The Mélendez Forgotten Marriage. Melanie Milburne
‘Look,’ she said, pushing her chin up. ‘No rings. I told you—there’s been some sort of mix-up. I’m not married.’
‘You are very definitely Mrs Emelia Louise Mélendez,’ the doctor assured her with authority. ‘That is the name the police found on your driver’s licence. Your husband is waiting outside to see you. He flew over from Spain as soon as he was informed of your accident. He has positively identified you as his wife. He has barely left your bedside the whole time you have been unconscious. He just stepped out a moment ago to take a phone call.’
Emelia’s mouth fell open so wide she felt her chin drop almost to her chest. She felt her heart boom like a cannon exploding in her chest.
Her husband?
Her Spanish husband?
She didn’t even know his Christian name. How could it be possible for her to forget something as important as that? Where had they met? When had they got married? Had they? How many times…?
Her stomach gave a funny little quiver…It wasn’t possible…was it? How could she have lived with and loved a man and not remember him? Her skin broke out in a sweat, her palms hot and moist with uncertainty and fear. Was she dreaming? Surely she must be dreaming.
Think. Think. Think.
What was the last thing she had been doing? She scrunched her eyes closed and forced herself to concentrate but her head pounded sickeningly as she tried to recall the last few days. It was all a blur, a foggy indistinct blur that made little, if any, sense.
When Emelia opened her eyes the doctor had already moved through a gap in the curtains and a short time later they twitched aside again, the rattle of the rings holding the curtain on the rail sounding too loud inside her head.
She felt her breath stall in her throat.
A tall raven-haired stranger with coal-black deep set eyes stood at the end of the bed. There was nothing that was even vaguely familiar about him. She studied his face for endless seconds, her bruised brain struggling to place him. She didn’t recognise any one of his dark, classically handsome features. Not his tanned, intelli-gent-looking forehead or his dark thick brows over amazingly bottomless eyes or that not short, not long raven-black hair that looked as if it had last been groomed with his fingers. She didn’t recognise that prominent blade of a nose, and neither did she recognise that heavily shadowed jaw that looked as if it had an uncompromising set to it, and nor that mouth…Her belly gave another involuntary movement, like a mouse trying to scuttle over a highly polished floor. His mouth was sculptured; the top lip would have been described as slightly cruel if it hadn’t been for the sensual fullness of his lower one. That was a mouth that knew how to kiss and to kiss to conquer, she thought, as her belly gave another little jiggle. She sent the tip of her tongue out to the sand dune of her lips. Had she been conquered by that mouth? If so, why couldn’t she remember it?
‘Emelia.’
Emelia felt her spine prickle at the way he said her name. His Spanish accent gave the four syllables an exotic allure, making every part of her acutely aware of him, even if she didn’t know who the hell he was.
‘Um…Hi…’ What else was she supposed to say? Hello, darling, how nice to see you again?
She cleared her throat, her fingers beginning to pluck at the hem of the sheet pulled across her middle. ‘Sorry…I’m a little confused right now…’
‘It’s quite all right.’ He came to the side of her bed in a couple of strides, his tall presence all the more looming as he stood within touching distance, looking down at her with those inscrutable black eyes.
Emelia caught a whiff of his aftershave. It wasn’t strong, but then he looked as if he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. There was a masculine urgency about the black stubble peppering his jaw, making her think of the potent male hormones surging through his body. She shakily breathed in another waft of his aftershave. The light fragrance had citrus undertones that smelt vaguely familiar. Her forehead creased as she tried to concentrate…Lemons…sun-warmed lemons…a hint of lime or was it lemon grass?
‘The doctor said I can take you home as soon as you are well enough to travel,’ the man said.
Emelia felt the skin on her back tingle all over again at the sound of his voice. It had such a sexy timbre, deep and low and unmistakably sensual. She could imagine him speaking in his native tongue; the musical cadences of Spanish had always delighted her. But there was something about his demeanour that alerted her to an undercurrent of tension. There was something about the unreachable depths of his eyes. There was something about the way he hadn’t yet touched her. Not that she wanted him to…or did she?
She glanced at his long fingered tanned hands. They were hanging loosely by his sides—or was that a tight clench of his fingers he had just surreptitiously released?
Her eyes slowly moved up to meet his. Her chest tightened and her breathing halted. Was that anger she could see in that tiny flicker of a nerve pulsing by the side of his mouth?
No, of course it couldn’t be anger. He was upset, that was what it was. He was obviously shocked to see her like this. What husband wouldn’t be, especially if his own wife didn’t even know who he was?
She moistened her lips again, trying to find a way out of the confusing labyrinthine maze of her mind. ‘I’m sorry…you must think I’m terrible…but I don’t even know…I mean…I…I…I don’t remember your name…’
His top lip lifted in a movement that should have been a wry smile but somehow Emelia suspected it wasn’t. ‘I do not think you are terrible, Emelia,’ he said. ‘You have amnesia, sí? There is much you do not remember, but in time hopefully it will all come back to you. The doctor seems to think your memory loss will not be permanent.’
Emelia swallowed. What if it was? She had read a story a couple of years ago about a young woman who had lost her memory after a horrific attack. Her whole life had changed as a result. She hadn’t even recognised her parents. Her brother and two sisters were total strangers to her.
‘Perhaps I should introduce myself,’ the man said, breaking through her tortured reverie. ‘My name is Javier Mélendez. I am your husband. We have been married for almost two years.’
Emelia felt the cacophonous boom of her heart again. It felt as if her chest wall was going to blow open with the sheer force of it. She struggled to contain her composure, her fingers now clutching at the sheet of the bed either side of her body as if to anchor herself. ‘M-married?’ she choked. ‘Truly? This is not a joke or something? We are legally married?’
He gave a single nod. ‘It is our anniversary at the end of next month.’
Emelia had no hope of disguising her shock. She opened and closed her mouth, trying to get her voice to work. Her brain was flying off in all directions, confused, frightened, lost. How could this be? How could this man be her husband? How could her mind let her down in such a way? How could she forget her own wedding day? What cruel stroke of fate had erased it from her memory? She let out a breath that rattled through her lungs. ‘Um…where did we meet?’ she asked.
‘We met at The Silver Room in London,’ he said. ‘You were playing one of my favourite songs as I walked in.’
Emelia ran her tongue over her lips again as part of the fog cleared in her head. ‘I…I remember The Silver Room…’ She put her hand to her aching eyes. ‘I can picture it. The chandeliers…the piano…’
‘Do you remember your employer?’ Javier asked.
Emelia looked up at him again but his eyes were like glittering diamonds: hard and impenetrable.
‘Peter Marshall…’ she said after a moment, her spirits instantly lifting as the memories flooded back. At least she hadn’t lost too much of her past, she thought in cautious relief. ‘He manages the hotel. He’s from Australia like me. I’ve known him since childhood. We went to neighbouring