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Her temperature dropped several degrees at the realization that she was trapped. Her mouth suddenly turned to dust.
Trent cocked his head toward the French doors. “Come on, I’ll help you into the bathroom.”
“I can manage,” she said stiffly, and to prove her point, she stepped unevenly off the veranda, walked into the bathroom and locked the door firmly behind her. Wasting no time, she turned on the taps of the tub and began stripping. As steam began to rise from the warm water, she glanced in the mirror, scowled at her reflection and noticed the greenish tinge to the bruises on her rump and back. The scabs were working themselves off, but beneath her skin, blood had pooled at the bottom of her foot and ankle. “Miss America you’re not, Carrothers,” she told herself, then stopped when she realized her name was now Mc-Kenzie.
“Nikki McKenzie. Nicole McKenzie. Nicole Louise Carrothers McKenzie.” The name just didn’t roll easily off her tongue. She settled into the tub and let the warm water soothe her aching muscles. As best she could, she washed her hair and body, then let the water turn tepid before she climbed out of the tub and rubbed a towel carefully over her skin and hair.
Wrapping the thick terry cloth around her torso, she walked into the bedroom, but stopped short when she found Trent lying on his side of the bed, boots kicked off, ankles crossed, eyes trained on the door.
His eyelids were at half-mast and his gaze was more than interested as it climbed from her feet, past her knees, up her front and finally rested on her face.
“I—I thought you’d left,” she sputtered, clasping the towel as tightly as if she were a virgin with a stranger.
“I decided to wait.”
“Why?”
“It didn’t make sense to leave you alone in the bathroom where you could slip and hit your head, or worse.”
“I’m not an invalid!”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“And I don’t need a keeper.”
He let that one slide. “I just wanted to be handy in case you got into any trouble.”
“The only trouble I’ve gotten into is you,” she said, willing her feet to propel her toward the bureau where she snatched clean panties, bra, shorts and T-shirt from one of the drawers. It crossed her mind that he’d unpacked her clothes, touched her most intimate pieces of apparel, but she ignored the stain of embarrassment that crawled steadily up her neck. After all, if she could believe him, they’d been intimate—made love eagerly. So who cared about the damned underwear?
She started for the bathroom. “Don’t leave on my account,” he remarked, and when she turned to face him, her wet hair whipping across her face, she saw a glimmer of amusement in his cobalt eyes, as if he enjoyed her discomfiture.
“You mean I should just let the towel fall and dress at my leisure?”
“Great idea.” He stacked his hands behind his head and watched her. Waiting. Like a lion waits patiently for the gazelle to ignore the warning in the air and begin grazing peacefully again.
Just to wipe the smirk off his face she wanted to let go of the damned towel, stand in front of him stark naked and call his bluff. Would he continue to tease her, playing word games, or would he avert his eyes, or, worse yet, would he, as he’d implied earlier, be unable to control himself and sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed? How would she respond? With heart-melting passion? Oh, for crying out loud!
She turned on her heel and with as much pride as her injuries would allow, marched rigidly into the bathroom.
“Don’t forget the antiseptic cream,” he ordered as she slammed the door shut. Wrinkling her nose, she mimicked him in the mirror, trying to look beyond her skinned face and scabs. Some of the smaller scrapes were beginning to heal and her eye wasn’t as discolored as it had been. “And stay inside,” he ordered from the other side of the door. “The doctor warned you about getting too much sun.”
“Yes, master,” she muttered under her breath. Her teeth ground together as she thought of him barking orders at her. It seemed as if all her life someone was continually ordering her around. Her parents, her older sisters, her teachers, her editor at the paper, and now Trent…. She froze, her heart hammering wildly. She remembered! Nothing solid, but teasing bits of memory that were jagged and rough had pierced the clouds in her mind. Little pieces of her personality seemed to be shaping. Suddenly she was certain that she’d always been stubborn, resented being the smallest sister, the youngest woman on the staff of the Observer!
She’d also resented the fact that her work had been looked upon with a wary eye, just because she was young and sometimes because she was a woman. She’d had pride in her work, a great passion for journalism and an incredible frustration at not being taken seriously.
She wanted to share the news with Trent, to tell him that it was truly happening, her memory was coming back, but she held her tongue. She still didn’t remember anything about him, about her trip to Salvaje, about the reasons she married him.
And what if she suddenly remembered that it had been he who had been chasing her, he who had pushed her over the cliff? She couldn’t really believe that he’d want to hurt her, as he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so since the accident, but there was something deep in her unconscious mind, something dark and demonlike and frightening, that warned her to tread softly with this man. If he were dangerous and her memory was the key to uncovering his deception, he might turn violent.
A shudder of fear ripped through her. Take it slow, Nikki, she told herself. You can’t trust him. Not yet. Until she had something more concrete, she’d keep her small discovery—that her memory was beginning to surface—to herself.
By the time she’d dressed, dried her hair and applied some salve to her face, he was gone, and she was grateful to be alone.
With the aid of her dictionary, she dialed room service and managed to order a pitcher of iced tea. She found some bills in her wallet and gave the waiter a healthy tip before locking the door behind him.
On the terrace, she poured herself some tea and looked through the pictures in her wallet again. There was one she’d missed earlier—a snapshot taken in the wilderness. A rushing river and steep mountains were the backdrop and two people were embracing before the camera. She recognized the woman as herself, but the man—blond and strapping with even features—wasn’t Trent. Dave, she mouthed, though she felt no trace of emotion as she touched his photograph with the tip of her finger. No love. No hate. No anger. As if he’d been erased from her mind and heart forever.
“What a mess,” she said, but decided not to dwell on her misfortune. She’d been feeling sorry for herself for nearly a week, but it was time to take charge of her life. She wasn’t laid up any longer. She could walk, though admittedly she wouldn’t win any races just yet, but she didn’t have to depen
