Olivia Gates - Billionaire, M.D.

The spectacular wings of his eyebrows snapped together. That wasn’t annoyance or affront. That was mortification. Pain, even.

Words couldn’t spill fast enough from her battered brain to her lips. “God, that was such a lame joke. Just shows I’m in no condition to know how or when to make one. I owe you my life.”

“You owe me nothing. I was doing my job. And I didn’t even do it well. I’m responsible for your current condition. It’s my failure to manage you first that led to the deepening of the insult to your brai-”

“The pilot’s worst injuries were neurological.” She cut him short. It physically hurt to see the self-blame eating at him.

“Yes, but that had nothing to do with my decision-”

“And I bet you’re the best neurosurgeon on the continent.”

“I don’t know about that, but being the most qualified one on hand didn’t mea-”

“It did mean you had to take care of him yourself. And my initial condition misled you into believing my case wasn’t urgent. You did the right thing. You fought for this man as he deserved to be fought for. And then you fought for me. And you saved me. And then, I’m certain my condition is temporary.”

“We have no way of knowing that. Having total memory loss with the retention of all faculties of language and logic and knowledge and no problem in accumulating new memories is a very atypical form of amnesia. It might never resolve fully.”

“Would that be a bad thing, in your opinion? If the idea of regaining my memories is almost…distressing, maybe my life was so bad, I’m better off not remembering it?”

He seemed at a loss for words. Then he finally found some. “I am not in a position to know the answer to that. But I am in a position to know that memory loss is a neurological deficit, and it’s my calling to fix those. I can’t under any circumstances wish that this wouldn’t resolve. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to tend to my other patients. I’ll be back every three hours to check on you.”

With a curt nod, he turned and left her, exiting the huge, opulent suite in strides loaded with tense grace.

She wanted to run after him, beg him to come back.

What could possibly explain all this turmoil and her severe attraction to him? Had they been lovers, married even, and they’d separated, or maybe divorced…?

She suddenly lurched as if from the blow of an ax as a memory lodged in her brain. No…a knowledge. She was married.

And it was certainly not to Rodrigo.

Rodrigo did come back in three hours. And stayed for three minutes. Long enough to check on her and adjust her medical management. Then he repeated that pattern for the next three days. She even felt him come in during her fitful sleep.

She hadn’t had the chance to tell him what she’d remembered.

No. She hadn’t wanted to tell him. Discovering she was married, even if she didn’t know to whom, wasn’t on her list of things to share with him of all people.

And he probably already knew.

She could have told him that she’d also remembered who she was. But then, she hadn’t remembered much beyond the basics he’d told her.

This boded well for her memory deficit, if it was receding so early.

She didn’t want it to recede, wanted to cling to the blankness with all her strength.

But it was no use. A few hours ago, a name had trickled into the parting darkness of her mind. Mel Braddock.

She was certain that was her husband’s name. But she couldn’t put a face to the name. The only memory she could attach to said name was a profession. General surgeon.

Beyond that, she remembered nothing of the marriage. She knew only that something dark pressed down on her every time the knowledge of it whispered in her mind.

She couldn’t possibly feel this way if they’d been on good terms. And if he wasn’t here, days after his wife had been involved in a serious accident, were they separated, getting divorced even? She was certain she was still married. Technically, at least. But the marriage was over. That would explain her overriding emotions for Rodrigo, that she innately knew it was okay to feel them.

On the strike of three hours, Rodrigo returned. And she’d progressed from not wanting to bring up any of it to wanting to scream it all at the top of her lungs.

He made no eye contact with her as he strode in flanked by two doctors and a nurse. He never came unescorted anymore. It was as if he didn’t want to be alone with her again.

He checked her chart, informed his companions of his adjustment of her medications as if she wasn’t in the room much less a medical professional who could understand everything they were saying. Frustration frothed inside her. Then it boiled over.

“I remembered a few things.”

Rodrigo went still at her outburst. The other people in the room fidgeted, eyed her uncomfortably before turning uncertain gazes to their boss. Still without looking at her, he hung her chart back at the foot of the bed, murmured something clearly meant for the others’ ears alone. They rushed out in a line.

The door had closed behind the last departing figure for over two minutes before he turned his eyes toward her.

She shuddered with the force of his elemental impact.

Oh, please. Let me have the right to feel this way about him.

The intensity of his being buzzed in her bones-of his focus, of his…wariness?

Was he anxious to know what she remembered? Worried about it? Because he suspected what it was-the husband she remembered only in name? He’d told her of her long-dead father, her existing family, but not about that husband. Would he have told her if she hadn’t remembered?

But there was something more in his vibe. Something she’d felt before. After she’d kissed him. Disapproval? Antipathy?

Had they been on bad terms before the accident? How could they have been, if she felt this vast attraction to him, untainted by any negativity? Had the falling out been her fault? Was he bitter? Was he now taking care of her to honor his calling, his duty, giving her extra special care for old times’ sake, yet unable to resume their intimacy? Had they been intimate? Was he her lover?

No. He wasn’t.

She might not remember much about herself, but the thought of being in a relationship, no matter how unhealthy, and seeking involvement with another felt abhorrent to her, no matter how inexorable the temptation. And then, there was him. He radiated nobility. She just knew Rodrigo Valderrama would never poach on another man’s grounds, never cross the lines of honor, no matter how much he wanted her or how dishonorable the other man was.

But there was one paramount proof that told her they’d never been intimate. Her body. It burned for him but knew it had never had him. It would have borne his mark on its every cell if it had.

So what did it all mean? He had to tell her, before something beside memories short-circuited inside her brain.

He finally spoke. “What did you remember?”

“Who I am. That I’m married.” He showed no outward reaction. So he had known. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I asked about family.”

“I thought you were asking about flesh-and-blood relatives.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“Am I?” He held her gaze, making her feel he was giving her a psyche and soul scan. Maybe trying to steer her thoughts, too. “So you remember everything?”

She exhaled. “I said I remembered ‘a few things.’ Seems I’m a stickler for saying exactly what I mean.”

“You said you remembered who you were, and your marriage. That’s just about everything, isn’t it?”