To See The Daises ... First (2 page)

At her shout of laughter, he warily picked up the water glass again, ready to administer first aid if necessary, but she made it through this time without choking.

"I like you," she said with a chuckle. "I'm glad I changed my mind. And the reason I can't tell you my name is. . . ."

Ben leaned closer, then groaned silently as the waitress picked that moment to arrive with their meal. He gritted his teeth during the arrangement of their plates of linguini, the ceremonial placing of the wine bottle, and the talkative waitress's attempts to convince them that they were in for a rare treat because Mama's clam sauce was the envy of every chef in town.

When the waitress was at last hailed by another diner, he turned back to his mysterious companion, giving her a stern look as she eyed the pasta longingly.

"The reason is . . ."he prompted.

"It's very simple," she said, picking up her fork. "The reason I came to you and the reason I can't tell you my name are one and the same." She looked up at him and smiled serenely. "I don't know who I am."

Two

The changing expressions on the face of the man seated across from her kept her mind—momentarily off food. Shock came first, widening the gray eyes that should have been brown, causing his strong, square jaw to drop slightly, and she knew she had taken him completely by surprise. Gradually an eye-narrowing suspicion replaced the shock, then a quickly disguised anger.

He obviously thought she was trying to put something over on him. Apparently he didn't know how intimidating his size and stern features were. Definitely not a man to toy with.

Earlier, through the smoke-stained glass barrier, she had watched him working, and everything about him—his strong, compelling face, the neat, blue shirt covering but not concealing powerful shoulders, even the firm way he held his pen— pointed to the fact that this was a man who led a structured life. A place for everything and everything in its place. And, as if that weren't enough, the sensuality she had seen in firmly molded lips, sensed in his movements, caused a strange turbulence in her stomach, pushing her farther away from a decision to speak to him.

Then she had noticed his hair. Though neatly combed, it hung just a little below the conventional length that would have matched the rest of him, curling irrepressibly oh the back of his strong neck.

She had almost gone in then, encouraged by the one comfortable flaw in his appearance, but just at that moment he had frowned and the grimness in his face had instantly reversed her decision. It was only when they had stepped out of the elevator Into the natural light that flooded the ground floor and she had seen the unmistakable laugh lines around his eyes, the quickly hidden touch of insecurity in his face, that she knew she could trust him with her story.

She stared now at his deeply tanned, rugged features, then said softly, "You don't believe me, do you?" as she dipped her fork into the linguini, unable to resist the smell any longer. Dropping her fork in exasperation, she raised her arms to shake back the full sleeves that dipped precariously into the clam sauce.

"Here," he said, reaching out as a sparkle of humor replaced the distrust in his gray eyes.

She extended both arms and waited impatiently as he rolled back the sleeves to a workable length. The aroma of the clam sauce was driving her wild, but she had the feeling that even if the food fell short of the waitress's claims it would taste like haute cuisine to her deprived tastebuds. As he rolled up the left sleeve she attacked the pasta with her free hand, an almost sensual "mmmmm" escaping her as the food settled into her empty stomach.

"You really are hungry, aren't you?" he asked, watching with bewilderment and a little awe as she ate without pause. "When did you eat last?"

"I don't know," she replied, hastily swallowing a mouthful of garlic bread to speak. "But it must have been a very long time ago." She raised her eyes briefly to smile at him. "I'm deeply indebted to you for feeding me. I was beginning to have dark thoughts—like mugging a pigeon in the park for his popcorn." Pausing thoughtfully, she added, gesturing with her fork, "You know, everyone should experience true hunger at least once in his lifetime. It has a way of wiping out the superfluous—the nonessential—and forces you to concentrate on the basics."

"And what would you classify as superfluous? Your"—he hesitated, giving her a skeptical look— "amnesia?"

"Ah," she said. "Now we're getting into a question of relativity. If you mean loss of memory in general, that's out of my range. Too deep," she explained, taking a sip of wine. "But my loss of memory—that I can handle. To me it is superficial, and therein lies the crux of my problem."

He waited with an impatient expression as she twined more of the dwindling pasta around her fork. When she didn't continue immediately he said shortly, "Are you going to tell me or not?"

"I'm just wondering where to begin."

"How about the beginning?" he offered drily.

Leaning back, she cast her eyes over his large frame, a tiny smile of amusement curving her lips. "A man with a logical mind," she murmured. "How can you stand it? It would drive me crazy."

"Would you like to know what drives me crazy?" he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Okay, okay," she said, laughing at his frustrated expression. "From the beginning." She finished the last of her wine, then said, "The beginning for me was yesterday afternoon. I woke up in a depressingly dirty little room. I had no idea where I was or who I was, but I knew I definitely didn't want to be there. The door was locked so I left by the window."

She knew she was being less than honest in her recounting of the events of the day before, but there was so much to tell. Her physical and mental state when she had awakened alone in that creepy little room. The problems she had encountered in trying to leave. But for now, until she could better judge this man's reaction to her unusual predicament, she would simply relay the basic facts to him.

"Since then," she continued, "I've been walking, mostly. When I decided to get in touch with a private investigator, I looked in a phone book and found—with the help of an adorable little German lady—the one closest to the phone booth. Which led me to you," she finished with a shrug, then stared at him with interest for a moment. "And you still don't believe a word of it. . . right?"

He rubbed his strong jaw thoughtfully. "Why a private investigator?" he asked instead of answering her question. "Why not the police? They might have a missing person's report on you right now. And even if they don't, they have resources that would make the search easier. If nothing else, they could take your story to the newspapers and television."

She leaned forward to plant her elbows on the table. "I considered the police. In fact, I think I covered all the possibilities." She grinned. "I've had a lot of free time for thinking of late." Her eyes dropped to his untouched lunch. "Aren't you going to eat that?" Then, when he gave a snort of surprised laughter and switched plates with her, she continued to explain between bites.

"Suppose I don't belong to anyone? What would the police do with me then?"

"What do you mean, what would they do with you? You sound like you think they would throw you out with the trash."

"That would be better. No, they would send me to a psychiatrist."

"So? A psychiatrist might be able to help you remember." He paused and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Unless you're afraid I'll find out you're lying."

She shook her head In regret. "It's very hard for you to accept something on faith alone, isn't it? What on earth could I gain by tying?" She frowned thoughtfully. "No, that's not the reason I'm afraid to go to the police."

"Afraid?"

"Yes, afraid. Consider the facts. One of the most horrifying things that can happen to a person is the loss of self. I didn't even know what city I was in until I saw Houston on the cover of the telephone book. I should be terrified. I should have a dark cloud of emptiness hanging over my head." Finishing the last bite of linguini, she leaned back with a sigh of repletion. "Do I look terrified?" she asked quizzically.

"No," he replied, chuckling softly. "I can't really , say that you do."

"Right. I'm not. I'm having a ball." Her eyes sparkled as she remembered how she had spent the first part of her day. "Do you know what I did this morning? I played chess with a very dapper old man in the park and then repaired the kite of a chubby little boy with a lisp." She leaned forward to whisper confidingly, "I'm crazy, you see. That's why I can't go to the police. If I don't belong to anyone, they would lock me up. I've thought it over very carefully and I decided that if this is crazy, I can live with it. So no police."

Ben's shoulders shook with silent laughter at her unorthodox, but strangely logical thinking. He doubted very much that she was insane, but he wasn't at all sure the authorities would agree with him. What on earth had he stumbled across? She was like no one he had ever met before. And she thought he was fighting against believing her. The truth was that he accepted every word that crossed her beautiful lips, and it was this—his uncharacteristic receptiveness—that made him wary. Something inside his brain was warning him not to be so fascinated, so mesmerized by the uniqueness of her personality, the open joy in her face. He had learned the hard way that every bit of joy that came in this world was followed sooner or later by disillusionment.

He wanted to tell her why it was so difficult to accept what he was feeling, to warn her against being so open to life, but as he looked into her brilliant blue eyes, he found he couldn't be the one to take away the joy.

Reaching across the table, he picked up the
small hand of this tantalizing bit of sunshine and
gave it a comforting squeeze. "You're not crazy.
Unconventional, unexpected, and even a little
kookie," he said, smiling, "but not crazy. And it's
extremely unlikely that you don't have relatives of
some kind."

"That's why I decided to try a private investigator. Then I wouldn't lose anything if it turns out that nobody wants me." She paused, glancing down at the tabletop, as though she were not quite sure how to continue. "Um . . . the only thing is ... I don't have any money . . . but you've probably already guessed that." Lifting her eyes, she gazed at him earnestly. "If it turns out that I don't have anyone, it may be a while before I can pay you. But if I do, I promise I'll pay you immediately. Do you think you could find out before dinner?" she asked hopefully.

He chuckled again, shaking his head in wonder. He hadn't laughed so much in months—no, years. It had been years since he had felt this happy, this light-hearted.

"I'm afraid I can't promise that," he said, smiling ruefully. He really would have to tell her the truth soon. Charlie would take her case—Ben would make sure of that—but how could he tell her of his deception without losing her trust? Then again, did he realty deserve her trust? She v had a very real problem that needed solving and he was playing games with her—because when he looked at her, the doubts and fears that had been his uncomfortable companions for months slid into the background for a while. He was trying to leech her vitality and freshness in an underhanded way that suddenly shamed him. And it was going to stop right now, he decided.

"Look, Sunshine—there are a lot of things we need to cover. Labels in your clothing. Finding the place where you woke up yesterday. But before we go any further, there's something I need to tell you. When you came to the office—"

A loud crash interrupted him and all eyes in the cafe jerked around to watch the man with the daisies apologize profusely to the harassed waitress as he helped her pick up the load of empty dishes that were scattered on the floor.

Ben looked away from the scene, exasperated at the interruption, and returned, his gaze to the woman across from him. He opened his mouth to continue, then stopped abruptly. She had turned sideways in her chair to see what had happened and the huge trench coat had slipped down slightly on her shoulder, her bare shoulder. His eyes followed the hardly visible line of smooth, creamy skin down to the tops of small, round—but equally bare—breasts and his breath caught roughly in his throat. As he felt the muscles in his loins tighten in reaction, he thought in a strangely objective way that once again she had called forth feelings in him that had been absent for months.

***

"Sunshine," he had christened her. The name pleased her. As she turned back to the table, she wondered what this large, tough-looking man really thought of her. He watched every small move she made with a curious intensity. Maybe he thinks I'm going to start raving any minute, she thought, grinning as she raised her eyes to his. Then her grin faded as she took in the look in his shocked gray eyes. She glanced down to find her borrowed coat had slipped down just enough to expose her bare shoulder.

"We obviously can't check the labels in your clothes," he muttered, his voice gruff as he watched her rearrange the beige trench coat. Clearing his throat loudly, he added, "Was there something you forgot to tell me?"

She couldn't hold back a giggle at the wariness in his voice. "I guess I did hold back a few of the minor details," she said. "I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't turn me over to the guys with the butterfly nets. You won't, will you?"

"You have my word. Now tell me the . . . minor details." He paused. "I suppose I'm right in assuming you're not wearing anything under that coat?"

"Not a stitch," she replied with cheerful unconcern. "I couldn't find any clothes when I woke up yesterday—except for an extremely disreputable-looking shirt—and since I stole this coat, the label in it wouldn't help." She paused as a shout of laughter behind them distracted her. "Shouldn't we go back to your office to discuss this?"

A strange look crossed his face before he said hastily, "No, this is fine. I don't want to lose any more time before you give me all the facts."

Shrugging, she continued. "As I said, I woke up in an ugly little room—a hotel room I think, but it certainly wasn't a suite at the Hilton. Just the bedroom and a bathroom straight out of a horror movie. I was lying on the bed with a sheet covering me . . . and I was completely nude."

She hesitated, unwillingly remembering how she had felt a moment of overwhelming anxiety when she had first opened her eyes in that depressing little room. But as she had gradually awakened enough to be aware of her loss of memory, she had come to view her situation as a challenge rather than a tragedy—which helped to convince her that she couldn't possibly be in full possession of her mental faculties.

Smiling wryly, she lifted her gaze from the table to continue, but stopped abruptly when she found he was not staring impatiently at her face as she had expected. In fact, he wasn't looking at her face at all. His eyes were trained on the beige coat, and a steel gray fire was blazing in them.

She raised a hand to her throat, suddenly feeling less complacent about her lack of clothing. It felt as though he were looking straight through the coat to her body underneath, and—not for the first time since she had encountered this man— she felt a strange fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach.

When he raised his eyes at last, she saw that— unbelievable as it seemed—he was as confused as she was. The knowledge gave her the strength to ignore the strange sensations and continue.

"When I tried the door it was locked from the outside. Every time I pounded on the door, someone would either shout obscenities at me or laugh." She glanced at him ruefully. "I decided real quick that I didn't really want whoever was staying in the other rooms to help me." She sighed and leaned back. "So when I found a disgustingly dirty shirt under the bed, I put it on and climbed out the window."

She chuckled suddenly. "There was an old man sitting in the alley. You should have seen the look on his face when I climbed down that fire escape. He kept watching the window to see what else would come out."

"I can imagine," he murmured under his breath, his eyes flaring once again before sparkling with humor. "How did you acquire the trench coat?"

"It was surprisingly easy," she said. "I saw a delivery man going in a door off the alley, so I peeked in. It was some sort of storage room and the coat and shoes"—she lifted her foot to show him a battered sneaker—"were lying on a table. The shoes are a little large, but I didn't think I should wait around to ask if they had anything smaller. At least they were clean. It was a relief to get out of that filthy shirt." She paused thoughtfully. "It was really kind of fun." Her eyes brightened as she was struck by a new thought. "Do you suppose I was a thief in my other life? I don't feel the least bit guilty for having taken things that didn't belong to me."

"Somehow I doubt it." He chuckled.

"Oh," she said, almost disappointed. "Well, anyway, after that I started walking . . . and thinking. At first I was determined not to try to find out who I was, I wanted—"

"Why?" he interrupted. "That should have been your first impulse. Everything else—food, clothes, and so forth—would have been taken care of when you found your identity."

"You're right, of course. And I did think about it for a while." She leaned closer, speaking earnestly. "But you see, I felt no pressing need to find out about myself. And that very fact started me wondering why. Why wasn't it urgent that I discover my family and background? Amnesia is really pretty rare, isnt it?"

At his confirming nod, she continued. "At most it's usually a blank space that covers a short time after an accident. What I'm experiencing doesn't resemble that in the least, except for the possibility of an accident. I do have a bump on my head." She pushed back her thick hair to expose a discolored lump high on her forehead. "But I don't have any memory of the past at all. At least about me. I know how to speak and that George Washington was the first president, and I remembered how to play chess."

"And that you like Italian food," he added, smiling.

"Yes, well, I have a confession to make about that," she admitted sheepishly. "You could have asked me how I like warthog flambe and gotten the same response. I was starving."

"I noticed that."

She couldn't help laughing at his dry expression.

"Anyway, since my loss of memory is more extensive than the usual kind, I figured there must be something else involved. Maybe there's a reason I can't remember."

"You mean something in your past you don't want to know about?" he asked, gazing at her thoughtfully. "You could be right. The mind is the most powerful unexplored mystery that's left to man. What you're talking about happens to all of us to a certain degree. We tend to block out events that are painful to remember."

His face changed as he spoke, growing tense and hard as though he were recalling events and referring to them obliquely. This was the man she had seen earlier through a dirty glass panel. The man she had turned away from. She couldn't suppress a shiver as she stared at the harsh lines of his face, the cold steel in his eyes. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the mood left and he was once more the laughing man in the elevator.

"Or at least we try to," he continued. "And there are times that we may have an exceptionally clear picture of something in our past, only to find that our recollection is entirely false—that we have remembered what we wanted to remember."

"Exactly," she said fervently. "And since I can't remember anything, my whole life must have been a mess. So why should I be in any hurry to get back to a mess?"

"I see what you mean," he said, laughing silently. "But you changed your mind."

"I had to. I thought maybe I could get some kind of assistance from one of the government agencies—just a loan so I could buy some clothes and look for a job—but you wouldn't believe what happened," she said indignantly. "You have to have numbers! I don't have numbers therefore I don't exist which means I couldn't possibly be hungry!" She gave him a disgusted look. "I mean, people who don't exist don't have to worry about eating, do they? And you can stop laughing. How many more nonexistent people do you suppose starve to death each year?"

"I'm sorry," he said, controlling his laughter with difficulty. "Don't you think they had a right to be a little suspicious? If you were completely on the up and up, you would have had your Social Security card. M they handed money out to everyone who asked, a lot of unscrupulous people would take advantage of it."

"I suppose so," she admitted grudgingly. "But after that I was afraid to go to the Salvation Army for clothes. I was afraid they would ask for more numbers. So I was forced to accept the fact that I have to find out who I am."

"And that's when you went to a phone booth and looked for a private investigator?"

"No . . . not exactly." She smiled at him, recalling how she had found a dozen excuses to put off the inevitable. "I decided it could wait a little while longer. I wasn't hungry then, you see. But after last night I came to the conclusion that even if I managed to find food, I would still need a place to stay."

He gave her a startled look, as though something had just occurred to him. "Where did you sleep last night?"

"I didn't actually do a lot of sleeping," she v admitted. "I found a little combination convenience store and bus station." She showed him the direction with a wave of her hand. "It's about four blocks that way."

Closing his eyes, he said tightly, "You spent the night in that. . . rat hole?"

"Uh-huh," she confirmed blithely. "I told them I was waiting for someone to come in on a bus, and no one bothered me—well, almost no one."

"Why do I know already that I'm not going to like the rest of this story?" he muttered to himself. "Continue please."

"It was nothing really. Around midnight a man sat down beside me on the bench. He asked me if I wanted to . . ." She paused, trying to remember. "I can't recall the exact word he used—it was a new one for me—but I got his meaning." She chuckled and the sound almost covered his low groan. "It was the most astounding thing. I felt like a anthropologist observing the mating habits of some little-known tribe. With no preface or introduction, he just asked me outright."

"You're right," he said through clenched teeth. "You are unequivocally, basket-weaving, crayon-toting bananas!" His voice grew louder as he spoke, drawing the attention of the people immediately around them. "How can you be so calm about it? The man insulted you. Doesn't that make you angry? Weren't you in the least bit afraid? Or do you honestly have cotton candy where your brain is supposed to be?"

She stared at him curiously, aware of his anger, but unable to understand the cause. It was strange, but his explosive mood didn't upset her, not the way the cold mask had earlier. "I don't think he meant it as an insult,"she said quietly. "I suppose, in his own mind, it was even a kind of compliment."

Taking several deep breaths, he remained silent until the red blotches left his face. "And then?" he asked calmly.

"Well, after I got rid of him, I simply waited for daylight so I could leave."

"And just how did you go about getting rid of him—say a polite 'No, thank you'?" he asked sarcastically, picking up his wineglass.

"I considered that," she admitted, biting her lip to keep from laughing at his expression. "But he looked as though he could be persistent, so I told him yes."

She realized when she heard his gasp that she should have waited until he had finished his wine before telling him. She moved quickly to pat him on the back, but he waved her aside.

"I'm fine," he said hoarsely. "You—you just continue with what you were saying. You told him yes and then what happened?"

"Actually, what I told him was that it should be all right because I didn't think I was still contagious." She gave him an ingenuous grin.

After a moment of silence, a low, reluctant chuckle began deep in his throat, growing in force until once again their neighbors were staring in curiosity. When it quieted down, he gave her what was probably meant to be a stern look, but somehow missed. "I suppose you know there are some men who wouldn't have cared if you had had the black plague."

"Yes, I know, but I also knew he wasn't one of them. If he had been, I would have screamed and the attendant would have helped me." She gave him a mischievous look. "Cotton candy or no, I'm not entirely witless; but I have to admit that kind of thing does tend to hamper one's ability to sleep, so I'd rather not have to do it again. I'm depending on you to find out who I belong to." She paused thoughtfully. "It's funny, but I don't feel like I belong to anyone. You'd think that there would be some small indication—emotionally—if there were really someone waiting for me."

"Oh, there's someone waiting all right," he said quietly, picking up her left hand.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, puzzled by the sudden solemn look on his face. Then she followed his gaze to her hand. There on her third finger was a very definite strip of untanned flesh. Now, why didn't I see that before? she wondered in confusion. It was apparent that until recently She had been wearing a ring on that finger. Third finger, left hand. The wedding ring finger.

Married! The thought settled heavily on her brain like a dark, ominous cloud and suddenly, for the first time, she was frightened.

She didn't want to be married. Ever since she had come fully awake yesterday she had been filled with the most delicious sense of freedom. She felt alive and open . . . and free. She didn't want to give that up. The thought of being tied to—of being controlled by—some faceless man from the darkness of her past was untenable.

Her chaotic thoughts didn't allow for her possibility that she could have cared for the unknown man. She only knew that she had enjoyed the experiences of her last two days, that they were the only past she cared to remember. She had no wish to trade the instability of her known world for whatever beckoned to her from the threshold of yesterday.