The Second Mrs. Adams

Dammit, Adams, are you nuts?

“David? Do you mind?”

He frowned, shook his head. “No,” he said coldly, “I suppose not.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I was hoping you wouldn’t mi—”

“It’s a free country,” he said as he swung the door open and started down toward the street. “And a big park. Just do your best to keep up, Joanna, because I don’t feel much like tailoring my pace to suit yours.”

* * *

Gracious. That was the word to describe her husband’s acceptance of her presence, Joanna thought sarcastically as she panted after him half an hour later, gracious and charming and oh-so-welcoming.

But she was matching the pace he’d set, even if her legs were screaming and her breath was wheezing in lungs that felt as if they were on fire.

It had occurred to her, one or two times, that David was deliberately trying to exhaust her but why would he do that?

No. She was just out of shape, that was all.

But she’d be damned if she’d admit it.

* * *

Stupid. That was the word to describe his acceptance of his wife’s presence, David thought grimly as he pounded through the park, stupid and pointless and all-around dumb.

Why hadn’t he just told her he didn’t want any part of her? That he was perfectly happy with the way things had been for the past few years, thank you very much, with him running alone and her doing her la-di-da exercises at her fancy health club.

She’d caught him off guard, that was why. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. He couldn’t imagine what insanity had gotten into her today, especially after what had happened between them last night. Corbett had come down from her bedroom looking smug and mysterious; he’d said she was in excellent health and that he’d advised her to get on with the business of living.

Was this Joanna’s idea of how to do that?

David didn’t think so. The real Joanna hadn’t thought so, either, and if he was playing his cards right, this new one would soon come to the same conclusion.

He was running harder and faster than he’d run in years, running in a way that would exhaust anybody, especially a devotee of glitter Spandex, odor-free sweat and fancy treadmills.

By the time they got back to the house, she’d be finished with early morning runs and whatever foolishness had sent her along on this one.

Still, he had to admit, she was keeping up.

He frowned, put his head down, and ran harder.

* * *

But she wasn’t finished with early morning runs, not by a long shot.

She was waiting for him the next morning, and the morning after that. By the third day, he adjusted his pace back to where it had been before Joanna had intruded.

He did it for her sake. Hell, it wasn’t fair to tax her so, even if Corbett said she was fine.

He certainly didn’t do it for his. And he certainly didn’t enjoy having her tag along.

But when she wasn’t bent over the bench in the foyer Friday morning, doing those stretching exercises that tilted her sexy little bottom into the air, David paused on the steps while he tried to figure out what the strange emotion stealing over him might be.

Disappointment?

No. Hell, no, why would he—

“Hi.”

Joanna was standing in the door to the library, clutching a cup of coffee in her hands, smiling at him over the rim.

His heart did something absolutely stupid, as if it were on a string, yo-yoing in his chest.

“Hi,” he said, and managed not to smile back.

“You’re early.”

“Am I? Well, that’s OK, if you’re not ready to—”

“I’m ready. Just let me put this cup in the sink and I’ll be—”

“Jo?” He shoved his hand into his hair and scraped it back from his forehead.

“Yes?”

“I was going to say…I was going to say…”

He knew what he’d been going to say, that they might skip this morning’s run, take their coffee out into the little garden, drink it together at the minuscule wrought-iron table under the tree and talk about nothing in particular and everything under the sun, just the way they used to, a million years ago.

“Yes, David?”

He looked at her. Was he crazy? He had to be. It was bad enough they’d started running together but they’d also started spending the evening together, too. Joanna waited for him to get home, no matter how late, before sitting down to dinner. He’d even begun to look forward to it, just sharing their mealtime, talking, telling her about the inconsequential bits and pieces of his day…

Why was he letting these things happen? Nothing, nothing, had changed. Joanna had lost her memory but sooner or later she’d get it back. She’d remember who she was and what she wanted. She’d turn into the real Joanna Adams again, the one that lay hidden beneath that mask of sexy innocence, and when she did…when she did, he had no intention of watching it happen again.

Feeling disappointment turn to despair once in a lifetime was more than enough.

He stood straighter and, with a cool smile, pulled the door open.

“I’d rather not wait, if it’s all the same to you,” he said politely. “I’d prefer running by myself today.” The sudden hurt in her eyes knotted in his gut and his irritation with himself only made him twist the knot tighter. “Oh, by the way, Joanna…don’t expect me for dinner tonight. There’s a fundraiser at the Gallery of Alternative Arts and I’ve agreed to attend.”

Joanna stared at her husband. It had taken him no time at all to undo the progress of the past days. She wanted to weep; she wanted to slug him. Instead, she did the only thing she knew she ought to do, which was to smile brightly.

“How nice for you,” she said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” he answered, blithely ignoring the fact that tonight’s event was just the kind of thing he hated, a bunch of fat cats standing around stroking each other’s fur, telling themselves they were helping the world when all they were really doing was making asses of themselves. He hadn’t even intended to go to the damned gala until desperation had forced his hand a couple of seconds ago. “Morgana reminded me of it yesterday.”

“Morgana,” Joanna repeated, even more brightly.

“My Personal—”

“—Assistant.” She nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“Anyhow, don’t wait up. These things usually run late.”

“Oh, of course. Well, have a good run. And a good day. And a good…”

He was gone.

Joanna stood in the open doorway, watching her husband. His stride was long and loose as he ran toward Fifth Avenue without so much as a backward glance.

Her bottom lip trembled.

So much for sharing.

So much for getting back into life.

So much for letting herself think there might be a human being lurking inside the man she was married to.

She slammed the door, made her way back to the kitchen, rinsed out her cup and put it away.

“Carpe diem, my foot,” she muttered.

Dr. Corbett’s advice had been useless. Useless. She’d wasted her time, wasted her hopes.

That’s right, Joanna. You might as well go back to sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself.

Her head jerked up.

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself!”

Sure you are. You’re thinking that he could have waited while you rinsed your coffee cup, that he could have asked you to go with him tonight.

Unless, of course, he was taking the ever-present, ever-helpful Morgana.

A muscle ticked in Joanna’s cheek. She put her cup down, trotted up the stairs to her room and to the Queen Anne secretary that stood on one wall. There was a white-leather appointment book in the top drawer; she’d flipped through it a couple of times, shuddering at the stuff she saw scrawled over the weekly calendar pages, nonsense about hairdresser’s appointments and dress fittings and lu

ncheons and meetings that sounded senseless and silly…

There it was, under today’s date, in her handwriting.

Eight p.m., Gal of Alt. Arts, benefit for Tico the Chimp.

Her eyes widened. Tico the Chimp?

She closed the book, lay it aside, and stared into space. Tico the Chimp. The elusive Morgana. And David, all under one roof.

Joanna shucked off her running clothes and headed for the shower.

CHAPTER SEVEN

AMNESIA, as Joanna was quickly learning, was a strangely elective ailment.

She didn’t remember any of the details of her own life. But when she thought back to what Ellen had said—that she shopped in only the best stores—a list came quickly to mind.

And though she’d apparently bought only dark, conservative clothing in those fashionable shops, surely they also carried other things. They had to sell dresses that were bright in color and didn’t have sleeves to the wrist and hems to mid-calf, that didn’t make a woman look as if she were…what had David said? As if she were a sack of potatoes?

There was only one way to find out.