The Second Mrs Adams. Sandra Marton

pulled up at the physicians’ entrance, David stepped out, waved to the security man as if he’d been doing it every day of his life and walked straight in. The reporters had yet to catch on, though it wouldn’t matter, after tonight. This would be his last visit to the hospital.

      By this time tomorrow, Joanna would be installed in a comfortable suite at Bright Meadows Rehabilitation Center. The place had an excellent reputation, both for helping its patients recover and for keeping them safe from unwelcome visitors. Bright Meadows was accustomed to catering to high-profile guests. No one whose name hadn’t been placed on an approved list would get past the high stone walls and there was even a helicopter pad on the grounds, if a phalanx of reporters decided to gather at the gates.

      Hollister pulled up to the private entrance as usual and David waved to the guard as he walked briskly through the door and into a waiting elevator. He was on the verge of breathing a sigh of relief when a bottle blonde with a triumphant smile on her face and a microphone clutched in her hand sprang out of the shadows and into the elevator. She jammed her finger on the Stop button and turned up the wattage on her smile.

      “Mr. Adams,” she said, “millions of interested Sun readers want to know how Mrs. Adams is doing.”

      “She’s doing very well, thank you,” David said politely.

      “Is she really?” Her voice dropped to a whisper that oozed compassion the same way a crocodile shed tears. “You can tell Sun readers the truth, David. What’s the real extent of your wife’s injuries?”

      “Would you take your finger off that button, please, miss?”

      The blonde edged nearer. “Is it true she’s in a coma?”

      “Step back, please, and let go of that button.”

      “David.” The blond leaned forward, her heavily kohled eyes, her cleavage and her microphone all aimed straight at him. “We heard that your wife’s accident occurred while she was en route to the airport for your second honeymoon in the Caribbean. Can you confirm that for our readers?”

      David’s jaw tightened. He could sure as hell wipe that look of phony sympathy from the blonde’s face, he thought grimly. All he had to do was tell her the truth, that Joanna had been on her way to the airport, all right, and then to the Caribbean—and to the swift, civilized divorce they had agreed upon.

      But the last thing he’d ever do was feed tabloid gossip. His life was private. Besides, ending the marriage was out of the question now. He and Joanna were husband and wife, by license if not by choice. He would stand by her, provide the best care possible until she was well again...

      “Mr. Adams?”

      The blonde wasn’t going to give up easily. She had rearranged her face so that her expression had gone from compassion to sincere inquiry. He thought of telling her that the last time he’d seen that look it had been on the face of a shark that had a sincere interest in one or more of his limbs while he’d been diving off the Mexican coast.

      “I only want to help you share your problems with our readers,” she said. “Sharing makes grief so much easier to bear, don’t you agree?”

      David smiled. “Well, Miss...”

      “Washbourne.” She smiled back, triumphant. “Mona Washbourne, but you can call me Mona.”

      “Well, Mona, I’ll be happy to share this much.” David’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He raised his arm, shot back the cuff of his dark blue suit jacket, and looked at his watch. “Get that mike out of my face and your finger off that button in the next ten seconds or you’re going to regret it.”

      “Is that a threat, Mr. Adams?”

      “Your word, Mona, not mine.”

      “Because it certainly sounded like one. And I’ve got every word, right here, on my tape rec—”

      “I never make threats, I only make promises. Anyone who’s had any dealings with me can tell you that.” His eyes met hers. “You’re down to four seconds, and still counting.”

      Whatever Mona Washbourne saw in that cold, steady gaze made her jerk her finger from the Stop button and step out of the elevator.

      “Didn’t you ever hear of freedom of the press? You can’t go around bullying reporters.”

      “Is that what you are?” David said politely. He punched the button for Joanna’s floor and the doors began to shut. “A member of the press? Damn. And here I was, thinking you were a...”

      The doors snapped closed. Just as well, he thought wearily, and leaned back against the wall. Insulting the Mona Washbournes of the world only made them more vicious, and what was the point? He was accustomed to pressure, it was part of the way he earned his living.

      OK, so the last week and a half had been rough. Personally rough. He didn’t love Joanna anymore, hell, he wasn’t even sure if he had ever loved her to begin with, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t almost gone crazy with fear when the call had come, notifying him of the accident. He wasn’t heartless. What man wouldn’t react to the news that the woman he was married to had been hurt?

      And, as it had turned out, “hurt” was a wild word to describe what had happened to Jo. David’s mouth thinned. She’d lost her memory. She didn’t remember anything. Not her name, not their marriage...

      Not him.

      The elevator doors opened. The nurse on duty looked up, frowning, an automatic reminder that it was past visiting hours on her lips, but then her stern features softened into a girlish smile.

      “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Adams. We thought you might not be stopping by this evening.”

      “I’m afraid I got tied up in a meeting, Miss Howell.”

      “Well, certainly, sir. That’s what I told Mrs. Adams, that you were probably running late.”

      “How is my wife this evening?”

      “Very well, sir.” The nurse’s smite broadened. “She’s had her hair done. Her makeup, too. I suspect you’ll find her looking more and more like her old self.”

      “Ah.” David nodded. “Yes, well, that’s good news.”

      He told himself that it was as he headed down the hall toward Joanna’s room. She hadn’t looked at all like herself since the accident.

      “Why are you looking at me like that?” she’d asked him, just last evening, and when he hadn’t answered, her hand had shot to her forehead, clamping over the livid, half-moon scar that marred her perfect skin. “It’s ugly, isn’t it?”

      David had stood there, wanting to tell her that what he’d been staring at was the sight of a Joanna he’d all but forgotten, one who lent grace and beauty even to an undistinguished white hospital gown, who wore her dark hair loose in a curling, silken cloud, whose dark-lashed violet eyes were not just free of makeup but wide and vulnerable, whose full mouth was the pink of roses.

      He hadn’t said any of that, of course, partly because it was just sentimental slop and partly because he knew she wouldn’t want to hear it. That Joanna had disappeared months after their wedding and the Joanna who’d replaced her was always careful about presenting an impeccably groomed self to him and to the world. So he’d muttered something about the scar being not at all bad and then he’d changed the subject, but he hadn’t forgotten the moment.

      It had left a funny feeling in his gut, seeing Joanna that way, as if a gust of wind had blown across a calendar and turned the pages backward. He’d mentioned it to Morgana in passing, not the clutch in his belly but how different Joanna looked and his Personal Assistant, with the clever, understanding instincts of one woman for another, had cluck-clucked.

      “The poor girl,” she’d said, “of course she looks different! Think what she’s gone through, David. She probably dreads looking at herself in the mirror. Her cosmetic case and a visit from