The Wife He Couldn't Forget. Yvonne Lindsay

      

       Olivia snuggled up closer to Xander, loving the fact she could.

      “I was thinking about the accident,” Xander said, “and wondering when the last time was that I told you how much you mean to me. It frightened me to think I might have died without ever telling you again. And I wanted to thank you.”

      “Thank me? Why? I’m still your wife.”

      She gasped. Would he pick up on the slip she’d made referring to herself as still being his wife?

      “You’ve been so patient with me since I was released from the hospital. I appreciate it.”

      He leaned closer until his lips touched hers. Olivia felt her body unfurl with response to his touch. She couldn’t help it—she kissed him back. Their lips melding to one another as if they’d never been apart. But doing this was perpetuating another lie.

      With a groan of regret, Olivia gently pulled away.

      “If that’s how you show your appreciation, remind me to do more for you,” she said, injecting a note of flippancy she was far from feeling.

      Somehow she had to get them back to where they once had been.

      The Wife He Couldn’t Forget

      Yvonne Lindsay

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      A typical Piscean, USA TODAY bestselling author YVONNE LINDSAY has always preferred her imagination to the real world. Married to her blind date hero and with two adult children, she spends her days crafting the stories of her heart, and in her spare time she can be found with her nose in a book reliving the power of love, or knitting socks and daydreaming. Contact her via her website: www.yvonnelindsay.com.

      This story is dedicated to my fabulous readers, whose continued support I cherish.

      Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

       Five

       Six

       Seven

       Eight

       Nine

       Ten

       Eleven

       Twelve

       Thirteen

       Fourteen

       Fifteen

       Sixteen

       Seventeen

       Eighteen

       Extract

       Copyright

       One

      She hated hospitals.

      Olivia swallowed hard against the acrid taste that settled on her tongue and the fearful memories that whispered through her mind as she entered the main doors and reluctantly scoured the directory for the department she needed.

      Needed, ha, now there was a term. The last thing she needed was to reconnect with her estranged husband, even if he’d apparently been asking for her. Xander had made his choices when he left her two years ago, and she’d managed just fine, thank you, since then. Fine. Yeah, a great acronym for freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional. That probably summed it up nicely. She didn’t really need to even be here, and yet she was.

      The elevator pinged, and its doors slid open in front of her. She fought the urge to turn tail and run. Instead, she deliberately placed one foot in front of the other, entering the car and pressing the button for the floor she needed.

      Damn, there was that word again. Need. Four measly letters with a wealth of meaning. It was right up there with want. On its own insignificant, but when placed in the context of a relationship where two people were heading in distinctly different directions it had all the power in the world to hurt. She’d overcome that hurt. The pain of abandonment. The losses that had almost overwhelmed her completely. At least she’d thought she had, right up until the phone call that had jarred her from sleep this morning.

      Olivia gripped the strap of her handbag just that little bit tighter. She didn’t have to see Xander if she didn’t want to—even if he had apparently woken from a six-week coma last night demanding to see her. Demanding, yes, that would be Xander. Nothing as subtle as a politely worded request. She sighed and stepped forward as the doors opened at her floor, then halted at the reception area.

      “Can I help you?” the harried nurse behind the counter asked her, juggling an armful of files.

      “Dr. Thomas, is he available? He’s expecting me.”

      “Oh, you’re Mrs. Jackson? Sure, follow me.”

      The nurse showed her into a blandly decorated private waiting room, then left, saying the doctor would be with her shortly.

      Unable to sit, Olivia paced. Three steps forward. Three steps back. And again. They really ought to make these rooms bigger, she thought in frustration. The click of the door opening behind her made her spin around.