A Season To Believe

“Jane, nothing that you discover about the person you were in the past will change the person you’ve created. The person I’ve come to—”

Matt stopped speaking. Had he been about to tell Jane that he loved her?

He was aware of Jane’s slender hands in his, her eyes gazing up at him, still glistening with unshed tears. His arms ached with the urge to pull her to him, to cradle her against his chest; his lips longed to feel hers beneath them. But that wasn’t love. It was desire. It was a need to connect that went so deep, it burned the pit of his stomach. Love existed for other people….

But not for him.

Dear Reader,

While taking a breather from decorating and gift-wrapping, check out this month’s exciting treats from Silhouette Special Edition. The Summer House (#1510) contains two fabulous stories in one neat package. “Marrying Mandy” by veteran author Susan Mallery features the reunion of two sweethearts who fall in love all over again. Joining Susan is fellow romance writer Teresa Southwick whose story “Courting Cassandra” shows how an old crush blossoms into full-blown love.

In Joan Elliott Pickart’s Tall, Dark and Irresistible (#1507), a hero comes to terms with his heritage and meets a special woman who opens his heart to the possibilities. Award-winning author Anne McAllister gets us in the holiday spirit with The Cowboy’s Christmas Miracle (#1508) in which a lone-wolf cowboy finds out he’s a dad to an adorable little boy, then realizes the woman who’d always been his “best buddy” now makes his heart race at top speed! And count on Christine Rimmer for another page-turner in Scrooge and the Single Girl (#1509). This heart-thumping romance features an anti-Santa hero and an independent heroine, both resigned to singlehood and stranded in a tiny little mountain cabin where they’ll have a holiday they’ll never forget!

Judy Duarte returns to the line-up with Family Practice (#1511), a darling tale of a handsome doctor who picks up the pieces after a bitter divorce and during a much-needed vacation falls in love with a hardworking heroine and her two kids. In Elane Osborn’s A Season To Believe (#1512), a woman survives a car crash but wakes up with amnesia. When a handsome private detective takes her plight to heart, she finds more than one reason to be thankful.

As you can see, we have an abundance of rich and emotionally complex love stories to share with you. I wish you happiness, fun and a little romance this holiday season!

Karen Taylor Richman

Senior Editor

A Season to Believe

Elane Osborn

To Dar: For housing me and for your company on so many of

my research trips, but most of all for your support and

friendship on this trip called Life.

And to Dad: For everything you shared with me, from creating

a window display to potato stamping, but especially for your

encouragement and for teaching me that the worst four-letter

S-word is, “can’t.” I miss you.

ELANE OSBORN

is a daydream believer whose active imagination tends to intrude on her life at the most inopportune moments. Her penchant for slipping into “alternative reality” severely hampered her work life, leading to a gamut of jobs that includes, but is not limited to: airline reservation agent, waitress, salesgirl and seamstress in the wardrobe department of a casino showroom. In writing, she has discovered a career that not only does not punish flights of fancy, it demands them. Drawing on her daydreams, she has published three historical romance novels and is now using the experiences she has collected in her many varied jobs in the “real world” to fuel contemporary stories that blend romance and suspense.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

“Silver bells…”

The first strains of the Christmas song brought an instant frown to the woman standing at the glass counter. She stared blankly at the burgundy-and-tan scarf draped across the palm of her hand as she heard “It’s Christmas time…”

Hot, unreasoning anger sent blood pounding through her ears, drowning out the rest of the tune. Her fingers crushed the silk scarf as she turned toward the figure on the other side of the counter.

“Don’t you think this is just a little ridiculous?”

The salesperson, a girl in her late teens with short, tousled red hair, jumped and turned from the display of necklaces she was straightening.

“I’m sorry.” She blinked. “Are you, um, having a problem finding what you want?”

“What I want is to shop in peace, without being assaulted by shamelessly blatant attempts to whip the public into a seasonal buying frenzy at such an absurdly early date.”

The girl responded with a blank stare.

The woman’s fingers tightened. “I don’t suppose that you could do anything about changing the piped-in music?”

A tiny frown appeared over the girl’s blue eyes. “Um, I’m sorry, no. But…” She paused, then flashed an overly bright smile as she went on. “You know, sometimes all the crowds and the music and the hustle-bustle of shopping can really be wearing. Have you thought about taking a break in our food court? A cup of eggnog-flavored coffee and a peppermint cookie might put you right back into the spirit.”

Back in the spirit? Was this young woman nuts?

“I doubt that would work. I detest eggnog, for one thing.” An involuntary shudder ripped through the woman. “And even if I did like the vile stuff, I certainly wouldn’t consider drinking it in May.”

“M-May?” The salesclerk took a deep breath and raised her chin. “Um, ma’am? It’s November. November twenty-ninth. The day after Thanksgiving.” The girl frowned again, then went on. “Um, you know, I could call someone from Security and…”

The woman willed the girl’s next words to dull to an unintelligible hum. Obviously the young lady was unbalanced. There was no way it could be November. Only yesterday, the woman thought, she had been watching waves crash onto the shore and thinking how unusually warm it was for May.

“Silver bells…”

The refrain intruded. The woman glanced toward a wide bank of glass to her right. Sunlight streamed in. The bit of sky she could see was clear blue. However, she did notice that the hats hanging from the chrome pole at the end of the aisle were all dark—black, brown, forest-green and red circles of felt, along with a few knitted caps. Not one summery straw hat in the bunch.

Fighting off a shiver, the woman let her gaze fall on the round table several feet away. Pieces of silver and gold jewelry were nestled within open boxes decorated in a burgundy-and-green plaid.

She looked up, searching for the speaker responsible for the offending music, only to see a collection of glittery snowflakes dangling from the ceiling. As she stared at them, she heard a man behind her say, “This is Santa’s first day in the store, honey, so you’re going to have to be a good little girl if…”

As the voice faded in the distance, a blush heated the woman’s cheeks. The salesclerk must be right. It must be November, after all. And she must be—another shudder shook her shoulders—Christmas shopping. In some store in downtown…

Downtown where? The woman froze as she asked herself, What city am I in? When her mind came up blank, her heart thudded to a stop. The snowflakes began to spin, quickly forming a shimmering blizzard above her. The music grew louder, while she frantically asked herself, Where am I?

Then, Who am I?

Again there was no answer. Her heart began to race. Her fingers could no longer feel the glass counter she gripped so tightly. Her breath felt as if it was jammed in her chest, unable to escape. Blood pounded in her ears.

“Ma’am? Ma’am?”

The second sharp-edged address penetrated the dizzying vortex. She pulled her attention to the clerk, just as the girl said, “The security guard will be here in a moment. He’ll take you to our quiet lounge, where you can—”

“No. That won’t be necessary.” The woman added more firmly, “Really.”

With that she turned and began walking quickly away, ignoring the clerk’s cries of protest as she moved toward the wall of windows that she assumed, prayed, held the store entrance—and more importantly, its exit.

I just need some fresh air, she told herself. I just need to get my bearings, she thought as she wove past a series of clear plastic shoe displays. Once I figure out where I am, I’ll know who I am, and then I’ll be fine.

Desperate to escape the crowds, the decorations and the far-too-jolly notes now jangling in her ears, she practically ran up the shallow, wide staircase leading to the glass door and pushed it open. Moist, cool air hit her face as she exited, then moved to one side, away from the stream of people entering and departing the store.

She’d made it outside. Now, certainly, she would know where she was, she assured herself as she glanced around. Nothing looked the least bit familiar. Oh lord. Panic widened her eyes, sent her heart racing again. She had no idea where in the world she might be. Yes, you do, a voice in her mind insisted impatiently. You have to know where you are. Look around again. What do you see? Think. Breathe.

Obeying this last command first, she then slowly took in her surroundings. On the opposite side of the street, a series of brick planters stair-stepped up to an area bordered by a row of benches. Beyond these, perhaps a block away, she saw a tall ivory building emblazoned with the words Saks Fifth Avenue.

All right. There was a Saks Fifth Avenue in New York. She didn’t know how she knew this or, for that matter, why she felt so certain this was not New York. But it was somewhat comforting to feel certain about something.

The surrounding structures weren’t tall enough for New York. And—

Her thoughts stilled as she spied a car with a California license plate.

In a flash she knew this was San Francisco. The park in front of her was Union Square. The store she’d just stepped out of was Maxwell’s Department Store.

She turned to the wall of windows behind her. To one side, a calendar had been posted bearing the longer holiday hours, topped by a banner warning that there were only twenty-six more shopping days to Christmas.

So, it was indeed November. Not May.

She wondered how she could have made that mistake, then brushed the thought away. It didn’t matter how or why she’d fallen into this pit of amnesia. All that mattered was that she knew again. She was in San Francisco, at Maxwell’s, and her name was Jane. Jane Ashbury.

At least, that’s who she was now.

Reflected in the window, Jane saw a slender woman dressed in a red suit jacket over an ankle-length black skirt. She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, and was of medium height with light brown hair. This was layered into thick bangs to cover the scar on her forehead, and the sides fell just past her narrow jaw.

In the past year and a half, Jane had come to accept that the large, gray-brown eyes, the tiny scar at the right corner of her mouth and the not-quite-symmetrical features belonged to her, just as she’d learned to answer to the name Jane. What she had looked like before, or what her name had once been, were lost in a darkness far deeper than the one she’d experienced inside the store—a darkness she’d long since given up trying to penetrate.

Jane became aware of the jangling sound of a ringing bell just as a man jostled past behind her. She fought off a shiver.

She hated crowds. They made her want to escape to some open place where she could breathe. She turned to do just that. Before she could take a step, a hand closed over her arm, then tightened, and she gasped as a deep voice said, “Forget it, honey. You and that scarf you took are coming with me.”

In a small, gray room, Jane slumped in a hard chair, a slit of a window in the wall on her right, a closed door on her left. Too weary to do more than stare at the burgundy-and-tan pile of silk in the middle of the desk in front of her, she listened to the two men sitting on the other side.

“Thanks for calling me.”

Jane glanced at the speaker. With his short blond hair and linebacker’s body straining the shoulders of his blue sport coat, Detective Bruce Wilcox was an imposing figure, even sitting down. She didn’t feel any more comfortable with him today than she had the only other time they’d met, well over a year ago.

“Actually, it was her idea.”

The thin faced security guard, in his brown uniform and billed cap, was the person who had grabbed her arm and brought her up here, then refused to listen to her explanations. Mr. Jessup continued to speak to the detective.

“She gave me this cockamamy story about forgetting who she was, then told me to call the police and ask for the detectives who had been in charge of her case. When the officer I spoke with said that neither of those men were on the force now, she came up with your name. Until you showed up, I was sure she was lying.”

“Nope. She was telling you the truth. At least, the part about her being Jane Doe Number Thirteen. The scarf story we’ll have to check out.”

Jane barely heard the last words. Her mind was stuck on Jane Doe Number Thirteen. She hated that name, hated the memories it conjured up—waking to find she didn’t know where she was, who she was, why her jaw was frozen shut, why her face was bandaged, what was causing the deep ache in her pelvis. Even worse had been the cheery nurses smiling at her when she shook her head in response to their questions, doctors asking if this hurt, if that hurt.

Then the detectives had arrived, with more questions. But Manuel Mendosa and Matthew Sullivan hadn’t been anything like Wilcox. Patient and kind, they had never treated her like a suspect. Jane’s stomach twisted as she realized she’d somehow managed to forget that, of the two detectives who had worked on her case, one was now dead and the other—

The click of a key in the lock broke into Jane’s thoughts. She turned as the door swung open, then started. The man standing there was that second detective—Matthew Sullivan.

The man looked just as she remembered—black hair and dark green eyes; tall and athletically trim in his faded jeans and tan, open-neck shirt. But as he stepped into the room, Jane noticed that his face was more deeply lined, making him look older than his mid-thirties. And the expression in his eyes was almost grim.

He stopped just inside the doorway and his glance skimmed the two men on the other side of the desk. When his eyes met hers, they widened momentarily, then he smiled. That deep dimple she recalled so well creased his left cheek, but his eyes still lacked the devil-may-care expression she remembered so well.

“Hello there, Jane,” he said.

She’d always found his deep voice soothing, but today there seemed to be a harsh edge to it. Conscious of the way he continued to study her, she slowly got to her feet. His gaze swept down, then back up. His smile widened, and all the carefully chosen words Jane had been about to utter tumbled out in random order.

“Matt. I’m surprised to see you. I was just thinking about you.” Realizing that her voice sounded more raspy than usual, she cleared her throat. “Worrying, actually. Well, worrying isn’t exactly the right word. Though I did do that when I heard you were shot, of course.”

Jane knew she was rambling. She forced herself to speak more slowly. “What I was doing before you came in was berating myself for forgetting that you’d left the police force and—”

“Forgetting,” Wilcox broke in, “seems to be a habit with you, doesn’t it?”

Jane turned toward the detective, but not before she saw Matt’s dark eyebrows move together in a quick frown.

“Just what is going on here?” Matt asked.

Wilcox leaned back in his chair. “I’m here to investigate a report of shoplifting. What are you doing here?”

“I was at the station, trying to get some information on a case Jack and I are working on. I happened to hear Baker call you on your cell phone about a matter involving Jane Ashbury and Maxwell’s. I decided to find out what was going on. I know it’s not my case anymore, but call it for old times’ sake. Care to fill me in?”

In the silence that followed, Jane glanced from one man to the other. Matt, with his narrowed eyes and firmly set lips, didn’t look at all like a man who was asking a favor. And Wilcox, with his hard blue eyes and head cocked to one side, didn’t look like one who was predisposed to grant one. But slowly the man’s lips curved slightly.

“Sure. Why not? So far, we have established the fact that Miss Ashbury here ran out of the store carrying this scarf, valued at one hundred and thirty-four dollars. She claims that she became confused, didn’t know where she was, what month it was, or even who she was. That, however, has yet to be proven.”

Matt looked at Jane. Before he could say a word, however, Mr. Jessup spoke up.

“Well, actually, when the salesgirl called me, she did say she had a customer who seemed to think it was May, and was acting rather strangely.”

Matt’s gaze seemed to sharpen. “May?” he asked Jane.

She barely managed to nod before Wilcox spoke.

“All right. So she was confused. Familiar story, right? That doesn’t explain why she took the scarf with her.”

Matt turned to Wilcox and took a step toward the man as he asked, “What’s wrong with you? My guess is, she forgot she was holding it.” He turned his attention to the security guard. “Where did you apprehend Miss Ashbury?”

“She was standing in front of the store, staring into the window.”

“I see. Where was the scarf?”

“In her hand.”

“Had the tag been removed?”

The man shook his head.

“Would you mind telling me just how many shoplifters you’ve known to stop right outside, with the stolen merchandise in clear view?”

Jessup sighed. “None. But she was moving away when I grabbed her. And her story—”

“Needs to be confirmed,” Wilcox finished as he stood up. “Mr. Jessup, let’s go speak to that salesclerk. I think we can safely leave her in Mr. Sullivan’s custody. He used to be a cop.”

A minute later, Jessup closed the door, leaving Jane alone with Matt. The silence in the room seemed to grow, demanding to be filled.

“I’m sorry about Manny,” she said. “I wanted to come see you, in the hospital, but I was told you couldn’t have visitors. Then Zoe took me to—”

“Hey,” Matt broke in.

He stepped toward her, halting once he was two feet away. Jane could almost feel the strength emanating from him. Or was she recalling the way his arms had held her so tightly as she sobbed uncontrollably the last time she’d seen him?

“I’ve been out of the hospital for a year now,” Matt said. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me. I’ve been meaning to look you up, but—”

“But,” Jane interrupted. Embarrassed by where her earlier thoughts had wandered, and the weakness she’d shown that long-ago day, she went on quickly. “You’ve been busy putting your life back together. I understand how that goes.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. He knew Jane wasn’t offering an empty reassurance. If anyone knew what it took to put a life back together—or create a new one out of nothing, for that matter—it was Jane Ashbury.

In the middle of May, nearly a year and a half ago, he and his partner had been called to the scene of a suspicious accident. A car had gone off a cliff near the ocean and burst into flames, but not before a young woman had been thrown onto the rocks. There were no skid marks to suggest that the driver had been speeding, and the wheel tracks on the grassy cliff indicated the car had come from an odd angle. Any identification that the woman might have been carrying had been destroyed by the fire, and her body and face had been shattered by the impact.

When a check of fingerprint files, dental records and missing persons lists all came up blank, the woman was tagged with the designation normally given to unidentified bodies—Jane Doe—and given the number thirteen to distinguish her from those who had come before and those who would follow. When she came out of her coma, in the middle of June, she had no idea who she was and didn’t recognize the face the plastic surgeons had created for her.

He and Manny had elicited the aid of the media, and Jane’s story was widely covered by newspapers and television. Numerous people came to see her, hoping she might prove to be their missing sister, daughter, wife. What few people knew, however, was how devastating both her celebrity and the subsequent disappointments had been for Jane. Matt knew, though. He had witnessed the last of such visits, had held Jane in his arms as she mourned the fact that, yet again, all parties concerned had been disappointed and she still was left without an identity.

However, when she pulled away from him that day and dried her eyes, a new Jane had emerged.

That quietly self-controlled person stood in front of Matt now—more or less. She wasn’t as painfully thin as he remembered; the hair that had been shaved prior to the emergency operation on her bruised brain had grown out to frame her slender face in a chin-length cap of light brown; and the scar at the left corner of her mouth had faded to the palest of pinks.

But her smoky gray-brown eyes held the same mixture of vulnerability and determination he’d seen the day she declared she was ready to move forward, that she would never search for her past again. However, from what the security guard had said, it seemed that today Jane’s past had come searching for her.

“So,” Matt said. “You remembered something.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “No. I didn’t.”

Matt gave her a small smile. “Jessup just told me you thought it was May. That was the month your car went over that embankment.” It hadn’t been her car, of course. The vehicle subsequently had proved to be stolen. Glossing over the inaccuracy, Matt got to the heart of the matter. “Don’t you think there might be some connection?”

“No.” She took a step back as she spoke, and broke eye contact. Her gaze fell on the scarf. “I was looking at this scarf one minute, then hearing some Christmas tune the next, and suddenly wondered why the store would play that kind of music so early in the year.”

From the evasiveness in her whiskey-toned voice, Matt knew there was more to the story. He considered pressing the matter, then thought about Wilcox’s attitude and decided to hold off, for the moment. Instead, as Jane slowly met his gaze again, he lifted the scarf from the center of the table.

“Good taste,” he said, then let it fall back into a soft puddle as he looked into Jane’s eyes. He tried to lend some lightness to his next words. “Well, for the record, I don’t believe for one moment that you’re some shoplifter making up a story to escape apprehension.”

Jane stared at him. Her wide mouth began to twitch, as if she was fighting a smile. “You still talk like a cop.”