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“After the ride to the mission.”
“Don’t start with me,” he warned, his lips pulling into a harsh frown.
“Okay, okay!” She lifted her palms outward. “Truce.”
“Is that possible?”
“God only knows,” she said with a smile before lifting the glass of wine to her lips.
She tried her best not to antagonize him during the rest of the meal. They ate in companionable silence, and the food was delicious. Tender and flaky, the fish was the best she’d eaten in a long, long while.
She tried not to stare at him, attempted to make small talk, but there was only so much that could be said about the hotel, the weather and the town of Santa María.
She was nearly stuffed when he lifted the lids on two small dishes. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, shaking her head at the small custard cup filled with a crème pudding, covered by brandied bananas and drizzled in sauce.
“Come on. It’s an island specialty.” He poured them each a cup of coffee and added a slim stream of cream into her cup. She watched the lazy white clouds roll to the dark surface and wondered how many times in the past Trent had poured her a cup of coffee. How many times had they eaten, just the two of them at a table like this? How many times had they fallen into bed and made love until dawn?
Her throat felt suddenly dry, and she took a long drink from the coffee. She had to quit thinking about him like that—to stop her mind from running away with these fantasies. She glanced at him over the rim of her cup and her stomach turned over. He stared at her with such intensity, such hot-blooded desire, that she forced her gaze away.
Nerves tight, she tackled the dessert, eating most of the sweet concoction, until, belly stretched, she shoved the cup aside. “That’s it. No more.”
“You sure? There’s more coffee—”
“No way. Go ahead.” Yawning, she stretched in her chair and noticed that his eyes slid to the V of her neckline.
“Nah. I, uh, think I’ll go clean up.”
He shoved himself away from the table and walked straight to the bathroom. He locked the door behind himself and wondered how in the hell he’d get through the next few days. Didn’t she know what she was doing to him? Didn’t she care? Or had she changed so much since the accident? He didn’t want to force himself upon her, not until she was ready, but damn, being this close to her, sleeping with her, for God’s sake, and trying to keep his hands off her was driving him up the wall.
You’re losing it, man.
Muttering under his breath, he turned on the shower spray. He kicked off his boots, yanked off his clothes and stepped under the ice-cold spray. Closing his eyes, he hoped the frigid water would temper his blood and take care of the erection that seemed to sprout every time he was alone with her.
The water stung. Sharp, cold needles against his skin. He leaned against the tiles and waited, forcing all thoughts of Nikki from his mind. He had other things to worry about. Tomorrow, first thing, he’d have to check with el Perro, just to make sure she wasn’t up to any funny stuff. At the thought of the disgusting little man, Trent scowled, wishing he never had to deal with the likes of the Dog.
Unfortunately it was all part of the game.
* * *
Nikki took advantage of her time alone in the room. She was still angry that he thought he could tell her what she could and coul
dn’t do. Well, he had another think coming. Trent wasn’t going to get the best of her. She might not remember her past, but she wasn’t some mindless wimp who didn’t know what was best for her! With one ear tuned to the running water, she dug through his jacket and pants pockets and came up with his wallet.
“Bingo,” she whispered, opening the leather with shaking fingers and a cat-who-ate-the-prized-canary smile. What would she do if she discovered he wasn’t Trent McKenzie, that he had several aliases, that he’d lied to her? Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it through the closed door and above the shower’s spray. With clammy fingers, she opened the wallet and held her breath.
The Washington state driver’s license confirmed that his name was, indeed, Trent McKenzie, and that his address was the same as he’d listed on the hotel registration. His picture stared up at her, his harsh glare challenging her, and she felt like a thief. For a second she thought about returning the wallet, but she knew she might not get a second chance to discover more about him.
She told herself that going through his things was all part of investigative journalism, her job. Besides, if he truly was her husband, then he shouldn’t mind. Quickly, she flipped through the cards stuffed neatly in special slots: social security, American Express, MasterCard, Visa, Puget Sound Insurance and an oil company card issued to Trent McKenzie. There were no pictures in his wallet, no clues to the inner man, but he was carrying a few hundred dollars in cash and traveler’s checks worth nearly two thousand. She was about to flip the wallet closed when she checked one final recess. Her heart stopped beating as she read the permit to carry a concealed weapon.
Because he was a private investigator. She supposed she should feel comforted, but a knot of worry tightened in her guts and she bit her lip against the fear that shot like ice-cold bullets through her bloodstream.
The shower stopped and, with clumsy fingers, she hastily returned the wallet to his pocket. She slid between the covers, snapped off the light, settled her head on the pillow and again feigned sleep. The ruse of dozing wouldn’t work indefinitely, she knew, but until she was ready to suffer the consequences of making love to her “husband,” she was more than willing to sink to deception.
* * *
He left her alone the next morning. Exhausted, she’d fallen asleep sometime after midnight, despite his strong arm thrown around her waist and his warm, steady breath against her nape. Once in the middle of the night, she’d awakened and noticed that his hand had cupped her breast, as if he had every right to touch her anywhere he pleased.
She had shifted and the hand fell away, but it left her feeling empty and frustrated and wishing—oh, God, wishing—that she knew who she was.
