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“For law school?”
“Uh huh. I’d won a scholarship.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, well, I want you to be.” He turned her hand over in his and traced the delicate lines in her palm with the tip of his finger. “But I knew it wouldn’t cover everything, so I took a year and worked at all kinds of jobs. Waiter. Warehouse stockman. Cleaning crew in an office building.”
“And you saved a lot of money.”
“Enough so I gave in to temptation and bought myself a Harley. It was old and beat-up looking, but it ran fine and I loved it.”
“Then you became a lawyer and you gave up the Harley for a big black limo.”
He laughed. “Then I became a lawyer and I treated the Harley to a new paint job and some upgrades. I not only kept it, I still ride it. It was the first big thing I’d ever bought myself. I can’t imagine giving it up.”
She snuggled against him and dropped her head to his shoulder.
“When all of this is over, will you take me for a ride?”
“Absolutely. We’ll go from Manhattan to the Palisades, in New Jersey. There’s a spot there that overlooks the Hudson. It’s all hemmed in by trees and brush, and the view is of the river, trees and sky, nothing else.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
“It is.”
“I have a favorite spot, too. You have go all the way out to Montauk, down this dirt road nobody ever seems to use, and suddenly you’re at the end of the world, just sky and sea ahead of you.”
His arm tightened around her. “Another memory?”
She nodded. “I’m remembering more and more. Nothing important, just bits and pieces of stuff.”
“It’s all important. It means your amnesia is fading.”
“I know.” She brought his hand to her face and rubbed her cheek against it. “But what I want to remember are the things that brought me here. I want to know why some man is after me. Who he is. What it is he thinks I’ve done, because he must think I’ve done something, or why would he want to—to get me out of his life?”
“I don’t have the answer to that and even if I did... Cristo, I hate this!”
“Shh. It isn’t your fault. I understand that.” She looked up at him. “Most of all, what I really want to remember is you.”
“I’m right here, cara. If you want me, all you have to do is reach out and touch me.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, I want to remember you. How we met. What we said to each other. How you looked. What I was thinking when I saw you.” She smiled. “You must have made a big impression on me, if I ran away with only your business card and some money in my pocket.”
He smiled, too, though it took some effort, because it was that ‘big impression’ that made him uneasy.
What would she think once she knew he was her husband’s attorney? That initially his job had been to help Pastore divorce her? That Pastore had asked him to have her committed? Yes, he’d refused to do either thing, but so what?
What mattered was what had happened the night they met.
She’d pleaded for his help, and he’d walked away.
He’d walked away.
He hadn’t understood what was happening. Hell, he still didn’t, but the details didn’t matter.
She’d needed him and he’d walked away.
“Hey.” Her voice was soft. “What are you thinking? You look as if you’re a thousand miles away.”
He pulled her into his embrace.
“I love you,” he said. “Promise me you’ll never forget that.”
Her eyes searched his. “How could I? You’re my lover. My love. My knight.”
Matteo shook his head. “I am no knight,” he said fiercely. “I am only a man, Ariel, and I’ve made mistakes. Terrible mistakes.” He cupped her face in his hands. “But I love you. I always will, and you—”
She kissed him. “We all make mistakes, sweetheart.”
“Say that again.”
Her smile was so soft, so gentle, it made his throat constrict.
“Sweetheart,” she said.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. And then…
The lights went out.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The darkness was absolute.
So was the silence.
The little sounds that had been part of the night, the one no one is ever aware of—the hum of the oil burner that heated the house, the purr of the refrigerator, the soft whoosh of the dishwasher they’d turned on after dinner—were gone.
“Oh God,” Ariel whispered, “Matteo!”
He clamped one hand over her mouth and drew the Sig Sauer with the other. He could feel his heart thudding.
The power had gone out.
The storm? Or something—someone—else.
He told himself it was the storm. Yes, but Zach had said there was a generator. It was hooked into the house, he’d said; it would kick in automatically. If only he’d asked how long that would take. Ten seconds? A minute? Two?
The answer came before he’d finished the thought.
An electrical whirr. A motorized cough. The lights blinked on. The refrigerator purred, the dishwasher whooshed, and Matteo breathed again and took his hand from Ariel’s mouth.
“It’s okay, honey. It’s the storm. It took out the power and I forgot what Zach told me. We have a generator. It just kicked in.”
Ariel shuddered. “I thought—I thought—”
“We’re fine. See? We have lights and I can hear the oil burner. We’re absolutely fine.” He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. “Come here.”
She slumped against him as he closed his arms around her. Seconds dragged past. Then she sighed and sat up in his embrace.
“Sorry.”
“For what? Trust me. I had the same reaction as you did.” He hesitated, not wanting to ask the question but knowing he had to. “Ariel? Where’s the Ruger?”
She groaned.
“Upstairs. It’s still the pocket of the robe. I was wearing. Remember? I put the robe on the chair next to the bed when we went up to shower and change, and I forgot all about it.”
“Yeah, okay, but let’s not let that happen again. You should have it with you all the time.”
“Right,” she said with a big, artificial smile. “Wear the jeans, sweater and boots you pilfer from your host’s closet, and walk around armed. The perfect houseguest. That’s me.”
“That’s us, you mean. I’m all decked out in stuff we found here, same as you.”
She gave him a long, appraising look. Borrowed clothes or not, he looked spectacular. He was wearing faded jeans, a navy turtleneck sweater and low boots, similar to hers. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and he had that stubbled look she’d never liked on Anthony but loved on Matteo because it was so sexy and it made her think of how it felt when he kissed her breasts, her belly, her thighs when he made love to…when he made love to…
Oh God!
Anthony.
Who was Anthony? The name had come to her so easily. Who was he? And why did just thinking the name make her feel sick to her stomach?
Anthony. Anthony.
“Who’s Anthony?” she blurted.
S
he felt Matteo stiffen. Saw the change in his face.
“What do you mean?”
She sat up straight, swiveled around and faced him.
“Don’t do that,” she said sharply. “Don’t answer my question with a question. I know you’re just playing for time, Matteo, but you can’t. Not now. Not when that’s the first meaningful thing I’ve remembered. And don’t try telling me it isn’t meaningful, not when you look as if I’ve said something ugly.” She locked eyes with his. “Who is Anthony?”
Matteo rose slowly to his feet.
Why hadn’t he been prepared for this? Why had he assumed that everything about Pastore, everything that mattered, would come to her in one big revelation?
Never mind that. The question was, what should he do now? What should he tell her? She’d remembered Pastore’s name, and she was smart enough to realize the name meant something important.
“Matteo.” Ariel stood up. She closed the small distance between them, put her hand against his chest and looked up into his face. “I know you want to protect me. That you’re afraid to tell me more than I can maybe handle. But I have to know the truth. Don’t you see that? I’ve done everything you asked, everything the doctor wanted. I’ve tried to ignore the feeling inside me that I was blocking the memories that really matter. Bad memories. Disturbing ones.”
“Ariel. Cara. Listen to me.”
“No! You listen. We’re in a house designed to keep the world from finding us—from finding me—and all of a sudden, a name pops into my head and—and just thinking that name makes me sick and angry and desperate and—and I have to know why.” Tears blurred her eyes. “Goddammit,” she said, “I have the right to know! This is my life, mine, and now somebody’s name is in my head and I know that it’s the name of someone who terrifies me, and you have to tell me, you’ve got to tell me who that person is.” She balled her hand into a fist and banged it against his chest. “You have to! You have to! You have—”
Matteo caught hold of her fist.
He took a deep breath.
“His name is Anthony Pastore. And he is your husband.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“What?”
“The man whose name you remember. He’s your husband.”
She jerked back, the fist she’d pounded against him now a way to put distance between them.
