All right?”

Claire nodded, but inside she had this sick, uneasy feeling. Was it possible that someone had actually tried to kidnap her? Suppose they decided to try again? Panic paralyzed her for long seconds as she realized that if someone did try to kidnap her, she wouldn't even know what number to call to let someone know she was being held for ransom.

“Claire.” Matt gave her a gentle shake. “Sweetheart,
I know how hard this must be for you. You don't remember me, the love that we shared. But I do love you. More than you can possibly imagine. All I'm asking is that you trust me. Give me a chance. Give us a chance. Will you do that?”

“I'll try.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, drew his finger gently along her cheek. “That's all I can ask.”

But it wasn't all that he wanted. Desire still shimmered in his eyes as he caressed her jaw, stared at her mouth. A flutter of feminine heat flickered, spilled slowly through her system. While she might not remember Matt or her life with him, on some level her body remembered him.

“Trust me,” he murmured, and pressed his lips gently against her own. He drew back a fraction, looked her in the eyes. “I know this is difficult for you, but promise me you won't dwell on anything Delvecchio said.” When she nodded, he continued, “That's my girl. I want you to just concentrate on getting better. Tomorrow, when I take you home, everything won't seem so unsettling as it does now.”

But how did she tell the man she was married to that it wasn't just the detective's kidnapping theory that had the nerves knotting in her stomach? It was the prospect of going home with a husband who was for all intents and purposes a stranger to her.