Wedding Party Collection: Don't Tell The Bride: What the Bride Didn't Know / Black Widow Bride / His Valentine Bride

‘Lots of bits and pieces,’ she said. ‘Lots. But I don’t remember our wedding.’

‘What’s your maiden name?’

‘Um—’

‘Your brothers’ names?’

‘Dan. No, Damien.’ One of them was called Damien.

‘Damon.’

‘Yes, Damon.’ An image of a laughing, dark-haired boy on a surfboard came to her. ‘He surfs. He loves the sea.’ Trig remained stony-faced and Lena’s confidence faltered. ‘Doesn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘See? Memory on the mend.’

But her husband didn’t seem to think so. ‘Lena, can you remember why we’re even in Turkey?’

‘Not really, no. Everything’s foggy. But I do remember you. I know you. Feel safe with you. You’re my husband.’

Trig.

A new and startling thought occurred to her—one that explained away her husband’s grimness and their current lack of wedding rings. ‘We’re not just...just-married, are we? Were we going to buy rings here?’ It made sense. It was almost coming back to her. ‘Are we on our honeymoon?’

He didn’t say anything for a very long time, and then he looked her dead in the eye and said, ‘Yes.’

FIVE (#u0c550a3f-3468-59b6-bf3b-8a7b3c1e097c)

She barely remembered him. Trig tried to conceal his growing panic beneath another mouthful of food. Lena really did think she was married to him. Because he’d told the hospital staff they were in order to get her the attention she’d needed.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she was saying. ‘I’ve really screwed up, haven’t I? I’m a little light on details but I do remember you. You like the ocean too. And we played together as children. You and me and another boy.’

‘Jared.’ She couldn’t even remember Jared.

‘Yes. Jared. Jared, my...’

Trig waited. Lena frowned.

‘Brother,’ he told her, because he couldn’t stand the confusion in her eyes.

‘Right. I’m pretty sure the concussion’s screwing with my head.’

‘You think?’ Sarcasm didn’t become him, given the circumstances, but it was that or outright panic. She’d barely touched her food. He’d hardly made a dent in his and he shovelled another load down, because he didn’t rule out another trip to the hospital in the not too distant future.

‘You should try and eat something,’ he said gruffly, and she speared a small chunk of baked eggplanty stuff and ate it. Usually if he suggested she eat more, she’d tell him in no uncertain terms that she didn’t tell him what to eat.

Lena’s memory-lapse problem was worse than he thought.

He needed to get her upstairs and resting.

He needed to stop totally freaking out.

‘We’re after platinum rings,’ she said suddenly. ‘With a brushed finish.’

What did he even say to that?

‘And carpet. I wanted one of those too.’

‘A silk one,’ he said, and condemned himself to hell for his sins.

‘Expensive?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And you had a...problem with that?’ she continued tentatively.

‘Not at all. I’m thinking we need two.’ And a brain transfusion. For him.

‘Are we rich?’ She wasn’t even pretending to remember stuff any more.

‘Between us, we have resources.’ He thought that was a relatively fair call. ‘And your father’s a very rich man.’

‘I don’t sponge off him, do I?’

‘No, but you’re used to a certain way of life. You and your siblings all travel wherever you want, whenever you want to. You have several family houses and apartments at your disposal.’

‘But the beach house is ours. I remember the beach house.’

‘That’s Damon’s.’

‘Oh.’ Lena’s face fell and she blinked back sudden tears. ‘Could have sworn it was ours.’

‘We’ve spent a lot of time there lately,’ he offered gruffly. ‘There’s an indoor heated pool there that’s good for rehab. You’ve done a lot of rehab on your leg.’

‘Oh,’ she said again.

Trig set his napkin on the table and pushed away abruptly. ‘C’mon. I’ve had enough and you need to rest.’

She tried to follow swiftly. She caught her hip on the edge of the table and winced.

‘Easy, though. There’s no rush.’

‘Nothing works,’ she whispered.

‘It works. It just works different from the way you expect it to.’

She clutched at his arm and together they headed slowly for the lifts. ‘Do I have a crooked wooden walking stick?’