Wife With Amnesia. Metsy Hingle
over the PA system, cutting off the rest of the doctor’s explanation as well as any response that followed. After a few more seconds in which more announcements followed, Claire could make out only low-pitched murmurs and the squeaking wheel of a passing cart. Finally she gave up trying to pick up the threads of their conversation again.
Just as well, she thought with a sigh. To listen took concentration on her part, and concentration took energy. And suddenly she was feeling incredibly tired. Weariness washed over her, stealing the last of her reserves. Her eyelids felt as if they were weighted with lead. Keeping them open or even trying to think became impossible. So she gave up the battle.
But the moment Claire’s eyelids fluttered shut, storm clouds seemed to engulf her, muddling her senses, dragging her deeper and deeper into some dark abyss. She was running. Faces and voices became jumbled. The need to escape grew stronger. Someone was chasing her. Hide, a voice whispered inside her head. Fear climbed in her throat as she ran and ran. She tasted the salt of tears, heard someone weeping, but still she ran.
Don’t stop! Run! Hide!
The voice urged her on, and Claire continued to run. She ran and ran, racing through the shadows. She fell. She got up. She ran harder still, ignoring the ache in her side, the burning in her lungs. And as Claire slipped into the well of unconsciousness that beckoned, she could have sworn she heard the rumble of that whiskey-rough voice from the hall once again. And this time he was calling her name.
“Claire? Claire, can you hear me?”
Pain knifed through Claire’s skull, and she whimpered as she battled through the heavy fog surrounding her.
“Shh. It’s okay.” His breath was a soft rush of air against her chilled skin. Warm, callused fingers caressed her cheek. Instinctively she moved closer toward the source of that heat. “That’s my girl. Try to wake up, sweetheart. Open those pretty brown eyes for me.”
Another missile of pain fired inside her head, but Claire muscled through it. She wanted, needed to get closer to that warmth, to see the face that belonged to the voice that had comforted her during the long night of dark dreams. When at last she managed to force her eyes open, two things registered simultaneously. First, the man’s face was every bit as compelling as his voice. Cary Grant handsome with jet-black hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, a square, uncompromising chin and eyes the color of flint. And second, she didn’t have a clue who he was.
He stared down at her with an intensity that she found disturbingly intimate. “Welcome back,” he said in a voice that packed a sensual punch and sent a shiver of awareness through her.
“Thanks,” she murmured and worked to put a name with his face.
“You feeling okay? I can call the doctor….”
“No,” she told him, wanting a moment to get her bearings. She was in a hospital, and her name was… Claire. Claire Gallagher, she recalled after a quick glance at her wristband. And the GQ hunk watching her with anxious eyes was… She frowned, tried to remember. A flutter of panic danced along her spine when she came up blank. Pushing to sit up, she winced as the movement set off new explosions of pain in her head and ankle.
“Hey, take it easy,” he soothed. “Head hurting?”
She nodded, only to wince when the movement elicited another stab of pain in her head.
“I’ll call the doctor and see about getting you something for the pain.”
“No. Wait. Please. It was only a twinge,” she told him. “I’m okay.” And she didn’t want to take anything that would make her feel fuzzier than she did already.
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m all right. Honest.”
“I’m glad to hear one of us is,” he said, giving her a halfhearted grin. “I was scared spitless when Jeff called and told me you were hurt.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“Keep doing that and you’re going to pull it out.”
He grimaced at her remark. “Reflex, I guess. Like I said, I was worried. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out every hair on my head has turned white,” he told her, another half smile curving his mouth.
It hadn’t, Claire noted. His hair was as black as coal and had a tendency to curl just at the edges. He looked and sounded so familiar. So why couldn’t she remember who he was or how he fit into her life?
“God. I was so scared I was going to lose you,” he said, his voice raw. All traces of humor gone. He squeezed his eyes shut a moment. “When Jeff called and said they’d brought you in, I thought…I was so afraid…”
“Don’t,” she said, moved by the anguish in his voice, in his eyes. Reaching out, she touched his clenched fists. “I’m all right.”
He stiffened momentarily at her touch. Something dangerous flashed in those steel-colored eyes. But before she could pull her hand back, he closed his fingers over hers, held. “I know. It’s just that…” He whooshed out a breath. His expression grim, he continued to stare at her while he seemed to engage in some inner struggle. “I’m sorry. I know how much you hate it when I push. But after last night…after thinking that you might…” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I guess you’re just going to have to add one more sin to my list of transgressions. Because God help me, I’ve got to do this.”
And before she realized his intent, his mouth touched her own. He brushed his lips against hers in a kiss so soft, so gentle, that instead of pushing him away, Claire rested her palms against his chest. Muscles flexed beneath her fingertips, and she could sense the strength, the tightly leashed control, the fire held in check. The sweetness of his restraint moved something inside Claire. Curling her fingers in his shirt, she returned his kiss.
When he lifted his head, he stared at her. Sure she’d made a mistake, Claire started to retreat. But before she could, he angled his head and his mouth came crashing down on hers again. Then his mouth was shaping hers, claiming her lips in a hungry kiss that made her blood heat, made her heart thunder in her chest. For a moment sanity deserted Claire. Her senses whirled beneath the searing demand of his mouth. Feminine need shuddered through her, throbbed in her womb. Instinctively she arched her body toward him.
His groan hit Claire like a slap. Shocked by her actions, she snapped open her eyes. Sweet heaven, what on earth had she been thinking? She didn’t know this man—not even his name. Shaken, she unclenched her fingers from his shirt and shoved at him—hard. He released her at once, and had she been standing, she was sure she would have fallen. “Wh-who are you?” she demanded, hating the tremor in her voice, a tremor that she realized wasn’t caused by fear alone.
Eyes narrowing, desire still glittering in their gray depths, he watched her with the same intensity that he’d kissed her. Out of nowhere the image of a wolf tracking its prey raced through Claire’s mind. Whoever this man was he was dangerous. Maybe not physically, because she didn’t think he would harm her, but on some deeper, more personal level. “I asked who you were,” she said, unnerved by his silence.
“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