by Berinn Rae
• • •
A dark triangle shape floated in front of Olivia’s eyes and took form as she came to consciousness. The man — Tomislav — sat on the edge of the couch where she lay. He pressed a cold compress on her forehead.
“You’re scaring me, Olivia.” He rubbed her arm. “You’re acting as if you don’t know me. What happened to you?”
At the sound of his deep yet concerned voice, her heart sped up. She pulled the soft cloth pad off her forehead. “Look … ”
Her attempt to sit up was met by his hands on her shoulders. “Stay lying down until your head clears.”
The coldness seeping into her forehead from the compress brought a breath of relief to her. “Tomislav, was it?”
“You always call me Tom.”
Presumptuous jerk. She yanked the ice pack off her forehead and sat up. “I don’t know you.”
“Olivia, do you remember hitting your head, hard?”
“No.” She blew an exasperated breath. If he tried to convince her he was her husband, she’d explode. “I don’t know how you got in my house, but I’m willing to let it go if you leave immediately.”
His brow furrowed. “I think we need to get you to the hospital. You’re acting strange. Are you experiencing any pain? If you hit your head and can’t remember it — ”
She sprang to her feet, anger flaring in her. “I did not bang my head, I remember everything perfectly.” Finger pointing at him, she shouted, “You don’t belong here. Leave.”
He stood and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Let me take you to the hospital.” Lines deepened around his concern filled eyes. “Please. If you didn’t hit your head, your confusion could be the first sign of brain aneurysm.”
Her lips pressed tight, she yanked his hand off her shoulder. Dread stirred in her stomach with his words, but she dismissed the notion. She lacked any other accompanying symptoms of aneurysm. “I don’t need a hospital. Now leave.”
“Leave? This is my home as much as yours and I can prove it. Do you want to see the purchase agreement? Both of our signatures are on it.” With hands propped on his narrow hips, he appeared quite sexy. Under different circumstances, she’d be ushering him to her bedroom. “Promise me tomorrow you’ll see the doctor.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead to stop her head from spinning. “Fine, I promise.” It was more to get him off her case than the solemn pledge, but his shoulders relaxed. “Documents can be forged. How do I know you’re showing me the original?”
“Show me your purchase agreement. If it states differently, I’ll leave.”
Her desk appeared miles away, but she staggered on wobbly legs and opened the bottom drawer. The file folder she pulled out contained clippings of food recipes from baby magazines.
“What is happening?” Her words came out in gasps while she tossed through the papers. Maybe she’d moved it. Every place she searched, she found fashion and parenting magazines, not her house purchase agreement. “Not possible.”
Tom slipped some papers under her nose, flipped to the page showing her signature.
“See.” He pointed to the bottom. “We bought it together after a long and, if I may say, exhausting house hunt. I’d do it all over again to see your eyes light up as they did when I brought you to see this house. It was way over our budget, but we got the price knocked down because the roof needed replacing.”
Ice cold sweat spread down her back. Deep inside she sensed his story was true, except she remembered she’d bought her house through a short, balding real-estate agent. She took the papers in her hands. “What did you do with my document?”
“Listen to you, your document.” He flicked his hand, his tone mocking. “This is our copy. The original is in the bank.”
She tapped her finger next to her name. “This is not my signature. I wouldn’t sign it as Olivia Medar.”
“But you can recognize your handwriting?”
Examining the document under the light of the lamp on the desk, she nodded. “Looks every bit like mine, but how do I know it wasn’t forged?”
Tom left the room and a few moments later returned with her purse. He handed it to her. “Try to check your driver’s license.”
Of course her documents would prove him wrong. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She drew her valet out and snapped it open. Her enthusiasm burst at the sight of her signature on the license, identical to the one on the house papers. Her bank and health cards and other documents bore the same name, but it was the spousal credit card that knotted her stomach. She was at this man’s mercy and he knew of her every purchase. In fact nothing was solely hers anymore.
A panic tingled deep in her guts, but she swallowed it down. Losing her control wouldn’t help her out of the situation. Time to put her big girl’s panties on and show him who cracked the whip around here.
“This is unacceptable.” She waved the card in his face.
He opened his mouth as to say something, but the doorbell rang. He turned his head toward the front hall. “Hold that thought.”
She followed him to the entrance. Red and blue flashing lights of the police car blended through the frosted glass, but brought her some ease. Tom pulled the door open. On other side stood a young constable, his thumbs tucked in the loops of his belt near the hilt of his gun.
His eyes widened at the sight of Tom. “Mr. Medar? I was dispatched to this address for possible intrusion.”
“It’s quite all right, Constable Sealy.” Tom put his hands up. “The Mrs. seems a bit confused after her long trip, that’s all.”
The young constable touched the rim of his hat. “In that case, I’ll be off.”
“Can I count on your court appearance?”
“Of course, Mr. Medar, it’s my duty as an arresting officer.” The cop nodded to her. “Ma’am, you have yourself a good night.” He then turned to his car.
Tom locked the door. “Convinced now?”
Perplexed, Olivia stood in the hallway, staring at him. “I don’t believe this.”
Finger pointed at the door, Tom shook his head. “The constable can’t have any contact with me before the court trial. He was the first at the crime scene and arrested my client.”
“You’re an attorney?”
“Olivia,” Tom huffed. “Please try to remember. Have you suffered a head injury?”
There he went again about her possible memory loss. But his persistence sent her mind racing. She would remember if she’d bumped her head. Things started to go strange when she woke up on the plane. “I said I’ll go see the doctor in the morning.”
Tom caressed her elbow. “It’s getting late and you’ve had a tiring couple of weeks.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shook his head. “Why don’t you take the master bedroom and I’ll sleep in the guest room. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Still struggling to process the events, she nodded absentmindedly. A lonely feeling swept over her. If he left now, she’d be all alone in this big house, and what if she really needed medical attention sometime during the night? Tom’s concern about her wellbeing seemed genuine enough to help her if it came to that. His suggestion was acceptable.
The sound of utensils clanking brought her back to the kitchen. He dumped the entire dinner in the garbage and scrubbed the pots in the sink. A hint of guilt spread through her. Her husband, as strange as it sounded, had prepared her a nice meal and actually looked forward to a romantic evening. He must think of her as some spoiled kid. A strange urge to apologize pressed on her, but the words wouldn’t form in her mouth. Instead, she removed her boots and coat. She had to get to her room, get out of her tight trousers and sort out this confusion.
Her heavy feet treaded on the hardwood floor as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. At the first landing, she paused in front of a large wedding portrait. Her framed university degree had been in that location when she’d left for her business trip. Her breath caught. She certainly never appeared this happy in any of her pictures n
or had she ever visited any place with all that greenery around her. The picture could have been Photoshopped, not impossible with today’s technology. To add to her confusion, Tom seemed to stir emotions in her she didn’t know she possessed. Deeper than plain lust, love maybe. She sneered. What had she known of love?
Rubbing her neck to stop the urge to be in his embrace, she continued up the stairs, but her gaze remained on the portrait. If Tom had forged this photo, at least he picked a perfect wedding dress for her. Cinderella style suited her.
She entered the master suite. Tom’s neatly folded business attire hung over a wicker chair. His sea breeze scent lingered in the air and stirred butterflies in her stomach. She picked up the clothes, pressed them to her nose and drew in a long breath before moving them to the bed. The man smelled fantastic. She propped the chair under the doorknob. Reminded that she may need to rely on his help, she returned the seat to its original place.
A picture on the nightstand came into focus. She picked it up and almost dropped it. It was her in the photograph, with a huge belly. No, this was definitely Photoshopped. Something about the photo of herself pregnant shook her doubts. It felt familiar, yet she had no memory of having a baby. When she recalled the stroller in the garage, her arms longed to hold the baby she couldn’t even imagine. The picture frame thudded as she put the photo back on the nightstand. Still, one could never be too cautious. Inside her closet, under the folded pile of shirts, she reached for the box storing her gun and gasped when her hand grabbed empty air. No one in the world knew she possessed a weapon. Except her boss.
• • •
Tom had anticipated a romantic dinner followed by hours of slowly pleasing Olivia, but now all excitement abandoned him. He shoved the last of the dishes inside the machine and slammed the dishwasher’s door shut. Worry replaced his initial anger. Olivia had never acted so strange, not even after the many nights she’d paced across the nursery rocking their colicky son in her arms. To her credit, for weeks she’d been quite concerned about her sister’s surgery. But even that couldn’t explain why his wife stared at him as if he was a total stranger. If it wasn’t a head injury that caused her to lose her memory, could it be some kind of delayed postpartum depression? Whatever it was, he should call her doctor despite her protests.
He hung the wet dishcloth over the stove handle and headed upstairs. The light under the door of master suite drew his attention.
“Olivia.” He knocked on the door. “I need to get my toothbrush out of the bathroom.”
The door flung open and she held a flannel plaid cloth in his face. “What is this?”
“Your pajama bottoms.”
“This can’t be mine. It’s huge and ugly.”
“You love sleeping in it.” He smiled, balling his hands into fists to stop from wrapping her in his arms. She appeared in need of reassuring and at the same time stared at him with that same blank expression. He’d never seen her grey eyes this cold.
The overhead light shone on her long, raven hair as she threw the pants on the bed behind her, where he’d planned to make wild love to her. It had been a while. “Where’s my black, silk nightie with thin straps?”
“Oh, that little number?” He couldn’t stop from grinning. “Well, let’s just say, the last time you put it on, nine months later, we had Rosie.”
She shot him a sharp look. “Don’t try to slip your kid as mine. Not going to work.”
He shrugged one shoulder. She was starting again. “I’m not trying anything. And it’s kids. More than one.”
Her eyes narrowed and her look turned dubious. “How many kids do you have?”
“We,” he said, pointing a finger from her to himself, but his annoyance with her mellowed. She gave him his kids after all. “You and I have two kids. A boy and a girl.”
With her finger straight up, she stepped closer to him. “You and I have nothing together. Understand?”
“Honey, don’t start aga — ”
“I’m not your honey,” she shouted, and her face turned red.
Tom nodded at the door to his left. “Keep your voice down. Rosie’s nursery is right there.”
A baby’s cry pierced the air. He exhaled in exasperation. “Great. It took me hours to put her down.”
Olivia slouched, wrapped her arms around her chest and cried out as if she was in pain. She pulled her hands away and stared at them in bewilderment while wet spots formed on her shirt.
“I’ll get a bottle.” He turned toward the stairs, hoping she had not noticed his bulging pants. The mere thought of her breasts swelling up and bursting with milk tightened his crotch to painful levels.
“I’m lactating?”
“You barely stopped nursing two weeks ago. With Milo, you got engorged when you weaned.” He grabbed her shoulders, pushed her toward the suite bathroom. “If Rosie smells breast milk, she’ll scream like a banshee. Go shower.”
He yanked on his pants to loosen the pressure on his groin. The running water in the shower stirred his imagination again. He pushed on the bathroom door. To his delight, Olivia had not locked it. She never did. He peeked inside. Her gorgeous figure showed through the frosted glass of the cubicle door. Shower foam hugged her curves. Another wave of desire slammed into his pelvis. Damn, he should be kissing every inch of her.
The wailing baby snapped him back to reality. He retreated to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle from the fridge, then shoved it into microwave. Twenty seconds later he retrieved the warmed bottle, tested the temperature on the inside of his wrist and headed back to the nursery. He set the bottle on the dresser and leaned over the crib. “It’s all right baby girl. Daddy’s here.”
He picked up Rosie in his arms and snuggled her to his chest.
“Shhhh, there now,” he whispered as he pressed the button on her toy aquarium hanging from the crib railing. The soft and monotonous sound of waves hitting the shore filled the room. He lowered himself into the rocking chair. Rosie latched onto the artificial nipple and sucked with all her might. The bottle in his hand shook.
A smile crept to his face while he waited for Rosie’s dark eyes to close. With every passing day, she resembled her mamma more and more. How could Olivia not remember any of them? Her belly full of warm liquid and the room softly lit, the gentle rocking lulled the baby back to sleep. Tom’s head dropped a couple of times, too. He stood up, kissed her soft forehead, then put the sleeping cherub in her crib and left the nursery on his toes.
No light under the master suite door worried him. Either Olivia had fallen asleep or she’d left the house. A quick check would set his mind at ease. The door opened at his push. He poked his head through. Olivia’s even breathing through the darkness calmed his nerves. With some luck the attempted murder trial currently on his plate wouldn’t take months or worse, years, to wrap up so he could pay all his attention to his wife and family. Of course, he’d give the best legal counsel. The fact the client had come through the legal aid clinic would not tamper with his ability to be the perfect lawyer for this job. Not even the flashing cameras or questions shouted from journalists churned his stomach, though, like having to leave Olivia alone with kids for an entire day in the weird state she was. Maybe by Monday she’d snap out of whatever gripped her.
CHAPTER 3
Olivia stretched under the covers and flipped to her side. A few more minutes in the warm bed suited her still tired body. God in Heaven, what a vivid nightmare had pinned her to the sheets. Had she actually lactated in her dream? An involuntary shudder passed through her, but she patted her breasts all the same. Her shirt was dry.
A couple of kids and a husband? This had to be the first time her biological clock projected her fears into her dreams. So what if she was getting older? She wasn’t afraid to die a spinster. Her goals had been set and marriage wasn’t in the scheme.
She didn’t need to end her career by tying herself to a husband and a couple of snotty kids. She blew a strand of hair off her face. Christ, she grew up listeni
ng to her mother’s incessant, bitter complaints. Sure, nowadays women juggled employment and families, but her work demanded a lot of her time. The corporate world had not changed much since mother’s days. Olivia had seen many women lose their jobs the moment management suspected their delicate conditions. Hell, she had even fired a few on the directive of upper management. Then had filled those vacancies with middle-aged women with fewer qualifications and experience, and no possibility they’d take off on maternity leave. Sad, but she didn’t set the rules.
She drew in a long breath, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with sea-breeze male scent jolted her to a sitting position. Pinstriped pants hung from the back of the wicker chair. Her mouth tightened. A few of her one-night stands had tried to get a second date by “forgetting” something, but none had left pants behind. Her gut twisted. That man — Tomislav Medar — was still in her house. Dare she call the police again? Not after last night’s fiasco. The dispatcher and the constable had seemed to think she was his wife. Though he spoke without an accent, his name indicated he may be a foreigner. Was he some kind of a poor immigrant that had stalked her, discovered she lived alone and devised this diabolic plan to get her house and possessions? Whatever and however gorgeous he was, it was time for him to gather his brats and go. Throwing the covers off, she jumped out of bed.
“I’ll be damned.” She stared down her legs. The ugly, huge and plaid flannel bottoms fit her fine. In fact, they were far more comfortable than her sexy lingerie.
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand and winced. Seven forty flashed on the screen. That couldn’t be right. She had less than an hour to get ready and arrive to work on time. Damn, she’d just have to enjoy kicking her guests out later. Her gaze darted to the scale on the tiled bathroom floor. No matter how pressed for time she was, the curiosity forced her to step on. The numbers on the digital display kept going up and up and finally flashed three times. One hundred and eighty? Christ! I couldn’t have gained twenty pounds overnight. Hopefully she’d finish her duties early enough to stop by her gym.
