She had no idea how long she lay there, blissfully unconscious, she only knew that at last, slowly and reluctantly, she swam up from the dark waters of sleep and into the real world again to find that beyond the bedroom window the sun was already beginning to set. The brightness of the afternoon was fading, and darkening shadows were starting to fill the room. But they were as nothing when compared with the shadows that were creeping into her mind and heart.
Beside her, Andreas still slept deeply, his head pillowed on her arm, jet-black hair fallen forward over his wide brow, his strong jaw starting to be darkened by a day’s growth of stubble. His breathing was deep and even and, encouraged by the fact that he was so dead to the world and so had no idea of what she was doing, she allowed herself just to lie there and watch him, studying his sleeping face—his sleeping, beloved face—so intently that it seemed as if she needed to imprint its image on her mind, store it up there like supplies hoarded carefully against a future famine.
And she might truly have to do that, Becca admitted to herself, acknowledging with a desperate, sinking sensation of sadness that after this there was no way things could ever be the same.
Sighing deeply, she lay on her back and stared up at the white-painted ceiling above her, with eyes that fear and misery made blind, the bitter tears stinging hard, fighting to fall.
‘We can’t go back,’ she whispered to herself, recalling how on the way upstairs she had been thinking how this one special time with the man she loved could be so extraordinary, so new, so fresh, so wonderful in a way that it could never be again.
Even if Andreas’ memory never returned, there was no way they could repeat that exceptional, unique and magical moment of finding each other again in a way that almost matched—and totally outclassed—the time that she had lost her virginity to Andreas, just a few weeks after they had met. That glorious time had gone for good and things could never be as great as that again.
And the cold, creeping sensation of fear that ate into her heart forced her to face the truth and to acknowledge the worry that things could only go downhill from here.
Downhill to where? How far could things go? How bad could it be?
Beside her, Andreas stirred, muttering faintly in his sleep, the sound drawing her head round sharply to look into his face just as he stretched lazily and opened his eyes, his black gaze looking straight into her clouded blue one.
And what she saw in those dark depths made Becca’s blood run icy cold in her veins as she realised that things could very definitely get a whole lot worse.
And they just had.
CHAPTER NINE
ANDREAS had been dreaming.
Deep in sleep, he had been in a world that was so very different from the hot sunny day he had known when he was awake. A cooler, greyer world, but one where his most vivid impression was of green—lush green grass, rich and smooth as velvet, that sprang under his feet as he walked towards the huge marquee tent that was set up right in the middle of the vast lawn.
Inside the tent there was the buzz of conversation, the clatter of glasses and every now and then a ripple of laughter. And his eyes, the blurred eyes he had in his dream, were assailed by the sight of hundreds of people, all crowded together. To his unfocused sight, the men were just grey or black blurs, the women multicoloured, bright and silky, so brilliant they made his head ache.
He didn’t know what he was doing here. Didn’t feel that he belonged. He only knew that this was where he had to be—that they all seemed to be expecting him, because they turned when he came in, all those faceless people, turned and lifted their glasses in a toast, cheering and saying, ‘Congratulations, Andreas! Congratulations!’
To Andreas’ horror the words felt almost like physical scrapes against his skin, ripping away some much-needed protective layer and leaving him raw and disturbingly sensitive. They added to his sense of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people. There was no one there he could recognise, no one he could turn to, to start a conversation with or even risk giving a smile.
Not that he wanted to smile at anyone. His mood was quite the wrong one for this happy, cheery gathering too. He felt more like a wild, hungry, savage wolf that had prowled into a gathering of birds of paradise and was hunting for just the right one to pounce upon, to tear to shreds with the teeth that were clenched tight inside his aching jaw. He knew just which one he was looking for, and he stalked amongst the happy party, struggling to control the ferocious snarl that threatened to escape him at any moment. She was there somewhere—instinctively he knew that his prey was female—she was there, and when he found her…