Her Forgotten Husband. Anne Ha
with hair. His legs were strong and well shaped, his hips lean. He had the body of a man who enjoyed physical activity, who skied, played tennis, jogged, made love….
She felt a sudden urge to touch him, to learn with her fingertips whether his body was as strong and firm as it looked.
Garrick’s hands came up and unfastened the top button of his shirt. She watched, mesmerized, as deft fingers slid the second button free. And the third. She saw dark hair curling on the sharply defined planes of his chest.
Her mouth went dry.
Three more buttons. He tugged the shirt free of his waistband, revealing a washboard stomach.
“What are you doing?” she croaked.
His hands stilled, but he didn’t answer. The shirt hung loose around his torso. Dark hair arrowed down his stomach and disappeared under his waistband.
She swallowed painfully.
With blessedly quick movements, Garrick shed the wrinkled oxford and replaced it with a black T-shirt.
Samantha cursed herself for a fool. She’d acted as if he were putting on some sort of striptease, as if he could read her mind and the unseemly thoughts that went on in it, when he’d only been changing.
They were married, she reminded herself. There was no reason for him not to change his shirt in front of her—especially when it looked as if he’d slept in it for a week.
He handed her a square leather purse. “I thought you might want this.”
Happy for a distraction, Samantha took the purse. She sorted through its contents, hoping something would look familiar.
Nothing did. The pocket calendar, face powder, lipstick and address book might all have belonged to someone else. Even her driver’s license, which showed a five-foot-five, twenty-five-year-old woman with brown eyes and long blond hair, didn’t elicit a flicker of recognition. She flipped through the address book without knowing a single one of the names that were written in a slanted, flowing script. Sighing, she put everything back in the purse.
“Nothing?” he asked.
“Not a thing. It’s like digging into someone else’s purse. I feel like a trespasser.” She held out the driver’s license. “Do I really look like this?”
He glanced at the license, then at her. “Close enough, though it’s not the most flattering picture—makes your hair look limp and your eyes look small and beady.”
“Thanks.”
He grinned back at her. “You asked.”
Samantha fingered a lock of her hair, which was loosely tied at the nape of her neck. The strands felt thick and soft. She pulled it over her shoulder to inspect it, but the unfamiliarity of the pale gold color disturbed her.
“There’s a mirror in the bathroom, in case you’d like to see your face.”
Something made her shake her head, despite her curiosity. The throbbing headache grew sharper with her movement.
She told herself it would be too much trouble to get out of bed, but in the back of her mind she knew her response was more complicated. If she looked in the mirror, she would have to confront a stranger’s face—even though she’d had it for twenty-five years. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for such a highly charged encounter.
The magnitude of her situation finally struck her full force. She knew nothing at all about herself or her life. She had only what she could learn from the foreign-looking items in her purse, and from Garrick. Without them she’d be completely at a loss.
It made her feel vulnerable, helpless.
It made her feel like a nonentity.
Garrick watched the expressions play across Samantha’s face. She’d never been good at hiding her thoughts and emotions. He could tell her panic had returned.
Taking her hand, he held it once more between his. “It’ll be okay, Sam. Your memory will return.”
She stared back at him, her brown eyes dazed. “When?”
Garrick paused. He still had trouble comprehending the fact that she’d lost her memory. How could her whole life disappear just like that? How could she not remember the past ten years? It must be utterly overwhelming. “I don’t know, Sam,” he said. “But I’ll stay with you and support you till it does.”
She lay back. “I’m scared.”
“I know you are. Everything will be all right, though. You and the baby are alive, and that’s what matters.” He stroked her hand until she slowly relaxed. Amazing, he thought, that his touch could have such an effect on her, as if she drew strength from him, from his nearness.
Garrick had had the same feeling when she’d been unconscious, as if he was speeding her recovery merely by touching her and remaining by her side. She’d become skittish and uncertain once she’d woken, but now the connection was back, and thank goodness. It gave him hope for the future.
Garrick found himself wishing her memory would take a while to return. He knew it was a foolish, selfish thought, but he couldn’t stop it. He wanted the chance to build a new intimacy between them, to make their marriage a strong and fulfilling one—and not just a passionless arrangement.
Samantha squeezed his hand. “Who am I, Garrick? Where do I live? What do I do?” She smiled ruefully. “Why am I such a bad driver?”
He laughed softly. She had a lot of courage, he thought, to make a joke—even a feeble one—when her life was in chaos. “You’re not a bad driver,” he assured her.
“I hit a tree. You told me so yourself. How much worse could I be?”
Garrick looked down at her, wishing he knew how to reply. He could have told her she’d been distraught, that her mental state had destroyed her concentration. But he didn’t. If he told her everything about her accident, about the convoluted events that had led up to it, they’d be right back where they’d been two days ago.
“Well?” she said. “Aren’t you going to tell me anything?”
He studied her for a long moment. “You’re definitely not a bad driver. What else would you like to know?”
“How long ago did we meet?”
“Ten years.”
She considered this. “So it wasn’t a whirlwind courtship.”
“No.” It wasn’t a courtship at all, really, but she didn’t need to know that right now.
“How long have we been married?”
Garrick groaned inwardly. These probably seemed like simple questions to her, but they were headed in a difficult direction. “Two months,” he admitted.
She was clearly shocked. “That’s all? We certainly took our own sweet time, didn’t we? Why the delay?”
“You were only fifteen when I met you,” he pointed out, unable to keep from smiling. She had no way of knowing how attracted he’d been, even back then.
“And how old were you?”
“Twenty.”
“Ah…” she said, a look of dawning comprehension on her face. “Let me see. I must have fallen in love with you on the spot. I can just picture it—the shy girl and the handsome older man. How sweet.” She paused, her brown eyes wistful. “Was I shy?”
“Yes, you were shy.” He remembered their first meeting as clearly as if it were yesterday. He and Warren had both come home from college for the winter holidays. Their younger sister Jenny had rushed down the stairs to greet them, eager to introduce her new friend. Samantha had followed with tentative steps.
Garrick had heard all about Samantha in Jenny’s letters and been prepared to like her.