CHAPTER SIX
LONG AFTER JASMINE had gone back to the house, Amy sat on the bank and watched the fog thicken and curl over the water. The night was warm and humid, but the scattered mist drifting toward the bank was cool. Still shaken by what her sister had told her, Amy ran her hands up and down her arms, trying to chase away the black chill that had invaded her.
How had her quest taken such an unexpected turn? She’d been searching for her past, perhaps naively hoping to find home, hearth and, if she were honest with herself, love. What she’d uncovered instead was an insidious hostility that had not abated in nine long years. Amber Tremain had left behind a string of bad feelings, emotions that ran so deep, her own father had believed her the victim of murder.
Murder. The word was like an echo inside Amy’s head. Con had been arrested for Amber’s murder. Her murder.
Held on suspicion, Jasmine had finally clarified. After her father’s accusations, the sheriff had gone out to Con’s trailer, searched his belongings, then hauled him off to jail, where he’d remained all night. In the morning, Con had been released without ever having been formally charged, but the damage had already been done. Everyone in town suspected he was a killer.
What had that done to him? Amy thought with a shiver. What kind of stigma would something like that leave on a nineteen-year-old boy?
He’d grow bitter. Hostile. He might even start to blame the person he’d been accused of killing.
Was that why Con was so angry with her? Or was it something more than that? Some deeper pain that hadn’t healed in all this time?
Amy’s thoughts raced as she tried to put together the meager puzzle pieces of her past. The night she’d disappeared, Amber and her father had gotten into a terrible argument about Lottie. Amber had threatened to make him sorry if he didn’t kick Lottie out.
But her sister had been so young back then. How accurate was her memory? What if Amber had told her father about the elopement, and they’d been arguing about Con instead of Lottie? If her father had been upset about the marriage, he might even have ordered Amber to leave.
Then what? If she hadn’t gone back to the bridge to meet Con, where had she gone? What had happened to cause her to lose her memory?
And how had she ended up in Houston with Nona?
It occurred to Amy, perhaps somewhat anticlimactically, that she no longer had any doubts about her real identity. She knew she was Amber Tremain, but the knowledge was far from comforting. In so many ways, Amber was still a stranger to her, a young woman who had been stubborn, spoiled and rebellious. A woman who was nothing like quiet, hardworking Amy Calloway.
But Amy Calloway’s persona had not been a perfect fit, either, Amy suddenly realized. She’d always struggled with emotions and impulses that didn’t seem to belong to the woman she was supposed to be. Now she understood those dark feelings, the intense longing that had been a part of her for as long as she could remember. Amber had been there all along, buried somewhere deep inside her, fighting to survive.
Amy wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting lost in contemplation when suddenly she noticed that the mist had begun to intensify. Low-hanging clouds moved in to obscure the moon, and the darkness became eerily silent. Even the cicadas had stopped singing.
Alarmed, Amy reached for her sandals. If the fog drifted to the banks, she might have a hard time finding the trail back to the house. She started to get up, but a sound in the woods behind her made her pause, listening.
A few seconds passed before she heard the noise again—a twig snapping underfoot, louder this time, as if someone, or something, was moving toward her. The hair on the back of her neck rose in warning.
Remembering Jasmine’s omen about bobcats, Amy struggled to her feet and slipped on her sandals, then hurried to the top of the embankment. But as she started down the path toward Amberly, she heard the sound again, this time somewhere in front of her.
Something was in the woods, watching her, waiting for her. Amy could feel it.
The underbrush crunched again, louder and closer still, as if the stalker, in anticipation of the kill, was no longer making an effort for stealth.
Trying to still the sickening thud of her heart, Amy told herself she was letting her imagination get the better of her. But the nightscape had suddenly become menacing. The shrouded moon made vague shadows in the woods appear like monsters. One of the shadows moved, and Amy could have sworn she saw something—someone?—dart out of the woods toward her.
Her heart pounding, she whirled and ran back along the path toward the river. The bridge loomed before her, and Amy raced toward it, her footsteps echoing like gunshots on the wooden floorboards.
Halfway across the bridge, she paused, glancing over her shoulder, almost expecting to see the yellow eyes of some ferocious beast glowing in the dark as it chased her. But the way behind her was clear, and Amy realized in relief that she’d overreacted. The noise she’d heard in the woods had probably been made by a squirrel or a raccoon, the shadow she’d seen nothing more than a tree forced to life by her fear.
Even so, she didn’t immediately retrace her steps, but stood at the railing of the bridge, staring down into the mist-shrouded water. After a few moments, when no apparent threat reared its ugly head, Amy told herself it was safe to go home. But she couldn’t seem to tear herself away from the railing. It was almost as if some strange force had compelled her onto the bridge, and now that she was here, she couldn’t leave. The lure was too powerful.
What had happened here? What was it about this place that drew her back time and again?
Her marriage to Con?
Her mother’s suicide?
A wave of dizziness washed over Amy as the vision came back to her. The disembodied hand reaching out of the darkness. Someone falling—
Suddenly, a woman’s scream shattered the quiet, and Amy’s heart slammed into her chest. Terrified, she spun away from the railing just as someone reached out of the darkness to grab her—
A scream rose to her own throat a split second before she recognized Con. She still would have cried out if he hadn’t said, quite calmly, “It was just a peacock.”
“Wh-what…?”
“That noise you heard. It was one of Amberly’s peacocks. They roost in the trees around here at night.”
The adrenaline still pumped fiercely through Amy’s veins. It took her a moment to comprehend Con’s words. Then, when she finally managed to calm herself, she became aware of something else. How quietly he’d come upon her. The weight of his hand on her arm. The way he towered over her in the darkness.
The fact that he’d been suspected of killing her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked breathlessly, searching in the darkness for the snake tattoo on his arm.
He shrugged. “Just out for a stroll.”
“Did you come through the woods just now?” Her tone was anxious, frightened.
He frowned down at her in the moonlight. “No, why?”
“I thought I heard something.”
“Like what?”
“I’m…not sure.” Amy drew a long breath. “It was probably nothing, but I thought I heard someone walking toward me.”
Con’s gaze scanned the darkness around them. After a moment, he glanced back at Amy, but she couldn’t read his expression. “Probably just a coon hunter getting a jump on the season.” But something in his voice made Amy shiver. “What are you doing out here alone anyway?”
“Jasmine and I came down to the river a little while ago.”
His gaze narrowed as he glanced over her shoulder. His hand dropped from her arm. “Where is Jasmine?”
As acutely as Amy had been aware of his touch, she was even more conscious of the absence of it. Why had he released her the moment she’d mentioned her sister?
“She went back to the house.” Then, hesitantly “I’m glad you’re here, Con.”
She sensed more than saw one dark brow rise in question, but he remained silent.
“I’d like to talk to you about Jasmine,” she said.
“What about her?”
Amy paused again, not sure how to continue. Not sure she had any right to continue. “Look, I know this is going to sound strange coming from me. It’s probably none of my business, but…Jasmine told me the two of you had become friends.”
Was her imagination playing tricks on her again, or had he moved away from her in the darkness? Had he intentionally put a gulf between them? “We’ve talked a time or two.” His voice was non-committal. “Is that still taboo?”
Amy frowned. “What do you mean?”
“A Tremain associating with a Sullivan.”
If there was bitterness in his voice, he managed to conceal it. He seemed different tonight, Amy thought. Not antagonistic as he’d been this afternoon, but restrained, controlled.
She thought again about the sound she’d heard in the woods. Had that been him?
Gooseflesh tickled her neck as she said, “I just thought you should know Jasmine may have a crush on you.”
“Is that so?”
She couldn’t tell by his tone if he was pleased or annoyed. She said hurriedly, “Like I said, it’s probably none of my business, but—”
“Why wouldn’t it be your business?” If he’d moved away from her before, he was suddenly standing so close, Amy’s breath left her in a swoosh. He stared down at her, his shadowy expression mocking her. “She’s your sister, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Amy murmured, although that wasn’t at all what she thought he meant. “She’s barely eighteen….”
“She’s the same age you were back then.”
Amy couldn’t remember being eighteen. She didn’t even remember Con. But something of that last summer rose within her, and the nostalgia and the bittersweet emotions that swept over her were so intense, they left her shaken, disoriented.
What had happened between them the night she’d disappeared?
“What is it you’re so afraid of, Amber?” His voice was like the night—warm, dark and deeply mysterious.
Amy shivered, gazing up at him. She wasn’t sure if he was still talking about Jasmine or not, but she preferred to believe that he was. “I don’t want my sister to get hurt.”
“Why would I hurt her?”
Because you’re dangerous, Amy thought. Because Jasmine’s at an impressionable age, and God help me, so am I. Aloud, she said, “Maybe because she’s a Tremain.”
“I see.” His eyes were like dark pools in the moonlight. Deep. Dangerous. He cocked his head slightly. “Or maybe because she’s the spitting image of you at that age.”
She sensed his sudden tension, his awareness as he stared down at her in the misty darkness. Just as she had this afternoon, she thought he was going to kiss her, wanted him to desperately, she realized, and the knowledge was almost as shocking as it was frightening.
What was happening to her? Yesterday, she’d been a quiet, unassuming person in search of her past, and now, less than twenty-four hours later, she’d become a woman who seemed daring, passionate, emotionally reckless. She was becoming Amber Tremain again.
As if reading her mind, Con swore under his breath. He took a step back from her, once again putting distance between them as if his very life depended on it. “No,” he muttered before turning to stare down at the water.
“Wh-what?” She wasn’t sure what he was saying no to.
He still didn’t look at her. “You were talking about Jasmine.”
Yes, she had been, hadn’t she? Amy made a helpless gesture with her hand. “I don’t think she knows about…us. About what you told me earlier. The… elopement.”
“Then why didn’t you tell her?”
His voice held a note of challenge, and Amy thought, That’s a good question. Why didn’t I tell her?
Con glanced at her. “What exactly is your concern here? Are you worried I’m going to take advantage of your sister? Do you think I’m the type of man who would try to seduce an eighteen-year-old girl?” The bitterness had returned, along with the hostility. Amy wondered what she’d done to trigger his anger.
She said almost defensively, “You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”
She could have sworn she saw his eyes darken in the moonlight, and his expression assumed the angry scowl she’d sketched so often in the past. He glared down at her as if he would like nothing better than to strangle her and throw her body off the river bridge. “What makes you so damn sure I’m the one who did the seducing that summer?”
“Are you saying I seduced you?” Her eyes flashed in disbelief, her tone heavy with what he could only assume was scorn.
Amnesia or not, here was the Amber he remembered all too well, Con thought dryly. “I’m saying you always found a way to get what you wanted, and you didn’t let anything or anyone stand in your way.”
“And I wanted you?”
His laugh sounded harsh in the quiet darkness. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Maybe you ought to figure out what your motive was that summer. It might all make a little more sense to you then.”
She hesitated. “What do you mean?”
Whether she had meant to or not, she’d moved closer to him on the bridge, searching his face in the moonlight. Con felt a familiar tugging at his insides as he stared down at her, and he swore under his breath. Why the hell was he letting her get to him like this? A minute ago, he’d wanted nothing more than to haul her against him and kiss her, long and hard, until she either remembered the past or he forgot it.
But he’d been trained a long time ago to keep a cool head in the face of overwhelming danger. And make no mistake, he thought grimly, Amber Tremain was as hazardous to his mental well-being as she’d ever been.
He only had to look at her—those eyes, those lips, that face—to know she could put him through the emotional wringer once more, if he let her. But he wasn’t about to go falling for her again—or, for that matter, for any woman. He’d finally gotten the upper hand around here, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to lose it.
“You had your reasons for wanting to get close to me that summer,” he told her, trying to keep his voice devoid of emotion. He shrugged. “You played me for a sucker.”
Unconsciously, she put her hand on the railing, and Con heard the metal squeak in protest. He took her arm, pulling her back from the edge, even though they both knew she was in no danger of falling.
Her skin felt warm beneath his touch, as smooth and fragrant as the magnolia blossoms she’d always loved. He remembered how she’d worn one in her hair that night, how the scent had enveloped him when he’d leaned down to kiss her before she left him.
He remembered a lot of things about that night. The feel of her lips beneath his. The way her white dress had clung to her young curves, revealing just enough flesh to drive him wild. But most of all, he remembered the promise in her eyes when she’d cupped the back of his neck, drawing him to her, whispering to him that she would always be his.
He released her arm as if she’d burned him. For just a split second, he could have sworn he saw her eyes cloud with regret, but that had to be his imagination. An illusion created by the moonlight. Amber Tremain never had regrets.
“How did I play you for a sucker?”
He shrugged. “What better way to spite your old man than to marry a juvenile delinquent he despised?”
“You think I married you to get back at my father?”
“I know you did. I heard you tell him so.”
“When?”
“I followed you up from the river that night. I heard the two of you fighting. He accused you of marrying me to spite him, and you said something like, ‘So what if I did? Now you know exactly how I feel.’”
Amy turned away from Con, a wave of shame washing over her. Had she really been that careless with people’s feelings? No wonder her return had not been met with open arms.
“You have to admit, it makes more sense than your having been swept away by passion
.” His tone mocked her, but Amy had a feeling that underneath the sarcasm lurked a deep, lingering hurt, a pain that had not gone away in all these years.
“I don’t know what to say.” She still couldn’t quite meet his gaze.
“There’s nothing to say. I’m not looking for an apology. I’m not looking for anything from you. I knew the score when I married you.”
Amy glanced up at him. “Then why did you go through with it? If you knew I was using you, why marry me?”
He shrugged again, but Amy could sense the tension inside him, coiled like a spring waiting to snap. “I used to ask myself that a lot. I would sometimes lie in my bunk, in whatever foreign country I was stationed, and wonder what I’d do if I ever came face-to-face with you again. What I’d say to you.”
“Even though you knew I might be dead?”
When he didn’t answer, a coldness seeped over Amy that had very little to do with the rising mist and everything to do with the man—the stranger—who stood before her. If what he’d told her was true, he had every reason in the world to hate her, to want revenge against her.
Maybe even to murder her.
Amy was suddenly afraid of him, but it was a strange kind of fear, because she knew, deep down, he would never harm her physically. The pain he could inflict would be far more subtle and far more devastating.
As if reading her mind, he lifted his hand to cup the back of her neck, pulling her ever so slightly to him. Amy held her breath as his head lowered toward hers in the darkness. She should stop him, she knew. She should never allow this man, this stranger, her husband, to kiss her, but she felt almost powerless to stop him.
Except for his hand on her neck, Con wasn’t touching her, but excitement tingled through every nerve ending in Amy’s body. She’d never felt such a potent attraction, never experienced such a dangerous need, and when he brushed his lips against hers, her heart threatened to explode.
“It’s getting late. I’d better go back,” she said shakily.
He didn’t argue with her, didn’t even look annoyed. He merely straightened and said, “Running away again, Amber?”
Her Secret Past Page 7
