Million-Dollar Amnesia Scandal (9 page)

“And I understand that,” she said with an earnestness that was endearing.

He lifted her hand and interlaced their fingers, pleased they had some common ground with their appreciation of each other's needs. “But you don't require the entire
hotel—you need access to the grounds, and a place that's permanently yours.”

“What are you suggesting?” Her eyebrows swooped down in concentration.

“We draw up a new contract, to give you ownerlike rights to one of the presidential suites. You can live in it, or use it for holidays—much like owning a serviced apartment in a luxury resort. In addition, the piano is yours. I've already had the staff move it to your suite while we're out here tonight. It has personal significance for you, and the Lighthouse Hotel can just buy another instrument.”

“And in exchange?” she asked, wariness creeping into her voice.

“You sign the papers declaring your agreement with Jesse is null and void. You'll keep your house with its recording studio, as well as your recording label. You end up with everything.”

“Except the actual hotel, which you keep along with the confidence of your board members,” she said slowly.

“Exactly.” He smiled, pleased with his solution.

She pulled the rug tighter around her. “What if I want the
actual
hotel?”

His chest deflated a little. On first explanation, she didn't like the plan, and that was a shame, but it was still a good deal for her.

He gently rubbed her shoulders where the tension had built. “My preliminary legal advice indicates that if this goes to court, you'll lose. You'd be left with only what you started with. This way, you come out ahead—owner's rights to one of our best suites, the piano, plus everything that already belonged to you.”

Her hands covered his and stopped his impromptu massage. “You said you now believe that I've lost my memory.”

“I do.” Confused at the change of direction, he pulled her hands down under the warmth of the rug, between them, and waited.

“Then you'll see that I can't accept your offer.” Her voice held an edge of pique. “I'm not giving away my claim on the hotel until I've remembered why I wanted it in the first place.”

“April,” he said gently, “you need to be reasonable. We have no idea how long your memory will take to return. I can't have this hanging over the company's head indefinitely.”

“What if I wanted it for more than somewhere to visit? I won't know until I remember.”

Suddenly weary, he closed his eyes and rubbed a finger across his forehead. Was it unreasonable to want this resolved? “And what if you never get your memory back? Perhaps you need to start living in the present.”

The only part of her that moved was her eyes as they widened. “That's your plan then. It's time for me to give up on regaining the parts of me that are locked away in my brain somewhere. And take your offer.”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “That's not what—”

“And this,” she said, flinging an arm out toward the picnic basket, the yacht, the stars, “this was your inducement to start living in the present? Make love to me and butter me up so I'll accept your grand solution?”

“That's not what happened between us tonight and you know it,” he said through clenched teeth, entire body tense.

The air around him became heavier, bitter, making it difficult to breathe. He knew she wouldn't believe that when she'd calmed down, but her accusation just proved he should never have given in to his baser desires and taken her tonight. She grappled for her clothing and began to pull
it on under the rug, so he stood and let her have the whole blanket to work with. He found his trousers and yanked them on, then his shirt, tugging it around his shoulders.

When she was dressed, she stood at the guardrail, her back to him, but her voice carried clearly on the night air. “I do know you weren't using me.”

Her admission did nothing to soothe his anger, given the anger was aimed squarely at himself. They'd crossed a line. A line he should never have let them get near. “Perhaps we both went too far tonight.”

“Perhaps we did,” she said, looking up at the stars. Then she turned and her gaze settled on him. “I'd like to go back now, please.”

Anger drained away at the sight of her stricken eyes, leaving only the hollowness of regret in its wake. He nodded and headed for the console, noticing that she packed up the leftovers from their picnic and folded the rug before sitting on the cushioned bench seat and gripping the rail beside her with a white-knuckled fist.

He raised the anchor and, not bothering with the sails, started the engine, then turned the yacht for home. Several hours too late.

S
eth sat across from April and her mother in the hotel's restaurant, wondering why he was putting himself through this torment. One week had passed since he'd made love to April on the yacht, and yet, here he sat, engaging in small talk over lunch, pretending he wasn't physically restraining himself from reaching for her and holding her sweet body flush against his once more. But he would never let himself reach for her again—that night under the stars had proved that some lines should never be crossed. He wanted his hotel back from this woman. That was all.

He'd been working long hours from his suite and meeting April and her mother at mealtimes, except for the one day he'd made a trip back to his office in Manhattan. It was still his original plan to keep an eye on her, wait for the moment her memory returned so he could reclaim the Lighthouse Hotel. But sometimes, in the dark of night, when sleep
wouldn't come, he wondered how honest he was being with himself, and if it was April herself keeping him here.

But that was ridiculous. Hanging around to be near a woman was not something he'd ever do. It was the type of behavior he'd have expected from Jesse, not himself. He vowed long ago to be a fool for no woman, and staying here, just to see her, definitely qualified as foolish.

He glanced across at her, radiant in a simple cinnamon-tone dress, and his pulse spiked. His physical desire for her was another thing. But he wouldn't let that make a fool of him, either.

“Darling,” her mother said sharply, “how is your quiche? Mine has too much salt. And they've been atrociously spare with the asparagus. Do you remember the asparagus and pine nut quiche we had at that little restaurant in Paris a couple of years ago? Simply divine.”

April winced. “No,” she said quietly, eyes haunted.

Seth clenched his jaw. Was her mother trying to spark a memory, or was she just insensitive? He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Have you had a chance to listen to the CDs?”

He'd ordered April's entire backlist and had them shipped here, and had thrown in all the DVDs of her live concerts that were available.

Light suddenly filled April's beautiful eyes. “I've been meaning to thank you for them. When I hear the music, I can remember the words and melodies, and can play most of them on the piano.”

After her refusal of his plan a week ago, she'd tried to return the piano to the ballroom, but he'd already ordered another one, so he told her to keep it. Besides, he liked to know she was playing it, to hear her music float in through their interconnecting door.

Her mother sipped her martini. “Oh, yes, she's been playing them constantly.”

Seth raised an eyebrow. “Surely you think that's a good thing? Anything April remembers brings her a step closer to regaining her full memory.”

He'd done some research on the internet, placed a couple of calls to specialists. Seemed there was no way of predicting how long someone's memory would take to return—or any guarantee that it would. But April's snippets of memories, like the names of stars in the constellations, were apparently a positive sign, and he had full confidence she'd make a one hundred percent recovery, and soon.

“Of course it's a good thing,” her mother said, all sweetness and smiles. “But she could be listening to them just as easily at home, where she has several pianos. Much easier all around.”

Easier for her, Seth silently amended. He'd also done more digging on the mother. As April's manager, she took a fifteen percent cut of everything her daughter earned. It wasn't unheard of in the entertainment industry for a family member to be a manager, especially when the artist had become famous as a child, but he had to wonder how it impacted on the current situation, on her insistence on getting April home—where Mrs. Fairchild would have more control. And on signing his document to regain the recording studio and label and forfeit the hotel. If April suddenly became a hotel owner instead of a jazz singer, then where did that leave Mommy Manager?

Not that he wanted April to keep the hotel. No, he wanted her to sign that document to rescind the earlier contract as soon as possible. But it felt somehow sleazy to be on the same side as Mrs. Fairchild.

Repressing a shiver of aversion, he turned to April. “I'm glad the CDs are helping.”

“It's funny,” she said, as if to herself, “my memories of events, days and people might have abandoned me, but the music is still there.”

The winsome effect of her faraway eyes and her hair falling to partially curtain her face was almost too much for him to bear—his breathing became uneven, his arms ached with the need to hold her close.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Fairchild glaring at them, radiating disapproval. “Darling,” she said, feigning interest in her lunch, but in actuality, still watching them both like a hawk, “I had a truly puzzling call from Emerson earlier.”

April's face was blank—she didn't know who the man was. But Seth did. He had a small pile of phone messages from Emerson Scott that he had no intention of returning.

“Oh, come now,” her mother said. “Surely you remember
Emerson?
”

April showed no extra comprehension after her mother's helpful emphasis on the name. She'd just told them that she remembered no one, and her mother shouldn't have needed the reminder anyway. Wherever this was going, he had a feeling deep in his gut he wouldn't like it.

“Emerson?” April said, looking from him to her mother.

“Emerson Scott.” He almost snarled the name. “Movie actor. Celebrity.” Pretty boy. Renowned ladies' man.

April's forehead puckered the way it did when she was trying to force her memory. “I'm sorry, the name doesn't mean anything to me.”

Her mother shook her bracelets farther down her wrist. “Well, that surprises me. You're practically engaged!”

A roar of denial rose in Seth's chest, but he held it in
check by clenching his fists till they felt as if they'd snap. The claim was impossible.

April's eyes flew to his, and he could read the thoughts there—if she was engaged, then their explosive passion on the yacht was wrong. She'd been unfaithful. But the idea of April belonging to another man was intolerable, and he refused to believe it.

The mother was lying.

He pinned the older woman with his harshest stare. “Explain
‘practically'
engaged.”

“They've been together forever, and
everyone
knows they'll marry one day. I wouldn't be surprised if they already have an understanding between them.” She tittered a laugh and cut another dainty slice of her quiche.

“Oh,” April said, eyes downcast. She put her cutlery beside her plate and folded her hands in her lap. “What was puzzling about his call earlier?”

“He's excessively worried about you—you're quite the center of his life! But he can't get through on the phone, so he rang me to check and to ask you to call him.”

Seth held his breath when April looked at him, her eyes asking if he'd been fielding calls on this front. Of course he was—he'd told her he was intercepting her calls, and the last thing she needed in her vulnerable state was a skirt chaser.

He gave a slight nod. Her eyes widened then turned to ice. Her mother, with what he was sure was premeditated timing, chose that moment to turn in her chair and call for a waiter and order another martini, giving them a small slice of privacy.

April leaned over and whispered close to his ear. “You blocked calls from my boyfriend,
then
seduced me?” Two spots of color rose on the apples of her cheeks and restrained anger vibrated in her voice. “Knowing I was
involved with someone else. And not even telling me about the other man.”

She leaned away again before he replied, but that was fine—she wasn't the one to clear this up. Gut churning, he turned his attention to the mother. “It seems strange to me that a man who is ‘practically' engaged to a woman wouldn't have visited her in hospital after a major road accident.”

Mrs. Fairchild waved away his question. “He was in Prague, filming his latest action movie.”

“And,” Seth continued, “hasn't found a way to check on April, besides ringing her mother four weeks later.” One thing he knew for a fact—if he'd been the man engaged to April, no one and nothing would have stood in his way to his fiancée for four weeks, let alone after a well-publicized car accident. In fact, he couldn't believe it of any man. He pulled out his phone and connected to the internet.

Mrs. Fairchild patted her daughter's hand before picking up her martini. “Emerson is a busy man, but we all know how much he cares.”

April obviously picked up on the anomaly, too. “Have I ever told you that I'm going to marry Emerson Scott?”

“Not in as many words,” her mother said carefully.

Target located, Seth handed April his phone, displaying images from gossip magazines of her supposed fiancé with his arm around a starlet. April scoured the photo. “He seems attached to this girl.”

Her mother leaned over to see the screen then shrugged. “Actors are affectionate people. It means nothing.”

But his April was a smart woman; he could see her doing the math, putting the clues together. His chest expanded with pride as he watched her square her shoulders and turn to the older woman.

“Mother, have I told you I was even dating him?”

With a wave of a matchstick-thin arm, Mrs. Fairchild dismissed the need for confirmation. “You didn't have to, darling. A mother knows.”

“Have you ever—” April's eyes narrowed “—seen me kiss him or be affectionate?”

Her mother's mouth opened like a stunned fish. “You? You don't kiss men in front of people. You won't even touch them. You're just not the sort of girl to be passionate about anything besides your music.”

Seth leaned back in his chair with a thud. The woman who'd kissed him to within an inch of his life while sitting on a piano with his entire staff on the other side of the door? The woman who'd made love with him in the open air on the yacht? Nothing in this conversation was making sense.

He called a waiter over. “Go to reception,” he said too quietly for the others at the table to hear. “Tell them to find the number Emerson Scott left in his messages. Get them to ring him, tell him Seth Kentrell is ready to return his calls, and bring the phone to me.”

“It's okay,” Mrs. Fairchild was saying as he tuned back into the conversation at the table, “we can visit him tomorrow. He's in New York at the moment. We can pack up this afternoon and leave in the morning.”

April appeared to have changed tack and was eating her side salad, perhaps in the hope her mother would drop the subject. He could help with that.

The waiter reappeared with the phone and Seth pressed it to his ear. “Mr. Scott?”

“Yes,” a voice came back, deep and smooth. Too smooth. Seth's hackles rose.

“This is Seth Kentrell.” He met April's widened eyes and held them. “You rang the Lighthouse Hotel some days ago.”

The other man cleared his throat. “I was looking for April Fairchild.”

“April is here, but she's recovering from her accident.” Still holding her gaze, he gave her a slight nod of reassurance. “Can I ask the nature of your relationship?”

His voice warmed. “April and I are old friends.”

Seth raised his eyebrows at April, but she frowned back at him, clearly impatient for the information. He couldn't restrain a smile of anticipation as he said, “I was under the impression you were practically engaged.”

Emerson spluttered out a laugh. “Engaged? Where did you hear that—was it in the papers? Oh, Lord, if it's in the papers please don't let Brandi see it,” he ended almost under his breath, as if sending up a prayer.

The mountain of tension that had been sitting on Seth's shoulders dissolved and he thumbed the speaker button so April and her mother could hear for themselves. “So you really are just friends with April.”

“Why? What did she tell you?” the other man asked, confusion clear in his voice. “Hey, did you put me on speaker?”

Seth's eyes flicked to Mrs. Fairchild, who was picking at her food, pretending not to be listening in. “The engagement story didn't come from April,” he said, smoothly avoiding the last question.

“I wouldn't have thought so. We've been friends since we were children. Famous fourteen-year-olds who understood each other's lives. Listen, I just need to know she's okay.”

“She's okay. I'm sure she'll call you soon.” He hung up the phone and handed it back to the waiter who'd been watching from a distance. Then, with the world set to rights again, he turned to April. “You're not engaged. Or dating. It seems there's someone called Brandi who would have a problem with that scenario.”

“Thank you,” April said on a long breath.

Her mother raised her eyes to the ceiling and exclaimed, “If you would just sign the contract, April, we could leave.”

“I'd like to know what you were playing at—” April began.

“It's
just
a place you stayed at when you were a child,” her mother interrupted, her tone shrill. “We know that. Give the nice man his hotel back, and let's get home so you can find your memory around the things that are truly familiar, and you can pick up your career again.”

April flinched, but her voice didn't waver. “I'm not leaving yet.”

Having no intention of hearing this argument again, Seth changed the subject. “April, tomorrow my brother Ryder and his
fiancée—
” his subtle emphasis on the word seemed lost on Mrs. Fairchild “—are arriving. I need to speak to him. Would you like to meet them for brunch with me and help Macy stave off certain boredom while Ryder and I talk about the company?”