“Willy’s gone into town for dinner,” he offered shortly, sawing away at his overdone steak with a vengeance. She toyed with some lumpy mashed potatoes, obviously instant from the paper taste of them, and she nearly muttered that she didn’t blame him. The vegetables were bland and tasteless, the company was hostile, and she had to force herself to eat. If this was Patrick’s idea of cooking she would clearly have to remedy the lack in her education. Maybe she wasn’t quite as disinterested a cook as he thought.
The silence stretched and grew, while he ate and she watched. When he was finished he got up, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the back of the stove before he stalked out of the room. She stared after his tall, lean form for a long, thoughtful moment. Either her husband was an incredible pig, or she’d done something totally unforgivable. She didn’t remember whether he was the forgiving type, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to find out.
She cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and poured herself a cup of coffee that resembled black sludge. For a moment she hesitated, trying to decide whether to drink it in the safe, solitary confines of the kitchen or brave the lion in his den. She was learning a lot about herself fast, and one thing she’d discovered for certain—she wasn’t a coward. She followed Patrick into the living room.
He was staring moodily into the fire, one tanned, long-fingered hand stroking the dog’s head, the other wrapped around his empty coffee cup. He barely glanced up when she entered, and paid no attention when she sat down in the chair opposite him.
She took a sip and shuddered, then felt his eyes on her.
“You take milk and sugar in your coffee,” he said in a bored voice.
“I don’t know if it would help. This coffee is a lost cause.”
“Maybe you could learn to make something other than instant,” he snapped back at her.
She bit back her annoyed response. “Maybe I could,” she said in a neutral voice. “What’s the dog’s name?”
“Beastie,” her husband answered, staring into the fire. Upon hearing his name the dog raised his head and looked at Molly from his soulful eyes for a moment before dropping back down with a deep, doggy sigh.
She sat back in silence, sipping on the rancid brew, before making another attempt at polite conversation. “Patrick.”
He looked up, startled. “Why did you call me that?” he demanded. “You usually call me Pat. When you aren’t using nastier terms.”
“Do I?” she murmured absently, determined not to let him goad her. “Well, if you prefer it, I’ll call you Pat.”
“No, I don’t prefer it.” He gave her his full attention. “Listen, I think we’d better come to an understanding if we’re forced to share each other’s company for the next few months.”
“Few months?” she echoed in a hollow voice.
He nodded grimly. “It will take that long for our divorce to go through, and I promised the police I’d be responsible for you till then. I’m a man who pays attention to my responsibilities, even the unpleasant ones, but I won’t have you dragging my name into the gutter anymore. You will stay on this farm with no long-term visits to any so-called friends from school. If you behave reasonably well I’ll give you use of one of the cars to go shopping on occasion. I know how you love to spend money,” he added bitterly, the fire lighting up his cold, handsome face. “Willy will be around to entertain you, as will Aunt Ermy. You’re simply going to have to curb your jet set tendencies for a while, until I’m free of you. There are the horses, as you well know, and you might even have Mrs. Morse teach you a bit about cooking if you’ve decided to put on a housewifely act. But don’t think for a moment that you’ll fool me again. Most of all, you’re to keep out of my way and out of my business. Is that understood?”
She had a temper. Dr. Hobson had warned her of it, but she hadn’t seen much of it in the short time her memory had been active. During the last twelve or so hours she’d been alternately frightened and uneasy.
But right now her anger overrode any lingering nervousness that might be plaguing her. She looked at the cold, handsome man who insisted he was her husband, the man who’d just dismissed her so cavalierly, and her last attempt at polite behavior vanished.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” she said. “You want me to go away, keep my mouth shut, leave you alone and stop asking questions. Sorry, I won’t do that. You can’t dismiss me like a good little girl and expect me to be seen and not heard.”
“You’ve never been a good little girl in your entire life,” he snapped. “I didn’t expect you to start now. Your so-called amnesia is only supposed to cause memory loss, not total personality change.”
“My so-called amnesia?” she echoed.
“You don’t think I buy that for a moment, do you? It’s a little too convenient, Molly dearest. You don’t usually underestimate me—I suggest you don’t start now. I don’t believe in your amnesia, I don’t believe in your lost little girl act, and I don’t believe in your country girl look either. If you want to reinvent yourself, wait till you have a more appreciative audience. You lost me years ago.”
“I thought we’d only been married ten months?”
It silenced him, effectively, if only for a moment. “Get out of here, Molly.”
“I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
“No, you aren’t,” he said in a faintly menacing voice. “That doesn’t mean I won’t try.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Take it whatever way you want.”
“What I want are some answers. You can give me that much, can’t you? Just a few answers to a few simple questions? That shouldn’t be too much of a strain on your good nature.”
He stared at her for a long moment. There was no warmth, no caring in his cold face, but a certain angry resignation. “I’ll answer your questions,” he said, “if you promise to leave me the hell alone once I do.”
