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

frowned. That made no sense. “How could she not know?”

      “I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Williams, but your fiancée has amnesia.”

      The gripping fingers of a relentless headache squeezed Melody’s brain. A dull, insistent throb, as though a vice was being cranked tighter and tighter against her skull.

      “Time for your pain ameds,” her nurse chirped, materializing at the side of the bed as though Melody had summoned her by sheer will.

      Or had she hit the call button? She honestly couldn’t remember. Things were still a bit fuzzy, but the doctor told her that was perfectly normal. She just needed time for the anesthesia to leave her system.

      The nurse held out a small plastic cup of pills and a glass of water. “Can you swallow these for me, hon?”

      Yes, she could, she thought, swallowing gingerly, the cool water feeling good on her scratchy throat. She knew how to swallow pills, and brush her teeth, and control the television remote. She could use a fork and a knife and she’d had no trouble reading the gossip rags the nurse had brought for her.

      So why, she wondered, did she not recognize her own name?

      She couldn’t recall a single thing about her life, not even the auto accident that was apparently responsible for her current condition. As for her life before the accident, it was as if someone had reached inside her head and wiped her memory slate clean.

      Post-traumatic amnesia, the neurologist called it, and when she’d asked how long it would last, his answer hadn’t been encouraging.

      “The brain is a mysterious organ. One we still know so little about,” he’d told her. “Your condition could last a week, or a month. Or there’s a possibility that it could be permanent. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

      She didn’t want to wait. She wanted answers now. Everyone kept telling her how lucky she’d been. Other than the head injury, she had escaped the accident relatively unscathed. A few bumps and bruises mostly. No broken bones or serious lacerations. No permanent physical scars. However, as she flipped through the television channels, knowing she must have favorite programs but seeing only unfamiliar faces, or as she picked at the food on her meal tray, clueless as to her likes and dislikes, she didn’t feel very lucky. In fact, she felt cursed. As though God was punishing her for some horrible thing that she couldn’t even remember doing.

      The nurse checked her IV, jotted something on her chart, then told Melody, “Just buzz if you need anything.”

      Answers, Melody thought as the nurse disappeared into the hall. All she wanted was answers.

      She reached up and felt the inch-long row of stitches above her left ear where they had drilled a nickel-size hole to reduce the swelling on her brain, relieving the pressure that would have otherwise squeezed her damaged brain literally to death.

      They had snatched her back from the brink of death, only now she wondered what kind of life they had snatched her back to. According to the social worker who had been in to see her, Melody had no living relatives. No siblings, no children, and no record of ever having been married. If she had friends or colleagues, she had no memory of them, and not a single person had come to visit her.

      Had she always been this … alone?

      Her address was listed as San Francisco, California—wherever that was—some sixteen hundred miles from the site of the accident. It perplexed her how she could still recognize words and numbers, while photos of the city she had supposedly lived in for three years drew a complete blank. She was also curious to know what she had been doing so far from home. A vacation maybe? Was she visiting friends? If so, wouldn’t they have been concerned when she never showed up?

      Or was it something more sinister?

      After waking from the coma, she’d dumped the contents of her purse on the bed, hoping something might spark a memory. She was stunned when, along with a wallet, nail file, hairbrush and a few tubes of lip gloss, a stack of cash an inch thick tumbled out from under the bottom lining. She quickly shoved it back in the bag before anyone could see, and later that night, when the halls had gone quiet, she counted it. There had been over four thousand dollars in various denominations.

      Was she on the run? Had she done something illegal? Maybe knocked off a convenience station on the way out of town? If so, wouldn’t the police have arrested her by now? She was sure there was some perfectly logical explanation. But just in case, for now anyway, she was keeping her discovery to herself. She kept the bag in bed with her at all times, the strap looped firmly around her wrist.

      Just in case.

      Melody heard voices in the hallway outside her room and craned her neck to see who was there. Two men stood just outside her door. Dr. Nelson, her neurologist, and a second man she didn’t recognize. Which wasn’t unusual seeing as how she didn’t recognize anyone.

      Could he be another doctor maybe? God knew she had seen her share in the past couple of days. But something about him, the way he carried himself, even though she only saw him in profile, told her he wasn’t a part of the hospital staff. This man was someone … important. Someone of a higher authority.

      The first thing that came to mind of course was a police detective, and her heart did a somersault with a triple twist. Maybe the police had seen the money in her purse and they sent someone to question her. Then she realized that no one on a public servant’s pay could afford such an expensive suit. She didn’t even know how she knew that it was expensive, but she did. Somewhere deep down she instinctively knew she should recognize the clothes designer, yet the name refused to surface. And it didn’t escape her attention how well the man inside the suit wore it. She didn’t doubt it was tailored to fit him exclusively.

      The man listened intently as the doctor spoke, nodding occasionally. Who could he be? Did he know her? He must, or why else would they be standing in her doorway?

      The man turned in her direction, caught her blatantly staring, and when his eyes met hers, her heart did that weird flippy thing again. The only way to describe him was … intense. His eyes were clear and intelligent, his build long and lean, his features sharp and angular. And he was ridiculously attractive. Like someone straight off the television or the pages of her gossip mags.

      He said a few words to the doctor, his eyes never straying from hers, then entered her room, walking to the bed, no hesitation or reserve, that air of authority preceding him like a living, breathing entity.

      Whoever this man was, he knew exactly what he wanted, and she didn’t doubt he would go to any lengths to get it.

      “You have a visitor, Melody.” Only when Dr. Nelson spoke did she realize he’d walked in, too.

      The man stood silently beside her bed, watching her with eyes that were a striking combination of green and brown flecks rimmed in deep amber—as unique and intense as the rest of him.

      He looked as though he expected her to say something. She wasn’t sure what though.

      Dr. Nelson walked around to stand at the opposite side of her bed, his presence a comfort as she felt herself begin to wither under the stranger’s scrutiny. Why did he look at her that way? Almost as though he was angry with her.

      “Does he look familiar to you?” Dr. Nelson asked.

      He was undeniably easy on the eyes, but she couldn’t say that she’d ever seen him before. Melody shook her head. “Should he?”

      The men exchanged a look, and for some reason her heart sank.

      “Melody,” Dr. Nelson said, in a soothing and patient voice. “This Asher Williams. Your fiancé.”

Two

      Melody shook her head, unwilling to accept what the doctor was telling her. She didn’t even know why. It just didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her,