The Helen Bianchin Collection. HELEN BIANCHINЧитать онлайн книгу.
she didn’t feel married, she agonised silently.
Nor did she feel pregnant. Yet there was an ultrasound picture as proof that the seven-week foetus in her womb had suffered no harm.
His child.
Never in a million years could she imagine that she’d fallen in love with him…or he with her.
Yet there were wedding-photos taken six months previously to prove their legal alliance, and not once during the many times she’d examined them had she been able to detect anything other than pleasure in her captured smile.
Depicted on celluloid, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder, lending her slender frame a visual fragility. Honey-blonde hair worn in a shoulder-length bob framed a finely boned face, and her eyes were wide-spaced, her mouth a generous curve.
Yet when she looked in the mirror she saw a stranger, with pale symmetrical features and topaz-flecked green eyes.
Losing one’s memory, even temporarily, was akin to standing in front of a door to which there was no key, she thought in silent anguish. The answers lay out of reach on the other side.
Amnesia after such an accident was not uncommon, and in her case the condition was temporary. With no indication of when her memory would return, she’d been advised that while some patients regained total recall within days, others experienced intermittent flashes over a period of several weeks before everything finally fell into place.
‘Good morning, querida. You slept well?’
His voice was deep and vaguely husky, and Elise watched with detached fascination as his wide mouth curved into a warm smile.
Why ask, she felt like querying, when you’ve undoubtedly elicited that information from the attendant sister before entering my suite?
‘Yes.’ The monosyllabic response held restraint, and she silently examined her need of it. ‘Thank you,’ she added politely, all too aware of the studied darkness evident in his eyes.
Shouldn’t there be some level of recognition deep within her psyche, anything that would allow her to know him? Even if her mind failed to acknowledge him in any intimate capacity, surely an instinctive sixth sense would force some kind of awareness?
Dammit, she cursed silently. It wasn’t enough to have to believe that Alejandro Santanas had swept her off her feet in a whirlwind courtship. The fact that they had married a month later in Sydney left too many details unexplained.
A natural curiosity about her background had been partially satisfied by examining a thick album containing family snapshots, although there was a sense of disappointment when not one of them managed to rouse a spark of recognition.
In the past week she had leafed countless times through the many pages filled with glossy prints depicting her from infancy through childhood, highlighting scholastic and sporting achievements, accenting her chosen career as a paediatric nurse. There were photos of her parents, the mother she had lost at an early age, and several of her father, whose affection for his only child was achingly apparent … all the more poignant, given that he had recently died. Holiday snaps taken with friends she was unable to identify. The suburban family home Alejandro informed her she had shared with her father until her marriage. Altogether they encapsulated the past twenty-five years of her life.
‘Your hand?’ Alejandro queried lightly. ‘It is less painful this morning?’
‘A little,’ she responded stiffly, refusing to relay that her ribs and her shoulder still ached, and that her heavily bandaged right hand, in which surgeons had inserted titanium pins to align several fractured bones, felt stiff in its supportive splint. It could have been worse, the medics had assured her, considering that the other vehicle had run through a ‘Stop’ sign and ploughed head-on into the passenger side of her car.
‘Is there anything you need?’
Elise closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again. ‘You send me flowers every day.’ Unbidden, her gaze skimmed to the huge bunched masses of exotic blooms—roses, varying in hue from pale cream to the deepest red, their long stems and velvet petals attesting expensive hothouse origin, exquisite arrangements assembled with delicate artistry and dispensed, according to one of the nurses, from one of Sydney’s most exclusive floral boutiques. ‘And fruit.’ A bowl containing a varied selection stood within easy reach. ‘I have so many magazines…’ She made a visible effort to inject a little warmth into her voice.’ What more could I possibly want?’
‘To come home, perhaps?’ Alejandro queried with teasing indolence, his dark eyes intently watchful as she attempted to veil her startled expression.
Dear God, no. It was a silent scream dredged up from some hidden recess deep within her soul. The hospital, this particular suite, represented a sanctuary she was reluctant to leave. Yet she couldn’t stay indefinitely.
She swallowed, aware of the slight lump that had risen in her throat, and her fingers began pleating the sheet’s hem in abstracted agitation. ‘I am to be released?’ She looked at him carefully, attempting to read something more from his expression, yet his features were relaxed and his mouth curved to form a warm smile.
‘The neurologist and obstetrician have each assured me there is no reason why it should not be this afternoon.’
So soon. Why couldn’t it be tomorrow, or the day after? At least then she would have time to get used to the idea.
Now, the thought of re-entering the home she purportedly shared with him filled her with inexplicable dread.
It was difficult to pinpoint her reluctance. Was it because there had been no one, other than Alejandro Santanas, to visit her?
She could accept that she had no immediate family, but what of her friends?
Was he such a possessive man that he wanted her entirely to himself, to the exclusion of all others?
She searched his features and saw the assurance evident, the strength of character, and perceived that he was a force to be reckoned with, a man no adversary would choose to have as an enemy.
And as a lover? A shiver of apprehension slithered down the length of her spine. One couldn’t live with such a man as he and be unaware of his sexuality…or remain unawakened to her own. Without doubt he would have introduced her to every intimacy, every sensual pleasure, and taught her precisely how to respond in kind.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Alejandro growled in husky chastisement.
Elise closed her eyes in silent chagrin, then opened them again, her gaze wide with a mixture of puzzlement and confusion. ‘You don’t understand.’
The air seemed charged with emotional intensity, and she seemed to be having trouble regulating her breathing.
‘You think not?’
She gained nothing from his tone of voice. ‘Alejandro——’
‘It is no more difficult for you to be faced with a husband you fail to recognise than it is for me to have a woman who is my wife look at me as if I were a stranger.’
In seeming slow motion she watched as he clasped her uninjured hand and lifted it to his lips, and a gasp emerged from her throat as he gently turned it palm upwards and buried his mouth in the soft hollow.
Acute sensation arrowed with unerring accuracy to the core of her femininity, flooding it with a heavy languorous warmth, and she was held mesmerised by the depth of emotion evident in his eyes.
‘Do you have any conception what it does to me to see your eyes dilate with apprehension every time I touch you? To be aware you would prefer my lips brush your cheek, rather than possess your mouth?’
The room, its contents, faded to the periphery of her vision, and she could only look at him, unable to utter so much as a word, the moment seemingly freeze-framed in time.
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