Forgotten Wedding Night, Book #2

• Alpha Male
• Marriages of Convenience
• Billionaire Husband
• Amnesia

She’s my soul mate, my wife … but she claims she has no memory of me.

Married one day.
A single passionate wedding night.
And then she vanishes.

When I find her, she’s in a hospital where she stares at me as though I’m a stranger. Claims I am a stranger. Resists returning to our Caribbean home. Not that I’ll let her get away with her lies.

I plan to keep her secluded on my island until I can discover why she’s faking amnesia. What sinful secret is she keeping from me?

One way or another, I’m going to uncover the truth, even if it means trapping her in my bed and seducing the damnable secret right out of her.

Forgotten Wedding Night is a passionate, tender contemporary romance, guaranteed to make you a believer in happily-ever-after.

Note to Readers: Forgotten Wedding Night is Book #2 in The Sinful Secrets Series, a contemporary romance series by USA Today bestselling author and eleven-time RITA© (Romance Writers of America) finalist, Day Leclaire. This story features a hot, take-charge alpha hero and the perfect woman for him, and a sizzling romance between soul mates.

“Anna. Anna, wake up.”

She tried to respond, but only a soft moan left her lips. “No . . . Not . . .”

“Open your eyes, sweetheart. Look at me.”

The voice was stark, demanding. Yet she felt a deeper, more powerful emotion underlining the command. Could it be fear? She wanted to resist and sink back into the welcoming arms of oblivion, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Anna!”

She attempted to shake her head. Pain—sharp and abrupt—stopped her and she held very, very still. “Chris . . .” She managed to gasp the word, though she didn’t quite know why she said it. But just speaking seemed such a triumph, she repeated it. “Chris,” she murmured and opened her eyes.

He bent over her, so close he eclipsed all else. She couldn’t see him clearly, only a large, blurred outline. Her vision refused to focus. “Who’s Chris?” he asked sharply.

She couldn’t answer, didn’t want to answer. The throbbing grew worse, the pain in her head driving out every other thought and consideration, and her hand fluttered weakly upward to investigate. But he stopped her, catching her fingers in his and squeezing gently.

“Don’t,” he warned. “You’ve injured your head. It’s bandaged. But you’re all right now. You’re safe.”

Questions flitted through her mind, slipping in and out of the shadows that fogged her memory, disappearing before she could find the words to express them. Only one remained long enough for her to fix on and she squinted upward, struggling to focus.

“Who are you?” The question exhausted her, and her lids drifted closed.

“It’s Sebastian.” The words sounded bleak, filled with emotions kept tightly in check. “Your husband.”

She fought to gather strength enough to protest, but found it impossible. With a sigh, she gave up the battle, the words dying on her lips.

I don’t have a husband!

The next time she surfaced, she was alone and in a hospital bed. This time no one stopped her when she lifted a hand to her head, investigating the gauze wrapped about her brow. She’d been injured. But how?

She couldn’t remember.

She didn’t want to remember.

She lowered her hand, then hesitated, staring at her fingers. A memory stirred. A voice called to her, filled with urgent demand. Anna! Then again, the same husky tones, though this time roughened with dark emotion. It’s Sebastian. Your husband.

She winced. No. That couldn’t be right. She wasn’t married. No rings decorated her finger, not even a pale mark to suggest she’d ever worn a wedding band. Or had she?

For just a moment, an image burst to life. She remembered hearing a tremendous crack of thunder and then a blinding flash of lightning caught on a pair of rings. They arched through midair, blazing with blue fire, diamonds in a platinum setting, captured for a split second by the harsh white light as they tumbled over and over.

She stirred restlessly. She had to leave. The realization came to her, absolute and unquestionable. She had to go now before . . . Before what? The memory flitted just out of reach, tantalizing, drifting ever closer. She knew without any doubt that should she remember, it would put into motion a chain of events she’d be helpless to avert. And she didn’t want that to happen.

Only one option remained. She’d bury the memories. Bury them so they’d never hurt her again.

This time when she regained consciousness, the pain had subsided, and she felt much stronger. She looked around carefully, examining her surroundings. Blinds covered the windows beside the bed, the slats adjusted to allow only a tempered amount of bright sunshine to filter into the room, giving everything a shadow-washed appearance. A huge basket of flowers overflowed the top of a nearby dresser and a gauzy white curtain surrounded much of the bed, billowing lazily in the soft, warm breeze that slipped in from the window. A paper rustled, catching her attention, and she turned her head toward the sound.

And that’s when she saw him.

He sat in a chair at her side, engrossed in a copy of The Wall Street Journal. He’d been with her when she’d first been admitted to the hospital, she vaguely recalled. He’d spoken to her, told her his name. She bit down on her lip, struggling to remember. But the name eluded her.
She studied him curiously. Thick black hair curled with stubborn abandon about a toughly hewn face, a face well accustomed to the sun and salt air. A nearly invisible scar slashed a silvery path downward from the corner of his right eye to the top of his lip, giving his mouth a tilted, half-laughing, half-taunting expression and marring otherwise perfect features.

She frowned. No. Not marring. The paper-thin scar lent character, offered enticing fantasies of pirates and buccaneers and danger. How had he received the injury? An accident? A fight? A jealous lover?

One thing she knew for certain. She’d never seen this man before in her life. His wasn’t a face easily forgotten. If she’d ever met him, she’d remember. He turned the page, the newspaper rustling again, and she realized she couldn’t just lay here and stare at him. She had questions that demanded answers.

“Excuse me,” she interrupted quietly. Her voice sounded odd, husky and unfamiliar, as though she hadn’t used it for a long time. “I wonder if you could help me.”

He froze, then slowly lowered the paper, and she found herself gazing into eyes the precise color of a stormy winter sky. He studied her with a compelling force she couldn’t mistake, turbulent emotions reflected in his intense scrutiny. For one nerve-racking moment, nothing stirred, as though time itself held its breath. Then a deliberate calm settled across his tautly carved features, wiping away all expression.

“Anna,” he said in a deep, cool voice. “It’s good to see you awake. How do you feel?”

Her brow crinkled. He’d called her Anna. Which meant even if she didn’t know him, he knew her. But, Anna? The name felt as alien to her as he did. Could he have confused her with someone else? A hint of unease stirred. If that were true, if her name wasn’t Anna, then what was it? She searched frantically for an answer, her breathing growing shallow and rapid.

“Anna?” He spoke sharply, dragging her attention from her scattered thoughts. “Are you all right?”

“No. No, I’m not all right.” A torrent of questions pressed for release. Who are you? How do you know me? Why don’t I know anything, remember anything? Who am I?

He crushed the newspaper in his fist. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

“Where am I?” she questioned tautly.

“You’re in a hospital in south Florida.”

“What happened to me?”

A frown pulled his thick, winged brows together. “You were injured in a car accident.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

“How badly?”

“Not bad, all things considered. Concussion.” He gestured toward her head. “You’ve a stitch or two under that bandage. Bruises, scrapes.” A muscle jerked in his jaw. “It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”

He waited, as though expecting her to offer an explanation, and she knew she couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. She took a deep breath. “I should know you, shouldn’t I?”

He stilled, his gaze piercing, the gray darkening to a deep pewter. He didn’t say anything for several endless minutes. “Are you saying you don’t?” he finally asked.

She shook her head, the incautious movement causing her head to throb. “I’m afraid not.”

He tossed the crushed newspaper aside in an abrupt, sweeping motion. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Her grip tightened on the bedsheet. “It’s not a joke.”

“You’re saying you don’t know me?”

“No, I don’t.” She gathered every ounce of fortitude she possessed, and admitted, “I don’t even know who I am.”

He thrust back his chair and stood. Crossing to the window, he stared out for an endless moment before glancing over his shoulder. The sun streaked across his face, emphasizing the lines of fatigue that marked his brow and the sides of his mouth. But it was his eyes that held her attention. Caught by the bright sunshine they blazed with anger and suspicion. He turned to confront her, putting the sun at his back so his face fell into shadow.
“I’m your husband, Sebastian,” he informed her, folding his arms across his chest. “And you’re Anna Kane.” He paused a beat before adding, “My wife.”