Carides's Forgotten Wife Read online

  “This is it,” Rose said, her tone small, as though she had already sensed his disappointment.

  How was it that she could know him so well, even as he now didn’t know himself? It was as though she could see inside of him, see into things that he could not. She had done so on the flight, and then again once they had landed. Of course, none of it seemed to matter, as her sixth sense mostly involved realizing that he was craving alcohol, and then denying him the satisfaction.

  “Yes,” he said. “So it is.”

  “You don’t remember it.” She sounded crestfallen.

  “No,” he said, surveying the bricks and mortar yet again. Waiting for a feeling of homecoming to overtake him. Waiting for anything beyond this fuzzy, blank confusion.

  “You have been coming here often for as long as I can remember,” Rose said. “Ever since you first started working with my father. When you became his protégé.”

  “Is that how we met?”

  She nodded wordlessly, the gesture slightly stilted. “You would always sit with him in his study, but I can’t enlighten you as to the content of those meetings. I was not included. Which stands to reason since I was a child.”

  He wondered then how old she was. If she was much younger than him. She did seem young. But then, he had very little reference point for that since he wasn’t entirely certain how old he was.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “I don’t think that’s relevant. Anyway, it isn’t polite to ask a lady her age. Is that something you’ve forgotten?”

  “No. Survival skills made sure that was instilled deep inside of me still. However, it seems relevant. If I was here having business meetings and you were a child then clearly there is an age gap between us.”

  “Something of one,” she said, her tone airy, distant. “But it isn’t important. Why don’t we go inside and I can show you to your room.”

  Her words didn’t strike him as odd until they were wandering through the grand foyer of the home, surrounded by enough marble and fine art to make any museum curator jealous.

  “To my room?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she returned.

  “We do not share a room?”

  She cleared her throat, fidgeting slightly. “Well, for the purposes of your recovery it would be extremely impractical,” she said, neatly sidestepping the question. That was something he noticed she did with frequency.

  “You did not make it sound like there would be any changes in our living arrangements when you talked about showing me to my room.”

  “You’re making assumptions.”

  “I am. Enlighten me as to the situation, Rose. My head hurts and I find that I am in a foul temper.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “This is a very traditional house. With an obscene amount of rooms, as I’m sure you guessed. It’s very much existing in its own time. And, I suppose you could say our living arrangement exists in the same time. We both like our space.”

  “Are you saying we live like some outmoded royal couple?”

  “Yes. As I said, you are often away. For business. That means I often live on my own. So I elected to retain my own space, and that suited you just fine.”

  The answer seemed wrong to him. The arrangement seemed wrong to him. Which was strange, because he knew the man he was. The man who possessed all of the memories, all of the past experiences, had clearly found it the right way to conduct his marriage. Who was he to argue with that superior version of himself in full possession of all of the facts?

  Still, he wanted to. Because his wife had come to his side immediately when he had been injured. Because her blue eyes were the only thing he truly remembered.

  “Will you be able to make it up the stairs?” she asked, looking at him with concern in her expression.

  “None of my limbs are broken.”

  “Your ribs are.”

  He shifted, wincing. “Only a couple.”

  “Tell me if this is too taxing.” She began to lead the way up the broad, curved staircase. The steps were carpeted in a rich dark red, the banisters made of oak, polished to a high-gloss sheen. Money, history and tradition oozed from the pores of this place. And he had a strange sense that he did not belong. That somehow all of this was not his birthright, in any sense of the word.

  He looked at Rose, her delicate fingertips skimming along the banister, her long, elegant neck held straight, her nose tilted up slightly. She was a bit plain, it was true, but she was aristocratic. There was no denying it. She was fine-boned, and refined, each and every inch of her.

  He had the feeling that her skin was like silk. Smooth, perfect and far too luxurious for any mere mortal man to aspire to.

  Somehow, he had her. Somehow, he had this house.

  And he could make none of it feel real. Everything seemed to exist on its own plane. As if it were a strange dream he’d had once long ago.

  A dream he couldn’t quite remember.

  He paused, a sharp pain shooting up his side, somehow going straight up his neck and through his jaw, rendering him motionless. As if sensing his discomfort, Rose turned. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” he returned.

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Pain is a very determined thing,” he remarked, continuing to stand there frozen as he waited for the lingering effects to recede. “It doesn’t like to stay at the site of the injury.”

  “I’ve never been seriously injured. So I don’t really have any experience with that.”

  “I… I don’t know if I ever have been before. But either way I don’t remember it. So it feels remarkably like the first time.”

  That made him wonder what other things might feel like the first time, and judging by the suddenly healthy color in his wife’s face, she was wondering the same thing.

  Of course, with his ribs being what they were, that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

  It was a strange thought, the idea of going to bed with someone he didn’t know. Except, he did know her. But he might be different with her now. He might not be able to be the lover she deserved, or the one she wanted.

  “Can you keep going? Or do you need for me to figure out a way to fix you a room downstairs?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, welcoming the interruption of his thoughts.

  Finally, they reach the top of the stairs and he continued to follow her down the long corridor that led to his bedroom. Though bedroom was a bit humble of a word for what was in actuality an entire suite of rooms.

  There was a home office, an extremely large bathroom, a sitting area and a room that actually contained a bed. “Do you have something similar?”

  She nodded in affirmation. “Yes.”

  “We really are quite a bit like a royal couple.” It made no sense to him, and it also felt wrong. He felt…captivated by Rose. Drawn to her. He couldn’t imagine agreeing to separate bedrooms.

  But perhaps things were different when his head was full of other things. Right now, it was only filled with pain, and her.

  She was preferable to the pain, no contest.

  She tilted her head to the side. “I find it very strange. The things you know and the things you don’t.”

  “So do I. In all honesty, I would rather forget my surface knowledge of world customs and reclaim what I know about myself. But no one has consulted me on this.”

  “I understand. I should leave you to rest.”

  He was exhausted. Which seemed ridiculous considering he had spent most of the flight sleeping. He felt like this was definitely out of the ordinary. Being this tired. Also, being this sober.

  He definitely had some strong impressions about what felt normal and what didn’t. But he still wasn’t entirely certain he could believe them.


  “It would probably be for the best,” he said.

  “I’m going to confirm arrangements with the doctor I have coming in to check on you. The nurse, as well.”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  “You have a head injury. And while we’re reasonably certain you aren’t going to die in the night, this is definitely out of the ordinary.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “All right then,” he conceded.

  “I’ll wake you up when it’s time for dinner.” And then she turned and walked out briskly. And it was only then that it struck him that she never made any moves toward touching him physically. No small gestures of comfort. She hadn’t even behaved as though she was tempted to lean in and kiss him before walking out.

  But he supposed he would have to unravel the mysteries of his own mind before he set out to unravel the mysteries of his marriage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ROSE FELT LIKE she was losing her mind. Which, really wouldn’t do since Leon had so clearly lost his.

  “That isn’t fair. He hasn’t lost his mind, he’s lost his memory,” she said, scolding herself as she paced the empty study.

  The past two days had been the most trying of her entire life. And all things considered, that was saying something. She had endured an awful lot in her life. From her mother dying when she was a young girl to the loss of her father when she was only twenty-one. Continually feeling as though she didn’t fit in with her peers, because she was too quiet, too mousy to be of interest to anyone. Because she would rather spend her time in dusty libraries than at wild parties. Because if she was going to shop for anything it would probably be stationery or books rather than the latest fashions.

  She had spent the past two years married to a man who hadn’t touched her outside of their wedding day.

  Yes, it was safe to say that Rose Tanner had not had it easy.

  Still, watching a man like Leon go through something like this, seeing him so reduced… It was… It was awful. She wished very much that she didn’t care quite so intensely. Even when she was angry with him, even when she talked herself into believing that she hated him, it didn’t change the fact that he was the most vibrant, powerful, incredible man she had ever met.

  Seeing him injured. Seeing him unsure. Seeing him as mortal… It was as though the last remaining safety net in her life had been pulled away. She had already lost her other pillars. Her mother. Her father. And now, she was losing Leon, too.

  Sure, he hadn’t exactly been a fantastic emotional support in the past few years, but he had been steady. Predictable, at least.

  He could have died a couple of days ago, and he might never again be the man that he had been. Acknowledging that was devastating in a way she could never have anticipated.

  “Get it together.”

  Her stern admonishment echoed off the walls, and she bit back the rising hysteria that was threatening to burst out of her.

  She should do something. Go out to the garden and tend to the roses. Finish cataloging her father’s extensive library. Instead, she sat on a dark green settee in front of the fireplace and allowed a wave of misery to wash over her.

  She wanted so very much to be done with this. To be done with all of this sitting still and waiting for something better to become of her life, for something better to become of her marriage.

  She wanted Tanner house. Of course she did. But she knew Leon wanted it, too. Ultimately, she had been willing to walk away from both if need be.

  But she couldn’t walk away from him now. She needed to see him well. And then with a clear conscience she could go. She could get on with her life.

  And if he doesn’t remember anything ever?

  For one brief moment the temptation to lie to him overtook her. To tell him that the two of them were madly in love. To tell him that he had married her because he couldn’t keep his hands off of her, not because he wanted to inherit her father’s business empire and the home that had become close to his heart.

  Yes, for one moment she was tempted. She wouldn’t be human if she wasn’t. She had spent so many years fantasizing about what it would be like to have Leon want her. To have him look at her and see her as a woman.

  She couldn’t do it. It would be… Well, it would be disgusting, but more than that it would be the furthest thing from what she really wanted. She didn’t want Leon to be her prisoner. That was basically what he was already.

  Actually, you’re his.

  She couldn’t really argue with that. She had agreed to marry him, and then she had basically been installed in this house and left to rattle around the vacant halls. Meanwhile, he had continued to live life as though he were a single man.

  The entire world knew they were married. The entire world also knew that he was an incorrigible playboy. And nobody knew that she had been trapped in an agreement to stay married to him for five years in order to make his ownership of her father’s company permanent, and for her to end up with the home in the event of a divorce.

  That was the prenuptial agreement, dictated by her father before his death.

  But she wasn’t waiting anymore. He could have the company. He could have the house. She just wanted to be free.

  She had come to the point where she’d known she had two choices. To sit down and talk to him on one of the rare occasions he came home, and let him know how badly she wanted to give their marriage a chance. To tell him how she felt. Or, to ask for a divorce.

  She’d opted for a divorce. Because there was no good way for the other conversation to end. She would lay her heart out there for him to see, risk everything and get rejected.

  She’d decided she’d rather skip a few steps.

  “Is it nearly dinnertime?”

  She turned toward the sound of the gruff, sleepy voice and her heart nearly evaporated, right along with her good intentions. He was wearing nothing more than a pair of black, low-slung pants. His chest was bare, and she ought to be concerned about his wounds. About the bandage over his shoulder, the dark purple bruises streaked along his torso. Instead, her eyes chose mostly to fixate on his muscles.

  On his perfectly defined chest, on the muscles in his abs that were rippling with each indrawn breath.

  “I think so,” she said, well aware that she sounded a little bit like she was the one who had been hit over the head.

  “I’m starving,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. He was holding a gray T-shirt in his hand, but made no move to put it on. “This is the first time I’ve been hungry since the accident. It’s quite nice. I don’t suppose you’ll allow me to have a drink yet?”

  “Still medicated, Leon.”

  “I’m starting to think that I would sacrifice pain medication for a drink.” He frowned. “Do I drink a lot?”

  She tried to think of Leon’s habits. She wasn’t overly familiar with them, since they didn’t spend all that much time together. But, come to think of it, he was rarely without a drink in his hand.

  “A bit,” she said, cautiously. “Though I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”

  “I have been craving a drink ever since I woke up. I don’t know if it’s simply because I’m in a situation of extreme stress or if I potentially have a bit of a dependency.”

  “You go out a lot,” she said. “And why don’t you put your shirt on?”

  She sounded a little more desperate than she would have liked, but if he found it out of the ordinary, he didn’t show it.

  She wasn’t supposed to pile a lot of information on him. She really was supposed to wait until he questioned things. But she was finding it difficult. Part of her wanted to dump the truth on him and then leave him in the hands of a doctor or nurse.

  But he had been there for her the night of prom. He had also been there for her when h
er father had died. And this was what her father would want for her to do. Because he’d cared about Leon. Leon had always been the son her father had never had. Oftentimes she had felt like she was competing for affection, though she knew her father had loved her, too.

  Her father wouldn’t want Leon abandoned right now.

  And so she would stay.

  And she would do her very best not to upset him.

  “I can’t,” he said, standing there still, the shirt clutched tightly in his hand.

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I’m having trouble getting the shirt on. My ribs are too sore.” He held his hand out slightly, the shirt still clutched in his fist. “Can you help me?”

  All of the air rushed from her lungs, her heart beating a steady rhythm in her ears. “I—” She was supposed to be his wife. There should be nothing remarkable about the request. There was nothing remarkable about it either way. He was an injured man and he needed help. He didn’t need her to be weird.

  She cleared her throat and crossed the space between them, hesitating for a moment before she reached out and took hold of the shirt. Their fingers brushed as he relinquished it to her, and a shiver ran down her spine.

  She needed to get a grip.

  “When you say I go out a lot, you mean that I go to parties?”

  She nodded, swallowing hard, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes.” She held the shirt so it was facing the right direction and gathered the material up. “You need to…duck your head or bend as much as you can.”

  He bent slightly and she pushed the shirt over his head, dragging it down to his shoulders, his skin scorching hers as her knuckles brushed against his collarbone.

  “And you?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, her eyes clashing with his. He was so close. So close that it would be easy to stretch up on her toes and close the space between them. She’d only kissed him once. At their wedding in front of a church full of people.

  What would happen if she did it again?

  She blinked, trying to shake off the drugged feeling that was stealing over her. “Lift your arm as much as you can,” she murmured.