The Second Mrs Adams

“Joanna.”

She knew the voice. It was the same masculine one that she’d heard an eternity ago when she’d surfaced from unconsciousness.

“Yes,” she said.

She heard the soft creak of leather and a shape rose from the chair beside her bed. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head on the pillow.

His figure was shrouded in shadow, his face indistinct She could see only that he was big and broad of shoulder, that he seemed powerful, almost mystical in the darkness.

“Joanna,” he said again, his voice gruff as she’d remembered it yet tinged now with a husky softness. His hand closed over hers and this time she had no difficulty flexing her fingers and threading them through his, clasping his hand and holding on as if to a lifeline. “Welcome back,” he said, and she could hear the smile and the relief in the words.

Joanna swallowed hard. There was so much she wanted to ask, but it seemed so stupid to say, “who am I?” or “who are you?” or “where am I?” or “how did I get here?”

“You probably have a lot of questions,” he said, and she almost sobbed with relief.

“Yes,” she murmured.

He nodded. “Ask them, then—or shall I get the nurse first? Do you need anything? Want anything? Water, or some cracked ice, or perhaps you need to go to the bathroom?”

“Answers,” Joanna said urgently, her hand tightening on his, “I need answers.”

“Of course. Shall I turn up the light?”

“No,” she said quickly. If he turned up the light, this would all become real. And it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. “No, it’s fine this way, thank you.”

“Very well, then.” The bed sighed as he sat down beside her. His hip brushed against hers, and she could feel the heat of him, the strength and the power. “Ask away, and I’ll do my best to answer.”

Joanna licked her lips. “What—what happened? I mean, how did I get here? Was there an accident?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

“I seem to remember... I don’t know. It was raining, I think.”

“Yes,” he said again. His hand tightened on hers. “It was.”

“I stepped off the curb. The light was with me, I’d checked because... because...” She frowned. There was a reason, she knew there was, and it had something to do with him, but how could it when she didn’t...when she had no idea who he...

Joanna whimpered, and the man bent down and clasped her shoulders.

“It’s all right,” he said, “it’s all right, Joanna.”

It wasn’t, though. The touch of his hands on her was gentle but she could feel the tightly leashed rage in him, smell its hot, masculine scent on the carefully filtered hospital air.

“The taxi...”

“Yes.”

“It—it came flying through the intersection...”

“Hush.”

“I saw it, but by the time I did it was too late...”

Her voice quavered, then broke. The man cursed softly and his hands slid beneath her back and he lifted her toward him, cradling her against his chest.

Pain bloomed like an evil, White-hot flower behind her eyes. A cry rose in her throat and burst from her lips. Instantly, he lay her back against the pillows.

“Hell,” he said. “I’m sorry, Joanna. I shouldn’t have moved you.”

Strangely, the instant of pain had been a small price to pay for the comfort she’d felt in his arms. His strength had seemed to flow into her body; his heartbeat had seemed to give determination to hers.

She wanted to tell him that, but how did you say such things to a stranger?

“Joanna? Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. I just—I have so many questions...”

He brushed the back of his hand along her cheek in a wordless gesture.

“I need to know.” She took a breath. “Tell me the rest, please. The taxi hit me, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And an ambulance brought me to... What is this place?”

“You’re in Manhattan Hospital.”

“Am I... am I badly hurt?” He hesitated, and she swallowed hard. “Please, tell me the truth. What kind of injuries do I have?”

“Some bruises. A cut above your eye... they had to put in stitches—”

“Why can’t I remember anything? Do I have amnesia?”

She asked it matter-of-factly, as if she’d been inquiring about nothing more devastating than a common cold, but he wasn’t a fool, she knew he could sense the panic that she fought to keep from her voice because the hands that still clasped her shoulders tightened again.

“The taxi only brushed you,” he said. “But when you fell, you hit your head against the curb.”

“My mind is like a—a blackboard that’s been wiped clean. You keep calling me ‘Joanna’ but the name has no meaning to me. I don’t know who ‘Joanna’ is.”

Her eyes had grown accustomed to the shadowy darkness; she could almost see him clearly now. He had a hard face with strong features: a straight blade of a nose, a slash of a mouth, hair that looked to be thick and dark and perhaps a bit overlong.

“And me?” His voice had fallen to a whisper; she had to strain to hear it. “Do you know who I am, Joanna?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Should she remember him? Should she at least know his name?

“No,” she said. “No. I don’t.”

There was a long, almost palpable silence. She felt the quick bite of his fingers into her flesh and then he lifted his hands away, carefully, slowly, as if she were a delicate glass figurine he’d just returned to its cabinet for fear a swift movement would make it shatter.