The Unforgettable Husband Page 5

  He began to curse, shocking her with the abrupt way he took his foot off the accelerator and turned his attention back to the stretch of curving Tarmac in front of them. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Obviously you will be nervous about being in a car after—’

  ‘No.’ She sighed, feeling just a bit guilty for making him think that she was. ‘Not so long as the driver is competent—which you clearly are.’

  At which point another silence fell, while he made himself concentrate on his driving and Samantha’s mind went lurching off on an agenda of its own.

  ‘So, tell me why the Tremount Hotel has been left to fall into such a miserable state,’ he invited after a minute or two. ‘It looked as if it must have been quite something once upon a time.’

  ‘It was,’ Samantha agreed, relieved to be given a more neutral subject to fill in the silence while they travelled. ‘Victorian,’ she said. ‘Originally built to accommodate the upper echelons of British middle-class society of its time. And filled with some real architectural treasures if the right person knew where to look for them.’

  ‘They would have to look hard.’ André grunted.

  ‘They would have to possess soul,’ Samantha corrected, forcing André to respond with a rueful grimace at her set-down. ‘It fell on hard times when the British holiday market shifted abroad. But now the market is coming back to its own shores places like the Tremount could have a lot of potential for the right developer. It has its own beach, and isn’t too far away from the nearest resort town. Also, there is a large piece of land to the right of the main building you may have noticed as you came down the driveway. It was once a nine-hole golf course until it was left to fall into disrepair along with the hotel. With the right expert on the job, it could…’

  André let her talk on, harshly aware she had no idea she was giving him a report on the hotel’s potential that was as detailed and informed as any of his top surveyors could offer him. But, then, Samantha couldn’t remember, and therefore had no idea that this kind of thing came as second nature to her. Or that, like himself, she had been involved in the hotel industry all of her life.

  Nor was she aware that she was interspersing her words with his name, just as she’d used to do. And her hands—always the most busy tool she used to express herself—were motioning and measuring, long fingers pointing, marking, making those delicate circling movements with a twist of her slender wrists that were so familiar to him.

  It made him want to hit something. Because the sensual sound of his name falling from her lips and the hand movements might belong to the old Samantha, but nothing else about her did. Not the priggish hairstyle, nor the dowdy clothes, nor the expression in her eyes—which should be animated while she talked but was as dull and flat as the tone of her voice.

  The old Samantha was a vivid bright fireball of energy. This one was shocking him by her stillness, her lack of passion for anything—if you didn’t count the moments they’d touched on the subject of their marriage. Then she’d revealed passion all right, he acknowledged grimly. A passionate horror that had had her fainting clean away.

  It took over an hour to reach Exeter. But Samantha had been talking so much that she was surprised when the car came to a smooth halt in the forecourt of a hotel.

  ‘So this is the famous Visconte Exeter,’ she observed curiously. ‘I remember reading in the newspapers about its big gala opening last year—’

  Last year, she then repeated to herself, and began to frown as a sudden thought struck her. ‘Did you come to the opening?’ she asked sharply, the very idea that he could have been this close to her without either of them knowing it hurting her for some unexplainable reason.

  Something in his stillness grabbed her attention. His eyes were hooded and his jaw line clenched. He answered her question, ‘No.’ And then he got out of the car to swing round the long bonnet so he could open her door for her.

  ‘Why weren’t you here?’ she demanded instantly.

  He began to frown. ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  Her eyes flicked up, green and hard. ‘Why weren’t you here to attend the opening of your own hotel?’ She spelled it out succinctly.

  ‘Good grief.’ He laughed, but it was a very forced laugh. ‘I don’t attend every opening we have.’ Reaching down, he unfastened her seat belt since she had not got round to doing it herself. ‘The Visconte chain stretches right around the world. I would have to be Superman to—’

  ‘You weren’t even in the country, were you?’ Samantha cut in.

  She could remember it now. The big party to celebrate the opening. The coverage it had received in local newspapers because of all the big-name local celebrities that had attended. My God, she’d had little else to do as she’d lain imprisoned in her hospital bed than pore hungrily over every article written in them.

  Searching. She had been searching for something that might have jogged her memory. But it hadn’t happened.

  Why hadn’t it happened? How could she have not even recognised her own married name when she’d read it so often?

  Because she’d blocked it out, she realised painfully. Just as she’d blocked out everything else about this man until he’d come along today and had virtually force-fed the Visconte name to her.

  So she could also remember the papers remarking on the fact that the owner himself had been expected to attend the opening but had pulled out at the last moment—because he’d been out of the country on other business.

  Out of the country barely a month after her accident.

  Her eyes lanced him with a bitter look. ‘Did you bother trying to look for me at all?’ she asked coldly. ‘Or was our marriage already over by the time I disappeared?’

  His face closed up tight. ‘I’m not going to answer any of that,’ he said, taking a firm grip on her arm.

  ‘Why not?’ she challenged, resisting his tug. ‘Because the answer may paint you as less than the caring man you would like me to believe?’

  ‘Because the answer may have you fainting on me again,’ he corrected. ‘And, until we seek professional advice on that problem, we don’t talk about us.’

  With that, he firmly propelled her out of the car, then released a soft curse when he saw her bite down on her full lip as she placed her weight on her injured leg.

  Having to concentrate hard not to cry out, Samantha grabbed hold of his arm for support. Once again her senses went utterly haywire, and she found herself standing there, not only having to brace herself against the pain, but having to brace herself against the feel of tensile muscles flexing beneath her grip. He was all power and hard masculinity, she likened hazily, watching images build in her mind of warm dark golden flesh and a disturbingly attractive sexuality that somehow merged with the physical pain she was experiencing until she couldn’t distinguish one sensation from the other.

  ‘Just how painful is the damned thing?’ he rasped out angrily.

  It stole the moment—stole a whole lot more—when she opened her eyes and found herself looking at a man who was still a stranger. And as she stood there, held caught in a sea of confusion, the physical pain separated itself from painful imagery like two lovers untangling, then became only a hard, tight, aching throb that completely obliterated the other.

  Green, André was thinking. Her eyes were so green—a dark and pulsing passionate green colour they had only used to go when they were making love. But today there was something else there, confusion and pain and a terrible despair that made him want to hit something again.

  ‘Answer me,’ he commanded, aware that the violent emotions flailing around inside him had everything to do with the expression he had seen burning in her eyes.

  ‘Damn painful,’ she replied, lowering her gaze to watch as she carefully bent and straightened the knee a couple of times before trying to stand on it again.

  And he was glad that she had looked away. Much longer having to witness her expression was likely to have finished him. It had been hard enough cont
rolling the urge to pull her into his arms and just kiss the pain away for her.

  Not the wisest course of action to take when the woman in question had the clever knack of falling into a deep faint if he so much as touched on intimacy. He grimaced, clenched his jaw firmly shut, and watched in grim silence as she placed her foot on the ground then carefully transferred her weight onto it. This time it remained there, and the grip on his arm slackened. She released a sigh, then let go of his arm altogether.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘If you could just pass me my stick…’

  It was like moving from a rock to a very hard place. No sooner had he managed to contain one set of angry emotions than another set erupted inside him. This new set having something to do with that damn stick and his fierce resentment of it.

  ‘You will lean on me,’ he determined.

  ‘Not while I still have another alternative.’ She hit back with throbbing venom.

  ‘My God.’ His breath left his lungs on a hiss of impatience. ‘Why do you insist on seeing me as some kind of monster?’

  She flushed, not with guilt but with anger. ‘You were already out of this country within a month of my disappearance,’ she charged. ‘How else am I supposed to translate that?’

  He refused to answer, withdrawing from the fight by flattening his mouth into a tight line as he shifted his attention away from her and with a snap of his fingers brought a blue-liveried doorman running.

  End of discussion, she noted angrily, listening to him snapping out instructions to the doorman about her suitcase before he leaned past her to retrieve her stick. In grim silence he offered it to her and in grim silence she took it. Then in the same grim silence they began walking towards the hotel entrance—together but separate, like two polite strangers, with her challenge still hanging in the air between them like an omen of whatever was to follow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE hotel interior was more or less what she had expected for a deluxe-class establishment. No garish splashes of yellow on purple here, but a soft blend of creams and greens, which contrasted beautifully with a subtle placing of a dark wine-red colour, set against the kind of unashamed luxury which made an absolute mockery of what they had just come from.

  Though the quality of her surroundings was the last thing on her mind when, only a few minutes later, she found herself standing inside a suite of rooms with this man and at last began to feel the vulnerability of her situation.

  Maybe he was beginning to realise the same thing, because he released a small sigh, then turned to face her. ‘Okay?’ he asked guardedly.

  No, she wanted to reply. I’m not okay and I want to go back where I came from. But common sense, or stupidity—she wasn’t sure which—stopped the words from coming.

  ‘You’ve already been using this suite,’ she remarked instead, having noticed the signs of habitation in the few personal items she could see scattered about.

  ‘I arrived late last night,’ he confirmed, ‘in time to come up here and sleep off some of my jet lag before I came to find you.’

  The late London train, as Freddie had suggested, Samantha realised, and smiled a little wryly as she turned away from him to pretend to take an interest in her surroundings—mainly because she couldn’t think of another thing to say.

  Another silence formed. She sensed him watching her as she moved around the suite, opening doors and closing them again before moving on to the next one.

  ‘Found what you’re looking for?’ he enquired eventually, though he was sardonically aware of what it was, she was sure.

  Well, the suite comprised two bedrooms with their own en suites, she confirmed. So there was no need to fight for her privacy. ‘Yes,’ she said—and diverted her attention to the view beyond the window, with her chin up and her green eyes definitely telling him he could mock her all he liked.

  The telephone began to ring then. Samantha was never so relieved to hear the sound. While he strode over to a desk standing at the other end of the room, she reached for the handle and opened a French window that led out onto a large, private balcony. Stepping outside, she walked over to lean on the balcony rail and, after a tense little sigh, allowed herself the luxury of a few deep breaths of fresh air, only realising as she did so that it had been a long time since she’d breathed in and out properly.

  Stress, tension. Tension, stress. Was there a difference between the two of them? she wondered bleakly, and decided that even if there was a difference the two had become one tight sensation to her.

  Oh, why did I let myself be talked into coming away with him like this? Samantha asked herself, as the full weight of her own vulnerability tumbled down upon her head.

  Then, You know why, she told herself grimly. He knows who you are. He’s the man who holds the key to all of your problems.

  Or is he my problem? she then suggested, and felt a cold chill touch her flesh, as if fate itself was offering her an answer. She was married to him, she’d seen firm proof of that, so why didn’t she feel married? Glancing down at her left hand, she saw no sign that a ring had ever resided there.

  So, where was her ring? If she’d been wearing one at the time of the accident, it certainly hadn’t been on her finger after the crash.

  ‘I have to go out.’

  His deep voice coming from behind her made her turn warily. He was standing, propping up the opening, studying her through heavily lashed hooded dark eyes. His hair was short and neat and black and he wore his clothes with a casual ease that belied their sophistication. Nothing wrong with his body, nothing wrong with his face. So what was it about him that she found so upsetting? She gave her own answer. The inner man. The inner man worries you; the outer one simply disturbs you.

  ‘Business,’ he explained, making her blink her eyes into focus on him. ‘I should be back in a couple of hours. But I’ve ordered some lunch for you. Then I suggest you take a rest.’ His black lashes flickered as he ran his gaze over the way she was leaning so heavily on the stick. ‘Nathan said you spend every evening standing behind the bar at the Tremount; was that wise considering how weak that knee actually is?’

  ‘The knee is fine so long as I pace myself,’ she answered coolly.

  He ignored what she had said. ‘All night serving behind a bar. All day working behind a reception desk. It’s no wonder you look so worn out.’

  Her chin came up, green eyes beginning to burn with resentment. ‘I have to eat, like anyone else.’ She said it almost accusingly. He noted it with a sudden darkening of the eyes. ‘And I liked my job,’ she added. ‘I will always be grateful to the manager of the Tremount for taking me on, considering how—worn out I look and how many hours I had to take off to attend the necessary hospital appointments. He was good to me.’

  He rejected all of that deridingly. ‘You were good to him, you mean. Neither of you knew it, but he was lucky enough to acquire one of the most experienced hotel executives in the game when he took you on.’

  She was surprised to hear him say that—yet not surprised when she considered how naturally she had seemed to fall into hotel routine. It probably should have occurred to her sooner that she might have worked in the trade before.

  ‘And the need to worry about where your next meal is coming from,’ he went on flatly as he levered himself away from the door, ‘is now well and truly over.’ He eyed her critically. ‘And priority number one, once I’ve dealt with this bit of—business, is to get you fitted out with some decent clothes. You’re used to luxury, not tat, Samantha,’ he said.

  ‘Anything else about me which doesn’t meet with your approval?’ she mocked, stung.

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes began to glint. ‘The way you’re wearing your hair. It makes you look like a toffee-nosed prude when I know for a fact you’re an absolute witch. It isn’t fair to give wrong impressions about oneself to others. It means they fall into nasty little traps they can’t get out of.’

  ‘Is all of that supposed to imply something specific?’ she demanded, stiffen
ing at his criticism.

  ‘Of course,’ he drawled. ‘But that’s for me to keep to myself and you to find out for yourself.’ Then he straightened. ‘Now I’m off,’ he announced. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I—’

  ‘You said I don’t have to worry about eating again,’ she cut in, anger simmering nicely now. ‘Does that mean I have you to rely on for food, or do I have money of my own stashed away somewhere?’

  ‘You have a very healthy bank account,’ he informed her, naming one of the big high street banks.

  ‘So all I have to do is walk into one of the branches and prove who I am to get at my own money?’ He confirmed it. She smiled. ‘Then, watch out, signore,’ she responded—acid-sweet. ‘Because if I am the witch you call me, I may just decide to disappear on you for a second time. I wonder if you’ll experience a sense of déjàvu if I do?’

  He was standing in front of her before the last word had trailed into taunting silence. ‘Just try it.’ He growled. ‘And this time I promise you I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if I have to!’

  She defied the warning burning in his eyes. ‘Why didn’t you the first time?’

  ‘Where is your evidence to say that I didn’t?’ He challenged her right back.

  ‘You were out of this country barely a month after I disappeared; that says a lot, don’t you think?’

  ‘I was out of the country. Yes,’ he hissed back at her. ‘But why I was out of the country is just one more question you’re going to have to search that—’ reaching up he pressed a fingertip to her temple ‘—closed mind of yours to find the answer to.’

  Her reaction managed to shock the pair of them. She shrank back from him so urgently that she almost toppled over. ‘What was that for?’ He snarled, automatically reaching out to steady her.

  Once again she pulled away. ‘I h-hate it when you touch me,’ she choked with an awful little shudder.

  His eyes went black, a furious anger suddenly flaring on the sting of her insult. ‘Hate?’ He flicked the word at her in a thin silken tone that had her throat closing over. ‘Well, let’s just try this as a little exercise to test the strength of this so called hatred—’