Memories: A Husband to RememberNew Year's Daddy (Hqn)

by Lisa Jackson

Chapter Eight

  NIKKI FELT COLD inside, as if a ghost had stepped across her soul. Only seven pictures had developed and those photographs were taken in a city near water, but a modern, busy city that she should recognize, a town that was far from the rustic Caribbean town of Santa María. She flipped through the few shots. Not one snapshot of Salvaje or Trent.

  “Looks like Victoria,” he said, when she just stared at the photographs and felt the hot stain of embarrassment climb up the back of her neck. “British Columbia.”

  She rolled her lips over her teeth. Victoria. She’d been there. Probably on her last vacation, the last time she’d used the camera.

  “All that trouble for nothing,” Trent remarked as she slid the snapshots into the envelope.

  Clearing her throat, she slid him a suspicious glance. “Were you spying on me?”

  “I was just trying to take care of you.” His face was set in defiance, as if he dared her to argue with him. “But you never believe me.”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” she admitted. The plane touched down with a jolt and the chirp of tires on the runway. Nikki stuffed the pictures into her purse. Some investigative reporter she’d turned out to be. No wonder her stories had included covering the state fair, a Boy Scout jamboree and the governor’s daughter’s wedding. Hot stuff.

  Now she was no closer to knowing if she was married to Trent than she had been before.

  Once in the terminal, they picked up their bags and took a shuttle to the parking lot, where Trent’s Jeep was parked. With more than its share of dents and a paint job that needed serious attention, the Jeep brought back no memories. She slid into the passenger seat that creaked beneath her weight, waited for Trent and was certain she’d never been in the Jeep before in her life.

  Yet, here she was. With her “husband.” Lord, when would she ever remember?

  Tires humming on the pavement, the Jeep picked up speed, melding with the thick traffic that streamed northward into the heart of Seattle. A thick Washington mist drizzled from the sky and the wipers slapped rain off the windshield as Nikki peered desperately through the glass. Certainly here, in her hometown, she would remember. She waited, crossing her fingers and silently praying that with a rush of adrenaline and the familiar sights and sounds of Seattle, she would be instantly cured and her life would be complete—a past, a present and a future.

  The rain-washed streets were familiar. The bustle, noise and bright lights of the city brought a familiar ache in her heart. Wispy fingers of fog rose from the asphalt. The chill wind of October blew eastward, crossing the dark waters of the Sound and rattling up the narrow, steep streets surrounding Elliott Bay.

  Yes, this city was home. She’d lived here all her life and remembered driving downtown with her mother and sister, taking the monorail into the shopping district where they would wander through stores and meet their father for lunch. Those happy trips hadn’t happened often and they were long ago, before the rift between Eloise and Ted Carrothers had become so deep it could never be repaired. Nikki, the youngest, had been oblivious to the undercurrents of tension between her parents in the early years, but as she grew older and approached adolescence, she’d begun to realize that her mother was deeply unhappy. Being married to a man who expected his dinner on the table at six-thirty without fail, his shirts washed, starched and ironed, and the house and children kept in spotless condition in case he brought a big client home for dinner had finally taken its toll.

  The glass of wine her mother had consumed before dinner soon had stretched to two and eventually three. Sometimes Eloise had drunk an entire bottle before the meal, and as soon as the dishes had been stacked in the dishwasher, she had retired upstairs with a “headache.”

  Eventually she had barely been able to stay awake through the meal, and the fights that had erupted between Nikki’s parents had rocked the timbers of their Cape Cod-style house in the Queen Anne district.

  Nikki remembered lying on her bed, her quilt tucked over her head, trying to block out the sounds of anger that radiated throughout the old house. Even now, more than fifteen years later, the pain cut through her heart. She blinked back tears and told herself everything had turned out for the best—her mother was happy in Southern California, remarried to a real-estate man and living not far from the ocean, and her father, still single, seemed to enjoy his bachelorhood.

  Trent wheeled the Jeep into the drive of an old English Tudor home that had been converted to apartments. The rig bounced over a couple of speed bumps before landing in a parking space beneath an oak tree with spreading branches and brittle, dead leaves.

  Nikki stared at the building as she slammed the door of the Jeep shut. Home. Seeing the old house should bring back wave after wave of memories. Nervously, she scanned the house, trying to see past the windows which glowed brightly, though the drapes had been drawn against the night. Who were these people who lived so close to her? An old white pickup and a new Ford wagon were parked near the Jeep, but try as she might, she couldn’t conjure up faces for the people who drove the vehicles and shared the same plumbing and roof with her.

  Disappointed, she followed Trent as he carried her bags up the exterior stairs to the third-floor landing. Each step was covered with strips of rubber for traction and the rail was well used. Once on her small porch, Nikki fumbled with the keys and, hunching her shoulders against the steady drizzle, unlocked the door.

  She dropped her suitcase and purse on the faded Oriental rug and breathed deeply of the musty, stale air. As if from habit, she kicked off her shoes and padded in stocking feet through the long, narrow attic that served as her living room and bedroom. Her hands trailed along the backs of chairs and across the dusty surface of the table, and a sense of belonging wove its way into her heart.

  “It’s good to be home,” she admitted huskily, feeling, for the first time in two weeks, that she had some bearings. She glanced at the quilt tossed over the back of her camel-backed couch, smiled at the flowers, now dry and dropping petals, on a small table near one of the windows and noticed that her brass teapot was sitting empty on the stove.

  “You remember?” Trent asked.

  She shook her head and glanced back at him. Was there just a hint of relief in his gaze? “Not really. No images. Just feelings. But...I think it’s coming.” She crossed to a window and unlatched the panes, allowing the hint of an early autumn breeze to infiltrate the stuffy apartment as she walked to the fireplace. Cool, damp air swirled into the room and followed after her as she ran her fingers along the mantel, picking up a fine layer of dust, looking for any photographs or mementos of the man she’d married. There was nothing. Not a solitary snapshot to verify his claims.

  Frowning, she eyed her desk. The calendar lay open to a date that was nearly two weeks past. Chuckling at the “Far Side” cartoon, she flipped forward two weeks. Every page was blank. Aware of Trent’s gaze following her, she turned back a few pages, noted some of the appointments she’d made and kept, she supposed, but realized that there wasn’t a single notation about Trent. Not even his initials. No dinner date or lunch appointment, no mention of a movie or drinks or anything. As if he’d never existed.

  She glanced up at him, half expecting him to come up with some explanation, but his face was unreadable, allowing her to draw whatever conclusions she wanted. “Didn’t we go out?” she asked. “You know, for dinner or something...a date?”

  His mouth lifted in the corner and his eyes turned smoky blue. “We started out way beyond the dating stage.”

  “But there’s no mention of you. Not one clue....”

  Lifting a shoulder as if her concerns were unimportant, he balanced on the overstuffed arm of the couch. The muscles in the back of his neck tightened and he seemed to grapple for the right words. “It was all very spontaneous. I didn’t analyze it. Neither did you.”

  She had no reason to belie
ve him, no proof to substantiate what he was saying. Rubbing a kink from her neck, she sighed and glanced at the telephone recorder, its red light flashing impatiently. With a feeling of dread, she pushed the playback button and the tape rewound quickly.

  The first four calls were hang-ups. Then Jan’s voice, strained by older-sister concern, echoed through the room. “Nikki? It’s Jan. What the hell’s going on? Mom called and said you were on some island in the Caribbean and you got married there, for God’s sake. To some guy no one in the family’s ever met.” Nikki’s gaze collided with Trent’s. “Is this all on the up-and-up? Call me when you get back and be ready to spill everything! Geez, Nikki, what happened to you! This is just so...I don’t know—impulsive, I guess. I thought you’d finally gotten over all that.” There was a weighty pause when Jan sighed. “Look, it sounds like we’re trying to shut the barn door and the horse has already escaped. I guess I should congratulate you.... Well, just call me.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Trent grumbled as the phone buzzed and clicked over a series of hang-ups.

  “Sure we do.”

  The next voice on the phone was a computer message about a fabulous deal on a time-share vacation in Colorado; the next, someone taking a survey about television programming.

  The final call was more urgent. “Nikki? It’s Dave.” She stiffened. Trent’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “For heaven’s sake, what’s going on? I called your office and talked to Connie and she let it slip that you’re married to a man you barely know! Is this some kind of a joke or something? Connie said you’d hardly dated him before taking off for that island. For crying out loud, Nikki, call me and tell me it’s a lie or a joke or...or anything. I know we had some problems, but I thought we just needed a little time and space to work them out.” There was a lengthy pause and a long sigh. “Look, if you’re really married, I hope this guy is worth it, because you deserve the best....” Nikki closed her eyes and she remembered Dave, big and blond, neat and tidy, spit and polish. At one time, he had seemed to care for her, but the images strobe-lighting through her mind weren’t filled with love or tenderness or passion. She realized that she probably had never truly loved him. He’d just seemed like the right guy at the wrong time in her life. And he’d been the one who had wanted his “space” and a little more “time,” if she remembered correctly.

  His voice filled the emptiness again. “But...well, if this is all a big lie, call me. Or if the guy doesn’t turn out to be Mr. Perfect, for God’s sake, give me a buzz.... Believe it or not, Nikki, I miss you. I just didn’t realize how much until now.... What’s the saying about being a day late and a dollar short? Well, it seems to be the story of my life. I love you, Nikki. I always will.” He hung up abruptly and his words hung on the air, silent, invisible sentinels that stood as strongly as a wall of steel between Nikki and Trent.

  “Eloquent,” Trent muttered, his lips thinning into a hard, flat line. “Maybe you married the wrong man.”

  “Maybe I’m not even married.”

  His mouth curved sardonically and he raked fingers of frustration through his coal-black hair. “Right now I don’t give a good goddamn what you believe, but we’re getting out of here.” He picked up the suitcase she’d dropped and slung the strap over his shoulder. The fingers of his other hand wrapped around the handle of her garment bag as he cocked his head in the general direction of the door.

  Nikki refused to be intimidated. “When did we get married?” she demanded, not budging an inch.

  “On the Friday we left. At noon.”

  Still standing at her desk, she glanced at that particular date on her calendar, but it was, aside from a reminder to pick up her dry cleaning and a note as to the time her plane was scheduled to take off for Salvaje, blank. As if Trent McKenzie, before he’d appeared at her bedside at the hospital in Santa María, hadn’t existed. “I didn’t write it down.”

  “Of course not.” Dropping both pieces of luggage, he strode to the desk as if he’d walked through her home a thousand times. “We didn’t know when we were getting married until that day. So we just hightailed it down to the justice of the peace and did the dirty deed.” His eyes narrowed on her, as if he were challenging her to call his bluff.

  “So it’s on record.”

  “With the city of Seattle and King County,” he said, reaching around her and drawing her into the circle of his arms. Sighing, he brushed a lock of hair from her face and struggled with his temper. “Come on, Nik. Throw some things together and we’ll go to my place.”

  “Is that what we planned?”

  “I think it’s best.”

  “We could stay here.”

  “Nikki.” He rested his forehead on hers. Tenderness softened his features. “We’re both tired. Let’s not argue—just get your things together and—”

  “Wait a minute.” She couldn’t let him sweet-talk her. As warm and inviting as his embrace was, she yanked herself free and tried to think clearly. She was running on adrenaline now and she was back in her own home. No one, especially not a man she couldn’t even remember, could order her around. “This isn’t Salvaje, Trent. You can’t use your caveman tactics on me.”

  “And I thought I was being nice,” he said, rolling his eyes to the sloped ceiling.

  “I want answers, answers you should have given me the first day I woke up.”

  His jaw slid to one side. “When we get to my place.”

  “How about right now?” She was on a roll and she wasn’t going to stop. “Why did you follow me?”

  “What?”

  “On the island,” she said, stepping farther from him, putting much needed distance between her body and his. When he held her, she found it impossible to think and remain levelheaded. Right now, back in the United States, they had a helluva lot to straighten out. “You did follow me, didn’t you?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He muttered something and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I hired a man to keep his eye on you.”

  “You what?”

  “A private investigator.”

  Her temper flamed white-hot. “You low-down, lying son of a—”

  “Stop it!” he warned, his nostrils flaring slightly as his temper began to slip. “I wanted you to have a little freedom, but—”

  “Not too much. You were just giving me a slightly longer leash, is that it? Why? So I could strangle myself?” She marched back to him and tipped her chin upward. Heat radiated from beneath her skin and she knew her eyes were throwing off sparks of fury. “You’re keeping something from me. No, I take it back—not something, but everything. You’ve been pointedly vague when I asked about your family, you’ve sidestepped a million questions about our romance, and you act as if we’re in some sort of dire jeopardy. Even now. When we’re home. You told me I wasn’t pushed over that ledge, and yet you’re nervous as a cat, acting like someone’s planning to do us—well, me, at least—in. What is it, Trent?”

  “I told you I’d explain when we get home.”

  “We are home.” She planted her hands on her hips and decided to force his hand. “Why don’t you tell me what all this...secrecy and cloak-and-dagger stuff has to do with Senator Crowley?”

  His jaw hardened a little. “So you’re still onto that, are you?”

  “Absolutely.” She skirted him, walked to her computer and snapped the power switch. The machine hummed to life. “I figure I’ll know everything I want to know and a lot of things I don’t want to know about good ol’ Diamond Jim when I find my notes in this thing.” She tapped the top of the monitor with her fingernail. “Maybe your name will come up, too.”

  “We don’t have time—”

  “Don’t we?” She whirled on him, her hair slapping her in her face. “What happened to ‘all the ti
me in the world.’ Or ‘the rest of our lives’? On Salvaje you wanted me to think we could take everything slow and easy, but now we’re back in Seattle and it’s rush, rush, rush. Are you going to enlighten me, Trent?” she asked as the monitor glowed.

  Exasperated, she plopped into her desk chair, pressed a series of buttons and scanned her files. “Let’s see, how about under ‘Crowley’ for starters?” Deftly, she typed the senator’s name, but the machine beeped at her and told her no such file existed. “Okay.” Her brow puckered and she tried to think. “How about ‘government’?” Only a half-finished story on a mayoral candidate. “Politics” was no better. “This can’t be,” she said, typing quickly, one file heading after another. She reread her work-in-progress menu again. No Crowley. No Diamond Jim. No political intrigue. Something was wrong. Biting her lip, she brought up other menus, from articles she’d finished. Not a clue.

  “Why are you so damned certain that you were working on this story?” Trent asked, eyeing the screen skeptically, then sauntering to the fireplace and picking up pictures of her family. He fingered a color photo of her sister, Carole.

  “I wasn’t assigned the story—not officially—but I have this gut feeling that...” Her voice trailed off as she noticed Trent move easily around the room, glancing through the windows, stuffing his hands in his back pockets, closing a closet door with a faulty latch, as if he knew the place inside out. As if he belonged.

  Her throat went suddenly dry. Could he have erased her story on Crowley? Destroyed all records she had on the senator?

  But why? Good Lord, her head was beginning to pound again. Maybe Crowley was the key to why Trent claimed to be her husband. Goose bumps raced up her arms. This whole theory gave her the creeps and it didn’t make a lot of sense. She swallowed hard and kept her gaze on the screen, unable to look into Trent’s eyes for fear he might read her thoughts. She didn’t want to believe he would sabotage her. Why would he lie about something so easily checked? What would be the point? And if he planned to hurt her...well, he had ample opportunity in a faraway country where the United States government couldn’t touch him. Her palms were slick with nervous sweat. “I think we need to talk,” she said, switching off the computer and swiveling in her chair to face him. He met her eyes in the oval mirror mounted over the fireplace as the machine wound down. Nikki’s throat squeezed, and his gaze, flat and unreadable, didn’t falter.