Her Unforgettable Royal Lover(19)

“I can think of worse places to be than in your head, drágám.”

He wasn’t sure whether it was the lazy smile or the casual endearment or the husky note to his voice that brought out the Natalie Clark he’d met in New York. Whatever the reason, she responded with a hint of her old, disapproving self.

“You shouldn’t call me that. I’m not your sweetheart.”

He couldn’t help himself. Lifting a hand, he brushed a knuckle over the curve of her cheek. “Ah, but we can change that, yes?”

She pulled away, and Dom was cursing himself for the mix of wariness and confusion that came back to her face when a slim, thirtysomething woman in a white smock coat emerged from the inner sanctum.

“Ms. Clark? I’m Dr. Kovacs’s assistant,” she said in Hungarian. “Would you and your husband please follow me?”

“Ms. Clark is American,” Dom told her. “She doesn’t speak our language. And we’re not married.”

“Oh, my apologies.”

Switching to English, she repeated the invitation and advised Natalie it was her choice whether she wished to have her friend join her for the consult. Dom half expected her to refuse but she surprised him.

“I’d better have someone with me who knows who I am.”

The PA showed them to a consultation room lined with mahogany bookshelves displaying leather-bound volumes and marble busts. No desk, just high-backed wing chairs in Moroccan leather arranged around a marble-topped pedestal table. The physician fit his surroundings. Tall and lean, he boasted an aristocratic beak of a nose and kind eyes behind rimless glasses.

“I reviewed the computer results of your examination at the hospital yesterday,” he told Natalie in flawless English. “I would have preferred a complete physical exam with diagnostic imaging and cognitive testing before consulting with you, of course. Despite the limited medical data available at this point, however, I doubt your memory loss resulted from an organic issue such as a stroke or brain tumor or dementia. That’s the good news.”

Natalie’s breath hissed softly on the air. The sound made Dom reach for her hand.

“What’s the bad?” she asked, her fingers closing around his.

“Despite what you see in movies and on television, Ms. Clark, it’s very rare for persons suffering from amnestic syndrome to lose their self-identity. A head injury such as the one you sustained generally leads to confusion and problems remembering new information, not old.”

“I’m starting to remember things.” Her fingers curled tighter, the nails digging into Dom’s palm. “Historical dates and facts and such.”

“Good, that’s good. But for you to have blocked your sense of self…”

Kovacs slid his rimless glasses to the tip of his nose. Dom found himself wondering again about Natalie’s glasses, but pushed the thought to the back of his mind as the doctor continued.

“There’s another syndrome. It’s called psychogenic, or dissociative, amnesia. It can result from emotional shock or trauma, such as being a victim of rape or some other violent crime.”

“I don’t think…” Her nails gouged deeper, sharper. “I don’t remember any…”

“The hospital didn’t run a rape kit,” Dom said when she stumbled to a halt. “There was no reason to. Natalie—Ms. Clark—doesn’t have any defensive wounds or bruises other than the swelling at the base of her skull.”

“I’m aware of that. And I’m not suggesting the trauma is necessarily recent. It could have happened weeks or months or years ago.” He turned back to Natalie. “The blow to your head may have triggered a memory of some previous painful experience. Perhaps caused you to throw up a defensive shield and block all personal memories.”

“Will…” She swiped her tongue over her lower lip. “Will these personal memories come back?”

“They do in most instances. Each case is so different, however, it’s impossible to predict a pattern.”

Her jaw set. “So how do I pry open Pandora’s box? Are there drugs I should take? Mental exercises I can do?”

“For now, I suggest you just give it a little time. You’re a visitor to Budapest, yes? Soak in the baths. Enjoy the opera. Stroll in our beautiful parks. Let your mind heal along with the injury to your head.”

The neurologist’s parting advice didn’t sit well with Natalie.

“Hit the opera,” she huffed as they exited the town house. “Soak in the baths. Easy for him to say!”

“And easy for us to do.”

The drawled comment brought her up short. Coming to a dead stop in the middle of the wide, tree-shaded sidewalk, she cocked her head.