She measured. She chopped. She melted, smeared and mixed. She heated, stirred, glazed and—
‘What are you doing?’
Almost dying of fright.
‘Sorry.’ He held up his hands as her scream’s echo reverberated between them. He actually smiled. ‘You do realise it’s two in the morning.’
Really? She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw he was right.
Of course he was right.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her sticky dough-covered hand. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’
‘You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep.’
He too was in jeans and a T-shirt and no shoes, and with that stubble on his jaw and that burning look in his eyes all that effort in distracting herself was a total waste. She tipped the dough onto the bench and determinedly pressed it out. ‘Why couldn’t you sleep?’ she said, just to fill the silence.
‘My brain won’t shut down.’
Her heart pounded harder and she squashed the dough into the wood. ‘Work?’
‘No.’
She met his gaze briefly, catching just a glimpse of scalding agony in his eyes. She looked back down at the mess she was making of the biscuit dough and knew she couldn’t stay silent any longer.
‘Would it help if I said I was sorry?’ The words scratched.
‘I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.’
She looked up and met his eyes again but found she couldn’t hold his gaze. It was impossible to be as honest as she ought to be. ‘I don’t—’
‘I know you know,’ he interrupted her harshly. ‘I might not be able to remember many things, but I’m not an idiot.’
She put both hands on the table for balance. His memory. Amnesia.
He watched her relentlessly.
‘Can you remember anything from before the accident?’ she asked.
‘I’ve lost about a decade.’ His hands had curled to fists at his sides as he stood soldier-like on the other side of the table from her. ‘Almost the entire time since I came to England from Italy.’
And how could she not feel sorry for him?
She cleared her throat. ‘Do they think you’ll get it back?’
‘It’s been a year since the accident. The longer it goes on, it seems the less likely full recovery is. But in truth, they just don’t really know.’
‘And you can’t remember anything from that time?’ she queried, her chest aching now. ‘What about your work?’
‘I read every damn textbook again.’
In the last year? She frowned. ‘That’s amazing.’
He shook his head. ‘I have a natural aptitude for numbers, patterns. I haven’t lost that.’
‘But you remember everything—’
‘Since I woke from the medically induced coma I was in, yes.’
She gave up on the biscuit dough altogether and moved to the sink to wash her hands. ‘Your gallery upstairs...’
‘Everyone I’ve met or had dealings with in the last ten years. Jasper has helped.’
‘So no one knows?’
‘Only my medical team. Jasper. My staff here. And now you.’
And no one else had the chance to find out because he’d locked himself away in this remote estate and refused to socialise with anyone.
She dried her hands on the small towel and turned to face him. ‘Do you trust me not to say anything?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Why won’t you?’ he asked. But his soft tone seemed dangerous. ‘Why won’t you sell your story?’
‘Because... I just wouldn’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
Because she liked him and she felt loyal to him. Because he was her husband and he’d helped her more than he could ever know.
‘Because that’s just the way I am,’ she said lamely.
‘You don’t want to hurt anyone.’ An odd look crossed his face.
‘I’m not a saint.’ She grimaced. She didn’t deserve his admiration at all.
‘No?’ There was a note in his voice that made her look up. A gleam warmed his dark eyes. ‘You’re telling me you’ve been naughty?’
That made her blush. His brows lifted higher but then the amused light left his eyes leaving them shadowed, the secrets hidden once more.
A harsh regular beeping interrupted. She turned, grateful for the respite. She grabbed the oven mitts and retrieved the tray from the oven.
‘How hungry do you think we’re going to get?’ he asked dryly as she placed the chocolate brownie on the cooling rack. The bread rolls were already cool. As were the individual savoury tartlets. She figured the lemon shortbread mix might have to be ditched.
‘Why couldn’t you sleep?’
She could ignore that question, but she couldn’t ignore what he’d admitted. She turned off the oven and then looked at him. ‘It must have been very isolating for you.’
He walked to her side of the kitchen.
‘Is all this pity?’ He waved a hand at all her baking but she knew he meant her sleeplessness, her curiosity, her concern. ‘Because that’s not what I want from you.’
She couldn’t move. ‘What do you want from me?’
He was silent as he regarded her. ‘Nothing,’ he said almost inaudibly. ‘I want nothing.’ But he reached out and tucked a wisp of her hair back behind her ear. ‘Except the truth.’ His focus sharpened. ‘Why did you come here?’
Yeah, he wasn’t an idiot, he knew there was more to her story. Of course there was. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. She didn’t want to burst this bubble of intimacy and peace. ‘Because Jasper asked me to.’
And that was the truth.
‘Because you owe him?’ Tomas persisted.
She nodded.
‘He helped you once?’
She nodded again, her throat thick with unshed tears.
‘He helped me too, once.’
‘But you helped him. You got him out of that car...’ She knew they’d crashed. That Jasper had been trapped and Tomas had got him free in an insane show of strength and determination. And yes, she was utterly in his thrall.
‘Anyone would have done that,’ he argued.
Not anyone. And not just anyone would have offered to marry someone the day they met them to help them escape from an oppressive environment.
‘Did he tell you about me?’ he asked.
Her heart ached as she shook her head. ‘He didn’t mention it at all. Tomas...’ She trailed off. The expression in his eyes was warm now and even though she didn’t really believe in what she thought she was seeing, she didn’t want to drive it away.
‘What?’ he prompted.
She couldn’t tell him the truth, not now. But she couldn’t ask him what she really wanted to either. She was still a coward.
‘What do you want from me?’ he repeated her earlier question.
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t right. And she was used to disappointment. But he moved that inch closer, his expression intense, his gaze focused.
‘Zara.’ He brushed the backs of his fingers along her jaw. ‘Your skin is so soft.’