Mona Lisa Eclipsing Read online

  I repeated the telephone number.

  “That’s the old number, honey.”

  “The old number?”

  “Yeah, before they moved to the new location on Twelfth and Seventh.”

  “The hospital moved?” I said, feeling as if the whole world instead of just the hospital had shifted.

  “Yeah, but they might as well not have. They went bankrupt shortly after you left and shut down, a couple of weeks ago, actually.”

  “I left?”

  “Yup, you quit and left New York.”

  I unconsciously gripped the phone tightly enough to make the plastic casing protest. Lightening my hold, I asked, “Do you know where I went?”

  Joey laughed. “What is this? You pulling my leg?”

  “No, I, um . . . I hit my head and have a concussion. I honestly don’t remember. I thought I still worked at St. Vincent’s.”

  There was silence at the other end for ten long seconds with nothing but the distant sound of customers and cooking drifting faintly over the line. When I heard Joey’s voice again, it sounded gruff and concerned. “Lisa, honey. You quit your job here almost six months ago. I haven’t seen or heard from you since then. Sorry, honey, I don’t know anything more than that.”

  After saying thanks, I numbly hung up, feeling dazed by more than just the blow to my head. “I think I asked the wrong question,” I said, looking up at Roberto. “What date is it?”

  When he told me, I felt a slight roaring in my head—a silent rush of feeling, of panic.

  I had lost more than half a year of memory!

  I had made a new life somewhere . . . and couldn’t remember a single moment of it!

  There are movies about people who lose their memory—total amnesia. It makes for a great story, with lots of drama and stuff. Having it happen to you, however, was not as much fun as watching it being enacted by talented actors. Granted, I only had partial amnesia. I knew who I was, knew my name—Lisa Hamilton—and where I used to live. I hadn’t lost myself completely. Just a significant chunk of time.

  I spent the next half hour trying to hunt up more clues of where I had moved to and what sort of new life I had built for myself. St. Vincent’s was completely shut down, as Joey had said, with no one in administration to talk to at all. What the landlord of my old apartment had to tell me was more helpful, and highly disturbing.

  There had been four men with me when I had moved out of my apartment and turned in my key.

  “Four men? Did they seem like friends?” I asked after my initial surprise.

  “Yeah, sure. Or why else would they help you move out of your apartment?”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Why?” he asked, suspicious.

  “Because I hit my head and”—a weak laugh at having to say the next part—“I can’t remember them or where I moved to.”

  “No shit!” My old landlord sounded impressed. “One was a real big guy—tall, six and a half feet at least, heavily muscled like one of those pro-wrestler types. Another was movie-star handsome. The third guy had this old-fashioned beard and mustache like those people in the Victorian age, and the last one was just average looking, you know.”

  None of this struck a familiar chord in me. One huge wrestler type, another looking like a movie star, another sounding like an Englishman? It didn’t describe any of the doctors, orderlies, or tech guys I knew from work. The average-looking fourth fellow might have been one the few guys I had dated, but none of those brief relationships had ended well, certainly not well enough for them to help me move out of my apartment. “Were they young, old?” I asked.

  “A little older than you. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe.”

  “Did I leave any forwarding address?”

  “Nah, you best check with the post office. Maybe they can help you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Samuels.” I hung up with even more questions whirling in my damaged brain.

  “Do I have competition,” Roberto asked lightly, “these four men I heard you mention?” He had been sitting so quietly I had almost forgotten that he and the two bodyguards were still in the room. I blushed when I saw his smile and the intent look in his eyes. My headache and wooziness had lessened in the half hour of time I had spent hunting up more information. And the can of soda and analgesic he had brought in helped as well.

  What had Roberto asked? Oh, yeah. If he had any competition. He was teasing me, of course. Latin gallantry. As if the idea of a man as dashing and wealthy as he obviously was being attracted to me wasn’t ludicrous.

  “I have no idea who those men he described to me were. They don’t sound like anyone I know. Maybe my landlord mixed me up with someone else who moved out recently. I didn’t have any friends, just acquaintances from work.”

  “No old boyfriends?”

  “None that parted on good enough terms to help me move out of my apartment.”

  “They did not end well?” Roberto asked with warm sympathy.

  “Or last long. Only a couple of dates.” Just enough to hit the sheets once, after which it became clear that a physical relationship was not going to work out between us.

  “What about your patients? Did you befriend or get romantically involved with any of them?”

  For a moment, something tickled the edge of my mind, then was gone like a phantom breeze. “No,” I said slowly, “I never got involved with any of my patients.”

  “Was it, what you say, professional ethics?”

  “More like no interest, on their parts,” I said with rueful honesty.

  “A lovely woman like yourself?”

  “What is it, Latin genes or something, flattering any woman you come across? I know I’m a very average-looking woman. And, no,” I said, holding up my hand when he opened his mouth, “I’m not trying to fish for more compliments or flattery. I’m simply stating the truth. You are very gallant, and I am deeply in your debt for your help and letting me rack up a huge phone bill with all these telephone calls. I’ll pay you back, I promise . . .”

  Words died in my throat as he reached out and grasped my hand. That awareness, that strange humming energy between us intensified into sudden blazing brightness at physical contact, and all I knew and felt was him. Like he was my moon, my stars, my entire freaking orbit . . .

  “You are far from plain or average, Lisa. You are like me.” Cradling my fingers between his own bigger, broader hands, he clasped my hand as if he was savoring our contact, our connection. “Just like me.”

  FIVE

  TOUCHING ROBERTO WAS overwhelming. I felt like I wanted to tear off his clothes and jump his bones . . . and that was just so not like me. I’d never felt physically attracted to anyone ever before. Never felt this overpowering urge to mate, like some irresistible force pulling him and me together. It scared me enough to tear my hand away from his, to stand up and back away from him. Distance, I found, helped. Whatever it was I was feeling, it lessened the farther I distanced myself from him.

  His bodyguards drew their guns at the sudden movement. And the fact that I had two deadly firearms pointed straight at me was less alarming than the way I reacted to Roberto: like he was a flame I wanted to bask myself in . . . to be consumed by.

  Lust.

  Holy crap! What I was feeling was lust. Me, the coldest fish in the world.

  My heart pounded like a giant drum gone crazy, and my breath sawed in and out of me as Roberto spat out harsh orders in Spanish. I smelled my sweat and some other unfamiliar odor emanating from my body as his men put their guns away, leaving the room.

  That, unfortunately, didn’t make me feel any better.

  “Easy,” Roberto murmured.

  “No,” I said, gritting my teeth, knowing my eyes were wide and wild. “I won’t let it control me.” With those words, that willful determination, I felt that maddening pull start to ease up between us.

  Silence followed, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing. Silence like what a bomb squad must hear after th
ey’ve successfully prevented an explosion. Roberto eased closer to me, and I did nothing to stop him since his nearness no longer made me want to tear off my clothes and offer myself to him.

  His breath came as heavy and fast as mine. Farther down, his pants tented out stiffly with unmistakable prominence. My face flamed, and my unfortunate headache chose that embarrassing moment to reassert itself.

  “Argh!” I said, gripping my poor head. God, I ached, not just the bump on my head but the entire right side of me—shoulder, arm, leg, and hip. When the merciless pounding eased, Roberto was standing before me.

  “What the hell was that?” I asked, breathless.

  “That, querida, was a miracle—it was attraction.”

  I would have snorted if it wouldn’t have split my head open. I made a faint, disbelieving noise instead. “I think it was much stronger than attraction. More like this unthinking raw urge to mate.”

  “It was attraction—lust,” he said, echoing my own earlier thoughts. He looked curiously appalled and eager, wary and amazed at the same time. “I have never felt anything like that before.”

  “Then you were lucky.”

  “No, I thought I was cursed. I have never been attracted to any woman before, until you.” Carefully, delicately, he touched a fingertip to my face.

  There was that sensation, that odd zap of energy and awareness again, but muted now. I had somehow reined it in, smothered down the raw intensity of the primitive urge. It still hovered, however, like dry tinder ready to take spark again, but I was in control now: the reason, maybe, why I didn’t freak out when his other hand joined the first and his fingers explored my face with something almost like reverence.

  “Your skin feels so soft,” he murmured in wonderment. His eyes dipped down to my lips, and slowly his head lowered down to mine as hesitation and curiosity held me still. Strong attraction zinged between us again.

  I drew back, more than startled by my response. “Oh!” I exclaimed, my hand flying up to cover my mouth.

  It had always left me feeling nothing before, men’s kisses, their touch. Left me feeling empty, dispassionate. But not now. Whatever chemistry had been missing before was present in full, blazing glory with Roberto.

  “Oh as in I did not like it?” asked Roberto in a low, throaty murmur. “Or oh as in That was unexpectedly good . . . wonderful . . . something we should do again?”

  “The latter,” I whispered, holding up a hand when he started to press forward, “but not now. I’m . . .” Overwhelmed, confused. Like a tiny, drifting boat caught up suddenly in powerful, swelling waves that drew me further and further away from all that I had ever known or thought about myself.

  “Forgive me, you are injured and in pain.” He visibly reined himself in and stepped back. “But tell me,” he said, passion vibrating his voice, “tell me that it is the same for you, what I am feeling.”

  Words I could easily give him. “It’s the same,” I assured him. “I have never felt attracted to another man before. Until you.”

  Strong emotion—fierce satisfaction—tightened his face, making the bones stand out strong and masculine. “Rest now and recover,” he said in a husky murmur. “We will speak more of this later.” Stepping away from me, he left the room.

  I took the opportunity to shower and wasn’t surprised to discover colorful bruises and red chafed skin on my body, both sides, though more on the right. The hot water eased some of the soreness, and being clean made me feel even better. The only pain I could not account for was in my upper back.

  My first glimpse of myself in the mirror was a bit of a shock. My dark hair, so naturally dark it had almost been black, had been skillfully lightened to a color ranging from dark blonde to ash brown, and the cut was more sophisticated than the blunt, straight style I’d always worn my hair before. I lifted a hand to touch the lightened strands of my hair and felt a small twinge of pain between my shoulder blades. When I twisted around to check out the sore spot in the mirror, there were no bruises or signs of falling, just a tiny, barely visible red mark.

  Others’ pain, their sickness and injury, had always held a special pull for me—what had drawn me into becoming a nurse in the first place. I could take that pain, draw it away from those sick and unwell, and take it into myself. But I could not take away my own pain. Taking away the pain was not my intention, however. Finding out why it hurt, was.

  I stretched back and lay my hand over the tiny red mark. With contact, I felt that special ability I had spiral out of the round, pearly mole centered in the heart of my palm and wind itself down, exploring the half-inch depth of the healing injury. It was a puncture wound, though what could have caused it, I had no idea. It was too clean and precise to have been a branch or stick poking into my back when I had fallen. Only a needle could have caused this.

  Had they have given me an injection in the hospital? A tetanus shot, maybe? That would make sense, but not the location there in my back; the shot was normally given in the arm. And it was too high up to have been a spinal tap.

  A knock interrupted my thoughts and a woman’s voice came through the closed bathroom door. “Miss? I am Maria. Senor Carderas asked me help you. I come in, please?”

  Wrapping the towel around me, I opened the door. A short, middle-aged Latino woman attired in a maid’s uniform smiled pleasantly up at me.

  “There’s no need for your help, Maria, I’ve got it.”

  Maria’s pleasant smile slipped away as I began to close the door. Something almost like panic sprang into her eyes. “No, please, senorita. Senor Carderas. He very upset if I no help you.” Fear coated Maria’s voice and quickened her pulse, filling the air with sharp scent. It was enough for me to open the door and allow her in.

  Why had she been so afraid? Was she so terrified of losing her job?

  “Gracias, gracias. Here, I help you dry hair.” Eagerly she blotted the wet strands with another towel and gently combed out the tangles. After blowing it dry, she parted it down the side and gathered my hair back into a simple, elegant chignon. The hairstyle exposed the delicate features of my face, which she then proceeded to enhance with makeup: mascara to thicken my lashes, smoky dark eye shadow, light blush, and red lip gloss—all items she had brought along with her in a small makeup bag. When she was done, the overall effect was quite pleasing.

  “How lovely I look. Thank you, Maria. You possess a much more skillful hand with hair and makeup than I do.”

  Maria beamed with pleasure as she ushered me back into the bedroom where clothing had been laid out on the bed: a sky blue dress, clean underwear, and sandals that looked to be my shoe size. All new.

  “These aren’t my clothes,” I said, looking at the items.

  “Senor Carderas asked me buy you something clean and pretty to wear. You try, yes? You wish I wash and fix old things or throw away?” She nudged the shirt and pants I had left on the bathroom floor, torn and covered with dirt and blood.

  A good question, considering the condition my old clothes were in. Yet they were the only things linking me to that half year missing out of my life.

  No, I wasn’t ready to toss them just yet, I decided. “If you could wash and do your best to mend them, please.”

  Maria wanted to help me dress, but there I stood firm. I would dress myself. With heavy assurances that she had been of great assistance, I ushered her out and closed the door.

  The dress fit me almost perfectly; it flattered my tall, slender form, and the color looked good against the creamy white of my skin, my light brown hair, and red lips. I looked quite unlike myself, so smoothly polished and feminine. Not my usual jeans and T-shirt and sneakered self. It was almost startling to realize that with a little effort, I could look attractive. Not something that had interested me much before, but now with Roberto and that potent, shimmering attraction between us, looking nice for him was an appealing idea. The few times I had tried men and sex before had been unpleasant. Painful, even. But things seemed to be different between Roberto a
nd me. Dare I try one more time?

  A knock drew me away from my thoughts as Roberto’s voice came through the bedroom door. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, please do,” I answered.

  Roberto and another older Latino gentleman entered. “You look lovely, Lisa.” Approval and appreciation lit Roberto’s eyes, causing a strange fluttering sensation in my stomach.

  “Maria is wonderful,” I responded, blushing. My words reminded me once again of her strange behavior. “I tried to send her away, but she seemed almost, I don’t know . . . afraid of displeasing you.”

  The muscles in his face tightened subtly before easing back into relaxed blandness. “I pay my staff very well,” Roberto informed me. “She must have feared losing her position. I told her how very important a guest you are to me and how I wished you treated well and with all courtesy.”

  “You hardly know me,” I said, flustered.

  “Enough to know that you are very important to me,” Roberto responded warmly.

  I found myself blushing, remembering our brief kiss.

  “Dr. Torres here has come to examine you,” Roberto said, introducing the other man.

  The doctor took my blood pressure, pulse, and respiratory rate, listened to heart and lungs, palpated my abdomen, and did a full neurological exam. Roberto stayed the entire time. It should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t. Medical stuff I was familiar with, and his presence in the room was reassuring more than uncomfortable. It proved the truth of his words, that I was indeed important to him.

  I passed with flying colors: both pupils equal and reactive to light, all reflexes normal. My lack of memory, however, specifically the long months of loss, seemed to stump the good doctor.

  “What you have is post traumatic amnesia,” Dr. Torres said in surprisingly good English. “Retrograde amnesia, to be precise, loss of memories formed shortly before the injury.”

  “Usually it is only a day or two of lost memory, not half a year of it,” I said.

  “You seem familiar with the diagnosis.”

  “I’m a nurse. I’ve seen it in the ER, usually high school or college football players knocked out during a game.”