The Husband She'd Never Met

What would her husband expect?

Carrie wondered what she looked like this morning. She should probably hunt for the comb in the toiletries pack the hospital had provided and tidy her hair. Then again, why should she bother to look presentable for a man she didn’t know? A man who made such discomfiting claims?

Curiosity about her appearance got the better of her. She reached for the bag and found the comb and mirror inside.

The mirror was quite small, so she could only examine her appearance a section at a time. She saw a graze on her forehead and a bluish-black bruise, but otherwise she looked much the same as usual. Except...when she dragged a comb through her hair it was much longer than it should have been. Not a neat bob, but almost reaching her shoulders.

When had that happened? And her hair’s colour was a plain brown. But she’d always gone to Gavin, the trendiest hairdresser in Crown Street, to get blonde and copper streaks, with the occasional touch of aqua or cerise.

Carrie was still puzzling over this lack of colour when footsteps sounded outside in the corridor.

Firm, no nonsense, masculine footsteps.

Her heart picked up pace. She shoved the comb and mirror back in the bag and felt suddenly sweaty. Was this her supposed husband, Max Kincaid?

When she saw him would she remember him?

Remember something?

Anything?

She held her breath as the footsteps came closer. Into her room.

Just inside the doorway, her visitor stopped.

He was tall. Sun-tanned. His hair was thick and dark brown and cut short, and despite his height he had the build of a footballer, with impressively broad shoulders, his torso tapering to slim hips and solid thighs.

His eyes were an astonishing piercing blue. Carrie had never seen eyes quite like them. She wanted to stare and stare.

He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a light blue checked shirt that was open at the neck with the long sleeves rolled back. The whole effect was distinctly rural, but most definitely, eye-catching.

Max Kincaid was, in fact, quite ridiculously handsome.

But Carrie had never, most emphatically, never seen him before.

Which was crazy. So crazy. Surely this man would be impossible to forget.

‘Hello, Carrie.’ His voice was deep and pleasant and he set a brown leather hold-all on the floor beside her bed.

Carrie didn’t return his greeting. She couldn’t. It would be like admitting to something she didn’t believe. Instead, she gave the faintest shake of her head.

He watched her with a fleeting worried smile. ‘I’m Max.’

‘Yes.’ She couldn’t help speaking coolly. ‘So I’ve been told.’

Frowning, he stared frankly at her now, his bright blue eyes searching her face. ‘You really don’t remember me?’

‘No. I’m so—’ Carrie almost apologised, but she stopped herself just in time. Max Kincaid didn’t seem too immediately threatening, but she certainly wasn’t ready to trust him. She couldn’t shake off feeling that he had to be an impostor.

She sat very stiffly against the propped pillows as he moved to the small table beside her.

She watched him, studying his face, searching for even the tiniest clue to trigger her memory—the shape of his eyebrows, the remarkable blue of his eyes, the crease lines at their corners. The strong, lightly stubbled angle of his jaw.

Nothing was familiar.

‘Are your belongings in here?’ he asked politely as he lightly touched the door to a cupboard in the bedside table.

Carrie found herself noticing his hands. They were squarish and strong, and slightly scarred and rough, no doubt from working in the outdoors and cracking whips, or branding unfortunate cows, or whatever it was that cattlemen did. She saw that his forearms were strong, too, tanned, and covered in a light scattering of sun-bleached hair.

He was unsettlingly sexy and she scowled at him. ‘You want to search my belongings?’

‘I thought perhaps...if you saw your driver’s licence it might help.’

Carrie had no idea if her driver’s licence was in that cupboard, but even if it was... ‘How will I know the licence hasn’t been faked?’

This time Max’s frown was reproachful. ‘Carrie, give me a break. All I want is to help you.’

Which was dead easy for him to say. So hard for her to accept.

But she supposed there was nothing to be gained by stopping him. ‘Go on, open it,’ she said ungraciously.

Max did this with a light touch of his fingertips.

If he really is my husband, his fingertips—those very fingertips—must have skimmed beneath my clothing and trailed over my skin.

The thought sent a thrilling shiver zinging through her.

There was something rather fascinating about those rough, workmanlike hands, so different from the pale, smooth hands of Dave the accountant...the last guy she could remember dating.

She quickly squashed such thoughts and concentrated on the contents of the cupboard—a small, rather plain brown leather handbag with a plaited leather strap, more conservative than Carrie’s usual style. She certainly didn’t recognise it.

Max, with a polite smile, handed the bag to her, and she caught a sharp flash of emotion in his bright blue eyes. It might have been sadness or hope. For a split second, she felt another zap.

Quickly she dropped her gaze, took a deep breath and slid the bag’s zip open. Inside were sunglasses—neat and tasteful sunglasses, with tortoiseshell frames—again much more conservative than the funky glasses she usually wore. Also a small pack of tissues, an emery board, a couple of raffle tickets and a phone with a neat silver cover. Sunk to the bottom was a bright pink and yellow spotted money purse.

Oh. Carrie stared at the purse. This she definitely remembered. She’d bought it in that little shop around the corner from her flat. She’d been bored on a rainy Saturday morning and had gone window shopping. She’d been attracted by the cheery colours and had bought it on impulse.

But she had no memory of ever buying the plain brown handbag or the neat silver phone. Then again, if the phone really was hers it could be her lifeline. She could ring her mother and find out for sure if this man standing beside her bed in jeans and riding boots truly was her husband.

Or not.

‘I need to ring my mother,’ she said.

‘Sure—by all means.’ Max Kincaid’s big shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. ‘I’ve already rung her to explain about the accident, so she’ll be pleased to hear from you.’

This did not bode well. He sounded far too relaxed and confident.

Carrie’s stomach was tight as she scrolled to her mum’s number and pressed the button. The phone rang, but went straight through to the voicemail message.