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She saw the crash. She saw Brooke as she reached for her and failed to catch her hand, experienced the agony of knowing she hadfailedto save her sister, her only living relative. And in the shaken aftermath, when she must have regained consciousness for a split second, reliving that unimaginable pain and primal fear, she saw her knitting needles strewn in the smoking wreckage of the car...
‘It’s OK...it’s OK...’ Lorenzo soothed as she sat bolt upright in the bed, rocking back and forth, her head down on her raised knees as she sobbed. ‘You had a nightmare. It’s not real, none of it’s real.Dio, you screamed so loudly I thought we were being attacked!’
But it was real, it wasveryreal, Milly recognised, her frantic thoughts tangled and befogged by layer after layer of shock and growing disbelief. Somehow she had got her memory back, the memory she had once been so desperate to retrieve. Her true self had slipped back without fanfare into place during that nightmare, clarifying everything that had previously been a complete blank. But, disturbingly, reclaiming her memory and her knowledge of who she was had plunged her into an even more frightening world.
Brooke was dead and she was devastated by that knowledge, even though the last time she had been with her half-sister she had finally appreciated that Brooke was unlikely ever to accept her as a true sibling. But it was one thing to accept that, another entirely to accept that Brooke was now gone for ever and that their relationship could never be improved.
Her sister was dead and Milly had been mistaken for her. How had that happened? But the more she thought about it, the easier it became to understand. After all, she had been wearing Brooke’s jewellery and Brooke’s clothes and she had had facial injuries. The strong resemblance between the two women had gone completely unnoticed, presumably because Brooke had been seriously injured too. Her reddened eyes stung with fresh tears.
How on earth could she ever put right all that had gone wrong?
Lorenzo would be devastated.
Lorenzo didn’t even know he was a widower. How could he? He had spent months looking after his injured wife’s needs, caring for her because she had no one else and then, ultimately, living with and having sex with the woman he naturally believed to be his wife. But shewasn’this wife, she was a stranger, just as he had been a stranger to her when she first wakened out of the coma. Only, sadly, neither of them had recognised that reality.
Trembling, retreating fast from Lorenzo’s attempts to soothe her, she hurried into the bathroom, for once taking no pleasure in her surroundings. She ran a bath as an excuse to stay there alone. Lorenzo appeared in the doorway, tall, dark and bronzed, and she chased him off again, telling him she just needed a warm bath and a little space to relax. Tears ran down her cheeks then as she sat in the warm water, all the mistakes she had made piling up on top of her, and she didn’t know, she really didn’t knowhowto go about telling Lorenzo the truth. He had said nothing was real in her nightmare, but he was wrong—it was alltooreal and the harsh facts could not be ignored. She had wakened from a nightmare to find herself entangled in a worse nightmare, because she was living her dead sister’s life with a man she loved, who did not love her. Lorenzo was wrong: nothing was OK and it never would be again...
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘DON’TTELLMEthat you’re fine again,’ Lorenzo warned her in a raw-edged undertone, his lean, darkly handsome features set in stern lines as the limo wafted them through the London traffic from the airport. ‘Obviously you’re anything but fine. Something has upset you a great deal and it’s time that you shared it with me.’
‘We’ll talk when we get back...er...home,’ she told him shakily, in no hurry to get there and deal with his outrage, his disbelief and his belated grief.
Lorenzo had never been hers and her tummy lurched at the knowledge that everything that had happened between them had been based purely on his conviction that she was his wife. Hiseveryword, hiseverydecision, hiseverycaress had been bestowed on Brooke, not Milly, she reminded herself doggedly, shrinking guiltily from the knowledge thatshehad encouragedhiminto sharing a bed. Brooke had hated Lorenzo, she reminded herself, reluctantly thinking back to her sibling’s conviction that Lorenzo was a possessive tyrant, who had unjustly accused her of infidelity in order to divorce her.
Obviously there had been a great deal of bitterness in their relationship by that stage. But Milly liked to think that, had Brooke seen how very supportive Lorenzo had been in the wake of the crash to the woman he believed to be his wife, she would have forgiven him for their differences. On that score, his behaviour had been above reproach. He could’ve walked away, let the divorce go ahead, leaving her to the tender mercies of the healthcare system and some legal executor. But Lorenzo hadn’t done that. He had stood by the vows he had once taken...in sickness and in health.
Her head was aching again with all the stress of her feverish thoughts and she rubbed her brow, wishing foolishly that there were some miraculous way of avoiding what lay ahead of her. Obviously, she would have to leave Lorenzo’s house and as soon as possible. Unfortunately for her, she had nowhere to go and not a penny to her name and no close friends either, because she had moved around too much to form lasting friendships.
It was a shame that she hadn’t worked harder at the many different schools she had attended during her years in foster care, she reflected with regret. Sadly, the knowledge that she would inevitably be shifted to a new foster home and a new school with different exam boards and course content had removed any enthusiasm she had had when she was younger for studying. The continual changes had made her unsettled, undisciplined and distrustful of forging close relationships with anyone because, sooner or later, everyone seemed to leave her and move on.
Perhaps that was why she had repressed every qualm to stay friendly and involved with Brooke, generally accepting whatever treatment Brooke dealt out. She hadn’t wanted to lose that all-important link with Brooke and had been eager to offer her half-sister all her love and support. Hadn’t she clung to Lorenzo in much the same way? Pathetically eager to offer love even when he wasn’t looking for it? Inside herself, she cringed for her weakness and susceptibility. But then had sheeverbeen loved?
Her memories of her mother were very hazy because Natalia had died when Milly was only eleven years old, but Nataliahadbeen affectionate and caring. Her father, however, had never paid her any attention when he visited them, hadn’t seemed to have the slightest interest in her, she recalled sadly, although possibly his apparent indifference had come from his guilt at cheating on his wife. Had her mother not told her that William Jackson was her father, she would never have known because his name wasn’t on her birth certificate. Although he had supported her mother financially, he had refused to officially acknowledge Milly as his daughter.
‘We’re home,’ Lorenzo imparted flatly.
But Madrigal Court washishome, not hers, Milly ruminated, and immediately wanted to kick herself for that forlorn thought. Like many children raised by the state, she had always longed for a stable and permanent home. It was not a bit of wonder that when she had been deprived of her memory that deep-based need had surfaced and made her latch onto Brooke’s home and husband like a homing pigeon eager to find a permanent roost.
‘I’m afraid I can’t understand how a bad dream can cause you this much stress,’ Lorenzo breathed impatiently as he herded her into the pristine white drawing room and closed the door behind them. ‘What on earth is the matter?’
Milly breathed in deep and slow to steady her nerves. ‘I remembered the accident,’ she admitted. ‘And then my memory came back.’
Lorenzo paled and his lean, powerful frame went rigid. ‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that,’ she confirmed sickly. ‘But the real problem is that when I regained my memory I realised that I’m not the person everyone assumed I was...’
His brow pleated as if he was still trying to penetrate the meaning of that statement. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m not Brooke Tassini, Lorenzo. I’mnotyour wife. I’m Milly Taylor.’
The fringe of his lush black lashes shot up over incredulous dark golden eyes and then he swung round and headed back to the door, pulling out his phone. ‘That’s not possible.’
‘Where are you going?’ she gasped.
Lorenzo compressed his lips. It was obvious to him that his wife was having some sort of nervous breakdown. He had not a clue how to deal with such an astonishing statement, but he was convinced that her psychiatrist would know. ‘I’m contacting Mr Selby so that you can discuss this with him.’
‘I don’t want to see Mr Selby right now. I need to get things straight with you first,’ Milly declared tautly. ‘That’s more important.’
