Rachel Bailey: MILLION-DOLLAR AMNESIA SCANDAL

As he looked around the private New York hospital room, Seth Kentrell dug his hands deep into his pockets. The best medical treatment money could buy, delivered in a room that wouldn’t look out of place in one of his own high-end hotels. For someone like the world-renowned jazz singer, April Fairchild, he wouldn’t expect anything less.

He glanced over at the woman lying seemingly unscathed in the hospital bed, her eyes closed, her delicate skin pale…and more sublimely fascinating than he’d expected. Her image was familiar, but in the flesh, she was exquisite. Even in sleep.

Was that what his brother had thought-had she taken Jesse to her bed? Was that how she’d manipulated him into practically giving her one of the prized hotels from their portfolio? At the thought of his brother, a sledgehammer blow hit the center of his chest. It’d been eight days and it was still beyond belief that Jesse was gone. Dead. Seth clenched his fists tight in his pockets, as if that could relieve the ache. But nothing could take the crushing sense of loss away. He’d never see his brother again.

And this woman had been the last person to see Jesse alive.

As he took a step closer, she moved restlessly in her sleep and he paused, not wanting to wake her. He had no idea of the true extent of the injuries she’d sustained in the accident that had killed his brother-the media had been fed meaningless and general information only. Which was why he’d had to come.

April moved again, and her face pinched then relaxed. Seth frowned. Was she in pain? Were there bruises marring her loveliness under the covers? He sucked in a breath, wondering if he should call a nurse. What if-

He stopped himself midthought and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He couldn’t let himself lose track of why he’d come. He needed the Lighthouse Hotel back or he risked losing the alliances he’d carefully built on the board of directors. By leaving equal shares in the conglomerate to his legitimate and illegitimate families, his father’s will had tried to bring his sons together but had instead thrown down the gauntlet. With Jesse’s death, the shares he and Seth had jointly inherited had reverted to Seth, but that just meant he and his half brother, Ryder Bramson, now had an equal half each of Warner’s stock. And now another man, JT Hartley, had emerged, claiming to be a long-lost son of Warner, demanding a share of the will. Though he wouldn’t get that far-Seth would make sure of it.

Likewise Seth had no intention of losing to Ryder Bramson. In the space of mere months, he’d lost his father and Jesse; he wouldn’t lose his company as well-no matter how lovely or vulnerable April Fairchild seemed to be.

The door opened and closed behind him and he pivoted to see a middle-aged, overly thin woman step purposefully into the room.

She snagged him with her gaze. “Are you another doctor?” she asked with the air of someone in charge.

“No.”

“A physiotherapist?”

“I’m not with the hospital.”

Her spine stiffened. “Are you a reporter?”

“No. My name is Seth Kentrell.”

Her eyes widened as she recognized the name. “How did you get in?”

A reasonable question. He’d told April’s guard at the door that he was from her lawyer’s office and showed him her name on the contract he held. The man had at least checked the name, but it had been too easy to pass. Had he been on the Bramson Holdings’ security staff, Seth would have him fired.

But he wasn’t here to share details about security.

He arched an eyebrow. “The question you should be asking is why I’m here.”

“You’re the intruder. I’ll ask the questions.” She bit on her lip, clearly wanting to ask precisely what he’d suggested, but now reluctant. Then she gave in. “Why are you here?”

He rewarded her with a smile. “To save Ms. Fairchild from a nasty, very public legal battle. Believe me, it’s in her best interests to talk to me sooner rather than later.”

Small noises came from the bed, and he turned to see April waking, her lashes blinking against the light, then opening to reveal large, chestnut-brown eyes. Her gaze fixed on him and the breath caught in his lungs. She was like a crushed rose, forlorn and broken, yet still exquisitely beautiful. Her fair skin was as perfect as porcelain; her hair-a tumble of caramel and honey-sat about her shoulders. He had the strange sensation of being drawn closer, closer. But, no, he tore his gaze away and steadied himself.

Shoulders squared, he looked back to April. She was squinting to see; there was too much light in the room. He crossed to the windows and drew the drapes closed, and she relaxed a fraction, opening her eyes more fully.

The older woman rushed over and sat on the edge of the bed. “April, darling, you’re awake.”

April frowned, then winced as if frowning hurt. “I think you’ve made a mistake,” she rasped.

Seth raised an eyebrow. “You seem awake. Hard to mistake that.”

She looked back to him, and shook her head very slowly. “My name’s not April.”

The woman gripped April’s hand and spoke gently, as if to a slow child. “Yes it is. April Fairchild. My daughter.”

So this was the mother. And her daughter’s manager, according to his research. Seth ran an appraising glance over her. She reminded him of a spider, with her sticklike arms and legs, and the way she was watching April, as if waiting for her daughter to come deeper into her web. Every instinct told him not to trust spiderwoman. But the bigger issue was why she was telling April what her own name was. He rocked back on his heels, waiting for their next move.

April sat up a little and looked intently at her mother, then lay back on the pillow. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. You’ve made some kind of mistake.”

The woman smiled tightly. “Tell me about your mother then. And your name.”

April’s warm brown eyes flew from her mother to him and back again, panic starting to fill their depths.

The woman leaned over and cupped her cheek. “Don’t worry, darling, the doctors said you’ll remember soon.”

“Remember soon?” Seth was all attention.

April laid a pale hand over her chest, gripping the covers. “How long have I been here?”

“Eight days,” her mother said, giving the same tight smile. “You were unconscious for the first five, but you’ve been waking up for the last three, and each time you don’t remember.”

April’s hand trembled and gripped the covers tighter. “Why wouldn’t I remember? Did I hurt my head?”

“The doctors say your brain is fine,” her mother said in a singsong voice, clearly forgetting to be discreet in a stranger’s presence. “You have retrograde amnesia. It’ll all settle down soon and you’ll remember everything.”

Seth stilled as he studied April’s face for signs of duplicity. Somehow she’d bamboozled his brother Jesse into swapping the Lighthouse Hotel for a next-to-worthless recording studio and label. And now that Jesse was dead and he’d come to fix the situation, she was claiming amnesia.

Seth didn’t believe in coincidence, and something about her memory loss seemed far too…convenient.

He refocused on the heartbreakingly beautiful woman lying in the hospital bed. Her lips trembled. Her eyes were huge in her delicate face. The overall effect was alluring and deceptively vulnerable. He crossed his arms over his chest. He couldn’t afford to be swayed.