Parker stared up at her with simmering blue eyes. His expression was a mixture of anguish and awe, and his hand reached upward, his fingers slipping beneath her hair to caress her nape.
She trembled at his touch, saw the torment in his gaze.
“I don’t remember where I met you. Or how. Or even who you are,” he admitted, his voice husky, the lines near his mouth softening as he stared up at her. “But I do know that I’m one lucky son of a bitch if you were planning to marry me.”
“Am—as in present tense,” she corrected, her throat hot with unshed tears. “I still intend to march down the aisle with you, Parker Harrison, whether you’re in a cast, on crutches, or in a wheelchair.”
She felt his fingers flex as he drew her head to his, and he hesitated only slightly before touching his lips to hers. “I will remember you,” he promised, eyes dusky blue. “No matter what it takes!”
Her heart soared. All they needed was a little time!
Tom Handleman, his expression stern behind his wire-rimmed glasses, poked his head into the room. “Doctor?”
“That’s my cue,” Shawna whispered, brushing her lips against Parker’s hair. “I’ll be back.”
“I’m counting on it.”
She forced herself out of the room, feeling more lighthearted than she had in days. So what if Parker didn’t remember her? What did it matter that he had a slight case of amnesia? The important consideration was his health, and physically he seemed to be gaining strength. Although mentally he still faced some tough hurdles, she was confident that with her help, Parker would surmount any obstacle fate cast his way. It was only a matter of time before he was back on his feet again and they could take up where they’d left off.
Jake was waiting for her in the hallway. Slouched into one of the waiting-room chairs, his tie askew, his shirtsleeves rolled over his forearms, he groaned as he stretched to his feet and fell into step with her. “Good news,” he guessed, a wide grin spreading across his beard-stubbled jaw.
“The best!” Shawna couldn’t contain herself. “He’s awake!”
“About time!” Jake winked at her. “So, when’s the wedding?”
Shawna chuckled. “I think Parker and I have a few bridges to cross first.”
“Meaning Brad’s death?”
“For one,” she said, linking her arm through her brother’s and pushing the elevator button. “You can buy me lunch and I’ll explain about the rest of them.”
“There’s more?”
“A lot more,” she said as they squeezed into the crowded elevator and she lowered her voice. “He doesn’t remember me—or much else for that matter.”
Jake let out a long, low whistle.
“You’re used to dealing with this, aren’t you, in your practice?” she asked eagerly.
“I’ve seen a couple of cases.”
“Then maybe you can work with him.”
“Maybe,” he said, his gray eyes growing thoughtful.
As the elevator opened at the hallway near the cafeteria, Shawna sent him a teasing glance, “Well, don’t trip all over yourself to help.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he said, massaging his neck muscles. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to be patient, and that’s not your strong suit.”
“Patient?”
“You know as well as I do that amnesia can be tricky. He may remember everything tomorrow, or ...”
“Or it may take weeks,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t even think about that. Not now. I’m just thanking my lucky stars that he’s alive and he’ll be all right.”
Maybe, Jake thought, steering Shawna down the stainless steel counter and past cream pies, pudding, and fruit salad. Only time would tell.
Parker tried to roll off the bed, but a sharp pain in his knee and the IV tube stuck into his hand kept him flat on his back. He had a restless urge to get up, walk out of the hospital, and catch hold of the rest of his life—wherever it was.
He knew who he was. He could remember some things very clearly—the death of his parents in a boating accident, the brilliance of a trophy glinting gold in the sun. But try as he might, he couldn’t conjure up Brad Lomax’s face to save his soul.
And this Shawna woman with her honey-gold hair, soft lips, and intense green eyes. She was a doctor and they’d planned to be married? That didn’t seem to fit. Nor did her description of his being some heroic do-gooder who had saved a boy from self-destruction while molding him into a tennis star.
No, her idealistic views of his life didn’t make a helluva lot of sense. He remembered winning, playing to the crowd, enjoying being the best; he’d been ruthless and unerring on the court—the “ice man,” incapable of emotion.
And yet she seemed to think him some sort of modern-day Good Samaritan. No way!
Struggling for the memories locked just under the surface of his consciousness, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists in frustration. Why couldn’t he remember? Why?
“Mr. Harrison?”
He opened one eye, then the other. A small nurse was standing just inside the door.
“Glad you’re back with us,” she said, rolling in a clattering tray of food—if that’s what you’d call the unappetizing gray potatoes-and-gravy dish she set in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Nothing,” he replied testily, his thoughts returning to the beautiful doctor and the boy whose face he couldn’t remember.
I don’t want anything but my past.
Sighing, the nurse left.
Parker shoved the tray angrily aside and closed his eyes, willing himself to remember, concentrating on that dark void that was his past. Shawna. Had he known her? How? Had he really planned to marry her?
Sleep overcame him in warm waves and bits of memory played with his mind. Dreaming, he saw himself dancing with a gorgeous woman in a mist-cloaked rose garden. Her face was veiled and she was dressed in ivory silk and lace, he in a stiff tuxedo. Her scent and laughter engulfed him as they stopped dancing to sip from crystal glasses of champagne. Sweeping her into his arms again, he spilled champagne on the front of her gown and she tossed back her head but her veil stayed in place, blocking his view of her eyes as he licked the frothy bubbles from the beaded lace covering her throat.
“I love you,” she vowed, sighing. “Forever.”
“And I love you.”
Light-headed from the drink and the nearness of her, he captured her lips with his, tasting cool, effervescent wine on her warm lips. Her fingers toyed with his bow tie, loosening it from his neck, teasing him, and he caught a glimpse of her dimpled smile before she slipped away from him. He tried to call out to her, but he didn’t know her name and his voice was muted. Desperate not to lose her, he grasped at her dress but clutched only air. She was floating away from him, her face still a guarded mystery... .
Parker’s eyes flew open and he took in a swift breath. His hand was clenched, but empty. The dream had been so real, so lifelike, as if he’d been in that garden with that beautiful woman. But now, in his darkened hospital room, he wondered if the dream had been part of his memory or only something he wanted so fervently he’d created the image.
Had the woman been Shawna McGuire?
Dear God, he hoped so. She was, without a doubt, the most intriguing woman he’d ever met.
The next evening, in her office at Columbia Memorial Hospital on the east side of the Willamette River, Shawna leaned back in her chair until it creaked in protest. Unpinning her hair, letting it fall past her shoulders in a shimmering gold curtain, she closed her eyes and imagined that Parker’s memory was restored and they were getting married, just as they planned.
“Soon,” she told herself as she stretched and flipped through the pages of her appointment book.
Because she couldn’t stand the idea of spending hour upon hour with nothing to do, she had rescheduled her vacation—the time she had meant to use on her honeymoon—and today had been her first full day of work since the accident. She was dead tired. The digital clock on her desk blinked the time. It was eight-fifteen, and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
She’d finished her rounds early, dictated patient diagnoses into the tiny black machine at her desk, answered some correspondence and phone calls, and somehow managed to talk to the amnesia specialist on staff at Columbia Memorial. Her ears still rang with his advice.
“Amnesia’s not easy to predict,” Pat Barrington had replied to her questions about Parker. A kindly neurosurgeon with a flushed red face and horn-rimmed glasses, he’d told Shawna nothing she hadn’t really already known. “Parker’s obviously reacting to the trauma, remembering nothing of the accident or the events leading up to it,” Barrington had said, punching the call button for the elevator.
“So why doesn’t he remember Brad Lomax or me?”
“Because you’re both part of it, really. The accident occurred right after the rehearsal dinner. Subconsciously, he’s denying everything leading up to the accident—even your engagement. Give him time, Shawna. He’s not likely to forget you,” Barrington had advised, clapping Shawna on her back.
Now, as Shawna leaned back in her chair, she sighed and stared out the window into the dark September night. “Time,” she whispered. Was it her friend or enemy?
C
HAPTER
5
Two weeks later, Shawna sipped from her teacup and stared through the kitchen window of her apartment at the late afternoon sky. Parker’s condition hadn’t changed, except that the surgery on his knee had been a success. He was already working in physical therapy to regain use of his leg, but his mind, as far as Shawna and the wedding were concerned, was a complete blank. Though Shawna visited him each day, hoping to help him break through the foggy wall surrounding him, he stared at her without a flicker of the warmth she’d always felt in his gaze.
Now, as she dashed the dregs of her tea into the sink, she decided she couldn’t wait any longer. Somehow, she had to jog his memory. She ached to touch him again, feel his arms around her, have him talk to her as if she weren’t a total stranger.
“You’re losing it, McGuire,” she told herself as she glanced around her kitchen. Usually bright and neat, the room was suffering badly from neglect. Dishes were stacked in the sink, the floor was dull, and there were half-filled boxes scattered on the counters and floor.
Before the wedding she’d packed most of her things, but now she’d lost all interest in moving from the cozy little one-bedroom apartment she’d called home for several years. Nonetheless, she had given her notice and would have to move at the end of the month.
Rather than consider the chore of moving, she stuffed two packets of snapshots into her purse and found her coat. Then, knowing she was gambling with her future, she grabbed her umbrella and dashed through the front door of her apartment.
Outside, the weather was gray and gloomy. Rain drizzled from the sky, ran in the gutters of the old turn-of-the-century building, and caught on the broad leaves of the rhododendron and azaleas flanking the cement paths.
“Dr. McGuire!” a crackly voice accosted her. “Wait up!”
Shawna glanced over her shoulder. Mrs. Swenson, her landlady, clad in a bright yellow raincoat, was walking briskly in her direction. Knowing what was to come, Shawna managed a smile she didn’t feel. “Hi, Mrs. Swenson.”
“I know you’re on your way out,” Mrs. Swenson announced, peering into the bushes near Shawna’s front door and spying the lurking shadow of Maestro, Shawna’s yellow tabby near the steps. Adjusting her plastic rain bonnet, Mrs. Swenson pursed her lips and peered up at Shawna with faded gold eyes. “But I thought we’d better talk about your apartment. I know about your troubles with Mr. Harrison and it’s a darned shame, that’s what it is—but I’ve got tenants who’ve planned to lease your place in about two weeks.”
“I know, I know,” Shawna said. If her life hadn’t been shattered by the accident, she would already have moved into Parker’s house on the Willamette River. But, of course, the accident had taken care of that. “Things just haven’t exactly fallen into place.”
“I know, I know,” Mrs. Swenson said kindly, still glancing at the cat. “But, be that as it may, the Levertons plan to start moving in the weekend after next and your lease is up. Then there’s the matter of having the place painted, the drapes cleaned, and whatnot. I hate to be pushy ... but I really don’t have much choice.”
“I understand,” Shawna admitted, thinking over her options for the dozenth time. “And I’ll be out by Friday night. I promise.”
“That’s only four days away,” Mrs. Swenson pointed out, her wrinkled face puckering pensively.
“I’ve already started packing.” Well, not really, but she did have some things in boxes, things she’d stored when she and Parker had started making wedding plans. “I can store my things with my folks and live either with them or with Jake,” she said. The truth of the matter was, deep down, she still intended to move into Parker’s place, with or without a wedding ring. In the past few weeks since the accident, she’d discovered just how much she loved him, and that a certificate of marriage wasn’t as important as being with him.
“And what’re you planning to do about that?” the old woman asked, shaking a gnarled finger at Maestro as he nimbly jumped onto the window ledge. With his tail flicking anxiously, he glared in through the window to the cage where Mrs. Swenson’s yellow parakeet ruffled his feathers and chirped loudly enough to be heard through the glass.
“He’s not really mine—”
“You’ve been feeding him, haven’t you?”
“Well, yes. But he just strayed—”
“Two years ago,” Mrs. Swenson interjected. “And if he had his way my little Pickles would have been his dinner time and time again.”
“I’ll take him with me.”
“Good. Saves me a trip to the animal shelter,” Mrs. Swenson said. Shawna seriously doubted the old woman had the heart to do anything more dastardly than give Maestro a saucer of milk—probably warmed in the microwave. Though outwardly a curmudgeon, Myrna Swenson had a heart of gold buried beneath a crusty layer of complaining.
“I’ll tell Eva Leverton she can start packing.”
“Good!” Shawna climbed into her car and watched as Mrs. Swenson cooed to the bird in the window. She flicked on the engine, smothered a smile, and muttered, “Pickles is a dumb name for a bird!” Then slamming the car into gear, she drove away from the apartment complex.
More determined than ever to help Parker regain his memory, Shawna wheeled across the Ross Island bridge and up the steep grade of the west hills to Mercy Hospital.
Today Parker would remember her, she decided with a determined smile as she pulled on the emergency brake and threw open the car door. Sidestepping puddles of rainwater, she hurried inside the old concrete and glass of Mercy Hospital.
She heard Parker before she saw him. Just as the elevator doors parted on the fourth floor, Parker’s voice rang down the gray-carpeted hallway.
“Hey, watch out, you’re killing me!” he barked and Shawna smothered a grin. One of the first signs of patient improvement was general irritability, and Parker sounded as if he was irritable in spades.
“Good morning,” Shawna said, cautiously poking her head into the room.
“What’s good about it?” Parker grumbled.
“I see our patient is improving,” she commented to the orderly trying to adjust the bed.
“Not his temperament,” the orderly confided.
“I heard that,” Parker said, but couldn’t help flashing Shawna a boyish grin—the same crooked grin she’d grown to love. Her heart did a stupid little leap, the way it always did when he rained his famous smile on her.
“Be kind, Parker,” she warned, lifting some wilting roses from a ceramic vase and dropping the wet flowers into a nearby trash basket. “Otherwise he might tell the people in physical therapy to give you the ‘torture treatment,’ and I’ve heard it can be murder.”
“Humph.” He laughed despite his ill humor and the orderly ducked gratefully out the door.
“You’re not making any friends here, you know,” she said, sitting on the end of his bed and leaning back to study him. Her honey-colored hair fell loose behind her shoulders, and a small smile played on her lips.
“Am I supposed to be?”
“If you don’t want your breakfast served cold, your temperature to be taken at four a.m., or your TV cable to be mysteriously tampered with.”
“I’d pay someone to do it,” Parker muttered. “Then maybe I wouldn’t have to watch any more of that.” He nodded in the direction of the overhead television. On the small screen, a wavy-haired reporter with a bright smile was sitting behind a huge desk while discussing the worldwide ranking of America’s tennis professionals.
“—and the tennis world is still reeling from the unfortunate death of Brad Lomax, perhaps the brightest star in professional tennis since his mentor, Parker Harrison’s, meteoric burst onto the circuit in the midseventies.”
A picture of Brad, one arm draped affectionately over Parker’s broad shoulders, the other hand holding a winking brass trophy triumphantly overhead, was flashed onto the screen. Brad’s dark hair was plastered to his head, sweat dripped down his face, and a fluffy white towel was slung around his neck. Parker, his chestnut hair glinting in the sun, his face tanned and unlined, his eyes shining with pride, stood beside his protégé.
Now, as she watched, Shawna’s stomach tightened. Parker lay still, his face taut and white as the newscaster continued.
“Lomax, whose off-court escapades were as famous as his blistering serves, was killed just over two weeks ago when the vehicle Parker Harrison was driving swerved off the road and crashed down a hundred-foot embankment.
“Harrison is still reported in stable condition, though there’re rumors that he has no memory of the near-collision with a moving van which resulted in the—”
Ashen-faced, Shawna snapped the television off. “I don’t know why you watch that stuff!”
Parker didn’t answer, just glanced out the window to the rain-soaked day and the gloomy fir boughs visible through his fourth-floor window. “I’m just trying to figure out who I am.”
“And I’ve told you—”
“But I don’t want the romanticized version—just the facts,” he said, his gaze swinging back to hers. “I want to remember—for myself. I want to remember
you.”
“You will. I promise,” she whispered.
He sighed in frustration, but touched her hand, his fingers covering hers. “For the past week people have been streaming in here—people I should know and don’t. There have been friends, reporters, doctors, and even the mayor, for heaven’s sake! They ask questions, wish me well, tell me to take it easy, and all the time I’m thinking, ‘Who the hell are you?’ ”
“Parker—” Leaning forward, she touched his cheek, hoping to break through the damming wall blocking his memory.
“Don’t tell me to be patient,” he said sharply, but his eyes were still warm as they searched her face. “Just take one look around this room, for crying out loud!” Everywhere there were piles of cards and letters, huge baskets of fruit, tins of cookies and vases of heavy-blossomed, fragrant flowers. “Who
are
these people?” he asked, utterly perplexed.
Shawna wanted to cry. “People who care, Parker,” she said, her voice rough as her hands covered his, feeling the warmth of his palms against her skin. She treasured the comfort she felt as his fingers grazed her cheekbones. “People who care about us.”
He swore under his breath. “And I can’t remember half of them. Here I am with enough flowers to cover all the floats in the Rose Parade and enough damned fruit and banana bread to feed all the starving people in the world—”
“You’re exaggerating,” she charged.
“Well, maybe just a little,” he admitted, his lips twisting into a wry grin.
“A lot!”
“Okay, a lot.”
She stroked his brow, hoping to ease the furrows in his forehead. “Unfortunately, neither of us can undo what’s happened. Don’t you think that I would change things if I could? That I would push back the hands of the clock so that I could have you back—all of you?” She swallowed against a huge lump forming in her throat.
He rested his forehead against hers. His gaze took in every soft angle of her face, the way her lashes swept over her eyes, the tiny lines of concern etching the ivory-colored skin of her forehead, the feel of her breath, warm and enticing against his face. Old emotions, cloaked in that black recess of the past, stirred, but refused to emerge. “Oh, why can’t I remember you?” His voice was so filled with torment and longing, she buried her face in his shoulder and twisted her fingers in the folds of his sheets.
“Try,” she pleaded.
“I have—over and over again.” His eyes were glazed as he stroked her chin. “If you believe anything, believe that I want to remember you ... everything about you.”
The ache within her burned, but before she could respond, his palms, still pressed against her cheeks, tilted her face upward. Slowly, he touched her lips with his. Warm and pliant, they promised a future together—she could feel it!
Shawna’s heart began to race.
His lips moved slowly and cautiously at first, as if he were exploring and discovering her for the first time.
Tears welled unbidden to her eyes and she moaned, leaning closer to him, feeling her breath hot and constricted in her lungs.
Love me,
she cried mutely.
Love me as you did.
The kiss was so innocent, so full of wondering, she felt as flustered and confused as a schoolgirl. “I love you,” she whispered, her fingers gripping his shoulders as she clung to him and felt hot tears slide down her cheeks. “Oh, Parker, I love you!”
His arms surrounded her, drawing her downward until she was half lying across him, listening to the beat of his heart and feeling the hard muscles of his chest.
The sheets wrinkled between them as Parker’s lips sought hers, anxious and moist, pressing first against her mouth and then lower, to the length of her throat as his hands twined in the golden sun-bleached strands of her hair. “I have the feeling I don’t deserve you,” he murmured into her ear, desire flaring in his brilliant blue eyes.
From the hallway, Jake cleared his throat. Shawna glanced up to see her brother, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other as he stood just outside the door.