by Janet Dailey
"Of course." Inspector Armand walked into the room and stayed when he left. "You will soon be leaving us for New Orleans—for home."
From that she concluded that he was satisfied with the answers Cole Buchanan had given him. "Was he able to tell you anything about that night?"
"Regrettably, non. The case remains open." He walked over to her and took her hand. "If you should remember—when you remember," he corrected himself, "you contact me."
"Of course. And thank you, Inspector, for everything."
He shrugged. "It is my job."
Twenty minutes later Remy emerged from the hospital into the brilliant Mediterranean sunlight. Automatically she slowed her steps and breathed in the tangy freshness of the air, ridding her lungs of the strong medicinal smells they'd known for days.
She turned to say something to Cole and nearly collided with him, unaware that he'd been following so close behind her. His hand came up to steady her as his glance came down, lingering for only a fraction of a second on her lips—but that was all it took to spark the thought of being kissed by him and to shatter the comfortable, companionable feeling she'd had toward him since they'd left her room. She was stunned that such a thought could cross her mind, even fleetingly. He was her brother. She should never have let the inspector's questioning of him reinforce her initial reaction to him as a man.
"Sorry," she said quickly, conscious of the faint heat in her cheeks and the rare embarrassment she felt.
"It's all right. The car's over there." With a gesture of his hand, he pointed her toward a shiny gray Citroen parked in the visitors' area.
She moved briskly toward it, this time sharply aware of his footsteps directly behind her. When they reached it, he stepped ahead of her in one stride and set down the suitcase he'd provided for her clothes, then unlocked the passenger door for her. Eluding his assistance, she slipped quickly onto the seat and waited while he closed the door. In the rearview mirror, she watched him open the trunk to stow her suitcase inside. But he didn't immediately close the trunk again. When he did, she noticed that he'd removed his sport jacket. As he slid behind the wheel of the car, he reached back and laid it on the rear seat.
Instinctively she knew that despite the ease with which he wore the expensive sport coat, he was more comfortable in shirt sleeves. He hadn't always worn a suit and tie; he had learned to wear them, and to wear them well. Yet, strangely, she couldn't imagine anything but the finest cloth against her own skin. Why was that?
"Ready?" He directed the full brunt of his sharp, strong features, lean almost to the point of gauntness, at her.
She nodded and looked away, silently wishing he hadn't removed his jacket. She didn't want to notice that the muscles beneath his shirt were the hard, ropy kind that came from work, rather than the bulging perfection that came from workouts. He had the polished look and confident air of a highly successful executive. So why did she think he'd fought his way to the top? Why did she have the feeling that despite the streak of gentleness she'd detected when he'd so lightly run his fingers along her forehead—that despite that, he could be cruel in a tight place? How did she know with such certainty that he could play the quiet game —as now—or the quick one?
And why was she so physically aware of him as a man? She shouldn't be, but the close confines of the small European car seemed to make it impossible for her to be otherwise. With each breath she inhaled the masculine fragrance of his cologne, and the sight of his tanned hands on the wheel filled her side vision, reminding her of the feel of them spread across her back. . . . Abruptly she broke off the thought, damning the sudden uneven beat of her pulse.
"How old are you?" She directed her gaze to the front.
"Thirty-five," he replied, a thread of puzzlement in his deep voice.
"How old am I?"
"Twenty-seven."
Which meant he was literally her big brother. Was it a case of hero worship? Had she always idolized him? Surely it wasn't unheard of for a sister to recognize that her big brother was sexually attractive. After all, she was a woman, and since she had no memory of their sibling relationship, wasn't it logical that she would react to him strictly as a woman? It was the only rationale for her behavior that made sense.
"You said you saw the photograph in the newspaper,” she remembered. "Were you here looking for me?"
"No, I arrived in Marseilles yesterday on business. The company has an overseas office there," he inserted in explanation. "Frazier called me this morning about it."
She frowned. "Who's Frazier?"
"Your father."
"Is that what you call him?"
"Yes." He turned the car onto a main street.
"Do I?" she wondered.
"Occasionally."
"Frazier." She tried out the sound of it, but she couldn't summon any image of him, and stopped trying. "And my mother—what's her name?"
"Sibylle."
Still nothing. She rested her head against the seat back and tried to relax. "At least I know I have a family, even if I can't remember them. There were times when I wondered if I did—when I wondered if anyone was looking for me." She frowned again. "Why did it take so long for you to find me?"
"No one realized you were missing until almost two days ago, when you failed to return home on your scheduled flight. At first they thought you had missed your connection and would be arriving on a later flight. When you still didn't turn up, they contacted me to see if you had changed your plans and were flying back on the corporate plane with me. Of course, you hadn't—and the search for you began at that point." He paused, glancing at her sideways, his mouth twisting in something that passed for a smile. "Right after that, they discovered your clothes and your bags were still in the closet of your stateroom on the yacht. And Frazier realized you hadn't gone off by yourself for a few days, as everyone had assumed."
No wonder none of the hotels had been able to identify her as a guest. She'd been staying on a yacht. "Then originally I came to Nice with my parents."
"You joined them here. They'd been cruising the Mediterranean for a week before that. Then you and most of the family flew over for a couple of days to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary."
"Were you here?"
"No. I was in New Orleans, nearly half a world away."
"Working," she guessed, picking up again on that charged intensity about him, the air of a man driven to succeed. "You work all the time, don't you?"
Briefly he met her glance, then gave his full attention to the traffic in front of them. "You've told me that before."
There was no amusement in his voice, which made her think she had criticized him about that in the past. She decided it was a subject better not pursued, but it brought up another question.
"What do I do? You said earlier I wasn't involved in the company. But I can't imagine myself doing nothing."
"You're heavily involved with the Louisiana State Museum. You act as a docent, and you assist in the authentication of certain items donated to it—specifically seventeenth- and eighteenth-century French porcelain, your special field of knowledge."
She suddenly had an image of an antique jardiniere with flowers and cupids painted in reserves on its sides and embellished with gold against a distinctively pink background. She knew instantly that it was a Sevres piece done in the rose Pompadour color. Maybe she wasn't an expert, but she was highly knowledgeable in that field. She knew that in the same inexplicable way she knew other things.
The things he'd told her—her original purpose in coming to Nice, the reason her family had failed to miss her—all of it sounded very logical, very plausible, even believable. Yet . . . something wasn't right. None of it explained this feeling she had that she was urgently needed at home, that there was some kind of trouble.
Sighing, she turned to gaze out the window and looked blindly at the ocher buildings they passed. As the gardened boulevard made a curve, she recognized that they were traveling down the Avenue Félix Faur
e, approaching the Espace Masséna. Tensing slightly, she straightened in her seat, waiting for that first glimpse of it.
Then, there it was, the towering sprays of its sparkling fountains visible through a break in the row of shade trees and slender cypress, and the grinning face of the giant papier-mâché King of Carnival peering down from his alfresco throne. She scanned the stand of trees by the sidewalk, wondering which one she'd struck her head against. At the same time, she couldn't help thinking how beautifully serene the square looked with only a scattering of people strolling its landscaped walks.
Belatedly she noticed that Cole had stopped the car at a pedestrian crosswalk. A woman walked in front of them, pushing a baby stroller. Smoothly he shifted the car into drive, and they rolled forward again. A moment later she was surprised when he failed to turn at the next intersection and continued straight ahead onto the Avenue de Verdun instead.
"If you had turned back there, we could have taken a better route to the airport and avoided all this traffic"
"I know," he said, slowing the car to make the turn onto the palm-lined Promenade des Anglais.
"Then why are we going this way?" She frowned. "I thought you said at the hospital we were flying directly to New Orleans."
"We are—as soon as I eliminate the problem with your passport."
"What problem with my passport?"
"You don't have one . . . yet. Hopefully it will be waiting for us when we arrive at the hotel."
6
Minutes later he pulled up in front of the entrance to the Hotel Negresco. A plume-hatted doorman in a scarlet-lined blue cloak and high, shiny boots stepped forward and opened the passenger door for her. Taking his gloved hand, Remy let him assist her out of the car, then turned and waited, watching as Cole slipped back into his sport jacket, its rich herringbone wool skillfully concealing the strong build of his upper body. Idly she studied the solid, angular bones of his face, covered by skin that was deeply tanned and without a wrinkle.
With an odd certainty she knew that nepotism had nothing to do with his position as president of the family shipping business. It was his competence, his aggressiveness, his ability to lead and command that had gained him the office. Suddenly, without any effort at all, she could picture him on the wharves in his shirt sleeves, moving among the longshoremen, as tough and strong as they were. And just as easily she could see him in command of a board meeting, respected—however grudgingly—for his canny business skills. Grudgingly—why had she thought that?
But she didn't have an opportunity to analyze that very definite impression as she found herself now standing face-to-face with him, the rock gray of his gaze boring into her as if searching for something. For an instant the air seemed to crackle around them, charged by a tension that flashed between them. She held herself still, wondering what he was thinking. What did he want?
The whole sensation vanished as if it had never been when he said, "Shall we go in?"
"Of course." She swung sharply about and crossed to the hotel's entrance, conscious of his long-reaching stride easily keeping pace with hers.
Once they were inside, her glance swept the hotel's magnificent interior. The Hotel Negresco was typical of the many palatial hotels scattered along the Côte d'Azur, but it had a style and gloss that was all its own. It was officially listed as a historic monument, though Remy suspected that it could more accurately be called a monument to excessive consumption. Used as a hospital during World War II, it had been restored with an ostentatious hand. To the undiscerning eye, the glass-domed and marble-floored Salon Royal might resemble a gaudy if stunning piece of costume jewelry, but the one-ton chandelier was nothing less than Baccarat crystal, and the tapestry on the wall was a genuine Gobelin.
Cole's hand moved to the small of her back, the sensation of it blocking out everything else as he guided her to the registration desk. She was acutely conscious of the sudden longings that ran through her—a desire for intimacy, to touch and be touched. Why? Had it been that long since she'd been with a man?
"Am I married?" she wondered suddenly.
"No." If he found her question unexpected, he gave no sign of it.
"Divorced?"
"No."
"Have I ever been close?"
"To which? Marriage or divorce?" he asked, showing her the first glimpse of his humor.
"Wouldn't it have to be marriage?" she challenged, a faint smile dimpling her own cheeks. "I understand it comes before divorce."
"I guess it does," he agreed, then seemed to withdraw from her, a remoteness shuttering his expression. "You were engaged once."
"What happened?"
"He drowned in a boating accident on Lake Pontchartrain."
She immediately felt a sharp twinge of sadness. "What was his name?"
"Nick Austin."
Did the name mean anything to her? She couldn't tell. All she had was a vague feeling of something—someone—from long, long ago. Then the curtness of Cole's answer registered, and she looked up, encountering his glance, oddly cool and remote. "You didn't like him."
"I didn't know him."
Again he spoke curtly, as if he resented any mention of her late fiancé. Why? Surely he couldn't have been jealous, could he? Jealous that some other man had come first with her? Then another thought occurred to her.
"Cole, are you married?"
He shot her a quick look before answering, then abruptly dropped his glance. "No."
She was stunned by the relief she felt at his answer—and by the swift rise of possessiveness she'd felt just before it. She didn't follow him when he crossed to the desk and spoke to one of the clerks. She was too busy trying to come to terms with the discovery that the possessive feeling had been jealousy.
Then he was walking back to her. "He hasn't arrived with your passport, so I've arranged for a suite. I didn't think you'd want to wait around the lobby until he comes."
She stiffened at the hint of sarcasm in his remark, and its implication that she would regard waiting in the lobby as something beneath her. She started to challenge him on it, but the arrival of a bellman deterred her—for the time being.
In silence she went up in the elevator, down the hall, and into the suite of rooms. There she crossed to the window of the richly furnished sitting room and waited while the bellman went through the ritual of showing Cole all the suite's amenities. Finally she heard the click of the door latch signal his departure, and she swung from the spectacular view of the bay's deep-blue waters.
Without looking at her, Cole locked the door behind the bellman, then loosened the knot of his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt as he started across the room toward the telephone, which rested on an ebony secretaire. "I'm going to order up some coffee. Do you want anything?"
"Yes, I'd like to know what you meant by that remark you made downstairs. Or was that some brotherly gibe?"
"Brotherly?" he stopped, an eyebrow lifting sharply. "I'm not your brother, Remy."
Her mouth gaped open. She couldn't help it. "But... at the hospital... I thought. ..." She stopped, trying to remember exactly what had been said—and by whom.
"I am not your brother, Remy," he repeated, his mouth slanting in a hard and cynically amused line.
"Then who are you?"
"Exactly who I claim to be—the president of the Crescent Line, Cole Buchanan."
"Inspector Armand said my brother was coming to take me home," she remembered. "If you aren't my brother, then where is he?"
"Gabe should be arriving at the hotel anytime now—with your passport."
"Then who am I? What's my name? Remy what?" she demanded, confused and angry—and making no attempt to conceal it.
"Remy Jardin."
Remembering how guilty she'd felt over her attraction to him, she walked over to confront him, her temper showing. "You bastard!" She lashed out, striking at his face, but in a lightning-fast move he caught her wrist and stopped it short of its target. When she brought her other
hand up, it was caught too, and held in the vice of his fingers. "Why didn't you tell me at the hospital you weren't my brother?" she demanded, straining to pull free of his hold but not deigning to struggle openly against it.
"I never said I was. If you assumed that, that's your problem. Not mine."
"You let me think it," she accused.
"I have no control over what you think or what conclusions you reach. If I did, then—" But he cut off the rest of that sentence. "I had no idea you thought I was your brother, Remy. If I had, I probably wouldn't have told you differently. Do you know why? Because amnesia or not, you have an incredibly strong sense of family. You might not have left the hospital with a stranger."
"The end justifies the means, is that it?"
His head came up sharply at that remark. "Believe what you like, Remy. You always do."
Looking at him, she became conscious of the harsh grip of his hands on her wrists and remembered the pressure of them when he'd pulled her into his arms, the way they had moved over her with accustomed ease, and the natural way he had spoken her name. More than that, she remembered the way she'd reacted to him. "Are we lovers?"
Slow to make her change of mood, he lowered her hands and absently rubbed at the insides of her wrists, where his fingers had dug in. "Yes."
"I should have guessed," she said, then wondered, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't remember. I thought it might be better that way."
"Why?" she asked, then immediately guessed, "Have we been arguing?"
"You could say that." His reply had the ring of an understatement.
"About what?" Was this the trouble she'd sensed? The reason for that feeling of urgency?
"Does it matter, considering you don't remember?" He let go of her hands and crossed to the window, massaging the back of his neck in a gesture that revealed strain and tension.
"Do I love you, Cole?"
He released a short, explosive sigh. "How the hell am I supposed to answer that, Remy?" She said nothing, letting her silence prod him. "You've told me you do," he said finally.
