Who Is Deborah?. Elise Title

refuge, my escape from tension, anxiety, tedium. Early to bed, late to rise. That was my pattern. I knew, just as the doctors did, that it wasn’t a real solution to my problem: but then, there didn’t seem to be a solution.

      Or did there? The question jabbed at me, and, in a minute, I was completely awake. And disoriented. Where was I? Last I remembered, I was standing in the vast white-marble-floored hallway of Raven’s Cove, staring into those mesmerizing blue-black eyes of Nicholas Steele. And then I had gotten so dizzy….

      My eyes shot open, my head still beneath the cover. I saw that I was now in a big, roomy bed made up with exquisitely soft linens. I also saw that I was no longer in the dress I’d had on. I was wearing a delicate cotton nightgown. Who had carried me to bed? Undressed me?

      Slowly, warily, I drew the covers down from my eyes, blinking in the brightness of the room. A spacious, sunny room it was, with floral paper on the walls, a large bay window offering a spectacular vista of sky and mountains, an hand-painted antique armoire, a lovely chintz chaise longue coordinated to match the wallpaper…

      My gaze stopped dead at the chaise, and I drew in a gasp. Sitting there, silent, his dark eyes giving me a measured, unflinching look, was none other than Nicholas Steele himself. Shaken though I was to find him there, somehow I wasn’t surprised.

      “What…happened?” I managed to say after I saw that he was not about to be the one to break the silence.

      “You fainted.” His voice had a deep resonance about it. A commanding voice. It suited him, I thought. As did its faintly mocking tone.

      Bristling, I found myself replying in a tone that matched his. “Yes, I know that. I mean, after I fainted.”

      Something changed in his features. It was very subtle, but I noticed it. I could not, however, interpret its meaning.

      He rose from the chaise. Standing, he seemed even more compelling. It wasn’t merely his physique, but rather a presence about him, a strength and sureness of will that that radiated.

      I was about to give up on getting an answer, when he replied matter-of-factly, “I carried you upstairs. Then you were tucked into bed where you slept a rather drugged sleep through the night. You missed one of Lillian’s excellent roasts.”

      I was stunned to learn that it was the next day. How long had he been sitting there watching me? I felt a cold chill. “I’m not on any drugs, if you’re concerned—”

      “I’m not.”

      There was a prolonged silence. To my surprise, this time he broke it. “I imagine you’re hungry.”

      I shook my head. Food was the furthest thing from my mind. “Did you…?” I glanced down at my nightgown.

      “Did I what?”

      I silently cursed the warmth I knew was rising in my cheeks. And him, as well, for forcing me to spell it out. Did he deliberately want to embarrass and humiliate me? Because he was still angry about our fight? About my walking out on him? Had he suffered and now wanted to make me suffer in turn? Although, to look at him now, there was no sign of suffering.

      I drew in a breath. “I am hungry.”

      Was that actually a hint of a smile I detected on those otherwise grim lips?

      “I’ll have Lillian bring you up a tray.” He started for the door, not even bothering to ask what I wanted to eat. But, of course, he had to know what his wife ate for breakfast.

      My mind, however, wasn’t on the menu. I was remembering my previous intimidating encounter with Lillian. I didn’t want to begin my first and, for all I knew, last morning in Raven’s Cove having to confront dour cousin Lillian if I could avoid it.

      “Nick?” I called out to him as he opened the door.

      He turned, his expression suddenly dark. I was taken aback.

      I saw that he had no intention of volunteering the cause of his glaring disapproval. He simply waited for whatever else I intended to say.

      “What’s wrong?” I asked finally.

      “Is there something wrong?” A sardonic expression replaced the dark look.

      I felt a flash of fury. He was deliberately baiting me. “You didn’t appear to approve of my calling you by your given name,” I said rather stiffly, having no idea if that was the reason for his dark look. As I discovered, it was.

      “My given name is Nicholas.”

      “Greg calls you Nick.”

      “Only to annoy me.”

      “I see,” I answered quietly.

      “You did occasionally call me Nick,” he said with a slightly upward curve of the corners of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile. “But only in the throes of passion.”

      I flushed, looking away.

      After a brief silence, he went on. “What was it you wanted to say?”

      I was surprised to hear a softer tone in his baritone voice. Nicholas Steele was, I thought, one of those disturbingly mercurial people capable of constantly throwing you off your guard. Just when you thought you knew what to expect of him, he would toss you a curveball.

      “I was going to say that I’d prefer to have breakfast downstairs.” Hopefully, I prayed, not under the watchful eye of cousin Lillian.

      He nodded disinterestedly. Again he started to leave the room. At the door, though, he abruptly turned back to me.

      “You’ve changed a great deal.”

      There was such portent in his voice that I gasped audibly. “You’re not sure, are you? At first I thought your rude behavior had to do with your being angry at me still. Greg told me that we’d argued and that I’d walked out.”

      “Did he?”

      “The moment I first saw you, I sensed that you weren’t at all sure whether you wanted me here. But it isn’t because you’re still angry. You aren’t sure I’m…her. You think I might not be…Deborah.”

      “Do you always tell people what they’re thinking?”

      “Did Deborah?” I shot back, having no idea where my courage was coming from.

      He gave me a long, appraising look. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

      “You seem to be in almost as much of a predicament as I find myself in,” I said.

      “It looks that way, doesn’t it?” He paused. “While you and Greg were driving up here, I phoned the New York General and had a chat with your psychiatrist, Dr. Royce. He’s apparently quite solicitous about your welfare. Did you know he was particularly fond of you?”

      I didn’t miss the cutting edge in his voice. “He’s particularly fond of all his patients,” I replied archly, foolish enough to think I’d have the last word. Needless to say, I hadn’t.

      “And are all of his patients particularly fond of him?” he asked dryly, his dark gaze fixed on me. Oh, how I willed myself not to flush, but it was beyond my control. He seemed to get some perverse pleasure out of seeing me embarrassed, and I thought to myself, this certainly wasn’t the captivating man Greg described to me—a man whom women supposedly found witty and charming. I was decidedly not charmed. As for his reported sex appeal, I dismissed even the possibility of that entirely. He was rude, insinuating and cruel. I may have once been the girl of his dreams, but I couldn’t imagine that Nicholas Steele had ever been the man of my dreams. Of my nightmares, was more like it.

      “It’s Dr. Royce’s opinion that however you might once have been, both in terms of your appearance and personality, he believes it’s quite conceivable, even probable, that you could appear and act quite differently now.”

      “Am I so different than I—than Deborah—was?” There was a little catch in my voice. Greg had