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more passionate.

      ‘Fine. There’ll be some memory loss for a short period. That will return quite naturally.’

      ‘How long?’

      ‘Somewhere between a few days and a few months.’

      ‘But her memories, all her recollections, will return?’

      ‘Without fail. Everything.’

      Natalie forced a wary eye open. Who were these people who appeared to be discussing her quite openly in front of her?

      The light wasn’t too bad. She opened the other eye, as well. Two doctors stood at the foot of the bed.

      ‘Ah, she’s awake again.’

      That was the affable voice. It belonged to a short, slightly built man with sandy hair and spectacles.

      ‘Do you know your name?’ he asked.

      ‘Of course, I know my name. It’s Natalie.’

      ‘Natalie what?’

      ‘It’s not Natalie Watt at all.’

      ‘Can you tell me your second name, Natalie?’

      The persistent questioning made her feel very uncomfortable. She knew she knew the answer but it didn’t come to mind.

      ‘Natalie Something,’ she responded irritably. They wouldn’t be able to argue with that.

      ‘That’s good. Very good,’ the affable man soothed.

      Natalie dismissed him. She turned her attention to the other man, the one with the passionate voice. He was tall and broad-shouldered and so good-looking Natalie bet all the nurses swooned in his wake. He moved around the bed and sat on a chair beside her. He had riveting eyes, grey, with double rows of thick black lashes.

      ‘You’ve had a nasty knock on the head. Seven stitches. Everything is going to be fine,’ he assured her.

      ‘I know that, Doctor,’ she assured him back. She’d heard the other one say there was nothing that wouldn’t heal properly.

      ‘I’m not a doctor.’

      ‘Who are you then?’

      ‘I’m... Damien.’

      He looked anxious, uncertain, so she smiled to put him at ease. ‘Hello, Damien.’

      He relaxed and took her hand in his. ‘Hello, Natalie.’

      He had a beautiful voice. His fingers gently stroked her palm. Her skin tingled. It was a pleasurable sensation, soothing in one way yet oddly intimate, as though he was imparting some of his own energy through his fingers. She could feel little rivulets of warmth travelling up her arm. She wondered if he had healing hands.

      ‘I like your touch,’ she said.

      His face broke into a smile. His lips gave it a rueful twist but his eyes simmered with a warm approval that seemed to zing right into her heart. There was something very special about this man.

      ‘Are you some kind of therapist?’ she asked.

      He looked at her helplessly, seemed to come to some decision. ‘I’m your lover,’ he explained. There was a blaze of determination in his eyes, as though he wanted to sear that claim indelibly on her mind.

      Natalie stared at him in consternation. How could she mislay a memory of that magnitude? What was she doing with a lover anyway? Then she recollected she was in an intensive care unit. Only family was allowed there. Had he lied to get in? If so, who had sent him? And why?

      She looked sharply at the doctor who still stood at the foot of the bed. Did he accept this man as her lover? He didn’t look suspicious. He seemed to have adopted the role of interested spectator. Natalie decided to get some facts straight.

      ‘Where is my mother?’ she demanded.

      The doctor gestured to the man called Damien. Natalie swung her gaze back to him, her eyes sharply watchful as she waited for answers.

      ‘Your mother’s in Noosa, Natalie.’

      ‘Did the ambulance take me to Brisbane?’

      ‘No. You’re in Sydney.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘Do you remember what happened to you?’

      ‘I had a fall in the gym. Tried a double somersault over the vault.’ She frowned, not quite sure she had that right. ‘Maybe it was a triple.’

      ‘You’ve been floating in and out of consciousness for two days, Natalie.’

      She’d lost two days of her life. No wonder they were dripping something into her arm! She couldn’t comprehend why they had flown her to Sydney.

      ‘Can I go home now?’ she asked.

      ‘If you tried to stand up you’d probably fall over. Try sitting up.’

      Natalie tried and gave up without a struggle. It was easier to lie still.

      ‘You had an accident. Your memory will come back. So will your strength.’ Damien fondled her hand, pressing reassurance. ‘It will simply take a little time.’

      She had a very uneasy feeling about those statements. ‘What’s wrong with my memory?’

      ‘What happened in the gym must have occurred years ago, Natalie. You’re here because you were knocked over by a car.’

      Years ago?

      Her mind whirled. That couldn’t be right. She stared at him, looking for some waver in his steadfast gaze. There was none. The grey eyes had more than caring concern in them. They poured a message straight into her bewildered mind. I’m here for you. I’ll look after you. I’m the rock for you to lean on.

      ‘How old am I?’ she asked, feeling that he knew. She should know, too.

      ‘Twenty-eight,’ he said without hesitation.

      He squeezed her hand hard—or did she squeeze his? Twelve years lost! She had been sixteen when she had taken that fall in the gym. What had she done with her life since then? She remembered her ambition to become an artist, as well as a great gymnast. She suspected she hadn’t been much good at either.

      ‘What kind of work do I do?’ she asked, feeling an urgent need to fill in the gaps.

      ‘You’re very creative. You do graphic design on a computer. At the present moment, you’ve signed a contract to illustrate a children’s book.’

      ‘I must be good at it, then,’ she said in surprise.

      ‘Your work is stunning.’

      The admiration in his voice gave her a deep sense of pleasure.

      ‘Keep telling her everything that will prompt recall,’ the doctor encouraged. ‘The patient is doing fine. I’ll leave you to it.’ He gave Natalie a smile, Damien a man-to-man nod, and made a brisk departure.

      The doctor’s confidence was comforting. Natalie did her best to relax. She rolled the name ‘Damien’ around in her mind, trying to find echoes of it to patch together into a meaningful picture.

      Nothing.

      Yet his hand and eyes said she belonged with him, and the feeling he evoked in her suggested the same thing. She looked at him wonderingly. She was twenty-eight. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. What precisely was their connection?

      ‘How long have you been my lover?’

      His eyes were unflinching, steely, unrelenting. ‘Many years. But in all that time we never made love physically.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘You were married.’

      Another shock! ‘Who was I married to?’

      ‘A

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