Rebecca York - Phantom Lover

She sighed. “Do you remember what happened to you? I mean, do you know why you’ve lost your memory?”

“No,” he murmured, sounding so lost and alone that her heart squeezed.

In the darkness she reached for his hand. Without speaking, she folded her slender fingers around his larger ones. Almost at once he shifted his grip so that he was holding on to her, the pressure increasing as they stood in the blackness of the tunnel.

She remembered him as strong and vital. A man of action. A man without fear. She remembered the time they’d been walking on the ranch and a rattlesnake had slithered out from behind a rock and he’d beaten it to death with a stick while she’d gasped at him to be careful. There were other memories that were just as strong. Tender memories. Like the way he’d gathered a bouquet of wildflowers from the hills around the ranch and set them in a pretty blue-and-white pitcher in her room. He’d been tough and masculine, yet he hadn’t been afraid to show her his sensitive side.

Now…

Now it was hard to believe this was the same man.

Of course, he could be putting on an elaborate charade, although she didn’t think so. Something was badly wrong, but she couldn’t say what. Not without more information, which he wouldn’t or couldn’t give her.

Her mind spun with questions. Had he fallen from the cliffs? Had a stroke? Or had he been drugged?

And then there was his preference for the darkness. Why wouldn’t he let her see him? Fear shot through her as a ready explanation leaped into her mind. He had been in an accident—and his face was scarred, which was why he was staying hidden.

She reached up with her free hand to touch him, and he stepped quickly back as though he could see perfectly well in the dark and knew what she was thinking. The sudden withdrawal gave credence to her speculation.

“You were hurt,” she said.

“Yes.”

“It’s all right. I mean, if you don’t like the way you look, it’s not going to…offend me. Is that it? Is that what’s wrong?”

“Stop trying to come up with explanations,” he said with more force than he’d exhibited thus far in all their interactions. “You’re not doing either one of us any good.”

She might have protested. Instead she gave him the space he was demanding. He had come to her. That was a start. “All right,” she said simply.

In the darkness she heard him suck in a deep, sighing breath and then let it out in a rush. Again he reached for her, but this time his hand only rested lightly on her arm. “You should leave this place. If you stay here you’re going to get into trouble.”

Her reaction was swift and sharp. “I came here to find out what happened to you—and to make sure Dinah is all right. Don’t you care about her?”

The hand on her arm clenched then opened. “Dinah,” he said softly. “I forgot about Dinah.”

“How could you forget about your own daughter?”

“Is she?”

Lord, what was that supposed to mean? Was he saying the child wasn’t his, or that he wasn’t Troy London?

She dragged a hand through her hair, sweeping it back from her face. Suddenly she felt as if she were an actor who’d been shoved onstage in a play for which she’d missed the rehearsals and lost the script. Now she was in the middle of the action and she had no idea what was expected of her. And in the back of her mind, she couldn’t let go of the feeling that Helen London had orchestrated the whole thing.

She canceled that thought as unfair. Helen had warned her that something bad was going on at Ravencrest. It was Bree’s job to figure out what it was.

Still, the whole situation was overwhelming. She certainly couldn’t answer Troy’s question about Dinah. She didn’t know how to deal with him. Yet she couldn’t simply turn around and go back to her room. Not now.

“Do you know who I am?” she finally asked.

This time he answered more quickly. “I heard you say you were Bonnie Brennan. Bree. I like that better.”

“You were listening when I arrived?”

“I listen in on what’s happening here.” He stroked his hand up and down her arm. “You were talking to Nola.”

“Yes.”

So he’d been hiding, eavesdropping on her conversation in the hall. She wasn’t going to press him on that. Instead, now that they were communicating a little better, she went back to his earlier bombshell. “Why did you say Helen was lying?”

“Because she…wouldn’t call anyone for help. She’s too independent.”

That was a good description of Helen—under ordinary circumstances. But not in this case. Bree sighed. “She’s stuck halfway around the world and she’s worried about you. So you’re wrong.”

“You’re Helen’s friend,” he said, sounding as if he wasn’t quite sure.

“Yes, I’m her friend from college. I was Bonnie Brennan back then. I changed my name to Bree.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t like the woman I realized I was,” she answered, unwilling to give any more away even as she fought off disappointment.

Didn’t he remember her from the summer of her sophomore year, when they had been so close? At least she’d thought they were. It had been the most memorable time of her life, the most compelling relationship in her entire existence. It hurt to think that it had meant far less to him. Yet tonight there had been a breathtaking intensity between them. That must mean something, surely. Maybe even though he didn’t remember her on a conscious level, he’d been drawn back to her.

He interrupted her thoughts with another pronouncement. “It’s dangerous here. You have to go back.”

“Back to Maryland?”

“Back to your room.”

The firm, decisive delivery chilled her. He’d been holding her hand. He broke the contact, stepping away from her, leaving her standing in the dark.

“Troy!”

“Stay there. Don’t move.” His voice was sharp, commanding, urgent, and she froze.

One of his hands clamped on her shoulder, leading her around a sharp corner. “Look!”

In the next moment fire flared only a few yards in front of her face, the sudden light so unexpected after the total darkness that she couldn’t focus. Dimly she saw a burning faggot of straw or sticks fly through the air, arching upward before it began to fall—not at her feet, but far, far below.

With a shock of amazement she realized she’d been so caught up in the conversation with Troy that she’d forgotten about the gaping pit.

The brand crashed onto the rocks, sending sparks flaring upward toward her.

She blinked, probing the darkness—and knew that in the moments when she’d been blinded, he’d slipped away.

“Troy?”

He didn’t answer and she felt a shiver slither over her skin. He’d mesmerized her, made her forget about the dangerous drop-off.

Then, when he’d thrown the burning brand, she hadn’t even seen him at all. She was still grappling with that when his voice drifted toward her, this time from far away.

“Go back,” he said again. And then he was gone.

“Troy,” she called, knowing even as she said his name that she was absolutely alone. “Troy,” she said again, despairingly, softly. “Don’t run away from me. Let me help you.”

Even as she called out to him, she knew he wasn’t going to answer. He had left her here, left her with light. And she knew she should use the opportunity to go back down the tunnel.

But she could also see that there was a short path that led along the rim of the pit and around a corner to some other section of the underground passage—a section that was hidden from view.

He’d slipped away. He hadn’t brushed past her. So the only way he could have gone was in the other direction.