by Lisa Jackson
“You started it.”
“We’ll both regret it.”
“Why?” she asked, sensing that he was trying to tell her something, to break the wall of passion that surrounded her mind.
“The doctor said—”
“He’s not here.”
“We’re getting wet.”
“Not the first time. We’re from Seattle, remember?” She smiled up at him, teasing him, baiting him as rain began to pepper the ground.
His gaze moved from her just-kissed lips to her breasts, and his eyes turned smoky with passion again. “God help us,” he said before his lips claimed hers again. Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt and ripped them free, so that she could touch the swirling black hair covering his chest, feel the muscles flex as her fingers grazed his nipples, watch his abdomen curve inward to allow her fingers access to the buttons of his fly.
“You make me crazy,” he said.
“The feeling’s mutual, I think.”
With little effort, he stripped her of her skirt and kicked off his jeans. She saw him for the first time, naked and lean, strident muscles tense as he prodded her legs apart. “You’re sure of this?” he asked.
“Trent, please.”
Closing his eyes and muttering something under his breath, he thrust into her. Nikki gasped as she enveloped him, felt him start his magical rhythm. She moved her hips to his, and her fingers dug deep into the muscles of his shoulders as the tide of sweet pleasure washed over her in hot, anxious waves. He moved faster, and she kept up with his pace, her breathing wild, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, rain sliding down his smooth, sleek muscles.
“Nikki!” he screamed, throwing back his head. “Nikki, Nikki, Nikki!”
As if the universe exploded, she convulsed, her thoughts swirling, her mind soaring. She quivered in aftershocks and sighed in a voice she didn’t recognize as hers as he fell against her, murmuring her name, his body glazed with a salty sheen of sweat.
“Oh, Nikki,” he whispered hoarsely, his hands gently brushing the wet strands of her hair from her face. Rain slid down his neck. His face was tortured and pained as he kissed her lips. “What have I done?”
Chapter Seven
“...AND STAY IN the room until I get back,” Trent ordered through the open door of the cab. Rain ran down his neck and under his collar as Nikki sat in the backseat of a battered old Chevy that smelled of must, sweat and stale cigarette smoke. They’d returned the horses and now Trent was sending her back to the hotel. Alone.
“Where will you be?”
“Back at the airport, trying to find out how bad this storm is supposed to be and if our flight will take off tomorrow.”
“I could come with you—”
His lips thinned in silent reproach. “Go back to the hotel and dry off before you catch pneumonia.”
“I’m not going to—”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He slammed the door closed and the cabbie stepped on the gas, leaving Trent standing in a puddle of rainwater and a cloud of blue exhaust.
“Serves him right,” she muttered, still steaming. After they’d made love, he’d become as sullen and brooding as before, insisting they return the horses and she go back to the hotel.
Wind whistled through the palms and banana trees that lined the street which was all but deserted as pedestrians waited for the storm to pass.
At the hotel, Nikki paid the cabdriver and dashed through the rain to the hotel lobby. Her skirt was muddy, her hair lank and dripping as she took the elevator to the second floor and entered the room. As beautiful as Salvaje was during the mild weather, the island seemed dark and menacing in the storm.
Shivering, she stripped off her clothes and took a quick, hot shower, lathering her body and shampooing her hair with a vengeance. Her skirt was probably ruined, stained as the result of making love to Trent in the wilderness. The passion between them had been earth-shattering, and yet afterwards Trent had treated her no differently than he had before. He was still a cynical, overbearing bastard.
Dressed in a robe that covered her bra and panties, she sat before the bureau mirror and combed the tangles from her hair. The woman staring back at her looked better than she had a few days before. Most of the scabs on her face had fallen off, and though her skin was pink, with the right touch of base makeup, blush, lipstick and shadow, she would look almost the same as she had before she’d lost her memory.
The phone rang. She picked up the receiver on the third ring and, telling herself that the caller had to be Trent, said, “Hello.”
“For the love of St. Peter, why are you still on that godforsaken island?”
She couldn’t help but grin when she conjured up a picture of the crusty man who’d spawned her. “Probably for the same reason you’re forever on a jet between Seattle, Tokyo, Seoul and Sydney. Scheduling.”
He chuckled a little. “Don’t patronize me, girl. I’m worried about you, and won’t feel right until your feet touch down on home soil. What with the storm warnings and all, it’s enough to drive me nuts. I’m lucky I got through to you.”
“It’s good to hear from you, Dad,” she said, flopping back on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, watching the blades of the paddle fan rotate slowly.
“Then you’re not still mad at me?”
“No way,” she said, wishing she could remember what they’d argued about before she’d left Seattle. He’d mentioned several times that he hadn’t wanted her to fly to Salvaje, but she couldn’t remember why.
“Good. ’Cause you were way off base.”
“Off base?” she said, prodding him. “I don’t think so.”
She heard him exhale an exasperated breath. “’Course you were. Jim’s above reproach. Always had been.”
“Jim?” she repeated. Jim who?
“Why you thought that you had to investigate him after all these years...I don’t know what got into you.”
Investigate him? She didn’t want to tip her hand, but she was dying to know who.
“He and I go way back, long before he was elected, and I won’t have you trying to smear his name.”
Elected? A politician? Oh, Lord. Her mind spun back to her conversation with Connie at the Observer. “You think I’m on a campaign against Senator Crowley,” she said, gambling.
“Oh, for the love of Mike, of course the senator!” he growled in exasperation. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” she lied, crossing her fingers.
“Well, you must be in love, ’cause you act as if you’ve lost your mind.”
If you only knew, Dad. She wanted to confide in him, to tell him about her memory loss, but a feeling, a strange, uncomfortable warning buried deep in the depths of her mind, held her tongue. There was a reason, a reason she couldn’t begin to fathom, that she couldn’t talk things over with her father. She sensed it now—that unspoken barrier that existed between them had always been there. “So we fought about Senator Crowley,” she said, trying in vain to remember.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before her father said, “Honey, are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” she lied. Why would she and her father argue about the senator? Connie had mentioned that Nikki was interested in some scam the senator might be pulling, but why would her father care? Was her father or his business involved? Did he think she was trying to smear the name of a good man, or did he think the senator was dangerous and he feared for Nikki’s safety, or was there something else...something hidden much deeper in the recesses of her mind?
“When are you coming home?” Her father’s voice was filled with concern.
“Tomorrow—unless the flight is canceled.”
“We’ll talk then.”
“Dad! Wait!” Fortunately he had
n’t hung up. “I...I bumped my head in the accident,” she admitted, hoping the truth might elicit more information now that she so desperately needed it. “So I don’t remember everything.”
“You don’t remember? For crying out loud, what’s going on down there?”
“I’ve got a slight case of amnesia,” she admitted, as rain sheeted against the French doors and wind began to rattle the panes. “Some things slip my mind. Like Crowley.”
Her father swore long and hard under his breath. “I don’t know whether to be worried out of my skull or relieved,” he admitted, adding to her confusion, “but you get yourself on the first plane off that damned island and come home. I’ll call Tom and—”
“Tom?”
“Tom Robertson. Dr. Robertson. The physician you’ve seen all your life. Hell, Nikki, now you’ve really got me worried.”
“I remember you, Dad,” she said, to alleviate his fears.
“Thank God for that!” His voice choked a little. “And when I meet that husband of yours, let me tell you, there’s going to be hell to pay. I don’t know what he’s thinking, letting you—”
“Dad, I’ll be all right,” she said quickly. “Dr. Padillo thinks the amnesia is only temporary, and I’m already remembering a lot more than I did right after the fall. I’ll be okay.”
“Well, I don’t know Dr. Whatever-the-hell-his-name-is from Adam, but I don’t trust him. Could be a damned quack. You come home, Nicole. We’ll take care of you.”
She felt suddenly on the verge of tears. Here, at last, was her rock. “All right, Dad.”
“Damned straight!”
He hung up still muttering oaths at doctors who had gotten their medical degrees by mail or worse! Nikki knew there wasn’t any use in explaining that she had absolute faith in Dr. Padillo. The friendly physician seemed knowledgeable, competent and concerned, and if he’d only spoken more English, she would have been completely at ease with him. As it was, his prognosis had proved right on the money. Her wounds were healing according to his timetable and her memory was returning, in sharp little bits and pieces.
The only wild card so far was Trent. Her husband. The man who, with one cocky smile, could cause her heart to race out of control. The man to whom she’d given herself eagerly in the middle of a downpour.
Tomorrow she’d have answers. Once she went to the camera shop, she’d know if Trent had been with her before the accident. And what if he wasn’t? a nagging part of her mind questioned. What then? Will you be able to sleep with him? Will you confront him? What? Without any answers to those questions, she considered her trip home to Seattle. Surely the familiar scenery would jog her memory.
But what would she do about Senator Crowley, and why did she feel that he was part of the reason she’d chosen Salvaje as a spot for her vacation...her honeymoon?
Her father’s conversation echoed in her brain, names he’d spoken swimming in the murk that was her mind. Dr. Robertson. Senator Crowley. She remembered a slight man with wire-rimmed glasses, an easy, gap-toothed smile and huge nose. Because she pictured him in a white jacket, she assumed he was the doctor. As for Crowley, she had no image of the man. Senator Jim—no, James—Crowley. How had she met him? Why did she care? What was the story that she thought surrounded him? Her skin crawled as she considered the fact that somehow Trent might be involved with the man. Maybe that was why he claimed they were married. Head beginning to pound, she stared down at her wedding ring, a gold band that was too big for her finger, and the circle of gold seemed to mock her.
Yet she’d made love to him. Abandoned herself to him as if he were indeed the man she loved. She couldn’t help blushing when she remembered the intensity of his lovemaking and the wanton, wild way she’d responded, with no thought of the future. She’d lived for the moment, given herself wholly to the man, and now, lying on the bed she shared with him, she closed her eyes and knew, with gut-wrenching certainty, she’d make love with him again.
It was only a matter of time.
* * *
She must’ve dozed. Groggy, still lying on the bed, she heard the door of the veranda rattle. She rolled over, trying to ignore the sound, but the noise was persistent. As she stretched, she climbed off the bed and noticed the darkness outside. The storm was still blowing hard and Trent had been gone for hours. A pang of worry caused her to bite her lip, but she rationalized that Trent was a man who could take care of himself, probably better than any man she’d ever met. Of course, she thought wryly, she couldn’t remember most of the men she had met. Her stomach growled and she wondered if she should order room service or wait for Trent.
The rattle sounded again. Rubbing the kinks from her neck, she walked to the glass doors and reached for the knob, when her hand paused in midair. She froze. The hairs on the back of her neck raised. Her throat gave out a strangled scream as she saw him. Someone. A figure on the veranda. The light from inside the room and the pelting rain distorted her view, but she knew very clearly that a man was on her veranda, a man with dark hair and wet jeans and a slick jacket. His features were blurred. He was about Trent’s height and build, but... He vaulted the rail, his jacket billowing as he threw himself against the building, probably to climb down the vines.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she whispered half in prayer as she backed up, fumbling for the interior door, then suddenly stopping. What was to prevent him from going into the lobby and waiting for her? She ran across the room, checked the lock on the veranda doors and quickly threw the drapes closed. She checked the hall door, found it locked as well, and with trembling fingers dialed the main desk.
“I want to report a stranger lurking outside on my veranda, a Peeping Tom or something—”
“Señora, por favor—”
“Get me someone who can speak English. Oh, God! Uh, ¿Comprende Ud.? Do you understand? There was a man, a damned Peeping Tom or worse, on my veranda! ¿Habla Ud. inglés? I need help!”
The lock on the hallway door rattled. Nikki dropped the phone. Heart thudding, she reached for the bedside lamp—a weak weapon, but all she had—and watched in horror as the door swung open and Trent, his hair wet and plastered to his head, the shoulders of his leather jacket soaked, entered. She nearly collapsed against the wall and her fingers let go of the base of the lamp. “Thank God,” she whispered.
Trent took one look at her face and his eyes slitted in concern. “What happened?” he demanded, crossing the room. “Nikki, are you okay?”
She nodded, though she couldn’t find her tongue, and when he wrapped his arms around her, she sagged against him like a silly woman who couldn’t take care of herself. Relieved, she clung to him, trying not to embarrass herself by breaking into tears. He smelled of the outdoors—rainwater, leather and salt air—and though she wanted to crumple into his arms like a lovesick fool, to trust him with all of her heart, to quit torturing herself with worries about him, she stiffened her spine and gently stepped out of his embrace.
“What’s wrong?”
“I saw someone on the veranda.”
“Who?”
She shook her head, trying to conjure up the man’s image. “I don’t know. Some man. It was too dark to recognize him, but he was built like you, had on a dark jacket...bare head...” She noticed Trent’s dripping hair again and his flushed face. He seemed to be breathing hard, but there was no reason for him to spy on her. No reason on earth. Not when he had a key to the room. Her sick mind was playing games with her again.
Trent threw open the drapes and French doors. Rain and wind blew into the room as he dashed outside just as someone began banging on the hotel door. “¡Señora McKenzie!”
In three swift strides, leveling a staying finger at Nikki, Trent was across the room. “Who is it?”
“¡Policía!”
Trent yanked open the door, and two hotel security guards, weapons drawn, burs
t into the room.
“It’s all right,” Trent assured them, and one of the men, the beefier of the two, walked to the night table, picked up the phone, muttered Spanish into the receiver and hung up.
Nikki wrapped her arms around her middle and sat on a corner of the bed as Trent acted as interpreter. She told him of the man on the deck, and he, in Spanish, repeated it to the two guards. The questions about the man’s identity and description were rapid, and Nikki had to admit that the figure she’d seen was dark and blurry through the rain-washed window.
“We have no idea who it was,” Trent said as the security guards were finishing their interrogation. “At least, I don’t. Nikki?”
She shook her head. Who would spy on her? “I can’t imagine.”
The guards talked between themselves and with Trent, even sharing a joke that Nikki couldn’t begin to understand. They eventually left, apologizing to Nikki for her fright and promising to look for any suspicious characters.
“They assume it was just another burglary attempt,” he said after he’d closed the door behind them. “There have been quite a few in the major hotels around here. A ring of thieves after rich tourists’ money or jewelry.”
“They wouldn’t have found much here,” she said, unconvinced. Her eyebrows drew down over her eyes. “Besides, I’m not sure that it had anything to do with a robbery.”
“Why not?” He threw both dead bolts before sitting on the foot of the bed and nudging off his boots.
“Because I’ve had this feeling that I’ve been followed.”
He cast an interested glance over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything.
“Earlier. When I was riding the horse, I felt it, and then you showed up, so I just assumed you were the reason I felt as if I’d been watched. But now...I’m not so sure.” She tucked her feet up close to her bottom and hugged her knees.
“So you think the man on the veranda might have been following you?”
“Yes. But I don’t know why!” Sighing in frustration, she decided to gamble a little. “I think it might have something to do with Senator Crowley.”
