I’ve never been this far outside the city. Every instinct is shouting at me. It’s the same voice that keeps me on high alert when I’m in uncharted territory or edging outside my comfort zone. Tristan leaves the vehicle and pops the trunk, while I hold on to the door handle with a white-knuckled grip. What if this was all a terrible mistake?
I want to trust him. I told him so, but that was two seconds after he kissed me like the Tristan I remember. The second our lips touched, an avalanche of memories rushed in. Stolen moments, heated touches, and forbidden nights. Everything precious that clung to the hurt he’d caused me, making him impossible to forget.
In my periphery, a man descends the white stone steps that lead to the grand entrance of the home. He smiles warmly, and I hear his muffled greeting to Tristan from inside the car. I take a deep breath, gather my resolve, and step out.
“It’s good to see you, meu amigo.” The man’s gaze shifts swiftly to me. “And who is this?” His accent is thick and brusque.
“I’m Isabel.” I smile weakly and take his outstretched hand to shake it.
In one fluid motion, he brings it to his lips and brushes a kiss against my skin. The warmth in his dark eyes chases away the discomfort the gesture should give me. The man has charm, and even though my entire life changed a few hours ago, somehow I’m grateful we’re here and not someplace even more frightening.
“I’m Mateus da Silva. Muito prazer em conhecê-la. Welcome to my home.”
“Obrigada,” I mutter.
Tristan’s eyes darken as he hauls our bags over his shoulder. “Shall we?”
“Of course.” Mateus hesitates a moment before easing away, nodding toward Tristan, and leading us toward the house.
We step inside onto a well-worn Persian rug that stretches into an expansive living area. The walls are covered with dozens of paintings of varying sizes. Each is trimmed with gold leaf and light dust. Antique furniture hugs the walls and completes several small entertaining areas. The tables are decorated with ornate lamps and bronze statues.
The guards at the gate and the heavily barred windows tell me whatever he keeps in this house is worth protecting. I’m telling myself it has to do with the wall-to-wall antiques and nothing to do with the danger that Tristan insists we’re running from.
“Are you hungry from your travels? I can have a meal prepared.”
“We’ll eat in the room,” Tristan answers quickly. “Where are we staying?”
Mateus motions us to follow him down a hall. He seems unaffected by Tristan’s grim mood. A sinking feeling washes over me. If this is normal behavior for Tristan, who has he become? Is there anything left of the man I fell in love with so many years ago? I can’t think that way…
We pause outside one of the doors, which Mateus pushes open. “The honeymoon suite,” he says with a smirk.
Tristan frowns but doesn’t reply. He only guides me into the room that matches the rest of the house—rich textures and deep colors. The bed is draped in a red satin bedspread, its ornate metal headboard pressed to the wall like a piece of art in itself.
“I will have Karina bring you dinner. I’ll be in the den if you need me, Tristan.”
“Thank you,” Tristan says after dropping our bags to the floor. He meets Mateus’s gaze briefly, and I swear something passes between them. An understanding, a wordless exchange.
“Good night, Isabel.” Mateus bows his head before retreating, leaving us alone again.
I walk to the window. Through the bars, all I can see are trees and the winding drive up to the house. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face Tristan.
“Are you going to give me my phone now?”
My first two requests were refused, which only ramped up my panic on the ride here.
“Not yet.”
I tense with renewed anxiety. Then I remind myself that I know Tristan. Maybe he doesn’t know me, but once upon a time, he was a man I could trust. A good man.
“I left with you without telling anyone. I have a job and a life and friends who—”
“I’m sure your boyfriend can live without you for a few days.” He stands in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and the air becomes thick with tension I don’t understand.
Then I remember the photos of Kolt and me together in his file. “Are you talking about Kolt?”
He shrugs slightly. “The American who can’t keep his hands off you.”
My cheeks heat like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. “Kolt isn’t my boyfriend.”
He lifts an eyebrow but otherwise maintains an inexpressive countenance. In an instant, I want him to be jealous, because it means something still exists between us. He was so possessive once. So convinced that we were meant to be together, two halves of a whole that no amount of time or distance could keep apart.
I drop my hands to my sides. “Would you care if he were?”
“No,” he says flatly.
His blunt answer lashes back at me, reward for an indulgent moment of yearning for his affection again after such an absence. “What do you want from me, Tristan?”
He stares at me a moment before turning toward the crushed-velvet couch that lines one wall of the room. He sits down and drops his head into his hands. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
For the first time since he kissed me, I sense his vulnerability. I fight the urge to go to him and wrap my arms around him. My fingers itch to touch him. But what good can my touch do when he doesn’t know me? I still can’t fathom that our entire history has been erased. A part of me refuses to believe it’s true.
I swallow over the painful tightness in my throat. “What really happened to you?”
“I don’t know very much,” he says. “When I woke up… Everything was kind of a blur. Jay—” A deep groove cuts between his dark brows. “I had been on a tour overseas, on a special ops team. A mission went wrong…really wrong. I guess it was bad enough that my life in the military was over and my freedom would be in jeopardy if I didn’t disappear. Someone on the inside pulled strings to give me a second chance. A chance to start over as someone else.”
“When did this happen?”
“Three years ago. Everything before that…it’s just flashes. So small that I can’t tell if it’s real or just my imagination. Kind of like a dream you can’t fully remember.”
The last letter from Tristan had come to me six months after his enlistment. Long before this incident occurred. When he said goodbye and ended things between us, he had his memory. Six agonizing years compound onto my heart. The emotional pain turns physical as my chest constricts and pinpricks cut into my palms.
He looks up at me, his eyes clear and wide. For the first time, I’m convinced of the emptiness of his memories. I push my pain away and reach for compassion. If he brought us here to fill in the gaps, I’m probably the only one who can help.
“Why did you bring me here?”
His lips thin and his features tighten. “It’s not safe for you in Rio. Not anymore.”
I jump at a knock at the door. Tristan rises as a beautiful young woman arrives with a tray full of dishes in her arms. He relieves her of it, and she closes the door. He sets the tray on the table by the bed and gestures toward it.
“Eat.” He turns away and shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“No.”
I huff, cross my arms, and ignore the pang in my stomach. I powered through my lunch, but the stress of the afternoon and the hours passed have me starving. Still, bigger issues loom. I’m not ready to accept his silence and avoidance.
“You need to talk to me, Tristan. You can’t leave me in the dark.”
He spins back, his eyes narrowed. “In the dark? My past is pitch black, Isabel.”
I hesitate, momentarily thrown by his anger. “I’m sorry, but—”