‘I can’t,’ she said dully, with a sudden weary slump to her shoulders.
The look he directed at her now was reflective—questioning. ‘Then let’s just take it one step at a time,’ he advised, his voice quiet but firm.
The restaurant to which he took her was an intimate little bistro, patronised Sanchia decided, seeing its popularity, by a regular clientele.
She felt Alex’s searching regard as a waiter pulled out her chair for her, supplied them with menus and placed a napkin ceremoniously over her lap.
It was just the place to bring someone on a first date. Relaxed, but with impeccable service, Sanchia thought. Only it wasn’t a first date, was it? Or a date of any kind, if it came to that.
She met grey eyes across the table that were watchful, darkly assessing. ‘Have I been here before?’
‘What do you think?’ he said.
Her gaze strayed across the softly lit tables, touched on the decorative climbing plants, the low painted ceiling, the bright, sparkling glasses at the bar. ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured, frowning. ‘It seems familiar, but it could just be reminding me of half a dozen other places I’ve visited. And yet…’
‘And yet what?’
‘You said you wanted to help me remember, and I don’t think you’re a man to waste time with anything that doesn’t further your immediate objectives.’
An eyebrow lifted in subtle acknowledgement, the smile playing around his mouth not quite reaching those clear, penetrating eyes.
‘An accurate assessment of my character, but it does rather make me sound as though I care for very little but my own ends.’
She surveyed him obliquely, her eyes both wary and challenging. ‘And do you?’
‘Why? Is there something in your subconscious that’s warning you to be on your guard against me?’
Was there?
‘I don’t know,’ Sanchia answered truthfully. ‘Should there be?’
He laughed. ‘This conversation’s going nowhere,’ he remarked. ‘But, yes, I think you’ll find you have been here before.’
With you? For some reason she bit back the unsettling words. Forehead puckering, she glanced around her again, seeing things that had supposedly touched her life and yet which now bore no testimony to that other time, feeling ghost-like, because nothing intruded on the void, leaving her feeling empty and invisible.
‘Sanchia?’ From across the table Alex’s voice shook her out of the haze that had been threatening to engulf her. Her wrist, lying casually on the table, was encircled by fingers that were warm and strong.
‘I don’t remember,’ she murmured, her bloodless features ravaged from the effort of trying to.
‘Are you receiving any treatment that might help you?’
‘No,’ she admitted, disentangling herself from that disturbing hand.
‘Why not?’
So she had to tell him she had given it up as pointless, and saw his eyebrows arch in undisguised criticism. ‘Wasn’t that a rather foolish thing to do?’
‘Perhaps, but you try it,’ she retorted, acquainting him with the endless sessions of therapy, the eternally false hope and, at the end of it all, the acceptance of defeat, that that part of her life was lost, never to be retrieved. ‘I had to get on with my life,’ she finished quietly.
‘And you think you’re doing that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And making a good job of it?’
‘Yes,’ she said adamantly.
‘You don’t ever wonder if you might be missing something of vital importance to you?’
She shrugged. ‘I did at first. In fact, for a long time. But I know I don’t have any living relatives, so I knew there wouldn’t be anyone looking for me or missing me. I don’t know why I lost my memory—or even what I was doing before I stepped out in front of that car. Maybe I was stressed out over something—money, my job, a boyfriend—and that’s what made me step off the pavement without looking. Or maybe I was perfectly happy and just taking a quiet stroll—I just don’t know. But in the end I thought that if the psychiatrist was right, and I had been through something so awful that my mind had blocked it out, then perhaps it would be better not to know.’
‘Isn’t that rather a short-sighted view?’
‘A coward’s way out, you mean?’
He didn’t say as much, although from the compression of his lips he was certainly thinking it.
‘Perhaps from where you’re sitting that’s what it looks like. But I’m perfectly happy as I am, and if my memory doesn’t want to come back, why try and make it?’
‘And yet you came out with me.’
Across the table their eyes clashed, and something about the dark intensity in his made her pulse throb with the acknowledgement of a powerful sexual chemistry she had recognised from her first glance at him in the courtroom that morning. Although even before she had looked at him she had felt something…
However casual their relationship might have been, however insignificant, she was sure of one thing. That dark fascination he possessed, which must have attracted her to him originally, hadn’t died with her lost memories or with time. It flared into vibrant life every time he looked at her, molten and incandescent—and she knew it would consume her with its dangerous power if she let it. She didn’t know how she knew that. She just did.
‘Yes,’ she breathed, answering him now.
‘Why?’
Why?
She wanted to tell him lightly that it was out of curiosity that she had accepted his offer of dinner tonight, that it was nice to be invited out, and if he could give her memory a prod in the right direction all well and good. But the pull of his dark attraction rendered her incapable of such a performance, so it was all she could do to suggest rather unsteadily, ‘Why don’t we talk about you?’
From the smile curving that strong mouth he had obviously guessed why she had changed the subject, but he went along with her, saying, ‘All right. What do you want to know?’
‘Interests?’
He sat back on his chair, mouth firming before he answered, ‘Good literature. Good wine. Good music.’
She laughed. ‘Naturally. And you aren’t wearing a ring, so I would hope you aren’t married.’
His eyes narrowed beneath the thick fringes of his lashes. ‘You think that my being here with you might mean I’m cheating on someone else?’
‘It isn’t unheard of.’
‘Rest assured,’ he said, sitting forward again, ‘I’m not.’
‘Any family?’ She sipped the aperitif he had bought her from the bar.
‘My parents are dead. I still have a stepmother somewhere.’
Somewhere. Was she imagining that sudden hardening in his voice? ‘What about brothers or sisters?’
‘What about them?’
‘Do you have any?’ She suddenly felt as though she were wading through mud.
‘I had a brother. Half-brother,’ he amended, almost distractedly, and reached for his glass.
‘Had?’ Sanchia prompted cagily, setting hers aside, not sure she should be asking when she saw the lines that were etched into that strong face.
‘He