Wife With Amnesia

By Metsy Hingle

SHE COULDN?T REMEMBER?

He said he was her husband, but Claire had no recollection of New Orleans titan Matt Gallagher? Or the luxurious life he claimed they'd shared. Though she couldn't deny the passion his virile presence aroused, she didn't dare give in to the rush of powerful emotions. Especially since she sensed her alleged husband wasn't telling her all.

HE COULDN?T FORGET!

When Claire turned up with no memory of their separation, Matt seized the opportunity to reclaim his wife – and protect her from her mysterious assailant. Matt could face any danger? except the danger of losing the love of his life?.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460842096

Metsy Hingle

Award-winning, bestselling author Metsy Hingle says writing romance novels seemed a perfect career choice for her since she grew up in one of the world's most romantic cities - New Orleans. "I'm a true romantic who believes there's nothing more powerful or empowering than the love between a man and a woman. That's why I enjoy writing about people who face life's challenges and triumph with laughter and love." Dubbed by Romantic Times Magazine as "... destined to be a major voice in series romance," Metsy has gone on to make that prediction a reality, with her books frequently appearing on bestseller lists and garnering awards - among them the RWA's prestigious Golden Heart Award and a W.I.S.H. Award from Romantic Times Magazine. She has also been nominated twice by Romantic Times for a Reviewers' Choice Award for Best Silhouette Desire - in 1997 for The Kidnapped Bride and in 1999 for Secret Agent Dad. In addition, she is also a 1999 nominee for a Career Achievement Award for Series Love and Laughter. Known for creating powerful and passionate stories, Metsy's own life reads like the plot of a romance novel - from her early years in an orphanage and foster care to her long, happy marriage to her husband Jim and the rearing of their four children. Her books are always among readers' favourites, and with good reason, claims New York Times bestselling author Sandra Brown who says, "Metsy Hingle delivers hot sex, humour, and heart... everything a reader could wish for!" As much as Metsy loves being an author, it's her role as wife and mother that she holds most dear. Since turning in her business suits and fast-paced life in the hotel and public relations arena to pursue writing full-time, she admits to sneaking away to spend time in her rose garden or to slipping into the kitchen to cook up Creole dishes for her ever-expanding family - both the two-legged and four-legged variety. Metsy resides across the lake from her native New Orleans with her husband Jim, two bossy toy poodles, a tortoiseshell cat and a 16-pound black cat. According to Metsy one of the greatest joys of being an author is hearing from readers. She would love to hear from you. Please email her at [e-mail] or write to PO Box 3224, Covington, LA 70433, USA.

Book preview

Prologue

"Judging by the look on your face, Officer, I take it no one’s claimed the child."

Seated in the office of Saint Ann’s Orphanage, the child in question remained quiet as a mouse, but she slid a glance to the doorway where Sister Mary Patrick stood speaking to someone in a hushed voice.

I don’t understand it, Sister.

It was him—the policeman who had found her hiding inside the confession box at the big church. Suddenly her tummy felt funny. Maybe he had come to tell Sister that she didn’t have to stay here anymore. That her mommy had come back for her just like she’d promised.

It’s been over a week since the hurricane, the policeman said. We’ve run the kid’s picture in the local papers and on every news show in the New Orleans area, but so far nothing. No one’s come forward to claim her or even filed a missing person’s report on anyone matching her description. It just doesn’t make any sense.

It seldom does, Sister told him.

"She’s what…maybe three, tops? Just a baby. She has to belong to somebody. So why isn’t somebody looking for her?"

She did belong to somebody. She belonged to her mommy. And her mommy would come for her. She always came back for her.

Sister Mary Patrick glanced back in her direction, and she held her breath, tried to remain still as a statue the way Mommy had told her to do. Finally Sister turned back to the policeman. I’m afraid we may never know the answer to that. She still isn’t talking. She won’t tell us her name or who her mother is, assuming that she even knows.

Do you…you know, think there might be something wrong with her?

The doctors say no. She obviously understands what’s being said to her because she does whatever she’s told to do. But for whatever reason, she refuses to speak. The doctors believe she’s suffered some kind of trauma. And it’s obvious from the bruising and marks on her that the child’s been physically abused.

The policeman made an angry face that reminded her of Carl. Suddenly afraid, she wanted to run, to hide again. Instead she clutched the teddy bear tight. She had to stay here for now, she told herself. She had to be a good girl and wait. Just like she’d promised.

Promise you’ll be a good girl, kitten, and don’t make any noise. Mommy’s got to take care of something, make sure that Carl can’t find us. Then I’ll be back for you.

Thunder grumbled outside, and she grabbed at her mommy’s skirt. No leave me, Mommy! I ’fraid. The sky’s mad at me.

The sky’s not mad at my baby girl. It’s just a storm, sweetie. That’s all. Okay?

’Kay. She brushed tears from the sore cheek where Carl had hit her that morning.

You’ll be safe here until I come back. But remember if anyone finds you, don’t say a word to them. Don’t even tell them your name. Just be a good girl and do what you’re told. And don’t worry, Mommy will come back for you.

So what’s going to happen to her? the policeman asked.

We’ve made arrangements with the State for her to remain here at Saint Ann’s.

You mean until someone adopts her, right?

A sad expression crossed Sister’s face. Of course adoption is what we hope for for all of our children. But most couples looking to adopt want an infant. I’m afraid her age will be a strike against her. Her refusal to speak, and the fact that she’s been abused, makes adoption less likely for her. But if we’re lucky and the Lord is willing, we’ll eventually be able to find a good foster home to take her.

Sister was wrong. She didn’t need any foster home. Her mommy was going to come back for her just like she promised.

She’s so little, the policeman said. It just doesn’t seem fair.

It isn’t. But then it isn’t fair for a child so young to have eyes that look so old. Unfortunately, that’s how it is with most of the children who come to us. That’s why we need your prayers. Sister touched his arm. Would you like to say hello to her?

I…uh, sure. Why not?

Sister led him into the room and over to the chair where she sat. Claire, you remember Officer Jamison, don’t you? He’s the nice policeman who brought you to us. He came by to see how you were doing.

Claire? the policeman repeated from his crouched position in front of her.

Sister wrinkled her nose. Somehow Jane Doe didn’t strike the other sisters and me as right for a little girl. Since you found her during Hurricane Claire, it seemed an appropriate choice. So until she tells us differently, we’ve decided to call her Claire.

One

Twenty-five years later

"Where’s my wife?"

Her eyes snapped open at the whiplash demand in the man’s voice. Jerking upright in the bed, she winced as pain exploded inside her head. She groaned, lifted an unsteady hand to her aching head and froze as her fingers met a thick wad of gauze along her right temple.

Damn it, I want to see my wife—now!

The impatient command sliced through her pain and confusion. Angling a glance toward the sound of that hard voice, she spied the door slightly ajar and frowned. Apprehension skittered down her spine as she stared at the unfamiliar door, the tan-and-white tile flooring.

Where on earth was she?

Dropping her hand to her lap, she spotted the plastic ID bracelet circling her wrist. Claire Gallagher, she read aloud the name stamped on the band and waited for it to strike a chord of familiarity, some sense that the name belonged to her. When none came, nerves twisted into knots in her stomach. Suddenly anxious, she kicked at the sheets tangled around her legs, and pain streaked to her left ankle. Gasping, she clutched at her ankle and felt something tug on her arm.

With her heart hammering, Claire swung her gaze to her left, and the breath stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat at the sight of the IV contraption attached to her arm. One look at the tube and painful-looking needle taped to her hand had her stomach pitching.

Oh, God, she moaned. She was going to be sick.

Panic swimming in her blood, she clamped a hand over her mouth and willed herself to calm down. She needed to breathe slowly, try to focus, she told herself as she drew in several breaths. There was an easy explanation for this. There had to be. She simply had to sort things out.

Quickly she took stock of her surroundings—the narrow bed she occupied, the sterile white sheets and khaki-colored blanket twisted around her legs. Swallowing past the nerves that still tightened her throat, she swept her gaze over the rest of the room. A pair of utilitarian chairs filled one corner. A chrome table with a plastic water pitcher and a cup stood against the wall. Uninspiring beige drapes hung across a window. Even without the telltale ID band and IV strapped to her arm as clues, the decor alone screamed the word hospital and did nothing to settle her uneasiness. Slumping back against the pillows, Claire tried to think, tried to remember. But it was difficult doing either while her head and ankle continued to throb relentlessly. Everything ached. Even her hair seemed to hurt.

What on earth had happened? Had she been in some kind of accident? When? Where?

Fingering the bandage on her head, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember…something…anything that would tell her what had caused her to end up in a hospital.

But between the hammering in her skull and that hum of voices outside her door, concentration proved impossible. Besides, everything seemed so hazy. Just a vague recollection of a man in a white coat waving his hand in front of her face while shining a light in her eyes and asking her how many fingers she saw.

Either you take me to see my wife now, or I’ll find her myself.

Claire’s pulse kicked again. She pressed her fingers to the space between her brows and wondered for a moment why the man’s voice had such an unsettling effect on her. Did she know him? There was something about his voice…something that tugged at the fringes of her memory. But whatever it was, the memory stayed just out of reach. Giving up, Claire tried to focus on her own dilemma. But the more she tried to remember what had happened and how she had ended up in a hospital, the more her head hurt.

You can go back to your station, Nurse Galloway. I’ll handle this.

Claire jerked her head up and winced at the movement. But she recognized the second man’s voice—the doctor who had wanted her to count his fingers.

Try to get a grip, Matt. You’re making a scene.

Yeah? Well unless I see my wife in the next ten seconds, I’m going to make an even bigger one.

And he would make good on the threat, Claire thought, as she listened to the exchange between the doctor and the other man. There was no mistaking the steel in the angry man’s voice.

You know, pal, I didn’t have to notify you that she was here. When they brought her in, she was barely conscious and didn’t have any ID. It was just pure luck that I was the one on duty and recognized her. Considering the situation between you two, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I broke some sort of hospital confidentiality rule by calling you. Don’t make me regret making that call, Matt.

Aw, hell, Jeff. I’m sorry. It’s just when you said she’d been hurt, and that the guy had used a gun, I…I guess I went a little crazy.

A little?

All right. A lot. It’s just…I was afraid that…I thought— His voice broke. "Hell, it doesn’t matter what I thought. The way things have been between us lately, she probably won’t even want to see me. But I need to see her, Jeff. I really do. I need to see with my own eyes that’s she’s all right."

Take it easy, man. No one’s trying to stop you from seeing her. But she’s been drifting in and out of consciousness since they brought her in. Give me a second to find out if she’s awake yet, and then you can go in.

Jeff, wait! First, I need to know what to expect. Be straight with me. How bad off she is. Is she…is she going to make it?

Poor guy, Claire thought as she heard the anguish in his voice. Chiding herself, she turned away from the door. She had no right to eavesdrop, to listen to his anxiety over his wife’s condition, she told herself. Besides, she had enough problems of her own to worry about—like why she was in a hospital and why couldn’t she remember how she had ended up here.

Damn, I could kick myself! I’m sorry, Matt. I didn’t realize you thought— I never meant to imply that her injuries were that serious. They’re not.

But you said the mugger used a gun.

He did. According to the witness, the guy hit her on the head with one.

Finding it impossible to concentrate on her own situation while the drama unfolded outside her room, Claire gave up and listened.

The blow to her head was the most serious of her injuries. It took a dozen stitches to close up the gash and she’s probably going to have a doozy of a headache. She’s also got a sprained ankle, some nasty scrapes and bruising from being shoved to the ground. But the bruising will fade and the cut on her head should heal with little or no scarring.

But you said there were complications.

"I said there might be complications. She’s suffered a serious blow to the head, Matt, and whenever you’re dealing with a head injury that’s always a possibility—"

A voice squawked over the PA system, cutting off the rest of the doctor’s explanation as well as any response that followed. After a few more seconds in which more announcements followed, Claire could make out only low-pitched murmurs and the squeaking wheel of a passing cart. Finally she gave up trying to pick up the threads of their conversation again.

Just as well, she thought with a sigh. To listen took concentration on her part, and concentration took energy. And suddenly she was feeling incredibly tired. Weariness washed over her, stealing the last of her reserves. Her eyelids felt as if they were weighted with lead. Keeping them open or even trying to think became impossible. So she gave up the battle.

But the moment Claire’s eyelids fluttered shut, storm clouds seemed to engulf her, muddling her senses, dragging her deeper and deeper into some dark abyss. She was running. Faces and voices became jumbled. The need to escape grew stronger. Someone was chasing her. Hide, a voice whispered inside her head. Fear climbed in her throat as she ran and ran. She tasted the salt of tears, heard someone weeping, but still she ran.

Don’t stop! Run! Hide!

The voice urged her on, and Claire continued to run. She ran and ran, racing through the shadows. She fell. She got up. She ran harder still, ignoring the ache in her side, the burning in her lungs. And as Claire slipped into the well of unconsciousness that beckoned, she could have sworn she heard the rumble of that whiskey-rough voice from the hall once again. And this time he was calling her name.

Claire? Claire, can you hear me?

Pain knifed through Claire’s skull, and she whimpered as she battled through the heavy fog surrounding her.

Shh. It’s okay. His breath was a soft rush of air against her chilled skin. Warm, callused fingers caressed her cheek. Instinctively she moved closer toward the source of that heat. That’s my girl. Try to wake up, sweetheart. Open those pretty brown eyes for me.

Another missile of pain fired inside her head, but Claire muscled through it. She wanted, needed to get closer to that warmth, to see the face that belonged to the voice that had comforted her during the long night of dark dreams. When at last she managed to force her