Daphne Clair - Wife To A Stranger

Cover Page

Excerpt “You don’t want to take this further?” She stared numbly at him, hectic color burning her cheeks. “N-not now,” she said. “What are you afraid of? It’s not like you.” Capri tried to smile, but her lips trembled. “Isn’t it? I wouldn’t know.” “You don’t remember ever making love?” “No,” she admitted. “I suppose that seems silly, when you…” Her voice trailed off. He knew her intimately, had for more than two years. “No…it’s not silly,” Rolfe said. “Kind of bizarre, but I find it rather intriguing.”

About the Author DAPHNE CLAIR lives in subtropical New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romances. She has won literary prizes for short stories and nonfiction, and has also published poetry. As Laurey Bright she writes for Silhouette. Daphne welcomes letters to Box 18240, Glen Innes, Auckland, Aotearoa/New Zealand.

Title Page Wife To A Stranger Daphne Clair www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Copyright

She stared numbly at him, hectic color burning her cheeks. “N-not now,” she said.

“What are you afraid of? It’s not like you.”

Capri tried to smile, but her lips trembled. “Isn’t it? I wouldn’t know.”

“You don’t remember ever making love?”

“No,” she admitted. “I suppose that seems silly, when you…”

Her voice trailed off. He knew her intimately, had for more than two years.

“No…it’s not silly,” Rolfe said. “Kind of bizarre, but I find it rather intriguing.”

DAPHNE CLAIRlives in subtropical New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romances. She has won literary prizes for short stories and nonfiction, and has also published poetry. As Laurey Bright she writes for Silhouette. Daphne welcomes letters to Box 18240, Glen Innes, Auckland, Aotearoa/New Zealand.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

IT WAS a small room. The man standing at the window with his back to her looked big by contrast. His broad shoulders hunched slightly under a crumpled white linen shirt, and his hands were thrust into the pockets of navy trousers, tautening the fabric over lean hips.

From the bed she could see only a washed-denim sky, the pale, peeling trunk of a gum tree, and a dusting of opaque clouds between the green cotton curtains. She wondered what he was looking at.

Pulling her gaze from him, she examined the room. There was a hard-looking tan leather chair, with a burgundy tie draped carelessly over its back as though the man had discarded it there some time ago. On the plain cream wall opposite the bed hung a cheap print of an English country cottage. A white-painted locker by her bed held a water jug and a glass.

It was a hospital room.

Perhaps she made some faint sound, or he heard a stirring of the bedclothes. The man turned, starkly silhouetted against the light from outside.

‘Capri,’ he said, his voice deep and unsurprised. ‘So you decided to come back.’

‘Back?’

Her voice sounded strange, scarcely more than an uncertain whisper in the quiet of the room.

Taking his hands from his pockets, the man crossed the narrow space to the bed. ‘To the land of the living. You’ve been out for some time.’

‘Out’

His quickly checked movement might have denoted impatience. ‘Unconscious. Do you remember what happened to you?’

She started to shake her head, winced. ‘No.’

He leaned forward a little—brown, enigmatic eyes raking her face, a strand of nearly-black hair falling onto his forehead. ‘I’ll call a nurse.’

He reached across her, finding the electric signal button with a decisive thumb. A whiff of his masculine scent entered her nostrils, a mixture of warmth, soap, sweat and shirting. She saw he hadn’t shaved lately; his cheeks were fuzzed with shadowy growth.

One hand on the metal bed frame behind her, he paused, his face only inches from hers, his nostrils flaring as if he in turn had been caught by her scent. She looked into his eyes, dark and lustrous, with gold flecks about the irises. His mouth, firm and hard despite the generously chiselled curve of the lower lip, momentarily quirked at one corner, and then he withdrew, standing tall and aloof and thrusting his hands back into his pockets.

She took an unsteady breath, and her parched lips began to frame a question, but then a woman in a white uniform came hurrying on rubber soles, and made for the bedside. ‘Well, well. So you’ve finally woken up!’

The nurse’s fingers closed about her wrist, found the pulse. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Not…so good.’

The man moved again, very slightly. The nurse studied her watch as she counted, then placed the hand she held back on the coverlet. ‘You’ve been knocked about a bit. But we’ll soon have you right as rain.’

‘Knocked about—how?’

The woman studied her with a shrewd professional gaze. ‘You don’t remember?’

This time she was careful not to shake her head, but before she could get the words out the question was answered for her in a curt masculine voice. ‘She doesn’t. And I think she has a headache.’

The nurse’s eyes lifted to him, then returned to her patient. ‘You had a nasty whack on the head,’ she explained cheerfully. ‘Plus bruising and mild hypothermia. How bad is the headache?’

‘It only hurts when I move.’ She felt languid, every word an effort.

‘Can you tell me your name?’

‘My name?’ She blinked.

‘Her name’s Capri Helene Massey.’ He was definitely impatient this time. ‘If you people hadn’t known it, you wouldn’t have been able to get hold of me.’

The nurse glanced up. ‘It’s standard practice to check after a concussion, Mr Massey,’ she said calmly. ‘Just in case there’s been some damage.’

‘Sorry. I’m not familiar with medical procedure.’ After the curt apology he retreated again to the window.

‘When were you born?’ The nurse returned to her inquisition.

Automatically she recited her birth-date.

‘Good. And do you know what year this is?’

Again the answer was easy, requiring no thought.

‘Do you remember your present address?’

Panic gripped her, making her temples cold, her breathing irregular. ‘I…I’m not sure…’

The nurse looked across her, raising her brows at the silent man who now came back to the bed. He said, ‘She’s been moving about lately.’

The nurse patted her hand. ‘You might have a bit of a memory gap—it’s not unusual. Do you remember this gentleman here?’ Smiling up at him.

‘Well, Capri?’ he said when she didn’t answer immediately. His voice held irony. ‘Have you forgotten me?’

‘You’re Rolfe,’ she said clearly, positively. ‘Rolfe Massey.’

He nodded. ‘Your husband.’ He didn’t smile, although he was looking at her.

The nurse said encouragingly, ‘You recognise him. Well, that’s all right.’

He lifted his head. ‘Satisfied?’

The woman beamed at him. ‘You’ll be relieved. The doctor will check her over again, though, and tell you if we need to keep her for another day or two.’

‘Right. Thanks.’ He nodded dismissively, and after a moment’s hesitation the nurse left.

Rolfe seemed to be studying the pattern on the bedcover. When he raised his eyes again they appeared almost black. ‘I suppose it wasn’t for lack of trying,’ he said.

‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

His gaze narrowed, and his head jerked sharply as if he’d sensed something unexpected in the air, but the movement was quickly checked. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘You’re not well enough for this discussion.’ There was a short pause, and then he said on an oddly intense note, ‘Shall I take you home, Capri? Is that what you’d like?’

Home. The word conjured up warmth, comfort—love. ‘Of course,’ she said, and saw a startling flare of some potent, primitive emotion in his eyes. ‘As soon as the doctor says it’s all right.’ She had the feeling that if she’d said, Yes — now, he’d have picked her up and bundled her off with him then and there.

As it was, he took a breath that lifted the fabric of his shirt for seconds before he audibly released it. ‘Of course,’ he echoed her. ‘I meant…when they’ve cleared you.’

Her eyelids drooped, and he said, ‘You look tired… darling. Why don’t you go to sleep?’

She should be asking questions, like what had happened to her, and what her last address had been, and why…why…

Thinking was too difficult. She drifted, thought she felt her hand taken in a large, warm one, and another kind of warmth, bristly and underlaid with hard bone, briefly rubbed against the back of it. Then she slept.

When she woke Rolfe was gone. A different nurse took her pulse, read her blood pressure, poked a thermometer into her mouth, and later other people bustled about her with charts and stethoscopes, asked how she felt, and gently prodded and kneaded her body, which was tender with bruises.

They told her that New South Wales had been lashed by spring storms, and a landslip caused by heavy rain had derailed a train, sending several carriages sliding into the Hunter River. She’d been lucky. Some of the other passengers were on the critical list in this hospital, the nearest to the crash site, while a few needing specialist care had been flown to Sydney. She’d had a brain X-ray on admission, and later a CT scan because she had been taking her time to come round, but they had shown no cause for concern.

‘Anything worrying you?’ someone asked at last.

She looked at him gratefully. ‘The nurse said…I might have memory gaps.’

The doctor nodded. ‘That’s right. You don’t remember the accident?’

‘It’s not only the accident I don’t remember.’

‘Oh?’ He sounded almost casual. ‘How much have you lost?’

It was a relief to confide in someone. ‘I think…an awful lot.’

Another doctor came, shone lights in her eyes, and asked more questions, some of them general, others personal. At the end of it all he assured her again that there was no sign of physical damage, suggested she rest and try not to worry, and departed looking thoughtful.

She begged to be allowed to shower, and a nurse was detailed to monitor her.

‘Not much of an end to your holiday,’ the woman commented, ‘getting involved in that crash.’

‘No.’ She took the soap the nurse handed her and stepped into the blessed warmth of the shower.

Afterwards, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the bathroom basin and was reassured at the familiarity of jade-green eyes fringed by thick, dark lashes, and a slightly long but straight nose in an oval face. Her skin was too pale and her lips bloodless and cracked, but apart from that she looked herself.