Chapter Three #2
‘The thief who stole your bag? The chase across Placa Reial?’ He fired questions at her as he strode back across the room.
‘Your immature decision to tackle a man twice your size? The fight we had? The drive here from the city? You said my father’s name, álvaro, before you passed out. You remember none of this? Nada? ’
‘No…’ she said, feeling less accommodating by the second. Why was he so furious? She was the one with no clothes and no money. ‘And shouting at me isn’t going to make me remember. In fact, it’s making my head feel like it’s about to explode. So maybe stop doing that.’
He swore again—but at least he did it under his breath—then he sat back down in the chair beside the bed and dropped his head into his hands.
But as he rubbed his face he flinched, and she realised he had touched the raw spot above his eye. She knew how that felt. Then one of the questions he had fired at her rushed back.
The fight we had?
‘I didn’t… I didn’t hit you, did I?’ she asked, horrified. While she couldn’t remember much of anything, she hoped she hadn’t intentionally hurt another human being, however annoying they were.
He peered at her through his fingers, the frustration replaced by confusion.
Yup, so know how that feels, too.
‘The bruise above your eye?’ she asked again, scared to hear the answer. ‘I didn’t give you that, did I? When we had our fight?’
He dropped his hands and straightened in his chair, his broad shoulders making the ornate piece of antique furniture creak—and seem nowhere near as imposing as he was. But his expression was still giving her serious what-on-earth-is-she-talking-about-now? vibes.
‘You asked if I remembered our fight,’ she tried to explain again.
Could this conversation get any more awkward?
‘I really don’t remember fighting with you…
’ Although she already had the sense that he would not be a difficult man to start an argument with.
He seemed quite inflexible and a lot impatient. ‘But if I hurt you, I’m very sorry.’
The fierce frown suddenly disappeared. He dropped his head back against the seat and the minutes ticked by as he stared at the ceiling. Cursing. Softly. In Spanish.
Okay, what had she said now ? He was making this conversation unnecessarily difficult. Maybe it was the language barrier. Although his English seemed perfect. Perhaps something had been lost in translation.
But when his gaze met hers again, what she saw in his expression astonished her. And made the jumping beans in her belly go into overdrive.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
A sensual smile curved his lips, adding to the wry amusement in his eyes, and making him look even more… Well, hot. Frankly.
How was that fair? she thought, annoyed with herself now as well as him. How could she possibly think he was attractive when he was being such a jerk?
‘ We did not have a fight, chica …’ He let out a gruff chuckle.
Although she should be relieved that she hadn’t punched him, his amusement at her expense was starting to make her wish she had. And the use of the word chica in that intimate tone was not good for the jumping beans in her still mostly empty belly.
‘ I fought with the thief who robbed you,’ he stressed.
‘After he slapped you.’ His gaze roamed over her face, making her brutally aware of her sore cheek—and the prickle of sensation everywhere else.
‘I am not a violent man,’ he added, which almost sounded like an apology.
‘But the abuse of women is something I will not tolerate. Ever .’
The smile had died, the sparkle of amusement gone from his eyes. Cold fury crossed his expression. The moment felt so compelling she shivered, even though she was the opposite of cold. However overbearing he was, it seemed he had a strong—and unbreakable—moral code…
‘Thank you, then. For helping me,’ she said, feeling guilty now for having snapped at him.
He’d obviously rescued her from the man who had robbed her and hurt her—and brought her to his home, and she had been ungrateful.
‘ De nada ,’ he said, approval highlighting the golden shards in his irises.
‘If someone could lend me some clothes, I’ll get out of your hair…’ It was obvious he didn’t want her here. So, getting the heck out of his home was the least she could do to return the favour.
But when she went to get up, her legs shaky, his frown returned. ‘Get back into bed,’ he demanded. ‘You can barely walk.’ The edge of authority was so sharp she obeyed him without thinking.
‘But I…’ she tried to protest.
‘What is your name?’ he interrupted.
‘Cerys.’ The answer popped out instinctively.
He nodded. ‘ Y tu apellido? Your family name? What is this?’
She opened her mouth, expecting it to appear in her head the same way her first name had… But nothing, absolutely nothing, was there. The panic she had been contending with when he arrived snaked around her ribs and squeezed. She blinked furiously as idiotic tears stung her eyes.
‘I… I’m not sure,’ she stuttered, both frantic and suddenly bereft.
How could she not know her own surname? This was horrendous. She felt as if she had been robbed of something far more precious than her clothes, or her money or her passport…
She pressed her fingers to her lips, realising the full import of the huge empty space in her head…
‘Do you know my name?’ she managed, feeling utterly pathetic now, but also scared. Because why would he have asked her name if he already knew the answer?
After studying her intently for what felt like several hours, but could only have been a few seconds, he shook his head. The intent expression became shadowed—with pity or concern or disapproval, she wasn’t sure, because he masked his emotions so well.
Either way, she felt humiliated. How could she go anywhere, do anything, be anyone, if she didn’t know who she was?
She trembled and sniffed. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, staring at her hands, which were clasped so tightly in her lap the knuckles had gone white.
He pressed a large palm to her shoulder. ‘Do not cry,’ he said softly.
She shifted against his touch, and he lifted his hand immediately, but the feel of it still buzzed over her skin—which wasn’t comforting at all really.
‘I won’t,’ she said, determined not to let the tears queuing up in her throat fall in front of him. Because that would somehow be so much worse.
She hated to be dependent on anyone, but what she hated more was to know she needed his support, because deserving his help felt like a test she was bound to fail.
She did not know why she knew she had to be self-sufficient, but she clung to the insight because it was a clue—however small—to that blank space inside her.
‘We will let the doctor examine you. And then we will work out who you are.’
His offer wasn’t exactly welcoming, but his tone was so pragmatic and commanding it still felt reassuring. If anyone could find out who she was, she was sure it would be this man. But when he stood up, she grasped his wrist.
‘But what if you can’t…?’ she said. ‘Find out my surname?’
He frowned. ‘You will stay here until I do,’ he said, as if it was obvious.
‘But… Y-you don’t want me here,’ she replied. ‘And if you don’t want me here, I don’t want to be here.’
She couldn’t stay. She had no money. How would she pay him back? And she refused to rely on his charity and largesse, especially as he’d made it clear he found her presence in his home inconvenient at best.
He glanced at her fingers on his wrist, making her realise she was clinging to him. She released him instantly, even as the riot of sensation where her fingers had touched his skin made her breathing accelerate alarmingly.
‘You will stay here because you must,’ he said in that forthright manner he had that made absolutely no effort to spare her feelings. ‘Until we discover who you are.’
It was true, of course, but, even so, she felt utterly miserable—small and insignificant and lonely—emotions which also brought back hazy recollections, but, like all her other memories, they were a jagged blur of sound and colour and shadows.
Without another word, he strolled from the room and shut the door decisively behind him.
Cerys went back to staring at the view, even more anxious now than she had been before Santiago álvaro De Montoya Lopez had walked into her life and witnessed it going into freefall… Again . Apparently.
* * *
‘I believe she has a form of amnesia, Your Excellency. It is not uncommon after a trauma such as you have described to me. The mind will sometimes seek to protect the psyche from an event or emotions that are difficult to cope with.’
Santiago turned from his contemplation of the vineyards on the south-facing terraces above the castillo ’s East Wing, the knot in his stomach tightening as his head began to throb.
Dr Mendoza’s calm observation was not what he had wanted to hear—which had to explain why he felt the opposite of calm right now himself.
He should not have touched the girl this morning, that much was obvious.
He had stayed away from her ever since he had deposited her in one of the guest bedrooms in the West Tower at three a.m. two nights ago, following the drive from Barcelona.
That would be the guest bedroom which was as far away from his own private quarters as it was possible to get her.
Then he had left María Hermosa and her staff to deal with her.
Why had he given in to the unfamiliar urge to comfort her?
Because the memory of her subtle shudder when he’d briefly placed his hand on her shoulder was still echoing uncomfortably in his groin an hour later…
Not to mention the sight of her nipples, drawing into tight peaks under the almost transparent garment his housekeeper must have loaned her.
And then there had been that subtle scent—flowery and fresh—which had an even more devastating effect on him today than it had in the car, during the endless drive to get here.