Mistress to the Magnate: Money Man's Fiancée Negotiation. Michelle Celmer

      “Yeah, well, after a few weeks, when she didn’t come crawling back to me begging forgiveness, I got … concerned. So I hired a P.I.”

      “So where was she?”

      “In a hospital in Abilene, Texas.”

      His brow dipped low over his eyes. “A hospital? Is she okay?”

      Ash told him the whole story. The accident, the drug-induced coma, all the time he spent by her bedside, then having to drive home because she couldn’t fly.

      Flynn shook his head in disbelief. “I wish you would have said something. Maybe there was a way we could have helped.”

      “I appreciate it, but really, there was nothing you could have done. She just needs time to heal.”

      “Is she back home with you now?”

      “Yeah, we got back today.”

      “So, does this mean you guys are … back together?”

      “She’s staying with me while she recovers. After that.” He shrugged. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

      “This is probably none of my business, but did she tell you why she left?”

      “It’s … complicated.”

      Flynn held up a hand. “I get it, back off. Just know that I’m here if you need to talk. And if you need anything, Ash, anything at all, just say the word. Extra vacation days, a leave of absence, you name it and it’s yours. I want to do anything I can to help.”

      He wouldn’t be taking Flynn up on that. The idea of spending another extended amount of time away from work, stuck in his condo, just him and Melody, made his chest feel tight. “Thanks, Flynn, I appreciate it. We both do.”

      After he was gone Ash sat at his desk replaying the conversation in his head. He hadn’t lied to Flynn; he’d just left out a few facts. For Flynn’s own good, and the good of the company.

      His mom used to tell him that good intentions paved the way to hell, and Ash couldn’t escape the feeling sometimes that maybe he was already there.

Eight

      Melody ’s quick rest turned into an all-day affair. She roused at seven-thirty when Ash got back feeling more tired than before, with a blazing headache to boot. After feeling so good the day before, the backslide was discouraging. Ash assured her that it was probably just the lingering aftereffects of the barometer and temperature change going from Texas to California, and she hoped he was right.

      She popped two painkillers then joined him at the dining-room table in her sleep-rumpled clothes and nibbled on a slice of the pizza he’d brought home with him. She had hoped they could spend a few hours together, but the pills seemed to hit her especially hard. Despite sleeping most of the day, she could barely hold her head up. At one point she closed her eyes, for what she thought was just a second, but the next thing she knew Ash was nudging her awake.

      “Let’s get you into bed,” he said, and she realized that he had already cleared the table and put the pizza away.

      Melody stood with his help and let him lead her to the bedroom. She crawled in bed, clothes and all, and only vaguely recalled feeling him pull the covers up over her and kiss her forehead.

      When she woke the next morning she felt a million times better. Her head still hurt, but the pain was mild, and her stomach howled to be fed. Wearing the same clothes as yesterday, her hair a frightening mop that she twisted and fastened in place with a clip she found under the bathroom sink, she wandered out of her bedroom in search of Ash, but he had already left for work.

      The coffee in the pot was still warm so she poured herself a cup and put it in the microwave to heat, finding that her fingers seemed to know exactly what buttons to push, even though she had no memory of doing it before. While she waited she fixed herself something to eat. She spent a good forty minutes on the couch, devouring cold pizza, sipping lukewarm coffee and watching an infomercial advertising some murderously uncomfortable looking contraption of spandex and wire that when worn over the bra was designed to enhance the breasts and improve posture. She couldn’t imagine ever being so concerned about the perkiness of her boobs that she would subject herself to that kind of torture.

      She also wondered, if she’d never gone to Texas, and the accident hadn’t happened, what she would be doing right now? Would she be sprawled on the couch eating leftovers or out doing something glamorous like meeting with her personal trainer or getting her legs waxed?

      Or would she be in class? It was only mid-April so the semester wouldn’t be over yet. She wondered, when and if she got her memory back, if they would let her make up the time and work she’d missed or if she would have to go back and take the classes over again. If she even wanted to go back, that was. The law still held little interest, but that could change. And what if it didn’t? What then?

      Worrying about it was making her head hurt, so she pushed it out of her mind. She got up, put her dirty dishes in the dishwasher alongside Ash’s coffee cup and cereal bowl, then went to take a long, hot shower. She dried off with a soft, oversize, fluffy blue towel, then stood naked in her closet trying to decide what to wear. Much like the bras she had packed for her trip, everything she owned seemed to be a push-up or made of itchy lace—or both. Didn’t she own any no-nonsense, comfortable bras?

      It gave her the inexplicable feeling that she was rummaging through someone else’s wardrobe.

      She found a drawer full of sport bras that would do until she could get to the store and put one on. Maybe she’d liked those other bras before, and maybe she would again someday, but for now they just seemed uncomfortable and impractical. The same went for all the thong, lace underwear. Thank goodness she had a few silk and spandex panties, too.

      She was so used to lying around in a hospital gown that the designer-label clothes lining her closet seemed excessive when all she planned to do was hang out at home, but after some searching she found a pair of black cotton yoga pants and a Stanford University sweatshirt that had been washed and worn to within an inch of its life.

      Since she was already in the closet, she decided that would be the place to start her search for memory-jogging paraphernalia. But around ten, when Ash called to check on her, nothing she’d found held any significance. Just the typical stuff you would find in any woman’s closet. She wondered if she was trying too hard. If she stopped thinking about it, maybe it would just come to her. But the thought of sitting around doing nothing seemed totally counterproductive.

      Refusing to let herself get frustrated, she searched her desk next. She found papers in her hand that she had no recollection of writing, and an envelope of photos of herself and Ash, most in social settings. She’d hoped maybe there would be letters or a diary but there were none.

      In the file cabinet she found pages and pages of schoolwork and other school-related papers, but nothing having to do with any specific research she’d been working on. In the very back of the drawer she found an unmarked file with several DVDs inside. Most were unmarked, but one had a handwritten label marked Ash’s Birthday. Video of a birthday party maybe? Home videos could jog a memory, right?

      Full of excitement and hope, she grabbed the file and dashed out to the family room to the enormous flat-screen television. It took her a few minutes just to figure out how to turn everything on, and which remote went with which piece of equipment. When the disk was in and loaded she sat on the couch and hit Play … and discovered in the first two seconds that this was no ordinary birthday party. At least, not the kind they would invite other people to. For starters, they were in bed … and in their underwear. Those didn’t stay on for long though.

      This was obviously one of those videos that Ash had mentioned. Although, at the time, she had half believed he was joking. She felt like a voyeur, peeking through a window at another woman’s private life. The things she was doing to him, the words coming