Forgotten Husband
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Helen Bianchin
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CHAPTER ONE
SHE didn’t want to open her eyes. Not yet. For when she did, he would be there.
The man they said was her husband, seated in a chair to one side of the bed where she’d been told he had maintained an almost constant vigil for days after her admission.
For the past week he had confined his visits to three each day—early morning, mid-afternoon, and evening.
The nurses had commented on it when they thought she was asleep…and relayed it in informative, faintly envious tones when she was awake. Together with the added news, her initial admission had caused a furore. It appeared that within an hour of being transported unconscious by ambulance from the accident scene to a nearby public hospital all hell had broken loose, and she had been transferred post-haste to this exclusive and very expensive private establishment with its coterie of consultant specialists.
‘Elise.’
The voice was a deep, faintly inflected drawl, and its timbre succeeded in tripping her pulse into an accelerated beat.
Damn. Now she would have no recourse but to acknowledge his presence. Her lashes trembled fractionally, then fluttered slowly upwards.
His physical impact was such that it took considerable effort not to close her eyes again in an attempt to shut out the sight of him.
A tall man, whose impressive breadth of shoulder and impressive frame, even in relaxed repose, was intimidating. Broad, sculptured facial features were harshly chiselled, all angles and planes as if etched from stone, and his eyes were so dark that they appeared black—almost as black as his wellgroomed hair.
Beneath the cool mantle of his sophisticated façade he bore the look of a hunter, as untamed as a savage jungle beast and just as dangerous.
Alejandro Santanas. Even his name was unusual, and the relayed information she had been given was merely statistical, rather than enlightening.
He was in his late thirties and he headed a financial empire whose very name was regarded with due reverence in the business sector.
A very wealthy man, one of the nurses had revealed, whose entrepreneurial skill ranked him high among the upper echelon of the country’s rich and famous.
Elise didn’t find it surprising, for there was an inherent degree of power, a ruthlessness lurking beneath the surface, which she found vaguely frightening.
The knowledge that she was his wife had initially shocked and dismayed her, for each individual nerve-end had screamed out in denial that she could be bound to him in any way.
Dammit, she didn’t feel married, she agonised silently.
Nor did she feel pregnant. Yet there was an ultrasound picture as proof that the seven-week foetus in her womb had suffered no harm.
His child.
Never in a million years could she imagine that she’d fallen in love with him…or he with her.
Yet there were wedding-photos taken six months previously to prove their legal alliance, and not once during the many times she’d examined them had she been able to detect anything other than pleasure in her captured smile.
Depicted on celluloid, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder, lending her slender frame a visual fragility. Honey-blonde hair worn in a shoulder-length bob framed a finely boned face, and her eyes were wide-spaced, her mouth a generous curve.
Yet when she looked in the mirror she saw a stranger, with pale symmetrical features and topaz-flecked green eyes.
Losing one’s memory, even temporarily, was akin to standing in front of a door to which there was no key, she thought in silent anguish. The answers lay out of reach on the other side.
Amnesia after such an accident was not uncommon, and in her case the condition was temporary. With no indication of when her memory would return, she’d been advised that while some patients regained total recall within days, others experienced intermittent flashes over a period of several weeks before everything finally fell into place.
‘Good morning, querida. You slept well?’
His voice was deep and vaguely husky, and Elise watched with detached fascination as his wide mouth curved into a warm smile.
Why ask, she felt like querying, when you’ve undoubtedly elicited that information from the attendant sister before entering my suite?
‘Yes.’ The monosyllabic response held restraint, and she silently examined her need of it. ‘Thank you,’ she added politely, all too aware of the studied darkness evident in his eyes.
Shouldn’t there be some level of recognition deep within her psyche, anything that would allow her to know him? Even if her mind failed to acknowledge him in any intimate capacity, surely an instinctive sixth sense would force some kind of awareness?
Dammit, she cursed silently. It wasn’t enough to have to believe that Alejandro Santanas had swept her off her feet in a whirlwind courtship. The fact that they had married a month later in Sydney left too many details unexplained.
A natural curiosity about her background had been partially satisfied by examining a thick album containing family snapshots, although there was a sense of disappointment when not one of them managed to rouse a spark of recognition.
In the past week she had leafed countless times through the many pages filled with glossy prints depicting her from infancy through childhood, highlighting scholastic and sporting achievements, accenting her chosen career as a paediatric nurse. There were photos of her parents, the mother she had lost at an early age, and several of her father, whose affection for his only child was achingly apparent … all the more poignant, given that he had recently died. Holiday snaps taken with friends she was unable to identify. The suburban family home Alejandro informed her she had shared with her father until her marriage. Altogether they encapsulated the past twenty-five years of her life.
‘Your hand?’ Alejandro queried lightly. ‘It is less painful this morning?’
‘A little,’ she responded stiffly, refusing to relay that her ribs and her shoulder still ached, and that her heavily bandaged right hand, in which surgeons had inserted titanium pins to align several fractured bones, felt stiff in its supportive splint. It could have been worse, the medics had assured her, considering that the other vehicle had run through a ‘Stop’ sign and ploughed head-on into the passenger side of her car.
‘Is there anything you need?’
Elise closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again. ‘You send me flowers every day.’ Unbidden, her gaze skimmed to the huge bunched masses of exotic blooms—roses, varying in hue from pale cream to the deepest red, their long stems and velvet petals attesting expensive hothouse origin, exquisite arrangements assembled with delicate artistry and dispensed, according to one of the nurses, from one of Sydney’s most exclusive floral boutiques. ‘And fruit.’ A bowl containing a varied selection stood within easy reach. ‘I have so many magazines…’ She made a visible effort to inject a little warmth into her voice.’ What more could I possibly want?’
‘To come home, perhaps?’ Alejandro queried with teasing indolence, his dark eyes intently watchful as she attempted to veil her startled expression.
Dear God, no. It was a silent scream dredged up from some hidden recess deep within her soul. The hospital, this particular suite, represented a sanctuary she was reluctant to leave. Yet she couldn’t stay indefinitely.
She swallowed, aware of the slight lump that had risen in her throat, and her fingers began pleating the sheet’s hem in abstracted agitation. ‘I am to be released?’ She looked at him carefully, attempting to read something more from his expression, yet his features were relaxed and his mouth curved to form a warm smile.
‘The neurologist and obstetrician have each assured me there is no reason why it should not be this afternoon.’
So soon. Why couldn’t it be tomorrow, or the day after? At least then she would have time to get used to the idea.
Now, the thought of re-entering the home she purportedly shared with him filled her with inexplicable dread.
It was difficult to pinpoint her reluctance. Was it because there had been no one, other than Alejandro Santanas, to visit her?
She could accept that she had no immediate family, but what of her friends?
Was he such a possessive man that he wanted her entirely to himself, to the exclusion of all others?
She searched his features and saw the assurance evident, the strength of character, and perceived that he was a force to be reckoned with, a man no adversary would choose to have as an enemy.
And as a lover? A shiver of apprehension slithered down the length of her spine. One couldn’t live with such a man as he and be unaware of his sexuality…or remain unawakened to her own. Without doubt he would have introduced her to every intimacy, every sensual pleasure, and taught her precisely how to respond in kind.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Alejandro growled in husky chastisement.
Elise closed her eyes in silent chagrin, then opened them again, her gaze wide with a mixture of puzzlement and confusion. ‘You don’t understand.’
The air seemed charged with emotional intensity, and she seemed to be having trouble regulating her breathing.
‘You think not?’
She gained nothing from his tone of voice. ‘Alejandro——’
‘It is no more difficult for you to be faced with a husband you fail to recognise than it is for me to have a woman who is my wife look at me as if I were a stranger.’
In seeming slow motion she watched as he clasped her uninjured hand and lifted it to his lips, and a gasp emerged from her throat as he gently turned it palm upwards and buried his mouth in the soft hollow.
Acute sensation arrowed with unerring accuracy to the core of her femininity, flooding it with a heavy languorous warmth, and she was held mesmerised by the depth of emotion evident in his eyes.
‘Do you have any conception what it does to me to see your eyes dilate with apprehension every time I touch you? To be aware you would prefer my lips brush your cheek, rather than possess your mouth?’
The room, its contents, faded to the periphery of her vision, and she could only look at him, unable to utter so much as a word, the moment seemingly freeze-framed in time.
The knock at the door proved an anticlimax, and she hurriedly tugged her hand free as the kitchen orderly carried in a breakfast-tray.
‘Morning,’ the woman greeted cheerfully as she placed the tray on the bed-trolley, then slid it into position before turning towards the man seated close to the bed. ‘Can I bring you some coffee, Mr. Santanas?’
Alejandro’s smile curved the edges of his mouth, deepening the vertical creases that slashed each cheek. ‘Thank you, no.’
Elise watched as he unfolded his lengthy frame from the chair. Leaning forward, he covered her mouth lightly with his own, and her lips trembled beneath the brief contact.
‘Your discharge is scheduled for two o’clock. Hasta luego, querida.’
For one crazy second she felt strangely bereft, almost wanting more than that fleeting touch, and something flickered in the depths of his eyes before it was successfully hidden, then he straightened and moved towards the door.
Elise watched his departing figure with perplexity. The warmth of his lips against her own, the restrained degree of passion that lay just beneath the surface had stirred her senses, almost as if some inner being were intent on forcing recognition.
‘There you are, Mrs Santanas,’ the kind-faced kitchen orderly declared as she undid a mini packet of cereal and added it to the bowl of fresh fruit. ‘Which spread would you prefer on your toast?’
Hospital routine ensured that there was little time in which to brood, Elise accorded wryly, for within ten minutes of the breakfast tray being removed a nursc arrived to assist her in the shower, followed by the doctor’s round, physiotherapy, morning tea, the daily visit from the hairdresser—arranged, she had been informed, by her husband.
It was a thoughtful gesture, although she couldn’t help attempting to analyse his motivation. And that proved detrimental, for it only brought her relationship with Alejandro Santanas to the fore, and incurred a renewed bout of soul-searching.
It seemed ludicrous to doubt Alejandro’s depth of caring when there was every evidence of his devotion in this room: the cards carefully placed together in the drawer of her bedside pedestal, each bearing ‘Love’, written in black ink, and signed ‘Alejandro’ in a powerful slashing hand.
More importantly—did she love him? Certainly she’d married him, but was love her motivation?
Dear heaven, she wasn’t the sort of woman who had deliberately contrived to trap a wealthy man by using feminine wiles…was she?
Elise closed her eyes in silent anguish, then slowly opened them again.
‘Time, patience,’ the neurologist had stressed solemnly. Yet such an answer was as frustrating as it was ambiguous.
Lunch was a delectable bowl of beef consomme, followed by thin slices of roast beef with accompanying vegetables, and segments of fresh fruit for dessert.
Apprehension began to knot in the region of her stomach, only to intensify a short while later as a nurse entered the suite.
‘Your husband will be here to collect you in half an hour,’ she informed Elise with a bright smile. ‘I’ll help you dress, then pack your things.’
I don’t want to go, an inner voice screamed in silent rejection. Several jumbled thoughts raced through her head. Perhaps she could dream up a mild complication—the onset of a headache, her hand—anything that would delay her departure.
Yet even as she contemplated such an action she dismissed it as futile and, pushing the bedcovers aside, she slid to her feet, watching with detached fascination as the nurse moved to extract clothes from a nearby closet.
Sage-green trousers in uncrushable silk, a cream silk blouse, wispy briefs and bra in matching cream silk and lace, low-heeled shoes. Each item looked incredibly expensive, and undoubtedly was, given the evident reverence with which they were handled.
Elise stood still as her nightgown was removed, an exquisite garment in peach satin-finished silk and lace, which made up a set with its matching négligé.
Obediently she stepped into the briefs and helped draw them up, then the trousers.
‘I’ll use the outermost clip,’ the nurse declared as she carefully slipped the bra into place before adding the blouse. ‘If it’s not comfortable, we’ll take it off. Would you like some help with your make-up?’
There was a case holding everything imaginable, but all she’d chosen to use over the past week was moisturiser and a pale lipstick. Perfume? Her fingers hovered near the curved glass bottle of Dior, then retreated. She hadn’t bothered to use it in hospital, so why begin now?
Elise watched with idle fascination as the nurse extracted a valise and began filling it with all her belongings.
‘Please,’ Elise intervened as the girl caught up a variety of glossy magazines. ‘Keep them.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. And the flowers,’ she added. ‘Divide them among the day and night staff. And the fruit, the chocolates.’
The nurse’s features mirrored her gratitude. ‘Thanks. They’ll be appreciated.’
Elise’s mouth curved into a soft smile. ‘You’ve all looked after me with great care.’
They had, despite it being their job to do so. Yet there had been a marked degree of dedication to this particular patient.
Because of the man whose very presence demanded nothing less? Or was it the faint air of mystery, the haunting vulnerability of the attractive girl who had occupied this suite?
‘Sister will be here in a moment to formally sign you out of the hospital system.’
Elise murmured something suitable in response, and gazed sightlessly after the nurse’s departing form.
Why did she feel so uncertain and so damnably insecure? A natural reaction, an inner voice assured her, in tones remarkably like those of the consultant neurologist.
The door swung open and she turned towards the ward sister, accepted the relevant appointment cards, and listened to the professional advice which concluded with, ‘Don’t attempt anything too strenuous too soon.’
‘I will personally see that she doesn’t,’ a faintly accented masculine voice assured her from the doorway, and Elise turned slowly to face her husband.
The business suit he had worn that morning was absent, replaced by dark trousers and a polo shirt unbuttoned at the neck. The casual knit fabric emphasised his breadth of shoulder, the long sinewed sweep to his taut waist, and revealed powerfully muscled forearms liberally sprinkled with dark hair.
His smile was warm, and Elise idly watched the nurse’s reaction with detached fascination, aware of the faint appreciative gleam evident beneath the professional façade.
Did all women respond to Alejandro Santanas in this way? Elise wondered silently. Such thoughts were hardly conducive to her peace of mind, and she stood very still as he moved towards her and brushed his lips against her temple.
‘I have the car waiting outside.’
Her indecision must have been apparent, for his gaze narrowed slightly as it took in her pale features and the degree of uncertainty evident in her deep green eyes.
‘You have no need to feel apprehensive,’ he assured quietly.
Are you kidding? she wanted to scream. I’m being taken to a home I can’t remember with a man I feel I hardly know.
With a sense of desperation she sought to elicit some sort of recollection—anything that would provide her with a measure of reassurance.
Yet there was nothing, and she cursed herself afresh for attempting to force a situation over which she had no control.
‘If you’d care to follow me,’ the ward sister suggested, ‘I’ll accompany you to the main entrance.’
His frame seemed to overpower hers as they traversed the carpeted corridor, and her stomach executed a series of painful somersaults as she caught sight of a large, expensive-looking vehicle parked immediately adjacent to the main doors.
Indisputably his, it looked as powerful as the man who owned it, and she slid carefully into the passenger seat, unconsciously holding her breath as he leaned forward to attend to her seatbelt.
His hand brushed against her breast, and her pulse leapt, then set up an agitated beat as he carefully fastened the clip in place, leaving her feeling helplessly trapped.
Oh, God. She had to control her over-active imagination, she counselled silently as he closed the door and crossed round to slide in behind the wheel.
The car eased forward and she experienced the insane desire to tell him to stop and let her out, which was crazy, for where could she go?
Minutes later the large vehicle emerged into the steady stream of traffic, and with a sense of resignation she focused her attention on the scene beyond the windscreen.
Houses constructed of bricks and mortar; neat garden borders bearing a variety of brightly coloured flowers; carefully tended lawns; trees lining the streets, their wide spreading branches providing shade from the sun’s shimmering rays; numerous electronically controlled intersections; shops.
It all appeared so normal, so everyday. Yet none of it looked familiar.
Some of her tension must have made itself felt, for Alejandro turned slightly and cast her a discerning glance.
‘You are uncomfortable?’
Her eyes widened slightly as she met his dark gaze, and she uttered a polite negation before he returned his attention to the road.
The car’s air-conditioning reduced the force of the midsummer heat, and Elise breathed a silent sigh of relief as he activated the stereo system, glad of the music’s soothing qualities, for it precluded the necessity to converse.
With seeming fascination she observed the quality and style of the houses lining the wide arterial road begin to change, from small, dark, weathered brick structures sited on small blocks of land to those of larger and more stately design.
Old mingled with new, their elegant façades revealing a visual attestation of wealth.
The celluloid print Alejandro had shown her of their home in suburban Point Piper revealed a large double-storeyed mansion overlooking the harbour. How long before they reached it?
‘A few more minutes,’ Alejandro told her quietly, almost as if he knew the passage of her thoughts.
