She’d given in to the panic for only a split second before she’d stopped the car, gotten out and walked to the bridge, determined to face this first hurdle head-on. Gingerly, she’d stepped across the wood flooring to stand at the railing, gazing at the water some thirty feet below her.
But the fear wouldn’t abate. If anything, it grew more overpowering the longer she stood there. And yet for some unexplainable reason, Amy couldn’t move. She remained on the bridge, letting the terror crawl through her, almost welcoming it, because the emotion told her exactly what she needed to know.
She’d been here before. She knew this bridge. There was a very good chance, as she’d come to believe in the past two weeks, that she was Amber Tremain.
Once Amy had seen the picture of Amber Tremain in an old Jackson, Mississippi, newspaper, her doubts had all but vanished. The resemblance was too great to pass off as a coincidence. And the fact that Amber had disappeared nine years ago, almost to the day that Amy had awakened in a Houston hospital without her memory, was even further proof.
None of it was a coincidence; of that, she was certain, but why the lies? Why had Nona painstakingly created such an idyllic past for her? Why had she never told Amy the truth? What had the woman who claimed to be her aunt been protecting her from?
The answers, Amy was almost certain, lay hidden here on this bridge, in those murky depths thirty feet below her, in the shadowy countryside that wrapped all around her.
“So it is you,” a masculine voice said behind her.
Amy hadn’t heard him approach. She whirled, and as her gaze met his, her heart vaulted to her throat. For one dizzying moment, she couldn’t breathe.
The Face swam before her, no longer a figment of her imagination, but terrifyingly real. The dark eyes, the sensuous mouth, the angry expression were all the same, but there was no mistaking the fact that this man was flesh and blood.
In the space of a heartbeat, Amy’s gaze flickered over him. She’d sketched his face hundreds of times, but she’d never wondered about his overall appearance, perhaps because she’d managed to convince herself he wasn’t real. But now, in an instant, she noticed breathlessly how tall he was, how menacing he seemed.
He wasn’t handsome, not even very attractive with a day’s growth of beard shadowing his face and a body lean to the point of gauntness. The faded jeans and white, sleeveless undershirt he wore hung loosely on his thin frame, but there was still something about him, an innate magnetism, that made Amy’s heart flail painfully against her chest. Who was he and why was she so afraid of him?
“I heard you were coming back, but I didn’t much believe it.” His voice was low and husky, edged with something that might have been anger. When Amy remained silent, he cocked his head and stared down at her. “It is you, isn’t it? Or am I seeing a ghost?”
“I’m not a ghost,” she finally managed to say.
He lifted a dark brow. “No? Maybe I should check that out for myself.” He reached out a hand to touch her, but Amy flinched away. His dark brown gaze narrowed on her as his expression hardened. “What’s the matter, Amber? Don’t you remember me?”
“No. I’m afraid I don’t.” She put a hand to her throat, trying to stifle the rush of fear. “I don’t remember anything, or anyone, before nine years ago.”
“I heard that, too,” he said. “But I didn’t much believe that, either.”
Amy stared at him helplessly. “Why not? It’s the truth.”
“The truth?” He gave her a quizzical smile. “I doubt you’d know the truth if it smacked you right in the face. But amnesia, that’s good. And the P.I. you hired to come snooping around down here was a brilliant touch—I’ll give you that.”
“P.I.?” she said weakly. Had Reece sent an investigator against her wishes? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The man’s smile turned into a smirk. “You always were one hell of a liar.”
At his biting words, Amy experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She’d had such hopes, when she’d first begun her quest, of finding a family and friends who had been missing her all these years, who had been desperately trying to find her, who would welcome her back into their hearts. Then she would finally belong.
But this man’s animosity dashed those dreams. What had she done to him? What had Amber Tremain done to him?
“Who are you?” she blurted.
“Why don’t you think on it for a while? I’m sure it’ll come back to you.” His gaze swept over her in a manner so familiar, Amy’s insides trembled in warning. But she returned his stare, refusing to give in to the panic that told her to head back to Houston as fast as she could.
From some hidden place inside her, an unfamiliar emotion rose to the surface, momentarily overshadowing the panic. Amy barely recognized the defiance, the foolhardy recklessness that made her lift her chin and glare at him with chilly disdain. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you,” she said. “I do have amnesia, whether you believe it or not. I only came back here to—”
“I know why you came back,” he cut in. “Everyone in town knows. Little sister’s eighteen now.” He waved a hand toward the river, encompassing the hardwood forest beyond and the white chimney tops peeping through the trees. “Amberly would have been all hers…if you hadn’t come back.”
Amy frowned. “Look, I didn’t hire any private investigator to come snooping around down here, as you put it—and my interest in Amberly is solely because it’s Amber Tremain’s ancestral home.” She stopped and drew in a deep breath. “The only reason I’m here is to try and find out who I really am. I don’t even know if I am Amber.”
“Oh, you’re Amber, all right.” The dark gaze, insolent and thorough, moved over her again.
“How can you be so sure? I’ve been Amy Calloway for a very long time. I doubt I’m anything like the person you knew.”
“Some things, and some people, never change. But there’s one way to find out for certain.” He moved toward her slowly, in a manner so deliberate Amy was reminded of a wild animal stalking its prey. Instinctively, she took a step back from him, and felt the iron balustrade on the bridge give way against her weight.
The railing tore loose from the rusted support with a shrill metallic squeal. Amy felt herself plunging backward, and in the split second before he caught her, an image flashed through her. A disembodied hand reaching out of darkness. Someone falling from the bridge…
Shaken by the vision, Amy gasped and glanced over her shoulder at the water far below. His grip tightening on her wrists, he let her waver on the edge, his gaze smoldering. “Careful,” he warned. “This bridge is dangerous. You could get hurt if you don’t watch out.”
Amy had never seen eyes as deep and ominous as his. Mesmerized, she couldn’t seem to look away as he held her there, at the very brink of disaster. But even through her panic, she realized instinctively that she was not in immediate danger. She wasn’t going to fall—not if he didn’t want her to.
In spite of his lean appearance, he was very strong. A tiny snake tattooed on his left arm drew her attention to the bulging, well-defined muscles, and Amy’s fear gave way to something darker and far more dangerous.
She lifted her gaze to meet his, trembling in spite of herself, and a look of almost perverse satisfaction flickered in his eyes before he pulled her away from the edge of the bridge. He didn’t release her, though, and for some reason Amy couldn’t fathom, she didn’t struggle to get away from him.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
He hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Then he shrugged and said, “My name’s Conner Sullivan. People around here call me Con.”
“Why do you hate me…Con?”
At the sound of his name on her lips, his expression froze. He released her so abruptly she almost stumbled. “Who said anything about hate?”
“You didn’t have to say it,” she told him. “I can see it in your eyes. Hear it in your voice. What did I do to
you?”
He didn’t say anything, but turned away from her instead to scan the wooded countryside behind her. His eyes grew distant and bleak and for a moment, Amy thought she glimpsed something beyond the darkness. A glimmer of pain that made her, for some insane reason, want to reach up and caress the beard-roughened cheek. To smooth back the short dark hair that had fallen across his forehead. To lift her lips to a kiss she instinctively knew would be soul shattering.
“You wanted me to believe you were dead.”
The emptiness in his voice seemed to mirror the void deep inside Amy. She felt tears spring to her eyes, though she had no idea why. “Why would I do that? What happened the night I…Amber disappeared?”
He turned back to her then, his expression so cold Amy thought she must have imagined the hurt. “The night you left, you mean.”
He’d released her, but he hadn’t moved away. He stood so close, Amy could see the deeply etched lines around his mouth and eyes, the hardened resolve in a face that shouldn’t have been alluring, yet somehow was. She said uncertainly, “Do you really believe that’s what happened? That…Amber just left? Some people thought she drowned.”
“They were fools,” he said, his eyes blazing with sudden anger. “They didn’t know you like I did.”
“But…how can you be so certain I am Amber?”
“Because I know.”
“How?” She’d meant to challenge him, but somehow that one word seemed to provoke him. He grasped her shoulders, pulling her toward him again, bringing his face so close to hers that for one breathless moment, Amy was sure he would kiss her. Her heart beat wildly inside her as she wondered fleetingly what she should do. Push him away, risk angering him even more or…succumb and hope for the best.
“How?” He flung the word back at her. “Jesus Christ, did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? That hair, those eyes, those…lips?” He said the last word almost brutally, closing his eyes briefly as if trying to beat back some untamable beast inside him. “I don’t care what name you call yourself now—I’d know you anywhere. You can’t fool me. I’m the guy who stood right here on this bridge with you that night, Amber.”
The image of the disembodied hand, reaching out of the darkness, shot through Amy again, and she put a hand to her mouth, trying to suppress the scream that rose inside her. She knew without a doubt this man was dangerous to her, but she couldn’t move away from him. He held her prisoner, more with his dark gaze than with his hands.
Amy opened her mouth—to say what—she wasn’t quite certain—but he never gave her the chance to speak. Instead, he pulled her even nearer, until their lips were only inches apart, until her knees grew weak and her heart beat a painful staccato against her chest.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t remember,” he demanded. His voice was rough with anger, deep with an emotion that might have been anguish. Or passion. “Tell me you don’t remember the man you promised to love, honor and cherish that night.”
Amy gasped at his words. Terror, like nothing that had ever preceded it, surged through her, but still she couldn’t tear herself away from him. She stood helpless while he threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her face still beneath his scrutiny.
“That’s right, Amber. Take a good, long look at the poor, dumb son of a bitch you married before you decided to up and skip town.”
CHAPTER THREE
SHE STARED UP AT him, pale as the ghost he’d earlier thought her to be. “M-married…”
The word was barely out of her mouth before her legs buckled and she pitched forward into Con’s arms. Catching her limp body, he eased her down onto the wooden floor of the bridge.
“Amber?” When she didn’t respond, he swore under his breath and gently slapped her cheeks. “Amber, come on. Snap out of it.”
Her features were so still, a ripple of panic coursed through him. He felt her pulse, somewhat reassured by the weak, erratic beat.
She was out cold, and it occurred to Con that her reaction to his announcement could hardly be termed flattering. Neither could the look of pure terror he’d glimpsed in her eyes before she’d fainted. She was scared to death of him, and after that night nine years ago, she damn well ought to be.
Still, he couldn’t deny her response to him had taken him by surprise. The Amber Tremain he’d known hadn’t been afraid of anything or anybody. The girl from his past would never have allowed him to talk to her the way he had minutes ago. She would have thrown his scorn right back in his face and told him to go straight to hell with it. But this woman was different.
And maybe that was precisely why, Con thought suddenly. She was no longer a girl, but a woman. No longer wild and rebellious, but mature and restrained.
Something that might have been regret rolled through him as he touched two fingers to the pulse in her throat and found that the beat was getting stronger and steadier. She’d probably come around in a few minutes, but until then, he didn’t think it was a good idea to leave her lying on the bridge in direct sunlight. The day was sweltering, with humidity rising off the river in thick, steamy waves. Sweat trickled down his backbone as he struggled to his feet, then lifted Amber’s pliant body and heaved her over his shoulder.
He carried her off the bridge, down the embankment, and settled her beneath the shade of a water oak. She didn’t weigh much, but Con wasn’t in the kind of shape he’d once been in. Breathing heavily, his knee throbbing, he stripped off his undershirt and dipped the cotton into the river, then came back to stand over Amber’s supine body, dripping water onto her face.
She stirred, turning her head from side to side. Then her eyes opened and she stared up at Con. For a split second, he could have sworn he glimpsed recognition in those tawny depths before her lids came down to shutter her unguarded emotions. When she opened her eyes again, the fear and confusion had returned.
She tried to sit up, but fell back against the bank, groaning and clapping a hand to her mouth as if to quell a rising tide of nausea.
Con tossed her his wet shirt. “Here. Use this.”
Lying on her back, she took the shirt gratefully and wiped away the beads of sweat from her forehead, then held the damp cloth to her face for a moment. “I don’t feel well,” she muttered.
“You’ll be all right in a minute.”
She glanced up at him doubtfully. “What happened?”
“You blacked out on the bridge. You’re lucky you didn’t fall off the damn thing.”
She rolled her head, gazing up at the bridge. Con wondered what she was thinking. She had a dazed look on her face he couldn’t quite decipher. Then she turned away from the bridge and sat up, handing him his shirt. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He tossed the wet garment over one shoulder as he stared down at her. She still looked pale, and when the slender hand she lifted to her forehead trembled, he couldn’t help thinking again how different she seemed.
He’d never known Amber to faint. She’d always been able to hold her own under extreme circumstances, but this woman seemed frail and vulnerable, two words he would never have thought he would use to describe any of the Tremains.
Could he have been wrong about her? Con wondered uneasily. Could she really be suffering from memory loss? Was that why she seemed so different?
But even total amnesia couldn’t bring on this kind of personality metamorphosis. Assuming the changes in her were genuine, something else must have happened to her. But what? Or…who?
He turned his gaze to the water, away from her upturned face and eyes—those damn cat eyes—that had always made him think and act irrationally. He was doing that now, he realized, falling right back under Amber Tremain’s devious little spell. Hell, she probably didn’t have amnesia any more than he did. She was probably lying about everything.
Now that, Con thought grimly, would be totally in character for Amber.
“Did you carry me down here?” she asked.
He shrugged, still refusing to look at
her. He wouldn’t let those golden eyes cast their spell on him again. Nine years was a long time. He’d been through a lot. Seen a lot. Done even more. Amber Tremain, with or without her memory, meant nothing to him anymore.
But when he heard her stirring, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. She’d risen unsteadily to her feet and was brushing dirt from her dress. As if testing his resolve, she walked to the river’s edge and stood beside him.
Something light and airy drifted between them, a sweet, heady fragrance that took Con straight back to the tortured summers of his youth, to the secret longing that had led him to the darkest days of his life. No matter how far he’d traveled from home, the scent of magnolia blossoms always brought him back to that night.
She lifted a hand to tuck a tangled strand of hair behind one ear. “You said something earlier…right before I fainted….” Her voice trembled as it trailed away, but when Con turned to stare down at her, her chin lifted in a defiant manner that made him think she hadn’t changed after all.
“I said a lot of things on that bridge.” He watched her expression, fascinated in spite of himself by the struggle of emotions he saw in her eyes.
She bit her lip uncertainly. “You know what I mean. You said we…were…”
“Married.” He gave a low, bitter laugh when he saw her flinch.
“Were you just saying that?” Her tone was almost desperate. “Were you trying to provoke me?”
“Now, why would I do that, Amber?”
She put her hand to her temple and rubbed, as if trying to eradicate a headache. “I don’t feel comfortable with you calling me that name. I’d rather you call me Amy. At least until—”
“Until what? You slip up?”
Her brows knitted together in confusion. “You still don’t believe I have amnesia, do you? I don’t know what I can say to convince you. Or why I should even try, for that matter.”
Her Secret Past Page 3
