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Out
Of Darkness Chapter One Fire and ice burned through her veins. Everything ached. Bright shards of pain exploded behind her eyelids while a dull roar pounded at her eardrums. What happened? Where was she? “But of course, you will be just fine, yes?” a man’s heavily accented voice drifted into the darkness. She didn’t recognize the voice, though the
thick accent seemed familiar. She could almost discern what language
the accent belonged to, but she just couldn’t wrap her numb
mind around the right answer. Did she know him? Should she know
him? “You are coming awake, yes?” “No,” she whispered through dry, cracked lips. Her limbs and chest felt as if a sodden blanket were pressing down on them, crushing her. “You must awaken,” the rough voice persisted. “I am a doctor. I am here to help you. You may sleep later, but for now you must rouse yourself.” “Leave me …” her voice trailed off. The revival of her body brought with it a fresh wave of agony. She clenched her teeth, but it did no good. A moan escaped. “She is in a great deal of pain, but I dare not give her any more medication. Not until I know the danger of her slipping back into unconsciousness has passed.” French. The doctor spoke in French. Strange how she found his French easier to understand than his thickly accented English. He pried open her eyes and shone a light into their sensitive depths. She flinched at this new assault. “There is no indication of bleeding behind your eyes,” the doctor said. “No sign of serious injury to your head.” A friendly expression swam into focus. Reddish tousled hair, sprinkled with grey, a thick moustache, and heavy chestnut-coloured eyebrows that reminded her in an absurd way of animated caterpillars, wavered before her eyes. She peered from beneath half-closed lids and past the doctor’s shoulder at a tall, handsome man leaning against the doorjamb. Unlike the doctor, who wore a white lab coat over a rumpled shirt, the stranger wore a pair of crisp black pants topped with a midnight mock-neck sweater and dark jacket. Dark wavy hair framed such a striking face that the man almost looked angelic. But his black, finely arched brows that puckered in a deep scowl over his piercing, near black eyes, put her more in mind of a fallen angel, or an avenging angel. “You are a lucky woman that your injuries are not worse,” the doctor remarked. “All the bruises and scrapes on your head and body are only superficial, yes.” The handsome stranger spoke up in French, “Oh, yes.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “She is lucky indeed that a Good Samaritan cared enough to get involved.” She sighed and closed her eyes. Despite the strangeness of the unknown man’s words, which were for some unfathomable reason heavily underscored with sarcasm, the compelling timbre of his sexy voice soothed her. “Though I must admit,” the stranger continued, “I am most surprised to find that she is frail enough to feel any pain at all.” He gave a decidedly grim chuckle. “Her specialty has always been to inflict it upon others.” Her breath caught in her throat. What did he mean by that? Why would she want to hurt anyone? How could a complete stranger believe that of her? And why were they speaking so candidly in French in front of her? Did they not know she understood them? “What nonsense is this, Luc? You make it sound
like you and she have not been getting along very well lately.” “But of course, take her home.” A skitter of warning shivered up and down her spine at Dr. Mathieu’s suggestion. Why would she go home with a perfect stranger? The more she listened to the two men’s odd conversation, the more confused she became. Before she could ask anything, the doctor patted her hand and said, “You have been unconscious for a little time and must now remain awake for observation.” She stared at him. “You understand, yes?” “Yes,” she whispered in a cracked voice. She licked her dry lips. The doctor inserted a straw between them and urged her to drink. The cool water eased her parched throat. When she’d had enough, she croaked, “What happened?” “You were struck by a car,” Dr. Mathieu said. “You have a broken bone. It is a clean break in your left ankle. And your left shoulder has been dislocated. You have been unconscious for just a little while, most likely from the pain and not from any injury to your head. You understand, yes?” That explained the throbbing ache permeating her entire body. She closed her eyes. She longed to sink back into the comforting arms of oblivion. In her present state, she found the thought of being unconscious most appealing. There would be no pain and no hovering avenging angel. “I want to know the extent of the damage to your head,” the doctor said. He shone a penlight in front of her face. “Open your eyes. Look at me.” She could only lift the heavy lids halfway. She stared at him, and his blunt features swam in and out of focus. A feeling of lethargy crept across her senses. “What is your name?” he asked. “What?” His distant question made no sense. “Who are you? Do you know who you are, yes? Tell me your name.” “My name?” She strained to bring the
kindly doctor’s blurry countenance back into clarity, but
she couldn’t. And for the life of her, she couldn’t
tell him what he wanted to know. “I don’t know my name,”
she murmured, confused. “Don’t you?” She blinked and saw bitterness glinting in the depths of his dark brown gaze. She closed her eyes and felt the blood drain from her head. She got the distinct impression that he knew exactly who she was, and he didn’t like what he knew. She felt sick at heart. What had she done to deserve such animosity? “I’m sorry.” She breathed the words out on a sigh. Sorry for whom or what, she didn’t know. Just that she was sorry for whatever had landed her in this state of affairs. “Sorry?” He uncrossed his arms, walked
to the side of her bed, and stood glaring down at her from his towering
height. No longer willing to bear the antagonism in his eyes, she
turned her gaze towards his strong, sun-browned hands. She watched
as they clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Sorry will
never even begin to cover it,” he snarled under his breath. A distant warning fluttered in the back of her mind. But someone had. Or had she only imagined it? She didn’t know. The fear faded into confusion. “I don’t know what I did to you, but regret is all I have.” She finally raised her gaze to his. She saw her own confusion mirrored in the depths of his dark eyes. His bewilderment had a marked affect upon her, and the fear gripping her insides released its stranglehold. Shared confusion was far better than unwarranted antagonism. Luc thrust his fists into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “So,” he drawled. “You have conveniently forgotten everything. Pity, I don’t believe you.” “What did…?” She touched her tongue to her cracked lips. “What have I ever…?” Unable to complete the thought, her voice trailed away into uncertainty. She hated not knowing what she had done to this man. She longed to rectify the problem, whatever it was. “Done to me?” Luc finished saying for her. She had obviously hurt him; she could see that without being told. But how, and why? Before anything more could be said, a nurse peered around the door. “A policeman is here to question the patient about the accident. Is she well enough to talk to him?” “Yes,” the doctor said. “Send him in.” “Bonjour.” A grizzled officer entered. “I am Detective Gervais,” he said in French. His well-pressed uniform and trim moustache added to his air of authority. He wasn’t all that tall, but in breadth he seemed solid and strong. “I’m glad you’re here, Detective Gervais.” Luc stepped forward and shook the man’s hand. “But please, speak in English as she doesn’t understand any French.” She remained silent and stared at Luc. Was he lying, or did he really not know of her fluency? Fear fluttered in her lower belly like a frantic flock of butterflies. Her instincts warned her to lie low, remain as unobtrusive as possible. Her instincts were all she had. She listened to them and said nothing to correct the misconception. “I will be brief.” Detective Gervais pulled out a notebook. “I need to know what you remember of the accident.” His professional smile was polite, distant; he wasn’t here for a social visit. “Nothing.” She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. “Any detail, no matter how small, will help. Do you recall the colour or make of the vehicle that ran you down?” “I don’t remember anything at all,”
she answered more forcefully. She rubbed the damp palm of her good
hand on the covers. “I don’t know.” She looked to Luc to see whether he might know of her possible interest in art. He shook his head, his denial adamant. Still, she wondered at the truth. What did Luc really know about her? He obviously didn’t know she understood French. What made him the expert on her abilities? The police officer paused and studied her for a minute. He narrowed his eyes. “Next to your body, an ambulance attendant found a plastic bag. Just before coming in here, I received confirmation of the bag’s contents.” He paused. She stared back, her heart in her throat. “There were three grams of cocaine in the bag. Can you tell me why you were out late at night in a thunderstorm? Why were you walking alone in that part of town? Why were illegal drugs found near your body?” She kept shaking her head. “I remember nothing of my life before waking up here in the hospital.” Unable to bear the intent gazes of the three men any longer, she hung her head in an attempt to regain control of her growing fear. “Nothing?” She glanced up to find Detective Gervais staring long and hard at her, as if searching for any sign of deception. He turned to the doctor who verified the truth of her statement. “This will certainly complicate matters.” He scratched something in his book and underlined it several times. “Unless we can find anything more to go on, it will be classified as a hit-and-run and purse snatching.” “What about the drugs?” Luc asked, his voice tight. Detective Gervais shrugged. “Any fingerprints
were washed off by the rain. Someone else might have dropped the
bag there.” He addressed his next comments to her. “Until
you remember something of significance, I am afraid I cannot help
you.” She lay back and only half listened to their conversation. At the entrance of the officer, Luc’s antagonism had flown. Right now, she overheard him ask the policeman to keep him informed in a voice that showed genuine concern. Had she imagined the more negative emotions? The disorientation she’d felt upon waking must have affected her reactions. Surely Luc hadn’t been hostile towards her. The churning fear melted once more into confusion. The voices in the hallway reverted once more into French. Her mind switched with ease. She and Luc were obviously not very well acquainted if he didn’t know she was bilingual. Why was he here then? Maybe he was a co-worker, or landlord, or some other passing associate. That had to be it. Not all relationships were intimate and personal. She remembered the brief spark of awareness she’d felt the first time she’d looked into his eyes. Surely it had been a figment of her imagination. Luc and the doctor returned and stood discussing her as if she weren’t there. At their reappearance, her mind snapped back to attention. “You will not leave her unattended, ever,” Luc said. “If anyone inquires after her, you will inform me. And if she speaks of anything, I will know of it immediately from you. There is a great deal at stake here.” She closed her eyes and let their voices drift over her. Luc spoke to the doctor in a calm, rational voice. His concern for her wellbeing warmed her. “But of course, I understand,” Dr. Mathieu
said. “I, too, am concerned that the police have uncovered
nothing.” Her heart stopped. She was sure of it. Luc was insane. She couldn’t have possibly been involved with corporate espionage. Could she? “Are you sure, Luc? After all, she is—” “Yes,” Luc stated emphatically. “And I am only telling you this because I know I can trust our friendship and your professional integrity not to let this go any further than this room.” She heard footsteps. She opened her eyes in time
to watch Luc stride towards the door. He paused with his hand on
the knob. He glanced back at her before leaving. His dark brown
gaze speared her where she lay. The air constricted in her lungs,
and then he was gone. She took a deep breath to steady her overwrought
nerves before she addressed the doctor. “That is Luc-René Savard.” He gave her a long measured look before adding, “Your husband.” “My what!” She shook her head in denial, but the effort left her nauseous. She’d woken up to find herself immersed in a nightmare. Somehow, she’d fallen into hell and had married the Devil himself. A devil with the body and face of an angel – but a devil nevertheless. “That’s impossible.” She lifted her hand to her aching head, surprised to encounter a thick bandage. She dropped her hand. “I can’t possibly be married to him. I don’t even know him.” “Impossible as it may seem, it is true. You
and Luc have been married for nearly three years.” Dr. Mathieu
rubbed at his chin. “When you were first admitted into the
hospital, you had no identification, but I recognized you and contacted
him.” She considered telling the doctor she’d understood
their conversation when they spoke in French, but then thought better
of it. If they didn’t know of her ability, then maybe she
could learn more of her situation before it became any more intolerable. “And who …” She gnawed on her lower lip before finding the courage to ask the most important question of all. “Who am I?” She stared at the doctor. Sweat moistened her palms, and she clutched at the thin blanket covering her trembling body. She held her breath. The doctor stopped writing and held the note board lightly in front of his chest. “Your name is Genevieve Lynnore,” he replied. “Formerly Whitley, but now, of course, it is Savard.” “Dear God, help me.” She closed her eyes
and sunk down into the mattress. Like a deflating balloon, the air
whooshed from her lungs. She’d feared hearing it spoken aloud
might release the floodgates of memory, but the name meant nothing
to her. A whisper of memory teased the back of her mind before
fleeing just beyond her grasp. “Yes, no. I don’t know.” Had he ever loved her? Had she ever loved him? She glanced around the room, seeking answers in this sterile environment. She noticed for the first time there were no flowers or cards anywhere in sight. “I have no other family?” She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “Your parents are deceased. But of course, they passed on several years ago. There are no other relatives. Only Luc, yes, and his family.” No family of her own. Tears welled up behind her eyelids. Grief for what she didn’t have tore at her heart. She felt orphaned, abandoned. “Can you remember anything else?” “No.” She fought to keep her lids open. “I’m tired. I just want to sleep.” “I know you are weary, Genevieve.” He placed a hand over hers. “But we must do some tests to ensure that your amnesia is not due to any unseen trauma to the head.” She sighed in agreement. “I will send in a nurse to prepare you for the tests, yes?” “Yes,” she answered meekly. Later, the sweet release of sleep eluded her as the bits of information she’d just learned swarmed like angry wasps inside her seemingly empty brain. There were no other memories to dredge up to fill her thoughts, to crowd out the few that tortured her now. Nothing remained of her past but a terrifying emptiness. She was lost, alone, and married to a man who despised
her. Her heart knocked against her aching ribs. A single tear strayed
down her cheek. She swallowed past a hot, hard lump lodged in the
middle of her throat. * * * * Luc strode down the pristine hospital corridor, not slowing until he burst out into the last light of a very trying day. Disappointment at his wife’s awakening had left him feeling raw and on edge. Before he’d met her three years ago, he would never have wished harm on anyone. Why had Genevieve survived the accident? Against all he ever believed, even against his own conscience, he’d actually wanted her to die. No, that wasn’t true. He scrubbed at his jaw. Her death would have caused him untold complications in his business life, possibly even ruined him. He yanked out his keys and marched over to where he’d parked his green Triumph Spitfire. The Lamborghini, his favoured mode of transportation for longer distances, was in the shop for maintenance. This little car he used for fun. The trip to the hospital in the dark hours had been anything but fun. With long accustomed ease, he folded his frame into the tiny sports car and inserted the key, but he didn’t turn the engine over. He just sat with his hands gripping the steering wheel, staring ahead at nothing. Dr. Mathieu’s call had thrown him into a spin of emotional turmoil. He’d been working for weeks flat out to stop Genevieve from accomplishing a hostile takeover of one of his more lucrative import/export businesses. The accident had come as a blessing of the highest order. He raked his hands through his hair. He’d driven from Montreal to Quebec City in the wee hours, arriving just in time to verify her identification and to grant permission for her emergency care. Then he’d spent the rest of the day in his Quebec City office, working ceaselessly to halt her scheming. He rolled his shoulders. Luc recalled his first unguarded look into her dark, violet eyes. For an instant her vulnerability had struck him dumb, and he’d gaped at her as if seeing her for the first time. But then, fortunately for him, his former loathing had rushed to his defence. He couldn’t afford to go soft where she was concerned. If he did that, he might as well throw himself under a train and end it right then and there with a lot less pain and suffering on his part. If only he could be free of the yoke she’d fastened around his neck. He just wanted her to disappear from his life of her own free will. He just wanted to be left in peace. He started the car and merged into traffic. He had
a lot to plan and arrange by tomorrow, not the least of which was
what to do with her once she could leave the hospital. If she really
had lost her memory, then the safest place to keep watch over her
would be at the estate with him. He squeezed the tight muscles at
the base of his skull. * * * * Genevieve awoke to the sound of voices drifting in through the partially open doorway. They belonged to Dr. Mathieu and Luc-René Savard. Once again they spoke in French, and once again they did nothing to lower their voices or keep their conversation private from her. “Luc, I have conducted extensive tests on your wife, and I am convinced that her amnesia is quite genuine.” She cringed at the words ‘your wife.’ They sounded so irreversible, so final. “I have already spoken with her and explained the gist of the problem to her. Genevieve has a form of post-traumatic retrograde amnesia. She seems to be taking it all in stride. Personally, I believe her to be too confused to understand what it truly means to have forgotten her former life.” “What does all this actually mean?” Luc’s rich voice was underscored by frustration, a frustration she shared. “I need to know exactly what it is she cannot remember.” “It appears that she has lost all episodic memory.” “And that is?” “All memory of people, events, even circumstances that have shaped her life.” “That could be a good thing.” She heard Luc’s grim chuckle. “Considering all people, events, and circumstances in her life are aimed at ruining me.” She heard the ping of an elevator door opening and closing somewhere down the hallway, followed by the clatter of a cart rattling along the tile floor. Such mundane sounds had no part in such a mind-boggling conversation. Why would she be trying to ruin her own husband? Who was she that she could do such a thing? “How long can this sort of amnesia last?” Luc asked. “It is impossible to say,” Dr. Mathieu answered. “In my opinion, she is displaying the classic symptoms of psychological amnesia that has somehow been precipitated by the accident. Other than a few minor contusions, she has experienced no genuine trauma to the head.” “Psychological amnesia? What does that mean?” “It is as if she had seen or heard something terribly shocking at the time of the accident, or just prior to the accident. Something that her mind desperately does not wish to remember and so has buried it to keep from having to confront it. Often, with amnesiacs, it is the event itself that is forgotten. In her case, it is everything before and including the event that is gone,” Dr. Mathieu explained. “You are positive it is not permanent?” “She still has her sense of smell. Episodic memory and the ability to detect smells share the same side of the brain. Usually if one goes, the other is equally affected.” The doctor paused and she heard the rustling of papers. “I have done extensive tests such as an EEG, as well as MRI and CAT scans, and have found no damaged brain cells. I am certain that the amnesia will be temporary. But for how long, even I cannot say.” A muffled oath followed this statement. She sighed
in commiseration. This wasn’t exactly good news to her, either. Her heart thudded against her sore ribs. She clutched
at the thin blankets with damp palms. The feeling of fear she’d
first awakened with came rushing back in full force. The sense of
impending danger hadn’t been due to an overactive imagination. Had she? Did she know who wanted her dead? And why would someone want to kill her? Why couldn’t she remember? She closed her eyes and willed an image to appear from her lost past, but nothing seemed to exist from that time. “Whatever the reason, right now Genevieve is in no condition to take care of herself,” the doctor said. “She is injured and frightened with no memory of her past.” “That is the most bizarre part. Genevieve is so vulnerable right now that she actually seems to be someone else.” “The loss of her memory seems the result of this dissociation, and it is causing her to suppress her natural feelings. A personality change is not so unusual and is, in fact, quite plausible in these circumstances.” Her breath caught in her throat. She had a new personality? Was that possible? Could she really be so different now from what she used to be like? The idea left her cold. “But it will not last, will it?” Luc asked. “I cannot be that lucky that she will remain a completely changed person forever? Genevieve’s memory will return?” “Yes, eventually,” Dr. Mathieu said. “She is remembering little things already, like the preference of apple juice over orange juice. Again, more of a taste/smell memory, but a valid memory nevertheless.” “Mon Dieu. I did not want to hear that. Is there nothing that can be done to keep her from remembering?” She twisted the sheet into a tight knot. What lengths would her husband go to, to keep her from regaining her memory? “No. And even if there were, you should know
it would not be ethical,” Dr. Mathieu’s tone was stern. “Let her return to her apartment in Montreal. You have told me that you and she lived separately before.” “And leave her to recover her memories away from me?” Luc said. “Not very likely. Besides, her would-be killers are still somewhere out there. In all good conscience, I just cannot let them get to her again.” She sympathized with the unknown Luc-René Savard. The last thing she wanted was to go anywhere with him, yet his genuine concern took the edge off her apprehension. “You are right. They may try again once they learn that their first attempt failed.” “I will have to take her home to live with me,” Luc grumbled. “Mon Dieu,” he swore under his breath. “And I will have to hire a bodyguard to not only keep her safe, but to ensure that she does no harm to anyone else.” She closed her eyes. For one painful moment, her heart stopped beating, but then she forced herself to breathe. How could he even think that she might try to harm another? Tears stung the back of her eyelids. She blinked rapidly and inhaled the antiseptic smells of her sterile environment. Nothing here seemed familiar – nothing. Her thoughts strayed to her first meeting with her husband. Luc had been standing at the foot of her hospital bed. With vivid clarity, she recalled that first unguarded moment of awareness. Something had passed between them, something special. Despite everything she’d just overheard, she clung to that tiny moment in time. She dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her sheet. He would protect her; he’d told the doctor he would. Surely Luc had never wanted her dead. In that split second, she chose to trust him. What choice did she have? * * * * Yves Robitaille tugged the black, wide-brimmed leather hat down low on his brow and pretended to study a painting on the wall through a reflective pair of sunglasses. With growing interest, he listened in on Savard and the doctor’s conversation. Amnesia. The most amazing stroke of good fortune. Without her identification, he and the others were home free. He suppressed the urge to laugh out loud. He pushed the dark glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. If what the doctor was saying were in fact true, they could throw their original plan out the window. He had just come up with a much better idea. With a bit of careful planning, she would be the one to take the fall. Having her take the rap would be such sweet justice. Locking the free spirit up behind bars would be even better than killing her. He suppressed a chortle. And she wouldn’t even know why. Before either man could spot him, Yves sauntered down the corridor and out the building. He had to set himself up in a position to strike, and he knew exactly where that place would be. |
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