“What, Tom?”
“I remembered all the crap about Joseph Carlisle—all the shit that had become my life for one reason. Do you know what it was?” he murmured.
“Why?” she mouthed, overcome by emotion.
“Because I couldn’t sacrifice you to the darkness that was taking over my mind. You were this one exquisite, shining, beautiful thing set amongst all those awful realities. I couldn’t have gone on forgetting you, forgetting the first night I ever touched you . . . forgetting the first night I felt you shake in my arms ...”
“Thomas,” she whispered. She pressed a finger to his lower lip, and then kissed his mouth softly.
“Why didn’t you remind me of that night, Sophie?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I was afraid if I pushed you it would dislodge other memories of what had happened in that same time period. It had become all tied together in your unconsciousness. I didn’t want to worsen your condition.”
“How did you know, though? What made you realize that I didn’t remember being here with you, on that first night?”
She traced one of his eyebrows and cast herself back into her own memories.
“I knew when we made love in my office. Afterwards ...” She swallowed thickly. “You apologized for making love to me so forcefully for the first time.”
She met his gaze. He winced.
“Jesus, Sophie. I’m so sorry. When I look back on it, it seems so strange. I remember what it was like not remembering, but it’s like I was someone else. No . . . more like the pieces of my life were removed and replaced, but out of sequence. I remember almost everything now . . . although I can’t really recall how I got back to Chicago after coming here on that first night, or what I was thinking in returning to work as though nothing had ever happened.”
“I didn’t understand what was happening to you at first, either,” Sophie admitted. “I thought you were just amnesic—possibly because of your head injury, possibly because of grief . . . maybe both. It wasn’t until I’d been with you for a while and spoken with Andy that I realized your amnesia for that period of time was just one of the many symptoms that come from a trauma reaction. You returned to work that next morning
as if nothing had ever happened because part of you wanted that, needed it . . . to forget what had happened when you confronted your father, to erase the horror of what he’d done to you.”
“Another part of me wanted to remember that period of time,” he said gruffly. “I wanted to remember you.”
“I know,” she replied. “I could see it in your eyes at times when we made love. I knew the memories would come back when you were ready. All I could do was wait . . . and pray for you.”
He dried a tear on her cheek with a blunt-tipped fingertip. “You called me Tom on that night.”
“You told me to,” she whispered.
“It was what my parents and friends called me, when I was young,” he said huskily. “I became Thomas with the Carlisles. For some reason, I wanted to hear my old name—my real name—on your lips on that night.”
He lay her down on the bed and sank down over her. She closed her eyes briefly, cherishing the sensation of his long, hard body pressing her down into the mattress.
“I want to hear it again. I want to hear you scream it, Sophie.”
He leaned down and seized her mouth in an explosive kiss, making speech, let alone a feeble thought, an utter impossibility.
EPILOGUE
FIVE WEEKS LATER
Thomas didn’t have anything against Andy Lancaster and his wife, Sheila, per se. He’d just never wished two people would vanish so much as he did this easygoing, amiable couple.
He watched Sophie climb up on the ladder attached to the dock with a narrow-lidded gaze, took in every nuance of her shifting body weight, the slight sway of her breasts in the bikini top, the erotic manner in which rivulets of water ran across her golden, apricot-hued skin.
It was the first weekend in September, and it was a hot one. Just days ago, the FBI had finally, finally said that Thomas no longer required constant surveillance for his safety. Thomas had insisted he didn’t need a bodyguard practically since day one. He had become even more vociferous about it since Joseph Carlisle had passed away and Newt Garnier had provided testimony that led to the arrests of every high-ranking lieutenant in the Outfit that the FBI had ever hoped to put behind bars.
He’d finally gotten rid of the omnipresent bodyguards only to have Sophie announce that Andy Lancaster and his wife would be coming for a weekend visit at Haven Lake.
Andy stopped in mid-sentence when Thomas abruptly lurched up from his reclining position on the dock. He had no idea what Lancaster had even been saying.
Thomas would apologize to Andy later.