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The nurse’s English held an accent that was a mix of Italian and Tagalog, if Sasha wasn’t mistaken. She presumed they were still in Rome, but the path to escape her parents for good unrolled like a red carpet in her mind. If she didn’t acknowledge their place in her life, they wouldn’t have one, would they?
“No.” Driven by years of mistrust and manipulation, she claimed, “No. I don’t know who they are.”
“What about me?” The tense, masculine voice prompted the nurse to step aside, revealing Rafael.
He sat in a wheelchair. The side of his swarthy, gorgeous face was bruised. His eye was swollen and his lip cut. His arm was bandaged from elbow to wrist, his leg was in a cast, sticking straight out.
Sasha was struck dumb by horror. Hot tears pressed against the backs of her eyes. She was furious with him. She was so hurt she kind of hated him. But she also loved him, which meant that his injuries devastated her. She had nearly lost him!
But love was never part of their agreement.
He needed an heiress and an heir. He was obsessed with securing his empire. He didn’t need her. He had her money and his successor was on its way, hopefully still safe in the belly of their surrogate.
Molly hadn’t been with them, had she?
Sasha looked around with anxious confusion, panicked that she couldn’t remember when or where the crash had happened.
“What day is it?” She had texted Molly yesterday that she would call her in the morning. Was this the morning after the gala?
Oh, God. If something had happened to the baby—
She couldn’t take that thought. It was a last straw of anguish. She draped her forearm over her eyes, hiding from all of this, unwilling to hear what might come next.
“Alexandra,” Rafael growled. “Look at me.”
Someone must have pushed him closer to the bed. He took her limp hand. Her fingers felt bruised and sensitive after withstanding Humbolt’s clammy crush, but Rafael’s warm grip was careful if not actually tender. He guided her arm to rest their linked hands in the middle of her chest.
She couldn’t help looking at him and grew worried when she realized the way he was angled to reach her hand was causing him to grimace in pain.
She withdrew her hand so he wouldn’t have to extend himself.
His irises were such a dark brown they often seemed black, but they flashed with fire as he sat back and brought his hand into his lap. His mouth tightened in dismay.
His lashes were too long and thick and pretty for a man. That had always annoyed her, that he possessed such natural beauty while she had to visit salons for extensions. But she noted with distress that his jaw was stubbled with what had to be two or three days’ worth of beard. His cheeks were gaunt beneath his bladelike cheekbones. His face was lined with strain, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep.
And those compelling dark eyes were trying to consume her soul.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
Was that a real question?
No. She gave a small shake of her head. She had never really known who he was. They were honest with each other, mostly, but never open. Never revealing.
Something tortured flashed across his expression. He reached again for her hand and rubbed his thumb restlessly into the V between her thumb and finger.
They were both battered and in pain, but there was still that tingle of energy between them. Of life.
“I’m your husband. Rafael.” He waited a beat, watching for recognition to dawn.
Her feeble desire to protect herself from him grasped onto the charade of lost memory. It was a strong, serviceable shield that would brace her against everyone who was asking too much of her right now. She mustered a deliberately blank look.
Maybe there was wary curiosity behind it, though, because for the first time in the longest time, she felt she had stolen back a little power for herself. She had drawn a wild card, one that she could hold against her chest until it was the right time to play it.
She hadn’t held a card this explosive since—
She veered from touching that raw, exposed nerve.
Take your hand from his, she told herself, but she loved his hands on her.
