Free Shifting Shadows by Sally Berneathy Page B

without protest, knowing there was no escape, resigned to his fate.
    She stared straight ahead through the windshield as he slid into the seat beside her. When he made no movement toward starting the car, she turned to look at him, expecting to meet his glowering stare. But he was regarding her curiously, the corners of his mouth tilted slightly upward in a sardonic smile.
    “ You seem a little more comfortable about the prospect of riding with me today than yesterday,” he said. “You aren’t gripping the dash, and your knuckles aren’t white.”
    Almost against her will, certainly against her better judgment, she smiled back, a real smile, one she felt deep inside. She didn’t know anything about this man, had reason to doubt her safety around him, but she had a horrifying suspicion that he could compel her to ride to the ends of the earth with him if he so chose.
    He started the automobile and pulled away from the curb.
    “It must be tough, losing your memory, not knowing who you are, where you’re going.” Was he being sarcastic or offering an obscure apology for doubting her? Somewhere in between, she suspected.
    “ It’s very disconcerting,” she admitted. “Actually, it’s terrifying.”
    He nodded, looking genuinely sympathetic for a moment. “Sometimes it’s harder to remember than to forget. You still don’t remember how you ended up on the floor, bruised and battered?”
    She clutched the edge of the seat, the tension returning.
    Was he asking if she recalled the broken lamp? The man in the shadows? Was he suggesting she had something she wanted to forget? Or that he himself wanted to forget something?
    “ No,” she answered, afraid to say more for fear he’d hear the lie in her words.
    His jaw clenched as if he heard it anyway. “You don’t need to be frightened. If you remember something, tell me. I’ll help you. I’ll take care of you.”
    She bit her lip, wanting to clutch at the words, feel secure that he could and would care for her. But she forced herself to tamp down that desire. With the anger in his voice and on his face, his promise sounded almost like a threat ...though she sensed that not all the anger was directed at her.
    “ Analise?”
    “ Yes. Yes, I’ll tell you if I remember anything,” she said, lying again.
    He directed a quick sideways look at her.
    “Do you still think you’re some Victorian woman?”
    “ Victorian?” She repeated the word, examining the images it elicited.
    “ Women who lived around the turn of the century. They were pretty different from women today.” He seemed to be speaking as much to himself as to her. “More sheltered, more vulnerable, more dependent.”
    “ Are you saying I’m different now?”
    He pulled the car over to the side of the street and parked in front of a shop she recognized from the picture. Analise’s Antiques. For a moment she thought he was going to get out of the car without answering her, but he shifted in his seat and faced her.
    “ Yes, you’re acting different than you did before.” He slid from the car, away from her.
    She watched his s uit-clad figure as he came around to let her out. Acting , he’d said, unwilling to admit whoever or whatever she was could be real. His actions toward her were as contradictory and inexplicable as her feelings for him.
    Climbing out, she stood beside him on the sidewalk.
    “What was I like before...before yesterday?”
    He gazed at her a long time as if searching for a hidden meaning behind the question. “I didn’t know you very well,” he finally said. “You kept to yourself a lot. But sometimes I thought we were...friends.” He suddenly frowned, as if irritated with himself. “Are you ready to go inside?”
    Friends? No, she didn’t think so. With what she felt between them, they could be lovers or they could be enemies, but not friends.
    His hand at the small of her back urged her forward.
    She felt better the moment she entered the shop. The bell over the