by Cleo Coyle
How I arrived at this Hamptons address was no mystery. What I needed to know—what I was desperate to know—was how I’d gotten to this place in my life?
I was engaged to be married, and this was news to me.
Dozens of questions were flooding my brain—
Where had I met my alleged fiancé?
How long had we been together?
What made us fall in love?
And what could possibly have possessed me to say yes to another wedding in this lifetime? Was I deluding myself, making another stupid mistake? It seemed I was. After all, where the heck was this guy?
What kind of man would allow his fiancée to be spirited away by Matteo Allegro for a weekend in the Hamptons? And what did that say about this person’s affection for me, not to mention his intelligence quotient? Was I engaged to a gullible idiot?
The biggest question in my mind, however, the one looming largest (and scariest), was the one I’d already asked my uncooperative ex-husband—
“If you’re not my impending groom, then who is?”
After a full minute of caustic silence, Matt finally said: “If you can’t remember on your own, Clare, I’m not going to tell you.”
I stared at Matt in a kind of low-level shock. “Have we entered another dimension? Don’t you understand? As long as I’m betrothed to a man I can’t remember, I’m effectively engaged to a complete stranger.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t be engaged to him.”
I blinked. “Did you actually say that? How could you be so presumptive? So arrogant!” I sprang off my chair. “I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to come out here with you. I knew it!”
Pacing the great room, I spat invectives like machine-gun bullets. Since Matt couldn’t get a word in, he simply sat on his bar chair, arms folded, jaw clenched, taking the hits.
“How could you lie to me again? How?!”
Taking a breath, I waited for an answer. It came in a surprisingly calm voice.
“I never lied to you, Clare.”
“A lie of omission is still a lie. You manipulated me for your own ends, your own benefit, just like you did during our marriage!”
“No! Back then, I was young and stupid. Tonight, what I’ve been doing is trying to help you restore your life, or at least your memory of that life.”
“Without remembering to even mention I was engaged to another man?”
“That’s right, because you didn’t remember him.” Matt rose up off the chair. “But you remembered me.”
As he stepped closer, I backed away. “Are you . . . trying to confuse me?”
“Of course not.” Seeing my retreat, Matt stopped moving. “What’s going on between us isn’t complicated. Not if you understand a simple fact.” Standing firm, he met my gaze. “I still love you. I know deep in your heart, you still care for me, which means this memory loss of yours could be our second chance.”
Our second chance? All of a sudden, I was out of comebacks—and energy. Like a deflating balloon I sank into the cloudlike cushions of the overstuffed sofa, wishing they could spirit me away.
Seeing the fight go out of me, Matt got the wrong impression. Feeling encouraged, he took a step closer, then another, but slowly and cautiously, as if he were approaching an unpredictable cheetah on the African veldt.
What will she do? Lash out? Bolt? Both?
Personally, I was leaning toward both. I might have grown tired of fighting, but I was still furious with Matt’s obvious intentions to manipulate me. He claimed he was simply trying to help me regain my memories, but his decisions were still all about him and what he wanted.
What if I had slept with him? How would I have felt in the morning if I’d suddenly remembered, Oh, that’s right. I’m engaged to be married to (insert name here).
“Clare, you’re tired,” Matt purred, inching closer. “It’s been a long day. How about a drink? Gin and ginger will take the edge off. Then we can go upstairs, relax, and—”
“I don’t want alcohol. And I’m not going upstairs. I want to leave this house. Right now. There must be a hotel around here somewhere.”
“That’s a terrible idea. Remember, we’re trying to keep you hidden.”
“Then drive me back to the city.”
“It’s too late for that, and I’m too tired—”
“Give me the keys to the van. I’ll drive myself.”
“That’s crazy. Look . . .” Hands up, he backed off. “How about if I get out of the house? Right this minute. How about that?”
“You’re going to a hotel?”
“No . . .” He pulled on his hoodie and zipped it up. “There’s a twenty-four-hour supermarket on Montauk Highway. I’ll take my time, buy us some food for the weekend, some staples for the pantry—”
“How is that going to solve our problem?”
“For one thing, it will give our argument a rest. You’ll have some privacy. Go upstairs to the master bedroom. When I get back, I won’t disturb you. Lock the door, if it will make you feel better, and I’ll see you in the morning. You’ll see things differently after a good night’s sleep. If not, we’ll get you out of here. Or maybe we’ll have Joy come for a visit. Would you like that?”
“Yes. I would.”
“Good, great. That’s a step in the right direction. Okay, I’m going . . .”
Seconds later, I heard the door firmly shut. Then the van’s motor started up and slowly faded down the long driveway.
The house went quiet after that, and I would have climbed the stairs to bed, but I had too much adrenaline coursing through me. So I washed the dishes and cleaned the pans. It didn’t take long, less than ten minutes—
That was when the doorbell chimed.
Matt must have forgotten something, I assumed, his wallet most likely. Easy to do when you’re hurrying toward the exit in a desperate attempt to keep your ex-wife from fleeing your house. The doorbell was obviously his way of warning me that he was back sooner than expected—either that or he’d forgotten his house key, too.
Without bothering to glance out the peephole, I yanked open the door to find a man standing in front of me.
He was not my ex-husband.
FORTY-NINE
THE stranger was tall, over six feet, with sandy brown hair, and a rumpled trench coat hanging from his broad shoulders.
“Hi, Clare,” he said, expression guarded.
He looked haggard, as if he’d been through a battle, and rough stubble darkened his square jaw. But his ice-blue eyes were sharp, and they stared at me with spooky intensity.
“Oh, my God!” I cried. “You’re that detective, the one from the hospital!”
I tried to slam the door in his face, but this guy was ready. Using his body as a wedge, he forced his way inside.
Time to make like a cheetah and bolt!
I ran toward the steps, planning to lock myself in the master bedroom. Unfortunately, the physics of Matt’s oversized socks on a highly polished wooden floor didn’t resolve in my favor. I went down hard, right on my sweatpants-covered assets.
“Son of a bunny!”
“Are you okay?!”
Hands flailing, I warned him away. “Don’t touch me! I’m not going back to that hospital!”
“Take it easy—”
The rumpled detective extended his hand, but I got up under my own steam. Retying the robe over Matt’s sweatpants and T-shirt, I attempted to regain what was left of my dignity. Head held high, I faced him squarely.
“I mean it. I no longer want Dr. Lorca’s drug treatment. I’ll hire a lawyer, if I have to, but I’m not going back!”
“Good, because I’m not here to take you back.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I came to help you, Clare . . .”
Clare. The way he said my name—so personal
, so familiar—made me uncomfortable. Ignoring the feeling, I stood my ground.
“What exactly do you mean, you came here to help me?”
“I have some of your clothes and shoes and things.” He pointed toward the half-open front door. “They’re in my rental car. Madame packed them.”
“Madame? How do you know— Oh, wait. Of course! I’m so sorry. I should have remembered!”
“You remember me?”
“I remember Madame saying something about a friendly cop sharing information with her. You’re him, aren’t you? The friend of the Blend?”
He swallowed hard. “I’m a little more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know how to break this to you, Clare. To be frank, I’m not sure if I should. Let’s just say it’s important that you know I’m here for you. That I’m in your corner . . .”
As the detective’s voice trailed off, his guarded cop expression began to melt into something more human. I could see the sadness in his blue eyes. It wasn’t pity for me. It was more personal, a kind of tender pain, like heartache.
That was when I began to get a clue.
I still didn’t know who this man was, but given Matt’s reluctant revelation, I deduced what he was.
“You’re a stranger to me,” I warned, backing up a step. “I don’t remember any history with you.”
“I know that.” He raised his hands, palms up. “Like I said, I came to help you. Not pressure or upset you . . .”
His words sounded sincere, and his voice was certainly kind. “So you’re really the one? I mean, the man I’m supposed to . . . ?”
The detective waited patiently for me to finish. But I couldn’t get the words out. Maybe if he just came out and said it.
I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t want there to be any confusion, okay? I’d like to get things straight in my mind and shake this bizarre sense of . . . I don’t know what!”
“Tell me what to do.”
“I want you to say it. State it out loud. Are you the man I’m supposed to . . . you know . . .”
“If you mean marry, the answer is yes.”
With a deep, brave breath, I stared hard at the stranger’s square-jawed face and searched my mind for any memory of him, some reason why he would want to drive all the way out to the South Fork in the dead of night, or look at me with such forlorn affection. But I felt nothing, other than pity for the poor guy.
On a rational level, I understood what was happening. On another level, however, I felt as though I’d walked through Lewis Carroll’s looking glass.
Some other me had met this man and fallen in love.
Some other me had agreed to marry him.
So where was this woman? Was she ever coming back? Would she be able to repaint all the pictures missing in my empty frames—or only some of them?
One thing did come back in that moment, an almost crippling sense of displacement. It returned in a powerful rush, just as it had when my grown daughter ran into my hospital room.
Suddenly, I had trouble breathing. My skin turned clammy and my heart began to race. The stranger didn’t appear to notice my changing state from gobsmacked surprise to dead-cold shock. Still focusing on my request that we get things straight, he took a step closer.
“I’m Mike Quinn, your fiancé,” he said, extending his hand, as if we were being introduced at a cocktail party. “Nice to meet you.”
It was the last thing I remembered before the great white room began to spin. Then everything went black.
FIFTY
“WHERE am I?”
“A safe place . . .”
I felt a soft bed under me. Warm covers over me. There was a fire crackling somewhere, and something squeezing my arm, then a whoosh of air, and the tightness released.
“Your blood pressure’s better.” The deep voice was quiet but firm. “You’re doing well.”
Looking up, into the man’s eyes, I lost my tongue for a moment. Azure blue like that you didn’t see every day. “Who are you again?”
“A friend. A good one. You’re safe with me, Clare. Just close your eyes and rest.”
“Ressst . . .”
FIFTY-ONE
I was warm and comfortable, nestled in a floating feather-bed cloud, until a vocal thunderclap of clashing male voices broke through my cushioned quiet.
“YOU?! What the hell are you doing here? Where is Clare?”
“Calm down, Allegro. She’s upstairs, and she’s fine.”
“Are you crazy?! Just showing up like this?”
“You want to talk crazy? Let’s discuss what you did—”
Yawning, I opened my eyes and quickly scanned the empty bedroom. The door had been left wide open. A chair had been pulled next to the bed and an EMT jump bag was sitting on it. That was when I remembered the blood pressure cuff on my arm and the deep, tender voice telling me I was safe.
That same deep voice—not so tender anymore—was now arguing with my ex-husband downstairs. Their noisy discussion echoed up through the great room’s high ceiling. The acoustics were perfect for eavesdropping, which is exactly what I did . . .
“You broke the law,” the stranger said. “You took her out of hospital care, spirited her into seclusion—”
“Don’t give me that crap,” Matt returned. “I was in Lorca’s office, right there with you. You heard that jerk, telling us how he was going to isolate Clare, take her upstate, pump her with who knows what kind of drugs. You’re the one who stormed off. I’m the one who did something about it.”
“To what end?”
“What do you think, Quinn? To help restore her memory.”
“Selectively, though, right?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, if I hadn’t shown up here, your primary focus would have been on restoring Clare’s memory of her feelings for you and no one else—”
“How did you find us?” Matt demanded, changing the subject a little too fast.
“Your mother gave me the address.”
“My mother!”
“That’s right. She didn’t want Clare left alone with you. Your own mother. What does that tell you?”
“It tells me not to believe a word out of your lying cop mouth. You’ll say anything in an interview room to coerce some poor joker’s confession. Why should I believe a word you say?”
“Because you know my history with Clare, and you’re well aware of your own.”
“History isn’t the problem tonight, flatfoot. It’s current events.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Half the NYPD knows that you and Clare are engaged. Did you take precautions coming here? Or are you leading a SWAT team to my doorstep?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What I’m trying to be is careful,” Matt said. “Answer me this. Do you have your personal mobile on you?”
“Yes.”
“Then they can track you!”
“Take it easy. I have a plan. Believe me, I’m not letting anyone take Clare back to that hospital.”
“That’s right because you’re leaving. Now!”
“I’m not going anywhere, Allegro. She needs to be medically monitored.”
“Medically monitored? Did I miss something? You claimed she was fine!”
“She is fine. Now.”
“You’d better explain—and fast.”
“She wasn’t feeling well, so I carried her upstairs to lie down.”
“Not feeling well? That sounds like your typical stinking load of flatfoot spin. She passed out, didn’t she? Didn’t she?!”
“What Clare experienced was a mild form of shock.”
“For God’s sake! What the hell did you say to her?”
“After I arrived
, she was close to guessing who I was, but felt confused and disoriented. She thought it would help if I told her the truth.”
“And what did you say? Let me guess. Good evening, Clare. Nice to meet you. I’m your fiancé.”
“Something like that.”
“You really are an idiot.”
“And you’re anything but trustworthy. She deserves better.”
“That’s it. You’re outta here!”
“Forget it. I’m not going.”
“This is my house.”
“That’s the point. I’m not leaving Clare to believe her own fiancé would abandon her to her ex-husband.”
“Then I’ll have to physically remove you.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“You don’t think I can do it, Quinn? Try me!”
“You do know I’m armed.”
“So? What are you going to do? Shoot me? I don’t think so.”
“Back off, Allegro. I mean it. Or I’ll power-cuff your ass to your hot-tub railing.”
“STOP IT! RIGHT NOW!”
Hearing my shout above them, the two men froze. Then they looked up to find me glaring at them from the second-floor gallery.
“Stay where you are!” I commanded. “I’ve heard just about enough! I’m coming down to sort this mess out.”
FIFTY-TWO
WHEN I reached the two men, Matt looked me over. “Are you okay, Clare? Should you be out of bed?”
“I’m fine. And wide-awake, thanks to both of your big mouths.”
The two men looked sheepish. Good, I thought. Given the way their animal-kingdom-level “discussion” was going, sheepish was a vast improvement over pigheaded.
I faced Matt. “Where are the groceries?”
“In the van.”
“Would you bring them in? And take plenty of time putting them away. It will give us some privacy.”
“Excuse me?”
