A Husband To Remember. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
You should stay here. Enjoy the climate,” Doctor Padillo was saying as a nurse at the lobby waved at him in an attempt to get his attention. “Your wife...she has not seen much of the island.”
“We can come back.”
“You Americans,” the doctor said, clucking his tongue. “Always in a rush.”
If you only knew.
“I can release her within three days,” Padillo said, though by the gathering of lines between his flat black brows it was obvious to Trent that the doctor wasn’t happy about his decision. “But there are only a few flights to America.”
“We’ll find one.”
“Doctor—” the nurse called, and Padillo waved her away, as if she were a bothersome insect.
“Then I’ll have the necessary papers ready to sign.”
“Good. Oh, and while you’re at it, I’ll need my wife’s purse and personal belongings.”
“Today?”
“Sí. I think she’d like to look through it before she goes home.”
“If it is lost, the hospital cannot be responsible—”
“Don’t worry,” Trent said, thinking of the pretty woman with the battered face as she lay in a hospital bed a few doors down the dark corridor. “Just give me her belongings. I’ll sign a release for everything.”
* * *
Nikki wasn’t sure of the time. She’d slept so much, she couldn’t keep track, but it seemed as if two or three days had passed, with Trent forever in the room with her, the doctors and nurses flitting in and out, feeding her, forcing fluids down her, fiddling with the IV, concerned that she eliminate, and assuring her she would be fine.
They seemed worried about infection, anxious about her temperature and her blood pressure, but no one showed the least bit of uneasiness about the fact that her memory had all but disappeared.
When Nikki had asked Padillo about her amnesia, he assured her that her memory would return and she would remember everything about her past, most likely in bits and pieces at first, but then, slowly, all the years of her life would blend together and she would know who she was, her family, what she did for a living. She’d even remember becoming Trent McKenzie’s bride.
She wasn’t so sure.
When she questioned him, Trent was reticent to talk to her about her amnesia. “Don’t worry,” he’d told her. “It’ll come. Take it easy.” She wondered if he’d been coached by the hospital staff or if there was a reason he didn’t want her to remember her past.
He never gave up his vigil. Sitting with her day and night, refusing the next bed, looking the worse for wear each time she awoke, he was in the room with her. He didn’t bother to shave, but did manage to change into a clean shirt one day. Was he devoted? She didn’t buy it for a minute, yet she was certain that there was something tying them together, something worth much more to him than a wedding ring.
Had he kidnapped her and brought her to this tiny island off the coast of South America?
No—for he wouldn’t have alerted the police to her accident, and Padillo himself had talked to the authorities. Unless the Policía de Salvaje were not sophisticated enough to know about crimes committed in the States. Why would they doubt him? He made all the outward signs of caring for her. She, on the other hand, couldn’t remember where she’d lived all her life. Of course they would believe him.
Her head began to throb, and Trent, sensing she was awake, shifted from his spot near the window to take a chair at the foot of the bed. He propped the worn heels of his boots against the mattress and folded his arms over his chest.
“Good morning,” he drawled with a sexy smile.
She glanced at the windows. “It’s afternoon.” Her dry mouth tasted horrible.
“Well, at least you can still tell time.”
“Very funny,” she said, wishing her tongue didn’t feel so thick. She moved her arm and was surprised that there wasn’t much pain. Either she was healing, or the medication hadn’t worn off.
“Feeling better?”
“I feel like hell.”
He chuckled. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sunny personality.”
“Never.” Forcing her gaze to his, she said,“Who are you? And don’t—” she lifted her sore right arm, holding out her palm so that he wouldn’t immediately start giving her pat, hospital-approved answers “—don’t give me any bull about being my husband.”
His lips twitched and showed a hint of white teeth against his dark jaw, but he didn’t argue with her.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I work for an insurance company.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “You—a suit? No way.” She would have bought a lumberjack, or a cowboy, or a race-car driver, but an insurance agent?
“Why not?”
“Give me some credit, will you? I may not be able to remember much, but I’m not a total moron.”
“Believe what you want.” His grin was smug and mocking and she would have given anything to be able to wipe it off his face.
“Oh, now I get it,” she said, unable to stop baiting him. “You’ve spent the better part of the last week camped out here on the off chance I’d wake up and buy term life insurance or accident insurance—”
“I’m an investigator.”
“That’s more like it.”
“For an insurance company. Fraudulent claims. Arson, suicide, that sort of thing.” Cocking his head to one side, he said, “But the company would probably appreciate it if I could sell you some term—”
“Enough already. I believe you.” She tried to sit up, couldn’t and motioned toward the crank at the end of the bed. “Would you—”
Trent, dropping his feet, reached over. Within a minute she was nearly sitting upright. “Better?”
She rubbed the back of her hand where the needle marks from her recent IV were turning black and blue—to match the rest of her body. “Yes. Thanks.”
He seemed less hostile today, and the restlessness which usually accompanied him had nearly disappeared. As he propped his boots on the mattress again, settling low on his back, he actually seemed harmless, just a concerned husband waiting for his bride to recover. She decided to take advantage of his good mood because she couldn’t believe it would last very long.
“How did we meet?”
“I was working for the insurance company on a claim from someone who worked with you. Connie Benson.”
“Connie?” she repeated, shaking her head when no memory surfaced. But the name seemed right. “Connie Benson?”
“You were both reporters at the Observer.”
“I don’t—”
“The Seattle Observer. You told me you’ve worked there for about six years.”
A sharp pain touched her brain. The Observer. She’d heard of it. Now she remembered. Yes, yes! She’d read that particular Seattle daily newspaper all her life.... She remembered sitting at a table...sun streaming through the bay windows of the nook...with...oh, God, with whom? Her head snapped up.
“You remember.”
“Just reading the paper. With someone.”
He held up his hands. “Not me, I’m afraid.”