Rafael swore under his breath. “What if you were to pass out when you were alone?”
“Well, the point is to make sure I don’t pass out.”
He scowled and then checked his watch. Only five minutes had passed since he’d placed the order.
“I’ll be fine, Rafe,” she said softly. “My grandmother is a diabetic. I’m well acquainted with how to handle low or elevated blood sugar.”
The shortened version of his name, only used by his closest friends, slipped from her lips as if she’d used it a thousand times before. Coming from her, it sounded…right. As if he’d heard it before or maybe even encouraged her to use it.
He put a hand to his nape and looked away. Why couldn’t he remember? If he had truly been involved with this woman, and if, like she’d said, they’d formed some romantic attachment—he couldn’t quite bring himself to say love—then why would he shove her as far from his memory as he could?
She kicked off her shoes and then curled her feet underneath her on the couch before grabbing one of the cushions to snuggle into. It occurred to him that if they were a real couple he would have sat beside her and…cuddled. Or maybe offered her a foot rub. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to have swollen ankles or something?
Which further proved to him that the idea of him falling in love and spending four weeks wrapped up in one woman was just…ludicrous. He dated. He even had relationships, but they were on his terms, which meant that his female companions didn’t come to his penthouse. If they had sleepovers, it was done in one of his hotels. He certainly didn’t engage in cuddling or cutesy things that a man would do for the woman he loved.
But then she glanced up and their eyes met. There was something in her gaze that peeled back his skin and squeezed his chest in a manner he wasn’t familiar with. She looked…tired and vulnerable. She looked as if she needed…comfort. Hell.
“Rafe, he got away with my purse,” she said quietly.
He nodded. The police had come to the hospital to take her statement but it was doubtful they’d find her attacker.
“I didn’t think…I mean everything happened so fast, and then at the hospital…” She lifted her hand in a helpless gesture that only made his desire to comfort her stronger.
“What is worrying you, Bryony?”
“I need to cancel my credit cards. My bankcard. God, he’s probably already emptied all my accounts. My driver’s license was in it. How am I supposed to get back home? I can’t fly without identification.”
The more she spoke, the more agitated she became. He slid onto the couch beside her and awkwardly put his arms around her.
“There’s no need to panic. Do you have the telephone numbers you need?”
She shook her head and then laid it on his shoulder, her hair brushing across his nose.
“I can look them up on the internet if you have a computer.”
He snorted. “Do I have a computer… I’m never without an internet connection of any kind.”
She lifted her head and stared into his eyes. “You were when you were on the island.”
His brow crinkled. “That’s impossible. I wouldn’t have just dropped off the map like that. I have a business to run.”
“Oh, you kept in touch,” she said. “But you often made your calls or answered emails in the morning or late at night. During the day you left your BlackBerry at my house while we explored the island.”
He sighed. “See this is why I have such a hard time with the story you tell. I would never do something like that. It isn’t me.”
Her lips turned down in a frown and she leaned away from him.
To cover the sudden awkwardness, he stood and went to his briefcase to pull out his laptop. He stood for a long moment with his back to her just so he could compose himself and keep from turning and apologizing. He didn’t want to hurt her, damn it. But one of them was crazy, and he didn’t want it to be him.
He finally went back to the couch, opened the laptop and set it on a cushion next to her.
“If you have any problems canceling your cards or ordering new ones, let me know. I’ve typed up my address so you can have them overnighted here.”
“And my license?” she asked in a tight, frustrated voice. “How am I going to get home?” She dragged her fingers through her hair, which only drew attention to the dark bruise marring her creamy skin.
“I’ll get you home, Bryony. I don’t want you to worry. Can you call your grandmother to fax a copy of your birth certificate? It’s my understanding you can fly with the birth certificate but you’ll be subjected to closer scrutiny by security.”
“Couldn’t we take your jet? Oh, I guess… Sorry.” She broke off, seemingly embarrassed at her slip.
“I have more than one,” he said dryly.
She continued to stare at him. “Then why aren’t we taking it? Wouldn’t it be easier to fly without identification if we were on a private jet?”
He cleared his throat and then rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s just say I have a newly developed phobia of flying on small planes.”
She frowned. “I must sound so insensitive. I’m just… This has been a rotten trip all the way around.”
“Yes, I suppose it has been for you,” he murmured.
He eased back onto the couch beside her as she tapped intently on the keys. He hated how unsure of himself he was around her. But it was himself he was angry at. Not her.
If she was to be believed, her life had been completely upended. By him.
More and more he had an uneasy feeling that she was telling the truth. No matter how bizarre and unlikely such a scenario seemed. And if she was telling the truth, then he had to figure out what the hell he was going to do with the woman he supposedly loved and the child she carried. His child.
Six
“This reminds me of the nights we spent at my house,” Bryony said as she forked another bite of the seafood into her mouth.
He paused, fork halfway to his own mouth, resigned to hearing more about his uncharacteristic behavior. But she said nothing and resumed eating, her gaze downcast, almost as if she knew how ill at ease he was.
But his curiosity was also piqued because, damn it, something had happened between them and she was the only key he had to recover the missing pieces of his memory.
He forced himself to sound only mildly inquisitive. “What did we do?”
A faraway look entered her eyes and she stared toward the window at the night sky. “We used to sit cross-legged on the deck and eat the dinner I’d cooked. Then I’d lay my head in your lap and you’d stroke my hair while we listened to the ocean and watched the stars.”
Her voice lowered, catching on a husky note. “Then we’d go inside and make love. Sometimes we didn’t make it to the bedroom. Sometimes we did.”
The dreamy quality of her voice affected him fiercely. His body ached and he hardened at the images she provoked. It was suddenly very easy for him to see her spread out before him, his mouth on her skin, her fingers clinging to him as he brought them both pleasure.
He shook his head when he realized he was staring and that he was so tense that his muscles had locked. Part of him wanted to just get it over with. Take her to bed, have sex with her until they both forgot their names. His body was eager enough, but his mind was calling him a damn fool.
And she’d likely think it was some damn experiment after he’d basically admitted earlier that his kiss had been nothing more than that.
An experiment.
He wanted to laugh. Could he call desire so keen that his eyes had crossed when he’d looked at her an experiment?
Whether he wanted to admit it or not, they had compelling—uncontrollable—chemistry. Maybe he’d gotten so wrapped up in her that he’d lost all common sense. Maybe he’d made her rash promises in the heat of the moment. If her out rage was anything to go on, he at least hadn’t been stupid enough to sign anything.
He needed her cooperation. He needed this deal. He had too many investors committed. Money had exchanged hands. Construction was on a tight deadline, and the last thing he needed was her making noises over him reneging on a deal.
She’d lifted her gaze and was now studying him so intently that he found her scrutiny uncomfortable. He studied her in return, finding himself mesmerized by her dark eyes. The delicate lines of her face called to him. He wanted to trace his fingers over her cheekbone and down to her jaw and then over the softness of her lips.
Had this been the way he’d felt when he’d first seen her? Logic told him it had to have been. How could his reaction now have been any different than the first time he’d laid eyes on her?
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked in a low voice.
“Maybe I find you beautiful.”
Her reaction wasn’t what he expected. She lifted her nose in scorn and shook her head.
“I thought I wasn’t your type.”
“What I said was that you aren’t my normal type.”
Her lips twisted. “That isn’t what you said. To quote you exactly, you said, ‘You aren’t my type.’ That pretty much tells me you don’t find me remotely appealing.”
“I don’t care what I said,” he growled. “What I meant was that you aren’t the type of woman I normally…date.”
“Have sex with?” she asked mockingly. “Because we did, you know. We had lots and lots of sex. You were insatiable. In fact, unless you are the best damn actor in the world and can fake, not only an erection, but an orgasm as well, I’d say you’re either lying now about me not being your type, or you’re not terribly discerning when it comes to the women you sleep with.”
He’d just been insulted but he was so distracted by the sparks shooting from her eyes and how damn gorgeous she looked when she got sassy that he couldn’t formulate a response.
“See, the problem is, a woman can get away with faking sexual attraction,” she continued. “We can pretend all manner of things. Men? It’s kind of hard to pretend attraction to a woman if your penis isn’t cooperating.”
“Holy hell,” he muttered. “I think we’ve established that it’s pretty damn obvious I’m sexually attracted to you. Whatever I may have thought in the past about my preferences in women obviously doesn’t apply to you.”
“So then you’re willing to concede that you slept with me and that the child I’m carrying is yours?”
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m willing to concede it’s possible, but I’m not stupid enough to believe it’s absolutely true until either I regain my memory, or we have DNA testing done.”
Her top lip curled a moment and it looked as if she wanted to light into him again, but instead, she took a calming breath. “As long as you’re willing to accept the possibility, I can work with that,” she muttered.
“Were you always this…charming with me when we spent all this time together?”
She lifted one eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that I tend to like my women a little more…”
“Stupid?” she challenged.
He scowled.
“Weak? Mousy? Unchallenging?” she continued. “Or maybe you prefer them to simply nod and say ‘yes, sir’ to your every whim.”
She broke off in disgust and regarded him as if he were some annoying bug she was about to squash.
He finally decided remaining silent was his best option so he didn’t dig his hole any deeper.
She laid down her fork and raised her haunted gaze to his. He was surprised to see tears shimmering in her eyes, and his throat knotted. Damn. He hadn’t wanted to upset her again. He wasn’t that big of a jerk.
“Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?” she asked in a quiet, strained voice. “Do you know how difficult it is for me to see you again and not touch you or hug you or kiss you? I came here expecting to confront a man who scammed me in the worst possible way. I had resigned myself to it and there was nothing I wanted more than to wash my hands of you. But then you tell me this story about losing your memory and what am I supposed to do then? Now I have to consider that maybe you didn’t lie to me, but I’m scared to death of believing that and then being wrong. Again. I have to put everything on hold until you regain your memory, and that sucks because I just don’t know how to feel anymore.”
He stared at her, frozen, an uncomfortable sensation coiling in his chest.
“I can’t exactly walk away. It’s what I accused you of and there’s a part of me that thinks, ‘What if he’s telling the truth? What if he regains his memory tomorrow and remembers he loves you? What if it’s all some horrible misunderstanding and we have a chance to get back what we had on the island?’”
She shoved her plate away and looked down as she visibly tried to collect herself.
“But what if I was right?” she whispered. “What if me sticking around hoping makes me an even bigger fool than falling for your lies to begin with? I have a child to consider now.”
Before he could think twice about what he should say or do, he found himself reaching for her. It was impossible not to want to touch her, to offer her comfort. The pain in her expression was too real. Her eyes were clouded with moisture and hurt shimmered in their depths.
He pulled her into his arms and leaned back against the couch. For a moment she lay there stiffly, so still that he wondered if she held her breath.
He inhaled the scent of her hair and felt keen disappointment that it stirred nothing to life in his memories. Wasn’t smell supposed to be the most powerful memory trigger?