Read Forget Me Not (Escape Contemporary Romance) Online
Authors: Nina Blake
Forget Me Not (Escape Contemporary Romance)
Forget Me Not
Forget Me Not
Nina Blake
For fans of the sweet, emotional reads of Susan Wiggs and Kat Martin, an unconventional reunion story about love, hope, and forgiveness.
Claire and Stefan’s marriage was over. They’d been estranged for six months, living in separate apartments, leading separate lives. Until an unknown accident leaves Stefan with no memory of who he is, what he wants, and the wife he left behind.
Claire’s compassion leads her to caring for Stefan. Though he is back to being the thoughtful, affectionate man she fell in love with, she can’t let herself get too involved. The instant Stefan’s memory comes back, he’ll remember who he was and what he really wants – and it’s not Claire.
Or is it?
There are so many people that have helped me along the path to publication that it would probably take a whole book to thank them all. A huge thanks to Claire, Lorraine, Sherry-Anne and Teena. In memory of Leonie, who read this manuscript and spurred me on. Finally, a super huge thanks to James and Louis, my biggest fans of all.
To Mum and Dad
For everything
Contents
Also Available From Escape Publishing…
A blast of heavy metal music ripped through the air, waking him with a jolt.
The man opened his eyes and saw a big black car, a female arm hanging out the passenger side window, long bleached hair shaking as she nodded her head to the rhythm of the car stereo. The drums were so loud he could feel the reverberations in his chest, the guitar solo so shrill that it grated. He just wanted it to go away.
A whiff of exhaust fumes hit him, and there was as a roar from the V8 as the car sped off, thankfully taking the horrible music with it.
He was lying down—he’d worked out that much—on something hard that turned out to be the wooden slats of a bench. He levered himself up until he was sitting. Leaving one hand on the backpack he’d been using as a pillow, he began rubbing the back of his neck, but felt stiff all over. His head ached. Looking down, he saw he was wearing dark jeans and a white shirt that was crumpled but clean.
He wasn’t surprised that he felt lousy, given he’d fallen asleep on a bench, out in the open in the middle of the day. But why would he have done that? And how he got here, wherever ‘here’ was?
Eyes narrowing, he scanned the street. Far as he could make out, he seemed to be sitting near a busy city strip, cars steadily streaming past in front of the cafes, stores and other businesses. People were out and about, mostly elderly ethnic couples, and young people covered in tattoos and multiple piercings.
On the other side of the road, a skinny guy outside a gelati shop was lifting a brightly coloured A-board onto the pavement, while another man laid plastic chairs out by the front window, their movements slow and practiced. Must be opening time.
Not far from there, three schoolgirls walked with heavy bags slung over their shoulders. Their navy skirts were hiked up, pale blue shirts untucked to make their uniforms look sloppy. Chatting and pointing, they ogled the ice creams, or the young men, or perhaps both.
Further along the street, a hotel had opened its doors but showed no other signs of life. Layers of band posters were peeling off the wall outside. A hotel on the opposite corner, which looked more up-market with its large stained glass windows, held a sign proclaiming it was the Sail and Ale; yet, gave no indication of where he was.
Leaning forward, he covered his mouth with one hand. He should get home. He should know this—his name, where he lived, his phone number. But he didn’t.
This was bad.
His stomach dropping, head in his hands he tried to piece together what the hell was going on. He felt his pulse slowly rise until his heart was racing, thumping against his chest wall. Sucking in a few deep breaths, he waited a few minutes until he’d calmed down,
He must have a name—everyone did. He must live somewhere. Must have a job. Nothing.
I don’t know who I am.
This was madness.
He stood up and checked his pockets, hoping to find a wallet or some other identification, but they were empty, except for a few coins. Sitting back down, he began to rummage through the backpack, finding only a handful of receipts—some from supermarkets, some from newsagents, and one from a gift shop. Yet, there was nothing with a name on it, not even a credit card number.
What had he been doing walking around with no wallet? Perhaps he’d left it at home, wherever that was, or perhaps someone had stolen it.
If only he could remember. Maybe someone could help him.
Deciding this was as good a time as any, he spied an overweight woman walking nearby. She wore black bike pants and a loose tee-shirt, and was holding the hand of a small child dressed in pink.
The man stood up. ‘Excuse me, I’m lost. Can you tell me where we are?’
‘Newtown,’ she said.
‘And where’s that?’
She screwed up her nose. ‘What do mean ‘where’s that’?’
‘Where’s Newtown?’
‘In Sydney.’ Glancing down at her little girl, she turned away from him, saying, ‘This way, honey, quickly.’ Walking between the parked cars, she looked both ways and crossed the road.
He shook his head in disbelief. She’d thought he was a weirdo. Did he look that bad? Surely not, and at least he wasn’t wearing tight Lycra pants. Nevertheless, he raked his fingers through his hair to tidy it and smoothed down the front of his shirt before dropping back onto the bench.
A young couple approached. The woman walked with a cheerful bounce, chatting as they strolled, while the guy had a smile on his face and was clearly comfortable in her company. They looked friendly enough.
‘Excuse me.’ He grabbed his backpack as he stood. ‘Can you please tell me how to get to the nearest police station?’
‘Sure,’ the man said. ‘Head straight down King Street...’
King Street? Was that supposed to mean something? That and the rest of the directions disappeared into a blur.
‘We’re going that way,’ the young woman said. ‘We can take you.’ Turning to her partner, she added, ‘He can stay with us as far as the park. You can see the police station from there.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Are you from the States?’ the woman asked with a chirpy voice as they walked.
‘Yes…no…it’s a long story.’
Was
he from America? That was a good question. Maybe it’d help the police work out who he was. This was something; things were moving forward. He was having a normal conversation and these people were being pleasant. Things had to get better from here on in.
They sure as hell couldn’t get any worse.
Stefan needed her. Whether he liked it or not. And there was nothing either of them could do about it.
Claire Simons followed the nurse down the hallway. It felt like a tunnel, the walls painted pale gray to match the carpet, the muted prints on the walls failing to brighten the place up even slightly. She wished the nurse would talk to her, say something, anything; the only noise was the soft thud of their footsteps on the threadbare carpet and the faint clink of crockery in the distance.
Stopping outside one closed door, the nurse knocked and pushed it open without waiting for a reply.
Her heart racing, Claire wanted to yell. She needed more time, she wasn’t ready, she was never going to be ready. One look at her and Stefan would remember everything, and they’d be back where they started—or finished—and that was more than she could handle.
But she’d already come this far. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, Claire followed the woman into the room.
‘Mr Porter,’ the nurse said.
He sat on a chair, looking out the window, with his back to them. Stefan’s shoulders were broad in a crisp white shirt, his figure imposing. Even in the bland surrounds of a hospital room, he had a certain presence that was palpable.
It was strange to see Stefan so still. He was normally so busy, so active, never stopping for a moment. Whether he was working on a case, working out to an exercise program, or ordering people around—as he often liked to do—he was always on the go.
‘Stefan,’ the nurse said, more loudly.
He turned his head. ‘Yes.’
‘Your wife is here.’
He shifted his gaze to Claire, standing by the bed. ‘I guess I should say ‘hello’.’
Claire was glad to hear his voice again, a distinctive American accent tempered by years of living in Australia, a voice wholly his own. It was so familiar, so reassuring.
Claire looked him up and down. Same dark brown hair, though it was longer now. Same blue eyes, same chiselled features. Only the neatly trimmed goatee was new, adding a funky edge which softened his features. But something else was different. The Stefan she’d known seemed missing. His eyes had always been striking, pale irises ringed in dark blue, lined with thick lashes. They now seemed dull and empty.
That was it. In his eyes, there was … nothing.
‘Hello, Stefan,’ she said.
Claire stretched out her hand to shake his, but then jerked it back to instead push her blond hair behind her ears.
Shaking hands was what you did when you were introduced to someone, but didn’t feel right—a wife wouldn’t shake hands with her husband. The last time she’d seen him, Stefan hadn’t wanted to touch her.
She watched his lips curl into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. At least he was trying.
After a short silence, the nurse said, ‘I’ll leave you to it for a few minutes.’ She brushed past Claire, closing the door behind her.
Stefan raised his eyebrows. ‘So you’re my wife?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
He opened his mouth to speak. Instead, his face clouded over and he turned away. Memories of Stefan shutting down completely after their arguing flooded back. Claire knew, better than most people, that there was only one thing worse than shouted insults—silence.
But she’d become hardened to his ways and wasn’t going to let Stefan hide behind his illness. If his memory had come back to him, if he had anything to say, he could say it to her face. She wanted it over with.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’
He still couldn’t bear to look at her. That spurred her on. ‘You were going to say something.’
‘I don’t know what I was going to say.’ Stefan lifted his gaze to meet hers; this time she saw a glimmer of despair in those blank eyes. ‘I thought seeing you would trigger my memory, that it’d all come rushing back to me. But it hasn’t. It’s not your fault, though, I’m just disappointed.’
Claire felt sorry for him. After all that had happened, after everything he’d said to her, everything he’d since done, Stefan still had the power to tug at her heartstrings.
She let out a deep breath, one that she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in. ‘I know. I thought it’d all come back to you, too.’
‘Take a seat.’ He waved one hand at the bed, then stood. ‘Or perhaps you’d prefer the chair.’
‘The bed is fine.’
Edging her bottom onto the mattress, Claire slid her leather bag off a shoulder and onto the bed. She remembered how carefully she’d chosen her outfit that morning: a flared burgundy skirt in a crinkle fabric and a simple rust coloured knit top worn with a chunky bronze belt. Such a waste of time.
She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand being here. At best, you could say was that the place was clean. The carpet, thicker than that in the hallway, still bore the tracks of the vacuum cleaner; the faint smell of disinfectant wafted across from the tiny bathroom in the corner. And the décor was just as drab in here.