Read Online Intimate Strangers by Denise Mathews - Free Book Online
Authors: Denise Mathews
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pad, she was astounded to see Roarke's face staring back at her.
Did I draw this
? she wondered, absorbed with the sketch. She did draw it, the paper had been blank when she sat down, she was positive of that. Quickly ruffling the pages of the pad, she thought that maybe she had done it sometime before this, but the rest of the pages were bare also.
The thought of her flashback electrified her. Except for the one in the hospital when she remembered the pajamas, this was the strongest memory she had experienced yet. In a daze she studied the face drawn on the paper.
This isn't the Roarke I know
, she protested to herself.
I've never seen him look like this
. The eyes were soft and filled with love, the dark hair tousled on his head as though blown by a brisk wind. Lips curved in a sensuous smile that made her heart beat faster. She could almost feel those lips on hers.
Struggling to her feet, she made her way back into her room.
This isn't the way he is
, thought Sara bitterly.
This is a drawing of some younger Roarke I don't know
. She tore the sheet of paper out of the sketch pad and threw it across the room, where it landed on the floor near the door. She sat down at the table, her pencil tearing furiously at the paper.
This is what he looks like to me! This is what his marriage to me has done to him
! With each bitter thought her pencil slashed across the paper, and when she finally dropped the pencil on the table, the man drawn on the paper looked back at her—a handsome face with cold eyes glittering behind half-lowered lids, mouth closed in a firm line with furrows across the broad forehead and running alongside the straight, full lips.
She stooped over to pick up the drawing she had thrown on the floor then sat down on the bed, holding one in each hand. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she looked from one to the other. The first Roarke she had drawn was gentle and tender. This was the face of a man filled with love. This was the face of the man she must have loved. Her heart trembled at the thought.
A glance at the other Roarke revealed a hardened face staring back at her, a face she hadn't created just with her pencil but one she had helped create in real life. Suddenly the black pit of loneliness and fright she had become so familiar with yawned open and tried to swallow her. Tears shimmered in her eyes as the realization washed over her that she was really dependent on a man who didn't seem to care for her and wouldn't help her.
She was alone, friendless, parentless, with no one to turn to except Roarke.
Sara dropped the pad on the bed and tenderly held the single sheet with Roarke's loving face sketched on it.
If only
, she thought,
if only he would look at me like this again. I could love a man who looked like this
. Her fingertips traced the black lines of the picture's lips.
Oh, Roarke
, she wept inwardly,
I don't remember loving you, but how could I have not loved you. I don't remember what I was like then or how I turned you against me, but I'm not that way now. I'm a new person, and… and … I need you
.
A flush crept up her face. What in the world was the matter with her? She absently rubbed her forehead and placed the drawing back into the sketch pad. She went into the bathroom and turned the cold water on in the basin and splashed her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as she patted the towel against her cheeks. If only Roarke would help her bridge the gap between then and now, the past and the present. Without his help it was futile to try. Her memory was not coming back, and she was dependent on him.
Martha walked out of the roomlike closet holding a long pale blue sheath in her arms. "This was one of your favorite dresses, Miss Sara, isn't it pretty?"
Sara glanced over her shoulder, then twisted around toward Martha, the eye shadow sponge still held in mid-air. "What a lush color, it is pretty. But why are we getting so dressed up tonight?" She turned back to the mirror
Did I draw this
? she wondered, absorbed with the sketch. She did draw it, the paper had been blank when she sat down, she was positive of that. Quickly ruffling the pages of the pad, she thought that maybe she had done it sometime before this, but the rest of the pages were bare also.
The thought of her flashback electrified her. Except for the one in the hospital when she remembered the pajamas, this was the strongest memory she had experienced yet. In a daze she studied the face drawn on the paper.
This isn't the Roarke I know
, she protested to herself.
I've never seen him look like this
. The eyes were soft and filled with love, the dark hair tousled on his head as though blown by a brisk wind. Lips curved in a sensuous smile that made her heart beat faster. She could almost feel those lips on hers.
Struggling to her feet, she made her way back into her room.
This isn't the way he is
, thought Sara bitterly.
This is a drawing of some younger Roarke I don't know
. She tore the sheet of paper out of the sketch pad and threw it across the room, where it landed on the floor near the door. She sat down at the table, her pencil tearing furiously at the paper.
This is what he looks like to me! This is what his marriage to me has done to him
! With each bitter thought her pencil slashed across the paper, and when she finally dropped the pencil on the table, the man drawn on the paper looked back at her—a handsome face with cold eyes glittering behind half-lowered lids, mouth closed in a firm line with furrows across the broad forehead and running alongside the straight, full lips.
She stooped over to pick up the drawing she had thrown on the floor then sat down on the bed, holding one in each hand. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she looked from one to the other. The first Roarke she had drawn was gentle and tender. This was the face of a man filled with love. This was the face of the man she must have loved. Her heart trembled at the thought.
A glance at the other Roarke revealed a hardened face staring back at her, a face she hadn't created just with her pencil but one she had helped create in real life. Suddenly the black pit of loneliness and fright she had become so familiar with yawned open and tried to swallow her. Tears shimmered in her eyes as the realization washed over her that she was really dependent on a man who didn't seem to care for her and wouldn't help her.
She was alone, friendless, parentless, with no one to turn to except Roarke.
Sara dropped the pad on the bed and tenderly held the single sheet with Roarke's loving face sketched on it.
If only
, she thought,
if only he would look at me like this again. I could love a man who looked like this
. Her fingertips traced the black lines of the picture's lips.
Oh, Roarke
, she wept inwardly,
I don't remember loving you, but how could I have not loved you. I don't remember what I was like then or how I turned you against me, but I'm not that way now. I'm a new person, and… and … I need you
.
A flush crept up her face. What in the world was the matter with her? She absently rubbed her forehead and placed the drawing back into the sketch pad. She went into the bathroom and turned the cold water on in the basin and splashed her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as she patted the towel against her cheeks. If only Roarke would help her bridge the gap between then and now, the past and the present. Without his help it was futile to try. Her memory was not coming back, and she was dependent on him.
Martha walked out of the roomlike closet holding a long pale blue sheath in her arms. "This was one of your favorite dresses, Miss Sara, isn't it pretty?"
Sara glanced over her shoulder, then twisted around toward Martha, the eye shadow sponge still held in mid-air. "What a lush color, it is pretty. But why are we getting so dressed up tonight?" She turned back to the mirror
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