Million-Dollar Amnesia Scandal (2 page)

“I can walk.”

And then a thought struck. Was she decently dressed? She lifted the covers and found she wore a long, emerald-green nightdress that laced up the front. A nightdress was
far from equal to his suit, but at least it adequately covered her from neck to ankles.

One hand pressed to her throbbing temple, she slowly swung one foot from under the covers to the floor. Seth moved to stand beside the bed, not close enough to crowd, but his presence was strangely reassuring, and she let out a breath. She slid the other foot out to join the first, wiggling her feet on the tiles to make sure they were stable, then she slowly rose from the bed.

The room slanted and spun and panic flared in her chest. She couldn't do it; she felt herself sway and knew her muscles had no hope of catching her. But before she could fall, Seth was there holding her, and without a second thought she leaned into his strong frame, gripped his shirtfront tightly as his powerful arms banded around her, supporting her trembling legs.

Dragging in choppy breaths, she didn't move. Neither did he. As if from a distance, she heard the woman claiming to be her mother asking if she was all right, but she ignored the questions. It was all she could do to let Seth hold her while she tried to steady the world again.

The room gradually stilled and she became aware of the man whose arms were about her. With her nose pressed to his chest, she breathed in his scent. It reminded her of a forest—fresh, natural, a taste of the woods on the wind. A scent that made her feel safe and at the same time gave her a sense of being fully alive.

She took a deep breath, willed her body to be strong, and centered her weight back on her own legs. “Thank you. I'll be fine to walk now.”

“I don't think so.” He scooped her up in one smooth motion.

Surprised, and with no other option, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tight. She wanted to tell
him to put her down, that she didn't care what his point was anymore, she just wanted to lie back in the hospital bed. But before she could get the words out, he'd walked the few paces to the window.

He gestured with his chin. “Those people are here for you.”

April looked outside. There was a huge swarm of people gathered several floors down, around what was probably the entrance to the hospital. Most had cameras around their necks, others stood near television equipment.

All those people there for her? Her stomach hollowed and a strange coldness spread across her skin.

“I'm famous?” she whispered in disbelief.

“Very.” Seth said the word with a twisted smile. The look told her clearly what his words did not. He still didn't believe her.

He was a stranger to her—why should it matter what he believed? But it did. She wanted those eyes of darkest blue to look at her with acknowledgment, respect. She wanted to say the words that would make him understand what was going on in her head.

Instead, she twisted in his arms to face her mother. “Why am I famous?”

The woman's hands fluttered around her face. “Darling, I think you should go back to bed.”

Arching her neck back, she repeated the question to Seth. “Why am I famous?”

He hesitated, seemed to be weighing up whether to humor her further or not. Then he relaxed a fraction. “You're a singer.”

A vision flashed in her mind—sitting at a piano, singing into a microphone on a stage before thousands of people. And for a moment the panic eased. “I play the piano, too.”

“Yes,” he said tightly, then carried her back to bed. He laid her down with infinite care, barely causing her head to jostle.

She adjusted herself against the pillows, then looked to Seth. “Are you in the music industry?”

“No, I'm in the hotel business.” He watched her sharply, as if that should mean something to her.

She suddenly knew he was very serious about why he'd come here. She just hoped they weren't opponents, because—if his eyes were telling the truth—Seth Kentrell would be a force to be reckoned with.

She sucked in a deep breath. “So tell me why you're here.”

“You have one of my hotels,” he said, eyes focused like a lion's on its prey. “I don't know how you got it, but I want it back.”

 

Seth watched April frown in apparent confusion. “How could I have one of your hotels?”

“It's a good question, but at this point, irrelevant.” He reached into his inside coat pocket and retrieved the folded paperwork. “You signed a contract giving you ownership, and I need you to sign these papers to rescind that contract.”

Of course, if she really did have amnesia and he got her to sign the new contract under these conditions, there was a chance it could be thrown out of court. But it was better than doing nothing.

She held his gaze as she took the pages, but she didn't open them. “If I've never met you before, how have I bought your hotel? Or was it done through lawyers, and you somehow accidentally signed approval?”

No, it had been done by somehow coercing his brother and keeping the deal secret. He'd only found out when
he'd been handed Jesse's possessions, which included the contract, at the hospital after he died.

He stuffed back the chaotic feelings from that day and locked them down tight. “You knew my brother.”

“Knew?” Her breath seemed to pause, waiting for his reply.

He braced himself and kept his voice neutral. “Jesse was killed in the same accident where you received your injuries.”

“Someone was killed?” Her words were strangled.

Her mother fussed with her hand, patting and stroking. “Darling, let's not worry about this while you're recovering.”

April ignored the woman and looked at him, her gaze steady. “Tell me what happened.”

Bringing the details to mind, Seth swallowed the emotion, refusing to let strangers see his private grief. “The two of you were at a lawyer's office. You signed a contract about the Lighthouse Hotel. You left together. There was an accident.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Who was driving?”

“Jesse.”

Her mouth opened and closed again, then she swallowed hard. Her shock seemed real. Perhaps this was the first she'd heard of it. Though even people without amnesia often didn't remember an accident that caused them to lose consciousness, so that didn't shed any new light on the bigger dilemma.

He poured her a glass of water from the jug sitting on her side table and thrust it toward her. Wordlessly, she took it and sipped.

Then she looked up at him, her eyes glistening. “You've lost your brother. I'm so sorry.”

Seth clenched his jaw against the grief and her sympathy. “Thank you,” he rasped and looked away.

After several long seconds of silence, he heard the bedcovers rustle and glanced back to see April sitting a little straighter in the bed. “Where is the Lighthouse Hotel?” she asked.

She'd changed the subject, guiding it away for his sake. He might not trust her, but he instinctively knew she'd done this from kindness. He appreciated it, but it wouldn't make him let his guard down an inch.

He cleared his throat. “In Queensport, on the Connecticut coast.”

“Did I have enough money to buy a hotel there?” She looked from him to her mother and back again. “It must have cost a fortune.”

“You didn't pay cash,” he said, watching her for any indications of prior knowledge. For a mistake in her act. “The contract was for an exchange.”

Mrs. Fairchild swung around, hawklike eyes locked on him. “What did she exchange?”

“A recording studio and a recording label, including the rights to the works of several artists signed by that label.”
Worthless.
“I'm sure when you're thinking clearly, you'll want those assets back, so if you sign this contract, we can fix it all now.” He retrieved the papers from her fingers and unfolded them before placing them and a pen on the wheeled table that was high enough to swing over her bed.

“Yes, darling,” her mother said, with an overencouraging smile. “Sign the papers. You love that label. You've spent six years building it up. And your studio—you had it built to your own specifications. It's exactly the way you wanted your work space to be, not to mention it's underneath your house. Your own
home.
I'm not sure what this man's brother said or did to make you sign away your home, your
career,
but let's clear it all up now.” She picked up the pen and handed it purposefully to her daughter.

April refused to take the pen, and instead of speaking to her mother, she looked at him—captured his gaze as she cocked her head to the side. “But I must have had a reason for making that agreement.”

Her mother patted her hand. “You were exhausted. We were worried you were burned out. Perhaps you just wanted a change and acted rashly. And,” she said with raised eyebrows, “we have no idea what that man did to convince you.”

Seth would lay serious money on it being the other way around. The Lighthouse Hotel was hundreds of times more valuable than the label and studio. On hearing of the deal, he'd assumed she'd slept with Jesse, used pillow talk to convince him. Jesse had always been a sucker for a gorgeous woman, had spent his entire adult life playing the fool for them—buying women cars or jewelry. This situation was likely no different.

But now he'd never know for sure.

April refolded the papers and pushed them to the edge of the table, then crossed her arms under her breasts. “I can't sign these. I'm sorry, Mr. Kentrell, but I know nothing about you or your hotel. And I'm not reversing anything until I remember why I signed that contract in the first place.”

Seth clamped down on the frustration that started to creep through his blood. He needed that hotel and he didn't have time for games. The transaction needed to be reversed before the board members found out.

Straightening, he shifted his shoulders back. “I'll give you twenty-four hours to sign, and then we play hardball.”

“Hardball?” April asked, eyes wary.

“Your mother thinks you were burned out before you went to the lawyer's office. How many other witnesses do you think I could find to tell a judge you weren't in the right frame of mind? Unstable—mentally unfit to sign a contract. One of my lawyers thinks Jesse didn't have the authority to sign a contract involving that amount of money. I'm willing to bet he's right. Either way, I'll get the contract voided, but I'm sure you don't want your fans to get wind of the word
unstable
.”

Her mother, who'd been silently complicit while he was talking, suddenly whipped around. “No.” Then back to her daughter. “Sign the papers, April.
Please.
”

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, looking back and forth between them, and he thought it was over, she was about to sign. Then, as if a regal air had descended to cloak her body, her entire demeanor changed. She was trying to gain the upper hand.

Chestnut-brown eyes locked on his. “I can't. But I promise, Mr. Kentrell, I'll work hard on getting my memory back. I'll do everything the doctors suggest, plus more besides. And when I do, you'll be among the first to know.”

She thought he'd sit back and wait, what, days or weeks?
Months?
Either this woman really did have amnesia, or she'd never heard of him before. Sitting back and waiting was so far from his modus operandi that they weren't even in the same universe.

His legal team would continue with their brief to get the contract voided, and in the meantime, he wasn't letting April Fairchild out of his sight. If she really had amnesia, he'd make sure she worked persistently at recovering her memory. And if she didn't have amnesia, then he'd be there when she tripped up.

He sank his hands into his pockets, his course chosen.
“I'll tell you what. I'll help you get your memory back. I won't be
among
the first to know you've remembered. I'll
be
the first.”

Surprise widened her eyes, but she recovered quickly. The tip of her tongue rested on the edge of her front teeth as she nodded, considering. “If you want to help, there's something you can do. I want to see the Lighthouse Hotel. I want to see the building that led to this whole…mess.”

Her mother started to protest that April needed to be at home, around the people who loved her, but Seth and April both ignored her. April's request suited his plan down to the ground, having her on his territory, in a place where he'd be able to control the situation. The facilities in the presidential suite were more than sufficient to form a work base. He'd be able to keep a proper eye on her, with minimal disruption to himself.

His smile was lazy, assured. “It would be my pleasure.”

F
ive days later, April sat on the edge of her hospital bed, dressed in casual pants and a pale blue sweater, waiting. The doctors had said she was physically well enough to leave, as long as she took it easy. Even though she hadn't had any more flashes of memory since the day Seth Kentrell had been in her room, they said there was no reason it wouldn't return in time.

They'd also recommended she go to her own home, surround herself with the familiar. The idea held no appeal—she felt no link to descriptions of her house or the woman who maintained she was her mother. Yet something compelling and irresistible was drawing her to the Lighthouse Hotel. She had no idea if she'd even seen it before, but there was a magnetic pull she couldn't deny.

Or even understand.

Perhaps because it had been a meeting about this hotel that had cost a man's life. And her memory.

Something was also telling her she could trust Seth. He'd been open in his agenda, honest in a way that she suspected her mother hadn't been.

As he'd promised, Seth arrived to pick her up. He strode into the room, tall and confident, as if collecting strangers from the hospital was nothing out of the ordinary in his life.

The thought made her frown. How could she possibly know what was normal in anyone's life, let alone Seth Kentrell's? She'd spent five days trying to remember something,
anything
about herself or her life. The medical staff had told her not to push; it would come when she was ready. So she'd tried to follow their instructions to be patient. And when she'd let her mind drift, instead of finding the secrets of her past, it invariably drifted to Seth Kentrell. To the way her body had almost quivered with awareness when he'd carried her in his strong arms. The way his scent had surrounded her when she'd been pressed against him. The way her skin had tingled when he'd reached over her to ring for the nurse.

She gazed at him now as he calmly took instructions from the nurse about not stressing her. Had she felt this way before about a man she'd just met? Perhaps she was the type of woman who formed impulsive attractions. Who fell in love at first sight and was regularly whisked away by sophisticated men.

But she didn't
feel
like that sort of woman. She felt more…guarded than that. Perhaps it was just Seth Kentrell himself who caused the effect in women?

The nurse finished and left the room, and Seth turned. The instant his gaze met hers, she was again hit with the intensity of his navy blue eyes. He held the look, and for one magic moment she had the distinct impression he felt
the same tug. But there was a challenge in his eyes, too. He still didn't believe her—that she'd lost her memory, that she couldn't remember signing the contract for his hotel. But at least he was honest about it—and again, paradoxically, his lack of trust made her feel safe with him.

She broke away and looked down. “This is all I have,” she said, indicating the small, brand-name suitcase filled with the things she'd had in her drawers.

He rocked back on his heels, his eyes watchful, still assessing. “Despite your mother's pleas that I renege and not take you to Queensport, she's packed a bag for you. It's already been sent ahead.”

Her skin pricked. Would he gauge everything she said and did to see if she was faking? But worse was that his words highlighted her feeling of dependence. Needing him to take her to the hotel she wanted to see, needing her mother to pack some clothes. The sooner her memory returned and she took charge of her own life, the better.

She picked up her small suitcase. “I'm ready to go.”

“The hospital's allowing us to leave by a little used staff entrance, so we can bypass the media pack out the front.” He took the bag from her fingers as a stocky man in a hospital uniform appeared with a wheelchair.

Determined to at least have enough independence to leave the hospital under her own steam, she shook her head. “I'm more than capable of walking to a car.”

“Sorry, ma'am,” the hospital worker said. “Hospital policy.”

Seth stepped forward and laid a hand on the wheelchair's handle. “I'll take her.” The other man nodded at Seth and left the room.

Seth politely indicated her seat with a wave of his hand, as if the contraption was a reasonable mode of transport. “Shall we?”

April bit down on her lip. Having medical staff push her in a wheelchair was one thing; but having this man—a man who overwhelmed her, yet only wanted an asset back—do the same, was frustrating. Closing her eyes, she took a breath and let it go. No matter how she wished she had her memories and could resume her life, this was the position she was in for the moment, and fighting it wouldn't help. She opened her eyes and sat in the chair.

When they reached the hidden entrance, he told her to wait while he went for his car, then appeared again minutes later in a sleek, midnight-blue sedan. He held the door open, waiting while she buckled herself in, before closing it and rounding the car.

Seth slid into the driver's seat and, as he smoothly joined the stream of cars, a dark suburban pulled out behind them. The move had been far from covert so it wasn't alarming, but she watched its progress in her side mirror. Did Seth have bodyguards? Did she?

“Who's that following us?” she asked.

“Your security detail. They've agreed to work with hotel security while you're in Queensport. You won't even notice them.” He reached behind into the back. “This is for you,” he said, passing her a folder.

Drawing her eyes from the side mirror, she opened the folder and scanned the first page:
Background Report: April Fairchild.

“What's this?”

“I had my staff put it together. To jog your memory,” he said, his face inscrutable.

His attention remained on the road and traffic, which gave her an unobserved moment to stare at the folder on her lap. She'd been wanting to know more, desperate even, but now that she had information literally at her fingertips,
her shoulders tensed and she had to force herself to open it, to ignore the fear of what she'd find.

She turned past the title page and her lips parted in surprise. Page Two had a biography with a photo that was undeniably of her, but nothing like the reflection she'd been seeing in the hospital mirror. This version of her had professionally styled hair, long and sleek. The colors were the same mix of autumn browns and golds, but it sat perfectly. She ran a finger over the picture on the page. There had obviously been a makeup artist as well—though it was subtle, she looked more beautiful. Her good features highlighted, her faults minimized.

Jazz singer April Fairchild burst onto the scene as a thirteen-year-old, and her fan base has only grown stronger and larger over the past fifteen years. The daughter of a small-time jazz singer, the late George Fairchild…

Her father was dead? Yes, she could feel the deep, stark hollowness in her chest that his passing had left. They'd been close—even without remembering him, she knew that. And for some reason she hadn't asked her mother about him since she'd awoken, as if part of her had known.

…she began her career performing duets with her father, April playing the piano and George on the guitar. Her ability to attract crossover fans has been the key to her phenomenal success…

April flicked to the next page, looking for something, anything, she felt a connection with—that felt real. Photos of her at an awards night, dressed in a sparkling gown, on the arm of a man in a tuxedo she didn't recognize.

More pages, more facts about her career, more photos of her. For twenty minutes she read, absorbed in what felt like the life of another woman. But it had all happened to her. Besides her reaction to her father's death, nothing else had sparked any kind of memory or emotional acknowledgment.
When she'd finished the last page, feeling a little wrung out, she closed the folder and let it lie on her lap.

Seth's eyes flicked over at the movement, and then returned to the road. “Finished?” he asked, voice deep and smooth.

“Thank you, I appreciate this information.” She knew he was doing it for his own ends, but that didn't detract from its value to her.

“Any of it familiar?”

She hesitated, debating how much to share about something so personal. But if he was to help her regain her memory, she needed to be honest. She stroked her fingertips across the folder's cover. “My father. I felt something when I read that he'd died.”

He didn't react even by a flicker of an eyelash. “You remember him?”

“Nothing that strong. No.” How to explain the powerful yet hazy sensation she'd felt? “I just knew it was true that he's dead.”

“That was the only familiar part?” There was a cynical twist to his mouth.

“You still don't believe I can't remember?”

Seth shrugged his broad shoulders, his eyes on the road ahead. “I've made my way in the world by never accepting things at face value.”

She took in the too-casual way he'd shrugged, the tense set of his jaw, and something underscoring his words that was just out of her reach. There was more to that statement.

She held the seat belt in one hand and twisted to face him. “People have judged you in the past by something false?”

“You could say that.” Again, the tension in his body belied his offhanded tone.

“If I were to get my staff to make a dossier like this—” she lifted the report he'd given her “—on you, what would I find?”

“The usual mix of media lies and half stories,” he said, seemingly unconcerned by the prospect.

“But if they dug?”

His mouth curved into a sardonic half smile. “I'm sure they'll find the story of my parents. It's something of an open secret.”

Despite the heavy subject matter, a sliver of something close to contentment stole through her body. This was the first real conversation she'd had since waking. Besides Seth's first visit to the hospital, each time she'd spoken to someone, it'd been about her physical condition. A discussion felt surprisingly good.

She settled back into her seat and watched him drive. “Since my history is already on the table, why don't you save me the effort of having a dossier made and tell me?”

“With or without the lies and half stories?” he asked with one eyebrow raised.

She bit down on her lip. There was an old, harsh pain he was masking, and it called to a place deep inside her. “Whichever you prefer,” she said softly.

A long minute of silence sat between them and she thought he wouldn't answer. But she waited anyway. Then he spoke.

“My brother, Jesse—” he paused and swallowed “—and I are the sons of Warner Bramson. Assuming you don't know who he was, Warner Bramson was a billionaire and a business genius.”

She cocked her head to the side. It was a strange way to refer to his father, saying they were the “sons of Warner Bramson.”

“Didn't you know him?”

“I knew him very well,” he said, voice even. “He spent a lot of time with us.”

April tapped a finger against the seat belt she held as she watched him. Perhaps she'd be this interested in anyone's past, now that she'd forgotten her own, but she suspected it was some indefinable quality about Seth Kentrell that was drawing her in.

She pieced together the information he'd given her so far—and came up with a picture that didn't gel. “What am I missing?”

Seth spared her a quick glance, but his expression gave nothing away. “He spent more time with us than he did with his wife and legitimate son.”

“Oh,” she said on a long breath, as it all made sense.

He nodded once.

“Did you know your half brother well?”

“I met him properly for the first time while you were in the hospital. There was a story on it in the papers. Make sure you get your assistant to dig it out for the dossier she'll make about me.” His tone was an attempt at wry humor, but she wasn't buying into it. Despite his efforts to play it down, she knew this was important. Her accident had been almost two weeks ago. The accident that had killed Seth's brother.

She wet her dry lips. “You met at Jesse's funeral.”

“Yes,” he said as he smoothly took a corner. “And we talked afterward. Have you been to New England before?”

She tried to remember, but nothing came to mind, and the scenery out the window didn't look familiar. “I don't know,” she said, glancing across at Seth. He was eyeing her sharply.

The question had been a test.

Her chest deflated. But he had a right to be checking—he had a hotel at stake and absolutely no reason to trust her. She was as much a stranger to him as he was to her, and she'd been involved in his brother's death. She looked back at the green scenery flashing past the window, but then a thought struck.

Was
she a stranger to him?

She dragged in a breath. What if the strength of her physical reaction was because she
had
known him? Her body could have been in his arms before and he wasn't telling her. Perhaps they'd been involved and he no longer wanted her, so was keeping his distance now. Or their discussions about her ownership of the hotel would be complicated by her knowing they'd been lovers. They
could
have been lovers.

She had to ask, had to know. There was no point trying to trick or test him—he wasn't a man to let go of control enough to be caught napping.

She ironed down the fabric of the trousers covering her thighs. “You said we'd never met before the day you came to my bedside.”

“That's right,” he said, nodding once.

She watched him for a long moment as he skillfully guided the car around a corner. Then she drew a deep breath and plunged in. “It doesn't feel like we've just met.”

For a split second his eyes widened, but he covered it so quickly she would have missed it, had she not been watching for a reaction.