Authors: Holly Bargo
Most days, Serena invited her into the kitchen and pushed her to cook, but Sonia found no interest in food preparation. Any talent she had once had seemed to have vanished. Instead, she found herself examining things in detail: fallen leaves, the curl of smoke from a chimney, the shape of a cat’s eye, the glitter of snow beneath pale winter sunshine, and the vague memory of bone deep pleasure that had her waking up breathless and sweaty from dreams she wished she could recall. She found herself sketching, but without any great skill. Her lack of artistic talent frustrated her, but she kept at it.
“Perhaps you might try a camera,” her oldest brother suggested kindly and handed her the expensive piece of machinery with which he made his living. Over the next few minutes, she showed her how to use it: setting the length of exposure, the zoom, the resolution. He gave her a quick tutorial on framing the picture in her mind before depressing the key to take the shot.
She took several pictures, none of which came close to matching the curious beauty of what she photographed.
“It takes practice,” he assured her after she expressed frustration. “Just like cooking.”
“I don’t cook, Gavin.”
“Of course, you do. You’ve just forgotten how.”
She sighed. “Please don’t patronize me.”
He took his hands in his and squeezed them lightly. “Just try, sis. Something simple. Chop up veggies for a salad. I’ll bet your hands will remember what to do and then your mind will follow.”
She sighed again. “All right, I’ll try.”
That evening she asked her mother if she could assist in making supper. With a pleased smile, Serena graciously accepted: “What would you prefer to start with, dear?”
“Um, salad?”
Serena smiled her encouragement. “That sounds lovely, dear. The vegetables are in the crisper. Use whatever you like.”
Sonia opened the refrigerator and peered into the crisper. It seemed as though she watched someone else’s hand reach in and pull out a variety of ingredients going beyond lettuce, cucumber, and tomato. She watched as her hands efficiently selected the appropriate knives for slicing and chopping and then performed those duties with impressive efficiency and skill. She found herself thinking of how flavors combined and complemented and then realized she had moved on to whipping up fresh salad dressing. Her hand shook slightly as she took an experimental taste. Flavor exploded on her tongue and seemed to unlock an overload of memory.
A groan rose from deep in her gut. Her eyes rolled back. Serena cried out as her daughter crumpled to the floor.
“Sonia!” she cried out and rushed to her daughter.
Tim heard the cry and came running. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. She was working on the salad and then she just … keeled over.”
“Alan!” he called and his middle son came running.
Alan came running.
“Help me carry your sister to her room.”
Alan crouched down to help lift his sister. He grunted at the transfer of her dead weight and asked, “What happened?”
“She fainted,” Tim replied tersely as the two men carried Sonia to her bedroom.
“Should we call Mick?”
“I’m leaning toward calling an ambulance.”
They laid her on the bed. Tim smoothed his daughter’s hair from her face. “Poor baby,” he murmured.
Sonia’s eyelids fluttered open and she groaned.
Tim bent over her and asked, “Sonia, baby, are you okay? How are you feeling?”
She raised a limp hand to her forehead and frowned against the headache that pounded at her skull. “Oh, God, what happened?” she moaned, closing her eyes against the pain.
“What do you remember, pumpkin?”
“I … I was making supper for the band and … someone hit me on the back of the head.” Her eyes opened again. “Hey, I don’t remember you being with us.” Her voice faded as she realized she was not on the bus. “Why am I at home?”
“What else do you remember?”
“I … I … what the hell happened to me?”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache the impending conversation was sure to induce. Drawing on masculine detachment, he concisely summarized the events of the past several months.
“I married a musician?”
“Rock star, actually,” Alan clarified dryly.
She shook her head and groaned. That hurt.
“Is his name Kristof?”
“What? No!” Surprise raised Alan’s voice in both pitch and volume. He coughed and forced himself to continue at a normal decibel level and tone, “You married Mick Hendriksen. I’ve got a poster of Iron Falcon on my bedroom wall if you want to see a picture of them.”
“Not Kris?” The image of a tall man who looked like he should be featured on Viking romance novel covers sprang to her mind.
“No,” Alan sighed. “Not Kris. Mick.”
“I don’t remember Mick.”
“Alan, get your poster,” Tim bade his youngest son.
The young man left and returned momentarily with the poster. He held it out and said, “The brown-haired guitarist in the middle is Mick, your husband. He also plays violin.”
“Nope, nothing,” she said wearily. “Look, can you give me a pass tonight? I just want to sleep.”
“Sure, pumpkin,” Tim replied and kissed her forehead. Alan rolled up the poster and the two men left her room, quietly shutting the door behind them.
Sonia did not wake when her cell phone played the first few bars of
Pure
, the first song Mick had composed due to her inspiration. A couple of minutes later the house phone rang.
“Why isn’t Sonia answering her phone?” he asked, the worry carrying clearly across thousands of miles.
“She had an episode,” Tim replied solemnly.
“Tell me.”
And he did. Mick cursed, then said, “Mr. Houlihan, we have a week’s break between concerts coming up soon. We’ll fly to Ohio to see Sonia and see if that doesn’t help jog her memory.” He paused, then added, his voice raw, “I need to see her.”
“I know, son,” Tim said softly.
“And if she truly wants Kris …”
“Give it time, son. You don’t want to be making any decisions just yet.”
Mick sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Just let me know when you’ll be here. One of the boys and I can pick you guys up at the airport.”
“Thanks, but we’ll rent a car.”
Once again Sonia had to ease back into normal daily life. Plagued by vicious headaches and depression, she slowly forced herself to resume regular, mundane activities and suffered vaguely erotic dreams that left her feeling on edge and needing something, even if she wasn’t quite sure what. She took to staring at Iron Falcon” Facebook page with its photos of recent concerts and listening to their music recorded to YouTube.
Snow fell steadily in tiny flakes as she curled in a chair beside the fireplace and read yet another fluffy historical romance. A half-finished mug of cocoa cooled on the end table within easy reach of her. A heavy footstep behind her caught her attention and she looked up to see her Viking.
“Kris?” she questioned, her eyes opening wide and her mouth forming a soft “O” of surprise.
“Hey, Sonia,” he said softly, his icy pale eyes giving her look that was anything but cold. He approached and knelt on one knee beside the chair. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, then stroke her hair. “God, I missed you, sweetheart,” he said and pulled her forward into a hug. Her arms wrapped around him and she hugged him back. He felt her shallow breathing and the excited beat of her heart against him. She pulled back and he loosened his grasp.
Dear Lord, he was handsome, she thought, staring into his pale blue eyes. Her gaze lowered, taking in the wide shoulders topping a lean, strongly muscled torso that narrowed dramatically at the waist. His thighs beneath their denim covering bulged with heavy muscle.
She leaned forward in unconscious invitation. Kris cupped one big hand behind her head and drew her closer, met her mouth with his. Sonia sighed against his lips and yielded to the kiss. Kris pressed closer, deepened the kiss. Her hands settled on his shoulders.
Sonia enjoyed the kiss. Kris definitely showed expertise at it. But something was missing. She was attracted to him, but … it wasn’t enough. She pushed against him. After a few seconds, he realized she wanted to end the kiss and reluctantly parted from her.
“I … I’m sorry, Kris. Something must be wrong with me,” she apologized.
“No,” he said sadly, then leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to her cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I don’t understand,” she said quietly, her voice cracking. “I’m really attracted to you.”
“But you aren’t in love with me,” he explained as he slowly rose to his feet and glanced over the chair at Mick who stood like a statue. He met Mick’s gaze and gave him a small nod of understanding.
Sonia blinked, unhappy. “But you are in love with me?”
“God help me, yes, I am,” the reply seemed to have been ripped from Kris’ heart. “But it’s not enough.” He took a deep breath and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll see you in a few days, Sonia. Right now I need some space.”
He walked away. Sonia shifted in the chair to watch him go. Mick had stepped backward to conceal himself from his wife’s casual gaze. Davis talked with Sonia’s other two brothers and father in the kitchen just beyond. The loud, deep rumble of their conversation covered Mick and Kris’ words.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said in a quiet voice as Kris passed him.
“We had to know,” Kris said, with a shrug of his heavy shoulders. A suspicious sheen of moisture glazed his eyes as he meet his friend’s concerned gaze. “Give her a few minutes, then go to her. She’s yours, never mine.”
“I can’t regret that, Kris.”
“I know. And if something ever happens to you, I’ll be ready to take your place in her life.”
“Will you leave Iron Falcon?”
A bitter laugh spewed from Kris’ lips. “Hell, no. I’ve got to stick close so I can make sure she never has a chance to miss your sorry ass.”
Mick nodded, not sure whether he meant acknowledgement or understanding.
“That was awkward,” Sonia’s middle brother Mark commented dryly, his voice quiet so as not to carry into the living room where Sonia still sat, sipped her cocoa, and muddled through her emotional confusion.
Mick shrugged. He pulled out his violin and tucked it beneath his chin. Gently, gently, he drew the bow across the strings. Music, pure and haunting, flowed from the instrument.
Sitting in the armchair, Sonia went still with shock. She recognized that beautiful melody. The eloquent notes tugged at her, struck something deep within her. Only one man could play music like that. On trembling legs she rose, the book falling unheeded to the floor.
“Mick?” she whispered as memories started beating at the locked doors within her mind. She put the heels of her hands to her temples and pressed against the pain of returning memory.
Sonia walked slowly into the adjoining room. Her gaze snapped to the big man who looked like a thug and played like an angel. Something sparkling and joyful fizzed inside her. She approached slowly, hesitantly.
“Mick?” she said a little more loudly.
He raised his eyes to meet hers. She gasped, seeing the warmth and love in them. Her body tingled.
She approached a little more closely, trembling. The bow drew across the strings, a long, mournful note that languished in the air. Mick’s own hands trembled as he carefully set down the bow and violin.
“Sonia,” he whispered, eyes shining suspiciously. “It’s so good to see you.”
He held his arms open and she walked into his embrace. They hugged, a long embrace fraught with high emotion in its silence. Something inside Sonia
clicked
, like a tumbler within an old fashioned lock falling into place. She tilted her head back. Mick met her, feathering his lips against hers. Again, something
clicked
. What was missing with Kris was present with Mick and made her feel complete. She rose on her tiptoes and opened her mouth beneath his. Mick surrendered to her invitation and deepened the kiss.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered when they briefly separated to breath.
“I didn’t know,” she stammered. “I didn’t realize. I didn’t
remember.
”
“But you do now?”
“Yes, I … I think so.” She rested her head against his chest and listened to the thud of his heart, the heart she knew beat for her. She thought of her frilly, girlish bedroom upstairs and decided she could not invite him to be with her there. “When can you take me home?”
“Where’s home?” he asked her, his gaze probing.
She met his gaze and answered, “With you, in Monterrey.”
“Will you come with me tonight?” he asked. “It’s just a hotel room, but it’s private.”
“Privacy is good,” she replied. “I need to pack an overnight bag.”
“Pack for a few days. I fly back out on Thursday.”
With a happy little grin, she took his hand and led him upstairs. He wisely said nothing about the appearance of her bedroom and waited patiently while she grabbed a tote and threw a few days’ worth of clothing into it. She reached into a drawer to pull out pajamas.