Mona Lisa Eclipsing m-5 Page 4

  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 and 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.”

  “Then you know as much as I,” Dr. Torres announced, closing his bag. “Medicine and the human body is not an exact science unfortunately. I called the hospital and spoke to the doctor who examined you. You suffered a traumatic brain injury, enough that they initially feared a skull fracture and hemorrhaging inside the brain.”

  “A fracture? Bleeding? Just from tripping and hitting my head on the ground?”

  “You hit your head on a rock very hard, according to Senor Carderas. The doctor swore you had a positive Babinski when he first examined you.” He gazed at me as if that should have some meaning, and it did. A positive Babinski reflex, fanning of the big toe upon stimulation of the sole of the foot, indicated a significant problem in the central nervous system . . . like cerebral hemorrhaging.

  “But your CAT scan was negative, and you proved only to have a concussion,” he concluded.

  “And amnesia,” I added. “Mustn’t forget that. Will I regain my memory?”

  “What would you tell your own patients?” Dr. Torres asked.

  “That I may or may not. That no one really knows. Only time will tell.”

  “Precisely. I am a general practitioner, not a specialist, however. I will be happy to refer you to a neurologist.”

  “No need,” I said. “He’ll probably run a bunch of tests, charge a lot of money, and then tell me the same thing you just did.”

  Dr. Torres gave me a sympathetic smile. “Look at it this way, Miss Hamilton. You lost only a small part of your memory, and have kept the most important parts: you still know who you are. Your injury could have been much worse.”

  The doctor’s words stayed with me after Roberto saw the doctor out.

  Your injury could have been much worse.

  I wondered for a moment if it had been.

  A positive Babinski . . . Could my skull really have been fractured? Could I have been bleeding into my brain and my body’s unusually rapid healing ability repaired the damage in the few hours it had taken to travel here and have the CAT scan done? Most likely I just had a simple concussion, but the long length of time I must have been unconscious—several hours—bothered me.

  “Darn it,” I said when Roberto returned. “I forgot to ask him about this.” Turning around, I unzipped the back of the dress enough to reveal the tiny red mark between my shoulder blades, wondering why the more severe injuries had been healed while the lesser injuries still remained. “I noticed this while showering. It looks like a puncture wound.”

  “A puncture wound?” Roberto said. “Where . . . here?”

  I shivered as I felt his finger lightly brush over the spot. Awareness flared up bright and hot between us but controllable, or more accurate to say, controlled.

  “Do you know what it is, what caused it?”

  “Perhaps you fell on something sharp when you hit the ground,” he said.

  “Like a sharp stick that happened to be shaped exactly like a needle?” I asked a little dryly.

  “Why do you say that?” He gently turned me around to face him. “Do you remember anything?”

  “No, it was just that it was my first thought also, that I had fallen against something sharp on the ground. Only it looks more like a needle mark to me. Did the doctors give me a shot or something?”

  “In your back? Not that I know of.”

  “Maybe they did, and you just don’t know about it.”

  He took my hands in his, making me shiver slightly with awareness. “I was with you the entire time, querida. It does not look like a needle mark to me.” He looked a bit concerned over why I was pressing the matter.

  I couldn’t explain my certainty to him without revealing my ability, and despite the sense of intimacy that was quickly flaring up between us, I wasn’t ready yet to do that. Hiding my differences from other people was a lifelong habit, deeply ingrained.

  “I’m sorry. You’re probably right. It was likely from just a sharp twig on the ground.”

  He smiled, releasing my hands. “I shall have Maria bring you up a salve.”

  “No, no. I’m fine, really. I feel much better after taking a shower and getting cleaned up. Dr. Torres mentioned a CAT scan. That’s much more expensive than an X-ray.”

  “Please, no more mention of money,” he said, laying a kiss on my hand. The sizzling sensation of his lips brushing my skin and the bright flare-up of that tightly contained attraction between us snatched my breath, and any further words, away from me. “Just rest and recover for now. We shall talk more later.”

  Wow. Talking later wasn’t what came to my mind. More like seeing if his lips running over other parts of my body would be as staggering as that light brush against my hand. His touch left me in a mute sensual daze; it was almost a relief when he closed the door behind him.

  Lying down on the clean bed, which had been freshly changed, and remembering the extremely dirty state of my clothing when I had first awakened, I mentally added a new bedspread as well as the CAT scan to the growing tally of what I owed my gracious host.

  SIX

  I RESTED, NOT for the brief fifteen or twenty minutes that I had expected, but for several long hours during which time I slept deeply. When I awoke, I found my hand reaching for something that was not there.

  I sat up and thought, Where is my necklace?

  A panicked rush out of the bedroom brought me my first glimpse of the main house. It shouted of a degree of wealth that was far beyond anything I’d ever seen before. Roberto’s home was styled like a grand palazzo, with marble floors, fluted columns, massive windows, and ceilings that were impressively high—classical elegance blended with modern sophistication. The dress Maria had provided me, that had felt too formal and overdressed before, now seemed perfectly fitting in the graceful splendor of the residence. I ventured down the wide staircase feeling a bit like Alice dropped down the rabbit hole.

  Heartbeats sounded toward the back of the house. I was about to head over there when Maria came through a door bearing a tray. On it was a plate of some sliced exotic fruit and a glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed, if the juicy pulp was anything to go by.

  “Miss Lisa, you up. Good, I tell Senor Carderas. Come.” Leading me to another room, she set the tray down on a small table overlooking the gardens outside, and gestured for me to sit. “This for you. You eat and drink now. You want medicina for head?”

  “Medicine? No, thanks. My headache’s gone now.” And not only was my headache gone, but the lump on the side of my head had disappeared. The purple bruises on my arm, openly dis
played by the short-sleeve dress, were also yellow now. Five days of healing accomplished in several hours of rest. If Maria thought it odd in any way, she didn’t comment on it.

  I was savoring the last bite of the delicious fruit when Roberto appeared. I hadn’t thought much of his clothing before, only that he favored white and cream-colored clothes that set off his dark skin tone rather nicely, but on closer inspection I saw that it was very much in keeping with his home, a casual lord-of-the-manor style of dress.

  “You look much better,” Roberto said, sitting down beside me and taking my hand so that a sharp frisson of awareness flared up between us again with the contact.

  “I feel much better. This is the most delicious fruit I’ve ever tasted. What is it?” I gestured to my plate where only the thick outer green peel and black discarded seeds of the fruit remained. I had spooned out and eaten every single bite of the inner, custardlike white flesh.

  “Cherimoya,” Roberto answered, looking divinely handsome sitting there. “Mark Twain once declared it the most delicious fruit known to man.”

  “I would have to agree. Do they have this in the United States?”

  “Why?” asked Roberto.

  “Because it would be criminal if I never tasted this again.”

  “Stay here with me and you can have all the cherimoya you can eat.”

  Our conversation had been the easy kind that casual acquaintances had with one another. His last comment, though, had been uttered with what sounded very much like sincerity. As if he had truly meant it.

  Stay here with me . . .

  I did what any woman who wasn’t sure if the man she was speaking to was joking or not would do. I laughed and withdrew my hand from his light grasp. “Wow, if you’re an example of that famous Latin charm, no wonder it’s, well . . . famous.”

  He held my gaze. “Will you consider it?”

  “What?” I needed him to say it, in case I was mistaken.

  “Staying here with me.”

  I blew out a breath. “You’re kidding.”