As Clare leaned over Brady, she was hit with the scent of him after a shower

It was so potent, so familiar that it took her breath away.

“Something wrong?” he asked. “You’re flushed.”

Her hands went to her cheeks. “Must be the heat from the stove.”

She’d lied. It wasn’t that. It was heat…but from Brady himself.

Because when she got close to him she felt her body tighten, her pulse speed up and a low coil of reaction in her belly.

All signs that were familiar.

All signs she remembered.

How could this be? She didn’t understand. Why was she aroused by Brady’s nearness, the male smell of him, the physical presence of him!

Brady, her best friend?

Dear Reader,

A Man She Couldn’t Forget is a combination of plotlines I’ve enjoyed as a reader. First, the story deals with amnesia. I researched the malady and it fit nicely into this plot. Next, there is a friends-to-lovers angle. It’s fun to develop characters who know each other, then fall in love—and are shocked by it! Finally, I like the concept of a love triangle, although I hadn’t realized how tricky it would be.

Another challenge was the characterization. The hero, Brady Langston, jumped off the pages—sexy, artistic, fun loving and head over heels about Clare. However, I did struggle with finding a way for the reader to know Clare when she doesn’t know herself. I hate dumping information in, so instead I filtered her personality into conversations, while giving a bit of background.

Last, Jonathan, the “other man,” had to be likable, though not too likable. What kind of heroine would Clare be if she was involved with someone who didn’t appeal to readers?

Of course, Brady and Clare are meant to be and the best part is that she somehow knows it even when she can’t remember him. Hopefully, her dawning awareness will keep you reading.

The story also has books. Brady writes children’s stories, while Clare writes cookbooks. By the way, my own family has passed the recipes in this book through generations, or they have created them after great trial and error. (It took my sister twenty-one tries to get the minestrone right.) You can find these recipes on my Web site at www.kathrynshay.com. Visit my blog there, and e-mail me through the site or at kshayweb@rochester.rr.com.

I hope you love Brady and Clare and their very complicated but heartwarming story.

Kathy Shay

A Man She Couldn’t Forget
Kathryn Shay

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathryn Shay is the author of twenty-three Harlequin Superromance books and nine novels and two novellas from the Berkley Publishing Group. She has won several awards. Among them are five Romantic Times BOOKreviews awards, three Holt Medallions, three Desert Quill awards and a Booksellers’ Best Award. A former high school teacher, she lives in upstate New York, where she sets many of her stories.

To my sister Joanie.

Thanks for the recipes in this book, for watching numerous cooking shows with me and for enduring all those amnesia movies!

I love you.

CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

AS THE CAR PULLED INTO the driveway of a huge Victorian house with peaked roofs, slate-blue siding and luscious landscaping, Clare Boneli stared at the sprawling structure without a shred of recognition. A quick burst of panic shot through her, and her breathing sped up. The darkness inside her yawned, widened, threatened to take her under.

“It’s all right, Clarissa. Everything’s going to be fine.”

The man beside her spoke the soothing words, her panic abated somewhat. It went away more quickly now than it had before. When Clare had first awakened from the coma a week ago, she hadn’t even known her name. That had come back suddenly, unlike the memories of her past.

She managed to choke out, “This is where I live?”

“Yes.” Jonathan, who’d been at her bedside most days over the past two weeks, smiled sadly. He was dressed in an impeccable gray suit and pristine white shirt. He’d told her he owned the TV station they said she worked for.

And more. They were dating. Seriously, for over a year. But try as she might, Clare couldn’t remember him or this beautiful house or anything else about her life. Panic threatened again, and she grabbed for his hand.

“I don’t remember,” she murmured.

He linked their fingers. Even his touch was foreign. How could she not recognize someone she’d been so close to? Someone, he’d told her, she’d been intimate with? Shouldn’t she sense things about him? Again, her heart began to pound, like it always did when she tried to make herself remember and couldn’t.

“You’re going to be fine. It’ll all come back. Dr. Montgomery thinks when you’re in your own environment, familiar things will jog your memory.”

Retrograde amnesia, the neurologist had told her. The loss of memory of events that occur before a trauma. Usually it lasts a few hours.

In Clare’s case, the trauma had been a car accident on a rainy morning at two a.m. She’d crashed into a guardrail, lurched forward and banged her face on the steering wheel. Her head had ricocheted to the side, resulting in a huge bump on her skull and injuring her brain. Once the swelling had gone down, the tests revealed no permanent brain damage, and the doctors expected her memory to return soon. But it hadn’t. So she’d been referred to a psychiatrist, Anna Summers, whom she’d seen twice and would continue to see now that she had been released.

“Dr. Summers told me that sometimes it takes a while for memories to come back, even if there’s no visible brain damage.”

“As I said, I think being home will help.” He scowled. “I wish I didn’t have to go out of town today. It’s just that I postponed meetings in Chicago three times when you were in the hospital.”

“Of course you have to go. You put everything on hold for me.”

“I wanted to.”

She peered out the window again. The late-afternoon June sun sparkled off the black shingles on the roof and the many windows of the exterior. “Tell me about my condo before we go inside.”

“Your favorite room is the kitchen.”

Still facing away from him, she sighed. “Because I’m a chef, right?”

“The best.”

They’d told her a few things in the hospital so she wouldn’t go into shock when she got back to her life. She lived in Rockford, a medium-sized town in upstate New York, and was a chef and successful cookbook author. Jonathan was WRNY’s station owner and had offered her a cooking show, Clarissa’s Kitchen, three years ago. Her parents were dead, she had a sister who lived in Arizona—a teacher, divorced, no children. And though Clare was thirty-six, she wasn’t married. She wondered why.

Jonathan kept hold of her hand. “Let’s go inside.”

“In a minute.” Stalling, she pulled down the visor and opened the mirror to check her appearance, briefly wondering if she was vain. What stared back at her was a stranger with green eyes and short sandy-blond hair. Again the lack of recognition shocked her, and she had to take in deep breaths.

“Can you tell your hair’s different?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.” But she knew it had been long. In the hospital, the doctors had to cut away a chunk of it on the left side and shave the area to take care of the bump on her head. When she awoke from the coma, Jonathan brought in the town’s best stylist to cut it flatteringly. “Did I like my hair long?”

“Yes. I think the short style suits you better, though. It’s more sophisticated.”

Closing the visor, she smoothed down the peach sun-dress she wore. It was beautiful and expensive, she could tell. Someone had brought it to the hospital, but she didn’t know who.

Jonathan smiled at her encouragingly. “Ready now?”

“I guess.”

They got out of his car, which she recognized was a Jag. It was funny how she knew things like that. She had what the doctors called episodic amnesia, where she didn’t remember past events but could remember objects and procedural things, like how to change a lightbulb or take a bus.

As they walked up the brick path to the front porch, they passed a profusion of big fat peonies, petunias and geraniums. Pots of the latter variety hung from the rafters, she noticed as they climbed the steps. Warmth seeped into her at the sight of them and as she reached the house; the remnants of fear abated. She felt comfortable here.

The double wooden front doors had a digital lock, and Jonathan keyed in some numbers.

“You know the combination?” she asked.

“Yes.” So they must be close, as he said. “I come here often.”

When they stepped inside, she took in the huge foyer with an exquisite Persian rug on the hardwood floors, a breathtaking solid oak staircase and large windows. Again, calm infused her.

“Clarissa,” Jonathan said gently. “Are you all right? Is this too much?”

“No, not at all. Just give me a minute.” She looked around at the first floor. “There are four condos in the house, right?”

“Yes. Two on the first and two on the second. There’s also an attic of sorts.” He added the last with a note of displeasure tingeing his voice.

“I live on the second floor.”

Jonathan smiled. It was a nice smile, though forced sometimes; often it didn’t reach his hazel eyes. She guessed her not remembering him had been hard to take. “You knew that.”

“Nothing else, though.”

He kissed her forehead. “That’s enough for now. Just be glad familiar things are already jogging your memory.”

Taking her hand again, he led her over to the elevator. She caught another glimpse of the staircase that spiraled upward and had a quick vision of dark hair and startling blue eyes. “Brady, the other man who came to the hospital every day? He lives here, right?”

Jonathan’s face hardened. “Yes.”

Suddenly, she saw herself, carrying grocery bags, climbing those steps.

And the memory of someone teasing her. Elevators are for older people and the ill. I never take it, but if that’s the kind of girl you are…

The voice belonged to Brady.

The elevator pinged, and she and Jonathan entered the car. They rode in silence, and when it stopped, they exited on the second floor. The first thing she noticed was color on the walls. A variety of sketches lined the hallway. As she got closer she saw they were illustrations done mostly in colored pencil: a couple of cartoons that made her laugh, an adorable mouse and rat in some kind of square off, a picture of a dish of piping hot lasagna, a green salad and a wine bottle. Dull pain began to form in her head. She raised her hands to her temples. “Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Some pain for a second. It’s gone now.”

Jonathan stared at the sketches. Glared, really. “Too much too soon.”

He grasped her arm and led her down a corridor to condo number three. Number four was next to hers, their doors side by side. Hers sported a simple wreath of silk flowers, but the other one had been painted like a mural. The light-blue background was broken by white puffy clouds; birds fluttered over the door, all done in the same style as the illustrations on the wall. She imagined that when the door opened, the birds would seem to be flying. On closer examination, the little feathery creatures had…personalities. One blue jay sported a baseball cap and winked. A goldfinch had an apron tied around its body and held a spatula. There was a sparrow with a baby bird, and a robin in a suit.

Tension coiled inside her. “Who did this? And the sketches on the walls?”

Before Jonathan could answer, the door to number three—her place—swung open. Inside her condo stood Brady Langston. His grin was big and broad and genuine. Though he wasn’t any taller than Jonathan, his muscular stature made it seem as though he towered over them both. When he’d been at her bedside in the hospital, she’d found his presence soothing. When he held her hand, that, too, felt right. “There you are. I thought I heard voices.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jonathan asked.

Brady’s brows raised. “I’m the welcome wagon, Harris.”

A quick glance told her Jonathan’s light complexion was flushed. “I have home health-care aides scheduled to be with Clarissa around the clock while I’m gone.”

Brady squared his shoulders—they were big and broad, too. Jonathan mirrored the gesture. Clare didn’t need her memory to feel the animosity crackle between them. And it made her stomach clench.

“I sent the woman who showed up home,” Brady said. “Aides are for people who don’t have family and friends. We’ve all arranged to be here at various times, so Clare doesn’t have to surround herself with strangers. And her sister is coming in when she gets back from France.”

Which was why, apparently, Clare’s only blood relative hadn’t come to her bedside. Despite the explanation that Cathy was in Europe, Clare had wondered about that.

Fists curled at his sides, Jonathan asked, “What gave you the right to decide all this, Langston?”

Brady’s palm hit the doorjamb hard.

At the sound of the slap, blinding pain shot through Clare’s skull. Leaning into the wall, she closed her eyes. Brady reached out and touched her arm. “Clare, baby, you okay?”

“Now look what you’ve done.” She heard Jonathan’s voice but it was far away. “Come on, Clarissa, let’s get you to bed.”

Eyes still shut, her stomach roiling, she could only brace herself against the wall. Then she felt strong arms slide beneath her legs and around her back. She was picked up and cuddled to a warm, hard body. Nosing into his shirt, burying her head in his chest, she breathed in his scent. It was familiar and calmed her dramatically.

She felt herself being carried and heard mumbling behind her, but she closed it off and reveled in the safety of being in this man’s arms. It was something she hadn’t truly felt since she’d woken up in that hospital and recognized nothing.

Soon, she was set on a bed and covered. “Sleep, sweetheart,” Jonathan mumbled.

No, wait, that wasn’t Jonathan’s voice. She pried her eyes open. Brady stood over her bed. And in her gut, she realized she knew this man well. Very well. But her lids got heavy and closed on their own. Maybe she could figure all this out when she awoke. Lips brushed her forehead just before she drifted off.

FOR CLARE’S SAKE, BRADY TRIED to collect himself before he left her bedroom. At least Harris had waited out in the living room and not upset her anymore with this aide thing. Taking deep breaths, Brady knew the guy would go on the attack with him—Brady would do the same if their roles were reversed—so he prepared for a fight but preferred to be in control.

He found Harris staring out the big bay window in the back, on his phone, of course. “Yes, I’ll be there late afternoon. Tell the Chef’s Delight people my plane leaves in ninety minutes.”

When the guy clicked off, Brady spoke. “You can go anytime, Harris. I got it here.”

Harris spun around, and there was fire in his eyes. So Brady tried even harder to stay cool. Rocking back on his heels, he stuck his hands in his jeans pockets.

“What the hell are you trying to pull, Langston?”

Innocently, he raised his eyebrows. “Nothing. I’m Clare’s best friend. I’ve made arrangements to take care of her.”

“You may have been her best friend before, but we both know things changed over the last year.” Harris started to punch in a number on the phone. “I’m getting the aides back.”

“Not after you see this.” Feeling smug, Brady turned away and strode into Clare’s office off the living room. He found what he was looking for in the tray of her fax machine. He’d gotten the form in case Harris tried to pull something. Brady skimmed it to be certain Clare’s sister, Catherine, had done what he’d asked. She’d been thousands of miles away when the accident had occurred, shocked and frustrated when he’d called…

“OH MY GOD, IS SHE OKAY?”

“She doesn’t remember anything.”

“Brady, I can’t come home from France. I’m with fifteen people who depend on me.”

“You don’t have to come home. I’ll take care of her. But I need something from you.”

After he told her what, she asked, “Why do you want to do this, Brady?”

“Because we’re her friends.”

“I know, but after what she did to all of you. To all of us.”

“None of that matters. And she needs you now, too.”

“I know. I wish I could come back sooner.”

“Leave it to me, Cath. Send the fax, and come to Rockford when you get back…”

QUICKLY, HE READ THE SHEET of paper. Perfect. He left the den, crossed to Harris and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

“A notarized directive from Clare’s sister, who’s her only living relative and has power of attorney in case something happens to Clare.”

Harris cocked his head. “I thought they were estranged. That’s why I’ve never met her.”

“You thought wrong.” Brady folded his arms over the chest of the shirt Clare had given him for Christmas one year. She thought the color matched his eyes. He thought it might bring him good luck. “Wrong about a lot of things, I might add.”

Raising his chin, Harris scowled. “I’ll have my attorneys look into this.”

“You do that, Jon.” A name he knew the guy hated to be called. “Meanwhile, we’ll take care of Clare.”

“Don’t you dare try to keep her from seeing me when I get back from my trip.”

“Go ahead, see her. We’re starting with a clean slate, at least for a little while, and this time, I’m not giving up on her.”

As he’d done before, which had been a huge mistake. One he’d tried to rectify the night of the accident and felt slicing guilt over now. He pushed the thought away.

Harris drew himself up to his six-foot height. If Brady were to sketch him, he’d put a sheen over him that conveyed the word polished. Right from his expensively styled blond hair down to his Armani suit to the wing tips on his feet. For a second, Brady glanced at his jeans and sandals. No, he wasn’t going to do this again. “Shall I show you out?”

The guy spat an expletive, which only made Brady laugh at his loss of composure. But when Harris finally left, Brady stopped laughing and sank onto the expensive leather couch Clare had bought a couple of years ago. He preferred the tapestry one and matching love seat he and Max had carried up the stairs years ago.

Watch out, you’re going to hurt your back.

I’m tough, babe. No worries.

She’d laughed, and cooked them all dinner that night.

God, he missed how she looked, how she smelled, how close they’d been. He’d give anything to have those days together back.

And now he had a chance to make that happen.

JONATHAN SLID INSIDE HIS JAG but didn’t start the engine, despite the plane he had to catch to meet with the people from Chef’s Delight. They’d approached the station about Clarissa using their products on her show and he intended to close the deal, once more getting her exactly what she wanted. His fingers curled tightly on the steering wheel in an effort to bring himself under control. He was furious at Langston for his shenanigans. Clarissa would want a nurse, someone impersonal to take care of her needs. She wasn’t the touchy-feely type they all thought she was. Delia Kramer, Max Mason and her sister, Catherine, didn’t know the real Clarissa. At least the person she’d evolved into over the past few years, when she’d finally come into her own. The person she was when she was with him. No longer was she a simple chef in an ordinary restaurant or even a mildly successful writer of cookbooks. She was a star; her show on TV was considered Rockford’s Rachael Ray clone. And Jonathan had big plans for Clarissa to go to the top of her profession. He’d already made inquiries about syndication. Even the brass from the Cooking Channel, the crème de la crème of food networks, had indicated some interest.

They had big plans, too, as a couple. Or he thought they had. A sick feeling in his gut at the idea of losing his chance with her immobilized him. Damn it, he’d always gotten whatever he wanted in life, and he’d gone after Clarissa with the same verve with which he’d pursued a business degree at Wharton and ownership of WRNY TV. Sure, he’d been born into a wealthy family, but he’d worked hard to get the degree. And though trust funds from his beloved grandparents had helped him buy the station, he’d put in long hours to make it successful. When Clarissa had come to work there, he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. She was a diamond in the rough, and he’d helped her polish her exterior until she shone like a brand-new gem. She’d appreciated him for it.

He glanced at the house. Damn those people. He’d been on the verge of getting her to move out of the condo into a lovely home in a more upscale neighborhood of Rockford. Though she’d been on the fence about it, he’d bought the property and had pretty much talked her into moving there with him. That he might not get to do that with her now because of some quirky twist of fate made him sad and angry.

Forcefully, he pushed out of his mind the images of the night Clarissa had been on the expressway and her car had skidded on the slick pavement and hit a guardrail. An unfortunate accident, the police and papers had called it. He could barely stand the thought of her being hurt, the fact that she could have been killed.

And his part in it.

Jonathan straightened and started the engine. He wouldn’t allow himself to feel responsible for what had happened to her. When guilt, deep and piercing, hit him, he forced it back as he’d done since the horrid event occurred. Instead, he’d concentrate on getting Clarissa back to her old life—the part where she remembered him, loved him. The longer her memory was kept at bay, the easier it would be for him to prove once again how good they were together.

And then he’d get Brady Langston out of the picture permanently.

CLARE WAS SMALL, AND CATHY was even smaller, both so little they could barely reach the counter in Grandma’s house. Her kitchen always smelled so good, and Clare loved being there. Her favorite was the spicy sauce Grandma had on the stove, but her sister liked the cookies best.

“Come, bambine, you are not too young for this.”

Eagerly, Clare climbed up on one stool and Cathy on the other. Mommy put them both in pretty blue dresses and Mary Janes, and Grandma had tied the tiny aprons she’d made for them over their outfits.

Cathy smiled at Grandma. Clare was three years older, so she helped take care of her sister. Outside, through the big window in the kitchen, she could see her parents, sitting on the swing, holding hands. She liked it when Mommy and Daddy brought them to Italy for a visit, especially a long one where she and Cathy would stay for a month when their parents went back to Rockford.

Grandma smoothed Clare’s hair down. “This is ricotta. It’s the best kind of cheese.” She held out a fork, and Clare tasted it first, then Cathy.

“Hmm,” Clare said, but Cathy wrinkled her nose.

“It is one of the main ingredients of lasagna.”

Cathy nodded at the noodles. “They’re slimy, Grandma. Do I have to touch them?”

“Si, bambina. A good cook uses her hands.”

“I’m going to be a cook,” Clare said proudly. “Just like you, Grandma.”

“I’m going to be a ballerina.” Cathy scrambled off the stool and did a pirouette. “I’ll practice.”

Grandma Boneli watched her for a minute and smiled down at Clare. “Someday, amore mio, you’re going to be famous.”

“I know.” Clare reached for the noodles.

Suddenly, they started to move. Oh, God, they were forming into something, coming…alive. Snakes, they were snakes! Each poked a head up. Each had a face. One was blue-eyed. It reminded Clare of Brady. The other resembled Jonathan.

Brady-the-snake curled around her wrist tightly. At the motion, the other, Jonathan, reared up on its body and stung Clare on the cheek.

She cried out. Help me. I don’t know what to do. Please, help me.

CHAPTER TWO

MORNING FILTERED IN THROUGH the open window—cool air, the sound of birds chirping and the smell of newly mowed grass. Pulling the covers up to her neck, Clare burrowed into the pillow and sank deeper into the mattress.

Rested, she let her mind wake up with her body. When it did, gradually, the all-too-familiar anxiety began to wash over her, like a cold stream replacing all warmth. Where was she? Her eyes snapped open.

Sage-green walls. White trim. Overhead, a fan whirred. She groped the covers—a light quilt swirled with greens and whites interspersed with tiny red lines. Amidst the burst of color, blackness threatened to drown her.

Take deep breaths, Clare. That’s the best way to calm down. Someone’s voice from the hospital. She didn’t know whose.

So she breathed in and out, once, twice…she was settled when she reached six.

All right, all right, the facts were that she didn’t remember this room, this house, these people. But her short-term memory was intact: yesterday, late afternoon, Jonathan had brought her here. They’d come upstairs and there had been a confrontation between him and Brady. Clare had gotten a blinding headache, and Brady had carried her into the bedroom; she’d fallen asleep and not awakened until now, at 8:00 a.m. The long rest wasn’t unusual, as she’d slept most of the time she was in the hospital. Suddenly, she remembered the dream she’d had. She was cooking with an older woman, and her sister was there. Then there was something else. Something about snakes. She shivered, and her stomach knotted. She didn’t want to remember the dream, hadn’t wanted to remember the ones she’d had in the hospital, either. Her therapist had explained why…

Dreams are indicative of what you’re not remembering. To keep you happy, or sometimes sane, your conscious mind won’t let you recall incidents in your past. In cases of amnesia, the drive is even stronger. Psychologically you’re hiding what you don’t want to, or can’t, remember.

Was that true for her? Clare wondered. Was the cause of her amnesia psychological? It didn’t have to be. The workings of the brain were still somewhat of a mystery to doctors and researchers alike, especially when amnesia was involved. Her physicians had told Clare that the cause of her memory loss could very well be physical, even if her CT scans showed no residual brain damage from the bump on her head. Damn, not even knowing why she couldn’t remember things was frustrating.

Turning over, she pushed herself to a seated position and took in the rest of the room. Gleaming hardwood floors. A bank of windows overlooking the side and back yards. An adjoining room—the bathroom, probably.

Was she alone? Probably not. Brady said he and his friends—her friends, too—were going to take turns staying with her. She wished he had been here when she’d first woken up. Yesterday, just being near him had calmed her fears and anxieties. He must be a big part of the history she couldn’t remember.

Then she shook her head. Now that she had regained some of her physical strength, she should stop depending on anybody too much. She sensed that wasn’t her style. But fear and distress came too suddenly, too unexpectedly, and made her weak. Oh, well, no sense whining about it. Throwing back the cover, she slid out of bed and noticed she still wore her dress. The fabric was wrinkled, and she felt grungy, so she made her way to the bathroom.

It was huge. Windows lining the walls about a foot over her head, long and uncovered, let in the light but gave complete privacy. There was a dressing area to the right. A shower stall was on the left, made of light-blue fiberglass with a frosted glass door.

She stripped, turned on the faucet and stepped under the spray. It was heavenly, and for a few seconds she remembered being in this enclosed space; then the memory was gone. Squeezing shampoo from a bottle in the shower caddy, she washed her hair and luxuriated in the process and the scent of lavender surrounding her—that, too, was familiar. Gingerly, she touched the injured area. Sometimes it still ached.

Done in the shower, she crossed to the dressing room, admiring the vanity, the wooden chest of drawers and the closet.

From the latter, she chose pink capris and a white T-shirt. When she opened the underwear drawer—it was the first one she tried—she stopped short. Well, she liked pretty things. Sexy ones. Picking up a pair of leopard bikinis, she had a startling flash of a man taking the panties and a matching bra off her. It was a pleasant image and filled her with warmth, but it was gone too quickly. Whose hands were they? Jonathan’s? Or those of another man she was involved with before she met him? Would she ever remember being intimate with someone? How could she forget that? Dr. Summers had cautioned her that in some amnesiac cases, memory didn’t return. The notion chilled her and she dressed quickly.

The mirror reflected a stranger again, and fear started to coil inside her, but she forced herself to stay detached and examine her face. The bruises under her eyes were better today. Automatically she reached for a box, knowing cosmetics were in there. She used concealer to erase the last trace of black and was satisfied with the results.

“What the hell?” she said, and picked up the lipstick. It was pretty, and she liked it.

Then she blow-dried her hair just enough to get the water out and keep the mass of pretty waves.

Back in the bedroom, she stared at the doorway. Forcing herself to move to it, she stepped out into the hallway. It was short, and opened onto a large living room. She hadn’t seen the condo last night because she’d buried her nose in Brady’s chest as he carried her into the bedroom. Just the recollection of it made her feel better, and she wondered why.

The living area was one big space, demarcated by couches sectioning off a dining room that graced one end. Ceiling fans lifted the air around her, making her shiver. She snagged a sweater off a chair, where she must have left it before the accident, and slipped it on. Ahh. She recognized the scent. Her scent.

Slowly, she crossed to the doorway of another room off this one. It was her office, and sported a pink-and-blue striped couch that pulled out to a bed, she somehow knew. Her desk, bookshelves…evidence of her work. When her pulse quickened, she left without going inside. For that reason, she bypassed the kitchen, too.

There was no sign of Brady, no sign of anyone. Hmm. She walked to the windows in the back. A woman was in the yard weeding the huge garden.

Oh, Brady, thank you for digging this. I can grow all my herbs fresh for my recipes. She’d thrown her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

Hey, I helped. Another man, a very big, very handsome black man, teased her. Don’t I get a hug?

Wow! That was a very specific memory, and it cheered her.

Since no one was obviously in the condo, maybe the woman in the garden was the one keeping Clare company this morning. Grabbing her keys and sticking them in her pocket, she headed out of the condo and down the stairs to the backyard. The morning air was cool and a bit damp. She made her way across the grass and called out when she was a few feet away, “Hello.”

The woman’s head jerked up, and she looked over her shoulder. Once again Clare’s heart started to beat fast. Something was familiar about her, but it was the look on her face that upset Clare. Her dark brows knitted, and her mouth formed a definite frown. She wasn’t happy to see Clare.

Slowly, she stood. “Hi, Clare. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were awake. Brady had an eight o’clock appointment, so I came up to stay with you. I checked on you, but you were still sleeping. I thought I’d pull a few weeds, since no one’s had time to do it.”

“Thanks for thinking of that.”

The woman cocked her head as Clare came closer. Wide, almond-shaped eyes the color of chestnuts stared at her; hair to match swung in a short ponytail. She was dressed in pretty yellow shorts and a matching top. Clare gave her a tentative smile.

“You don’t remember who I am.”

“No, I’m sorry. But don’t take offense. I don’t remember anyone.” She swallowed hard and felt emotion clog her throat.

“Not even Brady?”

“Should I?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you things.”

Clare shrugged. “That’s not exactly true. The doctor said to make sure I don’t get too much information at once. But familiar people and objects are supposed to jog my memory. It’s already happened some.”

After a hesitation, the woman nodded. “I’m Delia Kramer, from the first floor.”

“We’re neighbors.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And friends?”

“Ah…yes.”

“Could a friend fix me some coffee?” She glanced back at the house. “I didn’t go in the kitchen yet. I’m afraid to.”

Delia came out of the garden. “I’m sorry, Clare. That must be hard for you.”

A flash of recognition of this woman listening to her and comforting her. “Did you always know what I was thinking? How I was feeling?”

“At one point in our lives.”

Confused by the comment, Clare was about to ask for an explanation, but Delia started walking toward the house and Clare fell into step alongside her. “I came to the hospital when you were in a coma. But the doctors didn’t want too many visitors after you awakened.” Another pause. “I sent flowers, carnations. Your favorites.”

Clare smiled. “That’s why I liked them so much.”

In truth, Clare had wondered why no one had visited but Brady and Jonathan. There were flowers from others, none of whom she remembered, and a few calls after she woke up. Her sister had phoned a couple of times from France. She’d cried when Clare didn’t remember her, and often had tears in her voice when she called back. Damn it, how could you not remember your own flesh and blood?

When they arrived at Delia’s first floor condo, they went in through a set of French doors leading into a kitchen, which was roomy with warm wood everywhere. Because it seemed right, Clare took a stool at the island instead of the breakfast nook. Delia assembled the coffee and when it began to drip, turned around. This time, her expression was pained.

“What’s wrong, Delia?”

“It’s just that I haven’t seen you at my kitchen island in a long time.”

“No? You said we were friends. And we live in the same building.”

“I—let’s talk about something else. Your hair looks great short.”

“Please, just tell me that one thing. Why haven’t I been here in a while?”

Delia leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “You got really busy with your cookbooks and TV show.”

“But we were close before that?”

“Yes, we were college roommates, then you went to culinary school, and I got my master’s degree. I’m an elementary school teacher, now.”

“My sister’s a teacher, too.”

“I know. Cathy and I have a lot in common. Anyway, you were maid of honor in my wedding. After you finished your training, you moved here when a condo opened up because we owned one.” She glanced over at a picture by the window. “You don’t remember anything? Anyone?” Her voice caught on the last word.

“I have flashes. I knew I used to sit at the island.” She frowned. “So I must have been here a lot.” When Delia just stared at her, Clare nodded to the photo. “Is that your husband?”

“Excuse me for a minute.” Her voice quivered and Delia disappeared into what looked like a powder room off the kitchen.

Standing, Clare crossed to the window and picked up the picture. It was of a man in army fatigues. Closely cropped hair. Dark eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked so young and handsome and hopeful. Oh my God, he was dead. She knew what had happened.

Delia had been at the computer when Clare had come in through the front door and into this kitchen. She remembered how bereft she’d felt but knew she had to be strong for her friend…

“HEY,” DELIA SAID. “I’m e-mailing Don, but I don’t know how to begin.” Her hand went to her stomach. “How do you tell somebody thousands of miles away he’s going to be a daddy? He’ll be happy, though.” She frowned. “Damn that army reserve. I told him he never should have signed on. He’d be here…”

Finally she looked up. Her face sobered. “Clare, what…” She stood and hurried over to her friend. “What is it, what’s happened?”

“Dee, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The army people, I saw them outside approaching the front door. I told them I was your friend. I insisted they tell me first…so you wouldn’t be alone…”

A knock on the door, as loud as a gunshot.

“What is it?” Delia’s fingers bit into Clare’s arm. “What is it?”

“Honey, I’m sorry. Don’s dead…”

CLARE RECALLED WHAT she wished she hadn’t…crying through the whole official announcement, days of grim reality, nights of holding her friend while she sobbed out her pain. But Delia had gotten through it, with the help of Brady, Clare and someone else. The guy helping Brady carry the couch, the guy from the garden.

Now, however, Clare felt the loss all over again. It was as if someone she knew and loved had just died, making Clare take in a quick breath.

She heard Delia move behind her. “What are you doing?”

Setting down the frame, Clare turned around. “I remember. I’m so sorry.”

“You look so sad. Do you remember Don himself?”

“No, just when we found out he was killed in action and how I felt then.”

Delia shrugged her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. I’ll try harder.”

Delia swallowed hard. “I appreciated all you did for me, Clare. I couldn’t have gotten through his death and the aftermath without you.”

Which must have made their estrangement even harder. With that thought came pain behind her eyes. Briefly, she closed them and was able to will it away.

The coffee finished dripping. Delia poured them each a mug and brought both to the counter, where Clare reseated herself. Then Delia removed vanilla-flavored International Delight from the refrigerator and sat down. Clare picked up the bottle and poured some of the sweet liquid into her coffee.

“You knew that was for you?” Delia asked.

“Uh-huh. Do you want to talk more about Don?”

“No, I want to change the subject.”

“Then, yes, I knew this was for me. Sometimes I just know things. It’s all so odd.”

“What does it feel like? Not remembering?”

“Very scary. And unsafe.” She swallowed hard and massaged her temples. “When I try to remember, I get pain in my head. But some of what I recall since I came home yesterday is comforting. And smells trigger mostly good stuff.”

“You have a lot to deal with.”

“Especially alone.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without Donny.”

“Your son.” A flash of red hair and freckles filled her mind. “I remember what he looks like. Is he here?”

“No, every June when he gets out of school, he goes to stay with Don’s parents for a while. I miss him, but it’s good for them.”

“Tell me about him.”

Delia had her laughing out loud at the precocious seven-year-old’s antics when the French doors to the kitchen opened.

“If this isn’t a sight for sore eyes.”

Delia smiled warmly at Brady. More warmly than she’d originally greeted Clare. “Isn’t it? Just like old times.”

Stepping inside, Brady kissed Delia on the cheek, then touched Clare’s shoulder. He smelled even more familiar—she knew that cologne—making her lean toward him. He looked good, too, in jeans and a navy-blue shirt tucked in at the waist. Brady Langston kept in shape.

“Good morning. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I woke about eight. Delia was in the garden, and somehow we ended up here.”

Delia had gone to the counter, poured another cup of coffee and added sugar. She served it to Brady and they exchanged a meaningful look. “Thanks, Dee.”

Clare didn’t have her memory back, but she knew certain things. Entering a house without knocking, a nickname, being served coffee without asking how it was taken and sharing pointed glances all indicated intimacy.

Apparently Delia and Brady had stayed close while Clare had grown apart from them. She wished she could remember why.

BRADY SAT AT THE DRAFTING table in his home office and stared at the walls, bookshelves and computer. On his desk sat the page proofs of one book to go over, and the beginning of another was in front of him. But right now, all he could think about was Clare.

After he found her at Delia’s, they talked over coffee. Mostly she was comfortable, until something came up that she didn’t remember. Then she’d get agitated and, worse, fearful. He couldn’t stand watching her be afraid. After a while, he suggested a walk and she seemed to be itching for exercise. Why not? She’d never sat still for a minute before, even if she didn’t remember that. Two long weeks in a hospital bed had decreased her strength and stamina but not her desire to move.

As they walked, she peppered him with questions about the Kramers, and he tried to fill her in the best he could. Don’s death was still hard for him to talk about, even though he’d known the guy the shortest period of time. Brady had moved into the old house ten years ago when the others were all settled in. He soon came to love Don, like they did. And like Max and Clare, Brady had been devastated for a long time after their friend died.

Such grim thoughts often came these days when he was alone. He dragged himself up from the chair and walked into the living room. He’d insisted he and Clare leave their doors open in case she needed him. When he reached the front of his condo, he smiled at his own whimsy of creating the birds, which were supposed to represent the five of them. He fingered the goldfinch, Clare, who’d flown the coop. Shaking his head, he stepped into the hall. No sounds from her place. He went back to work, sat at the drafting table, and was just getting into Raoul the Rat and Millie the Mouse when the phone rang. Caller ID told him it was his agent, which was the only reason he answered.

“Brady? Hi, it’s Leo.”

“Hey, Leo.”

“How’s Clare doing?”

“Better. She’s home. I’m on watch this afternoon, but she’s sleeping, so guess where I am?”

“Please, tell me you’re in your office.”

“I am. And Millie and Raoul got one more page.”

“Thank God. The publisher’s breathing down my neck. They gave the extension, but begrudgingly.”

“Thanks, Leo.”

But what could they do anyway? Brady worked at his own pace and did things in his own time frame. It used to drive his workaholic ex-wife Gail crazy. He was successful though, and their marriage had struggled along a bumpy road until tragedy struck and Brady’s whole life turned upside down.

“Did you hear me, Brady?”

Not exactly. His mind went where it always did these days. “Something about a delivery date.”

“Funny.”

“I don’t know when it’ll be done, Leo. I’ve promised to help out with Clare. I want to.”

“You’re in a perfect position to do that. You work at home, she’s next door.” A pause. “You sure there’s nothing going on between you two other than friendship?”

He hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sure.”

There was a knock on his open door, and then a “Yo…”

“Someone’s here. I gotta go.”

“Scan and e-mail me what you’ve done.”

“You know I don’t like to do that, Leo.”

“It’ll calm my nerves.”

“Take a Valium.” Max appeared at his door, and Brady motioned for him to wait.

“Come on. I need a Millie and Raoul fix.”

“Maybe. Talk to you soon.”

After he clicked off, he stood and faced his longtime friend, Max Mason, whom he’d known since high school, when they’d hung out together and avoided playing football. Max was big enough to compete, though, with the build of a linebacker. Brady had based a character on him once, Mixy, the huge lovable rat. Max feigned outrage, but Brady had seen a few copies of the book on his buddy’s shelf.

They hugged like men do—a bear clasp and pats on the back. Brady had always been grateful for Max’s friendship, especially in the past year.

When he drew back, Max asked, “How is she?”

“She’s home.”

“I thought maybe. I saw the open door. I can help now. I got some time off.”

“You did?”

“I said I’d help.” He dropped his big form into the mahogany leather chair and propped his feet up on the ottoman.

“I know, but she’s not your favorite person anymore.”

His dark eyes narrowed and he ran a hand over his shaved head. Brady remembered when he’d worn it in an Afro. “No matter. If Dee and I don’t help, you’ll run yourself into the ground.” He glanced at the desk. “Or worse, put aside your work again to help her.”

Brady wasn’t up for an argument, especially one they’d had so many times. “Want something?”

“No, I’m going to catch a nap. Long flight.” Max was a pilot for a private company and had been flying his boss around the country while Clare lay in the hospital. “I won’t say any more after this, but I gotta get one thing off my chest.”

“Max…”

“I love you, bro. I don’t want her to hurt you. Be careful and protect yourself.”

“Point taken.”

When Max left, Brady found it impossible to get back to his book. Again, he pushed away from the desk, got up and headed to Clare’s condo. This time, he went in and found her in bed on her side, her hands under her face like she always slept. The pretty green sheet had slipped off, so he tucked it around her. His whole body responded to the sight of her, and the scent of her that permeated this room. Hell, this was all he needed now.

She looked so fragile, bruised and fearful, even in slumber. Her brow furrowed and she turned over fitfully. How on earth could Brady abandon her now?

Because she abandoned you. And Dee. And Max. Even her own sister.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had a Clare hex on him, and nothing could dispel it. He’d felt this way since the first day he met her…

“THE MEAL WAS TERRIFIC.” Brady lazed back in his chair and spoke to Josie, the owner of Meloni’s. This place was Max and Don and Delia’s favorite restaurant, and his other cotenant in the house worked here. Having recently moved into the old Victorian, Brady had yet to meet Clare Boneli.

“Our assistant chef made it.” The small, white-haired Italian woman smiled. “Which of course is why you’re here.” She picked up Brady’s credit card—he insisted on paying—and smiled at his friends. “I’ll be right back. Want something else?”

“Cappuccino would be nice,” Don suggested. “Maybe the chef can join us.”

“Sure. She’s cleaned up already.”

When Josie left, Brady asked, “That meal was something. Where did she learn to cook like this?”

Delia grinned like a proud mama. “After college, she went to culinary school, then she studied in France awhile.”

She explained more about Clare’s background until they heard, “Talking about me behind my back?”

Turning, Brady saw a slender blonde with eyes the color of grass carrying a tray of mugs.

“Yep, I’m filling Brady in.”

Brady stood, took the tray and set it down. “You must be the chef.” He held out his hand. “I’m the new tenant, Brady Langston.”

Her grip was firm. “Clare Boneli.”

They both took seats.

“Your Zucchini Boneli was wonderful.”

“My grandmother’s recipe.” She motioned to the mugs she’d set on the table. “Drink up before your cappuccino gets cold. I poured myself one, too.” She wore plain black pants that accentuated long legs and a white blouse that accentuated…He dragged his eyes to her face.

“Most of her recipes come from her extended Italian family,” Delia said. “But she puts her own pizzazz in them.”

A blush kissed Clare’s cheeks. It was adorable.

Brady sipped his cappuccino. “The drink is different, too. What’s in it?”

“A dash of nutmeg.”

“Unusual. As was the zucchini. What’s its secret?”

“Fresh zucchini, for one. I used to go out to the garden with Grandma and pick it. Couldn’t let it get too big, though, or it would be tough.”

“Did you spend a lot of time with your grandmother?”

“I lived with her.” Real sadness filled her eyes. “My parents were killed in a car crash when I was ten. Grandma and Grandpa moved to America to take care of us. Grandma only died five years ago. I still feel her loss.”

“I’m sorry.” Brady cleared his throat. “My dad died recently.” The expression on her face was so empathetic, at that moment he felt a strong connection with her. “It’s hard for me. But you were so little when your parents died. That must have been really tough.”

“It was. Grandma Clarissa was wonderful, though. She taught me to cook.”

“Her and culinary school and France.”

Clare shook her head. “You have to stop bragging, Dee. Let Brady get to know me on his own.”

“Finish telling me about the recipe.”

“Along with extra sausage, I use cream and butter in the mixture.”

He patted his stomach. “Oh, man, I’m going to have to work out extra hard tomorrow to stay in shape.”

“Hmm. Maybe we can run together. I can’t get Don or Max to go with me.”

A huge grin. “I’d like that.”

After they’d gotten back to the house and Max and the Kramers had gone to their respective places, Brady and Clare had talked long into the night. About their pasts. Their families. Their successes and failures.

She’d had big dreams then, as had he. They’d shared those, too. Who knew that, in the end, those dreams would pretty much destroy their relationship?

CHAPTER THREE

“THIS IS SILLY. I CAN’T EVEN go into my own kitchen?” Clare stood at the threshold of her bedroom, staring out at the hallway that led to the rest of the condo. After leaving Delia’s, she and Brady had taken a walk, come back to the house, sat in the backyard and had lunch delivered. Then she’d come up to rest. Clare had fallen asleep just before Brady went to work in his home office. And now, at 4:00 p.m., she was restless. She sensed she wasn’t used to inactivity. Hadn’t she found sneakers and tennis shoes, along with a racket, in her closet? It was time she broached her own kitchen. She wanted to see her cookbooks. Get a glimpse of her old life.

Should she wait for Brady? He’d asked her to. Again she glanced at the hallway. Hell, she was thirty-six years old. She could go anywhere in her house if she wanted to. Besides, she had to start making her own decisions again. She knew in her heart it wasn’t her style to let someone else do it for her.

Still, it was with tentative steps that she walked down the hall, through the living and dining rooms. When she reached the archway of the kitchen, she stopped and surveyed the area. Immediately a sense of well-being flooded her. This was Clare’s space. She could feel it in her bones, her hands, even her breath. No longer afraid, she walked to the center island and smiled as she ran her hand over the granite countertop.

It was new, she realized. She’d remodeled in here, though she couldn’t recall what the old kitchen was like. She took in the triple-bowled sink in the island, the built-in soap dispenser, Sub Zero refrigerator and two ovens.

There was a second smaller fridge under the counter. Pulling it open revealed a cold wine storage filled with several bottles.

We’ll have the Romanée-Conti tonight, Clare. Brady had drawn out the several-hundred-dollar bottle. Publishing your first cookbook is a big deal.

Emboldened, she looked around for the books themselves. She caught sight of a display on a set of oak shelves on the far wall. When she got up close, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, good Lord, I don’t believe it.”

Face out were six cookbooks. All entitled In Clarissa’s Kitchen, Meals and Memories from Italy. Her picture, with long hair, was on the cover of each. The first showed her in a casual dress, her hair down around her shoulders. Volumes two and three sported a similar pose. In four, though, her outfit was more sophisticated, and her hair was pulled back in a knot. Gracing the covers of the last two volumes were photos in different expensive outfits and more conservative hairdos.

What was that? Next to each of the cookbooks was a glossy version. Picking one up, she was hit with a flash of memory.

We got a coffee-table book contract, Clare. The publisher wants to do versions for display.

Whose voice was that? Jonathan’s? No, she was sure it wasn’t. Who then? Was someone she worked with totally missing in her life now?

Feeling as if she were about to step off a cliff, she opened the cover. On the inside flap was A Note from Clarissa.

Welcome to my world of cooking. On the pages that follow, though, you’ll find much more. Accompanying the recipes are anecdotes from my childhood right through to today, letters to people who inspired me, and much more, all associated with my life and food. Mostly, they’re a tribute to my grandma, Clarissa Boneli, who raised me. I hope you enjoy these great recipes and uplifting stories. Mangia!

Suddenly she realized she held a journal of sorts of her life. She swallowed hard and her hand tightened on the book. Should she read it? Would it be too much? She began to tremble—in anticipation or dread?

The decision was taken from her by a knock on the door Brady had asked her to leave ajar. He appeared in the archway. Still wearing the shorts and T-shirt he’d walked in, he looked concerned. “You’re awake.” He raised dark brows. “And came out here by yourself? I thought we agreed at lunch that you’d wait for me.”

“No, that was your suggestion. I feel foolish, needing a babysitter, being afraid to go into my own kitchen.” She sank back on a stool at the counter, clutching the cookbook to her chest. “When I came in here, and took out one of these, I felt good.”

He smiled, said, “I’m glad to hear that,” and joined her at the bar, dropping down on the stool next to her. Since waking up from the coma, she didn’t like people crowding her, but when Brady stretched his legs out facing her, she braced her feet on the bottom rung of his stool. He nodded to the book, and his blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. “You should be proud of those. You’re a big success.”

She smiled back at him, wanting to know more about him. “What about you? Are you a success? I don’t even know what you do.”

For a minute, he looked puzzled. “I’m an artist. Actually, an illustrator.”

It was like getting hit with a blast of cold water. “Oh, the sketches in the hallway? They’re yours. I had a visceral response when I saw them. Brady, they’re terrific.”

“You were the one who insisted they be mounted and hung out there. You had them framed even before I said yes.”

“Where’d I get them?”

“Um, mostly from the books I’ve published.”

“You publish books, too? Which ones? How many? Can I see something else you’ve done?”

His gaze dropped to her chest. “You’re holding one.”

“Huh?”

“Turn the book over, Clare.”

She tensed, afraid for the first time since she’d come into this room. She stared at him warily.

“Go ahead. It won’t hurt you. It’s a good memory.”

She turned the book around.

On the back was his picture. Dressed less formally than she, he wore pressed jeans, a silk T-shirt and a taupe blazer. His hair was a bit shorter, but his eyes were the same, long-lashed, crystalline-blue. She read the note with his picture, then peered over at him. “You illustrated my cookbooks?”

“Uh-huh. The anecdotes you wrote and my illustrations are what set them apart from all the other gazillion cook-books on the market.” He hesitated. “We have a new one in the works, too.”

She found herself pleased at what he told her and wanted to know more. “I have a cooking show, too. Are you part of that?”

His expression darkened. “I’ve been a guest. Your viewers wrote in that they liked it when I was there.”

Though she couldn’t recall any of what he was telling her, she could imagine someone with his good looks and apparent charm would be a hit with women watching the show.

But he didn’t seem too happy about this. “Are you still on the show?”

He shook his head. “Clare, you don’t remember anything about this?”

“No.”

A deep frown creased his forehead.

“Why aren’t you on the show anymore?”

Not answering, he stood and went to the fridge. Pulling out a beer, he uncapped it and took a long swig. She watched his throat work and felt something…warm inside her. He set the beer down on the counter and stood across from her, his hands braced on the granite.

“Your boss, Jonathan, wanted the show…scaled up, you might say. A scruffy artist hanging around in a state-of-the-art kitchen didn’t hit the target audience he wanted.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, did I call you a scruffy artist?”

“No! He did.”

She struggled to remember. Instead, images of snakes clouded her mind, just like in the dream. Her temples hurt again. “I don’t remember any of it.”

He didn’t say more, just watched her. Hurt clouded his eyes.

“Why didn’t I stand up to him?”

“Ah, the sixty-four thousand-dollar question.” Before she could respond, he asked, “Do you remember anything about…our relationship?”

She nodded. “Yes, good things. I had flashes as soon as I came home yesterday—cooking for you, you carrying up grocery bags, helping with the garden.”

“Those are early memories.”

“From how long ago?”

“About eight or nine years.”

“My therapist told me that research says those memories often return first. The ones closest to the event that caused the amnesia—if it is psychological—come back last.”

“Yes.” He appeared embarrassed. “I read that on the Internet.”

“The memories that aren’t coming back? Those are the times when I hurt you, aren’t they?”

“I didn’t say that, Clare.”

“You didn’t have to. And it isn’t only you. Delia, too. My own sister doesn’t even call much.”

“Cathy’s sensitive where you’re concerned, ever since you were little and your parents died. But she loves you, Clare, and she’s coming as soon as she gets back from Europe. You’ll have a great reunion.”

“Still. It’s so odd feeling good things for all of you and…them not being returned.”

“They are returned. We’ve just had a rough time of it lately.”

Standing, she circled around the bar and approached him. This close, she could see the nick from shaving he must have gotten this morning. His chest rose and fell, and his features were taut. “Brady, I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you in the past. I sense we were really close.”

“We were.” His voice was husky, calling forth a memory that fled before it fully formed.

Suddenly she wanted this man to hold her again, like he had when he’d carried her last night. So she moved into him and slid her arms around his waist. As natural as spring rain, his arms encompassed her. His sigh matched hers. Closing her eyes, she placed her head on his heart.

Though she didn’t remember what she’d done, it was obvious she’d hurt this heart of his. The thought shamed her.

“HOW IS IT GOING AT HOME?” Anna Summers, Clare’s psychotherapist, smiled over at her from where she sat on a stuffed chair in her hospital office. Clare had taken a similar chair opposite her in the cheery space—sand-colored walls, nice Berber carpet, wooden accents. She felt good in here, too, and had been more than willing to come back on this Wednesday morning.

“It’s better than being in the hospital. Some of my memory’s come back.” She told Anna about the flashes she’d had about Brady, Delia and Don, Max and cooking.

“Interesting. They’re all about the people from the house.” She cocked her head. “None about Jonathan?”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe because he had to go away and the others are around all the time. I’ve talked to him every day on the phone but, truthfully, the conversations are strained. It’s hard enough facing people you don’t know in person.”

“Maybe it’s his absence. But you’ve known him the shortest time. Remember, with retrograde amnesia, the earlier memories come back first.”

“I was just talking to Brady about that.”

Anna crossed her legs and adjusted the skirt of her beige suit. “How does it feel to be in your house?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it like sleeping in a stranger’s bed? Like you’re wearing someone else’s clothes?”

“Not at all. I sense everything’s mine. I chose something to wear this morning without fretting about it and felt immediately at home in the kitchen.”

“It’s good that everything isn’t foreign.”

“I guess. But other things aren’t so good.”

“Like?”

Clare fidgeted with the bracelet she’d put on with khaki pants and a yellow blouse. “I’ve found some other things out about my life. About me. Some bad things.”

“From these flashes of memories?”

“No, those were all good. But the tension among Max, Delia and me became obvious right away. So I asked about it.” She told Anna that she’d grown away from her group of friends. “The problem is I don’t feel that way about them now. I’m sad that they’re so wary and I want to be closer to them.” She thought for a minute. “Anna, do personalities change when someone has amnesia?”

“Sometimes. Especially in cases of permanent amnesia. There’s a movie called Regarding Henry where Harrison Ford gets shot and turns into a totally different person than he was before the incident. He never regains his memory, though, and he retains the new personality.”

“So I could just stay the person I am now?”

“Maybe. But keep in mind, you won’t do anything with amnesia that you wouldn’t normally do. That often comforts people who are afraid they’ll do negative things. But in your case, who you are now is the real Clare, too.”

She frowned. “But I could turn back into who I was right before the accident?”

“Perhaps. We’ve discussed how nebulous this malady is. But here’s another way to look at it. You can make any changes in your life that you want. You’re in control of that with or without your memory.”

Clare stared at Anna. “I wonder if I’ll still want to be close to them when my memory returns.” The thought made her incredibly sad.

“Take one day at a time.” Anna held her gaze. “What about Brady? He was at the hospital every day, too. And you seemed to gravitate toward him. Is there any tension between you two?”

“No. Just warmth. A lot of it. And security. I feel safe with him.” She crooked a shoulder. “Safer than with Jonathan.”

“You and Brady were close for a longer period of time.”

“Maybe. It feels like more than that, though.”

Anna leaned forward. “Go with your gut, Clare. Act on the instinct that remembers things for you. A good deal of research into what’s known as cellular memory shows our cells store memories. I support that theory. Have you seen those movies about body-part transplants, where the recipient acquires the memories and experiences of the donor and often gets flashes of that person’s life? You could and probably do have residual memories of everything that’s happened to you built right into your cell structure.”

“That’s something to consider.”

“Anything else about Jonathan or Brady?”

“One thing. Obviously, Jonathan and I were close—physically. How could I forget being intimate with a man, Anna?”

“There have been documented cases of people forgetting a spouse and even a child, Clare.” Anna frowned. “He’s not asking for intimacy, is he?”

“No, not yet. No, he wouldn’t do something like that. He’s been selfless in this whole thing.”

“Then bide your time and see how you feel about it all. You’ve only been home a few days.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Now let’s talk about your dreams. Though I’m not into symbol hunting, they’re a crucial part of amnesia and should be discussed.”

A chill ran through Clare, and she rubbed her arms as she recalled Monday night’s dream. “I’m still having nightmares.”

“Most amnesiacs do.”

“I can’t remember them all, but Monday’s stays with me. Brady and Jonathan were snakes. One bit me, and one curled around my wrists.”

“Hmm. Who did what?”

Clare told her. “Do you think it’s significant?”

“As I explained right after you woke up, dreams are a person’s unconscious asserting itself, even if that person doesn’t have amnesia. I’d like you to write down the dreams you do remember. In as much detail as possible.”

Clare nodded.

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?”

“Yes. I’m going stir-crazy.”

“You’ve only been home two days.”

“I was in the hospital two weeks. I need to do more than I’m doing.”

Anna smiled. “Then do it.”

“I’ve been walking, but I found tennis stuff in the closet. Am I ready to play?”

“If you think you are.”

“And I’d like to drive again.”

The therapist looked thoughtful. “Can you do that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.”

“How did you get here?”

“Brady. He’s been a doll about all this. He’s waiting outside.”

Anna watched her. “Your whole face lights up when you talk about him.”

“Does it? How odd, when I’m…involved with Jonathan.”

“Something to think about. Be careful with the driving. You don’t have procedural amnesia. You seem to know how to do things. But test-drive with someone in the car for a while. Don’t go alone for a week or so. Especially with the headaches.”

“All right.” Clare shook her head. “It’s all so frustrating.”

“I’ll bet. But your memory is starting to come back. You’re making terrific progress.”

It didn’t feel that way. And Clare worried about things. “Anna, do you think some traumatic event caused my amnesia?”

“You had severe head trauma. But your last tests indicated there’s no brain swelling now, and no apparent damage. However, why you were out at 2:00 a.m. on that road and what led up to it is missing from your mind, and that is significant. So, to answer your question, I believe it very well could be psychological.”

“I almost don’t want to remember.”

“Clare, if your amnesia is psychological, you don’t want to remember. But you most likely will. And you should prepare yourself for that.”

They made an appointment for the following week, Anna wished her well and Clare went to find Brady. She was unnerved by her talk with the counselor and needed to see him to calm down. That he could do that for her was another mystery.

He was waiting outside the office, though she’d told him to go get coffee or something to eat. He stood when he saw her. The worry on his face made her give him a smile.

“Hey, how’d it go?”

“Fine.”

“You’re lying. I can see it in your expression.”

“It’s hard, articulating all my fears.”

“Man, I bet it is.” He slid an arm around her and leaned in close. “You know, you can talk to me about those fears. We used to stay up late and share everything we were afraid of in life. Takes the sting out of them.”

“It sounds like we spent a lot of time together.”

“We did. After I moved in, Don was still alive and Max was working for a commercial airline, so he wasn’t home much. In some ways it was just you and me, babe.”

And that had changed. Poor Brady. She wondered if she could ever make it up to him.

SEATED ACROSS THE TABLE from his longtime friend, Mitch Anderson, Jonathan felt better than he had earlier when he couldn’t reach Clarissa. He and Mitch had gone to boarding school together and seen each other through a lot of scrapes. Sometimes Jonathan missed the boy he used to be—more carefree, more spontaneous. He definitely missed Mitch, who’d met him here at the restaurant in the Hyatt hotel where Jonathan was staying in Chicago.

“So, how’d the Chef’s Delight thing go? Their stocks are sky-high.” Mitch was an investment broker and followed the market daily. Jonathan used to take more of an interest in stocks than he did now. Of course, lately, he’d had a lot on his mind.

He told Mitch, “Clarissa’s going to be getting some of those options.”

“Really? Wow.” Mitch lazed back in the chair and sipped the merlot they’d ordered. “You struck quite a deal, then.”

“Well, I had to fly out our lawyers.” That had kept him here an extra day. “But they hammered out a lucrative contract for both the station and Clarissa herself.”

“No offense, but…for a local show?”

“They recognize, as do I, that she’ll syndicate soon.” He told his friend of his plans for the Cooking Channel.

Mitch raised his glass. “Congratulations. You’ve brought her into the limelight and now, so to speak, her star is shining.”

“I hope she doesn’t leave me in the dust.”

Mitch burst out laughing. He had a big belly laugh that contrasted with his polished good looks. “You can’t mean that. Rockford’s Most Eligible Bachelor?”

The designation a local magazine had given Jonathan had embarrassed him, though originally it had brought him plenty of dates. But once he met Clarissa, that part of his life was over. “I’m in love, Mitch. I don’t want anyone else.”

Immediately Mitch sobered. “I didn’t realize things between you and Clarissa were that serious. Since your divorce, I haven’t heard you talk like this.”

Jonathan had been married for six years to a nice woman he’d met at his country club. His parents hadn’t been happy when they’d divorced, but Marilyn and he both knew there was no spark there. Thankfully, they’d parted friends.

The feelings he’d had for his ex were nothing close to what he felt for Clarissa. He sighed, thinking of the forced celibacy her illness had brought about. He missed her body as much as her mind.

“Jonathan, you’re scowling. Do you have reason to think Clarissa is going to leave you?”

Filling Mitch in on the whole sad story of Clarissa’s amnesia made Jonathan feel even worse.

“Why didn’t you say something before this? You only see those things on TV. I don’t know that I’ve ever been privy to a real-life case. It’s a remarkable story.”

“It’s a nightmare. She loved me, I know she did, and now she doesn’t even remember me. Nothing.”

Mitch set his wine down and leaned forward. “Does she have any memories of anybody?”

“She didn’t in the hospital, but who knows now? She lives in a condo in this old Victorian house. The other three people who own there were her close friends until I came along.”

“And?”

“She grew apart from them. Was on the verge of moving out and in with me. Then she had the accident.”

“What caused it?”

He shrugged. He’d never lied outright to Mitch, but now he’d skirt the truth somewhat. “Nobody really knows. She left her condo and went out into the rainy night, cracked up her car.”

The waitress came and took their orders. After she left, Jonathan said, “Let’s table this conversation. It’s depressing to think about her accident.”

“Whatever you want.”

“So tell me about those two kids of yours.” It seemed impossible, but at only forty Mitch had two teenagers.

“They’re making me crazy. Wait until you have your own. I’m teaching Nicky to drive. Talk about nightmares.”

The rest of the evening was pleasant, and when he went back to his room, Jonathan was thinking about having his own kids, teaching them to drive, proudly showing pictures as Mitch had. He sat on the divan, took out his cell and punched in Clarissa’s number.

She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello.”

His mood lightened at the sound of her voice. “Hi, honey. It’s me.”

No response.

Damn it, didn’t she even recognize his voice? “Jonathan.”

“Yes, hi. How’s Chicago?”

“I’ve had a successful trip. But I miss you.”

Please say you miss me, too.

“Successful?”

“We got the contract.”

“Is that good?”

“Very. I’ll explain the details when I get back.”

“When will that be?”

“Friday night. I’ve made reservations at your favorite restaurant.”

A long hesitation. “Oh, good.” He heard another sound.

“Was that a yawn? Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Uh-huh. I’m in bed right now. I was watching TV.”

“Do you remember any shows?” He hadn’t thought of this side of amnesia—would she recognize songs, shows, films?

“A couple brought flashbacks.”

“Any of me? We used to watch Law and Order together.”

“Um, no, but I’ll make sure I catch an episode and see what happens.”

He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. This wasn’t her fault, but he could curse fate for what had happened. “Honey, it’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

“I know.”

“Go to sleep.” He waited. “And dream of me.”

When she hung up, he stretched out on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. He’d meant it when he’d told Mitch that he had never loved anyone like he loved Clarissa. And it had been going so well. Still, he hadn’t lost yet.

As he lay there, he convinced himself that as soon as he got back to Rockford, she’d start remembering him. When that possibility began to worry him—there were definitely some things he didn’t want her to remember yet—he pushed them out of his mind.

All would be well as soon as they could spend some quality time together.

It would. It would!

CHAPTER FOUR

WITH THE LATE-MORNING sun beating down on them, Brady stood behind Clare, one hand at her waist, the other on her arm. Man, it felt good to touch her again. Too good. His whole body responded to her nearness. “Adjust your hips to the left,” he said rather hoarsely. “That’s it. Now, turn your grip about forty-five degrees on the racket’s handle. Good. That’s how you hit your backhand.”

They’d been reviewing the mechanics of tennis, and she seemed to remember them with only one demonstration. “Got it.”

Reluctantly he backed away, but he didn’t move to the other side of the court. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Dr. Summers said I could play if we took it easy.”

“She told you that yesterday morning. I’m not sure she meant for you to run right out and do it.”

Rays of sun caught her hair, turning its blond strands lighter. He knew how silky it would feel if he ran his hands through it.

“Brady, you’re sweet to be concerned, but this is my fourth day home, and I’m dying for more exercise.”

“I’ll hit you some shots, but take it easy.”

He’d gotten a cage full of bright green balls from the clubhouse at Midtown Tennis, and they’d gone outside, forgoing the indoor courts. He knew she’d been playing at Harris’s swank country club, a place she didn’t recall, so he didn’t remind her. If only the rest were that easy.

From the other side of the net, she smiled over at him. “Thanks, Brady. For this and everything.”

“You’re welcome. I snapped my Achilles tendon four years ago playing basketball, and you were a huge help. So I’m returning the favor.”

She stared at him, trancelike. “You were a big baby about it.”

“I was not!” His eyes narrowed when he saw the gleam in hers. “You don’t really remember, do you? You’re making that up.”

“Gotcha.”

He laughed out loud as he took his position. “Ready?”

“I hope so.”

He hit a weak one over the net. She returned it easily.

Three more followed in the same vein.

She bounced the ball in front of her a few times, which used to be her habit when they’d played together. “This is boring, isn’t it?”

“We usually play harder.”

“Let’s put at least a little more behind the hits.”

They continued to lob the ball back and forth, using more oomph each time.

At a pause in the volleying, she asked, “Who wins, Brady, when we really play?”

“I do, of course.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “You’re lying. I’ll bet I’m better than you.”

“Are you remembering that?”

“No.”

“Then, nope, I’m the better player.”

This time she laughed out loud, which hadn’t happened much since the accident. Laughter and pure fun had been a routine part of their lives together until Harris had come along. Snagging the next ball with her hand, she headed to the back of the court.

“That outfit looks great on you,” he called from behind her. It did, too, and made his mouth water. And it felt good to flirt with her again. This also had been part of their history—the innocent, suggestive remarks that made them both smile. Though for him, things between them had been far less innocent long before the accident.

She glanced down at the white skirt and red halter top she wore. When she pivoted back around, she gave him a haughty look. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

Huh. She was distracting him, big-time. “I don’t need to. I told you I always win.”

Stopping at the serve line, she faced him. “Let’s play a game.”

“I’m not—”

“I’ll take it easy, I promise.”

Without his instruction, the mechanics of the serve were there for her: throw the ball up, racket angled behind down her back, over her head, slam! During the course of the serve, her top pulled up and Brady got a very nice glimpse of a tanned patch of skin on her midriff. Arrgh!

He barely reached the ball in time because of his double take on her stomach, but he managed to hit it back. She raced forward and sent it soaring over the net. He didn’t even try to get to the shot.

Her hands went to her hips. “You missed that on purpose.”

“I did. I don’t want you playing too hard.”

“I won’t, but I gotta move. I need exercise, I need to sweat.”

He opened his mouth but bit back a sexual innuendo. Those were better left unsaid right now. “Maybe a little.”

She served three more times and won the game. “Told you I was good,” she gloated.

He grinned. “My serve.”

He let her win a few points, but took the last three of the next game. She was running around—and sweating—and breathing hard. “God, this feels good.”

On another volley, she charged the net to return his short lob. Brady hit it back way over her head. She raced toward the ball and was just about there when she stumbled and went down. “Ohh…”

Leaping the net, he was at her side in seconds and knelt down. “Damn it, what was I thinking?”

“I twisted my ankle a bit. It doesn’t hurt much.” She rubbed her foot. “I’m sorry I pushed. Probably too hard.” She shrugged her shoulder. “But it felt good.”

Chuckling, he reached for her foot. Very gently, he untied her sneaker, removed it and her sock. He palpated her sole, her ankle and her shin. “Hurt?”

She sighed. “No, it feels good.”

“The injury feels good?”

“It isn’t injured. Your fondling me feels good.”

Oh, Lord, now she was flirting.

“I was not fondling!” A smile quirked at his lips. “I was checking for damage.” He glanced around. “We’re done here.”

“I guess.” After sliding her sock and shoe on, he stood and offered her his hand. “Here, let me help you up.”

She took the assistance. When he didn’t let go after she was on her feet, she moved in close to him. His arms slid around her as if he’d never stopped hugging her. His whole body tightened. “You okay? Dizzy?”

“No. I like it when you hold me. I feel safe. We must be really close.”

He had to clear his throat. “We are.”

She drew back. “Thanks.”

“Time for a nap?”

“Not on your life. I’m so tired of sleeping.” Her eyes sparkled like the old Clare’s. “I know. Let’s go to the grocery store.”

He grabbed the cage and started picking up balls. “I wondered when that would kick in.”

“What?”

“The grocery store’s your favorite place.”

“You think it would be okay to go there, or would it push my memory too much?”

“I think it’d be okay. Let’s finish up here, and we’ll head over.”

They pulled up to Weidman’s fifteen minutes later. Clare had hoped for a bit of recognition at the sight of the big blue sign on the huge storefront, but none came. Brady squeezed her hand and held it after they exited his Blazer. Once inside, he got a cart and set it in front of her.

“Where to?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

“Hmm. I’ll wander.”

First she went to the dairy counter and selected goat cheese. Then she headed to the vegetable department. They strolled along, and Clare seemed to absorb the sounds and sights and smells of her surroundings. She picked up onions and juicy tomatoes. Bypassing the bagged kind, she chose curly red lettuce in a bunch. They kept going: chicken, canned artichokes. By the time she snagged a couple of loaves of fresh bread, she turned to him. “I have the ingredients for a chicken artichoke dish I used to make.” Her face lit, and she smiled broadly. “Oh, wow.”

“You remember.”

“Yes, suddenly.” She closed her eyes. “There’s more.”

“What?”

“Me behind a counter, facing cameras, wearing a pretty fuchsia apron with embroidery on the front of it.” She looked at him. “I made this dish in one of my cooking shows, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, one of the first demos you did.”

“Do you like this recipe?”

“A lot.”

“Will Max and Delia come if I cook tonight, do you think?”

“If they’re free.”

But he wasn’t so sure of his statement. Max and Delia had each stayed with her a couple of times, Max overseeing mostly when she was sleeping. He knew Delia had brought over a photo album and showed her pictures of their life together. Clare had laughed at the way she looked in college, made jokes at the images of herself surrounded by boxes on moving day, and got tears in her eyes over the baby pictures of Donny, whom she’d helped raise. But there was still an underlying tension among them all.

When she and Brady reached the checkout line, something else occurred to her. “Do I have tapes of the shows, Brady?”

“Uh-huh, from the studio.”

“I’d like to watch this one, then make the meal.”

Without speaking, he paid the cashier. He had a bad feeling about her watching the show that had, in the long run, taken her away from him.

“I’ll stop if I get a headache or upset.”

“I don’t think you should rush your memory.”

“I won’t.”

Though he was worried about this step, he was pleased about one thing. Over the course of the past few days, she’d taken to asking his opinion, his permission sometimes, like she used to in the old days. It had gone both ways and they’d spent a lot of years consulting each other on choices and decisions to be made. It was only right that she should now, after what they’d meant to each other.

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