Masquerade Read Online Free PDF Page B

meant."
    "This is Monsieur Cole Buchanan," the nurse volunteered, handing her a business card. "Your family owns an international shipping company. It is exciting, non? "
    Before she had a chance to look at the card, footsteps approached. "It seems I have arrived late with the news," came Inspector Armand's familiar voice.
    "News," she repeated blankly, still trying to make sense out of all of this.
    "Oui. I came to tell you that your brother would be arriving shortly to take you home."
    Struggling to hide her shock at his announcement, she quickly looked down at the card in her hand. Cole Buchanan's name appeared in bold type in the center of it, with the title of President listed directly below his name. This man couldn't be her brother. She inwardly recoiled from the thought, aware that her reaction to him when he'd held her in his arms a moment ago had been anything but sisterly. She remembered the way her body had arched in a sexual response—the gliding caress of his hands on her back—and the momentary desire she'd felt to turn her head and find the male lips rubbing so sensually over her hair.
    She forced herself to look at the company name and logo that headed the card—the Crescent Line. She stared at the name, waiting for it to spark some memory, no matter how vague. But nothing came. Instead, she felt uneasy. Why?
    "Is something wrong?" The deep-voiced question came from Cole Buchanan.
    "No." Why was she so quick with her denial? Something was wrong, but what? And why didn't it feel right to ask him about it? He was her brother. "It's just that—I don't remember anything about the company or about shipping."
    "You've never been involved in the actual operation of the company."
    Was that criticism she detected in his statement? But a glance found nothing in his expression to suggest that. If anything, he seemed sharply alert, watchful—his look almost guarded.
    "You don't remember anything, do you?" He made the observation somewhat thoughtfully.
    "She suffers from amnesia—" Inspector Armand began.
    "I know," Cole interrupted, a trace of aloofness in the glance he gave him. "I was informed of her condition, but I hadn't realized it was total."
    "You said my name is Remy." She focused on that, compelled by a need to challenge and confront. "Who am I? What am I? Where do I live?"
    "In New Orleans . . . Louisiana," he added, as if she might not remember that fact either. "You still live at the family home in the Garden district."
    Images flashed in her mind, images that came and went too quickly for her to grasp and hold and discover what they meant, images of ancient moss-draped oaks, graceful wisteria arches, and scrolling iron lace railings. Were they her memories, or merely a knowledge of the place? She couldn't tell.
    "Do you remember something?" the inspector asked.
    "I'm not sure," she admitted, then looked at him and realized, "You two haven't been introduced. This is Inspector Claude Armand. He—"
    Cole Buchanan broke in firmly and extended a hand in formal greeting. "A pleasure, Inspector. I know the family would want me to pass along their thanks for the efforts you've made in Remy's behalf." He sounded warm, sincere, and polite— but aloof. She was struck by that. Inspector Armand was a stranger to him, and she had the impression that he wanted to keep it that way. He wasn't interested in making friends, in allowing people to get close to him—just as he'd pushed her an arm's length away. Why? She was his sister. She remembered his initial embrace of her, the depth of feeling he'd shown—and subsequently regretted. Why? Distracted by these thoughts, she missed the inspector's response and discovered that Cole was speaking again. "... arrange for her release, we need to leave. I'm sure you can understand, Inspector, the family is very anxious to get Remy safely back to New Orleans."
    New Orleans. This time she picked up on the words, a certainty rushing through her.