He gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘Dating?’ Was that scorn or simple rejection in his voice?
‘I just meant…were we…seeing each other?’
‘If that’s what you want to call it.’
Oh, good grief! Then did that mean that she…that they…?
‘What happened?’ she asked tremulously, her throat contracting from the wild imagery her brain had started processing, afraid of the answers without fully understanding why.
‘It ran its course.’ It wasn’t true, of course. Not by a long chalk, Alex thought grimly. But if she really had lost her memory she wasn’t ready for the explicit details of their far too brief acquaintance.
He sounded cold and unmoved, Sanchia thought, her mind racing, desperately trying to grasp a thread of memory that faded even before it had taken shape.
Despairingly, she got up, moving over to the window.
In the street below, the city’s traffic was flowing unusually freely for a weekday morning in high summer. Pedestrians jostled with each other along the busy street, tourists and workers alike reflecting a world going about its business—while she was marooned up here, with this man who both terrified and excited her, groping like a blind person for a safe footing on a slippery precipice.
‘How…?’ She didn’t want to have to ask—couldn’t turn around as she tried to formulate the question that was burning through her brain, managing eventually to croak, ‘Just how…deeply were we…involved?’
Through the muted sounds in an outer corridor—a man’s sudden cough, the echo of footsteps across the floor—Alex Sabre’s sharp intake of breath was unmistakable. When he spoke, however, his voice gave nothing away.
‘You can’t remember?’
She tried. Put her hand to her head. Goodness knew, she wanted to. Blindly she shook her head.
‘If by involved you mean were we lovers…?’ The unfinished sentence was laden with meaning.
Sanchia’s back stiffened. Violently she shook her head again. No! Not with him! she thought, every nerve pulsing with an outrageously sensual rhythm as her brain determinedly denied it. She would have known. Remembered something like that. Remembered him…
‘I would have remembered,’ she said hopelessly to the window.
In the succeeding silence she was conscious only of his daunting presence, his scent, even his hard, steady breathing, her every sense painfully acute.
‘Sanchia. Turn around.’
She couldn’t have done so but for that soft command in his voice. Even then it was only to fix her troubled, confused gaze on his white wing collar and tabs, a vivid contrast with the dark austerity of his gown.
‘Don’t worry,’ he advised, and then, in a tone that was almost hostile in its coldness, ‘I would take your answer from the way your mind so keenly rejects the possibility.’
She noticed how harshly those masculine features were etched in the light coming from the window as her shoulders sagged with almost disproportionate relief. If double-crossed, she thought, he would make a formidable adversary.
‘If it puts your mind at rest, I stopped looking for you a long time ago,’ he went on. ‘Even so, I’d like to help you.’
‘Help me?’ Amber eyes widened in amazement.
‘If, as you say, you’ve lost a whole chunk of your life, then I’d like to help you try and retrieve it.’
‘How?’
‘Whatever it takes.’
Others had tried before—doctors, psychiatrists—and with no satisfactory outcome or hope of her memory ever coming back she had discharged herself over six months ago, resigned to the fact that it never would. But was it possible after all this time, she wondered, both fearful and excited by the prospect, that she could regain the lost pieces of her life, as this confident and obviously brilliant man seemed to think?
Whatever it takes, he had said. She shivered, trying not to imagine the methods a man like him might employ to delve into the intricacies of her locked, dysfunctional mind. She was afraid, and yet contrarily, with a bone-deep instinct she couldn’t even begin to understand, she knew that in doing so he wouldn’t harm her. Not any lasting physical harm, at any rate…
‘Why?’ Her slanting eyes were guarded as she looked at him askance. ‘Why would you want to help me?’
‘Why?’ The firm lines of the sensual mouth moved as though he were contemplating her question. ‘What about because the subject intrigues me? Because you intrigue me, Sanchia?’
‘Because I—?’ There had been an edge to his voice which made her break off, her features harden with sudden challenging anger. ‘You don’t believe me! You still don’t believe me, do you?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘No, but you’re thinking it.’
‘How do you know what I’m thinking when I’m not even sure myself?’
‘And you claim to know me.’ She wasn’t sure why she felt such bitter disappointment, but she did. ‘How can you? How can you know anything about me if you think I’d make something like this up?’ She wasn’t sure of him. She wasn’t sure of anything. But one thing she knew was her own character. That couldn’t have changed, no matter how many months or years of her life had gone missing. Could it?
‘Believe me, I want very much to make sense of it all. To believe you—’
‘But you don’t!’
She swung back across the floor, her high heels expressing her agitation. She felt that after this she would be walking out of here to face a greater, more frightening void in her life than she could ever have imagined possible.
The loneliness was suddenly terrifyingly overwhelming. A low moan came from her throat like that of an injured animal, but as she made to push past him his arm shot out, his fingers clamping hard around her wrist.
‘For heaven’s sake, Sanchia! Virtual strangers we might be, but do you really think I’m letting you walk out of here like this?’
‘Like what?’ Her pulse was hammering crazily under his broad thumb.
‘Like a little lost child—not knowing where she’s going, let alone where she’s come from.’
‘Let me go!’ she protested as her struggle to free herself only served to tighten his hold on her. ‘I was perfectly all right before I came in here today!’
‘I don’t think you were. When you looked at me in that court you looked…ridden by some sort of terror that could destroy you if it isn’t rooted out. Like you were being hounded by some nightmare you couldn’t ever wake up from.’
A chilling sensation shivered along her spine. How could he be so perceptive? How could he know?
Shaken, she tried not to let him see how his words—how he—was affecting her as finally she wrenched free from his clasp. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Psychoanalysing me now?’
A thick eyebrow arched as he noted the disparagement with which she said it, but slipping a hand into the pocket of his well-cut trousers, all he said in response was, ‘I gather you’ve had your fair share of that.’
She didn’t need to answer, wondered if the desolation she felt showed in her eyes.
Unwillingly she noticed how the way he was standing, with his robe pushed back, revealed the hard lines of his body. A body honed to peak fitness with the same punishing stamina with which he must have honed that keen intellect—single-minded