The noise, so much a part of the casino, seemed to abate as the crowd held their breath. Whitney didn’t watch the ball; she watched Zane’s face. Everything seemed to be riding on this for him.
He really bought in to this good-luck-charm business, she realized,. Almost as much as Quinton did. The thought disappointed her a little. She supposed she was building Zane up too much in her mind.
The wheel began to slow. The tiny black ball hopscotched from place to place, flirting with first one number, then another. Before the ride was quite through, it settled into the seven slot. Quinton’s numbers were twenty-eight and twenty-nine.
She could feel the wall of disappointment rise.
And then, at the last moment, the ball seemed to hiccup, skim one slot and then come to rest on number twenty-nine.
“I won.” Quinton turned and hugged Sally. “I won.” It wasn’t a cry of joy, merely a pleased announcement. An affirmation of his superior position.
A cheer undulated through the crowd behind Quinton. The man behind the wheel looked as if he had wilted as he took columns of chips and added them to Quinton’s pile.
Quinton had the air of a man who had just begun to play. Zane knew a single number would be next. Thirty-five to one. The odds of winning were astronomical. It was time to quit.
“Maybe you’d better call it a night,” Zane suggested.
Quinton debated. He liked the taste of being a winner and the games had loved him tonight. “Hell, I could go on playing for hours.”
Zane had no doubt, but this was definitely pressing his luck. “Yeah, I know, but part of winning is knowing when to quit and I’ve got a gut feeling that maybe it’s time to cash in the chips for tonight.”
A waiter walked by. Quinton leaned back to pluck a glass from his tray. He raised it to toast Zane, and then Whitney.
“Well, then, here’s to your gut, even if it does look nonexistent.” Gray eyes slanted toward the woman who was still hanging on to his arm. He was feeling magnanimous. “I’m sure Sally’s noticed that.”
There was no question in Whitney’s mind that he was right. She also had no doubt that Sally was, first and foremost, a survivor. She would put her health and longevity over her libido every time.
“I’ve only got eyes for you, Richard,” the woman purred.
“Of course you do, my dear. For as long as I want you to.” He watched as his chips were arranged in a container to facilitate being carried to the cashier. “Care to catch a show?” he asked Zane. “I could arrange for a private one, if you’d rather.” One word from him would be all it would take to have the management empty the room. It was all part of the perks the hotel offered in order to keep Quinton loyal to the casino.
Zane draped his arm over Whitney’s shoulders, pulling her to him. “It’s tempting, but no. I think we’ll just go to our suite. Whitney’s kind of tired.”
Whether a woman was willing to go along with what he wanted had never prominently figured in his own plans, but Quinton accepted the excuse.
“Of course. Russell,” he called after him as Zane began to walk away, “why don’t we get together tomorrow, same time, at the pool? I might be willing to listen to your proposition then.”
It was what Zane wanted to hear. “We’ll be there,” he promised. Bidding the other couple good-night, he ushered Whitney toward the elevators.
She waited until they were out of the casino. “Proposition?”
He nodded. “I’ll explain later.”
Later was getting to be very full, she thought as the elevator doors opened to admit them.
Chapter 6
Whitney walked out of the bathroom, brushing her hair. Zane didn’t like the pensive look on her face. He liked the nightgown she was wearing beneath her parted robe even less. Watching it move along her body like a silent invitation made it difficult to keep his mind on something other than the fact that his resolve to keep hands off was swiftly dissolving.
The nightgown was one of several that had been packed to perpetuate the illusion of the honeymoon, should their room be searched. But hadn’t she packed any cotton nightgowns to sleep in? Where was the football jersey he knew she favored? Why wasn’t she wearing that?
Because she thought they were on their honeymoon, that’s why. Well, he wasn’t. He was in hell.
Whitney placed her hairbrush on the bureau and studied Zane’s reflection in the mirror. She had to ask. Something had been bothering her, interfering with the image of Zane that was beginning to emerge in her mind.
“Did you book this hotel because you knew Quinton would be staying here?”
If she thought that, did Quinton? Zane’s expression was impassive as he turned down his side of the bed. He paid extraordinary attention to smoothing down the comforter, avoiding her eyes.
“No, how could I know something like that?” He’d had a feeling bedtime was going to be one hell of an all-round challenge for him, and it looked as if he was right. For more than one reason. “I already told you, we met because I saved his life. You were there.”
Whitney nodded, parroting what he’d said this morning. “You pushed him out of the way when a car suddenly came barreling down a slope at the golf course.”
There was suspicion darkening her eyes. Zane toyed with telling her the truth and then upbraided himself for weakening. Given the unpredictable state of her mind, it wasn’t a good idea. Telling her the truth might just make matters worse. He couldn’t risk that, no matter how much he wanted to tell her.
“Right.”
He was her husband, Whitney thought. Why would he lie to her? How could she doubt him? And yet somehow his reassurance didn’t feel right to her. She couldn’t explain it any better than that.
The only thing that felt right was when he held her. Was she jeopardizing that by pressing this point? By making him feel that she didn’t trust him?
Whitney shrugged, slipping off her robe. She let it drop at the foot of the bed. “It just seems awfully convenient, his being here.”
He was having trouble listening. Zane’s mouth turned to dust. Though the robe was all but transparent, the added layer had helped preserve an illusion of mystery. There was no illusion left. Only a whisper of blue and the body of an incredibly beautiful woman beneath.
Damning the situation, he averted his eyes. With effort, he forced his mind back on the conversation and away from needs that were suddenly slamming against each other like a ten-car collision on Interstate 5.
He glanced over his shoulder, careful to look at her face and only her face. “Just what are you getting at?”
Helpless, she spread her hands. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
She paced in front of the bed. The nightgown skimmed along his arm as she passed, making every fiber of his body tighten like a coil about to be released. Whitney swung around to face him.
“That’s just it. I don’t know anything.” Whitney looked at him, unable to suppress the accusation in her voice. “And every time I turn around to ask, you’re talking to Quinton.” It didn’t make sense. His behavior didn’t make sense. One moment he was the concerned husband, the next minute he was a preoccupied so-called businessman. Which was the real Zane? “I need questions answered, Zane.”
His voice was kind, sympathetic. “I know you do.” But he wasn’t going to be able to answer anything if she remained standing in front of him like this. He took her by the hand and urged her to sit down on the edge of the bed. Feeling like a man on a tightrope, he sat down beside her. “All right, what do you want to know?”
Everything. Who I am, who you are. What we’re doing here and why your mind is some place else when I know your body wants to be with me.
Whitney banked down the riot of questions and sought for order. She began with today. “Just why are you trying to get so friendly with Quinton? And don’t,” she warned, holding up her hand, “tell me it’s business. I want to know what kind of business.”
He was prepared for that. Quinton h
ad a facade he presented to the world. A facade that included cultivating some very powerful friends, a few of whom were in high places in the government. Others that the government would have been afraid to touch.
“There’s no big mystery, Whitney. Richard Quinton is a very rich man and has his finger in a lot of pies. Among his holdings, he has this property in Bedford Valley. It’s at the very tip of southern Orange County in California,” he added for clarity. “A huge piece of land, just ripe for developing.” He watched her face to see if she was buying in to this. He was relieved that she appeared to be. “I want to go in on it with him. Manage the property for him. Set up a deal with a builder. Actually, I’ve got one already lined up. The designs are fantastic and the profit margin would be tremendous.”
It sounded genuine enough. “Is that what you do?” With all the words that had been bandied about today, she still wasn’t certain just what his actual line of work was. “You’re a land developer?”
Zane nodded. He told her what he had told Quinton at the outset. Other things had quickly been understood. Bringing Hans Werner’s name into the conversation had helped cinch it. “Among other things.”
She’d had a feeling there was more. He was holding back something from her. “What other things?”
“I’m an entrepreneur.” It was a description vague enough to cover and legitimize a variety of activities. It was the same one Quinton used. “Some might say an opportunist.” And some had called him a hell of a lot of other things in his time. “I harvest opportunities whenever I can. This land deal is particularly lucrative right now.” Zane took her hand in his, careful not to look at her thigh where it had rested. He nodded at the rings she wore. “So far, I guess you could say I’ve done rather well.”
She could feel her skin tingling. He was trying not to look at her. But he was..And his gaze was warm. Why was he playing these games? Why couldn’t he just make love with her? “Are you talking about me or the jewelry?”
He let her hand go and rose. He couldn’t take sitting so close to her anymore. Not when he wanted nothing more than to crush her to him, to tear away that little bit of nothing she was wearing and lose himself in the scent and feel of her.
What he needed was a cold shower and a cold drink. Or, in absence of that, a hot woman.
But not her. No matter how much he wanted her.
“Both,” he answered.
It didn’t seem that way. Whitney regarded his back. It seemed almost rigid. She rose to join him. “And what do I do?”
There was a full moon out. It hung on a canvas of black velvet. There were no stars. Zane made a wish, anyway. He wished himself anywhere but here. Without a star, the wish remained unfulfilled.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“With my life. What do I do when I’m not hitting my head and coming down with amnesia on my honeymoon?”
She was too close again. Casually, he moved back toward the bureau. “You’re my wife. You love me.”
Somehow that rang hollow. Especially after today’s shopping trip. There had to be something else she did with herself.
“That’s it?”
Zane smiled to himself. He was talking to the other Whitney now, even if she wasn’t aware of it just yet. And the other Whitney would have cut off precious parts of his anatomy if she caught him staring at her like that. He knew that for certain. “Well, you’ve only had the position for a few days.”
It still didn’t sound right. “I have no career? No job?”
He fed her the bio he’d crafted. “You were an office manager at an insurance company.” Because looking at her reflection was almost worst than seeing the real thing, he turned around. “You couldn’t wait to get out.”
Whitney listened to what he told her, yet it was like hearing about someone else’s life. Hadn’t she wanted to make something of herself, aspired to something? To be a doctor, a lawyer, a journalist? A fire fighter? Something, anything but a hothouse flower that had to be tended and nurtured?
He could almost see her processing his words. And guessed at the outcome. She might not know herself, but he did. And he had no doubts that consciously or unconsciously, none of this was resting well with her. Whitney liked to be in control of things, knowledgeable. Sitting back had never been her style.
“Does any of it sound familiar to you, Whit?” He knew it wouldn’t, but it was the thing to ask right about now.
The troubled look in her eyes stung at a conscience he’d long since thought deadened. She was lost at sea and he couldn’t throw her a lifeline without bringing other things into jeopardy.
He didn’t delude himself into thinking that if he said the right word, everything would just pop back into place for her. That only happened in the movies. But what he was afraid of was that any stray piece of genuine information might put both of their lives into danger if she let the wrong thing slip at the wrong time.
A quaint saying played across his mind. Loose lips sink ships. Except that she wouldn’t know hers were loose. He had to make sure that they weren’t. Who would have thought he’d have to play guardian angel as well at this stage of the game?
Well, whatever he was, he was stuck playing two sides of a charade and hoped to God he could keep it all straight in his mind.
“No,” she said slowly. “None of it sounds even vaguely familiar.”
He refrained from taking her into his arms and comforting her. She looked like every man’s fantasy come to life. “The doctor at the hospital said it would take time.”
She remembered. She also remembered something else. “It could also be never.”
Zane kept the length of the bed between them. “I don’t believe that.”
For a second, she’d allowed herself to get lost in an ocean of self-pity. Her head jerked up at the life preserver that was suddenly bobbing in the dark waters.
“You don’t?”
Maybe if he told her the truth—But with enormous effort he kept silent. At least he could encourage her.
“No. You’re a fighter.” He looked into her eyes. “You’re in there somewhere, Whitney, and you’re going to come out swinging.” She’d be swinging at him, all right, if she remembered all the lies he’d had to feed her. “Until then, you’re just going to have to be patient.”
She had to believe him. She had no choice. The alternative was too horrid. But she needed more to hang on to. “Tell me about the house.”
“What house?”
Why was she constantly struck by the feeling that drawing information from Zane was like pulling teeth? Why was he so reluctant for her to remember her life with him? He should be volunteering things, not waiting for her to drag it out of him.
“Our house.” Maybe she had jumped to a wrong conclusion. “We do have a house, don’t we? I mean, I just assumed, with all the money you said you have, and being a land developer...”
Then she did believe him. That was good. “Yeah, we have a house.”
He thought of the one he’d been taken from as a child. The one foster home where he’d wanted to remain. But the woman he would have willingly thought of as his mother had become ill, and social services had come for him, to take him back into the system. It had never been the same after that. There had been an up side, though. Being taken away like that had caused him to harden his heart and taught him a valuable lesson: nothing good lasted.
“It’s a pretty place, two story. White stucco, blue wood trim.” He grinned. “Not nearly as blue as that dress you wore tonight, but blue. Small rooms,” he recalled. “Small house, actually, but it’s got a good feel to it.”
“Small?” Whitney echoed in surprise. From what she’d heard today, she would have thought that Zane would have picked something large and showy. She liked the fact that he hadn’t.
He nodded. “Some things are best small.”
Like small, firm breasts that were just large enough to fill a man’s hand. And his night.
Damn, he was going to have to exercise b
etter control than this over his mind. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway?
“Except for the bedroom,” he continued, concentrating. This time, he became creative. “That’s large. There’s a sitting area, with a big-screen TV on one wall.” Zane grinned, thinking of all the ballgames he could watch in a room like that. Sports were his one weakness. “I like being up on the latest technology in electronics,” he told her. He didn’t bother to add that at times that had saved his life.
A lovely, warm house. Had she seen it before? Was she happy there? Suddenly, Whitney wanted very much to see it.
“It sounds wonderful. Why don’t we go there now?” Turning to look at him, she scrambled up to her knees on top of the bed. “Why not cut the honeymoon short and just go home?”
She wanted to get the feel of it, the feel of a place that would welcome her. Most of all, she wanted to be rid of this emptiness that haunted her no matter how much she tried to block it out.
“Soon, Whitney,” Zane promised. “Soon.”
She sighed, sitting down again. Her nightgown pooled around her like painted water. “Seems as if everything is on hold. Including us.”
He knew it would come back to that. Because his own thoughts kept returning to the same thing. “I already told you, I don’t think we should do anything yet.”
Zane deliberately avoided using the term making love. Saying it aloud seemed too seductive somehow, and he was having enough trouble reining himself in as it was. All the discipline he’d exercised up to this point was wearing thin. The thing with discipline was that you had to practice it all the time. Otherwise, you lost control.
Her gaze slid along his torso. He was wearing pajama bottoms. She longed to run her hand along his flat belly. To touch him. “But it might help me remember.”
No it wouldn’t. But it would make for one hell of a memory. At least for him.
“And it might be traumatic,” he contradicted. “I mean, I’m basically a stranger to you. Besides—” he brushed her bangs aside “—that bump on your head is still there.”
The Amnesiac Bride Page 8
