by Кей Хупер
A burst of heat raced through her and her heart began to pound, and when his hands slid down her back to curve over her bottom and hold her even tighter against him...
Faith woke with a start, shaken yet also exultant.
There was a man in her life. Or had been.
She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the image of his face, pleased when it rose easily an vividly in her mind. That gleaming, spun-gold hair, a little longer than the current fashion, even a bit shaggy — and decidedly sexy. Gray eyes steady and intelligent, going silvery with laughter. Firm, humorous mouth, determined jaw. Deep, strong voice.
And the way he'd looked at her ... Faith shivered and opened her eyes, realizing that her cheeks were hot and she was smiling helplessly, that the quiver deep inside her was something other than fear and panic. She swore she could smell the cologne he used, that pleasant scent mixed with the sharper, clean fragrance of soap.
Then that sensory memory abandoned her, leaving only his face distinct in her mind. She held on to it — fiercely.
Her room was quiet but for the murmur of the television, tuned to CNN.
She was almost sitting up, the head of the bed raised because she'd been looking through magazines before she'd suddenly fallen asleep.
She still did that sometimes, even though it had been almost a week since she'd come out of the coma. Days of painful transition, of moving from a patient who was bedridden and totally dependent on the nursing staff to one slowly and cautiously reclaiming independence.
Small movements had required a great effort at first, and walking even more so. Her muscles were weak and slow to obey her, though daily physical therapy was gradually changing that. Her blood pressure had stabilized, but her stomach still had trouble with solid foods.
The removal of the feeding tube had been surprisingly painless and would leave only a tiny scar, but having the catheter taken out had not been pleasant.
Three days ago she had actually made it into the bathroom on her own, and had spent long minutes staring into the mirror at a face she didn't know. A thin, pale face, framed by mostly straight, dull red hair that fell just below her shoulders. Her green eyes were very clear and strong, but the remainder of her features struck her as less than memorable. Straight nose, generous mouth, determined chin.
Some might call her pretty, perhaps.
She had discovered that she was only a few inches over five feet, very slender, and fine boned. She had small breasts and virtually no hips — minimal curves at best. She thought her legs were okay, or would be once they began to hold her up for more than a few minutes at a time.
Yesterday morning she had taken a long, luxurious bath, and though a nurse had had to help her dry her hair afterward because she'd used up all her strength, the results had been worth it. She felt much better.
As for her hair, the dull red had become a rich auburn, which made her pale face look luminous.
It was a face, she thought now, that in lit attract a handsome man with gleaming blond hair. A man with intelligent gray eyes and a way of leveling them when he spoke that said he was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
What was his name? And if they were so involved that physical intimacy had been very much a part of the relationship, why had he never come to visit her?
That bothered her. A lot. But the flowers from Dinah Leighton continued to arrive once a week, even after her own disappearance.
Faith had gotten up the nerve to call the florist and had found that the order had been paid ahead for another week.
Obviously, no one else cared enough even to acknowledge Faith's presence in the hospital — or her absence from the life she had led before the accident.
Where was that blond man?
How could he be so vivid in her mind — her only real memory — if he had not been a recent part of her life?
A nurse came in carrying a stack of magazines. "I brought you a few more, honey." She was a motherly woman with a warm voice and gentle hands, an dover the last few days she had been the most helpful and encouraging of the nurses.
"Thanks, Kathy." She eyed the short, neat, unpolished nails of the nurse, then looked at her own still-ragged ones. "Kathy, do you happen to have a nail file?"
"I'll get one for you." Kathy put the magazines on the bed and smiled at her with genuine pleasure.
"You're looking much better today, honey. And obviously feeling better."
Faith smiled at her. "I am, thanks."
"Dr. Burnett will be pleased. You're one of his favorites, you know."
Faith had to laugh. "Because he wants to write that paper on me, and we both know it. Not too many long-term-coma patients wake up."
"That's true," Kathy said soberly. "And those who do tend to be in much worse shape than you are, honey. With you, it's almost like you were just sleeping."
Faith didn't feel as though she had just been sleeping, but said only, "I know how lucky I am, believe me. And you and the other nurses have been terrific."
That makes a difference.
Kathy patted Faith's shoulder, said, "I'll go get that nail file," and left the room.
It was easy enough to say the right words. Faith had been doing that for days now. She had been positive and upbeat. She had listened closely to the psychiatrist on staff and obediently followed her advice to take things one step at a time. She had agreed with the nurses' cheerful predictions that her life would get back on track sooner rather than later. She had read newspapers and magazines and watched television to catch up on current events. She had made herself smile at Dr. Burnett when he visited and had not mentioned the devastating panic that was always with her and how she often woke in the night terrified by the blankness inside herself. She had some knowledge now, but almost all of it dated from the moment she'd opened her eyes in the hospital. The nurses' faces were familiar, as were the doctors'. The layout of her floor and that of the physical therapy rooms two stories above.
These things she knew.
And there was, absent from her mind until someone asked her a direct question, the sort of knowledge that came from a normal education. She had completed several crossword puzzles, and a game show she had found on television had shown her that she had some awareness of history and science.
Facts. Dates. Occurrences.
Fairly useless trivia, for the most part.
But of memories, all she had, all she could claim as her own dating from that otherwise blank part of her life, were the dreams of a blond man she thought she had loved.
There had been two other dreams before today, and they were brief and very similar; just scenes from a relationship, casual and intimate. Each time, the scene had erupted into laughter and ended in lovemaking.
But she still didn't remember his name.
She hadn't mentioned the dreams to anyone. They were something all her own, a piece of herself not given to her by someone else, and she held on to them as to an anchor.
"Here you go, Faith." Kathy returned to the room and handed her the nail file. "Before you start working on those nails, how about a trip around the floor? Doctor's orders."
Faith was more than ready to move. Painful as it still was, at least it allowed her to concentrate on muscles and bones and balance, instead of having to keep thinking and wondering.
"You bet," she said, and threw back the covers.
On November fourteenth, three weeks after waking up from her coma and nine weeks after the accident, Faith went home.
She was not fully recovered. She still got tired very easily, her sleep was erratic and disturbed by dreams she remembered and nightmares she didn't, and her emotional state was, to say the least, fragile.
Dr. Burnett drove her to her apartment, claiming it was on his way home but fooling nobody. He had several times shown himself more than a little protective of Faith.
Faith was more than happy to accept his escort.
She was nervous and panicky, afraid the place where she lived would add memor
ies. Terrified it would not.
She wore her own clothes, thanks to Dinah Leighton's foresight in packing a bag for her and taking it to the hospital just a week after the accident, but though the slacks and sweater fit fairly well, she was uncomfortable in them. Perhaps it was because she had spent so much time in a nightgown.
Her apartment was on the sixth floor of a nice but ordinary building in a suburb of Atlanta. No doorman or guard greeted them, but everything looked clean and in good repair, and the elevator worked smoothly.
Dr. Burnett came in with her, carrying her small overnight bag, which he set down by the door. "Why don't we take a look around?" he suggested, watching her. "I don't want to leave you until you're comfortable here."
Faith accepted the suggestion because she didn't want to be alone.
The apartment was ... nice. Ordinary. There was one bedroom; the queen-size brass bed had a floral, ruffled comforter set, with lots of pillows tossed against the shams. Curtains at the single window matched the comforter. There was a nightstand and a chair, both white wicker and a white laminated dresser with an oval wicker-framed mirror hanging above it. The color scheme was white and pink.
Faith thought it an odd choice for a redhead, and rather girlish.
The one bathroom was small and standard, with white tiles and plain fixtures. The rugs, towels, and curtains on the window and shower bore another floral pattern, this one with pink and purple predominating.
The kitchen was also standard, white cabinets and a neutral counter top blending perfectly with the vinyl floor. There was a small breakfast table, again of white wicker and glass, with a cheap area rug underneath it. Little attempt had been made to personalize the space as far as Faith could see. There were no place mats on the table, and except for a coffeemaker, nothing cluttered the counter tops.
The living room struck her as having been recently decorated, and she had the feeling — certainly not a memo that some picture in a magazine had been the inspiration. The intended style might have been shabby chic, with distressed wood, lots of texture in materials, and antique-looking accessories.
It didn't quite work, though she couldn't have explained why.
"Nice place," Burnett said.
She nodded, even as she wondered why the little apartment felt stifling to her. Was it the several locks on the door, an indication of someone who had shut the world out herself in? Faith didn't know, but it disturbed her.
She shrugged out of her jacket and left it over a chair, then returned to the kitchen and checked the cabinets and the refrigerator.
"Sloan was as good as his word," she noted, seeing the stock of foods.
The lawyer had come to see her several days ago, after being notified by Dr. Burnett that she was up to having visitors. He had explained the financial situation, including Dinah Leighton's arrangements to pay the hospital bill and the trust fund she had set up for Faith's use. Her disappearance, he had explained without emotion, changed none of that.
In addition, Faith's regular monthly bills had been paid, including recently incurred debts. She wasn't to worry, everything had been taken care of.
Then he had promised to have her apartment cleaned and stocked with food, ready for her return.
All per Dinah's careful arrangements.
Faith had been given a generous amount of cash, and her checking account, he told her, had been credited with even more. In add' on to that, her rent had been paid for the next six months.
it had been too overwhelming for Faith to think about then, and now she felt a prickle of uneasiness.
All this from a friend? Why?
"My advice," Burnett said cheerfully, "is to fix yourself something simple for dinner or order in a pizza, and have an early night. Familiarize yourself with where everything is. Make yourself comfortable here." He smiled at her perceptively. "Stop thinking so much, Faith. Give yourself time."
She knew he was right. And she was even able to say bye to him calmly, promising to return to the scheduled appointments in a few days for a checkup and hospital another session with the physical therapist.
Then she was alone.
She locked the door, turned on the television in the living room for company and background noise, and looked again through the apartment.
This time, she looked more closely.
Her initial puzzlement took on a chill of unease.
There was no history here. No photographs, either displayed or tucked away in drawers. And very little to indicate her interests. A few books, mostly recent bestsellers that ran the gamut of genres, and many of those apparently unread.
She found plenty of clothes in the drawers and closet, and the bathroom held the usual supplies of soap and shampoo, moisturizers and bubble bath and disposable razors, and a small toiletry bag of makeup containing the basics, all new or nearly so. A blow dryer and a curling iron were stowed in the cabinet below the sink.
What there was not was evidence that a woman had lived here for more than a few weeks or months.
No old lipsticks or dried-up mascaras in the drawers.
No unused foundation compacts that had turned out to be the wrong shade. No nearly empty tubes of moisturizer or hand lotion. No fingernail polish or remover. No samples given out at cosmetics counters in practically every store in the world.
Either Faith Parker was the neatest woman alive ... or she had spent very little time here.
She went into the living room and sat down at the small desk tucked away in a corner. The single drawer held only a few things. A small address book showing meager entries—names, addresses, and phone numbers that meant nothing to her. Her checkbook and a copy of her lease, both of which indicated that she had lived here for nearly eighteen months before the accident.
There were regular deposits made on Fridays, obviously her salary, which was enough to live on without living particularly well; some months it appeared that ends had barely met. Checks had been written to the usual places, some of which matched entries in the address book. Grocery stores, department stores, hair salons, dentist, a couple of restaurants, a pharmacy, a women's clinic, a computer store.
A computer store.
Faith looked slowly around the room with a frown. According to the register, she had bought a laptop computer on a payment plan only a few weeks before the accident. It should be here.
It wasn't.
She'd had only a purse with her when she rammed her car into that embankment, they'd told her. So why wasn't the computer here?
On the heels of that question, the phone on the desk rang suddenly, startling her. Faith had to take a deep, steadying breath before she could pick up the receiver.
"Miss Parker, this is Edward Sloan." The lawyer's voice was brisk. "Forgive me for disturbing you on your first day home, but I thought there was something you should know."
"What is it, Mr. Sloan?"
"The service I hired to clean your apartment this week found it in ... unusual disarray."
"Meaning I'm a slob?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
"No, Miss Parker, I think not. Many drawers had been emptied onto the floor, pillows and other things scattered about. It had all the earmarks of a burglary, perhaps interrupted in progress, since nothing appeared to have been taken. This was three days ago. Knowing you were still in the hospital, I took the liberty of acting in your stead. I reported the matter to the police, then met them at your apartment. They took the report, took photos of the place, and questioned others in the building. But since no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary, and since your television and stereo were still there and nothing had been damaged as far as we could determine, no further action was taken."
"I see," she murmured.
"The cleaning service was allowed to do their job immediately afterward. They were instructed to put things back in place as neatly as possible, and to use their judgment as to where everything belonged. Do you have any complaints on that score, Miss. Parker?"
> "No."
"Have you discovered anything missing?"
He knew about her amnesia, but it seemed an automatic, lawyer's question.
"No," Faith repeated, looking down at the checkbook entry concerning the computer. She did not want to mention it, though she couldn't explain why, even to herself. "Nothing."
"If you do discover anything, you'll let me know?"
"Of course, Mr. Sloan." She hesitated. "There is one thing. You said that all my recently incurred debts had been paid?"
"Yes."
"How did you know about them, Mr. Sloan?"
"Miss Leighton supplied that information, Miss Parker. I believe she took the liberty of going through your desk to get a correct accounting. Other than regular monthly bills such as utilities, rent, a small credit card balance, and so on, there were two recently incurred debts. One for a laptop computer, which Miss Leighton informed me had been in her possession since your accident, and the other for new living room furniture. Both accounts were paid in full."
"I see." She swallowed. "Thank you, Mr. Sloan."
"My pleasure, Miss Parker." He hung up.
So Dinah Leighton had the laptop that Faith had bought weeks before her accident. Why? And where was it now?
Her thoughts were whirling, confused. Then, to make matters much, much worse, she caught a glimpse of something on the television. She lunged for the remote and turned up the sound.
"Kane Macgregor, one of those closest to the missing woman, expressed his trust in the efforts of the police to find her," the off-camera voice intoned solemnly.
The blond man before the cameras looked tired, his face drawn and thin, his gray eyes haunted. Numerous microphones were thrust at him. A question Faith could barely hear was asked, and he replied in a deep voice that made a warm shiver course through her.
