Her Forgotten Husband

“Samantha Bogart?”

Silence.

“Hepburn? Tracy?” She wasn’t getting anywhere. And the man looked amused again. She glared at him. “All right, so I don’t know my last name. So what does that prove?”

The doctor patted her arm and continued the examination. “It appears you’ve suffered some memory loss. Do you know what city you’re in?”

She searched her mind for the name of a city. “Um, New York?”

Dr. Hernandez shook her head. “Sorry. You’re in Portland, Oregon. According to your husband, you’ve lived here all your life.” She glanced at the man beside her. “Garrick tells me you don’t believe you’re married to him.”

“I’m not.” It sounded petulant, but she didn’t care. She felt exposed and vulnerable, as if she were the butt of a joke that everyone got but her. She narrowed her eyes on her so-called husband. “Garrick?” she said. “Is that your name?”

He nodded.

“But I’ve never heard it before in my life. First name or last?”

“First. It’s Garrick Randall.”

The doctor patted her arm again. “I know this must be a confusing time for you, but he is your husband. The hospital verified it. Now, I expect to release you into his care tomorrow, after we run a few more tests. As long as you’re recovering well from the blow to your head, and it hasn’t hurt your pregnancy, there’s no reason to keep you here.”

“But what about my memory? Shouldn’t I stay until I get it back?” She felt intense trepidation at the idea of leaving the hospital, leaving the only world she’d known so far. Especially if she had to leave with a man she couldn’t remember.

Dr. Hernandez pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, Samantha, there’s nothing we can do about your memory. It may return in a few hours or a few days, or it may drift slowly back over a period of months.” She smiled gently. “I’ll have a counselor speak with you about it first thing tomorrow.”

A few minutes later the doctor left with Garrick. The nurse removed the IV, smoothed the covers and turned off the overhead lights before following them.

Then she was alone. It wasn’t as much of a relief as she’d thought it would be. In the light from the single fixture by the bed, the room seemed unbearably stark. There was one small window, but it revealed only darkness and a few distant street lamps. She wondered how many hours she would have to endure before morning.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but she’d been fast asleep for two whole days, so she knew it was futile.

Garrick kept slipping into her mind, with his tousled dark hair and appealing male scent. She almost missed him.

Well, she supposed that made sense. It really did seem as if she’d married him. And she’d probably done it for a good reason. She probably loved him!

Too bad she couldn’t remember.

She still didn’t feel like a Samantha, she thought. Maybe she never would. Maybe she’d always hated the name.

The door swung open with a quiet swish, and Garrick entered. He met her eyes and smiled a tender, disturbingly sexy smile.

“I thought you’d gone home,” she said.

“Eager to be rid of me?”

Mutely she shook her head. On the contrary, his presence gave her pleasure—but she wasn’t quite willing to admit it.

He crossed to the chair and picked up an overnight bag that had been stashed beneath it. His back to her, he rummaged through the contents.

Samantha watched him while he did so. He wore faded jeans and a wrinkled white oxford shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. She could see his muscles shift underneath it as he moved.

This man was her husband, she thought. The father of the small life growing inside her. How…odd.

Even though she couldn’t remember it, she’d actually made love with him. She’d run her fingers over his warm skin, kissed his full, sensuous lips.

And other places as well.

Despite the pounding in her head, a spark of excitement ran through her. There must be worse fates than being married to such an attractive man, she decided. Even if he was a little maddening.

He turned to face her. His features had a rugged beauty that drew her gaze to his beard-darkened cheeks and the line of his jaw. His gray eyes were like sun-warmed granite—hard but not cold.

Samantha’s attention drifted downward. Garrick wore his sleeves rolled back, revealing muscled forearms lightly sprinkled with hair. His legs were strong and well shaped, his hips lean. He had the body of a man who enjoyed physical activity, who skied, played tennis, jogged, made love….

She felt a sudden urge to touch him, to learn with her fingertips whether his body was as strong and firm as it looked.

Garrick’s hands came up and unfastened the top button of his shirt. She watched, mesmerized, as deft fingers slid the second button free. And the third. She saw dark hair curling on the sharply defined planes of his chest.

Her mouth went dry.

Three more buttons. He tugged the shirt free of his waistband, revealing a washboard stomach.

“What are you doing?” she croaked.

His hands stilled, but he didn’t answer. The shirt hung loose around his torso. Dark hair arrowed down his stomach and disappeared under his waistband.

She swallowed painfully.

With blessedly quick movements, Garrick shed the wrinkled oxford and replaced it with a black T-shirt.

Samantha cursed herself for a fool. She’d acted as if he were putting on some sort of striptease, as if he could read her mind and the unseemly thoughts that went on in it, when he’d only been changing.

They were married, she reminded herself. There was no reason for him not to change his shirt in front of her—especially when it looked as if he’d slept in it for a week.

He handed her a square leather purse. “I thought you might want this.”

Happy for a distraction, Samantha took the purse. She sorted through its contents, hoping something would look familiar.

Nothing did. The pocket calendar, face powder, lipstick and address book might all have belonged to someone else. Even her driver’s license, which showed a five-foot-five, twenty-five-year-old woman with brown eyes and long blond hair, didn’t elicit a flicker of recognition. She flipped through the address book without knowing a single one of the names that were written in a slanted, flowing script. Sighing, she put everything back in the purse.

“Nothing?” he asked.

“Not a thing. It’s like digging into someone else’s purse. I feel like a trespasser.” She held out the driver’s license. “Do I really look like this?”

He glanced at the license, then at her. “Close enough, though it’s not the most flattering picture—makes your hair look limp and your eyes look small and beady.”

“Thanks.”

He grinned back at her. “You asked.”