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‘You’re supposed to stay relaxed, so I was assuming you’d want your own bed, but it’s entirely your call.’ His expression was cool now, as if he was deliberately clearing it of emotion. ‘I don’t need to sleep here. There’s another room. Whatever you prefer.’
Carrie gulped. ‘Right.’ Flustered, she looked around at this room which, in reality, was big enough to house a small village. She looked anywhere except at Max, who was waiting for her decision.
‘I’ll take the other room,’ he said quietly.
She must have taken too long. She blinked and exhaled the breath she’d been holding, letting it go with an embarrassingly noisy whoosh. Foolishly, she felt a moment’s disappointment.
Then she caught Max’s stern gaze, still fixed on her, and she couldn’t think what to say so she nodded. Almost immediately she marched back to the living room, curiosity driving her to check out the other bedroom.
It was obviously designed for children, and was much smaller than the main room, without any of the views and with two single beds that looked ridiculously small for such a big man.
She turned to Max, who had followed her. ‘You won’t be comfortable in here. We should swap. I’ll be perfectly fine in one of these beds, and I’m tired, so I don’t need the views and I wouldn’t—’
‘Carrie, calm down.’ Now Max looked almost amused. ‘It’s OK. I’ll be fine in here.’ The skin around his eyes creased as he smiled. ‘You’re convalescing. You’ll be better with a room to yourself, and the main bedroom has an en-suite.’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, still flustered. ‘Of course.’
‘Now, you should go on to the balcony and enjoy the view,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Max looked more like a cowboy than a waiter or a chef, but he made a surprisingly good cuppa and, without asking, knew exactly how Carrie liked her tea—with just a dash of milk and no sugar. The evidence that he really was her husband was growing, and she accepted it with a mix of dismay and bewildering excitement.
Perhaps when she got her memory back her life would be suddenly wonderful. Perfect. Far better than she could possibly imagine...in spite of their marriage’s Outback setting.
For now, at least, it was very pleasant to sit on the balcony with a cool breeze blowing in from the sea. She caught the scent of frangipani in the air, and the sky was tinged with pink from the setting sun. Down by the water cockatoos squabbled in treetops. Out on the still, silvery bay, kayakers paddled.
The setting was idyllic. Carrie’s companion—her husband—was handsome and charming. She wanted to enjoy the moment and not to worry.
If only the situation didn’t feel so unreal—like a pretence, as if she’d slipped through a time warp and was living someone else’s life.
Max organised dinner, ordering takeaway food from a nearby Chinese restaurant, which he collected and then served using the apartment’s pretty aqua blue dinner service.
The night was deliciously balmy, so they lit candles with glass shades and ate on the balcony. Moonlight shone on the water and lights on the black shape of Magnetic Island twinkled in the distance. A yacht left the marina and glided smoothly and silently over the dark bay, heading out to sea.
For Carrie, the combination of the meal and the moonlight was quite magical, and she could feel her body relaxing, the nervous knots in her belly easing, even while her curiosity about Max and their marriage mounted.
‘Do you know what I’ve done with my wedding ring?’ The question, just one out of the hundreds of questions circling in her head, spilled from her before she quite realised what she was saying.
She felt a bit foolish as soon as it was out—especially when she saw surprise and then a flash of pain in Max’s eyes.
He took a moment to answer and she was nervous again, her heart fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird. What’s wrong? she wanted to ask him.
But when he answered he spoke quite calmly. ‘Your rings are at home on the dressing table.’
At home on the dressing table. It sounded so incredibly ordinary and sensible. Why had she been worried? ‘I suppose when you’re living in the Outback it makes sense not to wear them all the time?’
‘Yes, that’s what you decided.’
But there was something in Max’s eyes that still bothered her.
‘What’s my engagement ring like?’
‘It has two diamonds.’
‘Two? Lucky me.’
Max smiled at this. ‘It was my grandmother’s ring. She died not long after we met, but she wanted you to have it.’
‘Oh...’
‘You were happy to wear it. You liked her.’
Carrie felt a bit better, hearing this. It was reassuring to know that she’d got on well with Max’s grandmother. But it hinted at an emotional health that she didn’t feel.
Are we happy? Carrie wanted to ask next, but she wasn’t brave enough. For one thing she was haunted by her mother’s confusing question—the one she’d cut off and left dangling with no further explanation. As well, Carrie had the sense that both Max and her mother were carefully avoiding anything that might upset her.
Perhaps she should stop asking questions for now. But it was so hard to be patient and simply wait for her memory to return.
As they ate in silence, enjoying the delicious food and the pleasant evening, the questions kept circling in Carrie’s head.
It wasn’t long before she had to ask, ‘Did we have a honeymoon? Did we go somewhere exotic and tropical like this?’
Max smiled. ‘We most certainly had a honeymoon. We went to Paris.’
‘Paris?’
Stunned, Carrie let her fork drop to her plate as she stared at him. Paris was the last destination she’d expected. Max was an Outback cattleman, a rugged cowboy who loved the outdoors. He rounded up cattle and battled the elements, and no doubt rode huge rodeo bulls or wrestled crocodiles in his spare time.
She found it hard to match that image with a sophisticated and cultured city like Paris.
‘Did—did I choose Paris?’
He lifted a dark eyebrow. ‘We chose it together. We were tossing up between New York, Paris and Rome, and we couldn’t choose, so we ended up throwing the three names in a hat.’
‘And then, when we drew the winner, we went for best of three?’
‘Yes.’ He frowned, then leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his gaze suddenly serious and searching. ‘How did you know that, Carrie? Can you remember?’
She shook her head. ‘No, sorry. I can’t remember anything about Paris, but I’ve always gone for the best out of three. Ever since I was little, if I was tossing up, trying to make any kind of decision, I’ve always tried three times.’ She gave an embarrassed little shrug. ‘Just to make sure.’
‘Of course.’ His smile was wry, and Carrie felt somehow that she’d disappointed him.
She took a sip of her drink, lemon and lime and bitters, with clinking ice cubes. ‘I know this will probably sound weird, but I’d love to hear about it,’ she said. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Paris and I’d really like to know what you thought of it. Not—not the honeymoon bit,’ she added quickly.
The sudden knowing shimmer in Max’s blue eyes made her blush.
‘I mean the city itself,’ she said. ‘Did you like it?’
At first Max didn’t answer...and there was an unsettling, faraway look in his eyes.
What was he thinking about?
‘Paris was wonderful, of course,’ he said suddenly. ‘Amazing. Or at least I found it amazing once we’d survived the hair-raising taxi ride from the airport to our hotel.’
‘Is the traffic in Paris crazy?’
‘Mad.’
‘Where did we stay?’
‘In a small hotel in St-Germain-des-Prés.’
‘Wow.’
‘It was a brilliant position. We could walk to the Seine, or to the Louvre, or Nôtre Dame. The café Les Deux Magots was just around the corner and we had lunch there several times. It was Ernest Hemingway’s favourite place to hang out, along with Pablo Picasso and a mob of intellectuals.’
Max’s face broke into a warm grin.
‘We drank amazing red wine and French champagne, and we ate enough foie gras to give ourselves heart attacks.’
‘It sounds wonderful.’ Carrie closed her eyes, willing herself to remember. But nothing came. ‘And what about the sights?’
‘The sights?’ Max repeated, then lifted his hands in a helpless gesture as he shrugged. ‘How do you do Paris justice? It was all so beautiful, Carrie—the Seine and the bridges, the parks with their spring flowers and avenues of trees. The skyline. All those rooftops and church spires. The whole place was just dripping with history.’
‘So you really liked it?’ Carrie’s voice was little more than a whisper.
‘Yeah, I loved it,’ Max said simply.
Goose bumps were breaking out all over her skin. Their honeymoon sounded so perfect, so-o-o romantic, so exactly what she’d always dreamed of.
‘And it was Paris in the springtime?’ she said. ‘It wasn’t May, was it?’
‘Yes, you were dead-set to go there in May.’
‘It’s always been my favourite month.’
‘I know.’
They shared a tentative smile.
‘You’re not making this up, are you?’ she asked. ‘About Paris?’
Max frowned. ‘Of course not. Why would I?’
She gave a sad shrug. ‘I don’t know. It’s just so hard, not being able to remember any of it. To be honest I feel cheated that I had a honeymoon in Paris and can’t remember a single thing.’
‘Well, everything must be weird at the moment.’
In the candlelight, she saw his sympathetic smile.
‘Your 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...
* * *
They went out for breakfast. Max suggested that Carrie should choose a venue, and without hesitation she selected at a café with a deck built over the waterfront.
A friendly young waiter with a shaved head and a gold earring welcomed them with a beaming smile. ‘Haven’t seen you guys in a while.’
To Carrie’s astonishment, he stepped forward and smacked kisses on both her cheeks.
‘Hey, Jacko,’ Max responded, giving the waiter a hearty handshake and back-slap. ‘Good to see you.’
‘And it’s great to see you two. How are you both?’
Carrie gulped, wondering how well she knew this fellow and how much she should tell him.
‘We’re really well, thanks,’ Max said smoothly. ‘It’s been a good wet season, which always helps.’
Jacko nodded, then shot a quick glance to a table right next to the water. ‘Must have known you two were coming. Your favourite table’s free.’
‘How’s that for timing?’ Max was grinning as they took their seats.
Carrie hoped that her smile didn’t look too surprised as Jacko flicked out a starched napkin and deftly placed it, unfolded, on her lap.
‘Shall I fetch menus?’ he asked with a knowing smile. ‘Or would you just like your usual?’
Their usual? Carrie knew she must look stunned and confused. She shot a quick look to Max, who sent her a reassuring smile.
‘Our usual, of course. We can’t break with tradition,’ he told Jacko.
Carrie was shaking her head as Jacko left. ‘Don’t tell me I picked our favourite restaurant?’
Max smiled again, and his blue eyes shone in a way that set off another starburst inside her. ‘It was uncanny,’ he said. ‘There are half a dozen places along this strand, but you zeroed straight in on this place, like it was the only possible option.’
‘I have no memory of ever coming here.’
‘Perhaps your taste buds remember?’
And there it was again...the disturbing possibility that her body remembered the secrets her mind withheld.
Carrie took a deep breath. ‘So, what’s my usual breakfast order when I’m here?’
‘Pancakes.’
‘Really?’ She gaped at him. ‘But I—I thought... I’ve always been so careful with carbs.’
‘Paris cured you of that,’ Max assured her. ‘Whenever you eat here you always have blueberry pancakes and whipped cream.’
* * *
Walking back along the foreshore, on a path that wove between lush tropical gardens, Max had an urge to take Carrie’s hand or to slip his arm around her shoulders, just as he always had in the past.
It was tempting to ignore the letter she’d written, claiming she’d grown tired of life in the bush. Damn tempting to take advantage of this situation. To simply carry on as if their marriage was fine.
He knew the chemistry was still there. More than once he’d caught Carrie checking him out, and he’d seen the familiar flash of interest and awareness in her eyes.
‘Max?’ She turned to him now, and her lovely dark brown eyes held a hint of excitement. ‘How long does it take to drive to your place?’
Caught out, he frowned. ‘My place?’
‘Your property. Riverslea Downs.’
‘About six hours. Why?’
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