"He's English, then?"

Caitlin found talking about something other than her own problems was comforting to her, too, and the woman nodded. "Sort of. His father was a G.I., see. His mother's English, of course. But Ted, he always wanted to live in the States."

"Ah."

"His old lady didn't," went on her companion, pulling a wry face. "There was no G.I. bride bit for her. I guess you could say she wasn't much interested in Ted, either. She let his father bring him back to the U.S. That's why him dashing off to see her now she's s'posed to be ill sounds pretty thin, don't you think?"

Caitlin made some reassuring comment about time healing all wounds, but she wondered whom she was kidding. Her first opinion of Nathan had been coloured by the way David had treated her. The assured, confident American had seemed to possess all the attributes the other man hadn't. He was good-looking, well-educated, ambitious; and she was no longer the naive idealist she had been.

In addition to which, her father had liked him. She'd left the art gallery after her break-up with David, and it was while she was recovering her spirits at home that she'd met Nathan at the party her parents had given for her twenty-sixth birthday. He'd been at Harvard some years before with the son of one of her father's business acquaintances, and because he was staying with the Gordons at the time, he'd accompanied them to the celebrations.

To begin with, she and Nathan had appeared to have so much in common. Like herself, Nathan was a university graduate. He was an older man, of course, but from a business background as she was. He'd told her his father owned a busy sawmill in New Jersey, and that he was visiting England to study British business methods.

His host, Adrian Gordon, had spoken very positively of his interest in the environment. And when Matthew Webster had offered to show him a little of the way he operated, Nathan had been eager to accept. He'd seemed so open, so enthusiastic, so eager to please. So much so, that she'd been completely taken in.

Their marriage was an instant disaster. She'd learned, at the start of her honeymoon, that Nathan had no feelings for her; that he cared for no one but himself. Her hopes, her fears, her needs, were not important. He'd married her because she was Matthew Webster's daughter and because he believed that ultimately her father would give the control of the company to him...

"You come back here, Emmy."

Caitlin came back to the present to find that the little girl had sidled up to her now and was stroking the fur that edged her cuff. "It's all right," she said, almost glad of the diversion. "I expect she's missing her daddy. Just like you."

"You got children, Mrs Wolfe?"

The woman moved into the seat next to her, and Caitlin gave her a rueful glance. "Unfortunately not," she said, the pain of Nathan's betrayal still sharp inside her.

She sighed.

She had certainly had a rude awakening. Until they were married, Nathan had held back from making love to her, and she, poor fool that she was, had imagined it was because he respected her. She winced. How wrong she had been. Nathan hadn't touched her because he'd known his lovemaking would disgust her. She couldn't respond to his violent sexuality, and by the time they came home from Tahiti, she was in a state of shock.

But she was not a quitter, and although she knew she had made a terrible mistake, she was still prepared to give the marriage a chance. She'd known how disappointed her father would be if she said she wanted to divorce Nathan. Particularly when he'd invested so much hope in their union.

She'd discovered Nathan was being unfaithful to her less than three months after their return to London. Seeing him with another woman had shaken her, and she had listened to his excuses with a heavy heart.

She'd learned Lisa Abbott's name just a few weeks later.

The woman was an American, she discovered, and he had known her for years. He had apparently invited her to join him in London, and he had been using the credit card her father had given him to pay for a room at a hotel.

Caitlin had been searching, quite legitimately, for her address book when she'd found the damning statement crumpled at the back of a drawer. She probably shouldn't have looked at it. The very fact that she hadn't seen it before should have warned her it was nothing to do with her. But curiosity got the better of her, and like any normal wife, she'd wanted to know what it was.

The row that had followed had been painfully destructive, the first real indication that any hopes she still might have nurtured for their marriage had been hopelessly naive. She'd walked out of the flat afterwards, with every intention of seeing a solicitor. She couldn't go on living with a man to whom deceit was second nature.

But it was evening when she left the flat. All solicitors' offices were closed, and rather than go back, she'd taken a room in a hotel. She'd had no knowledge that her father had had a heart attack until she'd arrived at her parents' home the next day to find an ambulance-and Nathan's car-already in the drive.

The sight of her father being carried from the house on a stretcher had sent her running towards the pillared portico. Matthew Webster was clearly unconscious, but her mother was there, with Nathan just behind her, and she'd raised accusing eyes to her daughter's face.

"What is it? What's happened?" cried Caitlin, convinced in those first few minutes that Nathan was responsible for her father's collapse. She was quite prepared to believe he had told some cock-and-bull tale to her parents, blaming her for the rift between them and destroying all her father's hopes for their marriage.

"Where have you been?" retorted her mother tearfully. "If Nathan hadn't come at once, I don't know what I'd have done." She glanced round at her son-in-law gratefully. "We've both been trying desperately to find you. If you must continue to go out with your friends, you might at least leave Nathan an address where you can be reached."

Caitlin's eyes moved to her husband's then, and his smug expression was almost her undoing. But how could she accuse Nathan of anything in the present circumstances? With the guilt successfully transferred to her shoulders, it was doubtful if even her mother would believe her.

Of course, Caitlin could tell from Nathan's expression that he knew she wouldn't say anything now. That half-amused arrogance, quickly disguised when her mother turned to speak to him, was a clear indication of what he was thinking. There was no question now of Caitlin betraying his falseness. Until her father recovered his strength, her hands were tied.

And, unfortunately, since that afternoon, Matthew Webster had never completely regained his strength. He'd recovered from the attack, but his doctor had warned him there was still a weakness in his heart, and he had to avoid any kind of stress.

For her part, Caitlin had eventually resigned herself to the hypocrisy of her marriage. The awful thing was that, as the weeks and months went by, she had actually begun to ask herself what she had to gain by ruining Nathan's reputation. She was grateful that the physical side of their marriage was over, but from an objective point of view, he provided a shield. At least no other man attempted to seduce her. As Nathan's wife, she was protected from men like him.

Gradually, however, she had become aware of a change in her father's attitude towards her husband. He no longer seemed confident that Nathan was the man to succeed him. These days, he never spoke about giving Nathan more authority, and his sudden appointment of Marshall O'Brien as his second in command had placed a definite strain on their relationship...

"Mrs Wolfe?"

The unfamiliar masculine voice arrested her uneasy thoughts, bringing her abruptly back to earth. Whatever had happened in the past didn't much matter now. Nathan was injured, maybe seriously, and even her father couldn't blame him for that.

An elderly man in a white lab coat was looking down at her, and she forced her brain into action. "Dr-Harper?"

"That's right." Harper looked both harassed and weary. "Come with me, please, Mrs Wolfe. I'll explain why I wanted to speak to you before you see your husband."

"Good luck."

Emmy's mother called the words after her as Caitlin followed the stoop-shouldered medic into the corridor, and she raised a grateful hand. She had the feeling she was going to need all the luck she could get if Dr Harper's expression was anything to go by.

The corridors were still busy, with orderlies transferring patients from one ward to another. Although she tried not to look at all the gurneys they passed, the need to reassure herself that Nathan wasn't on one of them was irresistible. But none of the pale faces she saw even remotely resembled her husband. Wherever Nathan was, she was not to be allowed to see him until this unsmiling doctor had delivered his doubtful news.

The office he eventually appropriated was obviously not his own. A nurse, who had apparently been snatching a quick cigarette, was unceremoniously despatched, and Dr Harper opened a window to allow the noxious fumes to disperse. It allowed a draught of cold air to enter the office, however, and Caitlin blamed that for the sudden chill that slid down her spine.

"Please-sit down."

Harper gestured to a chair beside the desk, and although Caitlin would have preferred to stand, she obediently complied. The truth was, she felt less helpless when she was standing. As if whatever blow she was going to be expected to weather could be overcome better when she was on her feet.

"Thank you."

Her gratitude was as spurious as the tight smile she bestowed on her companion, and the doctor hesitated only a moment before seating himself behind the desk. It occurred to Caitlin then that he probably welcomed the respite. He wasn't a young man, and he'd obviously been continually on his feet throughout the night.

"You're English, Mrs Wolfe," he remarked at last, unnecessarily, Caitlin felt, but she assumed it was his way of starting the interview. Whatever he had to say, it was probably easier to get the formalities over first. Hospitals had their own form of protocol, even in circumstances like these.

"Yes," she replied now, crossing her legs and making sure the skirt of her coat covered her trembling knees. "I flew over from London this morning."

"This morning?"

Harper arched a quizzical brow, and Caitlin felt obliged to explain. "On the Concorde," she appended quickly. "I was lucky enough to get a cancellation."

"Ah." He inclined his bead. "Your husband's not English, of course."

Caitlin began to understand.

"No," she said evenly. "Nathan was born in this country. As a matter of fact, he was over here visiting his-oh, God!" She broke off as a horrifying thought occurred to her. "Has-has anyone informed Nathan's father? If he knew his son was on the flight, he must be worried sick. And he's not a well man-at least, that's what Nathan said."

"We only inform next of kin," replied Dr Harper flatly. "Right now, I'm more concerned with the after-effects of your husband's injuries. I have to warn you, Mrs Wolfe, there's a problem. He probably won't remember who you are."

Caitlin's jaw sagged. She had barely recovered from the shock of learning that she was going to have to break the news to Nathan's father, a man whom she'd never even met, and Dr Harper's words left her weak.

"I beg your pardon," she began, her mouth dry and taut with tension, and the doctor attempted to explain what he had meant.

"It's quite common, really," he told her, though Caitlin was equally sure it was not common at all. "Your husband is suffering the effects of being involved in a serious-not to say, traumatic-accident. In many cases of this kind, a temporary neurosis can occur."

"You mean-there's some psychological problem?"

"I mean that anyone involved in such a situation can conceivably suffer some kind of mental block."

"Mental block?"

"Mrs Wolfe." He was obviously trying to be patient, but he'd dealt with a lot of anxious relatives already that morning, and he was tired. "Your husband appears-I say, appears-to be quite normal. He has one or two minor injuries-cuts and bruises, that sort of thing-and when he was admitted, he was suspected of having a couple of cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder." He paused. "All of which have been dealt with. He's in a state of shock, of course, and I wouldn't say he was fit to travel. But com-pared to some of the other-passengers-I've seen, he's in fairly good shape."

"But...?"

Caitlin sensed there was more, something the doctor wasn't telling her, and Harper gave her a weary look before continuing with his diagnosis.

"But," he agreed with a sigh, "he can't remember anything."

"About the accident? But surely-"

"Before the accident, and the accident itself," Harper interrupted her heavily. "It may be a temporary condition as I say. It's too soon to tell, and often the victims of car crashes, explosions, that sort of thing, suffer a short-lived amnesia. That may well be all we have to deal with here. But with head injuries, anything is possible."

Caitlin swallowed. "You didn't mention he'd injured his head."

"Because he hasn't," declared Harper levelly. "Unless you count the bruise we found on his temple. We've done a scan, and we've found no internal bleeding. Nothing that might be causing pressure on his brain."

"Then-"

"Mrs Wolfe, what can I tell you? For the present, there's nothing more to be done. You must be prepared for him not to recognise you, that's all. That's why I wanted to speak to you before you saw him. I don't want you to upset him. I just wanted you to know what to expect."

3.

He had the most God-awful headache. There were times when it felt as if there was an army of blacksmiths hammering away inside his skull. Just moving his head on the pillow sent a spasm of pain spiralling to his brain. A brain, which he had to admit felt like mashed banana, and just about as much use to him besides.

At least he still appeared to be in one piece. He might have a stinking headache, but his brain was still functioning, albeit at half power. Some of the poor devils in the beds around him didn't even know which day it was. And the head injuries one of his fellow patients had sustained made him feel quite weak.

Well, weaker than he did already, he amended wryly, aware that right at this moment, he couldn't have punched his way out of a paper bag. Dammit, even his legs felt like jelly. And although they'd assured him it was just delayed shock, he couldn't seem to stop shaking.

It must have been one hell of a mess, he thought, not envying the fire crews and paramedics who had had to deal with the aftermath of the crash. Bodies everywhere, most of them well beyond the help of anyone in this world. And the screams-oh, God!-he could remember them. He doubted he'd ever get them out of his head.

Which was strange when so much else was gone. He didn't remember getting on the plane. He didn't even re-member where he had been going. But most disturbing of all, he didn't remember his name, or any damn thing about himself.

He didn't remember the actual crash, either-just the horror of finding himself on the ground, surrounded by the cries of injured people. Someone had told him, he didn't remember who, that he'd been thrown clear when the plane ploughed into the end of the runway. By some uncanny quirk of fate, the fuselage had fractured near his seat, and he'd been pitched onto the grass verge that edged the tarmac.

He remembered the smell-a sickening odour of kerosene-and the searing heat of the ball of fire that had consumed what was left of the aircraft. He knew that more people had died, engulfed by the flames, while he'd lain there unable to do anything.

They said he'd been knocked unconscious, which accounted for his memory loss now. He just wished he could have forgotten the aftermath of the crash. At present, it was the only thing on his mind.

Yet, if he concentrated, he could remember superficial things. It caused the throbbing in his head to increase, but he knew the name of the president who was presently occupying the White House, and he was pretty sure he could still read and write. For instance, those blacksmiths who were taking his skull apart had to come from somewhere. And no one had had to tell him where he was.

Or was that strictly true? Had he really known he was in a hospital in New York? He frowned. So, okay, someone had told him that, but he'd known what a hospital was, and he'd known what was happening after the crash.

The hammering was worse, much worse, and his mouth felt as dry as a dust bowl. Probably tasted like one, as well, he thought ruefully, wishing he could call a nurse. The injection they had given him earlier to relieve the pain must have worn off.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, a face swam into view. A female face, oval shaped and somehow vulnerable, it was gazing at him rather uncertainly. As if the woman didn't quite believe he was alive, he mused, forcing himself to concentrate on who she was. She was nothing like the nurse who'd attended him earlier, who'd scolded him for trying to get out of bed. Just because he'd wanted to go to the bathroom instead of using one of their damn bedpans. Dammit, he might have lost his memory, but he still had some pride.

He wondered briefly if he'd died and gone to heaven. The way his head had been hammering earlier, there was always a chance. And surely only an angel could have eyes that vivid shade of sapphire. Or were they violet? he pondered dazedly as a sooty fringe of lashes swept her cheeks.

He licked his lips, but whatever romantic words had formed in his mind, his outburst was hopelessly prosaic. "A drink," he whispered, giving in to the urgent needs of the moment. "I need a drink. I'm parched."

Every word caused the pain in his skull to expand, and her timid "What?" had him groaning for relief. Dammit, what was the matter with her? Was he speaking a foreign language? Why was she gazing at him with those big blue eyes, as if he'd scared her half to death?

"Oh-water," she eventually stuttered faintly. And now he heard the unfamiliar inflection in her voice. "I didn't think-I didn't realise-you want a drink?" She glanced around. "I'll get the nurse. Just hang on a minute."

"No," he began as she would have moved away, and although he sensed her reluctance to obey him, she stayed where she was. "There," he croaked, "on the cupboard." And she turned to look at the carafe of water and the glass.

It was her accent, he realised as she poured a little of the water into the glass, dropped in a straw, and slid a slim arm beneath his shoulders. It was different, unfamiliar-English? Yes, that was it. He would almost swear it was English So-he knew her accent, but he didn't know who she was.

A drifting cloud of fragrance enveloped him as she lifted him. And her breath, as she murmured, "Are you sure this is all right?" was just as sweet. Perfume, he breathed; nurses didn't usually use expensive perfume. Or wear fur-trimmed overcoats besides, he thought as the softness of her sleeve brushed his neck.

He was so bemused by what his senses were telling him that when she brought the straw to his lips, he felt some of the water go sliding down his chin. Oh, great, he thought, he was dribbling like a baby. What an impression he was going to make.

Nevertheless, the drop of water that made it past his lips was refreshing. The straw was only plastic like the glass, and the liquid had a faint metallic taste, but it felt like liquid honey on his tongue. It eased the awful dryness that was almost choking him, and although his head was still throbbing, the woman's appearance had distracted him from his woes.

When she lowered him back to the pillow, he groped blindly for her hand. "Who are you?" he demanded, hearing his voice, hoarse and anxious in his panic. He gripped her wrist, feeling the narrow bones taut, and somehow fragile, beneath his fingers. "You're not a nurse," he stated with more conviction. "Nurses don't dress-or smell-the way you do."

She hesitated. "Don't they?"

"No." He frowned. "I guess I should know you, right? We have-we have met before?"

"You don't remember?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking."

He sighed. That was stupid. He had to calm down. Getting angry with her wasn't going to achieve anything. She was here because she was concerned about him, not to listen to his griping. It wasn't her fault that the damn plane had crashed.

"If-if they let you in to see me, you must be a relation," he ventured steadily. He expelled his breath in frustration. "I can't remember."

She licked her lips now, her tongue appearing almost hypnotically to lave her upper lip. Its tip, pink and provocative, was mesmerising. It reminded him that his emotions hadn't been paralysed by the crash, and he let go of her wrist, not wanting her to recognise his reaction. For God's sake, the woman could be his sister, though he sensed with a kind of gut feeling that she wasn't.