Million-Dollar Amnesia Scandal (4 page)

He also admired the view of her body as she walked two steps ahead of him. The sway of her rounded hips, the shape of her back under the sky-blue blouse, the jut of a buttock as she lifted a leg for the next step.

Just before halfway, April's steps became labored, slower.

He wanted to scoop her up and take her to the top, save her the struggle. But she wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, he offered her the choice. “Will I carry you?”

“No, I'll be fine.” But her voice sounded a little breathless.

He followed, now noticing her body less, and instead listening to the sound of her breath. They were almost two thirds of the way up when he couldn't remain inactive any longer.

“I'll carry you.”

“No,” she said turning. “I'll be able to do it on my own, I promise.” She turned back and on the next step, she stumbled and fell back against him. He grasped her tight against his body, steadying her, taking her weight.

She held herself still for long moments, until he said, “You've been unwell, April. Let someone help. Lean on me.”

And then she did, letting the hips and back and the rounded buttocks he'd been watching melt into his body. His pulse spiked, and it had nothing to do with the exercise of the lighthouse stairs and everything to do with the luscious body molded to his. His skin heated at each point they contacted, and everywhere else besides. This slow burn that had started the moment he'd seen her in the flesh had been growing too fast, too high. He wanted nothing
more than to lift her in his arms and kiss that full bottom lip, to coax her into kissing him back.

Would she kiss him despite finding her attraction to him “problematic”?

He closed his eyes and bit back a groan. This woman could jeopardize his entire inheritance. He had to keep the fragile alliances he'd built on Bramson Holdings' board of directors, and if Ms. April Fairchild had her way and he lost the Lighthouse Hotel, he'd lose their faith. He wasn't sure he had enough votes to become the next chairman, even if he retained the hotel, but he would give it everything he had.

And as far as he knew, she could be playing him. There wasn't much he hated more than being made a fool of the way Jesse had been by women. The way his mother had been by his father, a man who loved her. April could have awoken in that hospital bed and seen an opportunity to delay things and buy time for her legal team.

The reasoning sounded weak. And the feel of her body pressed against his was still so overwhelming—the smell of fresh apple in her hair, the weight of her, as if she lay above him in bed….

He'd make himself crazy if he waited another instant. Gritting his teeth, he swept her into his arms and continued up the stairs.

She opened her mouth to object, but must have seen the set of his face, because she fell silent.

The sooner Ms. Fairchild regained her memory—or admitted to having it—the better. The minute that happened he'd negotiate his hotel back, and then he was either walking away with his sanity intact…or taking her to his bed.

 

April relaxed into Seth's strong embrace. This was the second time he'd carried her. She knew she shouldn't
like it so much—but she had to admit she did. There was something very safe about being held by him. It wasn't just his physical strength; there was a core of inner strength that she could feel as surely as the fabric of his shirt under her cheek.

They reached the glassed-in platform at the top and he gently stood her on her feet. The curving vantage point had two well-padded deck chairs positioned to take in the view, and she sank gratefully into the comfort of one, relaxing her burning muscles.

Seth didn't join her. He held the inside rail and leaned in toward the glass surrounding them, almost touching it. She could only see his profile, but even from that she could see the alertness in his gaze, the hunger.

“The Lighthouse Hotel means more to you than just being an asset in your portfolio, doesn't it?”

He didn't turn, but the stiffness in his back spoke volumes. “My father would bring us here for holidays when we were young.” The understatement in his words sang its own tune—the loved illegitimate son.

“Was it his favorite hotel?” she asked gently.

Still looking out to sea, he shrugged one shoulder. “Its attraction was it was far enough away from his real family, and secluded enough to not cause too much scandal.”

He said the words matter-of-factly, but there had to be pain there, to be someone's dirty little secret. Granting him a modicum of privacy for his pain by not pursuing the topic, April dragged herself to her tired legs and joined him at a nearby window. “It's beautiful here.”

“Yes,” he said, but he sounded lost in his own thoughts.

She looked from the rugged coastline, where the waves crashed onto the rocks that reached above them, to the woods that surrounded them on three sides. She could hear music—a piano and a guitar. And there were voices, a
man and a girl singing in harmony. The words of the song drifted to her, as if on the wind, and a feeling of peace descended.

“What is it?” Seth's urgent voice came from close beside her, even though she hadn't heard him move.

She grabbed his hand and held it tightly, lost in the wonder of the moment. “I remember singing here.”

A
pril knocked on the internal door connecting her suite to Seth's, and when he called out, “Come in,” she slipped through.

He'd changed into a midnight-blue T-shirt and freshly pressed denims, and suddenly she was fully awake from her three-hour nap. Despite the lighthouse not being particularly high, and Seth having carried her part of the way, she'd been exhausted when they'd returned and had crashed. However, the view of him filling out that outfit was akin to a caffeine jolt, bringing every nerve in her body zinging to life.

When he saw her, Seth set his steaming espresso cup on a polished wood table. “I've got something here you'll want to see.”

She couldn't restrain a smile. “Does that line usually work on women?”

The corners of his mouth twitched as he regarded her. “You're feeling better then.”

“Much.” Unsure of her next words, but knowing she had to say something, she lifted a gold brocade cushion from the couch and examined the fringing. “Thank you for your help this morning. I know—” she paused and met his deep blue gaze “—I know I wasn't always making it easy for you to help me.”

He shrugged easily. “I'd be frustrated, too, in your position. Neither of us likes to rely on others. We have that in common.”

“Thank you,” she said, leaning a hip against the couch. It was kind of him to let her off the hook so easily. The more she came to know this man, the more interesting he became—ruthless yet honorable; playing hardball yet offering genuine courtesy. And sexier than any man had a right to be. She hugged the cushion to her stomach as she looked at him from under her lashes. In different circumstances, she'd want to know him better. Might even want to pursue their attraction and see where it led.

But—she sighed—the circumstances were what they were. Nothing could come of whatever was between them. Everything in her head was a jigsaw puzzle, and if by some miracle she could find a few of the missing pieces, he would still only want this hotel from her.

She laid the cushion down on the couch and brought the conversation back to his announcement. “What have you got to show me?”

“When you said you remembered singing here, I had the staff scour through our footage. We've been recording performances for years, and have kept old videotapes.” He picked up his espresso and moved to stand beside a television unit, a certain self-satisfaction in his features. “They found something from fifteen years ago.”

Her heart leapt and caught in her throat, making it
difficult to speak. This could be it. The clue she'd been hoping to find.

“A video of me?” she asked in a voice higher than normal. “Can I see it now?” She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle, waiting for his reply.

“I had a video player moved up here while you were resting. The tape is in, ready to go. But I'll get the restaurant to send up some food first—you missed lunch, and I don't want you keeling over at my feet.”

She almost laughed. Potentially the biggest breakthrough for her memory, and he thought she might like food first? “I'd prefer to see the tape.”

“Sure,” he said, but put a blueberry muffin from a basket on his kitchenette counter onto a saucer and handed it to her before he pushed the tape into the player.

April sank into one side of the two-seater couch that faced the television but stayed on the edge, her soft jade skirt pulled taut over her knees. She felt Seth sit beside her, deeper in, but she kept her eyes on the blank screen, nibbling her muffin. Suddenly colors lit the TV set, at first out of focus, then clearing to show a man on the stage, holding an electric guitar. She recognized him from the dossier, but even if she hadn't seen the photo, part of her would have known that man was her father. George Fairchild. Emotion pricked at the back of her eyes. She stopped nibbling the muffin, slowly lowering it to the saucer.

Without a word, he launched into a jazz number that was familiar, even if she couldn't name it. He was good. He wasn't just hitting the notes—the rhythm flowed from his fingers and voice. Entranced, April strained toward the screen.

Seth's voice was close to her ear. “George, your father, had a contract to sing through the summer as a live-in entertainer.”

She nodded in acknowledgment of the information but couldn't drag her eyes from the screen. The audience in the ballroom applauded at the end of the song, and once the room fell silent again, her father spoke. “I have a special treat for you tonight. My little girl, April, has been practicing a song for you. She had her thirteenth birthday a couple weeks ago and I promised once she was a teenager we could sing a duet. Let's welcome her out.”

The audience clapped and cheered and then a very young version of herself approached, a jumbled mix of nerves and wide-eyed excitement. She could feel that same reaction now—stomach cramped painfully, but bubbling over with anticipation, too—and wondered whether it was because she could see it before her, or whether it was a memory of that time resurfacing. Or perhaps it was just her reaction to the possibility of what she'd see on the tape.

Her father held out a hand and thirteen-year-old April walked over to take it, grinning madly. He kissed the back of her fingers and then released her hand to start playing his guitar. He launched into what she somehow knew was an old Louis Armstrong favorite, and after the first couple of lines, a higher, yet surprisingly strong voice joined his.

April's mouth moved in synch with her thirteen-year-old self—the song still lived in her subconscious. Her eyes filled with tears as she reclaimed part of her soul.

Seth leaned over to whisper, “I checked the dates. This was only a few months before your debut concert with your father in New York. Well, what the world considers your debut. Yet there you are.”

“There I am,” she repeated, eyes still on the screen.

At the end of the song her father again grasped her
hand, and without thought as she watched the tape, April lifted her hand off her lap. Strong warm fingers threaded through hers as her hand was enveloped in Seth's. She drew her eyes from the screen to look at the man beside her, and a shiver passed along her skin that had nothing to do with the déjà vu from the video. It was all Seth. The heat and the want he effortlessly evoked in her, the naked desire in his eyes.

Then her father spoke again, capturing her attention, and she was dimly aware of Seth removing the saucer and muffin from her hand and setting it aside.

“Thank you. As you can imagine, I'm very proud of her. And now she has one more surprise in store for you.” He gave the screen April an encouraging smile and the camera panned out as she walked to a baby grand that had been just off screen.

She sat, fingers hovering over the keyboard in the shape of a chord, as if gathering herself. Then she sounded the chord and her fingers flew confidently into a lively rhythm. The audience broke into applause, and when they quieted, she and her father sang together. George even paused at one point, ceding the limelight to his daughter, and she broke into an enthusiastic scat. The audience seemed astonished and thrilled.

Seth squeezed her hand, bringing her closer on the couch, and April was dimly aware of a tear trailing a path down her cheek. She knew the words, her fingers twitched as if they knew the notes. Then her spine straightened as a thought struck.
Did they?
Would her fingers remember more than her mind?

She turned in the couch, gripping Seth's hand tight. “Is that ballroom still there?”

“It's been refurbished, but it's essentially the same.”

Anticipation built in her chest, pulling tight. “What about
the piano?” Finding the very one she'd played as a teenager was a long shot, given there had been a refurbishment, but how wonderful would it be to see it?

“There is a piano there.” He glanced at the older ballroom on the screen, as if comparing the instruments. “I'm not sure if it's the same one.”

She leapt from the couch, feeling more enthusiasm than she'd felt for anything since she'd woken. “Can we look? Now?”

Despite the risk that she may not remember this any better than she'd remembered the rest of her life, she wanted to try, needed to see if she could play the music she'd heard.

An indulgent grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sure.”

While he closed the door behind them, she started down the corridor at a brisk pace. He caught her within a few steps.

“Eager, I see,” he said, amusement clear in his voice.

She bit down on her lip, and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I guess I am. This could be significant.”

As they stepped into the elevator, she mentally crossed her fingers, hoping it
would
be significant, and not another dead lead, like the reports Seth had commissioned for her, which had sparked no more than a memory that her father was gone. Maybe this would be the catalyst to bring her memories back.

When they reached the ballroom entrance, Seth pushed the double doors open, and even before she set foot in the room, her eyes were drawn to the piano. She stilled—limbs, heart, lungs—unable to move even if she'd wanted to.

It was the same shiny black baby grand she'd watched herself play on the tape.

Seth waited, then took her hand and led her across the room. “Do you want to play it?” he asked gently.

She moistened her lips as her eyes devoured the beautiful piano like a lover. “You don't mind?”

He chuckled and pulled out the stool for her. “You possibly own the hotel. I think we can swing a bit of time on the piano.”

She sat down, heart in her mouth, not sure if she would be able to play something as simple as chopsticks. But as her fingers hovered over the keys, it just felt natural to form them into a chord. And then the melody of the song in the video was in her head, and her hands translated it to the baby grand. It felt liberating, as if she'd set her hands free.

When she finished the piece, more music crowded into her mind and she set that free, too. Long and smooth. Fun and energetic. Sad and haunting. Some, she simply played, for others, she sang the words—whatever felt right. And it
all
felt right, felt satisfying in a place deep inside that she'd forgotten existed.

As she launched into an Ella Fitzgerald number, she looked up and saw Seth watching her, a burning heat in his eyes. He leaned back against the wall, hands deep in his trouser pockets, legs crossed at the ankles. The pose of a relaxed man. Yet he was far from peaceful. He radiated tension. She'd been vaguely aware that some hotel staff members had drifted in and formed a small crowd for her performance, but she only had eyes for Seth. For all that heat. She wanted it closer. All of it.

She segued into “Fever” without thinking much about it, and his navy blue eyes burned hotter.

As her fingers touched the final notes of the song and the sound faded, she paused. She and Seth hadn't broken eye contact for endless minutes and the air crackled with
their attraction. The staff burst into claps and cheers for the impromptu concert.

Seth cleared his throat. “Okay, everyone back to work.” The command had the staff moving quickly, but Seth didn't move a muscle.

Her heart hammered at her ribs as the staff shuffled out, some smiling their gratitude to her, one giving her a thumbs-up. It seemed to take an eternity, and all the time Seth's gaze was locked on her.

The moment the last person left, Seth strode the distance to her, slamming the ballroom door closed on the way past. April watched his progress, hardly daring to breathe. When he reached her, without a word or any preliminaries, he drew her up from the stool and his mouth came down on hers with a fierceness she welcomed with everything inside her. She wound her arms behind his neck, securing him, demanding everything he had to give.

His lips moved with urgency, his tongue claiming her, wanting her. Had she ever been desired this much? She couldn't imagine it was possible. The body heat emanating from him soaked through her clothes, down into her bones. Her skin tingled at every point that his hands, mouth or body touched.

All she could think about was the feel of his broad back beneath her fingers, the curves of his hard muscles, and wanting more, more. The clean forest scent of him blended with something darkly alluring and filled her head. His fingers stabbed through her hair and massaged her scalp, and in this moment she belonged to him, wholly and completely.

His hands slid down to her waist and he effortlessly lifted her high, onto the baby grand. Leaning down to preserve contact with his lips, she opened her thighs, and at the same moment he stepped forward, bunching her
long, soft skirt up and pressing against the core of her. She moaned, helpless to do more than kiss and be kissed.

His mouth moved to the side of her lips, to her cheek, and she took the opportunity to gulp in the air her lungs had been screaming for; but she locked her ankles behind him to make sure the break didn't become permanent.

“I can't stand it,” he murmured next to her ear. “I want you so badly I can't stand it.”

She ran her hands up over his strong shoulders, up the taut muscles of his neck, and pulled his face back to kiss her again. She needed his kiss, needed
him
. She wanted him more than anything. More than finding her memory. More than having this hotel.

Suddenly her body went cold, as dread washed through her.
More than having the hotel?

With no memory, the last thing she could afford was a case of starry-eyed naivety. And she had the worst suspicion that there might be more behind Seth's attentions than she'd been willing to admit.

 

Seth was almost mindless with wanting when he noticed the change—her mouth still touched his, but suddenly he was in the kiss alone. He pulled back.

“What's wrong?” he rasped.

April blinked hard, then looked away, and he forced himself to wait while she found her breath.