Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | A Husband For Christmas

A Husband For Christmas
Emma Richmond
Back–for baby's first ChristmasFour months ago, Sébastian Fourcard had kissed his wife and baby son goodbye and disappeared…. Gellis had been devastated but, as the days had tumbled into weeks, she had been forced to accept the unthinkable–that her perfect husband had left her!Now, at Christmas, Sébastian had returned a different man–amnesia had robbed him of his past. He couldn't remember Gellis, let alone loving her. Only, for his son's sake, he was prepared to stay. But Gellis wanted love, not duty…. And she didn't just want a husband for Christmas, but forever….DADDY BOOMLook who's holding the baby!


“He’s my son and I would like to get to know him, find out what he’s like....” (#uc13f840f-bf77-5c79-96fc-663d106ccf21)About the Author (#u5be318a0-316a-5d82-8106-8909ff7bb561)Title Page (#udb665b34-1887-51b1-b648-ce35966b62f7)CHAPTER ONE (#ub6d05d47-2e53-53cf-aed0-b884d190eff3)CHAPTER TWO (#u85994be3-58ee-5d78-a9cd-4e787d886c04)CHAPTER THREE (#uc8c8a429-6d66-5882-9235-009c3e49bdfc)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“He’s my son and I would like to get to know him, find out what he’s like....”
“Yes, of course.”
“I know you don’t want me here....”
“Not want,” she corrected hastily, “can’t. Can’t,” she repeated. “I told you....”
“Yes... Suppose I don’t ever get it back, Gellis?”
“Don’t do this.”
“I must. Have to. He’s my son. Let me stay...get to know him. I’ve lost my memory, my life. Don’t let me lose my son, too.... You will allow that, Gellis?”
She gave a helpless nod...but she wasn’t really listening to what he asked, was aware only of his touch, and the knowledge that he was staying. The alarming knowledge that they would be sharing the house. A very small house.
“There’s only one bedroom,” she blurted thickly.
Emma Richmond was born during the Second World War in north Kent, England. She says, “Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny.”
“Emma Richmond’s stories have it all—humor, emotion and wonderful, memorable characters.”
—Day Leclaire, author of THE SECRET BABY and the
FAIRYTALE WEDDINGS trilogy

A Husband for Christmas
Emma Richmond


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
THICK dark hair hung to her waist in a loosely woven plait, big brown eyes surveyed the world without interest. Beautiful, introspective, sad. Oblivious of the Christmas jingle that played endlessly over the loudspeaker, the noisy chatter, Gellis stared inward, wrapped up in her own thoughts. The opening of the café door brought momentary awareness—and then shock.
Déjà vu—except it wasn’t. Unable to tear her eyes away, rigid with disbelief, uncomprehending, she stared at the tall, dark-haired man as he took the table next to her own. Hard and tough, fit. Ruthless. He had a badger stripe at his left temple, but it was Sébastien. Hazel eyes with those startling flecks of green stared dismissively round—until they found Gellis. And then they stopped. With a leisurely, almost insulting examination of her exquisite face, he gave a cynical smile of appreciation.
She didn’t smile back. Couldn’t smile back. There was no warmth in that glance, no humour. It was Sébastien, but not the Sébastien she had known. Loved. That Sébastien’s eyes had been filled with laughter, and he had looked what he was—what she had thought he was, she corrected with bitter anguish—a humorous and honest man. And his dark hair had had no streak of white.
Eighteen months ago, in another café, another place, they had exchanged glances—and love had been born. Not immediately, not instantly, but it had been born. And consummated.
Frozen in place, she continued to stare—and he raised one eyebrow in mocking question.
She was unable to respond, unable to do anything but sit there like a fool. He frowned, asked harshly, ‘You know me?’ And when she didn’t answer, merely continued to stare at him in shock, he reached out, grabbed her forearm, hard. ‘I asked if you knew me!’ he gritted.
A catch in her throat, a little sound of distress; she lurched to her feet, prepared to flee.
‘Sit down,’ he grated. ‘Sit down!’ With a ruthless disregard for any pain he might be causing her, he dragged her down to her seat. Face thrust forward, eyes hard, mouth a grim line, he asked with menacing softness, ‘Who am I?’
‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, please don’t do this.’ And his frown deepened, making carved, ugly grooves between his brows.
‘Do what? Do what?’ he repeated savagely. ‘Where do you know me from? When?’
‘You know when!’ she cried.
‘No, lady, I don’t! So when?’ he demanded urgently. ‘More than four months ago?’
Throat tight, the most awful ache in her chest, eyes fixed on his in disbelief and pain, she gave a jerky nod, and he let out a shuddering sigh, briefly closed his eyes.
‘And my name is?’
‘What?’ she asked in a frightened little whisper.
‘What’s my name? What’s my name, dammit?’
‘Sébastien.’
‘Sébastien,’ he echoed, and his free hand curled into a tight fist. ‘Sébastien what? Sébastien what?’ he repeated menacingly when she didn’t answer.’
‘Fourcard.’
‘French?’
‘Yes. Yes!’ she shouted in distress.
‘From?’
‘Collioure.’ And he closed his eyes again, let out a breath that seemed to Gellis as though it had been held for a very long time.
‘Sébastien Fourcard,’ he repeated quietly. ‘From Collioure. Mon Dieu. At last.’ Opening his eyes, he stared at her. ‘And you are?’
‘Gellis.’
‘Gellis,’ he echoed flatly.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she asserted.
Staring at her arm as though quite unaware that he had been holding it in an iron fist, he hastily released it. ‘Pardon. And we were, what? Friends? Lovers?’
Snatching her eyes away, she too stared at her arm, watched the white imprint of his fingers slowly turn red. Oh, dear God. Oh, dear, dear God. How could he not remember? Of all the scenarios she had envisaged over the past four months, that had not been one of them. She had conjured up excuse after excuse for his behaviour, even blamed herself—but had not dreamed that he wouldn’t remember her. Or himself. Or himself? Snapping her eyes back to his, she opened her mouth, closed it. And he gave a cruel smile.
‘Yes,’ he agreed harshly. Leaning back in his chair, eyes still fixed unwaveringly on her face, he explained flatly, ‘I have no memory of events, people, places prior to August this year.’ Touching the white stripe of hair, as though it was something he did rather a lot, he added mockingly, ‘And until I sat at this table a few minutes ago I did not even know my own name. So, acquaintances, Mends—or lovers?’
Numb, barely able to comprehend, she just stared. He’d lost his memory?
‘Lovers,’ he guessed. ‘Only a lover could look that reproachful. What did I do? Run out on you?’
And she didn’t think she could bear it. Not his mockery, not his harshness, nor the consequences if she told him what else he was responsible for. Shoving back her chair, she tried to escape. He grabbed her arm, forced her back down. Oblivious of the stares, the whispers, he repeated, ‘What did I do?’
‘Nothing,’ she denied hollowly. ‘Nothing at all.’ And because she didn’t want to talk about what he had done—what it had done to her—because she didn’t even think she believed this was happening, she asked numbly, ‘How did it happen? An accident?’
‘Definitely lovers,’ he murmured with a twisted smile. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have changed the subject, would you? Well, at least I had good taste. Yes,’ he finally agreed, ‘it was an accident.’
‘Where?’
‘South America.’
‘South America?’ Snatched out of her lethargy, she demanded blankly. ‘What were you doing in South America?’
He gave a mocking smile.
‘Oh,’ she murmured foolishly. ‘You don’t remember.’
‘No. So, when did we last meet? And where?’
Thinking back over the last dreadful months, she closed her eyes in pained defeat. ‘August,’ she stated softly. ‘In France.’
‘And how long were we—lovers?’
Lovers? Yes, they had been lovers. Looking down, the ache in her heart enormous, she whispered, ‘Over a year.’
‘And then I left you? Or did you leave me?’ he asked mockingly.
Eyes bleak, she stared blindly at the scarred wooden table. What to say? That he had broken her heart? Destroyed her faith in human nature? And she needed to know why? And until she knew that... ‘It was mutual,’ she finally murmured.
With a sceptical little smile, he shrugged. ‘But you know what I did? Where I lived? All about me?’
‘Yes.’ Or thought she had.
He didn’t say anything more for a while, but she could feel him watching her, and she wanted to get up, run away, go and think about this in private. Shaken to the roots of her being by this unexpected encounter, she didn’t know what to say, feel, think.
Because it hadn’t been mutual. He’d said he was going away for a few days, some business venture he wanted to investigate—and he hadn’t come back. He had sent a terse little note. And for the past four months every moment that hadn’t been taken up with other things had been spent trying to find him. Trying to find out why. And now he was here, and she didn’t know what to do.
Looking up at him at long last, her dark brown eyes full of distress, she stared at him in utter helplessness.
‘Mutual for the sake of pride?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes, I can see that it was. I hurt you, didn’t I?’
An understatement, she thought bitterly, and perspicacity she could have done without. But, yes, he had hurt her. Hurt her so badly she had just wanted to die.
Those first few weeks had been a waking nightmare. Trying to find him, feeling sick and anxious, frightened—but it had been as though he had vanished into thin air. His bank wouldn’t tell her if he had drawn any money from his account. Airlines and boats did not have his name on their lists, or, if they did, wouldn’t admit it. She’d checked hospitals, the police, even funeral directors.
And as the weeks, and then months, had passed with no news hurt and despair had turned to hatred. Or so she had tried to tell herself. But there had always been that hope that one day she would find out the truth. Find out why he had done what he had. That it was all some sort of ghastly mistake. And now here he was, a harsh-faced stranger with no memory of her at all.
‘Yes,’ she finally admitted, ‘you hurt me very badly.’ And it was he who looked away. Stared through the window into the busy high street.
‘What was I like?’
‘Kind.’ she murmured sadly. And loving and exciting, with an accent to curl her toes. But even the accent was harsher now. Grating. And she’d expected to hate him if ever she saw him again. And she some-how—couldn’t.
‘Kind,’ he scoffed bitterly. ‘Dear God, I don’t feel as though I’ve ever been kind in my life. You don’t only lose your memory, you lose the feelings that went with it.’
‘You don’t remember anything?’
‘No.’ Flicking his eyes back to hers, he gave a mocking smile. ‘What did I do when you knew me? Was I gainfully employed, as they say?’
‘No. You were taking time off, looking round for something to do,’ she added quietly. ‘You’d had a string of restaurants you’d sold just before we met.’
‘Which was?’
She gave a sad little smile. ‘Eighteen months ago.’
‘Which means we parted just before I went to South America.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t know I was going? Or why?’
‘No.’
‘So if I didn’t spend the money from the sale of the restaurants in South America I presumably still have some.’
‘Yes.’
‘Relatives?’
Relatives? She felt a little bubble of hysteria rise up in her throat. Relatives? Oh, yes, you have relatives, Sébastien. You have a wife and a son. A son that you delivered and then abandoned. But she couldn’t tell him that, could she? Because he didn’t remember. And if she did tell him he might want to come—home. So until she knew why he had left...
Staring at him, her gentle face harder, firmer, she shook her head. ‘No. Not to my knowledge.’ Just close friends, intimate friends—like Nathalie, she thought bitterly. Nathalie, who had completed the horror that Sébastien had started. But he had presumably also forgotten Nathalie, and she wasn’t about to reintroduce her.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she denied quickly. Making an effort, trying to think what she should do, she asked instead, ‘What are you doing in Portsmouth?’
‘Disembarking. I was a deck hand on the Pilbeam. Cargo ship.’
‘Oh. You remembered you liked the sea?’
‘No—did I?’
‘Yes, you used to go out sailing quite a lot.’
A rather bleak expression in his eyes, he gave a brief laugh. ‘It was—expedient. The easiest way out of South America. No papers, no money; someone took me on as a deck hand. And, in between trying to find out who I was, deck hand I’ve been ever since.’
‘Why did you have no papers or money?’
‘Because someone presumably “lifted” them whilst I was unconscious after the accident.’
‘Car?’
‘Truck.’
‘Then how have you managed since?’ She frowned. ‘With no papers...’
He reached into his pocket, tossed a passport down in front of her.
Taking it in a hand that still shook, she opened it. It was his picture, but the name was William Blake.
‘You didn’t know you were French?’
‘Yes—or assumed, anyway. I think in French,’ he explained. ‘But it wouldn’t have mattered if I was Chinese. Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?’
‘No,’ she agreed, and didn’t know how she could sit here and talk about incidentals with a man who had betrayed her, disappeared from her life, and had now come back. Still feeling numb, disbelieving, she asked foolishly, ‘Is it...?’
‘Forged? What do you think?’
‘But surely the authorities could have helped you?’
‘Could they?’
‘Yes! In South America...’
He shrugged. ‘They did their best. But with no paper, no memory, no knowledge of what I was doing there, no missing persons reported...’ he added bitterly as he remembered those frustrating, fruitless days.
‘But when you got out,’ she persisted weakly. ‘Surely the French authorities would have helped?’
‘Why? I couldn’t prove I was French. According to them, I was just another illegal immigrant. And suppose I wasn’t French but French Canadian? From somewhere else that speaks French? You think I didn’t try?’
Feeling sad and lost, unprepared for this, Gellis asked emptily, ‘So it was just coincidence that you came to Portsmouth?’
‘Not entirely. Do you live here?’
Hesitating for a moment, she tried to think rationally, sensibly. But her mind was a whirl of conjecture, speculation, worry, and so she nodded, because it seemed best not to tell him the truth.
‘So I would have known the town? Would have been here?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then I was right I’ve been here several times, looking, waiting, hoping. When I was found after the accident I was wearing a brown leather belt. Stamped on the inside was the name and address of a shop in Portsmouth. Presumably where it was made and bought. Unfortunately, the shop has since closed down.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘You know it?’
She nodded.
‘You bought it for me?’
‘No,’ she denied quietly. ‘My mother. She bought it for you for Christmas.’ And this Christmas, in a few weeks’ time, there would be no presents for Sébastien. Not from her parents. Not from herself. No presents from Sébastien to his—family. With a hard, painful ache inside, she asked listlessly, ‘Will it come back? Your memory?’
‘Who knows?’ he shrugged.
‘You’ve seen doctors?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed mockingly.
‘What will you do now?’
‘Go to France. With you.’
Shocked, utterly panicked, she just stared at him. ‘I can’t go to France!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I can’t!’ Couldn’t go anywhere with this man! And you couldn’t go back, could you? Yet she had loved him. No—she had loved the man he had been. And getting to know him again would be—dangerous. Hardening her heart and her mind, she shook her head. ‘No. I have a new life now. I’m sorry you’ve lost your memory, I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. I’ll give you the addresses I know in France that might help, but—’
‘No,’ he put in softly.
‘What?’
‘No,’ he repeated. ‘You are the only person I’ve found in four months who knew me. The only person who can tell me what I was like. Are there others in Collioure who would know me?’
‘Yes, you have a rented apartment there.’
‘Have?’ he frowned.
‘Yes. The bank automatically pays the rent each month. At least, I assume they’re still doing so.’
‘And we lived there together?’
‘Yes.’
‘As lovers?’
‘Yes!’ she agreed tightly.
‘And then I, what? Got bored with you? Met someone else?’
Yes! her mind screamed. You met Nathalie. Nathalie who was beautiful and blonde and French. ‘You went out one day,’ she stated flatly, ‘and didn’t come back.’
‘And you didn’t look for me?’ he asked with that hatefully mocking smile.
Slamming to her feet, she glared down at him. ‘Yes, I looked for you! Looked and looked and looked! And even though—’ Biting off what she had been going to say, she grabbed up her bag and ran away.
Wrenching open the café door, she hurried out onto the crowded pavement. She was shaking. Badly. Why? she wondered in despair. Why? And it hurt. Dear God, how it hurt. But she had survived four months without him, and so she could survive more. And, lost memory or no, there was no getting away from what he had done.
Shutting off her mind, her emotions, she strode quickly down the street, turned off towards where her car was parked—and he grabbed her arm.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she gritted. ‘Don’t ever touch me!’
Swinging round, she glared at him. She wasn’t a vengeful girl, or malicious, but she’d been through too much. Had suppressed the pain and anger, the despair, but now there was a focus for it. Someone to blame. ‘Just don’t touch me,’ she repeated heavily.
Shaking, she turned away, and he stopped her, held her firm.
‘I said...’
‘I know.’ Gently turning her, he leaned her against the wall. Examined her exquisite face. The defiance in her eyes. ‘But do you have any idea what it’s like not to know? To have no memories of self?’
Looking away, she shook her head. ‘I can imagine...’
‘No, Gellis, you can’t. No one can. Your life is shaped by what you are, how you live, loved. All I have is—nothing. A blank canvas. Your name echoes in an empty space. All names echo in an empty space.’ Dropping his bag and jacket, he lifted his hands, held them out. ‘Were my hands like this when you knew me?’
Still angry, still stiff, she stared at the calluses, the scars, then shook her head again.
‘No. Four months,’ he murmured, ‘of hell. Rough work, rough places, even rougher people. But I survived. And now I have the chance to find out who I really am, and you’re the only one who can help me. Two weeks, that’s all I ask. Two weeks to help me find out who I am.’
Still staring at his hands, she gave a bitter smile. ‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t you? And if the positions were reversed, if you were the one with no memory, wouldn’t you fight tooth and nail to make the one person who could help you help?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed helplessly. ‘But I can’t do it.’ Looking up at him, she repeated flatly, ‘I can’t. Don’t ask it of me.’
Touching his fingers gently to her cheek, he frowned when she flinched away. ‘I hurt you so much?’ he asked sombrely.
‘Yes.’
‘Then tell me. Make me understand.’
Tears filling her lovely eyes, she shook her head.
‘Then look on it as a job,’ he murmured with twisted mockery. ‘I’ll pay you.’
‘I don’t want paying,’ she denied in distress. ‘And don’t mock me. Don’t ever mock me! You don’t have the right.’
‘Obviously not. Ten days.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. How long will it take you to pack? An hour?’
‘No! I can’t go with you! Do you have any idea...? No,’ she conceded wearily, ‘of course you don’t But take my word for it, Sébastien, I can’t go with you.’
‘Won’t go with me,’ he corrected her grimly.
‘Yes. Won’t go with you.’ And if he had remembered what he had done to her he would never have asked. Or would he?
Leaning towards her, hands flat on the wall behind her, his voice low, he stated urgently, ‘This is my life, Gellis! It’s not some Women’s Institute meeting where we’re discussing the price of jam! I’ve had four lost months. Not days, not weeks, but months! And, without you, I might lose years. Whatever I did, I don’t remember, I wish to God I did! I’m sorry if I hurt you! Sorry if I caused you pain, but you’re my only hope, Gellis.’
‘I can’t,’ she denied desperately.
‘You can! For God’s sake, I’m not asking you to go to the ends of the earth! Just across the damned Channel. I need to know, Gellis! Can’t you understand that? I need to know.’
So do I, she thought bleakly. So do I.
‘Please!’
And this was not a man who begged.
‘Please,’ he repeated.
Holding his eyes for endless moments, she finally slumped, looked down, shuddered. Oh, God. It was still there—the feeling, the want, the need—and if she went with him...
And if she didn’t? If she ran away now, spent the rest of her life hiding, she would never find out the truth. And she did need to know the truth. Needed to know why he had done what he had. But she didn’t know if she could bear to be in his company—not because of what he had done, but because of the way he could make her feel.
Because she so desperately wanted him back. After all that had happened, she still wanted him. At first, in the café, when he had seemed so unfamiliar, so harsh and grating, there had been only shock, disbelief, panic. But now...
‘Just take me there,’ he urged. ‘Show me where we lived.’
‘The people there will show you,’ she argued desperately.
‘I don’t know the people there.’
Closing her eyes in defeat, she wondered if it was a nightmare that would ever end. And he was too close, made her feel stifled, and she had to keep shutting her mind off in an effort not to think, feel—because she wanted to be held, comforted... Clenching her hands tight, she shook her head.
‘Just to Collioure, and then you can come back home,’ he encouraged.
Home, she thought bleakly. Without him, it wasn’t a home at all. And the only way to get rid of him was to agree, wasn’t it? Otherwise he would stand here for ever, and for ever, persuading, undermining her resolution... ‘I can’t go for long,’ she muttered. And she couldn’t look at him. Not look into those beautiful eyes. Treacherous eyes. Eyes that had lied. As hers would be lying if she looked at him.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll meet you back here tomorrow.’
And he laughed. A harsh, grating sound that sent a shiver through her.
‘Do I look like a fool, Gellis?’ he asked disparagingly. ‘We go today.’
‘Today? No! I can’t go today!’ She panicked. Glancing at her watch, glancing at anything in order not to have to look at him, she murmured stupidly, ‘It’s already gone eleven.’
‘So? The sooner we go, the sooner you can return.’ Well, it didn’t matter what she said, did it? Because she wasn’t intending to actually go! ‘All right. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘I said, no. You really think I believe you will come back? No, Gellis, I will come with you.’
‘No!’
And he smiled. Like a wolf. ‘Yes.’
Glancing frantically round, she found to her despair and astonishment that the pavement was empty.
‘Intending to scream?’ he asked softly and really rather menacingly.
Could she? Dared she?
His smile widened, showed even white teeth—teeth she had touched with her tongue—and she began to feel slightly sick. ‘You’re English,’ he whispered in hateful amusement. ‘And the English don’t scream, do they? Don’t like to attract attention to themselves. Give in gracefully, Gellis.’
And that angered her—his mockery, his assumption. ‘No.’ Straightening her back, she forced one of his arms away. ‘No,’ she repeated.
His smile dying, he searched her defiant eyes. ‘What did I do?’ he asked sombrely. ‘In God’s name, what did I do?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU left!’ Gellis shouted. ‘Hurt me. Sent a terse little note to say you wouldn’t be back!’
Sébastien frowned. ‘No explanation? No reason?’
‘No.’
‘And so you don’t know why?’
‘No.’
‘But you would like to, wouldn’t you? That’s human nature—to want to know why. If you come with me, you might find out.’
Yes, she might find out. And if it was something she didn’t want to hear? At least she would know. Not be forever speculating. There was the future to think of. A need to put it all behind her.
Eyes too big in her white face, she slowly raised her lashes, forced herself to look at him. Really look at him. A hard face, but so very attractive. But no longer her husband’s face. Go with him? See their friends again? Be in his company? She didn’t know if she was tough enough.
‘You’re wavering,’ he said quietly.
‘Am I?’ she asked stonily. ‘All right,’ she decided.
‘I’ll come with you. But I can’t go for long—no more than a few days.’ No she couldn’t go for long.
‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord?’ he queried soberly.
‘What? No. I don’t want vengeance. Just to know the truth.’
‘As do I. Thank you,’ he added quietly. Straightening, he gave her an odd smile—quirky, a little bit wry. ‘Which way?’
Keeping her heart hard, her mind still, she pointed to their right.
He nodded. Hooking up his duffel bag and sailing jacket, he waited for her to lead the way.
‘Which is the nearest airport?’
‘Airport?’ she queried absently.
‘Yes, Gellis, airport.’
She shook her head. ‘We aren’t flying.’
‘Aren’t we?’ he mocked softly.
‘No. We’ll go by car.’
‘That will take two days.’
‘I don’t care. I’m not flying.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t like to!’ she gritted.
‘Fair enough.’
Surprised by his easy acceptance, she gave a bitter smile. This was madness.
He halted, swung her to face him, stared down into her expressionless face, then registered the pain in her lovely eyes. Big and brown and lost. Like a doe. With a muffled sigh, he turned to walk on. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To my car.’
He nodded. ‘You have a current passport?’
‘Yes.’
He smiled. ‘Didn’t even think of lying, Gellis?’
‘Would it have done me any good?’
He shook his head. ‘If I had to take your house apart to find your birth certificate, I would have done so.’
‘And then dragged me up to town to get a new one.’
‘Yes. However long it took.’
She believed him. Utterly.
‘We can get a ferry from here?’
‘We’ll go on Le Shuttle.’
He gave another odd smile. ‘Don’t like sailing either?’
‘No,’ she replied stonily.
‘How did you manage before it was built?’
‘With difficulty. My car’s over there.’
Glancing at the gleaming red sports car, he gave a silent whistle, looked at her with new interest. He’d assumed she’d have a sedate hatchback.
‘You bought it for me,’ she stated shortly as she opened the boot for him to put his belongings inside. After the birth of their son.
‘Generous of me.’
‘Yes.’ Climbing behind the wheel, she watched without amusement as he folded his considerable length in beside her. His head brushed the roof.
‘There’s a lever on your right to lower the seat.’ She had a moment’s compunction that on the long drive to the south of France he was going to be extremely uncomfortable, then dismissed it. She hadn’t asked for this. But it was something she had to do, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?
There was sexual awareness as there had been that first time they’d met, but no feeling of excitement or warmth. Just despair. And pain. And perhaps fear. She was probably still in shock. And when she came out of it? The panic returning, she slowed, whispered, ‘I can’t do this.’
‘Yes, you can,’ he argued with flat insistence. ‘It’s my life, Gellis.’
‘I know.’ But it was hers too. And, seemingly without any choice in the matter, she drove the short distance to her parents’ house.
She tried to imagine it from his point of view. Tried to imagine having no memory. And couldn’t. And if Nathalie hadn’t come to see her after she’d received that note... But she had come, and so the matter was academic. He’d cheated. Deliberately lied. And if he had been the same man she’d loved... But he wasn’t. He was a grim-faced stranger. Hard and tough. Dangerous. But they both needed to find out the truth, didn’t they?
She didn’t park directly outside the house but a few doors along, and, glancing at him worriedly, said quietly, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. You’ll stay here?’
He nodded.
‘Give me your word.’
He looked at her, his eyes hard and direct. ‘You have it.’
‘Thank you.’ Feeling sick and shaky, disbelieving, she climbed out, and he watched her walk across the road. Watched the hypnotic sway of the long, loosely woven plait that hung to her waist. The seductive movement of her hips. An exceptionally beautiful woman. Tall and slender, graceful. The sort of woman people looked at twice because she was—different. With a long neck, narrow hands and feet, she walked as though she was special. Someone he’d presumably loved.
And yet, when he looked into her face, he saw only bitterness, pain. A gentle girl, he suspected, who’d had to learn toughness the hard way. Because of him? What the hell had he done to make her look so distressed?
Shifting slightly, trying to find room for his long legs, he gave a grim smile. He should have bought her a bigger car. Driving to France in this sardine can was going to be a real test of endurance. Well, he’d suffered worse and survived. And, at the end of it, would he finally remember?
She was back in just over an hour. Hair tied loosely back now, still damp from her shower, it hung like a brown, shiny curtain. Dressed in thick black cords and a white sweater, a black leather jacket slung round her shoulders, she carefully looked both ways before crossing the road. And he felt—attracted.
After putting her small suitcase in the boot, she climbed behind the wheel and handed him a map. ‘Just in case,’ she explained.
He nodded, glanced at the house, saw the curtain twitch and a woman with short dark hair peek out.
‘Who’s that?’
Glancing across, she murmured, ‘My mother.’ ‘She lives with you?’
She shook her head. Switching on the ignition, she checked her mirrors then pulled away.
‘Did I ever meet her?’
‘Yes, and my father.’
‘And?’
‘They liked you.’
Turning his head, he stared at her profile. ‘For four months there has been no one to ask questions of. I’m sorry if you think me—’
‘No,’ she broke in, distressed. ‘But please try to see it from my point of view. I find this very hard. Ask what you need to.’
‘Thank you. Was I ever here?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly.
‘They didn’t mind us living together?’
Hesitating only briefly, she shook her head.
Still watching her, he asked, ‘Were you in love with me, Gellis?’
A swift, sharp pain in her heart, she gave a bitter smile. ‘Yes.’ So much. More than life.
‘But I left you.’
‘Yes.’
‘We didn’t have a row? Anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘And I didn’t tell you I was going to South America?’
‘No.’
He was silent for a moment, and then he asked quietly, ‘Were we happy, Gellis?’
With another bitter smile, she murmured, ‘I thought so, yes.’ She’d thought it was the love story to end all love stories. And perhaps it had been. But why, then, had he behaved as he had? She had made so many excuses for him in her mind, to her parents—tried to rationalise it, come to terms with it, and didn’t suppose she ever would until she knew the truth. And he must have been an astonishingly good actor, mustn’t he? Because, that last month, never by hint or deed had he ever intimated that he no longer loved her. Or their son. A son he’d delivered...
‘Gellis?’
‘I am going to die,’ she stated confidently. ‘Gellis!’
‘If the next pain is as bad as the last, I am going to die.’
With a splutter of laughter, he climbed onto the bed beside her, held her in his arms. ‘You aren’t allowed to die,’ he said softly.
Opening her eyes, she stared at him. ‘Non?’ ‘Non.’
‘Well, if the ambulance doesn’t get here soon, or the doctor—’ Stiffening, she clutched at him, held her breath.
‘Pant.’
‘I don’t want to pant,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, boy, I need to push.’
‘Non, he denied worriedly.
‘Yes. Oh, God. Get some towels.’
‘Towels?’
‘Yes! Vite! Oh, Sébastien, quickly.’
Alarmed, he rolled to his feet, sprinted into the other room, grabbed a pile of towels and hurried back. He hovered, gave a ridiculous smile, asked foolishly, ‘What do I do with them?’
‘Oh, Sébastien!’ she exclaimed on a weak laugh. ‘Put them under me.’
‘Right. Put them under you. Be calm,’ he instructed himself. ‘Be calm.’ Gently raising her, he put several towels beneath her, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and smiled. A bit quirky, a bit lopsided, but a smile. ‘I’m all right now.’
‘Good.’
‘I must deliver it, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right’
‘Everything will be fine,’ she gasped.
‘Oui. And I remind myself that we like to do things differently. How fortunate I read the books.’ He gave a shaky grin, then kissed her. ‘Raise your knees.’
She raised them, eyes fixed trustingly on her husband.
Walking to the other end of the bed, he took another deep breath, and rested both hands heavily on the counterpane. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he exclaimed weakly. ‘I can see the head.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Certainly,’ he said with more confidence than he was feeling. ‘Now you must push. It will be all right, my darling.’
‘I know,’ she whispered. She gave him a shaky smile, gasped on another sudden pain, and he smiled, tried to sound confident. But there was anxiety in his eyes as there was in her own. A slight shake to his voice. ‘That’s fine; keep pushing. Gently, gently...’
Oh, God. ‘It hurts.’
‘I know.’
Gripping the bed-head with hands that trembled, she waited for the next pain, then pushed and, astonishingly, felt the head emerge.
Eyes wide, they stared at each other.
‘Oh, mon dieu!’ Gently supporting the head with his large hands, he instructed anxiously, ‘One more.’
She pushed, and the baby slid out with no trouble at all.
‘It’s a baby,’ he whispered in awe.
Supporting herself on her elbows, she peered down, gave a shaken laugh. ‘What were you expecting? And is it all right?’ she queried worriedly. ‘Shouldn’t it be crying or something?’
‘Not if you’re lucky,’ a dry voice said from the doorway. ‘And I suggest you wrap him up instead of marvelling at the commonplace.’
‘Commonplace to you,’ Sébastien said in soft awe. ‘Not commonplace to me. I’m shaking.’ Gently wrapping the baby in a towel, he halted, glanced at the doctor. ‘The cord?’
‘I will deal with the cord,’ he said wryly. ‘How are you, madame?’ he asked as he deftly dealt with it and handed the baby to Sébastien.
‘Fine,’ Gellis said weakly.
‘Bien. Another push, if you please, for the afterbirth.’
Gellis obliged, and glanced at her husband as he cradled their new-born child in his arms. He looked—amazed. He glanced up, gave her an uncertain smile. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’
‘I can,’ she said softly as she held out her arms, gave him a smile that was soft with love. ‘What is it? Boy or girl?’ And he gave a comical blink.
‘I forgot to look,’ he murmured sheepishly. Lifting the towel, he smiled. ‘A boy. Oh, Gellis, we have a son. So perfect,’ he added almost reverently as he gently handed him over. Perching on the edge of the bed, he put his arm round her, lingeringly kissed her temple. ‘I was frightened to death.’
‘I was a bit nervous myself,’ she confessed.
‘Don’t get comfortable,’ the doctor warned Sébastien. ‘I need you to get some hot water, and then to ring the nurse.’ Dragging a piece of paper from his crumpled jacket, he handed it over. ‘Tell her to get her pretty little derrière over here tout de suite.’
And when Gellis had been cleaned up, the baby checked and washed, she stared down at the little miracle in her arms and gave a contented sigh. ‘He looks like you, don’t you think?’ she asked Sébastien softly as he came to sit beside her once more.
‘Gellis! He looks like a—’
‘Don’t say it,’ she warned.
‘But he does!’
‘He has your nose,’ she said decisively.
He smiled, glanced at the doctor. ‘The nurse will accompany us to the hospital? When the ambulance gets here,’ he added pointedly.
‘Hospital?’ the doctor asked blankly. ‘Why would you want to go to the hospital?’
‘Because we’ve just had a baby?’
‘A quite natural event, I assure you; women do it every day.’
‘Not this woman!’ Gellis said fervently.
‘True.’ Closing his bag with a snap, the doctor looked at her, smiled. ‘And I could have wished you had not done it at four o’clock in the morning. However, an easy birth,’ he informed her. ‘No complications, no stitches, no tears. Do you want to go to the hospital?’
A bit bemused, she shook her head.
‘Then I’ll cancel the ambulance. And I’m quite sure that monsieur is capable of changing the bedding, doing all that needs to be done. Congratulations,’ he added belatedly, then grinned. ‘I will forgo the customary drink until a more reasonable time. I’m going back to my bed. The baby will do very well until the nurse arrives. Don’t fiddle with him! Goodnight.’
Fiddle with him? A bit nonplussed, they stared at each other and burst out laughing. The baby gave a start, a little cry, and went back to sleep. Gazing down at him in wonder, neither of them really believing it, Sébastien gently touched the baby’s cheek. ‘I’m glad the ambulance was late,’ he said softly. ‘A special moment. I want to go and tell the world.’
‘Start with my parents.’
‘Oui,’ he smiled, but he didn’t immediately move.
She didn’t know how long they sat there, just staring at their baby, but it seemed a long time, until Sébastien stirred, gave a rueful smile. ‘Monsieur had better change the bedding.’
‘Yes.’ Reaching out her hand, smiling up at him with as much love and wonder in her face as his, she murmured gently, ‘You were brilliant. Thank you. If you hadn’t been here...’
Squeezing her fingers, then raising them to his mouth, he answered huskily, ‘I will always be here. Thank you for our son. And now I will go and get the Moses basket, blankets, nappies...’ With a laugh, a little shake of his head, he said wryly, ‘And so it begins. A new life. Don’t stop loving me, will you?’
Eyes filmed with tears, she shook her head.
‘Bien.’ Dropping a warm, lingering kiss on her mouth, he went to get all the necessary bits and pieces, and, when the nurse arrived, the baby was wrapped warmly in his cot, Gellis was asleep and Sébastien was watching her.
Don’t stop loving me...
‘Gellis,. Gellis!’
With a little start, she blinked, turned to stare at him.
“The lights are green.’
‘What?’
‘The traffic lights. They’re green.’
‘Green? Oh, green.’
Feeling stupid, she quickly set the car in motion.
‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked quietly.
‘Thinking? Oh, nothing,’ she sighed. ‘Nothing at all.’ And wanted to weep. Had it all been acting? All of it? He’d been loving, kind, tired, because the baby had kept them awake at night—and during the day—but there had only ever been the normal difficulties associated with having a new baby. He hadn’t been impatient, or irritable. Just wry.
He’d given no clue at all that he was intending to walk out on them both. Or had he not been intending to? Had it just been impulse? Because he’d had enough of domesticity? Certainly he didn’t look like a domesticated animal. Glancing at him, at that strong profile, firm mouth, she sighed.
They didn’t speak after that, but she was aware of the puzzled glances he gave her from time to time, the brooding intensity that emanated from him. And his bewilderment must be far greater than her own, mustn’t it?
As she began picking up the signs for the terminal, she asked quietly, ‘Have you seen the Shuttle? Used it?’
He shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge. Have you?’
‘Mmm, a few months, ago. I came—on holiday.’ As she had kept coming on holiday to France in the small, useless hope that one day she might see him, find out the truth. ‘It’s brilliant.’
‘Good. A new experience for me.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed helplessly. Halting at the booth, she purchased their tickets with her credit card, was advised on the times of the trains and wished a good journey.
‘Do you want anything from the duty-free shop? Or shall we go straight to the train?’
When he didn’t answer, merely frowned, she bit her lip, wondered if he actually had any money on him. ‘I can lend you some money...’ she began awkwardly. ‘I mean...’
Glancing at her, he smiled. But it wasn’t Sébastien’s smile. It wasn’t gentle, just rather mockingly amused.
‘I wasn’t a deck hand for free. I got paid.’
‘Oh.’
‘But thank you anyway. I need to change it into francs. And I’ll pay you back for the tickets when I come into my—“inheritance”.’
She nodded, drove round to the parking area beside the duty-free shops.
Queuing up for coffees, she watched him, watched other people watch him. He didn’t look like a tourist. In fact, he looked like an extra from a movie. One about mercenaries, or piracy on the high seas. People gave him a wide berth. Probably wisely. There seemed very little of the old Sébastien left. This man was bigger, tougher. Harder.
‘Yes?’
Swinging around, she quickly apologised. ‘Sorry. Two coffees, please.’
After paying for them, she carried them over to a vacant table, and continued to watch Sébastien, tried so very hard to come to terms with this unreality. She didn’t honestly know how she felt about him. In an odd sort of way, he fascinated her—perhaps because he was so very different from the man she had once known. Maybe she was still in shock.
As her mother had been—and then thoughtful, understanding. ‘Go,’ she had finally urged. ‘If you don’t, you will always wonder. Go, and be very careful.’
Yes, she would be careful.
He finished changing his money, put it carefully in his wallet and returned it to his back pocket. Looking round, he spotted her, began strolling towards her. Lithe, at ease, yet somehow alert. There was an arrogance about him, a look of indifference, dismissal, almost, of others. He looked as though he didn’t give a damn about anybody, but cross him at your peril.
In clean jeans and a grey T-shirt, he wore them with the same ease he wore everything, whether it be dinner jacket or cords. Clothes didn’t make Sébastien. Sébastien made the clothes. Or had.
‘I got you a coffee,’ she told him quietly. ‘I didn’t get anything to eat. I didn’t know if you were hungry.’
He shook his head. Still standing, he picked up his coffee, tasted it, choked and replaced it on the table. ‘How can anyone make something so good taste so bloody awful? Don’t tell me you like it.’
‘No,’ she replied with a small smile. ‘I think that has to be the worst coffee I have ever tasted in my life.’
‘For sure,’ he agreed fervently. ‘I sometimes think the English make ruining coffee into an art form.’
‘Probably. Shall we go?’
She had a moment’s fear when they drove through the British and then the French frontier controls, but their passports were merely glanced at and then returned.
‘You’d make a terrible smuggler,’ he observed almost scathingly.
‘How would you know? Been one, have you?’
‘No,’ he denied dismissively. ‘And you’re being waved on.’
Staring at the official, and then at the raised plates she was being asked to drive over, she bit her lip. ‘I hope the car will go over them.’
‘You didn’t use this car when you came before?’
‘Yes, but it only just cleared them. I should have checked the tyres, made sure they were fully inflated.’ Too late now. Easing cautiously forward, teeth clenched in anticipation of a crunch, ignoring the impatient official, she didn’t breathe easily until she’d driven over the last one, and began following the signs towards the waiting area. ‘They have them so that they know a car will have the necessary clearance on the train.’
‘So I assumed.’ Turning a mocking glance on her, he added softly, ‘Loss of memory doesn’t make me stupid.’
‘I didn’t say it did.’
‘Was I stupid before?’
‘No,’ she denied stiffly. Neither were you so hatefully mocking.
They waited ten minutes, and then drove onto the train. The journey was smooth, silent, efficient, and, thirty-five minutes later, they were in France. Fortunately for her peace of mind, he hadn’t stayed in the car with her. That would have been too much to bear. Whilst she was driving, concentrating, she could shut him from her mind. But, once she stopped, awareness stole back, cramped her muscles, filled her mind with memories.
‘Impressive,’ he murmured.
‘Yes. I told you it was brilliant.’
‘So you did.’ Consulting the map, he ordered, ‘Take the autoroute; it will be quicker.’
‘I was intending to. I’ll drive until it gets dark and then we’ll find somewhere to stop for the night.’
‘I’ll need to stop for petrol...’
‘And something to eat.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the way? Which turn-offs to take?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed quietly. ‘I know the way.’ She’d been this way so many times she could do it in her sleep. Looking for him. Always looking for him. And now she’d found him and didn’t know him at all.
CHAPTER THREE
THEY spent the night in a small motel, in separate rooms, and, in the morning, they breakfasted together—as strangers. The last time they had driven this route, stopped overnight, there had been laughter and teasing. Love. Now there was just tension.
‘Ready?’
Sébastien nodded.
‘Over halfway,’ Gellis added inanely as they made their way to the car.
‘Yes.’
Climbing behind the wheel, she waited until he was settled, then pulled onto the road that would take them back to the autoroute.
Hours passed. Silent hours, tense hours, and the further they drove, the tenser it became. Stops for petrol or meals weren’t much of a relief, and when they did speak conversation was stilted, unnatural. He, presumably, because he was nearing his goal and so much was riding on it. She because of the close proximity, the realisation of what she was actually doing.
And then there was only one last stop to make.
‘Not much further,’ she murmured as she stood beside him whilst he filled the car with petrol.
‘No. I expect you’re tired.’
‘Yes, a bit.’
‘Your French is very good.’
‘Thank you. You taught me.’
‘Did I? I wonder I had the patience,’ he retorted a trifle bitterly.
Glancing at him, she saw that he was frowning, fingering the white stripe of hair.
‘You cut your head in the accident?’
‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Fourteen stitches,’ he added absently. Removing the nozzle, he fitted it back in its slot, looked at her, then away.
With a little sigh, she walked to the booth to pay, and when she returned to the car she delayed a moment before climbing in, to stare round her. She loved France. Loved the people, the language. And now she was back. Briefly.
It was late afternoon when they reached the turn-off for Collioure, and she glanced at him. He’d been silent since they’d left the service station. Grimly so as he stared out at places he obviously didn’t recognise, and she wondered what was going through his mind. Hope? Despair? It must be so frightening not to know who you were. What you had been. Done. And she was tired, worried about what the next few days would bring.
‘Nearly there.’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes, just down the hill.’ Slowing so that he could see the town spread out below them, the little red roofs, the sparkling sea, she glanced at his stern profile and saw that he was rubbing his fingers across his forehead. ‘Does your head ache?’
‘No.’
Her sigh muffled, she probed hesitantly, ‘Does any of it seem familiar?’
‘No.’
Probably best not to question him, prompt—but how could she not? How could she stay silent in the face of his pain? In the face of her own?
Feeling bewildered and inadequate, wishing now that she had not come, she turned into the little private car park that served the apartments. ‘We have to walk from here,’ she stated quietly.
He nodded, unlatched his door and got out. Collecting their bags from the boot, face grim, he hovered indecisively until Gellis had locked the car. ‘This way. It’s not far. I brought the key. I also rang the agent, told her we were coming, made sure it hadn’t been relet.’
‘Thank you.’
They didn’t see anyone they knew as she led the way along the cobbled alley, for which she was thankful. She didn’t think she could have coped with questions, curiosity. As the lane widened out to a small square, she felt a lump rise in her throat as she saw the planted tubs on everyone’s wrought-iron balconies. No riot of colour at this time of year, but there were little shrubs, some white and mauve flowers. Someone had obviously replanted her own tubs—what had been her own tubs, she mentally corrected—because they were as pretty as everyone else’s.
Halting outside their apartment, she tried to see it through his eyes, feel it through his confusion. Grey stone, leaded casement windows. Not large, not fancy, just—home.
Turning her head, she watched him, saw the complete absence of recognition. With a gesture that hurt her more than she could ever articulate, he unlatched the gate and stood like a stranger, the white streak at his left temple a flag of unfamiliarity. The hair across the scar tissue would never grow back dark. Always there would be that white streak as a reminder.
He turned to look at her, gave a wry smile, but his eyes were bleak. As bleak as her own. Taking out her key, she opened the door and led the way into a pretty apartment that suddenly felt cold, empty, unlived-in. Should she leave him? she wondered. Let him find his own way? Come to terms with it on his own?
‘Would you prefer to be alone?’ she asked quietly, and he shook his head.
‘Then I’ll make some coffee, shall I? The agent said she would stock up for us.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed absently, and pushed into the lounge.
Hands shaking, a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach, she went into the kitchen, felt the memories rush back and hastily banished them. She had to be hard. Distance herself.
A packet of coffee stood on the counter with sugar and a fresh loaf. The fridge had been switched on and inside were milk and butter, a few vegetables, fiuit. With a deep sigh, she filled the percolator, switched it on, then opened the back door that led onto another little balcony. She saw that these plants too had been looked after. A cool wind blew off the sea, but it wasn’t as cold as in England. Not as bleak. Only in her heart, she thought That was bleak. Very bleak indeed.
And the last time they had driven from England to Collioure she had done exactly the same things. Switched on the percolator, come to check on her plants whilst he unloaded the luggage. And then he had come up behind her, slid his arms round her waist, held her against him, touched his mouth to her temple.
‘Bed?’ he had suggested with that devilish twinkle in his eyes. And then he had swept her up in his arms, carried her along to their room. His eyes had been laughing, his mouth curved in that wicked smile that had always been her undoing, and they’d lain on their wide bed and made love. So much passion there had been. Always so much passion. And now they were strangers, and she suddenly felt frightened. Frightened of a future that stretched bleak and empty.
Wrenching her mind away, she returned to the kitchen, got out their cups. Thick, heavy coffee-cups they’d bought in the market together. And she felt her eyes fill with tears for what might have been. What she had thought would be. Perhaps she should have worn his favourite outfit in the hope that it might jog his memory, she thought bitterly—should have worn his favourite perfume, left her dark hair loose, just as he’d liked it... And perhaps the eyes that had always been filled with laughter and love would flicker with memory.
And then what? An explanation for his behaviour? But supposing there wasn’t an explanation? Supposing he just hadn’t loved her any more? Or their son.
Leaving the coffee to percolate, she went to find him because she couldn’t do anything else. The compulsion was coming back. The need. And that had always been the danger.
He was in their bedroom, wardrobe door open, staring at the few clothes hanging tidily inside. Standing quietly in the doorway, she watched him with an aching intensity, a hopeless yearning for it all to be different, all to be right. For him to turn, smile, say he remembered, that everything was all right. But he didn‘t—just continued to stare into the wardrobe with bitter hopelessness. Staring at him, at this bitter stranger, she tried to hate him. And couldn’t.
He lifted out a jacket, tried it on, then gave a grim smile as it strained across his back. ‘I’ve put on weight.’
‘Muscle,’ she corrected him quietly. ‘You’ve put on muscle.’ And she didn’t want to feel pity for him, compassion, but she did. He’d once been so dear, so loved, and was now so impossibly distant.
He removed the jacket, hung it back on the hanger and turned to look at her. ‘Help me,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me what I was like. I feel as though I don’t exist. That I never existed. My only memories are of a dirty cargo ship, of rough men in rough places. I look at you and I don’t know you. We presumably kissed, made love...’
Turning away, she forced herself to sound flat, uninterested. ‘Yes.’ But her heart wasn’t uninterested, or her mind.
‘But I don’t remember it!’ Rubbing a hand across his forehead, he gave a tired sigh.
‘Don’t try to force it.’
‘Why?’ he demanded raggedly. ‘An expert on head injuries, are you? Know about amnesia? Sorry,’ he apologised wearily.
‘It’s all right. But did you really expect it all to come rushing back when you walked through the door?’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I rather thought I did.’
‘Then I’m sorry. I’ll tell you all I can, do all I can, but—’
‘But it won’t mean anything, will it? The last doctor I saw said something about a mental block I’d put up. For why? Why would I put up a block? What happened, Gellis?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’re weary of me, aren’t you?’
‘Trying to hate you,’ she said, almost too softly for him to hear. Walking to the window, she stared out over the sea. It was easier if she didn’t look at him. ‘For fourteen months we were—everything to each other. Or so I thought. I loved you. Heart and soul. I thought you felt the same way about me.’
‘And I didn’t?’
‘Obviously not,’ she said slowly.
‘But there was no hint of it? I just left one day? Sent you a note? Which said what?’
‘That you wouldn’t be back.’
‘Nothing else? Nothing happened? Was said? Done?’ Moving across to her, he slowly turned her, stared down into her lovely face. ‘There must be something else! Must be! You said you looked for me...’
‘Yes. I couldn’t believe it, you see. And I needed to know what was going on. And then...’
‘Then?’ he prompted.
She shook her head. What was the point in telling him about Nathalie? It would only confuse the issue. ‘And then I went back to England,’ she improvised. Days, weeks of worry, not knowing where he was, what had happened to him. And, in the end, she had tried to resign herself to not ever knowing what had happened, why he had done what he had. She’d got on with her life, because there wasn’t only herself to think of, was there? And she couldn’t tell him about his son, could she? Not now.
And so, for the moment, until she came to terms with this new Sébastien, she would keep quiet, tell him only about their life together, how it had been before he’d left. Glancing up at him, she saw that he was frowning—not really seeing her, she thought, only trying to part a veil that would not part.
‘You said I was kind, humorous...’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me how. Instances, something. Help me, Gellis! What was I like? What did I do? How did I behave? I look at you, and I can’t believe I would have forgotten you.’ As though unaware of what he was doing, he reached out, gently touched his fingers to her face, looked deep into her eyes. And she held herself stiff, determinedly refused to feel anything. ‘You’re exquisitely beautiful, and I have a yearning to—kiss you. May I?’ he asked huskily.
Her heart suddenly jerked and, with fear and panic inside, a shortness of breath she could do nothing about, she whispered, distressedly, ‘Oh, Sébastien...’
‘Was that a yes or a no?’ he asked with throaty humour. Eyes hypnotically fixed on hers, he dropped his hand to her plait, slowly let it slide down to the bottom. ‘You’re shaking.’
‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered.
‘Beautiful hair,’ he continued as though he hadn’t heard. ‘I have a desire to wind it round your long neck, hold you close...’
‘No!’ She wrenched free, and he hauled her back, kissed her. Not brutally, not harshly, but like a man who was so very hungry. With a little sound in the back of his throat, he continued to explore her mouth, gently taste the sweetness. And she could do nothing, only stand there, heart beating furiously, throat dry as the warmth of his kiss set up that familiar shudder inside, that spiralling ache that turned her bones to water, her knees to jelly.
She closed her eyes, fought not to react, and felt her mind slowing, her body begin to melt... ‘No!’ Thrusting him away, she quickly turned her back. ‘You mustn’t,’ she declared shakily. But it was too late, wasn’t it? He already had.
‘I’m sorry, but—Was that how it was, Gellis? Between us? That—magnetism?’
Wrapping her arms round herself for warmth, comfort, she nodded. ‘Yes,’ she admitted painfully.
‘Then talk to me. Put it into words. Let me see how it was. Please.’
Distraught, embarrassed, frightened of feelings she’d thought she had shut away, she murmured huskily, ‘We didn’t like to be apart for long. If you missed me...’
‘And wouldn’t you have missed me?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered thickly. ‘I always missed you. Still miss you.’
‘And if I hadn’t lost my memory? Hadn’t left you? What would we be doing now? Making love?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted rustily, her whole body aching with the sudden need of it. The memory. ‘You would have swept me up when we came through the front door, carried me in here...’
‘And made love to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was I a good lover, Gellis?’
‘Yes.’ Eyes blurring with tears, she choked huskily, ‘Oh, Sébastien, you were gentle, funny...’
‘Funny? Dear God, I don’t think I would know how to be funny even if you gave me a manual. Go on, tell me how it was. Make me see it. Set the scene. Pretend it’s a play. You’ve been out shopping, you come back, I’m here—then what? What would I say? Do? Help me, Gellis!’
Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a deep breath. ‘You would smile—Oh, Sébastien, you had such a wicked smile.’
‘Did I?’ he asked bleakly.
‘Yes.’
‘Then what?’
‘Oh, you would take my shopping, dump it somewhere, and then you would...’ Taking a deep, painful breath, she continued huskily, ‘You would take me in your arms. Your eyes would be alight with laughter, and then you would kiss me as though you hadn’t seen me in weeks, and—’
‘How?’ he interrupted. ‘Gently? Passionately? How?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes! How?’
Face still averted, she whispered sadly, ‘You would start at the corner of my mouth, all the time whispering...’ Whispering and urging, his voice at variance with the devilish laughter in his eyes. And always in French; he’d only ever made love to her in French. Fresh tears in her eyes, she whispered in anguish, ‘Oh, Sébastien, I can’t!’
Touching her shoulder, he gently turned her. ‘Yes, you can. Please. I know I’m hurting you... Dear God, Gellis, what sort of a bastard was I to make you hurt so much?’
‘I don’t know!’ she cried. ‘That’s what I find so hard! That’s what hurts so! I didn’t know! I thought you were so special, so different, and all the time...’ Closing her eyes tight, she took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. But I find this so hard.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed emptily. ‘You think I was living a lie? Pretending to love you?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed painfully.
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know why anyone would do that. Or perhaps you did love me,’ she added softly. ‘Certainly that would be less hurtful to believe—and then maybe you got cold feet, felt trapped. I don’t know, Sébastien, but whatever the reasons it was a coward’s way out to write me a note.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed grimly.
‘And yet I wouldn’t ever have said you were a coward.’
‘And so it goes round and round in your mind, with no answers. Just like mine.’
‘Yes,’ she said with a small attempt at a smile.
‘And I don’t think smiling at me is a very good idea,’ he reproved her with ironic humour. ‘I’ve been celibate for four months at least. And I don’t think celibacy is my natural inclination.’
‘No,’ she said awkwardly, her face pink.
‘Go on. What did I whisper?’
‘Suggestions.’
‘Suggestions? What sort of suggestions?’
With an embarrassed shrug, she murmured, ‘Erotic.’
‘Erotic?’
‘Yes.’
A sudden glimmer of amusement in his eyes, he asked, ‘And then what?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/emma-richmond-2/a-husband-for-christmas/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.