Conquer the Memories
Read Conquer the Memories Online
Authors: Jennifer Greene
Conquer the Memories
By Jennifer Greene
After four years of marriage, Sonia and Craig Hamilton are as much in love as ever. But their happiness turns into a nightmare when they are violently assaulted while taking a late-night walk in a Chicago park.
Back home in Cold Creek, Wyoming, far from the dangers of the big city, they try to put the attack behind them. But it’s not long before Sonia realizes Craig is haunted by the memory, and his inability to protect her. His obsession with keeping her safe, and getting revenge, soon threatens to tear them apart…
Previously published.
Dear Reader,
This story is especially dear to my heart—partly because it involves a theme I don’t think we explore often in the romance genre.
Anyone who loves romance could likely easily define what they love and want in a hero. The heroes in our books define what a Good Man is—on our feminine terms.
We tend to define “the alpha man” as one who’s always strong, who never breaks, who always stands up for what matters to him, who’s honorable to the core. My hero in this story is definitely a man on these terms…but that is precisely what creates his conflict…because when the woman he loves is attacked, his perception is that he failed to protect her.
Our gender roles today are complex, aren’t they? But the strength of real love is universal and eternal…or I believe it is. Hope you do, too.
I have to share my excitement over all Carina Press is doing to bring readers both classic and fresh stories—stories we all might not have had a chance to read, if this new publishing medium weren’t available to us.
I very much hope you like the story—and feel free to contact me anytime, either through my website (www.jennifergreene.com) or my Jennifer Greene author page on Facebook.
Jennifer Greene
“I’m telling you, Craig, you could make it in politics. Energy is still the public’s favorite subject, particularly since the latest crisis in the Middle East. With the handle you’ve got on oil shale…”
“I hear you, sir.” Above the elderly ex-senator’s shoulder, Craig Hamilton spotted his wife. For an instant, all he could see was a single splash of bright emerald through a zigzag path of dark business suits and broad shoulders. That particular shade of green was
not
his favorite color. “You’ll like the dress when you see it on,” Sonia had told him.
Actually, he didn’t. As he got a better view of Sonia, Craig decided that the neck of the dress annoyed him—there wasn’t any. Sonia had a beautiful throat, long and white, her delicate collarbones framing the hollow that always pulsed when she was excited. So vulnerable, that ivory flesh. And just above the silky green fabric, anyone could see the rise of her breasts.
She laughed suddenly, her springy black curls dancing around her cheeks. Three men from the press surrounded her, but Craig could still catch the sparkle of her animated aquamarine eyes from two dozen feet away.
Now that he thought about it, the whole dress annoyed him. The gown was just a little too much like a game of show-and-tell. The way the sneaky little slit showed off her legs every time she took a step, for instance. And no, not another soul in the room could conceivably tell from the design of the dress that she was braless, but Craig knew. He happened to have…been there when she was dressing.
“You’ve got the money,” former senator Rafe Bradford continued, “and, more important, you’ve got the power. People
listen
to you, Craig. Why, in my day, I’d have sold my soul to get the kind of public support you already have.”
Craig snagged a glass of champagne for the older man from a passing waiter. He didn’t bother to contradict anything Bradford said, although privately Craig knew he’d prefer digging ditches to a political career any day. But the ex-senator had once been a friend of his family’s, and the man was old and lonely.
“Everyone in this room knows you were the principal adviser to the Senate subcommittee on shale oil…”
The sash on that damn dress drew in her waist, accenting its tiny proportions. And Sonia had a way with her eyes that captivated everyone, including the press. Craig’s mouth twitched as he watched her effortlessly charm Andrew Roth, the most cynical of national news commentators. Roth had called this national conference defining the new relationship between energy and ecology a scam; he claimed the “relationship” was a contradiction in terms and always would be. Sonia was setting him straight. Roth’s bald head was bobbing up and down…
“Not that it’s any of my business, but you have that little ranch—and people do love a man with a feeling for the land. A self-made man. Oil shale always had a bad press until you tackled it with that new extraction process of yours. We’re all hungry for a way to get out of our dependency on foreign oil, as long as it’s not at our own expense. And you could
use
that expertise of yours to help us do just that, son.”
The four long tables covered with white linen where the conference dinner had been served stood empty now. The featured event of the evening had been Craig’s keynote speech. But this type of gathering didn’t wear well on him. Not that he wasn’t committed to the subject matter. Having found an ecologically acceptable method of extracting oil from shale, he was more than willing to share his ideas, if not his trade secrets. The three-day conference had been well attended by political figures and bankers and oil people, and that pleased him, too. The purpose of the gathering was to draw members of opposing factions together—but he hadn’t anticipated the political machinations that were going on. Financial games, power plays, people using the conference to serve their own ends…manipulation of that sort made him grit his teeth.
Sonia would have chided him for his characteristic lack of patience, if she’d seen him. At the moment, she was giving a hug and kiss to Warren Radley, a senator who could use his strong influence to persuade the government to fund shale-oil research. Warren’s eyes soulfully followed the sway of Sonia’s emerald hips as she wandered away from him. Next, Sonia offered a quick, chilly handshake to Barker Cole, an oil man notorious for raping the land. She didn’t like him. Cole was certainly the more prominent of the two men, but that cut no ice with Sonia. She liked Warren because he was sensitive about being only five foot four and because he raised Irish setters. Cole, she’d told Craig often enough, could sink himself into the nearest pit.
“Use of power, son. Use of power is everything!” Rafe Bradford exhorted. But Craig’s thoughts were still on his wife.
A hand whipped around Sonia’s waist, dragging her close for a friendly peck. Her aquamarine eyes turned the identical shade of emerald of her dress. Sonia was made on affectionate lines, and affection offered freely was one thing; a stolen touch was another. She treated Ferrel Romnay to a stare that would have frozen Popsicles on a ninety-degree day, and to hell with Romnay’s banking influence.
Craig did his best to smother a grin, as well as to swallow the urge to turn the man’s nose inside out. Sonia could take care of herself. She’d told him so a thousand times.
Craig controlled an inner wince as John Smith and his wife crossed Sonia’s path. Perhaps they would discuss the weather? But no, Sonia had taken Ferona Smith’s March For Clean Air as a personal attack on Craig. Sonia had a low tolerance for professional do-gooders who took up causes without doing their homework on them first. As she warmed up to the subject, her skin took on the flush of coral, and her chin tilted just that little bit upward.
His wife, Craig thought idly, certainly wasn’t shy. She undoubtedly knew more of the people at the conference than he did—because of her bubbly friendliness in most instances. She had to be one of the most spectacularly beautiful women…
“Hamilton?”
Craig’s eyes pivoted directly back to the former senator’s. “I’m sorry. Sir?”
“You’ve been kind to listen,” the older man said gruffly, and motioned in Sonia’s direction with a sparkle of humor in his tired gray eyes. “Perhaps, though, you ought to go over there and rescue your better half?”
“Perhaps,” Craig agreed gravely, “that would be wise.”
It wasn’t so easy to travel the twenty-five feet to Sonia’s side. For a man who eighteen years earlier had been orphaned with no property save a bankrupt ranch in an obscure corner of Wyoming, he’d certainly come a long way; there was no counting the number of people who went out of their way to talk with him now. Having made his mark in Cold Creek—a town few people here had even heard of—Craig was still occasionally amused that anyone from Washington should go to such trouble to seek him out at this gathering. He was a private man, without the slightest interest in earning public acclaim. Actually, the only thing on his mind at the moment was collecting Sonia and getting the hell out of here.
***
Some sixth sense told Sonia that Craig was approaching. It was strange, but somehow she had only to intuit his proximity and her every feminine instinct was aroused. For the hundredth time, she thought idly that it was really very difficult not to be proud of him, even if she did have to bully him into coming here.
She didn’t have to spot him to know the look of him, wending his way through the crowd, a boyish shock of brown hair on his forehead, a disgracefully all-American smile catching every woman’s eye. He moved in lithe, lazy motions, with an easy sensuality that never betrayed tension. Tell me your secrets, said those brilliant blue eyes. If one looked closely enough, one could see the crow’s-feet around those eyes, and the experience and character in his strong features that bespoke his thirty-five years. He was five foot ten, but he carried himself like a man of six-eleven.
Naturally,
people cornered him to talk. People envied his self-assurance, his vitality…
Sonia wasn’t a bit prejudiced.
Well, a little, perhaps. Her husband had a few glaring faults. She generally treated those carefully. For instance, since she planned to be married to him for all of her next thousand lives, she figured she still had plenty of time to convince him that it was okay to take an occasional laurel for who he was and what he’d already done with his life.
In the meantime, she’d been watching him. He liked being in Chicago about as much as he’d liked spending six months in Washington last year—which was not at all. Cities turned him off. He hadn’t let it show, however, during his talks at the conference and the speech tonight. And after dinner, when a dozen prominent men were all but flag-waving to get his attention, he’d offered his time to Bradford, such a lonely old man these days.
Long, firm fingers closed on her waist from behind, and Sonia glanced up with a private smile for her husband, his mere closeness making her eyes light up like Fourth of July sparklers. The half frown on his forehead was there and gone before another soul could have noticed. Sonia, immediately perceptive, ended the argument with Ferona as Craig’s arm circled her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” she murmured as she found herself inexorably led away from the crowd. Just outside the hotel’s banquet room was a darkly paneled hallway filled with coatracks and all but empty of people.
“It occurred to me…” Craig paused as someone unexpectedly entered the hallway and stopped to exchange a word or two. When they were alone again, he wrapped both his arms around Sonia’s shoulders and enclosed them both immediately in their own private cocoon. In Sonia’s line of vision were Craig’s stiffly starched white shirt, his spring-weight black suit jacket, the shock of brown hair on his forehead and those Paul Newman blues of his. No one else. Nothing else. “It occurred to me,” he repeated gravely, “that we haven’t made love in nearly three days.”
She stared at him blankly before a small, slow smile curved mischievously on her lips. “We aren’t a wee bit bored with this gathering, are we, Mr. Hamilton?” she murmured.
“We have done our duty, Mrs. Hamilton.”
She shook her head. “There’s still a line of people in there wanting to talk to you when they get the chance, and you know it.”
“You talked to all of them. I don’t need to.”
“They’re expecting—”
He shook his head. “If you’ll remember correctly, Mrs. Hamilton, we had some very different plans for these three days in Chicago. A little shopping, a little time alone together. You wanted to see that art fair. Instead, I haven’t even had breakfast alone with you, and you’ve been asleep long before
I
could escape the crowd at night. I’ve noticed it before, lady. You are a very, very good sport.”
“I am,” she agreed impishly, “very, very good.”
“And I think it’s time to skip out and cut up a little.”
“Oh?”
Craig’s thumb idly traced her cheekbone. A very high, delicate cheekbone. He was tremendously fond of those bones. And those incredible deep-set green-blue eyes, always so full of emotion, so sensitive to his every mood. She had a tiny black beauty mark at the nape of her neck and wore her curly black hair just long enough to conceal it. He loved that mark, too. And the legs that could have been a dancer’s…she was all leg, he told her often. She regularly apologized for being so misshapen.
She was wearing her cat’s smile at the moment, her eyes unspeakably demure beneath a fringe of thick, dark lashes. She knew damn well that in his eyes she was shaped perfectly. And that he was tired of people and wanted her alone, where the phone was off the hook and the door was locked against interruptions.
“First, we’re going to hear some music,” he told her huskily. “And then maybe we’ll just walk for a while.”
“Walking is what you have in mind, is it?”
“For starters.”
Sonia made a big business out of straightening his tie. Scarlet-and-black-striped, very conservative. So was his starched white shirt. Beneath that shirt his heart was beating at a very unconservative rate—and it continued to accelerate the longer her hands lingered at his throat, the longer her breast brushed just lightly against his arm. Her husband responded like quicksilver. Disgraceful, after being married four years. She reached up to brush back that wayward shock of light brown hair that had fallen over his forehead. The gesture was frankly proprietary. One of these days she was going to get him out of those starched white shirts if it killed her. She would not insist on pastels; that would be a hopeless mismatch with his character, but a simple masculine stripe wouldn’t hurt him. “It was an honor to be invited, and I really think you should be busy in there—”
“Your mother always says that busy hands are happy hands,” Craig agreed. “Mine are itching at this moment to get very busy, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“There’s just no talking to you,” she informed him.
With a lazy grin, he claimed her wrist, not wasting any more time. They quickly said the necessary goodbyes to the people Craig honestly cared for and respected, and then made their escape.
The lobby of the hotel was swarming with people; through a revolving glass door they were suddenly set free in Chicago at night. A late spring breeze whispered off nearby Lake Michigan. At eleven o’clock, Chicago’s nightlife was just getting started. Sequins and silks flashed by in passing car windows, and Sonia paused for a moment, seeing the promise of excitement in the gleam of neon lights. She no more valued big-city pollution than Craig did; they both loved their ranch at Cold Creek with its backdrop of mountains. Tonight, though, Chicago had its own special appeal. The air actually smelled fresh, with a lingering hint of spring. Or perhaps she was just susceptible to becoming intoxicated at the idea of escaping responsibilities and people.
“We’ll go back to our hotel and change clothes,” Craig directed as they crossed the six-lane street to where their rented car was parked. “Put on something comfortable. We’ll go out and just fool around for an hour or two.”
“And then come back to get a good eight hours of sleep,” Sonia said demurely.
“Or its equivalent.”