The Amnesiac Bride Read online

  She smiled at him. Like someone running barefoot over a field of cacti.

  “How could I not be, when my hosts are so charming?” She and Sally exchanged looks. In a way, she had a feeling that the other woman understood her. They both knew that the way around Quinton was to keep his ego anointed.

  Jeffers appeared in the doorway, bowing formally as he announced, “Brunch is served, sir.”

  Quinton presented his arm to Whitney. “Shall we?”

  Zane offered his to Sally, who took it gladly.

  The meal, like the suite, had to be seen to be believed. The chefs retained by the hotel to oversee Quinton’s kitchen during his stay at Zanadu prepared fare that no ordinary restaurant could readily include on its menu. Not without charging the exorbitant prices that few could afford to pay.

  And Quinton was getting it all free, Whitney thought, compliments of a grateful management. There were little gifts from exclusive shops throughout the rooms. And private limousines, not to mention a jet, at his disposal, night or day. Somehow, it just didn’t seem right. He certainly had enough money to pay for all this. It probably would have represented no more than spare change to him.

  “It’s just good business on their part,” Quinton told her when she commented on the lobster that had been flown in fresh from Maine just this morning when he’d expressed a desire for it. “I’m what they call a high roller.” He looked at the expressionless butler who was serving them. “Isn’t that right, Jeffers?”

  The butler never missed a beat as he presented the dish of lobster Newburg to Zane. “That is rather an indelicate term, Mr. Quinton. The hotel prefers to think of you as an honored patron.”

  And Quinton knew just how the honor had been earned. “Who’s been known to drop a cool million in less than an hour.”

  She knew that Quinton gambled huge sums of money the way the people in the lobby played the dollar machines, but she’d never thought that much money was involved. He was talking about sums that any random twenty people collectively didn’t see in a lifetime.

  “How would you do that?” She’d almost said “could” instead.

  He passed her remark off as an annoying inconvenience. But Whitney had seen the look on his face each time the house had been the winner. Quinton wasn’t a man who liked to lose.

  “By having Lady Luck turn her back on me just as the cards were being dealt.” He held his glass up, waiting for Jeffers to refill it for him. With flawless movements, Jeffers ceased serving lobster and picked up the bottle of wine. Quinton raised the filled glass and toasted first Whitney, then Zane. “I knew the minute that you pushed me out of the way of that car that there was something special about you.”

  You couldn’t have known it at the time, Zane thought. “When I shoved you aside, you had a few choice words for me,” Zane reminded him.

  Quinton. shrugged, sampling the freshened glass. “Oh, that. I’m not accustomed to being handled.” He looked pointedly at Sally, then shifted his gaze to Whitney. “Unless I specifically request it, that is.”

  The man certainly was blunt, Whitney thought. And accustomed to getting what he wanted. She wondered how long he would take no for an answer before he tired of being polite about it.

  “I didn’t have time to shout a warning,” Zane said. “If I hadn’t pushed you out of the way, you would have been flattened. I thought your bodyguard was going to shoot me.” He laughed now, but it had been a chilling moment. The man had whipped out his pistol from a shoulder holster and had trained it on Zane a second before the car had come rolling down.

  Quinton nodded. “If the car hadn’t gotten in the way, he would have. He’s no longer with me,” he added matter-of-factly. “There didn’t seem to be much point in keeping a man around who couldn’t do his job.”

  Whitney wondered if the man had been drawn and quartered or merely fired.

  “I’m thinking of offering one of those two gentlemen out front the job when I leave. It has to be better than standing around in multicolored harem pants.” Quinton pushed himself away from the table. He looked at his guests, ignoring Sally. “Well, can I offer anyone anything else?”

  Whitney had done the food justice. Not caring for her host had no effect on her appetite. But even she had a limit. “Not unless you want to see me explode.”

  Quinton had watched her sample everything. “I like to see a woman with a hearty appetite. It speaks well of her.” He nodded toward his mistress. “Sally eats like a bird. I don’t care for a picky eater.”

  “You also don’t care for a fat woman,” Sally reminded him casually.

  Sally knew what was necessary to remain on Quinton’s good side. She’d tasted the kind of life he had to offer and had vowed not to be discarded, like her predecessors, no matter what it took. She had the stomach to do what was needed when it was needed. She knew that was her chief asset as far as Quinton was concerned. That and the blind eye she turned to his continual dalliances.

  “It’s true, I don’t,” Quinton agreed. “I have a weakness for shapely, pretty things.” He let his eyes linger on Whitney, “Now then, shall we see about that tour?”

  Five minutes into the tour, Whitney began to see why there was a staff on hand. It was to keep Quinton and his mistress from getting lost on the premises. She felt as if she should leave breadcrumbs in her wake to retrace her steps.

  It wasn’t a suite, in her estimation. Suites could easily be explored in a few minutes. Quinton’s accommodations were more like a house. A subpalace, as the management preferred to call it. A palace fit for a king, for a king’s ransom.

  Or, in this case, a king’s ransom lost. It didn’t make sense to her, spending this sort of money to keep someone like Quinton happy; but then, she didn’t have the vantage point of someone running a gambling establishment. All she saw was one greedy, selfish man.

  Listening to Quinton talk about himself and his tastes for the past two hours had given her an incredible headache, even though he spoke in measured, cultured tones.

  She’d grown quiet, Zane realized. He wondered if she was feeling well.

  He wasn’t the only one who had noticed. “You look pained, my dear. Surely it’s not because of something you ate.”

  She moved her head slightly, with little feeling. Any sudden movement would have had the tiny hammers turning into the sledge variety. “Oh, no, everything was wonderful. I just have a headache.”

  “There is an entire pharmacy at our disposal. Whatever you need, I can supply.”

  She was sure he could, or at least that he thought he could. Everything in the matching his and hers bathrooms was oversized—and no doubt overstocked. But what she wanted was to leave this tastefully decorated mausoleum and lie down.

  “I’m afraid that nothing ever does any good. The only remedy that works for me is to get some rest and sleep it off.”

  Quinton indicated the winding staircase. “You have your choice of several beds.”

  She would be as tense as a surfboard, anticipating his appearance at any moment if she took him up on his offer. She wanted to avoid that at all costs.

  “Thank you, but I’d really rather just lie down in my own room, if you don’t mind.” Zane began to rise. She placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him down again. “No, honey, you stay. This might be a good time for you and Mr. Quinton to review your agreement.” She subtly made reference to the promise Quinton had tendered to Zane earlier. “There’s no reason you have to hang around the room, watching me sleep.”

  Besides, if Zane were there, she knew she wouldn’t get any rest. She might have the beginnings of a major headache, but she wasn’t dead.

  A slight line of impatience creased Quinton’s brow. “Are you certain I can’t offer you something?”

  She paused, thinking. “Well, there is one thing.”

  “And that would be—?”

  “A guide. I think I need help finding the door.” She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to turn left or right after leaving the dinin
g room. The tour had only served to confuse her waning sense of direction.

  Waving Jeffers away, Quinton presented her with his arm. “I’ll take you there myself.”

  Zane didn’t like the thought of Whitney going off by herself. But this would give him an opportunity to get Quinton alone to talk business. Without Whitney around, Quinton would probably retreat with him to the den, leaving Sally to amuse herself.

  Which she probably could do quite well, Zane mused, given the opportunity.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Zane asked Whitney.

  He was sweet to worry. “I’ll be fine. All I need is some rest.”

  “I’ll look in on you in a little while,” Zane promised as she left the room.

  “Take your time,” she told him.

  “That’s what I like, an understanding woman.” Quinton nodded his approval as he escorted her to the door. “I could have a physician look in on you,” he offered.

  That was the last thing she wanted, to be fussed over. “It’s a headache, Mr. Quinton, not a hernia. I’ll be fine with a little sleep.”

  He toyed with the locket she wore, being far too familiar for her liking. “Then you’ll be able to come to the casino tonight?”

  It was hard to reconcile superstitions with a man who considered himself so dynamic in every other way. “I wouldn’t miss it,” she promised, wishing that she could.

  Quinton signaled for the butler. “Jeffers will take you to your room.”

  “There’s no need for that.” Not waiting for him, she opened the front door herself. “I’m sure he has more important things to tend to. And I’ve been walking around on my own for quite a few years now.” She paused. “Thank you for brunch—it was wonderful. I’ll see you later.” She smiled just as she slipped out. “Send back my husband when you’re through with him.”

  “When I’m satisfied with his answers,” Quinton said to the closed door.

  On the other side of the door, Whitney heard him and wondered what he meant by that.

  Maybe, Whitney thought twenty minutes later, she shouldn’t have turned down Quinton’s offer of an aspirin. The headache had refused to abate and she was getting desperate. Quinton probably had fifty different brands to choose from. And there certainly didn’t seem to be any anywhere in the suite. She’d gone through the medicine cabinet and her own luggage twice, checking along the cloth perimeter. But apart from an extra toothbrush stuck in the lining, it was empty.

  Sighing, she set both suitcases back in the closet beside Zane’s. She eyed the tan luggage, thinking. Maybe Zane had packed a bottle. She took it out and placed his suitcase on the bed, then went through it systematically.

  The thorough search yielded the same result. Nothing. With a sigh, she dropped down onto the bed. The suitcase slid off, landing on the floor with a thud as one edge caught the corner of the bed. She debated just letting it lie there, then reached for it. The headache pounded harder.

  And that was when she saw it.

  There was a gun on the floor. It had just fallen out of the empty suitcase.

  Chapter 11

  For a moment, all Whitney could do was stare at it. Her brain refused to accept what her eyes saw.

  But it was there, at her feet. A gun. And it had fallen out of Zane’s suitcase. From a hidden compartment that somehow must have opened when it had hit the foot of the bed. Why else hadn’t she found it when she’d searched the interior for aspirin?

  Hidden. Zane had a gun he kept hidden.

  Why? What did he need with a gun?

  The muscles in her stomach tightened like a clenched fist, bunching so hard that it was difficult for her to breathe. Just what kind of a man had she fallen in love with and married?

  Like a desperate, cornered man, her mind began to grasp at half theories in an attempt to find a way to exonerate him.

  But all she managed to do was condemn him.

  Dragging a deep breath into her lungs, she followed it with another and another, until her breathing had steadied again.

  But her hands were still shaking as she picked up the gun. The feel of the cool steel against her fingers brought with it a flash of a memory that raced through her brain with lightning speed.

  She’d done this before—held a gun in her hand just like this. But when? And why?

  Whitney couldn’t begin to think of a single reason why she should be familiar with handguns. Or with any sort of weapon, for that matter.

  Or why Zane should have one in his possession.

  The memory, like the glimmer of the early-morning sun between the leaves of spring trees, disappeared. She couldn’t summon it back no matter how hard she concentrated. Holding the gun didn’t help. It only magnified her feeling of despair.

  She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to. She had only herself and she didn’t even know who that was. Whitney struggled to pull herself together. She couldn’t afford to go to pieces now.

  Pieces. She was holding pieces, only a few pieces in her hand and the puzzle before her comprised more than five thousand. She had no idea how any of it fitted together.

  All she knew was that there had to be more.

  There had to be something that she had overlooked. Something that she was obviously missing.

  Besides her mind.

  Quinton leaned back in the roomy, wine-colored chair that complimented the ornately carved eighteenth-century desk. Leaned and rocked as its soft-as-butter leather molded about him like the embrace of a wellcared-for mistress. He’d already made up his mind about Zane and the proposition, but he always left an escape route for himself. Just in case. When things looked too good, too pat, they usually were.

  But not always. Sometimes the perfect hand did get dealt. Quinton just had to decide whether this was that time.

  Straightening, he opened the humidor on the desk and tilted the container toward Zane. Cigars stood at attention within it like a well-drilled brigade of soldiers.

  “Have one.” He waited for Zane to make his selection.

  Pretending to actually debate over his choice, Zane picked one. Offering a cigar from his private collection was Quinton’s way of sealing a bargain. To pass it up would have been an insult, flying in the face of one of his many superstitions. Zane had worked too hard and come too far to do that, even though the idea of inserting one of these fat aromatic cylinders into his mouth and lighting it repulsed him.

  He had never had a smoking habit he needed to break. There were other things to haunt him, to shackle him, but this minor vice had never been one of them. He didn’t smoke at all, not even occasionally.

  Zane hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself.

  Quinton passed his small scissors to Zane after using them to cut off the tip of his cigar. Zane mimicked the action deftly. With an approving nod, Quinton leaned over to light Zane’s cigar, then brought the flame back to his own. He slipped the engraved gold lighter into his pocket and took a long, thoughtful puff.

  There was no one else in the room to light the cigars, or to jump in anticipation of Quinton’s next need. Here they were alone in a room meant for conversation and reflection.

  A room where deals were struck. A room that Quinton had regularly checked for hidden transmission devices.

  Quinton leaned back and pursed his lips, blowing. Smoke swirled in the air above his head like an ironic halo. His eyes narrowed into pensive slits as he studied Zane over the tip of his cigar. You could tell a lot about a man by the way he smoked another man’s cigar. Just as you could by the way he did or didn’t refuse the attentions of another man’s woman.

  He thought of Sally and smiled to himself. Russell had passed that test.

  Quinton nodded at the humidor. “They bring these in for me daily. Sweating all the way.” He laughed as he thought of the furtive way Jeffers looked around as he produced the Havana cigars each afternoon. “The butler’s as straight as an arrow. Hates the idea of being party to anything illegal.”

  Quinton paused, reflecti
ng. The butler, like the rest of the world, was there for his personal use. Quinton gave the man less than no thought ordinarily, now that he was satisfied that Jeffers checked out.

  “Probably doesn’t even cheat on his taxes.” Quinton laughed softly to himself. Zane thought it was a particularly nasty sound. “Where would we be if everyone was like that?”

  The answer was automatic. “Out of business.”

  Meticulously, Quinton flicked ashes into an ashtray shaped like a leering gargoyle, taking care that none fell on the desk. He didn’t like seeing fine things marred—unless it was unavoidable.

  “Thank God the average citizen finds it easier to be corrupted than to live the life of a saint.” He watched Zane’s expression. “I’d find that boring, wouldn’t you? Being a saint.”

  He was probing him, Zane thought. Trying to make him lower his guard and then get inside his head. “Fortunately, I’ve never had that problem.”

  This time the laugh was genuine. “Good answer. Neither have I.” A gleam entered Quinton’s gray eyes. “I like living on the edge.”

  Zane looked around at the wall of books Quinton had insisted on, some of them first editions. And at the vase, which held flowers that were brought in daily. A history buff, Zane recognized the design. The vase was worth thousands of dollars. These were the surroundings of a man who enjoyed the finer, softer things of life.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call this the edge.” The edge was a Spartan place, a place where the faint of heart never tread, falling back instead on the familiar, the comforting. The edge didn’t have bottles of wine whose cost rivaled the national debt.

  “But it is,” Quinton contradicted. He gestured around the room with his cigar. “This is what the edge can get you—if you’ve got the stomach to play the game.” He pulled the smoke into his mouth and savored it before releasing it again. “You hold the cards close to your chest. Is the other guy bluffing?” He smiled craftily. “Are you? Gets the adrenaline pumping. The only game in town worth playing, Russell.” He rocked, thinking, remembering. Reliving. “The only game.”