"You don't remember-anything?" she asked at last, clearly as dismayed by the circumstances as he was himself. And, although he had no reason to think so, he sensed that it alarmed her. So their relationship was not as simple as he'd like to think.

Yet why wouldn't she be alarmed to hear he was virtually a stranger? He was someone who couldn't even tell her why she was here. It must have been a shock. Hell! It was something more than that to him. But he still had the feeling there was something she was trying to hide.

"Nothing-personal," he replied at last, his headache rapidly overtaking his will to speak to her. He was too weak to play word games, and he half wished she would go. That surge of sexual attraction had all but dissipated, and he just felt tired. Deathly tired, actually. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

She was still watching him, warily, he thought, his imagination refusing to give in. He guessed she was trying to decide whether she believed him or not, and that was strange. Why would she think he might lie? What might he have done to make his answer seem so untenable? In the present circumstances, she must surely realise his limitations. For Christ's sake, he was lucky to be alive.

Or not...

"You don't remember going to see your father?" she ventured, and it was a great temptation to yell that he didn't know who the hell his father was. But at least she'd supplied another piece of the jigsaw. He had a father, if no one else. He wasn't completely alone.

"No," he sighed, finding the strength to answer her somehow. "Believe it or not, I didn't know I had a father until you said so. Or-a girlfriend, either," he added weakly. "Perhaps if you told me your name... ?"

Her lips parted. "I'm not your girlfriend!"

Her denial was absolute, and his hands curled helplessly into fists. For God's sake, she couldn't be his sister! He recoiled from that solution with a tortured breath.

"Then who... ?" he began, but the effort defeated him. Behind his eyes, the darkness was rising, albeit against his will. With a sense of shame, he felt his senses slipping. The woman, whoever she was, dissolved.

When he opened his eyes again, it was evening. He knew it was evening because the long blinds had been lowered over the windows in the wall opposite, and there were lamps glowing all about the ward. It was strange how in such a short time the place had become familiar. But-God!-it was the only point of contact that he had.

His head wasn't aching quite so badly now. Even when he moved his head on the pillow, he didn't get the awful hammering he'd had before. The shaking in his limbs had receded to an occasional spasm, and he actually felt as if he might be able to sit up.

He could smell food and he wondered what time it was. Early evening, he surmised, judging by the muted activity in the ward. They'd be serving supper soon, and then they'd allow the patients to have visitors. At least, that's what he seemed to remember had happened the night before.

His lips twisted at the word: remember. It was ironic, really, how some things seemed so clear. Like the night before, when he'd been transferred to this bed, and they'd been serving chicken soup for supper. He wondered what it would be tonight and if he'd be allowed to eat.

He closed his eyes for a moment as if to test his powers of perception. Yes, opening them again was definitely not the effort it had been. Last night, he'd felt as helpless as a baby. Which was silly, really, when he hadn't been badly hurt.

He closed his eyes again, and this time the image of the woman he had seen earlier that day swam into his vision. Her vivid gaze seemed so real that he opened his eyes once more, half-convinced he'd find her sitting beside his bed. But there was no one near him; the activity of the ward went on around him. Had she really existed? he wondered, or had he dreamt the whole thing?

He shifted restlessly, and a drift of perfume brushed his consciousness. She'd been wearing perfume, he remembered. He'd noticed it when she'd put her arm around him and lifted the glass of water to his lips. The scent of her must have lingered on his pillow. So, she hadn't been a dream; she'd actually been there.

Such a distinctive fragrance, he reflected, luxuriating in the memory. Cool and somehow innocent, yet purely sensual in its appeal. He knew instinctively it was the kind of perfume he liked to smell on a woman, and he briefly entertained the thought that she'd worn it just for him.

Yet when he'd suggested she might be his girlfriend, she'd been so affronted. As if the idea was too ridiculous to be borne. So-what? If not his sister, could she be his-wife? Dear God, he thought, if that were so, surely he would have known.

Or would he? Excitement stirred. The idea that he might be married to the beautiful creature who'd leant so confidently over his bed was tantalising. And it was an idea that, once having taken root, was hard to shift. Was that why she'd hurried to his bedside? And was she nervous because they'd had some altercation before he left?

But he'd been going to England, he reminded himself uneasily. And she hadn't been with him, so far as he knew. No, she couldn't have, to be so calm and collected. So had he been going to see her? Did they live apart?

She was English. He remembered that. Or if not English, then she'd lived there for some considerable time. God, if only he knew what had caused their separation. He knew so very little about himself.

As another thought struck him, he lifted his left hand and examined his third finger. But there was no ring-not even a sign that one had been there. But that meant nothing, he told himself fiercely. Not all men wore wedding rings. He frowned. Had she?

Refusing to let the insidious waves of panic scramble his already tortured senses, he made an intense effort to remember everything he knew about her. As if she were part of some imagined identity parade, he summoned up her image. Blue eyes simply weren't enough. He needed to recall her face in intimate detail.

But the features he forced back into focus were no more familiar now than they had ever been, and the knowledge that he could meet someone from his past without feeling any sense of identification almost frightened him to death. She'd known his father, he reminded himself desperately, which meant she had a part in his life. But what part? And for how long? And where was his father? The questions scared him more each time he struck out.

Panic almost overwhelmed him. He could smell the cold sweat that had broken out all over his useless body. Fighting it back, he struggled to find something to hold on to. But terror had him firmly in its grip.

Christ, what would he do if he never regained his memory? If the black hole he called a brain refused to work? What did people do in circumstances like this? Did they all feel so helpless? God, he thought, he'd have given anything for a shot of a single malt.

He blinked rapidly, feeling the incipient twinges of the headache he seemed to have had forever gnawing at his temple. It seemed as if whatever way he turned there was no relief. Dammit, he wasn't a chicken; he had to overcome this. But for someone who seldom got headaches in the normal way, it was draining his strength.

He swallowed. Now, how had he known that? he wondered shakily, clinging to the thought like the proverbial drowning man. How did he know he wasn't a slave to migraines, or suffer hangovers whenever he drank? And he did enjoy a drink; he was fairly certain. Oh, Lord, was his memory slowly coming back into life?

Afraid to explore something that still seemed so fragile, he turned his attention to what he had been trying to do before. With a determined effort, he forced the woman's face back into his consciousness. She must hold the key, if he could only remember what it was.

Her face seemed familiar now, but he knew that was just an aberration. Because he'd been concentrating on her image for so long, it had acquired a recognisable shape. But he didn't doubt that she was real; that she existed. He knew her, and that had to be a plus.

He breathed heavily. She'd had light brown hair, he decided, recalling the silky strands that had brushed his collar. Sort of toffee-coloured, he amended, and streaked with butter. Like caramel and cream or corn and coffee. He delighted in the comparisons. And just as smooth.

As far as her face was concerned, that was harder. It was oval, yet she'd had quite a determined chin. Her cheekbones had been high, her cheeks streaked with colour; and she'd had a mouth that he'd badly wanted to kiss.

Ridiculous!

He dispatched the thought instantly, drawing in another unsteady breath. It was no use speculating about their relationship. Until she told him who she was, it was far too dangerous to permit.

Once again he forced back the frightening void that loomed in front of him. He had to stop being so negative about his condition. That doctor-Harper-had said there was no easy answer. It would take days or weeks or months to recover completely.

Or never...

Of course, it was easy for a doctor to say. He didn't have to live with this terrible emptiness, this lack of knowledge that threatened to drive him mad. He didn't have to wake up to an awareness that was only partial. He didn't know his name, his age, his identity. He didn't have a life.

The brief spurt of optimism he'd been feeling while he was recalling the woman's image faded. There was no point in pretending he was getting anywhere with that. She was just as much a stranger now as she had ever been. Beautiful, yes, but anonymous just the same.

Which surely proved that their relationship couldn't be an intimate one, he decided wearily. And, looking back, she had shown little joy in finding he was alive. If his opinion meant anything, she'd seemed to look at him almost critically. As if she was searching for some recognition she hadn't found.

But that way lay danger. He refused to allow himself to approach the abyss again. She had to know who he was. Why else had she come here? The name-his name-Nathan Wolfe, had meant something to her.

A draught of air cooled his throbbing temples, but when he opened his eyes it was to find a nurse lifting the clipboard from the end of his bed. On it, he knew, were all the details of his present condition. They kept a note of his temperature, his blood pressure and his pulse.

And what else? he wondered. Judging by the way he was sweating at the moment, his temperature was probably way over par. He had only to think of how helpless he was, and his heart started pounding. The symptoms might be physical, but he knew it was mostly due to nerves.

"How are we feeling?" the nurse asked cheerfully, treating him to a gap-toothed smile. Haynes, he thought, frowning. Her name was Nurse Haynes. She'd been on duty last night when he was admitted. Only then he'd barely acknowledged she was there.

"I don't know about you, but I'm feeling terrific," he said, the cynicism in his tone barely disguised. He forced a grin to his dry lips to mitigate his sarcasm. "Say, who was that woman who visited earlier today? I did have a visitor, didn't I? She wasn't just a vision brought on by all those drugs you've been pumping into me?"

Nurse Haynes looked at him over the rim of the clipboard. She had nice eyes, thought Nathan objectively, though not as nice as some others he recalled. Nevertheless, she was his best hope for enlightenment. He didn't think old man Harper would be making any ward calls tonight.

The nurse lowered the clipboard to rest against her ample bosom. "She didn't tell you?" she inquired, and his impatience flared anew. Why was it that everyone seemed to think it was necessary to respond to his questions with other questions? Did they think he'd be asking if he knew?

"No," he replied at last, tersely, seeing no virtue in admitting some half truth. "So who was she? I have a right to know, don't I? Or is this some guessing game I have to play?"

The nurse's blonde brows elevated to somewhere near her hairline, and he realised he might have gone too far. He was in no state to make demands on anyone. Least of all some innocent nurse, who was only doing her job.

But Nurse Haynes was evidently disposed to be generous. "Why, Mr Wolfe," she said, in what he knew instinctively was a Southern accent, "that-woman-as you describe her, is your wife."

His stomach clenched. "My wife?"

"That's right." The nurse smiled. "A Mrs Caitlin Wolfe, from London. England, of course. What did you say to her? I hear she was quite upset when she left."

He couldn't believe it. My God, if she'd been his wife, he'd have recognised her, wouldn't he? She'd been so close; she'd helped him to a drink of water, for Christ's sake. He'd have identified something about her, even if it was only her perfume.

"I guess it's come as quite a shock to y'all?" the nurse ventured, suddenly anxious. Was she afraid she'd get into trouble for letting the cat out of the bag? But, dammit, if the woman was his wife, he deserved to know about it. If only so that when she came back he'd have something to say.

And then, as the rest of what she'd said struck him, he stared up at her. "She's left?" he exclaimed, gulping for air. "Dammit, where's she gone?"

"Why, to check in to a hotel, I imagine," responded Nurse Haynes soothingly. She hooked the clipboard back onto the rail and came to take his pulse. "I guess she'll come back tomorrow. Particularly as she's come such a long way."

"Pigs might fly," he muttered, resenting her suddenly for disrupting his pensive mood. How the hell was he supposed to relax when he supposedly had a wife he didn't recognise? And why hadn't she identified herself to him?

"She'll be here," declared Nurse Haynes confidently. She released his wrist and slipped her watch back into her breast pocket. "There now, you've got something to look forward to. Not everyone's so lucky, believe me."

His jaw clamped. He knew that was true. The aftermath of the accident was still horrifyingly fresh in his mind. After all, he was alive, and apart from his loss of memory, apparently not seriously injured. If he could only be patient, he had every chance of making a full recovery.

So why was he feeling so apprehensive? Why did the memory of his-wife-stick painfully in his gut? He had no reason to doubt she cared about him, yet he'd sensed a certain ambivalence in her gaze.

He spent the following day in a state of wary anticipation. Despite the depressed feeling he'd had the night before, he'd slept reasonably well and he'd awakened feeling infinitely brighter. At least he knew who he was, he told himself firmly. And from that basis, he would eventually rebuild his life.

So far as his marriage was concerned, he was determined to be optimistic. If it had been going through a rocky patch-and he had only his instincts to go on-then the accident could work in its favour. If he and-dammit, what had Nurse Haynes said her name was?-Caitlin? That's right, Caitlin. If he and Caitlin were having problems, they'd have a chance to solve them. They were being given a new start, whether they wanted it or not.

Before lunch, Dr Harper appeared, trailing his usual pack of interns. Evidently, his case had warranted some excitement in the medical school, and he was forced to lie there saying nothing, while every detail of his condition was brought out and discussed in embarrassing detail.

Not that any conclusions were reached. Despite the fact that they all seemed to have an opinion on the matter, he knew there was no real treatment available. Harper had already broken the news that physicians were still largely uninformed about the way to treat amnesia, and his primary brief, so far as Nathan was concerned, was to ensure that his vital signs remained good and his prognosis positive.

His determined optimism took a dive when afternoon visiting came and went with no sign of the woman they said was his wife. So far as his fellow patients were concerned, it was no big deal. Several of them didn't get any visitors, either, but he had been banking on her coming back and answering some of the questions that were now tormenting his brain. Who was he? What did he do? Where had he come from? And why had he been on the flight that had come to such an unhappy end?

Even so, he refused to be too downhearted. Perhaps she had other things to do. What other things, he didn't care to speculate. The possibility that she hadn't travelled to New York alone was becoming a source of anxiety he refused to face.

He barely touched his supper, earning a reproof from the ubiquitous Nurse Haynes. "Y'all should be thankful you're alive, Mr Wolfe," she declared, taking his pulse with impatient fingers. "If you're worried about losing your memory, just think how you'd have felt if you'd lost a limb!"

He agreed that he wouldn't have been too happy, though in his present state of mind he felt as if it might have been the lesser of the two evils. At least a man who'd lost a leg or an arm knew what was happening. He didn't need a doctor to tell him his name.

When his wife didn't appear for evening visiting, he knew he couldn't go on keeping his panic at bay. He couldn't think without resurrecting the ache in his temples, and although he was allowed to get out of bed to go to the washroom, his legs were so shaky he was practically in a state of collapse when he returned.

Where was she? Who was she? What if she wasn't his wife at all, but some sicko who enjoyed making other people sweat? No, they'd said her name was Wolfe-Caitlin Wolfe-and that was his name. He had his passport to prove it, if nothing else.

He slept badly in spite of the medication they insisted he swallow. And although his sleep was shallow, it was tormented by dreams. He had some crazy notion that he was looking in a mirror, but the man looking back at him wasn't himself.

He tried to shave the next morning. Designer stubble might look good on some hunk with a Miami tan, but on his pale face it just looked dirty. The trouble was, his hands shook so badly he ended up with a string of cuts, and his pallor wasn't improved by so much blood.

Still, what the hell, he thought, crawling back into bed, it wasn't as if anyone cared how he looked. This morning he had no expectations of a visit from his "wife." Whoever she was, she was keeping out of his way.

Yet, lying there, he couldn't help wondering what it was he'd seen in her face. He was convinced now he had seen something, and the thought occurred to him that she might have been afraid. But afraid of what? Of him? Of his condition? What kind of man had he been before the crash?

He looked at his hands, examining them, as if the answer might be found within their trembling grasp. What if he was a violent man? A wife beater? Dear God, was that the reason she'd looked so-strained?

Once again, the old fears threatened to overwhelm him. And once again, he managed to fight them back. Yet his sanity was in danger; he felt it. Even if he believed he wasn't a violent man.

He caught the man in the next bed watching him warily, and he realised he must look strange, staring at his hands. Thrusting them under the bedclothes, he offered the man a wry grimace. If he wasn't careful, he'd prove what he was trying so hard to refute.

Even so, another thought had occurred to him. His hands might not tell him what manner of man he was, but they did hold clues to the kind of work he'd done. His hands were hard, but he didn't remember seeing any calluses, and his nails were free of oil and grease. Which pointed to the fact that he wasn't a manual worker. Was it possible if he thought about an occupation he might have some success?

He made a salutary effort to swallow the stew and greens they served at lunchtime. But the meat was tough, and the greens were floating in their own juice. He seemed to remember that hospital food was always unappetizing. Could that mean he'd been in hospital before?

An hour later, he'd achieved no conclusions, either about his occupation or about whether he'd been in hospital before. It was like butting his head against a brick wall, which, come to think of it, was what it felt like had happened. His brain felt thick and mushy, just like soup.

He elbowed himself into a sitting position. It was almost visiting time again. The man in the next bed hadn't had a visitor the day before. In fact, he didn't think he'd had any visitors at all. He turned to him, preparing some friendly remark of commiseration. And then saw the woman walking toward him down the ward.

It was her.

Caitlin.

His wife!

He swallowed convulsively and immediately wanted to go to the washroom again. Christ, he was like a kid, getting excited just because she was here. It wasn't as if she was doing him any favours. For God's sake, she was twenty-four hours late!

But immediately on the heels of this came the awareness of his own shortcomings. He should have made an effort to improve his appearance while he had the chance. The nightshirt he was wearing was hospital issue. But what the hell! He usually slept in the raw.

The question of how he knew that was overwhelmed by his delight at seeing her. For almost forty-eight hours, he'd lived in anticipation of this moment, and for all his brave attempts to motivate himself, he admitted he needed her now, probably more than ever before.

4.

Lisa Abbott stood at the sitting-room window of her fourth-floor apartment, watching the rain dancing on the balcony outside. The plastic table and chairs that furnished the small balcony were dripping with water, and it was hard to imagine now that she'd actually sunbathed from that very spot.

Of course, that had been months ago, she acknowledged dourly. Since then, she had had plenty of time to complain about the English weather. Why didn't it snow, for God's sake, instead of this interminable rain? The dampness seemed to have invaded the apartment and seeped into her bones.

Still, the weather mirrored her mood, she thought grimly, crossing her arms over her slim body. Was it really only weeks ago she had felt so optimistic about the future? She'd been so happy; so sure nothing could go wrong.

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She should have known she was tempting fate. Oh, yes, she knew she should be grateful that Nathan was still alive, but why the hell hadn't he phoned? His secretary had said he had been admitted to a New York hospital; no one knew when he'd be back, but for God's sake, there had to be telephones there. Why hadn't he gotten hold of one and rung her? Didn't he care how she was feeling?

She sniffed, shivering a little in the sheer satin teddy that was all she was wearing. She'd bought the garment just a week ago, anticipating Nathan's reaction when he saw her in it. Now, it seemed it would be weeks before she was likely to find out. She didn't even know how badly he'd been hurt.

She'd worn the teddy today in an attempt to raise her spirits. It hadn't worked, even though she had gained some satisfaction from the knowledge that she still looked remarkably good for her age. The close-fitting satin accentuated the full swell of her breasts and hugged the narrow contours of her hips. For a woman of thirty-nine, she was remarkably well-preserved.

She sighed. If only there was something she could do, but her job at the casino meant she was virtually tied to staying put. Besides, it wouldn't do for Carl to think they were trying to cheat him. If she went flying off to the States, he was bound to think the worst.

Her teeth ground together at the thought of the hundreds of thousands of dollars that had literally gone up in smoke. She couldn't be certain, of course, but it seemed highly unlikely that Nathan's suitcase could have survived unscathed. He wouldn't have carried it on board as hand luggage. The last thing he'd want to do was draw attention to it. No, like everyone else's baggage in the hold, it would have been destroyed.