A Husband's Revenge. Lee Wilkinson

I know you’re not.’ Turning to the doctor, she cried desperately, ‘I’ve never seen him before!’ She held out her left hand. ‘Look, I’m not even wearing a ring.’

      The man who called himself Jos felt in his pocket and produced a wide band of chased gold and a huge diamond solitaire. ‘You took your rings off when you showered this morning and forgot to put them back.’

      No, she didn’t believe him. Somehow she knew she wasn’t the kind of woman who would lightly remove her wedding ring.

      As she began to shake her head he caught her hand, and, holding it with delicate cruelty when she would have pulled it free, slipped both rings onto her slender finger. ‘See? A perfect fit.’

      He gave her a cool, implacable stare, which sent a quiver of apprehension through her, before lifting her hand to his lips and kissing the palm. ‘And if you want further proof that we’re married...’ Removing a marriage certificate and a couple of snapshots from his wallet, he held them out to her.

      A marriage certificate might be anyone’s, so she didn’t even bother to look at it, but photographs couldn’t lie. Afraid of what she might see, she forced herself to take the Polaroid pictures and look at them.

      The first one had been taken in what appeared to be a cottage garden. She was smiling up at a tall, dark-haired attractive man. His arm was around her waist and she looked radiantly happy.

      ‘That was the day we got engaged...and that was our wedding day.’

      The second picture showed a couple just emerging from the stone porch of a village church. Dressed in an ivory satin bridal gown and holding a spray of pale pink rosebuds, she was on the arm of the same man, who now wore a well-cut grey suit with a white carnation in his buttonhole.

      A man who was undoubtedly Jos.

      ‘Do you still believe we’re not married?’

      She couldn’t deny the evidence of her own eyes, but she knew that no matter what the picture suggested she didn’t want to be married to this man.

      ‘Well, Clare?’

      ‘No.’ It was just a whisper.

      Standing in the background, Dr Hauser nodded his approval just as his bleeper summoned him. ‘I must go. Try not to worry, Mrs Saunders. I’m sure your loss of memory will prove to be only temporary.’

      The door had hardly closed behind him when there was a bump and it swung open again to admit the nurse, pushing a shabby wheelchair. ‘Well, isn’t this good news?’ she asked her patient cheerfully. ‘As soon as you’re dressed, you can go home.’

      Taking a small pile of clothing from the locker, she pulled back the bed-sheet and the single greyish cellular blanket. ‘Shall I give you a hand with the gown? Or would you prefer your husband to help you?’

      Jos eyed the hospital gown with distaste, and raised an enquiring brow.

      Agitated, because she was naked beneath the faded cotton and he knew it, Clare folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself defensively. ‘No, I...I don’t need any help.’

      He rose to his feet in one lithe movement and said smoothly, ‘Then I’ll wait outside.’

      ‘You didn’t remember him?’ the nurse queried, unfastening the tapes.

      Clare shook her head mutely.

      ‘So I guess you’re entitled to be shy. Though I’d have thought a man like that would have been impossible to forget. He’s really something...’

      Seeing nothing else for it, Clare swung her legs off the bed and stood up. Moving slowly, carefully, wincing as she touched her bruised ribs, she began to get dressed in clothes she didn’t even recognise as hers.

      The undies were pretty and delicate, the silky suit and sandals well-chosen and smart, but all of them appeared to be relatively cheap. Which didn’t seem to tie in with his expensive clothes.

      Her tongue loosened, the nurse was chattering on. ‘I must say I envy you. It’s so thrilling and exciting. Like meeting for the first time and falling in love all over again...’

      Clare wished she could see things in such a romantic light. Caught between an unknown future with a man who was a stranger to her and a blank past, all she could feel was alarm and dread.

      All too soon she was dressed. With no further excuse for dawdling she took a few steps and, feeling weak, found herself glad to sink into the wheelchair the nurse was holding for her.

      Standing at ease, showing no sign of impatience now, Jos was waiting in the bare corridor. He was very tall, six feet three or four, with wide shoulders and narrow hips.

      He looked hard and handsome. And somehow dangerous.

      Though he was so big, when he came towards them she saw he moved with the grace and agility of a man perfectly in control of his body.

      ‘Shall I come down with you?’ the nurse asked.

      Anxious to put off the time when she’d be left alone with him, Clare was about to accept the offer when he said pleasantly, ‘Thank you, but there’s really no need. I’m sure I can handle a wheelchair.’

      The smile accompanying his words held such devastating charm that the nurse almost swooned. She was still standing staring after them when they reached the lift.

      It came promptly at his summons.

      It probably didn’t dare do anything else, Clare found herself thinking as the doors slid open. Then she was trapped with him in a small steel box. It was a relief when it stopped a few floors down and a hospital porter got in pushing a trolley.

      As the doctor had predicted, things were hotting up. The main concourse was busy and bustling, with people and staff milling about.

      At the reception desk a hard-pressed woman was trying to cope with a growing queue. A large calendar with a picture of Cape Cod on it proclaimed the month was June.

      When they reached an area close to the entrance, where a straggling row of shabby wheelchairs jostled each other, Jos asked, ‘Can you manage to walk from here?’ His deep, incisive voice startled her. ‘Or shall I carry you?’

      The idea of being held against that broad chest startled her even more. Sharply, she said, ‘Of course I can walk.’ They were foolhardy words that she was soon to regret.

      Struggling out of the chair, ignoring the hand he held out, she added, ‘I’ve only lost my memory, not the use of my legs,’ and saw his lips tighten ominously.

      Once on her feet, Clare swayed a little, and he put a steady arm around her waist. As soon as she regained her balance she pulled away, leaving a good foot of space between them.

      His face cold and aloof, he walked by her side, making no further attempt to touch her.

      Somehow she managed to keep her chin high and her spine ramrod-straight, but, legs trembling, head curiously light and hot, just to put one foot in front of the other took a tremendous effort of will.

      His car was quite close, parked in a ‘Doctors Only’ area. A sleek silvery grey, it had that unmistakable air of luxury possessed only by the most expensive of vehicles.

      By the time he’d unlocked and opened the passenger door she was enveloped in a cold sweat and her head had started to whirl. Eyes closed, she leaned against the car.

      Muttering, ‘Stubborn little fool!’ he caught her beneath the arms and lowered her into the seat. A moment later he slid in beside her and leaned over to fasten her safety belt.

      ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ he demanded.

      As soon as she was sitting down the faintness began to pass and the world stopped spinning. Lifting her head, she answered, ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

      ‘No wonder you look like a ghost!’

      Knowing it was