The Mélendez Forgotten Marriage (2 page)

His dark eyes gave nothing away. ‘The doctor said you should not rush things,
querida
,' he said. ‘You will remember when the time is right. It might take a few days or maybe even a few weeks.'

Emelia swallowed a tight knot of panic. ‘But what if I don't?' she asked in a broken whisper. ‘What if I never remember the last two years of my life?'

One of his broad shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug that Emelia somehow felt wasn't quite representative of how he felt. ‘Do not concern yourself with things that are out of your control,' he said. ‘Perhaps when you are back at home at my villa in Seville you will remember bits and pieces.'

He waited a beat before continuing. ‘You loved the villa. You said when I first took you there it was the most beautiful place you had ever seen.'

Emelia tried to picture it but her mind continued to be a blank. ‘What was I doing in London?' she asked as soon as the thought popped into her head. ‘You weren't with me in the car, were you?'

That lightning-quick movement came and went in his gaze again; it was like the hand of an illusionist making something disappear before the audience could see how it was done. ‘No, I was not,' he said. ‘You were with your—' he paused for a moment ‘—with Peter Marshall.'

Emelia felt a hand grab at her insides and twist them cruelly. ‘Peter was with me?' Her heart gave a lurch against her breastbone. ‘Was he injured? Is he all right? Can I see him? Where is he? How is he?'

The ensuing silence after her rapid fire of panicked questions seemed to contain a deep and low back beat, a slow steady rhythm that seemed to be building and building, leading Emelia inexorably to a disharmonious chord she didn't want to hear.

‘I am sorry to be the one to inform you of this, but Marshall did not survive the accident,' Javier said again without any trace of emotion in his voice.

Emelia blinked at him in stunned shock.
Peter was dead?
Her mind couldn't process the information. It kept shrinking back from it, like a battered dog cowering out of reach of the next anticipated blow.
‘No…'
The word came out hoarsely in a voice she didn't recognise as her own. ‘No, that can't be. He can't be dead. He
can't
be… We had such plans…'

Javier's expression didn't change. Not even a flicker of a muscle in his jaw revealed an iota of what he was feeling. It was as if he were reading from a script for a role he had no intention of playing. His words were wooden, cool. ‘He is dead, Emelia. The doctors couldn't save him.'

Emelia felt tears burst from her eyes, hot scalding tears that ran unchecked down her cheeks. ‘But I loved him so much…' Her voice was barely audible. ‘We've known each other for years. We grew up in the same suburb. He was such a supportive friend to me…' A thought hit her like a glancing blow and her eyes widened in horror. ‘Oh, God…' she gulped. ‘Who was driving? Did I kill him? Oh, God, God, God—'

He touched her then. His hand came down over hers on the bed just like the doctor's had done earlier, but his touch felt nothing like the cool, smooth professional hand of the
medico
's. Javier's touch was like a scorch
ing brand, a blistering heat that scored her flesh to the fragile bones of her hand as he pinned it beneath the strength of his. ‘No, you did not kill him,' he said flatly. ‘You were not driving. He was. He was speeding.'

Her relief was a minute consolation given the loss of a dear friend.
Peter was dead?
The three words whirled around and around in her head but she wouldn't allow them to settle. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe this was nothing but a horrible nightmare. Maybe she would wake up any second and find herself lying in her sunny shoebox flat in Notting Hill, looking forward to meeting up with Peter later to discuss the programme for that night's performance, just as she did every night before taking her place at the grand piano.

Emelia looked down at her hand beneath the tanned weight of Javier Mélendez's. There was something about his touch that triggered something deep inside her body. Her blood recognised him even if her mind did not. She felt the flicker of it as it began to race in her veins, the rapid escalation of her pulse making her heart pound at the thought of him touching her elsewhere.
Had
he touched her elsewhere? Well, of course he must have if they were married…

She gave her head a little shake but it felt as if a jar of marbles had spilled inside. She groaned and put her free hand to her temple, confusion, despair, grief and disbelief all jostling for position.

Javier squeezed her hand with the gentlest of pressure but even so she felt the latent strength leashed there. ‘I realise all this must be a terrible shock. There was no easy way of telling you.'

Emelia blinked away her tears, her throat feeling so dry she could barely swallow the fist-sized wad of
sadness there. As if he had read her mind, he released her hand and pulled the bed table closer, before pouring her a glass of water and handing it to her.

‘Here,' he said, holding the glass for her as if she were a small child. ‘Drink this. It will make you feel better.'

Emelia was convinced nothing was ever going to make her feel better. How was a sip of water going to bring back her oldest friend? She frowned as she pushed the glass away once she had taken a token sip. ‘I don't understand…' She raised her eyes to Javier's ink-black gaze. ‘Why was I in London if I am supposedly married and living with you in…in Seville, did you say?'

His eyes moved away from hers as he set the water glass back on the table. ‘Seville, yes,' he said. ‘A few kilometres out. That is where I…where we live.'

Emelia heard the way he corrected himself and wondered if that was some sort of clue. She looked at his left hand and saw the gold band of a wedding ring nestled amongst the sprinkling of dark hairs of his long tanned finger. She felt another roller coaster dip inside her stomach and doing her best to ignore it, looked back up at him. ‘If we are married as you say, then where are my rings?' she asked.

He reached inside his trouser pocket and took out two rings. She held her breath as he picked up her hand, slipping each of the rings on with ease. She looked at the brilliance of the princess cut diamond engagement ring and the matching wedding band with its glittering array of sparkling diamonds set right around the band. Surely something so beautiful, so incredibly expensive would trigger some sort of memory in her brain?

Nothing.

Nada.

Emelia raised her eyes back to his. ‘So…I was in London…alone?'

His eyes were like shuttered windows. ‘I was away on business in Moscow,' he said. ‘I travel there a lot. You had travelled to London to…to shop.'

There it was again, she thought. A slight pause before he chose his words. ‘Why didn't I go to Moscow with you?' she asked, frowning.

It was a moment before he answered. Emelia couldn't help feeling he was holding something back from her, something important.

‘You did not always travel with me on my trips, particularly the foreign ones,' he finally answered. ‘You preferred to spend time at home or in London. The shops were more familiar and you didn't have to worry about the language.'

Emelia bit her lip, her fingers plucking again at the sheet covering her. ‘That's strange…I hate shopping. I can never find the right size and I don't like being pressured by the sales assistants.'

He didn't answer. He just stood there looking down at her with that expressionless face, making Emelia feel as if she had stepped into someone else's life, not her own. If she was deeply in love with him she would have gone with him, surely? What sort of wife was she to go off shopping—an activity she normally loathed—in another country instead of being by his side? It certainly didn't sound very devoted of her. More disturbing, it sounded a little bit like something her mother would have done while she was still alive.

After a long moment she forced herself to meet his gaze once more. ‘Um…I know this might seem a
strange question but—' she quickly licked her lips for courage before she continued ‘—were we…happily married?'

The question seemed to hang suspended in the air for a very long time.

Emelia's head began to ache unbearably as she tried to read his expression, to see if any slight movement of his lips, eyes or forehead would provide some clue to the state of the relationship they apparently shared.

Finally his lips stretched into a brief on-off smile that didn't involve his eyes. ‘But of course,
cariño
,' he said. ‘Why would we not be happy? We were only married for not quite two years,
sí
? That is not long enough to become bored or tired of each other.'

Emelia was so confused, so very bewildered. It was totally surreal to be lying here without any knowledge of her relationship with him. Surely this was the stuff of movies and fiction. Did this really happen to ordinary people like her? She began to fidget with the sheet again, desperate to be alone so she could think. ‘I'm sorry but I'm very tired…'

He stepped back from the bed. ‘It's all right,' he said. ‘I have business to see to, in any case. I will leave you to rest.'

He was almost through the curtains when she found her voice again. ‘Um…Javier?'

His long back seemed to stiffen momentarily before he turned to look at her. ‘Yes, Emelia?'

Emelia searched his features once more, desperate to find some hook on which to hang her new, totally unfamiliar life. ‘I'm sorry…so very sorry for not recognising you…' She bit her lip again, releasing it to add, ‘If it was me in your place, I know I would be devastatingly hurt.'

His dark eyes seared hers for a beat or two before they fell away as he turned to leave. ‘Forget about it,
querida
,' he said.

It was only after the curtains had whispered against each other as they closed did Emelia realise the irony of his parting words.

‘W
ELL
,
today's the big day,' the cheery nurse on duty said brightly as she swished back the curtains of the private room windows where Emelia had spent the last few days after being moved out of the High Dependency Unit. ‘You're finally going home with that gorgeous husband of yours. I tell you, my girl, I wouldn't mind changes places with you, that I wouldn't,' she added with a grin as she plucked the pillows off the bed in preparation for a linen change. ‘If his looks weren't enough compensation, just think—I wouldn't have to work again, married to all that money.'

Emelia gave the nurse a tight smile as she tried to ignore the way her stomach nosedived at the mention of the tall, dark, brooding stranger who had faithfully visited her each day, saying little, smiling even less, touching her only if necessary, as if somehow sensing she wasn't ready for a return to their previous intimacy. To limit her interaction with him, she had mostly feigned sleep, but she knew once she went home with him she would have to face the reality of their relationship.

She had seen how the nurses practically swooned
when he came onto the ward each day. And this one called Bridget was not the only one to gently tease her about not recognising him. Everyone seemed reasonably confident her memory loss would be temporary, but Emelia couldn't help worrying about the missing pieces and how they would impact on her once she left the relative sanctuary of the hospital.

She had spoken to the staff psychologist about her misgivings and what she perceived was Javier's tension around her. Dr Carey had described how some partners found it hard to accept they were not recognised by the one they loved and that it would take a lot of time and patience on both sides to restore the relationship to what it had been before the accident. There could be anger and resentment and a host of other feelings that would have to be dealt with in time.

The psychologist had advised Emelia to take time to get to know her husband all over again. ‘Things will be more natural between you once you are in familiar surroundings,' Dr Carey had assured her. ‘Busy hospitals are not the most conducive environment to re-establish intimacy.'

Emelia thought about her future as she waited for Javier to collect her. She sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to think about the possibility of never remembering the last two years of her life. She had no memory of her first meeting with Javier, no memory of their first kiss, let alone their wedding day and what had followed. He had said she loved his villa but she couldn't even imagine what it looked like. She was being taken to live in a foreign country with a man who was a stranger to her in every way.

She ran her hands down her tanned and toned thighs.
She couldn't help noticing how slim she was now. Surely she hadn't lost that much weight during her coma? She had only been unconscious a week. She had struggled on and off with her weight for most of her life and yet now she was almost reed-thin. Her legs and arms were toned and her stomach had lost its annoying little pouch. It was flat and ridged with muscle she hadn't known she possessed.

Was this how Javier liked her to look? Had she adopted a gym bunny lifestyle to keep him attracted to her? How soon had she succumbed to his attentions? Had she made him wait or had she capitulated as soon as he had shown his interest in her? What had he seen in her? She knew she was blessed with reasonable looks but somehow, with his arrestingly handsome features and aristocratic bearing, he seemed the type who would prefer supermodel glamour and sophistication.

The police had come in earlier and interviewed her but she had not been able to tell them anything at all about the accident. It too was all a blank, a black hole in her memory that no attempt on her part could fill.

One of the constables had brought Emelia her handbag, retrieved from the accident, but even searching through it she felt as if it belonged to someone else. There was the usual collection of lip gloss and pens and tissues and gum, a frighteningly expensive atomizer of perfume and a sophisticated mobile phone that hadn't survived the impact. The screen was cracked and it refused to turn on.

She took out a packet of contraceptive pills and stared at the name on the box:
Emelia Mélendez
. There were only a couple of pills left in the press out card. She fingered the foil rectangle for a minute and then,
without another thought, tossed it along with the packet in the rubbish bag taped to the edge of her bedside table.

Emelia placed her hand on her chest near her heart, trying to ease the pain of never seeing Peter again. That was a part of her life that was finished. She hadn't even been given the chance to say goodbye.

 

Javier schooled his features into blankness as he entered the private suite.
‘Cariño,'
he said, ‘I see you are all packed and ready to leave.'

He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her grey-blue gaze before she lowered it. ‘There wasn't much to pack,' she said, slipping off the bed to stand upright.

He put out a hand to steady her but she moved out of his reach, as if his touch repelled her. He set his jaw, fighting back his fury. She didn't used to flinch from his touch. She used to be hungry for it. He thought of all the times he had taken her, quickly, passionately, slowly, sensually. She hadn't recoiled from his lovemaking until Marshall had come back on the scene. Javier's gut roiled with the thought of what she had got up to while his back was turned. How convenient for her to forget her perfidy now when the stakes had changed. The way she had received the news of Marshall's death confirmed her depth of feeling for him. She hadn't forgotten her lover and yet she had forgotten him—her legal husband.

Javier clenched his fingers around the handle of the small bag containing Emelia's belongings. A tiny flick knife of guilt nicked at him deep inside. He had to admit there were some things he hoped she wouldn't remember about their last heated argument. He had lost
control in a way that deeply ashamed him. Had his actions during that ugly scene driven her into her lover's arms? Or had she been planning to run away with Marshall in any case?

What if she
never
remembered him?

No.
He was not going to think about that possibility, in spite of what the doctors and the psychologist had said. He lived for the day when she would look at him with full recognition in her grey-blue eyes. For the day she would smile at him and offer her soft, full bee-stung mouth for him to kiss; she would give him her body to pleasure and be pleasured until every last memory of her dead lover was obliterated.

And then and only then he would have his revenge.

‘My car is waiting outside,' Javier said. ‘I have a private jet waiting for our departure.'

She gave him one of her bewildered looks. ‘You…you have a private jet?'

‘Sí,'
he answered. ‘You are married to a very rich man,
mi amor
, or have you forgotten that too?'

She bit into her bottom lip, her gaze falling away from his as she continued walking by his side. ‘Dr Carey, the psychologist, told me some husbands find it very hard to accept their wives don't remember them,' she said. ‘I know this must be hard for you. I know you must feel angry and upset.'

You have no idea how angry
, Javier thought as he led the way out of the hospital. Anger was like a turbulent flood inside him. His blood was surging with it, bulging in his veins like red-hot lava until he felt he was going to explode with it. How could he conceal the hatred he felt for her at her betrayal? The papers were full of it again this morning, as they had been for the past week.
Every headline seemed to say the same: the speculation about her affair with Marshall, their clandestine dirty little affair that had ended in tragedy. Javier knew he would have to work harder at controlling his emotions. This was not the time to avenge the past. What was the point? Emelia apparently had no recollection of it.

He cupped her elbow with the palm of his hand as he guided her into the waiting limousine. ‘I am sorry,
querida
,' he said. ‘I am still getting over the shock of almost losing you. Forgive me. I will try and be more considerate.'

She looked at him once he took the seat beside her, her eyes like luminescent pools. ‘It's OK,' she said in a whisper-soft voice. ‘I'm finding it hard too. I feel like I am living in someone else's body, living someone else's life.'

‘It is your life,' Javier said. ‘It is the one you chose for yourself.'

She frowned as she absently stroked her fingers over the butter-soft leather of the seat between them. ‘How long did we date before we got married?'

‘Not long.'

She turned her head to look at him. ‘How long?'

‘Six weeks.'

Her eyes went wide, like pond water spreading after a flood. ‘I can't believe I got married so quickly,' she said, as if talking to herself. She shook her head but then winced as if it had hurt her. She lowered her gaze and tucked a strand of her honey-blonde hair back behind her ear, her tongue sweeping out over her lips, the action igniting a fire in his groin despite all of his attempts to ignore her physical allure. Sitting this close, he could smell the sweet vanilla fragrance of her skin. If he
closed his eyes he could picture her writhing beneath him as he pounded into her, his body rocking with hers until they both exploded. He clenched his jaw and turned to look out of the window at the rain lashing down outside.

‘Was it a white wedding?' she asked after a little silence.

Javier turned and looked at her. ‘Yes, it was. There were over four hundred people there. It was called the wedding of the year. Perhaps if you see the photographs it will trigger something in your memory.'

‘Perhaps…' She looked away and began chewing on her bottom lip, her brow furrowing once more.

Javier watched her in silence, mulling over what to tell her and what to leave well alone. The doctor had advised against pressuring her to remember. She was disoriented and still suffering from the blow of losing her lover. Apart from that first show of grief, she hadn't mentioned Peter Marshall again, but every now and then he saw the way her eyes would tear up and a stake would go through his heart all over again.

She suddenly turned and met his gaze. ‘Do you have family?' she asked. ‘Brothers or sisters and parents?'

‘My mother died when I was very young,' he said. ‘My father remarried after some years. I have a half-sister called Izabella.' He paused before adding, ‘My father left Izabella's mother and after the divorce remarried once again. As predicted by just about everyone who knew him, it didn't work out and he was in the process of divorcing his third wife when he died.'

‘I'm sorry for your loss,' she said quietly. ‘Did I ever meet him?'

Javier stretched his lips into an embittered smile.
‘No. My father and I were estranged at the time. I hadn't spoken to him for ten years.'

Her expression was empathetic. ‘How very sad. How did the estrangement come about?'

He drew in a breath and released it slowly. ‘My father was a stubborn man. He was hard in business and even harder in his personal life. It's why each of his marriages turned into war zones. He liked control. It irked him that I wanted to take charge of my own life. We exchanged a few heated words and that was it. We never spoke to each other again.'

Emelia studied his stony expression, wondering how far the apple had fallen from the tree. ‘Were you alike in looks?' she asked.

His eyes met hers, so dark and mysterious, making her stomach give a little unexpected flutter. ‘We shared the same colouring but had little else in common,' he said. ‘I was closer to my mother.'

‘How old were you when she died?' Emelia asked.

His eyes moved away from hers, his voice when he spoke flat and emotionless. ‘I was four, almost five years old.'

Emelia felt her insides clench at the thought of him as a dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy losing his mother so young. She knew the devastation so well. She had been in her early teens when her mother had died, but still it had hit hard. Her adolescence, from fourteen years old, had been so lonely. While not particularly close to either of her high-flying parents, there had been so many times over the years when Emelia had wished she could have had just one more day with her mother. ‘Are you close to your half-sister?' she asked.

His lips moved in a brief, indulgent-looking smile
which immediately softened his features, bringing warmth into his eyes. ‘Yes, strangely enough. She's a lot younger, of course. She's only just out of her teens but, since my father died, I've taken a more active role in her life. She lives in Paris with her mother but she comes to stay quite regularly.'

‘So…I've met her, then?' Emelia asked, trying to ignore the way her stomach shifted in response to his warmer expression.

His eyes came back to hers, studying her for a pulsing moment. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘You've met her numerous times.'

Emelia moistened her lips, something she seemed to do a lot around him. ‘Do we…get on?' she asked, choosing her words carefully.

His unreadable gaze bored into hers. ‘Unfortunately, you were not the best of friends. I think it was perhaps because Izabella was used to having my undivided attention. She saw you as a threat, as competition.'

She frowned as she thought about what he had said about his sister. The girl sounded like a spoilt brat, too used to having her own way. No wonder they hadn't got on. ‘You said Izabella was used to having you to herself. But surely you'd had women in your life before…before me?'

‘But of course.'

Emelia felt a quick dart of jealousy spike her at the arrogant confidence of his statement. Just how many women
had
there been? Not counting him, for she could not recall sleeping with him, she had only had one lover. She had been far too young and had only gone out with the man to annoy her father during one of her teenage fits of rebellion. It was not a period of her life she was
particularly proud of and the loss of self-esteem she had experienced during that difficult time had made it hard for her to date with any confidence subsequently.