“This is ridiculous,” Eugenia muttered, standing, yet lingering at the table.
Alex was staring at Marla. “I'm sorry,” he said. “You're right. Maybe you should get out. I . . . I've just been worried about you.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You know we always host a party the week after Thanksgiving at Cahill House. This year I figured you'd want to pass, but maybe that's not such a good idea. We still have what two, nearly three weeks? Maybe you and Mother can see to it.”
Some of Marla's bravado slipped. Her stomach soured at the thought of dozens of guests, all expecting her to be hostess. And yet, she had a staff to help her, surely she could do something. “I'm not sure that I'm up for a huge party.”
“Of course you aren't,” Eugenia said, glaring at her first-born. “That's way too much for you. You can skip it this year. Everyone will understand.”
“Wait a minute. I didn't say no, I said I wasn't sure.” But the idea was beginning to grow on her and she wasn't about to play the poor little invalid and know that because of her condition, family traditions and social gatherings were being sacrificed. Already her daughter thought she was nuts. Besides, she needed to meet the people who were her friends. “Okay,” she finally said, nodding to herself. “I'll do it.”
Eugenia opened her mouth as if to protest, then sat down in her chair again.
Was there a bit of trepidation in Alex's smile? Or was it just her imagination working overtime? “Wonderful,” he said with a trace of sarcasm.
Marla second-guessed herself. Maybe she was being rash. Suddenly she felt ill.
“Now,” Alex said, “if you'll excuse me, I've got a meeting downtown. Drinks at the Marriott. Japanese businessmen interested in investing. This could be the shot in the arm we need.” He walked around the table and planted a kiss on his wife's cheek. “You'll stick around a while, won't you, Nick? Entertain the women?”
Nick seemed uncomfortable but lifted a shoulder in halfhearted agreement. “For a while.”
“Thanks.” Obviously relieved, Alex checked his watch and strode out of the room.
“I don't need entertaining,” Marla clarified as she pushed her chair out and stood.
“Well, I do.” Eugenia arched a commanding eyebrow.
“If you don't mind, I think I'd better go up to see if Cissy's all right.”
“She's just being a teenager,” Eugenia said.
“I think she needs to talk to me.” Not only did she want to straighten things out with her daughter, but she needed to get away from her mother-in-law
and
Nickâthe outlaw, the man who made her question her marriage, her emotions, her convictions. She should avoid him like the plague, for she sensed, deep in the darkest parts of her soul, that he was a temptation she couldn't resist. She didn't need the undercurrents of emotion she caught in his glance, didn't want to speculate what it felt like to kiss him or make love to him or . . . She cleared her throat. “And then I think I'll rest.”
“Are you certain you don't want a little tea or coffee?”
“I'm sure,” she said firmly.
“Then Nick will be glad to help you upstairs, won't you dear?” Eugenia asked, and Marla had to press her lips together not to argue.
Nick sent his mother a guarded look. “Why not?”
“Afterwards come down and have coffee with me,” Eugenia invited. “I'm sure the cook can rustle up some cobbler or cheesecake or something.”
“Coffee'll do,” he said, but walked with Marla to the elevator. Her head began to ache again, her stomach was uneasy and it was all she could do not to sag against the elevator car's rail.
As the door closed, Nick pushed the button for the third floor then leaned against the side of the car. Again they were alone. In a cramped, far too intimate space. She tried not to notice his rugged good looks and irreverent damnably sexy attitude. He was tougher than Alex, perhaps more sinister. He wore his I-don't-give-a-damn attitude as if it were a badge. And, damn it, it intrigued her. While her husband was polished and Ivy-league educated, a successful businessman who entertained clients from all over the world, she guessed Nick was a loner, a man who could do just as well in a crowd or by himself. “Why're you here?” she asked as they reached the third floor. “I mean . . . not here in the house, but here in San Francisco.”
“I thought you knew. Alex thinks the corporation needs some help.” His jaw slid to one side. “At least that's what he says.”
“But you don't believe him?” she asked as she walked into the hall surrounding the staircase. Music blared from behind the closed door to Cissy's room, and when she tapped and stuck her head inside, the girl, a telephone receiver to one ear, scowled.
“What do you want?” Cissy demanded.
“To talk.”
The girl bit her lip. Looked as if she wanted to scurry into a corner and hide. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she managed a bored expression. “Can it be later? I've got homework.”
Marla glanced at the phone and stereo. There wasn't a book in sight. But this wasn't the time to start nagging. Not when there were more important issues between them. She met the challenge in her daughter's rebellious gaze. “Okay. When?”
“I don't know.” Cissy lifted a shoulder.
“But you'll let me know.”
“Yeah,” she said shortly, adjusting the phone to her ear. “Mom,
puh
leez . . .”
“Okay, okay. Tomorrow,” Marla said, then closed the door and sighed. Nick was standing near enough to touch her. “I guess I'm going to have to sharpen my parenting skills.”
“Is that possible?” Nick asked.
“I don't know,” she admitted, wishing she felt any sense of kinship with her daughter. She checked on the baby, found him sleeping, then returned to the hall. Nick was waiting for her.
Rain bounced off the skylight far overhead and gurgled in the gutters. “I asked you if you believe Alex.”
“Don't you?”
“Of course,” she said quickly, unable to face the mind-numbing truth that she didn't trust her own husband.
Nick rubbed the back of his neck. His gaze was dark. Stormy. “I'm not sure what to believe.”
“You don't trust him,” she said as they reached the double doors to the suite. “Why?”
“That's between him and me.”
“Yes, but I have this feeling that it has a lot to do with me,” she guessed, and saw a flicker of emotion in his gaze.
His gaze dropped to her lips for just a second, then returned to her eyes. “You always were an egomaniac, Marla.”
“Was I?” She managed a nervous laugh that seemed to ring hollowly. “Funny, I don't remember that.” As she reached for the knob of the door, she shook her head. Exhaustion was taking its toll. She wanted to lie down, go to sleep, and when she woke up, hope this nightmare had vanished.
“What exactly do you remember?” he asked.
“Not enough, but . . . I get glimpses of the past, just tiny flashes, nothing concrete, nothing I can hold on to. Kind of like the spark in a lighter that's running out of fuel. Just a quick glimmer and then it's gone even though I try like hell to call it back.” Her gaze swept around the hall with its thick carpet, the dark rail of the stairs, brass light fixtures and porcelain pots of philodendron and ferns. “But I have a feeling that my memory's coming back,” she said, and tried not to notice the scent of his aftershave, or the dark promise she imagined she saw in his eyes.
“That's good news.”
“The best.”
His look was intense. Heart-stopping. “I'm pulling for you.”
“Are you?”
He reached forward as if he intended to touch the curve of her face, then let his hand fall to his side. “You bet.”
She felt a sudden rush of unwanted tears but fought them back. What was it about him that when he offered a tiny hint of kindness, she wanted to fall apart like some foolish woman, the kind she disdained? Forcing a smile she didn't feel, she tried to lighten the mood. “That might not be such a good idea, because when I remember everything,” she added, opening the door and stepping through the crack, “everybody, including you, better watch out.”
“What's gonna happen?”
A wry smile twisted her lips. “In your case, maybe I'll finally recall what it is that makes you so defensive around me.”
He lifted a dark uncompromising eyebrow. “You know, Marla, some things are best left forgotten.”
“I don't believe it and neither would you if you were me,” she argued. “Not knowing is pure hell. Pure hell.”
“I suppose.” Again he focused on her lips.
Her pulse jumped stupidly. “Anyway, who knows what I'll remember? But it could be interesting, don't you think?”
“That's one word.”
“And another?”
“Damning.” His eyes searched hers. So blue. So intense. So knowing. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. What was it that bonded them so tightly, yet forced them apart? Staring at the slant of his cheekbones and the set of his jaw, she swallowed hard, felt her mouth turn dry as dust and hazarded a quick glance to eyes as seductive as they were condemning. Oh, God, this was so wrong. And yet . . . There was something, a secret, a deep, erotic secret that she sensed existed between them. Wayward, taboo thoughts of lovemaking crept unbidden through her brain and yet they were fantasies, not memories.
“Good night, Nick,” she said firmly, shutting the door quickly before she said or did anything rash, anything she might regret. This was crazy.
Nuts!
Nick was her brother-in-law and she was imagining what it would be like to touch him, to kiss him. She'd even gone so far as to tease him,
flirt
with him for crying out loud. As if it was second nature. What was it about him?
She sagged against the door of the suite. She was a married woman.
Marriedâas in
until death do us part. “Stop it,” she chided, kicking off her shoes, then padded to the bathroom where she stripped and splashed cold water over her face. Maybe her fascination with him was the reason there had been problems in her marriage. Maybe she'd had an affair with him
after
she'd married Alex. Maybe he'd lied and the time-line was vastly different. Maybe . . . oh, God, no . . . maybe her baby was
his
child, the result of an illicit affair and . . . and . . . And she'd pawned James off as Alex's.
“Stop it!” she ordered, staring in horror at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her fingers grabbed hold of the marble edge of the counter in a death grip. Drops of water ran down her face and her skin was pale, but healing. And the woman in the mirror wasn't unattractive. No . . . If anything, she sensed that she would be beautiful. Just as Helene had predicted. She might not look
exactly
like the photographs that were strewn around this house, but she'd be pretty in her own way.
A Jezebel.
Good Lord, was it possible? Her hands shook as she snapped a towel out of its ring and dabbed at her skin. She couldn't . . .
wouldn't
let her mind run wild with fantasies about Nick or anyone else for that matter. No, she just had had to get a grip, let her memory take its course.
And then what?
“Deal with it. No matter what it is.”
She found a pair of pajamasâwhite satin, of all thingsâand slipped them on, then ignoring the rumbling in her stomach, and the questions pummeling her brain, she climbed into bed, sipped the glass of juice dutifully waiting for her and didn't even bother turning on the television or leafing through the photo albums she'd stacked by the side of the bed. She knew she'd fall asleep instantly and she wasn't disappointed. The minute her head hit the pillow, she drifted off so deep that she didn't hear the footsteps enter her room less than an hour later, didn't know that she was being watched . . .
Chapter Ten
“Die, bitch!”
The voice was low, gravelly. Filled with hate.
Marla froze in the bed. Her eyes flew open. The room was dark. So dark. Her heart jumped to her throat. Panic surged through her blood.
Oh, God, was someone there?
Squinting hard against the shadows, she scanned her room, her eyes adjusting to the slits of light sliding under the door to the suite. But no one was looming over her bed and yet . . . yet . . .
A cold clammy sweat enveloped her. Marla swallowed her fear and turned on the bedside lamp. The room was suddenly awash with soft golden light. Everything was just as it had been, right down to the matching pillows on the bed. She'd been dreaming; that was it. Probably because she didn't feel well. The soup she'd had at dinner, mixed with the tense conversation, had given her a bad case of nerves and a jittery stomach.
There was no one in the room.
She let out her breath and heard somethingâa muffled footstep?
What?
Heart thundering in her ears, she threw back the covers and shot out of bed.
Calm down,
she told herself, but couldn't stop the sweat that beaded on her skin as she slowly scanned the roomâbathroom, closet, curtains, searching for any hint that a sinister presence had threatened her. She found nothing.
Rain lashed against the windowpanes and wind rattled the glass, but she was alone. “Get a grip,” she told herself, but inside she was shaking. Her stomach clenched nervously, its contents roiling.
Had she heard someone or had the snarling voice been part of a fast retreating nightmare? She shoved a hand through her hair and, mentally scolding herself, walked through the suite where the lights were turned down low. Feeling a fool, she rapped lightly on her husband's door. “Alex?” she called through the panels. No answer. She tried the knob. The door didn't budge. “Alex?”
Locked out again.
Calm down, no one is here. It was a dream. Nothing but a damned dream! Alex hasn't gotten home yet. That's it. Relax.
But she couldn't. It was all too real. She checked the clock. Not quite eleven. She hadn't even been asleep all that long.
You were just imagining things, that's all. Your nerves are shot, Marla. You're jumping at shadows. No one was in your room. It was the tail end of a nightmare, one you don't remember. Take a deep breath and get hold of yourself, for God's sake.
Edgy, she walked into the darkened hallway, then snapped on a light and stared at the empty, carpeted corridor. At the railing, she strained to listen. Above the soft strains of classical music, there was a quiet whisper of conversation, Eugenia's prim diction and Nick's lower voice. Marla's knees nearly buckled in relief. Nothing was out of the ordinary. She heard no scurrying footsteps. No heavy breathing. No sounds of Coco barking loudly at an intruder.
You're not going to hear the report of a gunshot, or the splinter of glass.
Face it, Marla, you're just a basket case. No dark, ominous figure is lurking about. No sinister presence is scuttling away.
And Nick's downstairs.
Somehow that thought was reassuring though Marla hated to admit it, even to herself. She wasn't one of those insipid, frail women who needed a man to feel safe. She was as certain of that small fact as she was of anything, which didn't say a lot these days, she thought.
But she couldn't depend on Nick. Or Alex. No. She had to rely on herself. Her stomach still ached and beads of sweat were chilling on her skin. This wasn't the first time she'd thought someone was at her bedside. She'd felt the same eerie, malicious presence in the hospital.
“Stop it,” she ordered, her fingers curling over the railing. “There was nothing there. You're dealing with bad bisque mixed with an overactive imagination.” Nonetheless, she had to check on the kids. What if there had been a stranger in the room? What if he was hiding in Cissy's room or James' nursery? What if cornered he would then grab one of the children? Hold either of them hostage? The family was wealthy and could easily be a target. Propelled by the turn of her thoughts, she shot across the hallway and threw open Cissy's door.
“What theâ?” Cissy jumped up from her vanity stool, knocking over a bottle of fingernail polish. She dropped the brush. Purple polish splashed onto the vanity. “Shit!” she yelled loudly as she was wearing earphones. “Are you nuts?” She ripped off the headset and motioned angrily at the spilled polish.
Marla swept the room with her gaze. It was a mess as usual, books, sweaters, CDs and stuffed animals scattered all over the carpet, but there was nothing sinister about it. “I had a bad dream. Wanted to check on you.”
“By scaring me to death?”
“I'm sorry, I should have knocked.”
“No, duh! You're losing it, Mom.”
“I hope not.”
Cissy rolled her eyes, but her anger was replaced by teenaged concern. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Marla lied. “Just . . . nervous.”
“Maybe you should take some Valium or tranquilizers or whatever. That's what Brittany's mother does. All those kids drive her nuts.”
“I'll think about it,” Marla said, feeling like an utter fool. “Good night, honey. I'll see you in the morning.”
“Yeah.” Cissy nodded, but her eyebrows were still pulled together in one concerned, disbelieving line. She dabbed at the spilled polish with a Kleenex as Marla closed the door behind her and hurried across the hall to the nursery.
The night light set on dim allowed her to see into the room. James was sleeping soundly on gingham sheets and gratefully oblivious to any evil in the world. “Oh, sweetheart.” Tears of relief filled Marla's eyes. Everything was all right. Her children were safe. No one had attacked her. Nothing was wrong in this guarded fortress of a mansion.
And Cissy's right. You're losing it. Big time. Get a grip, Marla. Now!
She sniffed, swiped at her nose and fought tears. No one was in the house who shouldn't be. Life here was normal . . . well, as normal as it could be considering. Her stomach gurgled and ached, but other than a trace of nausea, she was fine. If you don't stop this ridiculous paranoia you could wind up locked away in a mental hospital.
“No,” she whispered quietly, stiffening her spine. She couldn't bear the thought. This house was enough of a prison, but an institution . . . no way. Not ever. She wrapped her arms around herself and told herself that her nerves were just strung tight tonight, tighter than usual.
She glanced down at the baby again and a flash of memory sizzled through her brain. In an instant she remembered the hospital and the delivery room with its bright lights, the intense pressure and pain of the birth, a masked doctor delivering the boy and . . . and . . . the baby . . . her precious son . . . coming into the world. The labor had been long. Tedious. Worse than she'd expected. But in the end she'd delivered her son.
Yes! Yes! Yes! James was her child. Hers!
She remembered his crown of red hair, wet and plastered to his head beneath a coating of white and his face all screwed up and angry in the seconds before he was placed onto her belly and she held him to her breast.
I will love you forever,
she'd thought at the time,
and no one's going to take you away from me. I swear it. No matter what.
Vivid images were burned in her brain and along with the elation of birth there was something darker involved, something intense . . . fear . . . A deep-seated and mind-numbing fear that someone would take the child from her, wrest this precious baby from her arms . . . but that was insane . . . wasn't it?
She picked up the tiny bundle and held him to her shoulder as if she expected someone to rip him from her at any moment. Tears streamed down her face and her stomach spasmed. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing his thatch of hair and drinking in the sweet baby scent of him. He cooed, nuzzled and sighed in a soft breath against the crook of her neck, evoking more tears in her eyes. God, she loved this tiny child. “It's gonna be all right,” she said, rocking from side to side. “Everything's gonna be all right. Mama's here. I . . . I won't let anything happen to you. Not ever.”
And how are you going to stop it?
“However I can. Whatever it takes.” She sniffed back her tears, and refused to be intimidated. No one was going to help her; she wasn't certain who she could trust. She'd have to combat her fears by herself. As she stood in the semidark for a few minutes, needing to hold the baby far more than he needed to be cuddled, Marla pressed her lips to James's downy crown. Outside a branch scraped against the roof and the wind rushed through the trees, but inside it was safe. James made tiny smacking noises with his lips and Marla smiled, reluctantly placing him in his crib.
She left the connecting door to the nursery slightly ajar as she made her way back to bed. Holding her son had chased her fears away, but she was still a little queasy. Her emotions were ragged, her mind jangled and frayed, her stomach in knots. She considered going downstairs, searching out the damned nurse, but felt like a wimp. Besides, it was only a case of nerves; nothing more. She couldn't imagine telling Eugenia or Nick that her tummy was upset and that she'd thought a stranger had stood over her bed and threatened to kill her, here, in her own home.
“Toughen up,” she scolded herself, then downed the rest of the water in her bedside glass. She slid between the covers and told herself that tomorrow she wasn't going to sit around this house. No way. No how. Not one more minute. As soon as the damned wires were off, Marla would visit her father, her brother and the tennis club. She'd meet with Cherise, see if she remembered her. Her mind spun with plans of reaching someone in Pam Delacroix's family, finding out more about the woman she couldn't remember and the hastily arranged trip that no one understood. Maybe she could explain how horrid she felt about friend's death. Then there was Charles Biggs's family. She'd have to talk to the bereaved.
There were no two ways about it. Starting tomorrow, she'd take the bull by the horns and gain control of her life againâfind out exactly what made Marla Cahill tick.
And what about Nick? Are you going to explore your relationship with him, too?
“You bet I am,” she said as she plumped her pillow. She couldn't get well until she knew the truth.
Reaching over for the lamp, Marla glanced around the room one last time. Elegant as it was, it still felt strange to her, awkward, as if it didn't fit, just the way she'd felt as a teenager, slipping into a beautiful, expensive dress, two sizes too big and belonging to someone else . . . the memory tore through her mind. Sizzling. Bright. Harsh. It wasn't just an analogy. She
had
tried on a fancy dress, one that hadn't belonged to her. She remembered it clearly. And yet . . . how? According to everyone she'd grown up pampered, the only daughter of an extremely wealthy man, treated as if she were a princess . . . surely she'd never have worn hand-me-downs . . . no way, and yet the dress, a soft blue beaded confection, was imprinted upon her mind. She remembered running her fingers along the skirt, feeling the smooth lining against her skin, knowing the expensive dress had belonged to another girl . . . one she didn't like . . .
When? How?
Her stomach clenched.
Was this a real memory, or all part of the dreams she was having?
Call for Nick,
Marla's mind screamed silently.
Alex isn't here and you need someone to confide in.
But not Nick, oh, God, no . . . she couldn't . . .
Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate. She'd been about fourteen at the time, not much older than Cissy. “Won't she mind?” she'd asked her mother. “Won't she care that I'm in her dress?”
There had been a sharp bark of laughter from the other room . . . the kitchen with its smells of grease and stale cigarette smoke. “She's got so many, she won't miss one.”
“Mother,” Marla whispered now, cold sweat breaking on her skin. She'd been talking to her mother. A fan swirled lazily overhead and flies buzzed at the half-open window. But why would Victoria Amhurst be in a shabby bedroom with yellowed curtains, a rag rug and dusty blinds?
Where had they been? Why had she felt like it was home? Marla held her breath, thought hard, her fists clenching in the smooth sheets of her bedâthis elegant canopied, rosewood monstrosityâand tried to call up her mother's face. She'd seen the pictures in the photograph albums, but she couldn't remember her mother at all. Why in the world had she given Marla a hand-me-down dress fit for a debutante? A
used
gown?
Unless she wasn't Marla Cahill. Wasn't Alexander's wife. Wasn't Victoria Amhurst's daughter.
Was it possible? She touched her face, traced the scars that were receding. Why would everyone insist she was a woman she wasn't? What about the wreck and the amnesia? Coincidence ? Or were there darker forces at playâsinister plans embodied in the man who had threatened her? The voices in her mind kept reminding her that this wasn't her room, that there was just no way she would have draperies and pillows that matched, a bed big enough for two but only occupied by one, a sitting area and bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes that, she guessed, hadn't been opened in years. Where were the magazines? The crossword puzzle books? The handstitched throws? The
mess
that she instinctively felt was a part of her life?