Wife With Amnesia. Metsy Hingle
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 bewilderment 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 disappeared. 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