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“You’ve been bucking for more difficult assignments since you signed on at the paper.”
“And was I given them?”
“Hell, no. A few people at the Observer, those in positions of power, like to keep things status quo. You know, women doing the entertainment news, helpful household hints, local information about schools and mayoral candidates and whose kid won the last spelling bee. That kind of thing.”
“That’s what I wrote?” she asked, her brows drawing together. It sounded right, but she wasn’t sure.
“Most of the time, but you were more interested in politics, the problems of gangs in the inner city, corruption in the police department, political stuff.” He watched her carefully as he sipped the thick coffee.
“Who was my boss at the paper?”
“A woman named Peggy Henderson...no—Hendricks, I think her name was.”
“You don’t know?” she asked, incredulous.
He lifted a muscular shoulder. “Never met her.” When she gazed at him skeptically, he snorted. “As I said, you and I, we haven’t known each other all that long.” Again, that soul-searing look.
“What about my family?” she asked, her fingers twisting in the sheets. He was giving her more information than she could handle.
“Your father’s based in Seattle, owns his own import/export business. But he’s out of town a lot. In the Orient. You have a sister back east and one in Montana somewhere, I think, and your mother lives in L.A.”
“My folks are divorced?” Lord, why wasn’t any of this registering? she wondered. Why couldn’t she conjure up her mother’s smile, her father’s face, the color of her sisters’ hair?
“Dr. Padillo didn’t want you to rush things,” Trent said evenly. “He thinks it’s best if your memory returns on your own.”
“And you disagree?”
“I don’t know what to think, but I’m sure the best thing for you would be to get you home, back to the States, where an American doctor, maybe even a psychiatrist or neurosurgeon, could look at you.”
Her throat closed. “Could my amnesia be permanent?” she asked, her heart nearly stopping. The thought of living the rest of her life with no recollection of her childhood, the homes she’d grown up in, the family she’d loved, was devastating. A black tide of desperation threatened to draw her into its inky depths.
A shadow crossed his eyes. “I don’t know. But the sooner we get home, the better.” This side of Trent was new, as if he were suddenly concerned for her emotional well-being. “Tomorrow Padillo’s springing you. I’ll pick up everything at the hotel, meet you here, and we’ll take the first flight back to Seattle.”
“I’d like to call someone.”
He froze. “Who?”
“My editor, for starters. Then my mother, I guess.” Was it her imagination or did his spine stiffen slightly?
“If the doctor agrees.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“As I said, I’m no medicine man. But I’ll see if I can get a portable phone down here. If not, you can use the pay booth at the end of the hall.”
“Now?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Well, I do.” She forced herself upright, ignored the dull ache in her hip and leg, and slid over the edge of the bed. As she set weight on her right ankle, she winced, but the pain wasn’t as intense as she’d expected. She didn’t know the layout of the hospital, but she hoped to find Mrs. Martínez’s room. If she couldn’t get the information about the girl from the hotel from Nurse Vásquez, she’d check with Mrs. Martínez. There were more ways than one to skin a cat.
“Get back in the bed,” Trent ordered.
“Not yet.”
“Nikki, please—”
“Help me to the bathroom,” she said, tossing her hair off her face and grabbing the light cotton robe that was thrown across the foot of the bed. It was hospital issue and not the least bit flattering, but at least it covered the gaps left by the hospital gown. Balancing most of her weight on her left foot, she shoved her hands down the sleeves and tied a knot in the loose belt. “Come on, husband.”
For a second he seemed about to refuse. “This is crazy.”
“The nurse told me that whenever I felt like getting out of bed, I should. And I feel like it now.”
Grumbling about hardheaded women without a lick of sense, Trent bent a little so that she could place her arm around his neck. He wrapped a strong arm around her waist and nearly supported all her weight himself. “Okay, let’s go.”
She was a little unsteady at first, but managed the few steps out of the room to the bathroom down the hall. She tried to ignore the warm impressions of Trent’s fingers at her waist and concentrated on taking each tenuous step. The walking got easier and she became more confident.
If only she could ignore the smell of him, male and musk and leather as they paused at the bathroom door.
“¡Señora McKenzie!” A petite nurse hurried down the hallway. Concern creased her forehead and caused her steps to hurry along the smooth tile floor. “¡Espere!” As she approached, she slid a furious glance at Trent. “¿Qué es esto?” Her black eyes snapped fire and her thin lips drew tight like a purse string.
“She wants to know what’s going on here,” Trent explained. There was an exchange of angry Spanish, and finally Nurse Lidia Sánchez shoved open the restroom door with her hip and helped Nikki inside. “I guess she didn’t like my bedside manner,” Trent offered as the door swung shut.
Nurse Sánchez was still muttering furiously in Spanish, but Nikki didn’t even try to understand her. Instead she stared at her reflection in the mirror mounted over the sink. Her heart dropped and all the tears she’d fought valiantly swam to the surface of her eyes. The swelling had gone down, but bruises and scrapes surrounded her eye sockets. Thick scabs covered the abrasions on her cheeks and chin. Her hair was dirty and limp and she barely recognized herself. She hadn’t expected to be beautiful, but she hadn’t thought it would be this bad. Beneath the bruises she could see traces of a woman who would be considered pretty and vivacious, with green eyes, an easy smile and high cheekbones. Her chin-length hair, a light brown streaked with strands of honey-blond, held the promise of thick waves, but today the dirty strands hung limp and lusterless.
Trent certainly wasn’t posing as her husband because he was taken with her beauty. She winced as she touched the corner of her eye where the scab had curdled.
“Pase,” Nurse Sánchez insisted as she held open the door to the lavatory. “Ahora.”
Nikki followed her orders, but on her way out paused at the mirror again and caught Nurse Sánchez in the mirror’s reflection as she attempted to wash her hands. “Do you know which room Mrs. Martínez is in?”
“Sí, room seven. You know her?” she asked skeptically.
“Just of her,” Nikki said, wiping her hands and following the nurse back to her empty room. Trent wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and she felt a mixture of emotions ranging from disappointment to relief. She had started to trust him, but the girl from the hotel had caused all her doubts to creep back into her mind. Somehow she had to find a way to talk to Mrs. Martínez in room seven.
Her bed had been changed, and she lay on the crisp sheets and closed her eyes. Her surface wounds were healing. Even her ankle was much better, but her memory was still a cloudy fog, ever-changing like the tide, allowing short little glimpses into the past life, but never completely rolling away.
She was certain she remembered a golden retriever named Shorty, and that she’d never gotten along with her sisters, who were several years older, but she couldn’t recall their names or their faces.
Instinctively she knew that she’d always been ambitious and that she’d never spent much time lying around idle—already the hospital walls were beginning to cave in on her—yet she couldn’t recall the simple fact that she was married to a man as unforgettable as Trent McKenzie.
She was in limbo. No past. No future. A person who didn’t really exist.
At the sound of the scrape of his boot, she opened her eyes and found Trent at the foot of her bed. His expression was as grim as she’d ever seen. “There’s good news and bad news,” he said, his fingers gripping the metal rail of the bed until his knuckles showed white. “The good news is that you get to leave this place. Padillo says that you can leave tomorrow.”
“And the bad news?”
“The airline we’re booked on, one of the few carriers that flies to this island, declared Chapter Eleven yesterday.”
“I don’t understand.”
His eyebrows pulled together, forming a solid black line. “They’re in bankruptcy reorganization. Everyone who bought a seat on the plane is scrambling to get passage on the other carriers. The airport’s a madhouse, and my guess is that we won’t get out of here for at least two days.”
“Two days?” she repeated.
“Maybe longer.” His jaw was tight with frustration. “I booked us another room, and I was lucky to get one. I paid for a week. Just in case.” He kicked at an imaginary stone on the floor. “Looks like we’re stuck here for a while, Mrs. McKenzie. Just you and me.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_53d067cc-e86c-5ec4-85a9-af20195185fc)
“Here it is—home, sweet home.” Trent swung open the door of their hotel room and Nikki felt the cold hand of dread clamp over her heart. So she was here. Alone with her husband.
Swallowing hard, and still holding on to Trent’s arm for balance, Nikki carefully stepped over the threshold of the second-story room. It was furnished with a single queensize bed, a small round table with two chairs situated near the terrace and a single bureau. Matching night tables in an indiscriminate Mediterranean design were placed on either side of the bed.
“Come on. You’d better rest.”
“I’ve done nothing but rest for the past week,” she objected, though leaving the hospital, the bumpy cab ride and walking through the large hotel had been more difficult than she’d anticipated. Doctor Padillo had assured her that she would feel stronger with each passing day, and she certainly hoped so.
Trent hadn’t lied about the problems getting off the island. Never easy, now leaving Salvaje was nearly impossible with the major carrier to the island in a state of flux. “You haven’t found us another flight yet?” she asked, though she guessed from his silence in the cab that his attempts to fly home must have failed.
“I’ll work on it.”
A firm hand on her elbow, he guided her to one side of the bed, pulled down the covers and let her slide onto the clean sheets. She felt awkward and silly. If he were her husband, this was no big deal. If he weren’t...she couldn’t even imagine where being cooped up alone with him might lead.
“There’s a phone here. Good luck getting an overseas line. Everyone who’s stranded here is trying to call out.”
“Great,” she muttered, though she hadn’t expected better. He’d tried to help her make a call to her mother from the pay phone at the hospital. She propped the second pillow behind her head while she scanned the room. It was airy and clean, with a paddle fan mounted from the ceiling and bright floral bedspreads that matched the curtains. The closet door was half-open, and she spied her clothes—at least, she assumed they were hers—hanging neatly. A yellow sundress, khaki-colored jacket and white skirt were visible. She’d hoped seeing some of her things would jog her memory, but she was disappointed again. It seemed as if she’d never put together the simple pieces of her life.
As if reading her thoughts, Trent opened a bureau drawer and withdrew a cowhide purse.
In a flash, she remembered the leather bag. “I bought this in New Mexico,” she said as he handed her the handbag and she rubbed the smooth, tooled leather. “From Native Americans. I was on a trip...with...” As quickly as the door to her memory opened, it closed again and she was left with an empty feeling of incredible loss. “Oh, God, I can’t remember.”
“A man or a woman?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp.
“I don’t know.” She turned her face up to his, hoping he could fill in the holes, but he lifted a shoulder.
“I wasn’t there. Before my time.” He walked to the door, shut it and snapped on a switch that started the paddle fan over the bed moving in slow, lazy circles.
Nikki wasn’t going to be thwarted. The keys to her life were in her hands and she was determined to find out everything she could about her past. Leaning back against the headboard, she tossed back the purse’s flap and dumped the contents on her lap. Brush. Comb. Wallet. Tissues. Sunglasses. A paperback edition of a Spanish-English dictionary. A pair of silver earrings. Several pens. Address book. Passport. Small camera.
“All the clues to who I am,” she said sarcastically.
“Not quite. I think I’ve got a few more.” Reaching into the pocket of his jeans he withdrew a sealed plastic bag. Inside were a pair of gold hoop earrings, a matching bracelet and a slim gold band.
Her throat seemed to close upon itself, and she had to hold back a strangled cry at the sight of her wedding ring. Proof of her marriage. With trembling fingers she withdrew the tiny circle of metal and slipped it over her finger. “You bought me this?” she asked, her eyes seeking his.
“At a jewelry shop near Pioneer Square.”
She licked her lips and stared at her hands. The ring was obviously a size too large.
“You wanted to keep it for the honeymoon, and we planned to have it sized back in the States.”
“Is that right?” she said under her breath. Why couldn’t she remember standing before a justice of the peace, her heart beating crazily, her smile wide and happy as the love of her life slipped this smooth ring over her finger. Because it didn’t happen!
“I don’t remem—”
“You will,” he told her, his gaze steady as he stared down at her.
She shook her head, mesmerized as she scrutinized the ring. Her head began to throb again. “I should remember this, Trent,” she said, her frustration mounting. “A wedding. No matter how simple. It’s not something anyone forgets.”
“Give it time.”
Give it time. Don’t rush things. It will all come back to you. But when? She felt as if she were going crazy and her patience snapped. “I’m sick of giving it time! Damn it, Trent, I want to remember. And not bits and pieces. I want the rest of my life back, and I want it back now!”
“I’d give it to you if I could.” Plowing his hands through his hair in frustration, he spied her wallet. “Here.” He tossed it into her hands. “Maybe this will help.”
“Maybe,” she said, though she didn’t believe it for a minute. Sending up a silent prayer, she opened the fat leather case and sifted through her credit cards and pieces of ID. Nothing seemed to pierce through the armor of her past, and she was about to give up in futility when she saw the first picture.
“Dad,” she whispered, her heart turning over as she recognized a photograph of a distinguished-looking man with a steel-gray mustache and jowly chin. For a second she remembered him in a velvet red suit and long white beard, tiny glasses perched on the end of his nose, as he dressed up as Santa Claus each year for his company party.... The memory faded and she tried vainly to call it up again.
“Hey...take it easy.” Suddenly Trent sat on the edge of the bed, his warm hand on her forehead. “It’ll come.”
If only she could believe it. “So everyone says. Everyone who can remember who they are.”
“It’s been less than a week since you woke from the coma.”
His harsh features seemed incredibly kind, and she felt hot tears fill her throat. She fought the urge to break down and cry because she couldn’t trust him—even his kindness might be an act. There were other pictures in her wallet, some old and faded, none that she recognized, until she saw the family portrait, taken years ago, before her parents had split up. Her father still had black hair back then; her mother, a thin woman with a thrusting jaw, was a blonde. Her older sisters—why couldn’t she remember their names?—looked about fourteen and twelve, and Nikki was no more than eight, her teeth much too large for her mouth.
“Janet,” Trent said, pointing to the oldest girl with the dark hair. “Carole.” The middle sister with braces. “Your mom’s name is Eloise. She and your dad—”
“Were divorced. I know,” she said, saddened that she couldn’t recall her mother’s voice or smile, couldn’t even remember a fight with her sisters. Had they shared a room? Had they ever been close? Why, even staring at pictures of her family, did she feel so incredibly alone? If only she could sew together the patchwork of her life, bring back those odd-shaped pieces of her memory.
“Look, why don’t you try calling your dad?” Trent suggested, though his eyes still held a wary spark. “He’s still in Seattle and you always have been pretty close to him. Maybe hearing his voice will help.” He snapped up the address book, opened it to the C’s and scanned the page. “It’s still early in Seattle, so you might catch him at home.”
He picked up the receiver and started dialing before she could protest.
“Have you talked with him?” she asked.
“No.”
“You didn’t call and tell him about the accident?”
“I figured he’d take the news better from you. I’ve never met him. As far as I know, he doesn’t even know we’re married, and since your life wasn’t in danger, I didn’t see a reason to worry him.”
“And my mother—”
He held up a hand. “¿La telefonista? Quiero llamar Seattle en los Estados Unidos. Comuníqueme, por favor, con el número de Ted Carrothers...” He rattled off her father’s number in Spanish, answered a few more questions, then, frowning slightly, handed her the receiver.
Nikki’s heart was thudding, her fingers sweaty around the phone. “Come on, Dad,” she whispered as the phone began to ring on the continent far away. She was about to give up when a groggy male voice answered.
