Forgotten Lullaby (7 page)

He lowered his head and with a rough sigh touched
his lips to hers. “I've missed you so much, Emma. I'm glad you're home.” He drew her close, brushed his mouth over the seam of her lips, pressed his hand against the small of her back, then moved his lips softly over hers, down the side of her face, down the column of her neck. She arched her back and groaned, shocked at her own response. Her mind whirled with misgivings while her body screamed with desire. He deepened the kiss, his hands inching up her spine, caressing, stroking, until his fingertips curved underneath her breast. His tongue probed her mouth, urging her to open it, and Emma did, almost succumbing to the pleasure, but then a sharp pain shot through her chest and she winced. Her sore ribs served as a definite reminder that she'd been in an accident—and that Grant was a stranger.

Grant plundered her mouth for several seconds before he realized she'd stopped responding. He stilled, then raised his face to search her eyes. “I'm sorry, I got carried away.”

“No, I'm sorry,” Emma said, hating the uncertainty in her voice. “But it's…” She struggled for words. “I can't do this. I…barely know you.”

Grant automatically dropped his hands, the desire on his face fading into disappointment. “I forgot. I'm a stranger to you.” Emma drew back, her lips trembling. “But I know you, Emma. I know you and I miss you. And this is damn hard,” he finished in a strangled whisper.

He pushed himself up from the sofa and stood, putting some distance between them. Emma clenched her hands by her sides, trying to steady her breathing. When Grant faced her, he squared his shoulders, his expres
sion unreadable. “Do you want me to help you to bed now?”

Emma shook her head, avoiding his hard perusal. “No, I can manage. If you'll hand me those crutches, I'll check on Carly and go to bed.”

“You're my wife, Emma. I'm going to help you.” Grant grabbed the crutches, curved his arm around her waist and lifted her to her feet. Emma clung awkwardly to him for support, her insides quivering again as she felt his heart beating beneath her hand. His chest was warm and solid, his shoulders broad, his arms strong. But his face looked utterly tormented.

“I won't touch you again,” Grant said, his calm voice belying the turmoil in his expression. “Not until you ask me.”

“I'm sorry,” Emma whispered, her heart in her throat. “I'm so sorry.” Then she turned and hobbled off to bed.

 

G
RANT GRIPPED THE SOFA
edge and closed his eyes. He'd acted like a jerk. What had come over him? He'd kissed her as if he couldn't get enough. He'd hoped that she'd feel the passion they'd once shared, that she'd remember him. But she hadn't.

That damn video. He'd been shocked to see Kate showing it to Emma. Was Kate actually trying to help Emma remember him?

After seeing the sentimental reminder of their wedding, he'd inhaled the sweetness of Emma's flower-scented shampoo, and it had reminded him of their honeymoon night. Carnations always reminded him of Emma. She liked roses, but she said carnations were
heartier, they lasted longer, just as she wanted their marriage to last a long time.

He'd thought it would last forever. Now he wasn't sure.

When he'd seen her wearing that silky blue robe with her golden hair curled around her shoulders, still damp, her eyes glued to the video of their wedding ceremony, her fingers touching her wedding ring, desperation and desire had overwhelmed him. After almost losing her, he needed to hold her, needed to feel her come alive in his arms, needed to reassure himself he hadn't lost her. He'd wanted her as badly as he had the first time they'd made love. Maybe more. But she didn't want him.

A sickening pain churned through him—disgust at his own impatience, disappointment for what he'd lost, fear that he'd never have her again. First the accident, then amnesia, now problems with his job. Last week he'd been on the top of the world. He'd thought he had everything. A beautiful wife, a darling daughter, a pathway to partnership. Now his whole life was falling apart. No matter what he did, his dreams were crumbling right in his hands. He'd promised to provide for Emma and Carly, to give them the best. He'd silently vowed never to let his family suffer the way his own father had allowed him to. It took hard work to make a good life. Even with insurance, he'd have medical bills to pay, and possibly therapy if Emma's condition stemmed from emotional trauma.

He picked up a sofa cushion and crushed it in his fist, his temper flaring at the whole situation. The doctor had told him to be patient. He'd agreed, at the time not realizing how difficult it would be to have his own wife push him away. How could he live here with Emma
and not touch her? How could he bear for her to treat him like a stranger?

And how could he sleep in the guest room, knowing her warm body lay in the next room, the same body that had tantalized him into ecstasy so many times before? He didn't think he could. He pictured her in the long ivory gown she'd worn for the wedding so demure yet so sophisticated—then saw her after she'd changed into that hot-pink nothing of a teddy when they'd gotten to the hotel. Her passion had shocked him. She had been his—totally unequivocally
his.
And he'd thought it was forever.

Another image flashed through his mind: Emma wearing the silky black nightie the weekend they'd been in the North Carolina mountains and gotten snowed in. They'd watched old comedy movies, cooked steaks over the fire and had wild wonderful sex. He'd never seen Emma so uninhibited. They'd also conceived Carly that weekend.

He stared down the hallway, his gaze lingering on the door to the guest room where he'd be sleeping alone. He hoped it would be temporary, but what if it wasn't?

Could he stand it if he lost Emma for good?

Hell, no, he couldn't. And he couldn't go flying halfway around the world after the detective had implied she might be in danger.

Gritting his teeth, he reached for the phone. Carl had said to let him know his answer about the trip in the morning. He didn't have to wait until morning. He'd already made up his mind. Somehow he was going to have to make Emma remember their love. He'd start
tomorrow. He'd send her a gift, some reminder of their past.

But before he had a chance to dial, the machine whirred in his hands. He picked up the handset. “Hello, Wadsworth residence.”

Thick heavy breathing filled the line. “You will lose everything,” the voice rasped, sending a cold chill slithering up Grant's spine. “Because next time Emma will die.”

Something was wrong.

Emma paused at the doorway to the den and gripped the doorjamb for support, her gaze riveted on her husband as he clutched the phone in his hands. He sank against the arm of the chair, his eyes tormented.

The phone receiver clattered into its cradle, a morbid sound in the silence of the cozy room. She heard her breath escape in a gust of nervous tension. Grant looked up and met her gaze, his olive skin a sickly shade of white.

“What's wrong?”

His jaw tightened and he averted his gaze. He wanted to spare her. The realization struck a tender chord of understanding, a need to comfort him mellowing her own fear. “Grant?”

“It's nothing.” He studied his neatly clipped fingernails. “I thought you were in bed.”

She moved toward him, limping but determined to know the truth. He instantly rose to help her and she smiled, deciding her husband had been bred a Southern gentleman through and through. Not only was he protective, but he had impeccable manners.

She accepted his outstretched hands and stood in
front of him, her eyes resting at his chest level so she had to look up into his face. “Tell me,” she urged quietly. “I can see something's wrong by the expression on your face. Who was on the phone?”

His breathing hissed out and his nails dug into her hands, but she ignored the sting and simply tightened her hold on him. “Grant, who was on the phone?”

“I don't know,” he said with an edge to his voice that alarmed her. “But I think I should call Detective Warner.”

“Why?”

He shook his head and she tugged at his fingers. “If it was about me, I told you earlier I wanted to know.”

His blue eyes turned violet. “The caller made a threat,” he said hoarsely. “I don't understand why or who would do it, but somebody was warning me, warning us…”

Emma fought the tremor rushing through her at the reality—her accident might not have been an accident at all. Maybe she hadn't
imagined
someone in her hospital room. Maybe someone
had
come in and tried to smother her.

“What exactly did the caller say?”

Grant suddenly swept her in his arms, clinging to her as if afraid to let her go. He nuzzled his face into her hair and she felt his warm breath bathing her neck, then looped her arms around his waist. “They said next time you would die,” he finally whispered.

His voice was so rough she almost didn't understand him. But in spite of her resolve to be strong, when his words sank in, she sagged against him. “I don't understand,” she whimpered. “Why would someone want to kill me?”

“I don't know, but I intend to find out,” he said, his
voice firm with determination. He coaxed her to the sofa, then picked up the phone and dialed the police. Emma twined her hands in her lap and memorized the hard planes of his back and shoulders as he spoke to the detective. Seconds later he turned to face her.

“He's going to put a tracer and caller ID on the phone.”

Emma nodded, wondering what else they could do. Especially since she couldn't remember anything. Then Grant's warm hands enveloped hers. “I'm sorry, sweetheart.”

“They'll find whoever's doing this,” Emma said with as much conviction as she could muster.

He nodded, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead. “I just hope the police find the creep soon. I don't want you to have to go through anything else.”

Emma reached up and thumbed the lock of hair away from his face, amazed at the tenderness she saw in his eyes at her gesture. “You used to always do that,” he said in the husky voice she recognized from the hospital room.

The lull of intimacy and their earlier kiss suddenly shattered through the tension, and Emma wet her lips, her heartbeat speeding up for a whole different reason. “I wish I could remember.”

He couldn't stop himself from asking, “Emma, I thought you were going to bed. Why did you come back?”

“I just wanted to thank you.”

He lifted his hands in a questioning gesture. “For what?”

A smile curved her lips. “For the wedding, the house, our daughter. They're all beautiful and they're all things we did together.”

Grant pressed her hand to his chest for a moment and Emma's gaze focused on the movement, then she brought his hands to her mouth and kissed them. His dark gaze was loving and kind, and she felt a thread of hope. Then she saw his desire and panicked. She'd hobbled off to bed to avoid falling into this man's arms and into
his
bed, and she had to find the willpower to do it again. Because she absolutely could not sleep with a stranger.

So she gently released his hand and rose. Then she made her way to their bedroom and crawled into bed alone.

 

E
MMA'S RETREAT SERVED
as a painful reminder of the threat to her life and the chasm between them. Grant wanted nothing more than to hold her safe in his arms. Damn the accident that had robbed him of her!

Fatigue tugged at his limbs, tightening his neck muscles. He needed to go to bed, but the prospect of sleeping alone held no appeal. When Emma had been in the hospital, he'd counted the hours until she woke up, then until he could bring her back home. He'd dreamed of taking her to bed and showing her how much he loved her.

Now he couldn't even sleep with her. At least in the hospital he could sit in the chair beside her bed. Exhaling in frustration, he decided he needed that drink now. He poured himself a scotch, trying to make sense of everything. Violence had no order or system about it, he decided. Because there was no logical reason for anyone to harm or kill his wife.

He tossed down the drink, grateful for the sharp sting in his throat, then scraped the chair back from the desk, remembering the information the detective wanted.
Yanking a legal pad from his briefcase, he began listing everyone he and Emma knew. Business acquaintances, their friends and neighbors—and family? Surely no one in the family would want to hurt Emma. Then, remembering Kate's penchant for money and the fact that Emma had refused to part with her own inheritance to help Kate, he included Kate's name on the list. But Kate had been in Carly's room when he'd gotten tonight's phone call. She couldn't have made the call. Or could she? She had a cell phone…

No, Kate might be greedy but he'd seen her tears,
honest
tears when Emma had lain in the hospital in a coma. And she'd been wonderful with Carly. Besides, what would Kate gain by harming Emma? Emma had put her inheritance money into a trust for Carly, so there was no way Kate could get at the money. No. He scratched through Kate's name. His sister-in-law didn't warrant being on the list.

He added the name of Emma's former boss, Dan McGuire. Then he folded the paper, stuffed it in an envelope and put it in his briefcase. Tomorrow he'd make sure that Detective Warner received the list, that he investigated every person on it. And he'd make sure Emma wasn't left alone, not for any reason. If the psycho was looking for a way to get to her, Grant would make sure he didn't have the opportunity. And if he did come after her, he'd have to deal with Grant first.

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Emma slipped from the comfort of her brandy-colored sheets and dark-green comforter, inhaling Grant's musky scent in every corner of the bedroom. She hadn't thought she'd be able to sleep in a strange place, especially after that threatening phone
call, but the accident had definitely left her weak and exhausted.

Odd how the bedroom seemed to fit her tastes, felt warm and cozy and safe, but radiated Grant's masculinity at the same time. Had Grant helped her select the color scheme? Or the black iron bed and that handsome oak wardrobe?

She could almost see him sprawled across the thick comforter, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his head propped behind his hands, the cleft in his chin widening with his sexy smile. Judging from the five-o'clock shadow of his beard the evening before, she wondered if he had a lot of hair on his chest. She should know this, she thought in frustration. After all, he'd seen every inch of her and probably remembered it in vivid detail. He'd probably seen the slight stretch marks, but would he be dismayed at the scars she had now?

Was the erotic image of him a fleeting memory trying to surface, or simply her imagination conjuring up the man as some kind of subliminal reminder of his sex appeal?

Dismissing the confusing thoughts, she listened for the baby. Did she normally check on Carly during the night? Then she remembered Kate had slept in the room with Carly and decided she'd probably rested so well because Carly was safe with Kate.

She hurriedly bathed, wishing she was free of the awkward bandage, then dressed in a long loose peach sweater with a pair of sweatpants she found in the closet. Evidence of the man who claimed to be her husband filled the bathroom, and she paused to study his toiletries, feeling almost as if she was invading his privacy. She needed to become familiar with him. Hope
fully seeing and touching his things would jog her memory.

The minty aroma of his cologne swirled through her senses, reminding her of walking in the rain. He'd arranged his other toiletries on the shelf beside the sink, with the exception of a deep maroon tie he'd discarded haphazardly over the counter edge. A pair of men's slippers peaked from underneath the vanity and a large navy terry-cloth robe hung on a brass hook over the back of the door. She ran her finger over the soft fabric and imagined Grant rising from the sunken tub and slipping into it. Mirrors banked the walls surrounding the oval rug, and she swallowed, wondering how many times she and Grant might have shared a bubble bath. And if they'd ever made love in front of the mirrors.

Disturbed by her lascivious thoughts, she hurried awkwardly from the bathroom and collided with Grant in the hallway. He looked sexy and rumpled, but shadows darkened his eyes as if he hadn't slept well. Her heart went out to him. And when his hands touched her arms, her skin tingled with sensations so alive it startled her.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

“Good morning, Emma,” he said in a troubled sexy rumble.

The need to comfort him rose strong in her chest, but she fought off the urge to tell him everything was fine. Because she knew it wasn't. She still didn't remember him.

Besides, the turmoil in his eyes disturbed her deeply. She refused to placate him with false promises. He didn't deserve lies. Not when he'd stayed by her bedside and brought her back to consciousness with the pulsing need in his deep husky voice. And not when
they had a child together. Her heart squeezed and she wondered again if she could have done something awful to bring this danger on herself.

 

G
RANT STARED
at his beautiful wife, afraid that if he blinked, she might disappear from his life forever. At the sound of her door opening, he'd halted in the hallway in the midst of rushing through his morning routine, a difficult chore since most of his toiletries remained in the bathroom adjoining the master bedroom where Emma slept. The bedroom they'd once shared.

To give her some privacy, he'd showered and dressed in the guest bathroom, wanting desperately to be able to go in and wake her up with a kiss the way he used to. And wanting even more to find that she'd regained her memory, that once again she loved him and wanted him in her bed. The past five months without sex had been a strain. First, the trouble with her pregnancy and then the problems with nursing.

The past few weeks, they'd had no time together. He hadn't been exactly attentive, either. He'd been too wrapped up in work, he thought with a surge of regret. He only hoped it wasn't too late to make up for the time he'd missed.

She gave him a tentative smile. Suddenly overwhelmed by the stirring of his pulse, he smiled in return, grateful to see his wife gazing at him with an emotion other than fear or shock. Something akin to affection, or at least warmth, radiated from her lovely brown eyes. It was all he could do to keep from sweeping her into his arms and showing her how much he loved her. Dare he hope she remembered him?

Then he saw the reserve in her expression, a flicker of the sorrow she felt over not remembering tainting her
smile, and he realized the truth: she still had amnesia. He swallowed back his hope, fighting a wave of despair. He wouldn't settle for her pity. Not when he'd once had her love.

“Are you feeling all right this morning?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” she said softly.

“How did you sleep?” He remembered the disturbing phone call the night before. That and visions of the last time they'd made love had kept
him
awake most of the night.

“Pretty well.” She ran her hand through the damp strands of her honey-kissed hair, a sign of nervousness. He wanted to touch her so badly he ached.

Instead, he rubbed his hands down the sides of his khaki slacks. “I called Warner. I'm going to drop off that list he wanted.”

The calmness he'd seen in her face disappeared. “I suppose that's a good idea. Can I see the list?”

He nodded. “And I have to meet Pete and Priscilla—”

“You're meeting Priscilla this morning?” Grant spun around to see a bright-eyed Kate, Carly in her arms, coming out of Carly's room. She gave him a scathing look.

“I'm bringing them my designs for the trip,” Grant said, gritting his teeth.

“Why don't you ask your friend Priscilla about that lipstick?” Kate asked snidely.

“Kate,” Emma gently chided.

“It can't be Priscilla's,” Grant snapped. “She hasn't ridden in Emma's car.” Carly cooed and he softened his voice. “Hey, sugar, how's our little girl this morning?” He reached for her and cradled her in his arms.
Emma instantly moved closer to him, stroking Carly's blond curls.

“Hi, sweetie,” Emma said softly. “Did you sleep well last night?”