Carides's Forgotten Wife

He’s awake.

A rush of relief ran through her that she didn’t want to analyse.

Leon’s eyes opened, and he began to look around the room. “You aren’t a nurse?”

“No,” she said, her heart thundering hard. “I’m Rose.”

He was probably still disoriented. After all, this was Italy, and she was supposed to be at home in Connecticut. She was probably the last person he expected to see.

“Rose?”

“Yes,” she said, starting to feel a little more alarmed.

“I flew to Italy because of your accident.”

“We are in Italy?” He only sounded more confused.

“Yes,” she said. “Where did you think we were?”

He frowned, his dark eyebrows locking together.

“I don’t know.”

“You were in Italy. Seeing to some business.” And probably pleasure, knowing him, but she wasn’t going to add that. “You were leaving a party and a car drifted into your lane and hit you head-on.”

“That is what I feel like,” he said, his voice rough.

“As though I were hit head-on. Though I feel more like I was hit directly by the car. With nothing to buffer it.”

“With how fast you drive, I imagine you might as well have been.”

He frowned. “We know each other?”

She frowned. “Of course we do. I’m your wife.”

MAISEY YATES is a USA TODAY bestselling author of more than thirty romance novels. She has a coffee habit she has no interest in kicking, and a slight Pinterest addiction. She lives with her husband and children in the Pacific Northwest. When Maisey isn’t writing she can be found singing in the grocery store, shopping for shoes online and probably not doing dishes. Check out her website: maiseyyates.com.

Carides’s Forgotten Wife

Maisey Yates

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Megan Crane/Caitlin Crews.

For all the times we've sat around talking about how wonderful it is to write these stories, and everything else.

You make my writing and my life more sparkly.

Contents

COVER

INTRODUCTION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

PROLOGUE

ANOTHER BORING PARTY in a long succession of boring parties. That was Leon’s predominant thought as he pulled away from the ostentatious hotel and out onto the narrow Italian streets.

The highlight of his evening had been the most disappointing portion, as well. Being rebuffed by Rocco Amari’s fiancée. She had been beautiful. Exotic. With her long dark hair and honey-colored skin. Yes, she would have made a wonderful companion for his bed tonight. Sadly, she seemed to be very committed to Rocco. And he to her.

To each his own, he supposed. Frankly, Leon did not see the appeal in monogamy.

Life was a glorious buffet of debauchery. Why on earth would he seek to limit that?

Though he had walked away empty-handed, he had thoroughly enjoyed enraging his business rival. He could not deny that.

The other man was possessive in a way that Leon could see no point in being. But then, he had never had feelings so intense for a woman.

He turned onto a road that began to lead out of the city, heading toward the villa he was staying in during his time in Italy. It was a nice place. Rustic, well-appointed. He preferred places like that to a penthouse in the middle of a busy business district. A fact that was, perhaps, at odds with other aspects of his personality. But then, being a contradiction had never bothered him.

He owned several estates worldwide, though none were as important to him as his estate in Connecticut.

The thought of that house, of that place, turned his thoughts to his wife.

He would rather not think of Rose just now.

For some reason when he thought of her after just attempting to bring another woman into his bed, he felt a tug of unaccustomed guilt. For the past two years, Rose had often made him feel guilty.

There was no real reason, of course. They were married, it was true, but in name only. He allowed her to do as she liked, and he carried on as he liked.

Still, it was easy to picture those wide, luminous blue eyes and feel...

His focus snapped back to the road, to a pair of headlights heading in his direction.

There was no time to correct. No time to react at all. There was nothing but the impact.

And a clear image of Rose’s blue eyes.

CHAPTER ONE

“HE IS STABLE for the moment,” Dr. Castellano said.

Rose looked down at her husband, lying in his hospital bed, broken, bandages wrapped around his upper arm, down over his shoulder and across his chest. His lip was swollen, a cut looking angry and painful at the center, a dark bruise bleeding color on his cheekbone.

He looked... Well, he looked not at all like Leon Carides. Leon Carides was larger-than-life, a man so full of power and charisma he was undeniable. A man who commanded respect with his every movement, his every breath. A man who stopped women in their tracks and demanded their full attention and admiration.

A man she had been on the verge of divorcing. But you could hardly hand a man divorce papers while he was lying in bed with severe injuries.

“It’s a miracle he survived,” the doctor continued.

“Yes,” she said, her voice hollow. As hollow as the rest of her. “A miracle.”

Some small part of her—one that she immediately set out to squash—thought it would have been much more convenient for him to have died there on the side of the road. Then she wouldn’t have to face any of this. Wouldn’t have to deal with the state of their union. Or rather, the lack of union.

But she banished it. Quickly. She couldn’t stand being married to him anymore, but that didn’t mean she wanted him dead.

She swallowed hard. “Well, thank heaven for miracles. Large and small.”

“Yes.”

“Has he been awake at all?”

“No,” the doctor said, his voice heavy. “He has not been conscious since we brought him in. The impact was intense, and his head injury is...serious. He shows brain activity, so we do have some hope. But you know, the longer someone stays unconscious...”

“Of course.”

It had taken her about twenty hours to get to Italy from Connecticut, and Leon had been unconscious for all that time. But there were all kinds of stories of people waking up miraculously after years. Surely he still had hope after a mere few hours.

“If you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to get in touch. A nurse will be by in the next fifteen minutes. But if you have need of anything, just text this number.” The doctor handed her a card with a phone number on it. She imagined this was what it was like to get special treatment at the hospital. Of course Leon would get special treatment. He was a billionaire, one of the most successful businessmen in the world. Wealthy, and powerful. Which meant that these sorts of things—as difficult as they were—would always be easier for people like him.

She held the card close to her chest. “Thank you.”

The doctor left, closing the door behind him. Leaving her standing there in the room with nothing but the sounds of machines surrounding her.

Panic started to rise in her chest as she continued to look at Leon’s still form. He wasn’t supposed to look like this. He wasn’t supposed to be breakable.

Leon Carides had always been more of a god to her than a man. The sort of man she had built up into fantasy as a young girl. He was ten years older than her. And he had been her father’s most trusted and prized protégé from the time Rose was eight years old. She could hardly remember a period of time when Leon hadn’t been involved in her life.

Carefree. Easy with a smile. Always so kind. He had seen her. Truly. And had made her feel like she mattered.

Of course, all that changed when they got married.

But she wasn’t going to think about their wedding now.

She didn’t want to think about anything. She wanted to close her eyes and be back in the rose garden at her family estate. Wanted to be surrounded by the soft, fragrant summer breeze, held in it as though it was a pair of arms, protecting her from all of this. But that was just a daydream. Everything here was too stark, too white, too antiseptic to be a dream.

It was crushingly real, an assault on her senses.

She wondered if there had been anyone else in the car with him. If there were, they hadn’t said. She also wondered if he had been drinking. Again, no one had said.

Another perk of wealth. People wanted to protect you so they might benefit later. But the why didn’t matter, as long as the protection happened.

Leon groaned and her focus was wrenched back to the hospital bed. He shifted, moving his hand, and the lines to the IV and the cord link to the pulse monitor on his finger tugged hard.

“Be careful,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “You’re plugged into...” She looked around at all the equipment, all the bags of saline and antibiotics and whatever else was being pumped into his veins. “Well, you’re plugged into everything. Don’t...unplug anything.”

She didn’t know if he heard her. Didn’t know if he understood. But then, he shifted, groaning again.

“Are you in pain?”

“I am pain,” he said, his voice rough, tortured.

Relief flooded her, washing over her in a wave that left her dizzy. She hadn’t realized just how affected she was until this moment. Just how terrified she was.

Just how much she cared.

This feeling was so at odds with that small, cold moment where she had wished he could go away completely.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the two were more tightly connected than it first appeared.

Because as long as he was here, she would always feel too much. And if he were gone, at least the loss of him wouldn’t be a choice she had to make.

“You probably need more pain medication.”

Though looking at him, at the purple bruises marring his typically handsome features, she doubted that there was pain medication strong enough to make it all go away.

“Then get me some,” he said, his voice hard.

Issuing commands already, which was very much in his character. Leon was never at a loss. Even when her father had died and she’d been lost in a haze of grief, he had stepped forward and taken care of everything.

He hadn’t comforted her the way a husband should comfort a wife. He had never been a husband to her at all, not in the truest sense. But he’d still made sure she was taken care of. Had ensured that the funeral, the legalities of the will and everything else were executed to perfection.

It was why, in spite of everything, it had seemed right to stay for the past two years. And it was also why, though it meant losing everything, she’d decided she had to leave him, no matter the cost.

But leaving him now...that didn’t seem right. He hadn’t been a true husband, but he hadn’t abandoned her when she’d needed him, either. How could she do any less?

“I will have to call a nurse.” She picked her phone up and sent off a brief text to the doctor: He’s awake.

Just typing the words sent a rush of relief through her that she didn’t want to analyze.

His eyes opened, and he began to look around the room. “You aren’t a nurse?”

“No,” she said, her heart thundering hard. “I’m Rose.”

He was probably still disoriented. After all, this was Italy, and she was supposed to be at home in Connecticut. She was probably the last person he expected to see.

“Rose?”

“Yes,” she said, starting to feel a little bit more alarmed. “I flew to Italy because of your accident.”

“We are in Italy?” He only sounded more confused.

“Yes,” she said. “Where did you think you were?”

He frowned, his dark eyebrows locking together. “I don’t know.”

“You were in Italy. Seeing to some business.” And probably pleasure, knowing him, but she wasn’t going to add that. “You were leaving a party and a car drifted into your lane and hit you head-on.”

“That is what I feel like,” he said, his voice rough. “As though I were hit head-on. Though I feel more like I was hit directly by the car. With nothing to buffer it.”

“With how fast you drive I imagine you might as well have been.”

He frowned. “We know each other.”

She frowned. “Of course we do. I’m your wife.”

* * *

I’m your wife.

Those words echoed in his head, but he couldn’t make any sense of them. He didn’t remember having a wife. But then, he didn’t remember being in Italy. He wasn’t entirely certain he remembered...anything. His name. Who he was. What he was. He couldn’t remember any of it.

“You are my wife,” he said, waiting for the feeling of blackness, the open space around this moment that seemed to take up his entire consciousness.

There was nothing. There was only her standing before him. This hospital room, this bright spot of the present, with nothing before or after it.

If he kept her talking, perhaps she could fill the rest in. Perhaps he could flood those dark places with light.

“Yes,” she said. “We got married two years ago.”

“Did we?” He tried to force the image of a wedding into his mind. He did know what a wedding looked like. Curious that he knew that and not his own name. But he did. And still, he could not imagine this woman in a wedding gown. She had light-colored hair—some might call it mousy—hanging limp around her shoulders. Her figure was slight, her eyes too blue, too wide for her face.

Blue eyes.

A flash of an image hit him hard. Too bright. Too clear. Her eyes. He had been thinking about her eyes just before... But that was all he could remember.

“Yes,” he said, “you are my wife.” He thought he would test out the words. He knew they were true. He couldn’t remember, but he still knew they were true.

“Oh, good. You were starting to scare me,” she said, her voice shaking.

“I’m lying here broken. And I’m only just now starting to scare you?” he asked.

“Well, the part where you weren’t remembering me was a little bit extra scary.”

“You are my wife,” he repeated. “And I am...”

The silence filled every empty place in the room. Heavy and accusing.

“You don’t remember,” she said, horror dawning in her voice. “You don’t remember me. You don’t remember you.”

He closed his eyes, pain bursting behind his legs as he shook his head. “I must. Because the alternative is crazy.”

“Is it?”

“I think it is.” He opened his eyes and looked at her again. “I remember you,” he said. “I remember your eyes.”

Something in her expression changed. Softened. Her pale pink lips parted, and a bit of color returned to her cheeks. Right now she almost looked pretty. He supposed his initial impression of her wasn’t terribly fair. Since he was lying in a hospital bed and since she had probably been given the shock of her life when she had been told her husband had been in a very serious car accident.

She had said she’d flown to Italy. He didn’t know from where. But she had traveled to see him. It was no wonder she looked pale, and drawn. And a bit plain.

“You remember my eyes?” she asked.

“It’s the only thing,” he said. “That makes sense, doesn’t it?” Because she was his wife. Why couldn’t he remember his wife?

“I had better get the doctor.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t remember anything. How can you be fine?”

“I’m not going to die,” he said.

“Ten minutes ago the doctor was in here telling me you might never wake up. So forgive me if I feel a little bit cautious.”

“I’m awake. I can only assume the memories will follow.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “You would think.”

A heavy knock on the door punctuated the silence.

* * *

Rose walked quickly out of her husband’s hospital room, her head spinning.

He didn’t remember anything. Leon didn’t remember anything.

Dr. Castellano stood in the hallway looking at her, his expression grim. “How is he, Mrs. Carides?”

“Ms. Tanner,” she corrected. More out of habit than anything else. “I never took my husband’s name.”

She’d never taken him to her bed—why would she take his last name?

“Ms. Tanner,” he repeated. “Tell me what seems to be going on.”

“He doesn’t remember.” She was starting to shake now, all of the shock, all of the terror catching up with her. “He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember himself.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. And I didn’t know... I didn’t know what to tell him. I didn’t know if it was like waking a sleepwalker, or if I should tell him.”

“Well, we will need to tell him who he is. But I’m going to need to consult a specialist. A psychologist. I don’t often deal with cases of amnesia.”

“This is not a soap opera. My husband doesn’t have amnesia.”

“He sustained very serious head trauma. It is not so far-fetched.”

“Yes it is,” she said, feeling desperate. “It is extremely far-fetched.”

“I know you’re worried, but take heart. He is stable. He is awake. Very likely his memories will return. And soon, I would think.”

“Do you have statistical evidence to support that?”

“As I said... I do not often deal in cases of amnesia. Very often a person will lose a portion of their memories following a traumatic head injury. Usually just sections. It’s uncommon to lose everything, but not impossible.”

“He’s lost everything,” she said.

“He’s likely to regain it.”

“These other people. These people who have lost portions of their memory that you’ve treated. How often do they regain them?”

“Sometimes they don’t,” he said, a heavy admission that seemed pulled from him.

“He may never remember,” she said, feeling dazed. Feeling her life, her future, slipping out of her hands. “Anything.”

“I would not focus on that possibility.” Dr. Castellano took a breath. “We will monitor him here for as long as we can. I would imagine that he will do much better recovering at home, monitored by local physicians.”

She nodded. That was one thing she and Leon had in common. His business often kept him abroad, which for her nerves was for the best. But they both loved the Tanner House in Connecticut. It was her favorite thing she had left of her family. The old, almost palatial home, the sprawling green lawns and a private rose garden that her mother had planted in honor of her only child. It was her refuge.

She had always had the feeling it was the same for Leon.

Though they tended to keep to their own wings of the house. At the very least, he never brought women there. He had allowed her to keep it as her own. Had made it a kind of sanctuary for them both.

It was also a condition of their marriage. When her father had hastily commanded the union when his illness took a turn for the worse, the house and his company had been a pivotal point. If—before five years was up—he divorced her, he lost the company and the house. If she left him before the five-year term finished, she lost the house and everything in it that wasn’t her personal possession.

Which meant losing her retreat. And the work she’d been doing archiving the Tanner family history, which stretched all the way back to the Mayflower.

So only everything, really.

And she’d been ready to do it, willing to do it because she had to stop waiting for Leon to decide he wanted to be her husband in every possible way.

Except now here they were.

“Yes,” she said, feeling determined in this at least. “He will want to be moved to Connecticut as quickly as possible.”

“Then as soon as it is safe to move him, we will do so. I imagine he has private physicians that can care for his needs.”

She thought of the doctors and nurses that had cared for her father toward the end of his life. “I have a great many wonderful contacts. I only regret that I have yet more work to give them.”

“Of course. But so long as he is stable we should be able to move him to Connecticut soon.”

She looked back toward the room, her heart pounding. “Okay. We will do that as quickly as possible.”

Going back to Connecticut with Leon was not asking Leon for a divorce. It was not moving toward having separate lives. It was not finally ridding herself of the man who had haunted and obsessed her for most of her life.

But he needed her.

Why does that matter so much?

The image came, as it always did, of herself sitting in the rose garden on the grounds of her family home. She was wearing a frothy, ridiculous gown, tears streaming down her face. Her prom date had stood her up. Probably because going with her in the first place was only a joke.

She looked up, and Leon was there. He was wearing a suit, very likely because he had been planning on going out that night after meeting with her father. She swallowed hard, looking up to his handsome face. Dying a little bit inside when she realized he was witnessing her lowest moment.

“What’s wrong, agape?”

“Nothing. Just... My prom plans didn’t exactly work out.”

He reached down, taking her hand in his, and lifted her off the ground.

She couldn’t remember Leon touching her before. His hand was so warm, his touch so intense it sent a shock of electricity through her.

“If someone has hurt you, give me his name, and I will ensure he is unrecognizable when I’m through with him.”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t need you or my father coming to my defense. I think that would only be worse.”

He curled his fingers around her hand. “Would it?”

Her heart was pounding so hard now she could hardly hear anything over it. “Yes.”

“Then if you will not let me do physical harm to the one who has hurt you, perhaps you will allow me to dance with you.”

She was powerless to do anything but nod. He pulled her against his body, sweeping her into an easy dance step. She had never been very good at it. One of the many things she had never quite mastered. But he didn’t seem to mind. And in his arms she didn’t feel clumsy. In his arms, she felt like she could fly.

“It is not you, Rose.”

“What isn’t?” she asked, her words harsh, strangled.

“It’s this age. It is difficult. But people like you, people who are too soft, too rare for this sort of assimilation required in order to fit in at high school, will go on to excel. You will go much further than they ever will. This is only temporary. You will spend the rest of your life living brighter. Living more beautifully than they could possibly imagine.”