by Janet Dailey
"But I must do something—have some interest." Made restless again by this blankness, she turned from the window.
"The dress you were wearing is an expensive one. Perhaps you are wealthy and do not have to work at anything."
"Maybe. But I can't imagine myself being idle—or flitting from one fashionable resort to another, occupying my time solely with parties and charity events. A life like that would be too aimless."
"What do you think you might do, then?"
She searched her mind for an answer, then sighed. "I . . . don't . . . know."
"Tell me what you know about the law—the first things that come to your mind."
"Free association, you mean?" She looked over at him, her curiosity piqued by the thought.
"Something like that, yes."
"The law." She closed her eyes and tried to relax, letting her thoughts flow spontaneously. "Corporations, felony, fraud, writs, subpoenas, habeas corpus. . . ." She felt herself trying to grope for words, and shook her head. "That's the extent of it. Let's try something else."
"Banking."
"Numbered Swiss accounts, deposits, rates of exchange, interest, loans, mortgages, checking accounts, savings."
Again the well of terms quickly dried up. It was the same with advertising, petroleum, interior design, motion pictures, computers, and the travel industry.
Refusing to give up, she insisted, "Let's try another."
The inspector hesitated, then said, "You are fluent in both French and English. Perhaps you are an interpreter. When I begin to speak again, simultaneously translate what I say into English."
"All right." She focused her gaze on his mouth and waited, a tension heightening all her senses despite her attempts to relax.
He began talking at a rate that was neither fast nor slow. "I was born in the Maritime Alps and grew up in Levens, a peaceful village at the entrance to the Vésubie Valley. ..."
She was able to follow along for the first half dozen or so words, then she began to stumble, the words tangling as she struggled to listen to what he was saying while translating what he'd already said. The harder she tried, the more jumbled everything became.
"Stop—please." Laughing at her mangled translation of his words, she lifted her hands in mock surrender. "I can't do it. I can't split my concentration that way."
"It is difficult, non?"
"Yes," she replied emphatically, then her amusement at the abortive attempt faded as discouragement set in. "What else is there, Inspector?"
"It is always possible, mam'selle, that you haven't been trained for anything."
"Except to be beautiful and decorative, you mean."
"You say that with a touch of disdain."
"I suppose I do." But she wasn't interested in her reaction to that. "This feeling I have that I'm supposed to be somewhere—if it's true, then why hasn't my absence been noticed? Why hasn't someone missed me?"
"Perhaps when we find out who you are, we will learn those answers as well."
"But when will that be?" she demanded, all her frustration and anxiety surfacing as she turned from him and paced to the window, her arms folded tightly in front of her, her fingers curling into the blanket. "How long will I have to wait?"
After a short silence, the inspector spoke. "I have arranged for a photographer to come and take your picture today. The newspaper has agreed to print it in tomorrow's edition. Perhaps someone will recognize your photo and come forward."
"Perhaps."
When he took his leave of her, she responded automatically but didn't turn from the window, her attention riveted on the brilliant blue sky outside. Like the endless swirl of questions in her mind, it seemed to go on forever.
5
“We've located her," the man said into the telephone, studying the grainy newspaper photograph before him, transposed onto thin facsimile paper. It showed a young woman, bandages circling the top of her head and a bruise standing out sharply against the paleness of her skin. There was no hint of desperation in the eyes that stared back at him. Instead, they looked insistent, determined, demanding.
"Where?" came the sharp, quick response from the man on the other end of the line. "At a hospital in Nice."
"A hospital?"
"Yes. I've just received a copy of an article that's appearing in the morning edition of their paper, accompanied by a photo of her." Once more he scanned the article in the French-language newspaper. Mostly it was a collection of pertinent facts, and little else, listing her height at five feet four and a half inches, her weight at one hundred and thirteen pounds, her hair dark blond, her eyes hazel, and her age estimated to be in the mid-to-late-twenties range. All of these details he already knew about her—with one enlightening addition. "My French is a little rusty, but it appears she has amnesia."
"Amnesia. My God, does that mean she can't remember anything?"
"Apparently." He couldn't keep the note of satisfaction out of his voice. "The article refers to her as the 'Demoiselle de Mystère.'"
"This is great news."
"I know."
"You've got to get to her—quickly."
"My thought exactly."
"I mean it. We can't afford for her to remember and start talking. I'm counting on you to keep her quiet. And if you can't, I will. I'm in way too deep to let her destroy me. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."
"Don't worry." There was a sharp click, and the line went dead.
She looked at the grainy black-and-white photograph, finding it strange that she felt so detached. On second thought, she decided that it wasn't so strange, considering she didn't recognize that woman at all.
Too bad the photographer hadn't waited another twelve hours to take her picture. Dr. St. Clair had removed the turban of gauze from around her head early this morning, leaving only a small, square bandage to protect the deep cut, and her shoulder-length hair covered even that.
And the doctor had also hinted that she would soon be well enough to be released. Which raised a whole new set of problems. Where would she go? How would she live when she had no clothes, no money, and no name—other than the melodramatic one the newspaper had given her, "Demoiselle de Mystère." She suspected it could have been worse. They could just as easily have dubbed her "Mademoiselle X" or something equally trite.
Checking a sigh, she folded the newspaper shut and laid it back down on the table in the small waiting room. As she rose from the chair and pulled the blanket-robe higher around her shoulders, she wondered if anyone would see the photograph and recognize her. It wouldn't be wise to count on that, though. No, she needed to start planning what she was going to do once she was released from the hospital.
As she passed the nurses' station and turned down the corridor to her room, she decided to ask Inspector Armand to recommend a jeweler who would give her a good price for the antique brooch and topaz earrings she'd been wearing. Once she had money, then what? Should she stay in Nice and look for work—Heaven knew what kind? Or should she leave? And go where?
Distracted by the sound of a raised voice, she looked up from her absent contemplation of the floor. There was a man standing in the corridor directly ahead of her, not far from the door to her room. He was upset about something, judging from the anxious attempt by one of the nurses to placate him. Curious to learn what the fuss was all about, she took another look at the stranger.
Dressed in a sport coat in an elongated herringbone design, a beige brown tie of woven silk, and mocha trousers, he stood easily over six feet tall. His heavy-boned features were lean and angular, with none of the carved sleekness about them that might have persuaded her to consider him handsome. It was a hard face, an unforgiving face that gave the impression that cynicism lurked just below the surface. Yet there was something compelling about his looks—something ruthlessly masculine—that she couldn't deny.
"I don't care whether you make a habit of losing patients or not," he said to the nurse, plainly unplacated. "But I suggest you find this
one—now!"
"Oui, m'sieur."
He turned on his heel, then stopped abruptly when he saw her walking toward them. Suddenly his eyes seemed more black than gray, with glass-sharp splinters of interest in them.
"Remy." His deep voice rumbled the name.
Who was he talking to? Was there someone behind her? She glanced back, but there was no one in the corridor. When she squared around, the man was there before her, his hands seizing her by the arms and pulling her to him, a harshness in their grip that spoke of feelings he had tried to control and couldn't. And she realized he was referring to her. She was Remy.
Too stunned by the discovery to resist, she let him gather her to him. The fine woolen texture of his sport coat against her cheek, the musky sandalwood fragrance of a man's cologne that clung to it, the faint tremors within him—those and a dozen other impressions registered on her at once. But most of all she was struck by the overwhelming feeling that it was right for her to be in his arms. It was where she belonged.
Savoring the feeling, she leaned into him and let the hands that glided with such familiar ease over her back press her even closer to him. She was conscious of her pulse quickening in pleasure when he rubbed his mouth against the side of her hair.
"I was about to turn this hospital upside down looking for you, Remy."
Remy. It was the second time he'd called her that. Was that her name? She tried to remember, but she couldn't penetrate that wall of blankness to make it familiar.
She sensed his withdrawal an instant before his hands pushed her an arm's length away from him. She caught the glimmer of anger in his hardening expression, an anger that suggested he regretted the action that had swept her into his arms. Yet the light in his eyes remained dark and bright as his gaze traveled over her face in a quick inspection.
"The photo I saw showed your head in bandages." Reaching up, he traced one side of her forehead, which had earlier been swathed in gauze, his touch incredibly light and gentle.
She should know him, but she didn't. "Who are you?"
He stiffened as if she'd struck him, then pulled his hand back to his side, his mouth curving in a humorless smile. "Obviously someone you'd rather forget."
"That isn't what I meant."
"This is Monsieur Cole Buchanan," the nurse volunteered, handing her a business card. "Your family owns an international shipping company. It is exciting, non?"
Before she had a chance to look at the card, footsteps approached. "It seems I have arrived late with the news," came Inspector Armand's familiar voice.
"News," she repeated blankly, still trying to make sense out of all of this.
"Oui. I came to tell you that your brother would be arriving shortly to take you home."
Struggling to hide her shock at his announcement, she quickly looked down at the card in her hand. Cole Buchanan's name appeared in bold type in the center of it, with the title of President listed directly below his name. This man couldn't be her brother. She inwardly recoiled from the thought, aware that her reaction to him when he'd held her in his arms a moment ago had been anything but sisterly. She remembered the way her body had arched in a sexual response—the gliding caress of his hands on her back—and the momentary desire she'd felt to turn her head and find the male lips rubbing so sensually over her hair.
She forced herself to look at the company name and logo that headed the card—the Crescent Line. She stared at the name, waiting for it to spark some memory, no matter how vague. But nothing came. Instead, she felt uneasy. Why?
"Is something wrong?" The deep-voiced question came from Cole Buchanan.
"No." Why was she so quick with her denial? Something was wrong, but what? And why didn't it feel right to ask him about it? He was her brother. "It's just that—I don't remember anything about the company or about shipping."
"You've never been involved in the actual operation of the company."
Was that criticism she detected in his statement? But a glance found nothing in his expression to suggest that. If anything, he seemed sharply alert, watchful—his look almost guarded.
"You don't remember anything, do you?" He made the observation somewhat thoughtfully.
"She suffers from amnesia—" Inspector Armand began.
"I know," Cole interrupted, a trace of aloofness in the glance he gave him. "I was informed of her condition, but I hadn't realized it was total."
"You said my name is Remy." She focused on that, compelled by a need to challenge and confront. "Who am I? What am I? Where do I live?"
"In New Orleans . . . Louisiana," he added, as if she might not remember that fact either. "You still live at the family home in the Garden district."
Images flashed in her mind, images that came and went too quickly for her to grasp and hold and discover what they meant, images of ancient moss-draped oaks, graceful wisteria arches, and scrolling iron lace railings. Were they her memories, or merely a knowledge of the place? She couldn't tell.
"Do you remember something?" the inspector asked.
"I'm not sure," she admitted, then looked at him and realized, "You two haven't been introduced. This is Inspector Claude Armand. He—"
Cole Buchanan broke in firmly and extended a hand in formal greeting. "A pleasure, Inspector. I know the family would want me to pass along their thanks for the efforts you've made in Remy's behalf." He sounded warm, sincere, and polite— but aloof. She was struck by that. Inspector Armand was a stranger to him, and she had the impression that he wanted to keep it that way. He wasn't interested in making friends, in allowing people to get close to him—just as he'd pushed her an arm's length away. Why? She was his sister. She remembered his initial embrace of her, the depth of feeling he'd shown—and subsequently regretted. Why? Distracted by these thoughts, she missed the inspector's response and discovered that Cole was speaking again. "... arrange for her release, we need to leave. I'm sure you can understand, Inspector, the family is very anxious to get Remy safely back to New Orleans."
New Orleans. This time she picked up on the words, a certainty rushing through her. "That's where I'm supposed to be. That's where I'm needed. New Orleans." She laughed softly in a release of tension and turned to the inspector. "At last we have that riddle solved. And so simply, too."
"What riddle?" Cole asked.
"I've had this feeling—ever since I came to, here in the hospital—that there was some place I was supposed to be. It was important, I knew that, but—" She stopped. "Why is it important?"
"I don't have any idea," he replied, without even the slightest hesitation. "How long will it take you to get dressed and be ready to leave?"
"Forgive me, M'sieu Buchanan," the inspector inserted smoothly, politely. "But there are a number of questions I must ask you first."
"Questions—why?" She found it impossible to tell what the inspector was thinking—or suspecting.
"We may have learned who you are, but we have yet to determine the identity of the man you were with," he reminded her.
"And you think—" she began, then turned to look at Cole Buchanan, "—he might be that man."
"I wasn't. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even in Nice at the time."
"And what time was that, m'sieu?" the inspector asked, then extended a hand, palm up. "May I see your papers?"
"Of course." With barely disguised impatience, he reached inside his sport coat and took out his passport, then handed it to the inspector. "You will find they are all in order, Inspector Armand, and they will prove that I am exactly who I claim to be." Then he glanced at her. "This won't take long, Remy. In the meantime, why don't you get ready?"
"I have nothing to wear—no street clothes," she said, aware of the inspector glancing through his passport with more than casual interest.
"I anticipated that and picked up a couple of outfits for you on my way here."
"Oui. We left the boxes in your room," the nurse added.
The inspector nodded his acquiescence. "I would prefer to speak priv
ately with M'sieu Buchanan. It is my job to ask questions, non?"
"Following the routine again, are you, Inspector?" she said, remembering the check he'd run on her to see if she had a criminal record.
"But of course." He smiled.
"In that case I will leave it in your capable hands to determine whether I should go with him or not." She said it lightly, but with an underthread of seriousness running through her voice. She didn't remember him, and she only had his word that he was her brother. Still, there was New Orleans. She had to get there. No matter what other doubts she had, that certainty remained strong.
As she entered her hospital room and closed the door, she saw the inspector return Cole Buchanan's passport, observing, "You travel a great deal."
"On business, yes." The rest of his reply was muffled by the door.
The boxes were there, exactly as the nurse had said, containing two outfits complete from the skin out—lacy lingerie, sheer stockings, shoes, and a chocolate-brown pantsuit with a blouse of cream-gold silk as well as an oversized turtleneck sweater of cranberry silk knit with a matching full skirt of silk broadcloth.
Mindful of the long flight potentially ahead of her, she chose the pantsuit. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for her, yet it was brand-new. She wasn't sure why she felt so surprised by that. Cole Buchanan was her brother, so naturally he would know her size and taste in clothes.
Fully dressed, she sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the voices in the corridor, the inspector's calm and low-pitched voice making its inquiries, and Cole Buchanan's deep-voiced replies, always short, sometimes impatient, sometimes angry. Finally there was a knock at her door.
"Come in."
Cole Buchanan stepped into the room, his glance sweeping over her with unflattering indifference. "You're ready, I see. I'll settle your bill with the hospital and be back to get you—" He paused and glanced somewhat cynically over his shoulder. "With the inspector's permission, of course."
