The Amnesiac Bride

by Marie Ferrarella

  She felt cold suddenly. In defiance, she raised her chin. “Who was that?”

  Mind racing, Zane slowly replaced the telephone on the night stand. “What?”

  She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself. She couldn’t quite explain or put it into words, but she felt violated.

  “Don’t play games with me, Zane. Who was on the telephone? And why is my ‘condition’ a possible problem to the operation? What sort of an operation are you talking about, anyway?”

  Question after question was erupting in her brain, taking with it her recent euphoria.

  When under attack, advance, don’t retreat, Zane thought. It confuses the hell out of the enemy. It was a trick someone had once taught him. Whitney wasn’t the enemy, but the advice still held true.

  He didn’t answer her questions; instead, he asked one of his own. “What are you doing out of the shower?”

  “I was going to invite you in.” It seemed silly now. “Don’t change the subject,” she warned.

  Zane summoned all the charm he had at his disposal. “There isn’t a subject,” he assured her as he slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I was talking to your doctor. I just remembered that you were supposed to go in for some minor surgery when we got back. I don’t think, with this amnesia, you should go through with it. I was just leaving a message to that effect on his answering machine.”

  She’d only walked in on his final words, but she was still unconvinced. “Doctors have answering services, not machines.”

  “This one has a machine,” Zane assured her. “I called his home number. He’s an old friend. A plastic surgeon.”

  “What was I having done?”

  “I don’t know. You wouldn’t tell me. Even after I said I didn’t want you changing anything about yourself.”

  She supposed that it could be true and all very innocent, but she’d had the oddest feeling when she’d walked in on him. A feeling of déjà vu. And a feeling that things weren’t quite right.

  Whitney looked at him dubiously. “Zane, I want to believe you—”

  He unknotted the towel. It began to fall and she made a grab for it, but he stayed her hand. The towel fell to the floor. “Then what’s the problem?”

  She could feel pulses beginning to throb again. “The problem is that I feel there’s something you’re not telling me. That you’re keeping me in the dark for some reason.”

  He tried to look the part of the concerned husband and found that it wasn’t a stretch for him. Maybe he wasn’t a husband, but he was damn well concerned about her.

  “Whit, you’ve had a shock. Amnesia isn’t just a sinus headache. Some part of your brain has shut down, blocked things out. I don’t want to burden you with too much information at one time. Too many things thrown at you at once might scramble everything for you.”

  “Scramble?” she echoed. What was he getting at? He hadn’t given her too much information. He’d hardly given her any at all.

  The shrug was born of impatience. “Yes, scramble. Hell, I’m just a layman. I don’t know what another shock to your system would do.”

  He was still confusing her. She wondered if he was doing it on purpose. “What kind of shock?”

  He could still hear the water running in the shower. Taking her hand, he started to usher her into the bathroom. “Did you come out here to play twenty questions, or to drag me back to the shower? We’re wasting water, standing out here and talking.”

  She knew she should insist on remaining here and getting things cleared up. But she didn’t do her best thinking nude. She began to smile as she allowed him to lead her to the shower stall.

  “Is there a drought?”

  “There will be if we don’t turn off that water soon.” He opened the stall door and glanced inside. “You know, it does look big enough for two.”

  “I think that was the general idea. After all, it is the honeymoon suite.”

  Zane closed the door behind them. Water cascaded over both their bodies as they jockeyed for position.

  Whitney could feel herself heating again, forgetting everything but this man with her and what he could do to her with the slightest touch. But she needed to ask. To know. “Zane, are you keeping anything from me?” The sexiest smile she’d ever seen crossed his lips. “Not for long in these tight quarters. It’s deceptive looking from the outside. There isn’t much room in here.” He encircled her with his arms. “There’s only room for one and a half people. I think we need to conserve space. What do you think?”

  It was a ploy, all a ploy to make her stop asking questions. And it was working. “I think you’re not going to give me an answer.”

  “Nope. I’m going to show you instead.”

  Zane kissed her before she could say anything else.

  Chapter 10

  “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Whitney murmured to Zane in awe as she looked at the twostory structure that had been added to the hotel.

  Its architecture was the same as the central structure’s and it was attached to the hotel by a covered breezeway, but for all intents and purposes the building that Quinton was occupying during his stay at Zanadu was a separate one. It mirrored the way she was sure Quinton saw himself. Distinctly separated from the crowd.

  “How many more movies are rattling around in that head of yours?” It seemed uncanny to Zane that Whitney still hadn’t remembered anything about who she was, but her brain continued to be a walking encyclopedia of old Hollywood films.

  “I don’t know, I haven’t taken inventory yet,” she murmured.

  Whitney shook her head, bemused. At the entrance to Quinton’s accommodations stood two tall, very able-bodied guards. Although one was burlier than the other, they had on the same harem attire worn by the rest of the staff at the hotel. They both looked a little oafish, but she sincerely doubted anyone would ever have enough courage to tell either of them that.

  She thought of their bridal suite. Up until now, it had seemed rather impressive. But Quinton’s quarters, even on the outside, represented an entirely different world.

  “Are you sure that this is part of the same hotel?” she whispered to Zane.

  Zane gave their names to the two men and waited as the names were verified against a list. “Makes you see why Quinton keeps returning here.”

  “Returning?” The guard rapped twice on the door and it was opened by a butler in full formal attire, down to his immaculate white gloves. Whitney had to make a conscious effort not to stare. “If I were staying in a place like this, they’d have to use dynamite to get me out.”

  Standing in the foyer, she looked slowly around, vaguely aware of the door shutting behind them. There was a sunken living room decorated with antique furniture that undoubtedly cost the hotel a fortune. In the very center of the room, accenting the cathedral ceiling, was a fountain. Aphrodite continuously poured water into a large seashell. It took Whitney’s breath away. In the background was a winding, gilded staircase that undoubtedly led to the bedrooms. Her head began to spin.

  She glanced at Zane. Whatever he thought of the accommodations, it wasn’t evident in his face. “There are probably towns smaller than this,” she said.

  “Maybe,” Zane agreed. “In Montana.” He inclined his head next to her ear. “Quinton mentioned that it’s sixty-one hundred square feet.”

  “Sixty-one hundred square feet?” Opulence had obviously been the watchword when the rooms were decorated. What could one man possibly want with a suite large enough to hold a convention in?

  A noise behind them had Whitney swinging around. Lucifer materializing in a puff of smoke, she thought, watching Quinton walk toward them. Sally, like a wellgroomed shadow, entered the room behind him.

  Quinton’s smile was wide and, as always, charming. But it wore a little thin to Whitney in the face of this overdone elegance. She couldn’t help thinking that the money could be better spent by all concerned.

  He took her hand in both of his, clasping it w
armly as if they were old friends. “Ah, you’ve found your way to my humble quarters.” His eyes on hers, Quinton nodded a vague greeting at Zane.

  In a move he knew was far too territorial, but one he couldn’t prevent, Zane slipped his arm around Whitney’s shoulders.

  “This is certainly quite a place.” Zane knew Quinton would have been disappointed if he hadn’t been duly impressed.

  “Humble?” Whitney laughed at the irony of the word. “In comparison to what? The Taj Mahal?”

  Her comment pleased him. Quinton’s smile grew. After a moment, he released her hand and led the way into the living room. A living room that had been decorated according to his exact specifications. This suite was kept in reserve expressly for his visits. He wouldn’t have occupied it if he knew the hotel allowed others to stay here in his absence.

  “The hotel likes me to be happy here.” Quinton slanted a glance at the butler, whose function it was never to be out of earshot as long as either Quinton or any of his guests remained in the rooms. “Isn’t that right, Jeffers?”

  The white-haired man bowed stiffly from the waist, as he had been taught to do at the same school in charge of training the Royal Family’s butlers.

  “Yes, sir. Zanadu enjoys having its special guests return.”

  He wasn’t one to be taken in easily. Quinton knew the bottom line. And he also knew how to make the most of it. Despite the fact that he could have easily bought and sold everyone in the immediate vicinity, he enjoyed being wooed and given things in an attempt to win his favor. And his bankroll.

  “And it’s all free,” Quinton confided to them with obvious pride.

  There was a gleam in his eyes that Whitney was unable to fathom. All she knew was that it was incredibly cold. Ruthless. And self-satisfied. Richard Quinton was a man who couldn’t have anything put over on him, she judged. The thought worried her not for her own sake but for Zane’s, although she wasn’t quite sure why.

  “Well,” Quinton amended, “free as long as I keep gambling at their tables and leave more than I take.” He thought of the past three nights, and the luck these two had brought him. “I have a feeling, though, that this time around, there might be a bill waiting for me at the front desk when I check out.” He laughed again, pleased. “Thanks to you two.”

  It was absurd for a grown man to actually think that his luck depended on the presence of two people standing on his left while he played.

  “I don’t—” Whitney’s protest died abruptly as Quinton took her hand again and squeezed it. Mentally, she counted off a beat, then drew back her hand.

  “Don’t be modest—you two are my good-luck charms. Both of you.” He paused as she slipped her hand from his. For a moment, his eyes darkened before he continued. “Luck is a very real, tangible thing. You either have it within your grasp—” he closed his fingers into a tight fist “—or you don’t. I’m convinced that your presence has made Lady Luck linger at my side.”

  Quinton read her expression correctly. Russell’s wife was chafing. It intrigued him. Other women would have played up to him for what they could get. He wasn’t ungenerous. That she seemed to want nothing only urged him on.

  “It won’t be much longer, Mrs. Russell, I assure you. I’ll be leaving tomorrow and then you two can continue with your honeymoon.” He smiled, a spider admiring the web he’d spun. “Richer than when you first arrived.”

  He looked pointedly at Zane. Whitney drew the only conclusion that she could. “Then you’ve decided to let Zane manage your property?”

  Though it meant that Zane had attained his goal, the veiled smile slipping across Quinton’s mouth made her feel uneasy.

  “Indeed I have. He may manage the property.” He offered his hand to Zane, sealing the bargain. Quinton had his own set of values, and a man’s worth was only as good as his word. But once that was lost, it could never be redeemed. “Good-luck charms have to be polished from time to time.” He glanced toward Sally. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  Sally toyed with her earring. One perfect pearl gently swung to and fro against her fingertip. “Whatever you say, Richard.”

  “That’s right,” he agreed. “Whatever I say.” Business put on hold, Quinton looked from Whitney to Zane and rubbed his hands together. “Well, what will you have? Just name it.” He gestured expansively toward the bar. It was actually a delicately carved eighteenth-century piece, imported from Japan. “I assure you that the hotel has stocked it for me. Or, if not, Jeffers here will be more than happy to find it, buy it or steal it for you. You’ve but to tell him what it is. Isn’t that so, Jeffers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It was clear that Quinton was flexing his muscles for them. “I’ll have a Black Russian,” Zane said. He wanted a clear head, but if he asked for anything departing from his normal choice, he knew Quinton would either become suspicious, see it as a bad omen or take offense.

  Jeffers promptly located the bottles of Kahlua and vodka and began mixing the drink.

  “Water,” Whitney requested in quiet rebellion against all the opulence surrounding them. “I’d like some water, please.”

  Quinton’s laugh was deep and throaty. “Then water you shall have, Mrs. Russell. You’ll excuse us,” he casually tossed at Zane in his wake.

  Hand on her shoulder, Quinton ushered Whitney into a private kitchen where two chefs were busy preparing the afternoon meal. Both men glanced toward him as he entered the room with Whitney and murmured subservient hellos before returning to their work.

  Standing before the refrigerator, Quinton nodded toward. the door. “Open it, please,” he instructed. The chef closest to him dropped the knife he was dicing with on the chopping block and hurried to comply.

  .He really took pleasure in pulling strings and jerking people around. Suppressing her irritation, Whitney reached to open the door herself.

  The hand Quinton placed on her arm was a silent warning. “Don’t.” Politely issued, it was still a command. “It’s what he’s paid to do. Let him do it.”

  Inclining her head, struggling not to say something about pompous asses, Whitney moved aside and let the chef open the refrigerator for them.

  Inside, along one long rack, was an assortment of bottled mineral water. Quinton gestured toward them. “Take your pick.”

  The bottles came in different, muted hues, like a rainbow. Whitney made her selection by crossing to the sink and turning on the tap.

  “I like things simple,” Whitney told him. “Tap water.”

  It was a minor challenge, but it was still a challenge. Quinton reached around her and shut off the tap with one quick jerk.

  “There’s simple, and then there’s common. I deal with the common only when I absolutely must.” He looked over his shoulder at the anxious chef.

  It occurred to Whitney that the man must have witnessed Quinton’s darker side at one time or other. It was obvious that he was fearful of another eruption. She held her peace.

  Quinton chose a bottle for her. “The lady will sample that one.”

  With movements exhibiting both desire to please and to avoid any displays of disapproval, the chef quickly removed the pale green bottle from the shelf and opened it. He poured the mineral water into a glass and presented it to Whitney as if it were the finest champagne.

  Given everything, it probably cost somewhere in the same neighborhood. She took a sip and thought that she actually liked tap water better.

  “Good?”

  She knew Quinton was in no mood for a debate. That made two of them. “Yes.”

  “See?” He took her by the elbow and ushered from the room. It was a signal for the work in the kitchen to begin again.

  “Would you like to join the others?” Quinton asked, “Or shall I take you on a personal tour of my accommodations?”

  She had no doubt where the tour would end. Whitney didn’t relish the thought of having to wrestle with Quinton. She looked toward the living room.

  “Why don’t we do both?�
�� she proposed. “In that order?”

  She’d managed, for the moment, to block his move. He enjoyed a good game of chess as much as the next man. “Very well.”

  Sally was hitting on him. Subtly, tastefully, but a man knew when he was being hit on, and Sally was most definitely making her intentions known. Under the guise of showing him different artifacts that were displayed on the shelves that ran along the length of one wall, she’d reached for an item and brushed against Zane twice. Brushed her body against his. Waiting for the unspoken invitation to garner some sort of response from him.

  Not in a million years, lady. I like my body parts just where they are, he thought.

  And Zane had no doubt that if he were, insanely, of a mind to see just how willing a lady Sally really was when it came to playing doctor, Quinton would gut him like a freshly caught salmon.

  He was relieved when he saw Whitney and Quinton reenter the room.

  Zane crossed to Whitney and slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I was beginning to think that maybe you got lost.”

  Quinton gestured about the area with the nonchalance of someone who had grown accustomed to wealth and couldn’t imagine anything else. “It’s not really that big. It’s all relative, actually. This place could occupy a corner of my home in Bel Air.”

  Whitney didn’t doubt it. “You provide guests with compasses at the door?”

  Quinton laughed, amused. “You know, Russell, your wife is far more delightful than I originally surmised.” His eyes were warm, yet calculating, as they regarded Whitney. “You seem different than you did when I first met you.”

  That would be the amnesia, she thought. She wondered what she’d said to him to generate his initial reaction. “It takes me a while to get comfortable.”

  Nice save, Zane thought.

  Quinton sipped his dry martini, watching her over the rim of his glass. “And are you? Comfortable?”