Her Forgotten Husband. Anne Ha
rounded a curve, and then the house came into sight.
Samantha swallowed. The house was huge—far larger than any of the ones they’d passed on the way up. Its style looked Georgian, she thought—not knowing how she could remember architecture when she didn’t even know her own name—with alternating dark and light red bricks and a massive portico entrance framed by imposing columns. The lawn in front of the house was landscaped with clipped hedges and lush beds of flowers, and a low balustrade bordered the walk.
Samantha clutched her purse full of items she didn’t recognize. Even without her memory she knew the house in front of her belonged to a very wealthy family.
And she knew, with the same awful certainty, that she hadn’t trapped Garrick Randall into marriage because she’d loved him.
She’d done it for the money.
Hearing the low purr of her brother’s car in the driveway, Jenny Randall surveyed her handiwork before leaving Samantha’s bedroom.
Everything was ready.
The photo of Samantha and Garrick looked right at home on the nightstand. Samantha was a pretty sixteen, Garrick a debonair twenty-one. His arm lay draped across her shoulder and his expression was playful. Samantha was smiling for the photographer. To someone who didn’t know better, it was a sweet picture that hinted at deeper feelings on the part of both people.
And Samantha didn’t know better—not anymore.
There was a similar photo on Garrick’s nightstand, taken a few years later. Jenny had dug both pictures out of her album the night before, after Garrick had called and told her about Samantha’s amnesia.
Amnesia—what a stroke of luck!
Jenny glanced at the drawer, which now held a half-empty bottle of scented massage oil. She’d poured out the other half to make it look well used, to give an impression of ongoing eroticism.
She grinned to herself.
Best of all was the lingerie. Samantha’s dresser now overflowed with silk and lace creations—washed once to take away the new look—instead of the sturdy cotton undies Samantha had favored before her accident. Jenny had also packed a wickedly tempting bra and panty set with the clothes she’d sent to the hospital with Garrick that morning, so the conversion would be complete.
Many of the items would have to be put aside as the baby grew, but Jenny had bought several filmy, flowing chemises and nightgowns that would continue to fit. Samantha would look sexy and desirable all the way through her pregnancy, if Jenny had any say in the matter.
She glanced around the room one more time to see if she’d missed anything. Yes, the connecting door. She crossed the room and unlatched the door leading to Garrick’s room, propping it open with a heavy doorstop.
It wasn’t fair of her to do this, of course. But the doctor had said Samantha’s memory might not return for weeks or months—plenty of time for a whole new set of memories to be formed.
And they would. Garrick and Samantha were married now, and Jenny intended them to stay that way. The baby and their wedding were the only good things to come out of the past few months, which had been so difficult for everyone. It was time for some healing, for some much-deserved happiness.
Satisfied with her efforts, Jenny headed downstairs to greet her best friend.
Samantha sat in Garrick’s car, frozen, staring up at the huge house. Her stomach felt knotted and tense. “I live here?”
“We both do,” Garrick said. “Along with Jenny and Beth—that’s our mother—and Hugh.” He got out of the car and opened her door.
“Who’s Hugh? Your father?”
Shaking his head, Garrick helped her up the walkway to the front steps. “Dad died several years ago. Hugh is the, er, housekeeper—for lack of a better word. He hates to be called the butler.”
“I see…. So we all live here together? Like on Dynasty or something?”
Garrick smiled. “We don’t get in each other’s way much. It’s a good-size house.”
Which was exactly what bothered her. “I noticed,” she murmured, grimacing.
“Here’s Hugh at the door.”
Samantha looked up to see the strangest housekeeper imaginable. At least seven feet tall and two hundred and fifty pounds, the man at the top of the steps wore a T-shirt, black jeans and square-toed motorcycle boots. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back with a leather thong, and he looked as if he ate small children for breakfast.
Her hands strayed protectively to her abdomen.
Hugh’s eyes caught the movement. “Morning sickness? Should I make a pot of tea?” His gruff, Hell’s Angels voice was all concerned solicitude.
Samantha glanced at Garrick.
He chuckled, as if amused by her trepidation. “He won’t bite, Sam.”
She felt embarrassed. “Thank you, Hugh, but I’m fine. I haven’t had any morning sickness at all.” Even last night’s headache had subsided.
“Sorry, Hugh.” Garrick turned to Samantha. “He wants to try a ginger tea recipe he found in one of our baby books, but you haven’t been ill yet—much to his disappointment.”
The big, mean-looking housekeeper clucked his tongue as he ushered them inside. “Don’t you believe him, Samantha. I’m much happier to have you in perfect health. Welcome home, by the way.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Pregnancy does seem to agree with me. I guess it runs in the family, because my mother didn’t get sick when she had me, either—” She stopped, surprised.
Hugh’s craggy features softened. “Your memory’s already returning, I see.”
Garrick looked oddly uncomfortable, but said in a calm enough voice, “How much do you remember?”
“I’m not sure. I think I saw her face for a moment. Her skin was soft and…and she used to wear combs in her hair….” Samantha closed her eyes, grasping at the images, but they’d scattered like dust motes blown from a windowsill. “That’s all. Except—she’s passed away, hasn’t she?”
Gently Garrick nodded. “Both of your parents.”
Samantha felt a strange sadness knowing she’d never see them again, knowing they’d never meet their grandchild—strange because, though she felt the emotions, she still couldn’t remember them.
Hugh gave her a look of sympathy.
At that moment footsteps sounded from above, and they all turned their heads toward the sweeping staircase.
“Samantha? Is that you?” A tall, attractive brunette descended the steps, her blue eyes sparkling. “You’re home!”
Samantha blinked. Something about the moment seemed familiar, though she couldn’t put her finger on it. It certainly wasn’t the sight of the young woman’s face, which she recognized no more than Garrick’s or Hugh’s. “Are you Jenny?” she asked.
“Of course I’m Jenny!” The woman rushed across the entrance hall, her leather flats clacking on the polished white marble. She enveloped Samantha in a warm hug. “But you probably can’t remember, can you? Amnesia—how exciting! Oh, Samantha, I’m so glad you’re all right. We were terribly worried, you know. And Garrick’s practically lived at the hospital since your accident….”
She continued in this vein for several minutes, taking Samantha by the arm and leading her back through the elegant house to an airy breakfast room filled with potted ferns. The men trailed behind.
Jenny, Samantha and Garrick all sat at the table, while Hugh disappeared briefly and returned