by Metsy Hingle
Calling upon a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, Matt tore his mouth free. He dragged air into his lungs in deep gulps while he battled the urge to haul her into his lap and pick up where they’d left off. “I think,” he began as he sucked in another lungful of air and forced his gaze away from that tantalizing mouth. “I think I got all of the sauce.”
Four
“What?” Claire asked, doing her best to shake off the sensual haze that still held her in its grip. She tried to concentrate on breathing normally again—which was no easy task, given her body felt all tight and tingly and her mind seemed to have turned to mush.
A frown slashed across Matt’s face. “There’s no more sauce on your face,” he repeated, his voice gruff.
Claire’s fingers went to her mouth, still warm and wet from his kiss, and she could feel the blush crawl up her cheeks. Embarrassed, a part of her wanted to duck beneath the table and hide while another part of her wanted to climb into his lap and have him kiss her again. And both reactions were absurd, she told herself. Matt was her husband. Surely he had kissed her like this before. So why on earth didn’t she remember the thrill of his kiss, the heat of his touch? And why did she feel it had been such a long time since she had been kissed this way?
“I’d better clear this stuff away before the rain hits,” he told her, and began loading their dishes onto the tray.
“Let me help,” she said, starting to get up.
“Don’t even think about it. You need to stay off that ankle. I’ll only be a minute.”
Not up to arguing, Claire turned her attention to the weather, only now realizing that the brilliant gold and orange sky that had greeted her when she’d first emerged onto the deck had disappeared. Instead of the sinking sun filling the horizon, a sliver of moon struggled valiantly to shine through a forest of black clouds rolling across the skyline. As far as she could tell, the stars had gone into hiding. Flames flickered in the gaslights on the deck. The spotlights from the garden below glittered and provided the only other source of illumination in the night shadows. Suddenly uneasy in the encroaching darkness, Claire rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She glanced toward the door, eager for Matt to return. Thunder grumbled, and Claire nearly jumped out of her skin.
She needed to hide.
The thought came out of nowhere, making her heart race. Despite the damp chill in the air, sweat beaded across her forehead, between her breasts. For a second something tugged at her memory, something frightening and ugly that sent fear climbing up her throat. Instead of reaching for that scrap of memory, she shrank away from it, afraid of what she would find. Fear mushroomed inside her. The urge to hide picked up a panicked beat in her blood.
She needed to run.
She scrambled to get out of the chair, ready to flee.
“The weatherman says we’re in for a few showers. We’d better get you inside before—” Matt swore. He was beside her in a flash, catching her when she would have fallen flat on her face in her haste to untangle herself from the chair and run. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into the house.
He didn’t say a word—not a single one—as she clung to him. Long after he sat down on the couch with her wrapped around him and trembling like a leaf in the wind, he remained silent. He asked no questions. He didn’t try to reason with her that she was being foolish. He simply held her, his hand rhythmically stroking over her hair and down her back in a soothing motion.
Claire wasn’t sure how long she sat there plastered against Matt before the terror that had ambushed her out on the deck began to subside. It could have been minutes or hours that passed before the shaking inside her finally stopped. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was that the drapes had been drawn closed and that candles and lamps had been lit throughout the room, giving it a soft, cozy glow. The next thing she realized was that she no longer could hear the drumming of rain against the windows or the echo of thunder. Instead she heard the rich voice of Harry Connick, Jr., singing an old Sinatra classic and the steady beat of Matt’s heart beneath her ear. Curled up in his lap with her head resting against his chest, Claire gradually became aware of him as a man. There was no mistaking the strength in the arms that cradled her. He felt solid, safe, strong—a man to slay dragons, she thought.
Surprised by the romantic analogy her brain had conjured up, Claire took a deep breath to clear her head. As she did so, she caught his scent—that mixture of woods and citrus and male sweat. No longer in the grips of the fear that had nearly paralyzed her, she thought about that kiss they had shared earlier on the deck. She felt that pull at her memory again. She could see herself in his arms, feel his mouth and hands on her body, taste him on her lips. Claire shivered. It wasn’t just a memory that had heat curling low in her belly, she realized. It was a need, a feminine hunger to have Matt kiss her, to have him touch her again.
“Cold?” he murmured, his hand ceasing its slow, lazy strokes down her back.
“No. I—I’m okay,” she told him, flustered as much by her reaction to him as to her wild imaginings.
Great, Claire thought, admonishing herself. She practically freaked out over a little thunder and didn’t have a clue why, since her mind was filled with blanks where her memories should be. She had enough bruises on her body to play a game of connect the dots, and her ankle was trussed up like a mummy’s. But apparently her female parts were all in full working order because she was sitting here lusting after a husband that she didn’t even remember.
“I think the worst of the storm’s over now. Feeling better?”
“Yes,” she replied, lifting her head. “Tell me, do I always become catatonic whenever there’s a little thunderstorm?”
The question had been meant as a joke, her way of trying to alleviate some of the sexual tension she sensed between them. But one glimpse at his guarded expression and the worry clouding those silvery eyes had her stomach dipping. “I was only kidding.”
“Right. I know that.”
Nerves began to inch their way up her spine again. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, averting his gaze.
Her stomach sank. He was lying. “Do I have some…some kind of phobia that makes me freak out during thunderstorms?”
“Of course not.” He sighed, washed a hand down his face. “Most people don’t like bad weather. You’re no exception. That doesn’t mean you have a phobia about it. Besides, New Orleans gets its fair share of rainstorms. Since you’ve lived here your entire life, you’re used to them. For the most part, storms don’t bother you.”
“But sometimes they do bother me?” she prompted.
“Yes. Or at least I suspected they did. You never said anything, but I always got the feeling bad weather frightened you. Today…today was the first time you ever admitted you were afraid. It’s also the first time you’ve ever let me comfort you.”
And Matt had wanted to comfort her, Claire realized with sudden insight. Obviously, the fact that she had allowed him to comfort her now meant a great deal to him, given the thickness in his voice. So how had she failed to recognize Matt’s need to do so before now? He was her husband, and he cared about her. She didn’t doubt that. It was there in the way he looked at her, in the tenderness of his touch, in the patient way he had dealt with her amnesia.
So why hadn’t she turned to Matt before now? Yet another question in the puzzle of who was Claire Gallagher? What made her tick? Didn’t she love her husband enough to trust him with her fears? Had she ever loved or trusted anyone? she wondered. And why had a little thunder and rain caused her skin to go all clammy and sent panic racing like wildfire in her veins? Suddenly all the questions running through her mind had her head pounding. She rubbed at her temples.
“Head hurting again?”
“Just a little,” she admitted.
Easing her off his lap so that she was stretched out on the couch, he asked, “How about I get you a couple of those pain pills that Jeff prescribed?”
“No. Really, it’s not that bad.”
He studied her face a moment, his eyes filled with concern. “You sure?”
She nodded and attempted a smile. “I think I’m just a little tired.”
“That’s no surprise. You’ve had a pretty full day.”
She liked having Matt grin at her that way, Claire realized as his lips kicked into a grin. She liked him smiling at her almost as much as she liked having him hold her. And considering the state of her memory, she wasn’t all too sure that was a good thing.
He kissed the tip of her nose and stood. “It’s getting late. Give me a minute to put the kitchen in order, and then I’ll help you upstairs so you can get ready for bed.”
He disappeared before she could protest that she didn’t need any help and could manage the stairs on her own. What she didn’t know was how to manage the desire that had started curling low in her belly again at the mention of going to bed. She could easily envision herself sharing a bed with Matt, kissing him, touching him, making love with him.
And she’d darned well better get her lustful musings under control, Claire told herself as she banished the images from her mind. She could hear water running and the clatter of dishes coming from the next room. Sitting up, she searched the room for sight of her crutches. When she failed to find them, she gave up and began a slow journey across the room. By the time she reached the staircase, she was exhausted. Using the newel post for leverage, she eased herself down and sat on the first step while she contemplated the steep climb. She had been wrong, Claire decided. There was no way she was going to be able to maneuver those stairs on her own.
“Damn it, Red! What do you think you’re doing?”
She whipped her gaze toward a scowling Matt and watched in frustration as he ate up the yards that it had taken her forever to navigate in a matter of seconds. “I was going upstairs, but I couldn’t find my crutches.”
An angry frown slashed his brow. “I told you to wait for me.”
“I’m not helpless, Matt, and I don’t want to be treated like an invalid. I think I can manage the stairs, if you’ll lend me your arm for support.”
“No way. I’m carrying you.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he said firmly. Releasing a breath, he closed his eyes a second, and when he opened them again, his expression had softened. “Listen, you’ll probably be up and down these stairs more times than I care to think about during the next few days. Now is my only shot at playing the hero. So humor me, Red. Let me feel macho. Let me carry you upstairs.”
She wanted to argue, would have, but the plea in his eyes made it impossible. “All right. This time. But tomorrow, I do it on my own.”
“Deal.”
And before she had a chance to reconsider the wisdom of her decision, he lifted her up into his arms. A person would have thought she weighed practically nothing as he began to climb the stairs with her. But Matt carrying her was the least of her problems, Claire thought. He followed the curve of the stairway and Claire felt the nerves dancing along her skin again with each step. She recalled that overpowering urge she’d felt to run and hide earlier. To run and hide from whom? she wondered. From Matt? No, she reasoned. Matt was her husband. He loved her. Did she love him? She was attracted to him, even desired him, she admitted. But did she really love him? She stared at his face, felt that kick to her pulse again. Could she have forgotten him the way she had if she did love him?
She didn’t know, Claire decided. What she did know was that despite the sexual pull between them, she didn’t remember him. And despite what he might think after that mind-blowing kiss that they had shared, she wasn’t ready to be his wife again. Until she was ready…until she knew who she was again, there was no way she could share Matt’s bed.
Claire swallowed. How did she go about telling her husband that although she’d crawled all over him downstairs and he made her toes curl when they kissed, she didn’t feel comfortable sharing a bed or anything else with him yet?
“This is it,” Matt said and nudged open the door.
Her first glimpse of the room stole Claire’s breath and emptied her head of concerns as she took in the details. Like the rest of the house, this room was lovely and elegant in its simplicity. At the heart of the room was a huge four-poster iron bed. The bed’s pewter finish was set off by a thick duvet in a shimmering sage damask with layered bed skirts that boasted coordinating trim sashes. Big fluffy pillows of sage, cream and silver were piled at the head of the bed. Crystal lamps with ceramic bases in celadon sat on pewter and glass nightstands. Across the room a cut crystal vase of white roses sat on a glass-top table between a chair and settee in oyster damask. A matching chaise with a striking jewel-colored throw sat opposite the grouping. An antique-white armoire took up most of one wall while a dressing table with an assortment of perfume bottles and framed pictures took up another. Floor-to-ceiling windows with billowing sheers filled the far wall. A large ficus and several flowering plants added to the room’s charm. “It’s lovely,” she told Matt. And it was. The room was also warm, inviting…and totally unfamiliar to her.
“You’re responsible. You chose everything in here except the bed,” he told her as he eased her down to the chaise.
“Really?”
“You bet,” he said, and pulled the drapes open to reveal a night sky twinkling with stars now that the storm was over. Returning to her, Matt lifted her healthy foot and started to remove the flat shoe.
Claire yanked her foot up toward her chest, wrapped her arms around it. “I…I think I can manage.”
He hesitated a moment, then stood. “I’ll get your pajamas for you.”
“Matt, wait.”
He stopped in front of the chest of drawers and looked back at her. “Yeah?”
Nervous, Claire plucked at the fabric of her slacks. “I know that this is your room, too,” she began. “I mean, I know we’re married and you and I…that we…”
Matt retraced his path to her side. “Look at me, Red.”
When she didn’t, he tipped her chin up. Desire gleamed in his silvery eyes. And for a moment nerves gave way to excitement as an answering need licked through her.
“I want you. Make no mistake about that. And I’d like nothing better than to carry you over to that bed and make passionate love with you all night.”
Claire’s heart jumped at his words. Another shiver of excitement shot through her blood, along with a jolt of fear. “Matt, I—”
“But as much as I want that, I know you don’t feel the same way right now. So I’m going to sleep in the guest room tonight, tomorrow night and every night until you tell me that you want me to share this room with you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, both relieved and disappointed.
After showing her where everything was in the adjoining bathroom, he pulled back the bed covers and laid out her pajamas. ‘I’m going down to lock up for the night. I’ll be back up in a few minutes with your medication.”
“Okay,” Claire told him as she picked up the ivory silk pajamas.
He paused at the doorway. “Sure you don’t need any help?”
“No, thanks,” she said, but as he left the room, Claire couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret.
Matt pulled the bedroom door closed behind him. Leaning against it, he squeezed his eyes shut and battled the desire that clawed at his gut. He could still taste her, feel the imprint of Claire’s body pressed against him, smell her scent on his skin. For a few moments downstairs when she had kissed him back, and again when he had first brought her into the bedroom, she had been his Claire again. It was as though nothing had changed between them, as though she had never walked out on him, as though the past six months had never happened.
Only, those six months had happened, Matt reminded himself. She just didn’t remember them. And no matter how much he loved and wanted Claire, he couldn’t afford to rush her.
He needed to stick to his plan if this was
going to work, Matt told himself. Sucking in a breath, he opened his eyes and headed downstairs. And the only way to make it work was to earn her trust. Otherwise, when Claire’s memory returned, he didn’t stand a chance of her forgiving him.
Too bad patience had never been one of his strong suits, Matt thought as he put on a kettle of water to make tea. While he waited for the water to heat, he recalled the terrified look on Claire’s face when that storm had rolled in earlier and the way she had clung to him. The fist around his heart squeezed tighter as the unwelcome images painted by the investigator’s report came back to haunt him.
All too easily he could envision Claire as a frightened toddler, cowering inside that confessional box in the empty church while a hurricane raged outdoors. Anger churned anew inside him at the details he’d gleaned from the report, making him grateful that even prior to the assault and her amnesia, Claire held no memories of that time in her life. Remembering his earlier decision to speak to the police detective about the details unearthed in the investigation, Matt eyed the kitchen clock. Late, but not too late, he decided. Withdrawing the detective’s card from his shirt pocket, he reached for the phone.
When he hung up the phone fifteen minutes later, Matt had his emotions and his hormones firmly under control once more. Content with his decision to meet with Delvecchio the next day, he placed Claire’s medication on the tray with the tea and headed upstairs.
Outside the bedroom door, Matt paused as a flicker of regret rushed through him. He’d spent many a night imagining Claire sleeping in their bed again—and in none of those fantasies had he envisioned her sleeping in that bed alone. Soon, he promised himself. Balancing the tray, Matt rapped his knuckles against the door and stepped inside.
And he nearly swallowed his tongue.
Faster than a streak of lightning all thoughts about being patient and winning Claire’s trust went straight to hell. So did his ability to speak. All he could do was stare. And want.
