A Husband's Revenge. Lee Wilkinson

      “I am your husband, you know. ” About the Author Dedication Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

      “I am your husband, you know. ”

      But that was just it, she thought, she didn’t know. As far as she was concerned he was a stranger. “I just get the feeling you don’t like me very much,” she said, before she could stop herself.

      

      “Liking is such a bloodless, insipid emotion. It has nothing to do with what I feel for you.”

      LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in England, in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy travel, and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

      Lee Wilkinson writes romances with strong heroes

      and a gripping emotional suspense that will keep you hooked to the very last page!

      A Husband’s Revenge

      Lee Wilkinson

      

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      SHE opened her eyes to a strange, underwater world of light and shade. After a moment her blurred vision cleared and she found herself looking at a bare, impersonal room, little more than a cubicle.

      The walls and ceiling were painted sickly green; the floor covering was grey rubberised tiles. A metal locker and a wheeled trolley stood next to a white porcelain sink, where a tap dripped with monotonous regularity.

      There were no curtains at the window, and bright sunshine slanted in. It was the only cheerful thing in the room. A panacea. Something to be filtered in between the fear and the smell of disinfectant.

      She was wearing a much washed blue cotton gown that fastened down the back with tapes and lying on a hard, narrow bed. A hospital bed. It made no sense. Too tired to try and think, she closed her eyes once more.

      The next time she awoke the sunshine had gone and dusk had taken its place. Shadows gathered in the room like a menacing crowd. Her throat was dry, her mouth parched. The tap was still dripping, and there was a red plastic beaker on the sink.

      Pushing herself up on one elbow, she swung her bare feet to the floor. But when she straightened and attempted to take a step her head swam, and she was forced to hang onto the metal bar at the top of the bed.

      At the same instant the door opened to admit a young and pretty dark-haired nurse, who hurried over and, after helping her patient back into the high bed, scolded, ‘You shouldn’t be trying to get out on your own.’

      ‘I’m thirsty.’ The words were just a croak.

      ‘Well, stay where you are and I’ll get you some nice cool orange juice.’ She plumped up the thin pillows and switched on a harsh overhead light. ‘The doctor will be pleased you’re awake at last.’

      Awake... Yes, she was awake. Yet it was as if her brain was still asleep. She was conscious of physical things—her head ached dully and her throat felt as if it was full of hot shards of glass—but she was dazed and disorientated, her mind a curious blank.

      The nurse returned and handed her the promised glass of orange juice. While she drank eagerly there was a flurry of footsteps, and a short sandy-haired man hurried in. He wore a white coat, steel-rimmed glasses and an air of harassed self-importance.

      Pulling a pencil-torch from his pocket, he shone it into her eyes before taking her pulse. Then, sitting down on the bed, he informed her, ‘My name’s Hauser. I’m the doctor in charge.’

      His complexion was pasty, and he appeared so effete that he would have made a better patient, she decided wryly, and asked, ‘In charge of what?’

      Judging from his look of disapproval, he thought she was being facetious.

      ‘I mean, what is this place?’ Her voice was husky.

      ‘The accident and emergency wing of the charity hospital.’

      ‘Have I had an accident?’

      ‘You were brought in earlier today by a cabby. He says you stepped off the sidewalk in front of him. His fender caught you and you fell and hit your head. As far as we can tell, you have no injuries other than minor bruising and slight concussion. Unfortunately you weren’t carrying any means of identification, so we were unable to notify your next of kin.’

      He made it sound as if she’d planned the whole thing just to annoy and inconvenience both him and the nursing staff.

      ‘This is a very busy hospital, and it gets busier late at night. Especially at the weekend.’ Having made that point, he headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, ‘If you’ll give the nurse details of who you are and where you live, we’ll contact your family so someone can come and collect you.’

      ‘But I don’t know where I live...’

      The forlorn statement brought him back.

      ‘You’ve had a shock. Try and think. Are you a tourist?’

      ‘A tourist? I don’t know.’

      ‘Do you remember your name?’

      ‘No... I don’t remember anything... Oh, dear God!’

      ‘Don’t worry.’ He became a little more human. ‘Temporary amnesia isn’t uncommon after your kind of accident. It just means you’ll have to stay.’ His frown made it clear that this wasn’t a popular option. ‘Until either you regain your memory or someone misses you and checks the hospitals.’

      Temporary amnesia. As the door closed behind him and the nurse began to make notes on her chart she did her best to cling to that thought, but a rising panic fought its way to the surface. ‘I don’t know if there’s anyone to make enquiries... I don’t know if I’ve got any family...’

      A terrible sense of desolation swept over her. She covered her face with her hands. Her skin felt too tight for her bones, her cheeks and jaw all angles and sharp lines. ‘I don’t even know what I look like.’

      Opening the locker, the nurse brought out a grubby, finger-marked mirror and handed it to her. ‘Well, at least that should cheer you up.’

      A pale, heart-shaped face surrounded by a cloud of dark silky hair