my death. Even if you and I are assassinated...the book will survive.”
Assassinated? “I must have this book. Where is it?”
“How did you learn English?” he countered. “You speak like an American.”
“Then I must have learned from an American.” She had no idea of how she’d gained her knowledge of language. Spanish or English. But it seemed right to add, “I have an ear for languages.”
“What others do you know?”
In flawless French, she said, “I am well acquainted with French though I have only visited that nation briefly. And, of course, Portuguese, because I spent some time in Brazil.”
Images flooded her mind. In memory, she observed herself laughing in an outdoor café. Utterly carefree, she tossed her hair and sipped at strong, rich espresso. Then she was joined by a woman whose dark eyes bespoke a depth of suffering. The woman didn’t belong there. The memory was painful! A physical ache tightened Maria’s chest. She felt as though she were choking, drowning.
When she spoke again, she used English.
“Tired,” she murmured. “I’m so tired.”
She lay back on the pillows, knowing that she must not allow her memory of that woman to become completed in detail. She had to fight it. If she remembered, she would sink back into the pain, the dire sense of helplessness.
But she heard the woman’s voice echoing in her mind, repeating a name: Jason Wakefield Walker. And there were directions: the marina near Boothbay Harbor. The Elena, a sailboat. Slip number eighty-six.
Her gaze snapped back to the present and she turned her head to stare at him. Had the dark-eyed woman been warning her against this handsome man?
Beneath the pillow, covered in fabric that matched the bedspread, she heard a crumpling sound. She reached underneath the pillow and touched a balled-up scrap of paper. A note.
Her fingers closed around it.
“Are you all right?” he asked. Slowly he came toward her. “Maria? What’s wrong?”
“Keep away from me.”
“I won’t hurt you.” He braced himself on his cane and gestured with his free hand. “I married you, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” She sat up on the bed to face him. “Yes. We are husband and wife.”
“And tonight is our honeymoon.” Sardonically he added, “I guess that makes me the luckiest man in the world.”
“Does my bedroom door have a lock?”
“Do you think that would stop me?”
“I would think that—if you’re a gentleman—you’ll respect my wish to be left alone.”
“I don’t believe you, Maria. You’re afraid of your real wishes. When you kissed me at the altar, your body responded to mine.”
“That meant nothing. It was a show.”
“Prove your words.” He caught hold of her arm. His grip was fierce and overpowering. “Kiss me now, Maria. Without passion. Without arousal.”
She stared into his storm-gray eyes. Part of her accepted his challenge. To kiss without excitement? Certainly she could do so. She had reason to believe that Jason was her enemy. Hadn’t he taken advantage of her already? Hadn’t he made her his mail-order bride? The very idea infuriated her. There was no sensible rationale for why a modern woman should have to barter with her heart. Not even to obtain freedom from an oppressed country. Her lips curled in a sneer. “You don’t excite me.”
“We’ll see.”
A part of her conscious mind wanted to kiss him because she remembered the pleasure of the first time. Of all her scant memories to be etched in vivid detail, that was the strongest. A kiss.
“Show me,” he said.
Standing close to him, she lowered her eyelids and lifted her chin. The light pressure of his mouth on hers was pleasant, but not overwhelming. She gritted her teeth, unwilling to show him that she enjoyed the contact.
His hand glided down her arm, leaving a trail of shivering sensation. He took her hand and placed it against his chest. Through the soft, white cotton of his shirt, she could feel warm flesh and the drumming of his heart.
His tongue flicked lightly across the surface of her lips. He kissed her cheekbone, her closed eyelids. He found her earlobe and nibbled.
She groaned with pleasure. This felt so indescribably right. His touch aroused her in ways that were uncontrollable. In the midst of her confusion she needed to cling to him. Her arms encircled him and she fitted her body against his. Her back arched as he nuzzled her throat.
Again he kissed her full on the mouth, and she surrendered to an explosion of desire that blanked her mind and erased any thought, except of him. Pure, tingling delight flamed within her. When he separated from her, she felt dazed.
“Are you all right, Maria?”
“I’m...” She fanned herself with her hand; struggled to regain her self-control. “I’m a little hot.”
“Don’t play with fire, lady. Or else you’ll be burned.”
As he moved slowly away from her, she felt annoyed with herself. And with him. He had no right to test these boundaries, wedding or not. And she had no business responding. Was this attraction the danger she feared so deeply?
Despite her brave thoughts, her voice stammered as she said, “I—I’m still locking my room.”
“Fine. All I promised was that you’d have a room to work and that you would be cared for. I’ll bring you a late dinner after the guests have left.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Later tonight, you will be.”
Before he closed the door he shot her a smoldering glance that, indeed, fueled her hunger. She was like a starving person, ravenous for his embrace, for the feel of his body against hers. The taste of him lingered on her lips. She craved his touch, the flames he kindled within her. Though she looked away, his gaze was branded in the forefront of her mind.
The door closed with a click.
She could not stay here. If she allowed herself to be consumed by this inappropriate desire for a stranger, she would never escape, would never learn of her own life. She needed to concentrate, to remove her mind from thoughts of Jason and imaginings of how it would be to make love with him.
Love? What could she know about love? She was a mail-order bride. Love was not a requirement for this position.
In her closed fist she still clutched the balled-up scrap of paper. Was it a clue? She unfolded the edges and read the words scrawled in Spanish. “You are in danger. Look in the bedside table.”
She pulled open the drawer of the small oak table. Inside was a package of tissues, a sachet of fragrant potpourri, and a gun.
* * *
JASON AVOIDED the wedding revelries that had taken over the lower floor of his house and went to his office where he tried once again to reach his source by telephone. Fifteen rings. No answer.
“Damn.” He’d been told that Maria would stay with him, assume his name and slide unnoticed into the bureaucracy. He had all the necessary documentations and certifications, including a couple of fake identity papers in case they needed them immediately. None of the papers had a photograph. As far as he knew, there were no pictures of this woman.
With any luck, according to plan, she would attain U.S. citizenship before anyone was wise to the fact that Maria Ramos Hernandez was the real name of the fiery journalist, Juana Sabbatta.
Jason had promised that he would marry her. He would give her his name as protection