One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents (32 page)

If I never see you again it will be too soon.

The words rang inside her head, reminding her of the pain and disillusionment she had felt at that time. The same hurt and bitterness that she was risking feeling all over again just by being here.

‘Oh, Becca, Becca, you
idiot
!' she reproved herself harshly as she moved as far away from the bed as she could.

She had trapped herself well and truly and the only way to get out of this was to admit to Andreas just what had happened…

‘Oh, no…'

The words escaped from her lips in a whisper at the thought of confronting the cold, heartless anger she knew her husband to be capable of if she told him the truth. And besides, hadn't she read somewhere that it was foolish, even dangerous to tell someone suffering from amnesia the truth about their situation? It was forbidden, wasn't it? And she certainly wasn't about to take the risk of confronting Andreas with something he couldn't possibly want to know.

But he
had
asked for her.

That was what Leander had said, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

The truth was that she was so emotionally battered by everything that had happened in the last few weeks that single events were beginning to blur into one big, confused and confusing mass. She had barely recovered from the curt, totally businesslike reply Andreas had sent to her first enquiry before the phone call about the accident had come through, and as soon as she had heard that she had been on the plane out to Greece, to this tiny island that Andreas called home—and that once she had hoped, dreamed would be her home too.

She couldn't remember too clearly the actual words that had been used. But there was no way she would be here now if Andreas hadn't actually given his permission for her to be here.

But had that been before or after he had lost his memory? And was it the lover he believed she still was that he had asked for—or the wife he had rejected so completely?

Behind the door of the bathroom, the noise of the shower running jolted her back to the present, dragging her thoughts in the last possible direction that she wanted them to go. It was impossible to hear the driving sound of the water and not think of the times when she had had the freedom to join him in the shower, to share the hot water as it pounded down onto Andreas' hard, lean body, cascading over the bronzed skin, flowing down from the broad, straight shoulders, past his narrow waist, over the tight curves of his…

‘No!'

Becca shook her head sharply as the word escaped her, just the image of what she was remembering enough to drive her into motion, pushing her towards the door as fast as she could go.

‘I can't take this—can't do it…'

She would find Leander, explain that there had been a mistake. A terrible mistake.

And then she would get out of here.

She would run from Andreas as she had run a year before. Putting as much distance between him and herself as she possibly could.

She would run and run and she would never come back.

She should never have come back. Never, ever have come back to the island, to the villa—to the man she had once loved so deeply and so desperately.

What could have possessed her to even think that she could talk to him, persuade him to listen to her, to help her…?

She was almost at the top of the stairs when the word ‘help' sounded in her thoughts again, stopping her dead, reminding her of the real reason why she was here. The reason she had forgotten.

Oh, how could she have forgotten Macy? And most of all, how could she have forgotten little Daisy?

Daisy was just a baby—and her life, her tiny, precious life, depended on the way that Becca acted now.

Without her help, Daisy would die. And Becca had promised that she would do anything she could—everything she could—to help.

Standing with her hand on the newel post, fingers clenching tight over the polished wood, Becca sighed, half turned, looked back at the still slightly open door into the bedroom from which she had just fled in a panic-stricken rush.

She had promised—and she would keep that promise, no matter what it took. She needed Andreas' help and she would have to get that help, whatever she had to do to get it. She had no choice.

If the only way she could stay in the villa, the only way she could get close to Andreas and stay there until at last he remembered who she was and what she had asked of him—the money he had promised to provide—was to pretend to be the mistress that he believed her to be, then she was going to have to do it. She would play the part to the best of her ability and pray that it wouldn't take too long for Andreas' memory to return.

She had to—for Daisy's sake.

Drawing in a long, ragged breath and letting it out again on a heartfelt sigh, she made herself place first one foot on the staircase and then another, straightening her shoulders, holding her chin up high as she headed downstairs.

A
NDREAS
turned up the power and the temperature on the shower so that it pounded down savagely onto the top of his head, thudding onto his skull, leaving him incapable of thinking.

At least that was the plan. But somehow, when he needed it most, the plan didn't seem to be working.

He wanted to forget about the moments out in his bedroom when he had touched Becca.

When he had wanted to do so much more than touch. Certainly much more than fasten his hand around hers, or to stroke his fingers along the peachy softness of her cheek.

He had wanted to kiss her so badly. The hunger to take her lips with his had been like a nagging ache throughout his whole body, adding further discomfort to the already painful bruises that made his muscles throb, tugged at his ribs when he drew in his breath sharply. He wanted to hold her, caress her. He had felt his heart kick up, his blood pulse through his veins.

He had felt himself come alive for the first time in days.

In the days that he could remember anyway. The days that had registered in the void that had been his mind since he had come round from the unconsciousness that that car crash had put him into.

And for the first time since the accident he had felt like a man again, passionate and burning with a hot, hungry desire.

But a desire he really shouldn't give in to.

‘Hell and damnation!'

Andreas swore viciously and reached up to change the temperature of the water yet again, shuddering as this time an icy blast thundered onto his soaked hair, his bare shoulders. A long cold shower was what he needed to cool the heat in his blood, the fire that threatened to destroy his ability to think at all.

Any desire he felt would be crazy, stupid—madness to act upon, no matter how strongly he felt it, how urgently it called to him to appease it. He didn't need any further complications in his life. Things were already complex enough.

Wasn't it bad enough that he couldn't remember anything about the past twelve months? That anything he had learned about that year, and his accident, was something that he had had to take on trust, both in the hospital and since arriving home?

Home.

This time Andreas snapped off the shower completely and stepped out of the glass-walled stall, shaking his head like a big, angry dog, trying to drive away another flurry of unwanted thoughts that assailed and tormented him.

‘Home!'

He flung the word like a curse at his reflection in the huge, steamed-up mirror, scowling blackly into the dark blur of his eyes as he did so.

This
was
his home; he knew that at least. But from the moment that he'd arrived at the door, he had had the appalling feeling that something was very wrong. And that feeling had stayed with him as he'd walked through the house.

What he'd not been prepared for was the sheer wave of desolation that had overwhelmed him at just the thought of going into the obvious room, the master bedroom. There was no way he'd been prepared to admit to it, so he had turned instead and headed for the bedroom that was furthest away from it.

Which was why he had ended up in here.

Shaking his head again, he snatched up a towel and began to dry himself, his movements rough and almost aggressive as if he could wipe away the frustration of his lack of memory along with the water drops.

‘Damn!'

An unthinking movement caught the towel on a particularly dark-coloured bruise, making him draw in his breath in a sharp hiss between his teeth. But the stab of pain was easily dismissed, pushed out of his mind. It would heal. Another week or so and he would be back to normal. In his body at least.

But what about his mind?

Another string of curses, darker and even more vicious, spilled from his lips as he considered the prospect.

Without a memory or any knowledge of what had happened in the past year, how could he even think of any sort of relationship with a woman, even just the physical one that his hungry senses had been urging him on to? How could he ever allow himself any sort of emotional life when he knew nothing about the past one? He'd recognised Becca—remembered how he had felt about her. But what stage was that relationship at now?

That was certainly not a question he was ever going to ask Leander. There were some things that were too personal even for a personal assistant.

Flinging the wet towel away and snatching up a black towelling robe, Andreas shrugged it on and belted it tightly around himself, ignoring yet another protest from his bruised ribs.

He couldn't stay in here a moment longer. He twisted the key savagely to unlock the door, his fingers closing tightly over the handle until the knuckles showed white.

Becca was too much temptation for him to be able to face the thought of her staying in the house when he wasn't able to act on the sensual provocation she offered simply by existing. Just the memory of the way that his blood had heated in his veins as he'd touched her cheek had enough sting to make him fling open the door with unnecessary force.

‘This isn't going to work…'

The words died on his lips as he took in the empty room, the door out onto the landing standing slightly open, showing which way she had gone.

So at least she'd done as she was told. He had been so sure that she would ignore his instructions and that when he opened the door he would find her still there, waiting for him, possibly even determined to tuck him up in bed again…

‘I'm—not one to fuss unnecessarily…'

The memory of Becca's voice, soft and unexpectedly husky, speaking the words cut through another flare of sensual heat that surged along his nerves at the thought of being tucked up in bed by the lovely brunette, feeling her cool, soft hand on his brow, her fingers at his wrist checking his pulse. Immediately his pulse throbbed, desire giving him a hard, cruel kick low down in his body.

If it was this bad now, then how would it be if she stayed? What sort of ‘rest and recovery' as ordered by the doctors would be possible with images such as that blazing inside his head? How could he live every day with her when just the sight of her woke a carnal hunger that he could barely restrain?

And how could he give in to that hunger when he didn't know a thing about the missing months they must have spent together? It was better if she left, at least until he recovered somewhat.

His mind made up, he strode to the wardrobe, began pulling out clothes—a shirt and jeans—taking underwear from a drawer. He pulled on his clothes, and then headed down the stairs, bare feet padding silently on the polished wooden steps. The afternoon was coming to an end, the fierce heat of the day easing a little.

It was the sound of her laughter that caught him first. A light, bubbling sound, it seemed to reach out into the atmosphere and curl around his senses, soft and low. Just for a moment his footsteps slowed, bringing him to a halt a couple of stairs from the bottom as he paused, allowing himself to reconsider.

So what was wrong with a little flirtation—a sensual distraction from reality? They were both adults and she was as attracted to him as he was to her. She hadn't pulled away from his touch, in fact she had wanted more from him. He had seen it in her eyes. In the way that that luscious pink mouth had parted on a faint gasp. So what if he couldn't offer her a future? He didn't think she'd care about that. She'd obviously stayed around for the past year, so she must be happy with what they had.

Her laughter came again, but this time something in the sound grated on him. It sounded different, changed. Was that a flirtatious note that had slid into it?

From nowhere it seemed as if a cloud had invaded his mind. His mood changed, shifted, darkened, his whole body stiffening in the aggressive reaction of a bad-tempered dog that had just seen a stranger invade his territory.

Slowly, silently, he took a single step downwards towards the hall.

From this position he could see into the room, see where Becca was sitting at the table, a glass of some clear liquid in her hand. She was leaning back in her chair, looking so very much more relaxed than at any moment in his room upstairs. Her dark hair fell in seductive disarray around her beautiful, animated face. She'd taken off her lightweight jacket too and it hung, half on and half off the back of the chair, one sleeve dangling onto the floor. She was looking at someone else, those stunning, sea-coloured eyes fixed on whoever it was opposite her, across the table. And she was smiling.

That smile caught on Andreas' nerves. Caught and held and twisted. He found himself torn between two totally contrasting sensations. In one moment he experienced a real delight in seeing that smile, seeing the way it lit up her face, the way it curved the fullness of her lips, softening the kissable mouth and making it infinitely more tempting than before, and at the same time endured something else. That ‘something else' was a feeling that was the total opposite of delight, totally at war with pleasure. Without knowing where it had come from, Andreas suddenly found that he was filled with a black fury, racked with a terrible sense of hatred that had him clenching his hands into hard fists at his sides, biting down fiercely on his bottom lip to stop himself from speaking and letting the savage anger that crouched inside him out into the open.

‘I never thought of it that way,' Becca said and even her voice was very different from the way it had sounded before. It was light and easy, relaxed and touched with a hint of flirtatious teasing. ‘But now that you've explained it—it makes total sense.'

‘Of course it does,' a second voice put in. A deeper, thickly accented voice. A male voice and one that Andreas recognised at once.

It was Leander's voice. Leander his PA. Leander, his young, tall, dark and handsome PA.

A terrible sense of jealousy ripped through him, driving away all sense of rationality, all hope of calm. His jaw tightened, clamped into a thin, hard line until it ached and he could feel the rage rising in him like lava in a volcano, boiling up to the surface and threatening to spill out over the top, engulfing everything in a blazing, burning flood of fire.

Another slow, silent step downwards moved him to a position where he could see fully into the room. He could see where Leander lounged against the wall, long legs crossed at the ankles, dark face smiling, a glass in his own hand.

‘Never argue Greek legends with a Greek,' the younger man said now, waving his drink in the air to emphasise his point, his smile seeming to Andreas' watchful gaze to be intimate, almost conspiratorial.

‘I won't,' Becca said and the gleam of amusement in her face, the smile she directed at Leander twisted a knife deep inside Andreas.

He could feel his head start to pound, his breath becoming raw and uneven. He didn't ask himself where the rage was coming from, just accepted it as right, as the way he should feel. Wasn't this why he had told himself she had to go? That she was trouble if she stayed around?

He'd had enough.

Taking the last two steps down in a single jump, he marched into the room, his black mood showing in every stride, every movement. His attention totally focused on Becca, he saw the way that her head swung round, eyes widening in sudden confusion.

And guilt? Perhaps there was a touch of it. Certainly her face went white enough to make it seem that way.

‘OK, that's it,' he snapped, watching her eyelids flutter, her long dark lashes dipping to conceal her gaze just for a moment in a reaction to his appearance that she couldn't disguise.

‘It's time you left. Time you were out of here—
now
,' he added more forcefully when she simply sat back in her chair and stared at him, her mouth very slightly open, those beautiful eyes now blinking hard in shock as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

‘But…'

‘Andreas…' Leander put in but Andreas ignored him and addressed his words straight into Becca's stunned face.

‘Did you hear what I said?'

‘Oh, I heard all right…'

Becca was having to struggle to keep control of her voice enough to answer him. Her heart had lurched so hard, so violently when Andreas had come into the room that just for a moment she had thought she might actually faint from the shock of it. But even as she recovered a whole new tide of emotions had swept over her, a sense of apprehension so fierce as to be almost total panic being uppermost amongst them.

What was happening? Why was Andreas behaving like this? Earlier that afternoon, upstairs in his room, he had been distant it was true, but polite enough. Now he was in a dark, icy rage, his handsome features set into a mask of total hostility and rejection that made the panic come worryingly closer, her heart fluttering disturbingly and her thoughts whirling out of control.

Had he remembered what had happened? Had something she'd done betrayed her so that Andreas had realised the true situation between them and had now come downstairs in savage rage to turn on the wife he had rejected so brutally twelve months ago and force her out of his home once again?

‘But I've only just unpacked.'