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“Would you—would you call it love?”
Ignoring her question and the pain that had to be obvious in her gaze, he stood and stretched lazily, his muscles lengthening, his body seeming more starkly male and dangerous than ever.
“Do you love me?” she said again, more forcefully this time.
A sad smile touched his face. “As much as I can, Nik. You can’t remember this, but I may as well lay it out to you. I never much believed in love.”
“Then why did you marry me?”
His jaw tightened and he hesitated for a heartbeat. “It seemed like the thing to do.”
“Why?”
He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and walked to the door. Pausing, he sent her a look that cut right to her soul. “I married you ’cause you wanted it so damned much.”
“Noble of you.”
“You really don’t remember me, do you? ’Cause if you did, you’d know I was anything but noble.” He sauntered away, leaving her feeling raw and wounded as his footsteps faded down the hallway.
She let out a long, heartrending sigh. Everything was such a jumble. Nothing made any sense. Think, Nikki, think! Trent McKenzie is not your husband. He can’t be. Then who the hell is he and what does he want? Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced her mind to roll backward. He’d told her she lived in Seattle, and that felt right. He’d mentioned she’d worked for a newspaper—the Seattle Observer—and that, too, seemed to fit. But nothing else—not the whirlwind romance, not the quick civil ceremony for a wedding, not the hostile man himself—seemed like it would be a part of her life.
So who was he and why was he insisting that they were married? She tried to force her memory, her fists curling in frustration, her mind as blank and stark as the sheets that covered her.
In frustration, she gave up and stared out the window to the blue sky and leaves that moved in the breeze. Maybe she was trying too hard. Maybe she should take the doctor’s advice and let her memory return slowly, bit by bit.
And what about Trent?
Oh, Lord!
“Señorita Carrothers!”
The woman’s voice startled her. She turned her head toward the doorway and found a pretty girl with round cheeks and short black hair. Her smile faded slightly as she noticed the wounds on Nikki’s face.
“¡Dios! Are you all right? We, at the hotel, were so worried—”
“Do I know you?”
“Sí, when you register—”
“Wait a minute.” Nikki held up a hand but was restrained by her IV. She tried to think, to remember. “You’re saying I registered as Carrothers. Señorita Carrothers?” Nikki asked, her heartbeat quickening. This was the first proof that Trent had lied.
“Sí.”
“Was I alone or was my husband with me?”
“Your husband?” A perplexed look crossed the girl’s face.
From somewhere down the hallway, rapid-fire Spanish was directed at the girl in the doorway, and Nurse Vásquez, her guardian feathers obviously ruffled, appeared. Nikki couldn’t understand the conversation but could tell that the nurse was dressing the girl down.
“Wait,” Nikki said when she realized that Vásquez was sending away her one link to the past. “What’s your name? Where do you work?” But already the girl was out of sight, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. “Please, call her back!” she begged, desperate for more information about herself.
“I’m sorry, Señora McKenzie. Strict orders from the doctor. You are to see no one but family members.”
Nikki started to climb out of the bed. “But—”
“Oh, señora, please. You must rest…. Do not move.”
“Don’t let her leave!” Nikki ordered, but it was too late. The girl was gone and Nikki was left with a more defined mistrust of the man posing as her husband. As the nurse took her blood pressure, Nikki said, “Can’t you at least give me her name?”
