Her Forgotten Husband (Harlequin Treasury 1990's)

by Anne Ha

  She shrugged. Her attention shifted from the past to focus completely on the sensitive nerve endings in her hand. The warmth of Garrick’s palm and the strength in his curled fingers comforted her, and slowly her worried thoughts subsided.

  His thumb stroked back and forth, its slight roughness reminding her of the way he’d stroked her whole body the night before. She watched its rhythmic movements, absorbing the sensations.

  Samantha swallowed, shocked by her next thought. She wanted him to pick her up in his arms and carry her off to his bed. Right then, in the middle of the day.

  Of its own accord, her hand squeezed his.

  He squeezed back, his thumb stilling. “Feel better?”

  She flushed. “Yes.”

  She loved him, and the past really didn’t matter. Whatever Warren had been to her foolish adolescent self, he was nothing to her now. She loved Garrick.

  Suddenly she needed to show him. Leaning closer, she gave him a soft kiss. She felt the residual coolness of ice cream on his lips, tasted the sweetness that lingered there.

  Garrick’s thumb started moving again, sending desire skittering along her nerves. “You have a bad effect on me, Sam.”

  “I do?”

  He pulled her effortlessly onto his lap. “I can’t resist you.”

  “Well, um…you don’t have to resist me.” She wrapped both arms around his neck. “I’m your wife and I love you.”

  “Thank goodness,” he said, his lips against hers.

  They kissed for several minutes, then Garrick groaned. “Let’s go upstairs,” he growled in the huskiest, sexiest voice she’d ever heard.

  She didn’t hesitate to accept his invitation.

  Afterward, lying in his arms as the last shivery sensations faded from her body, Samantha sighed contentedly.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself, secure in the strength of their bond. The past didn’t matter.

  “Almost ready?”

  Samantha looked up from her dressing table to see her husband standing in the doorway between their rooms. He wore a flawlessly cut black dinner jacket and looked good enough to eat.

  She smiled at him, glad she’d allowed Jenny to talk her into buying the ivory silk gown she wore for the play. “Just two more minutes.”

  She brushed mascara through her lashes, then glanced up to find Garrick still watching her. His eyes held the same glow of desire they’d held yesterday afternoon, the look that said he wanted her with a passion that wouldn’t ever stop.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

  Her hand shook faintly. “And you’re distracting me.”

  He laughed, crossing through her room to the hall. “I’ll go pull the car around.”

  Samantha surveyed her appearance in the mirror one last time. She wore her hair down, but pulled away from her face. Beth had insisted on lending her a pair of beautiful pearl earrings and a matching necklace, and they complemented the gown to perfection. All she needed was a dash of perfume and she’d be ready.

  On impulse, she pulled open the drawer of her dressing table and sorted through its contents until she found the large cut-glass flacon. She hadn’t touched it since her first day back from the hospital, but maybe it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. She’d been upset that day; that had probably clouded her perceptions. And, she told herself now, the bottle was nearly empty, so she must have worn the scent often.

  She raised the stopper to her throat and touched it to her pulse-points.

  As she did so, a memory assailed her.

  Her first thought was, not another one. Since her memory in the entrance hall yesterday, the past had become a specter. Her driving need to reclaim it had vanished.

  But Samantha couldn’t ignore the images crowding her mind. She saw a man handing her a foil-wrapped box. She and Jenny had just graduated from college; they were at a party in the Randall home. Her stomach had dipped with anticipation as she’d carefully opened the package to reveal the perfume.

  It was an expensive gift, especially coming from the brother of her best friend. An intimate gift, considering that he hardly acknowledged her the rare times he was around. She’d raised her eyes from the perfume to meet Warren’s gaze, feeling suddenly shy. It had been all she could do to whisper a few words of thanks.

  Warren.

  Warren had given her the perfume. Had given her this cloying scent that didn’t match her at all. And she’d worn it regularly.

  Why? Out of good manners? From some sense of obligation to the Randall family for their kindness? Or because her crush on Warren hadn’t faded?

  Samantha put her fingers to her throat to wipe away the scent, then wished she hadn’t. Another memory hit her, this one briefer and more physical.

  And utterly horrifying.

  She felt Warren’s lips against her throat, his kisses on her tender skin. She felt her own response. It wasn’t arousal—at least not compared to what she felt with Garrick—but she liked what was happening.

  Samantha ran to the bathroom. With a washcloth and soap she scrubbed her neck until all traces of the perfume were gone. She felt dirty, almost violated, and though the soap took away the scent, the memory of Warren’s kisses remained.

  If only scrubbing could get rid of it, too, she thought. If only she could take herself back in time to a few minutes earlier, to reach for a different bottle of perfume and avoid this unpleasant memory altogether.

  Samantha patted her neck with a towel, her eyes closed against the past. That kiss hadn’t taken place the night of her graduation party, but years later. Her hair had been up in a smooth chignon—instead of down as it had been on her graduation—and she could remember smelling the perfume on herself.

  She forced herself to open her eyes and examine her face in the mirror. She had to accept the truth of her memory, accept the fact that her crush on Warren hadn’t faded at all, but had grown stronger over the years.

  And that kiss. Warren’s hungry lips on her throat, her own acquiescence.

  It might, very easily, have happened only recently.

  She grabbed the countertop for support, praying her imagination was on the wrong track.

  What if Warren…

  What if Warren was the father of her baby?

  Chapter Ten

  It would explain so much.

  The fight she’d had with Garrick before the accident.

  Her periodic feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

  So what had happened? Had she tricked Garrick into marriage to avoid being a single parent, and then he’d found out and they’d fought?

  But if that was the case, then why would he still care for her? Because he did She knew that. No one could be so tender, so absolutely sweet and sexy, without feeling deeply about her.

  Could he care for her if he knew what she’d done, if he knew his dead brother had fathered her baby?

  Samantha tried to think clearly. Maybe—maybe all her worrying was for nothing. If Warren had died before she got pregnant, then the issue was moot.

  Garrick had said it hadn’t been long ago. But what did that mean? A month? A year?

  Just then Garrick stuck his head around the corner. “The car’s out front, Sam.”

  She started guiltily, as if he could read her thoughts. “One second,” she called. She reached for the simple rose perfume she’d been using daily and put it on, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.

  The scent calmed her, reminded her of all the things she and her husband had shared in the past week.

  By the time she joined Garrick in the hallway, she had control of her emotions. He didn’t know about her new memories, and she planned to keep it that way until she found out when his brother had died. She couldn’t ask him right now, not before their big evening out. Not when he thought they still felt the way they had three minutes ago—and when his answer might change everything.

  In the hall he took both of her hands in his. “You’re beautiful, Sam. So incredibly beautiful.�
� His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. “Do you have your lipstick with you?”

  She nodded. “In my bag.”

  “Good. You can reapply it in the car.” He pressed her gently back against the wall, bracing himself with one hand, cupping her waist possessively with the other as he leaned in for a deep, lingering kiss.

  Despite her inner turmoil, the caress affected her strongly. She kissed him back, amazed they had such a connection even when something might be so wrong between them.

  Finally Garrick pulled away.

  “You’re covered in lipstick,” she said, breathless.

  He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Dabbing at the lipstick, she felt a burst of tenderness for her husband—and also felt, as she never had before, that their intimacy was impossibly fragile. She didn’t know how it could survive whatever she’d done in the past.

  As they drove down into the city, she tried to keep the fears from her mind. She knew she shouldn’t jump to conclusions. But she couldn’t stop imagining her deception, imagining Garrick’s discovery of it.

  Maybe, she thought, he’d been furious and asked her to move out, but her accident had made him feel guilty. He might have resigned himself to a child who wasn’t his, to a wife who’d betrayed him; he might have put aside his bitterness to help her through her recovery.

  But who knew what he would do once she was completely herself again?

  Samantha arrived at the theater with her lipstick repaired but her thoughts still scattered. She sat through the play in a daze, unable to focus on the events unfolding on the stage. During intermission she felt dazed by the crowd, the confused clamor of so many conversations and so much laughter and joviality. She endured the third act with the same restless discomfort, wanting to get home and talk with her husband, but dreading what she would learn.

  Finally the performance ended and Garrick led her out of the theater. Seeming to sense her mood, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

  They were halfway across the lobby when someone called out his name. An elderly woman approached, greeting them both and congratulating them on their marriage. Clearly she knew the Randalls well.

  After chatting another minute, the woman put a kindly hand on Garrick’s arm. “I was so sorry to hear about Warren, dear. I’m afraid the news didn’t reach me until I got back from Majorca….”

  Samantha blinked, hearing no more of the conversation. If people were still learning of Warren’s death, then it had to be recent—about as recent as her marriage. And she’d been pregnant well before that.

  Her throat constricted as anxiety overwhelmed her.

  The woman said goodbye and departed. Samantha stared after her. People streamed past, but she didn’t notice.

  Suddenly she had to know the truth. She couldn’t wait another second. “Garrick,” she said, her voice low and urgent, “when did Warren die? How long ago?”

  Their eyes locked.

  “Hell,” he muttered. He pulled her through the crowd to a vacant corner of the lobby. “We need to talk, Sam. We really need to talk.” He stopped, as if searching for the right words.

  “Was it—was it less than three months ago?”

  He looked as if he didn’t want to answer. “There are a lot of things you don’t know, Sam. A lot of things you haven’t remembered.”

  Samantha swallowed. “Tell me.”

  “Not here.” He put an arm around her shoulders, holding her tightly. “Come on, let’s go. I’ll tell you everything when we get home.”

  Garrick helped his wife into the car, feeling as if the world were coming to an end. Samantha looked pale and shaken and thoroughly miserable.

  Which was just how he felt.

  Just how he’d always felt with Samantha, having to stand by and watch her worship a man who didn’t deserve it. Knowing she’d never see him, see that he was madly in love with her and willing to offer all the things she wanted from Warren. Love, companionship, commitment. A family.

  He drove in silence, casting occasional glances at her. Samantha stared out the window, her body stiff.

  “It’s better if we wait until we’re home,” he said softly.

  “Why?”

  He tightened his grip on the wheel. “Because our conversation is probably going to upset us both, and I want to get you home safely.”

  “What could possibly be so awful?” She didn’t sound curious. More resigned, as if she already knew the truth.

  He drew in his breath. “It’s actually not that awful,” he said. “Not really. It’s just that we…made mistakes. Mistakes we both knew about before your accident. But it’s different now, now that you don’t remember.”

  Samantha didn’t respond, just stared out the window.

  In the silence Garrick considered what he could possibly say to make everything all right.

  Nothing. She already suspected what had happened. She had to, or she wouldn’t have asked when Warren had died. She wouldn’t have wanted such an definite answer.

  And he couldn’t keep it from her. His whole marriage might dissolve in the next half hour.

  Damn Warren for being such an unscrupulous cad, he thought, too frustrated to feel guilty for it. Damn him for getting them into this mess by his thoughtless, selfish actions.

  And damn himself for not seeing it coming. He should have, since he’d been well aware of her crush on his brother.

  But he’d been so convinced nothing would ever happen. Most of the time Sam’s attraction to Warren hadn’t been a big issue in any of their lives, because he’d hardly ever been in Portland.

  But he’d been in Portland three months ago. Garrick didn’t know what had finally made his brother notice Samantha and decide to make her one of his conquests. An excess of boredom, perhaps? A sudden impulse to sink lower than he ever had before and seduce his sister’s best friend?

  Garrick clenched his jaw, wishing—as he had so many times—that he’d been able to prevent it. But it hadn’t even crossed his mind that Warren and Sam might actually consummate their nonexistent relationship.

  Then, a couple weeks after Warren had left, she’d shown up at the house, asking how to get in touch with him. And from her obvious distress, Garrick had guessed what had happened—his bastard of a brother had used her and left her pregnant.

  He’d felt sick with disgust at Warren, sick with a twisted kind of jealousy. Sick with guilt because he hadn’t looked out for her better. But it hadn’t stopped him from seizing the opportunity fate had thrown him. Samantha’s pregnancy provided the perfect excuse to shift their relationship to a new level.

  By then she knew Warren would never take responsibility for the baby. But if he did, if he married her and pretended the child was his, they could make a life together. And she might eventually realize the friendship they’d shared for ten years was a lot more like love than anything she’d ever felt for Warren.

  They’d married in a civil ceremony. Jenny had been so thrilled that her favorite brother’s wish had come true that she’d cried all through the wedding. Samantha had cried too, but not for the same reason.

  Garrick pulled his thoughts from the past to negotiate the trickiest section of the road, using all his concentration as he entered the very same stretch of curves where he knew Samantha’s car had crashed. As he had each time he’d driven this part of the road, he couldn’t keep from thinking about her fragile, unconscious body tangled in the wreckage of her car.

  He’d come so close to losing her.

  And it was about to happen again. He couldn’t stop the truth from coming out.

  A minute later he passed through the iron gates and swept up the drive, coming to a halt right in front of the house. Lights shone out onto the sculpted front gardens, illuminating Samantha’s strained face.

  Garrick got out and circled the car, wondering exactly how much she knew. Wondering if she’d had any memories she hadn’t told him about, if that was how she knew about Warren.

  By the time
he reached her door she’d already gotten out. He helped her up to the portico.

  She paused on the top step, as if she’d changed her mind about going inside. “Garrick…”

  He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Wait. Just tell me something first.” She drew herself up, straightening her shoulders. “When did Warren die?”

  Garrick felt as though he were stepping off a cliff. “A week before we got married,” he admitted.

  “After I was already pregnant.” It wasn’t a question. She stood there for a long time, staring up at the house and visibly struggling with her emotions.

  “Sam,” he said softly. “Sam. I know what you’re thinking.”

  She met his gaze without blinking. “And I’m right, aren’t I?”

  He took both of her hands, holding them tightly. “Listen to me, Sam—”

  “I’m right.”

  He gave a defeated sigh, looking down into her beautiful brown eyes. “Yes,” he said, “you’re right. Warren was the father of your baby.”

  Samantha stared at her husband, trying to absorb what he’d told her.

  Warren was the father of your baby.

  Even though she’d been imagining it all evening, the confirmation came as a shock to her system.

  She wanted to get back in the car and drive away, to pretend she didn’t know anything. She didn’t want to get her memory back, not anymore. She wanted to return to the time when she hadn’t even known Warren existed, to when she’d been falling in love with her husband and there hadn’t been any complications.

  Her hands fisted at her sides. “How could you hide it from me?” It came out more accusatory than she’d intended. But she felt so betrayed!

  By fate in general, and by Garrick in particular.

  He opened his mouth but she cut him off. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.” She took a deep breath. “I just can’t believe it. Did you think I’d never figure it out?”

  “No, Sam. Not at all.”

  This was so awful, she thought. They stood squared off like adversaries, but she couldn’t seem to stem her angry words. “You—you manipulated me.”