A gnawing ache settled deep in the pit of her stomach. Could she sleep with this man? Her husband? Kiss him? Make love to him? Something inside her recoiled, but she ignored the feeling. They were married, had children . . . “Maybe, when I get my memory back, if we both think it would be a good idea, we could . . . try . . .”
“What? Sleeping together?” he asked, his lips twisting sardonically, the angles and planes of his face hard-looking in the coming headlights. “I don’t think so, Marla. I’m really not into mercy-fucking.”
She froze. Her stomach curdled like sour milk. “Is that what you’d call it?”
“Don’t try to pretend that you’re in love with me. I see it in your eyes. You don’t even remember me. And when you do, well, then you’ll know. So . . .” He braked for a corner and cranked hard on the wheel. “So let’s just not push it. Not yet.” He patted her knee again. “Unless you really want to bang my brains out.”
She drew away.
“Didn’t think so.”
Good. She couldn’t imagine tumbling into bed with him and kissing him, or . . . she couldn’t think about it. “Neither one of us is ready to move into the same bedroom again.” His fingers were tight over the steering wheel. “We’ll take that one step at a time. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.”
She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. She felt no spark of desire for this man who was her husband. Why, she didn’t understand. Handsome and fit, at forty-two, Alexander Cahill was a successful lawyer-turned-businessman and yet there was something about him that didn’t ring true, a coldness she felt beneath his charming exterior—a crudeness that wasn’t covered by his spit-and-polish, Ivy-league, white-collar shine.
Or maybe it’s all in your head. One way or another, Marla, you’ve got to find out. And Alex isn’t going to help you. No one is.
Street signs flashed by as Alex drove up the hill. Stanyan, Parnassus, Willard . . . names that seemed familiar yet weren’t. Streets she’d have to know. Even though Lars was always at her disposal, she wasn’t about to use him for what she was planning. She needed independence. Freedom. Self-assurance.
Her breath fogged against the window as she turned to look at the shops lining the streets. Coffeehouses, small grocery stores, flower vendors, apartment buildings, climbing ever upward on the hill to the top. To the house.
With a press of a button on a remote control, the gates to the estate opened and Alex drove through. Marla stared up at the house rising high on the hill, steep gables pitched over dormers, paned windows glowing from the interior lights, chimney stacks rising proudly above it all. Home, she thought but really didn’t buy it.
It still didn’t feel right.
Nick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his pickup as he mentally kicked himself from one side of San Francisco Bay to the other. He stared out the windshield at the gloomy night and couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being manipulated. But by whom?
Marla? His back teeth ground together as he thought of seeing her retching on the floor, nearly suffocating. She’d seemed so small and vulnerable and not for the first time he wondered why she’d gotten sick. A virus? Bad food? Or had someone poisoned her—slipped her a drug that caused her to heave?
Impossible.
But she’d thought she’d sensed an intruder.
Why would anyone want her dead?
And how had they gotten in?
Or out? The house was a damned fortress.
Maybe they hadn’t left.
“Son of a bitch,” he growled pocketing his keys and climbing out of his truck. He’d parked a few streets from the hotel and hoped a walk through the icy mist and rain would help clear his head.
For the first time in years he’d wanted to protect Marla, to wrap his arms around her and fend off any attack.
Like some goddamned medieval knight in . . . well, slightly tarnished armor. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, he crossed the street and ducked into the hotel. He was on the second floor in minutes and as he opened the door, his phone began to ring.
He snatched the receiver before the door shut behind him. “Nick Cahill.”
“Glad I caught ya. I was afraid I’d have to leave another message.” Walt Haaga’s voice was rough and gravelly as ever.
“What’s up?” Nick flopped onto the bed and kicked off his shoes.
“What isn’t?” Walt said, coughing. “I’ve got more info. Let’s start with Pam Delacroix.”
“Start anywhere you please.”
“Pamela, now she’s an interesting lady. Lived off her ex, but dabbled at real estate, writing and the law. Seems that her primary interest was child custody cases. She was writing a book about it—parental rights, surrogate mothers, adoption issues. And that kid of hers—Julie—she dropped out of school a few weeks after starting. Just up and quit and moved in with a boyfriend in Santa Rosa. Has a job at a coffee shop serving up espressos. So her mother wasn’t going down to see her.”