The Husband She'd Never Met. Barbara Hannay

memory will come back, Carrie.’

      ‘Yes.’ She knew she shouldn’t give up hope. After all, she’d had amnesia for less than a day. She thought about her memory’s eventual return and wondered how it would happen. Would everything come in a rush, like switching on a light? Or would it dribble into her consciousness in little bits and pieces, slowly coming together like a jigsaw puzzle?

      Patience, Carrie.

      ‘Tell me more,’ she said. ‘Did we have coffee in those little pavement cafés with the striped awnings?’

      ‘Every day. And you developed a fondness for Parisian hot chocolate.’

      She tried to imagine how the hot chocolate had tasted. For a moment the rich flavour was almost there on her tongue, but she was sure the real thing had surpassed her imagination. Giving up, she said, ‘And were we served by handsome waiters with starched white napkins over their arms?’

      ‘We were, indeed, and they spoke surprisingly good English.’

      ‘But with charming French accents?’

      ‘Yes to that, too.’ Max narrowed his eyes at her and his smile was teasing. ‘You were very taken by their accents.’

      ‘Were you jealous?’

      He gave a small huffing laugh. ‘Hardly. We were on our honeymoon, after all.’

      Their honeymoon. Her mind flashed up an image of the two of them in bed. She could almost imagine it...their naked bodies, the exquisite anticipation...

      But then the barriers came up.

      She had no idea what it was like to touch Max, to kiss him, to know the shape of his muscles and the texture of his skin, to have his big hands gliding over her, making love to her.

      She let out another heavy sigh.

      ‘It’s time you were in bed,’ he said.

      ‘Now you’re talking like you’re my parent.’

      ‘Not your parent—your nurse.’

      ‘Yes.’ That put her in her place. She was a patient, after all, and Max was being sensible, responsible, following the doctor’s orders and making sure she had plenty of rest.

      They gathered up their plates and cutlery and took everything inside. While Max stacked the dishwasher Carrie had a shower in the gorgeous big bathroom. Max had packed a nightgown for her—pale blue cotton with a white broderie anglaise frill and shoestring straps. It seemed all her clothes these days were either very pretty or very tasteful. Nothing funky, like the oversize purple and green T-shirt that she remembered being her favourite sleepwear.

      She found a fluffy white bathrobe in the cupboard and pulled it on, tying it modestly at the waist before she went back to the living area to bid Max goodnight.

      He was relaxed on the sofa, scrolling through TV shows with the sound turned down, but he stood when she came into the room.

      ‘Thanks for dinner, and for looking after me today,’ Carrie said.

      ‘My pleasure.’ A confusing sadness shadowed his eyes as he said this.

      Carrie’s throat tightened over a sudden painful lump. Was Max upset because she wasn’t acting like his wife? What did he expect now? A goodnight kiss?

      He came towards her across the square of cane matting and her insides fluttered as she imagined lifting her face to him and their lips meeting. Would his lips be warm? Would he take her in his arms and hold her close to that hard, big body?

      ‘I hope you sleep well,’ he said, lifting a hand to her shoulder.

      Through the towelling robe she felt the pressure of his fingers, warm and strong on her shoulder.

      ‘Goodnight, Carrie.’ He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze and then stepped back.

      That was it.

      Not even a peck on the cheek. He was being so careful, and she knew she should be grateful. It was what she needed, what she wanted.

      So why did she feel disappointed?

      ‘Goodnight, Max.’ She gave a tiny smile, a wave of her hand, and then turned and walked back into her room.

      * * *

      Max let out the breath he’d been holding, aimed the remote at the TV and turned it off, then went quietly outside to the balcony. Standing at the railing, he felt the sea breeze on his face, slightly damp and cool, as he looked out across the dark satiny water. His throat was tight and his eyes stung.

      Damn it.

      Carrie had nearly killed him in there. She’d looked so vulnerable, standing in the middle of the room in her dressing gown and bare feet, a nervous sort of smile playing at the corners of her mouth. So beautiful.

      He’d sensed that he could have taken her in his arms and she wouldn’t have put up a fight. In a moment of weakness he’d almost hoodwinked himself into believing that Fate had given him the old Carrie back, the girl who’d once loved him without reservation.

      All that talk of their honeymoon had been agony. So many poignant, passionate memories. He’d been so tempted to take advantage of her innocence, to draw her in and kiss her, to have her once more in his arms, so soft and womanly and sensuous. To rekindle the uninhibited wildness and rapture of happier days.

      To show her everything she’d missed.

      But how could he take advantage of her now, too late? And why bother, when he knew her memory would return, and along with it her bitterness and resentment?

      His hands tightened around the railing as he pictured the chilling moment when Carrie’s memory came back. He could almost see the curiosity and the light fading from her warm brown eyes to be replaced by dawning knowledge and cynicism, and quite possibly anger.

      A soft groan escaped him. This was a crazy situation—having Carrie back with him, helpless and needing him. It was tearing his guts out.

      He had no choice, though. He had to see this through. While his wife needed him he had to do everything he could for her, and then, with grim, unhappy resignation, he would weather the storms that inevitably followed.

      * * *

      Eventually Carrie slept, and when she woke the room was filled with pale light, filtered by the shutters. She heard sounds coming from the kitchen. The kettle humming to the boil. The chink of mugs being set on the granite bench.

      She should get up and join Max. Throwing off the bedclothes, she sat up.

      At the same moment there was a knock at the door.

      ‘Yes?’ she called, snatching at the sheets.

      Max appeared. He was bringing her a cup of tea, and Carrie found herself mesmerised by the sight of him in black silk boxer shorts and a white T-shirt, spellbound by his muscular chest so clearly defined by the snug-fitting shirt.

      Stupidly, she completely forgot to cover herself with the sheet, and now his intense blue gaze settled on her, taking in her dishevelled hair, her bare shoulders, the thin fabric of her nightgown. To her dismay her nipples tightened, and she was quite sure that he noticed.

      Her pulse took off at a giddy gallop.

      ‘I thought you’d like a cuppa,’ he said.

      ‘It’s all right.’ Carrie knew she sounded nervous. Out of her depth. She had no idea how to deal with this. Quickly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for the bathrobe that she’d left on a nearby chair. ‘I’ll come out.’

      ‘As you wish,’ he said politely. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’

      She could tell by the mix of amusement and sympathy in his eyes that he knew exactly why she was nervous. She was sure he’d guessed at her lustful interest in him. It was almost as if her body remembered...everything...