Marriage: Classified. Linda Johnston O.

over his broad forehead. He had deposited his jacket and tie onto the back seat, and his white shirt was open at the neck, revealing a hint of chest hair a few shades darker than that on his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll remember everything, one of these days.”

      It would have been a perfect opportunity to tell Jordan about how she had fought off her attacker earlier—how her training had come back to her.

      But she didn’t tell him. Not yet.

      Though her mind had helped her in a crisis, the knowledge of a few self-defense techniques seemed like such a minor matter, compared with how she felt about the man beside her.

      She wanted to be able to fling herself into his arms and tell him she remembered how they had met. How they had fallen in love. What their wedding had been like.

      Until those memories had returned, nothing else was important.

      He had come around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. He helped her out.

      She glanced toward the house before them. It was a pretty dwelling, a two-story gray stucco with white trim at the doors and windows, small white wrought-iron balconies outside the two upstairs windows, and a riot of flowers in beds on either side of the walkway to the front porch.

      A tiny pang of recollection seemed to jolt Sara. “It does look familiar!” she exclaimed. She turned excitedly toward Jordan, unconsciously holding out her hands. He took them as she said, “Jordan, tell me about the house. Did we pick it out together before we got married?”

      The pleased expression seemed to vanish from his face, and his deep blue eyes grew fathomless once more. “No, Sara.” His voice was soft, as though he were talking with a child. Didn’t he understand that only made her feel worse? “It’s your house. You lived here with your father. Stu grew up here, too. Now it’ll belong to you.”