The Second Mrs Adams

The Second Mrs Adams
Sandra Marton

An accident… Amnesia… . A chance to fall in love again! David Adams is going to have to let his wife back into his life. He'd been about to divorce Joanna, when she had the accident. True, she's undergone a complete personality change since then, and has turned back into the lovely girl he married. But does that mean he's going to fall right back in love with her?David is convinced that what he feels for Joanna right now is lust. But he must resist their reborn attraction… because, once Joanna's memory has returned, this pretense of a real marriage must surely be over… ?

About the Author (#u54da1d68-dada-5cec-be4f-3fcf4b510d63)Title Page (#u24d92606-bdd1-5a92-823c-be740a78ee4d)CHAPTER ONE (#u0ca5124e-270b-5db7-a94c-0a43bf4877c8)CHAPTER TWO (#u7b670331-7748-58e1-9585-270773bf5beb)CHAPTER THREE (#u155f7801-4551-5eab-8dae-14171ec021f6)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)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Sandra Marton is the author of over 30 books for Harlequin Presents. Here’s what the reviewers said about her book, A PROPER WIFE:

“The Brilliant storyteller

Sandra Marton...pens an impassioned

tale brimming with vividly real

characters, thrilling scenes and simply

crackling chemistry... Another sure

keeper for your bookshelf.”

—Romantic Times

(Awarded RT’s Gold Medal.)

“Ms. Marton has written a super

entertaining story full of conflict, humor,

romance and love. An excellent read.”

—Rendezvous Magazine

SANDRA MARTON is the author of more than thirty romance novels. Readers around the world love her strong, passionate heroes and determined, spirited heroines. When she’s not writing, Sandra likes to hike, read, explore out-of-the-way restaurants and travel to faraway places. The mother of two grown sons, Sandra lives with her husband in a sun-filled house in a quiet corner of Connecticut where she alternates between extravagant bouts of gourmet cooking and take-out pizza. You can write to her (SASE) at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268.

The Second Mrs Adams

Sandra Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE

THE siren was loud.

Painfully, agonizingly loud.

The sound was a live thing, burrowing deep into her skull, tunneling into the marrow of her bones.

Make it stop, she thought, oh please, make it stop.

But even when it did, the silence didn’t take the pain away.

“My head,” she whispered. “My head.”

No one was listening. Or perhaps no one could hear her. Was she really saying anything or was she only thinking the words?

People were crowded around, faces looking down at her, some white with concern, others sweaty with curiosity. Hands were moving over her now, very gently, and then they were lifting her; oh, God, it hurt!

“Easy,” somebody said, and then she was inside a...a what? A truck? No. It was an ambulance. And now the doors closed and the ambulance began to move and the sound, that awful sound, began again and they were flying through the streets.

Terror constricted her throat.

What’s happened to me? she thought desperately.

She tried to gasp out the words but she couldn’t form them. She was trapped in silence and in pain as they raced through the city.

Had there been an accident? A picture formed in her mind of wet, glistening pavement, a curb, a taxi hurtling toward her. She heard again the bleat of a horn and the squeal of tires seeking a purchase that was not to be found...

No. No! she thought, and then she screamed her denial but the scream rose to mingle with the wail of the siren as she tumbled down into velvet darkness.

She lay on her back and drifted in the blue waters of a dream. There was a bright yellow light overhead.

Was it the sun?

There were voices... Disembodied voices, floating on the air. Sentence fragments that made no sense, falling around her with the coldness of snow.

“...five more CC’s...”

“...blood pressure not stabilized yet...”

“...wait for a CAT scan before...”

The voices droned on. It wasn’t anything to do with her, she decided drowsily, and fell back into the darkness.

The next time she awoke, the voices were still talking.

“...no prognosis, at this stage...”

“...touch and go for a while, but...”

They were talking about her. But why? What was wrong with her? She wanted to ask, she wanted to tell them to stop discussing her as if she weren’t there because she was there, it was just that she couldn’t get her eyes to open because the lids were so heavy.

She groaned and a hand closed over hers, the fingers gripping hers reassuringly.

“Joanna?”

Who?

“Joanna, can you hear me?”