If I Can't Have You Read Online Free Page A

woman’s words. Trevor Montgomery disappeared. Sixty years ago. He had to be dreaming, that was the only explanation, and he wished he had a bottle of whiskey so he could try to drown out one more nightmare. He’d never had hallucinations, never created people in his mind who spoke of crazy, insane things. This was a first.
    But it was the first time he’d tried killing himself, too.
    What on earth had happened?
    Pulling himself to a standing position, he tightly grasped the curving fin of a mermaid for balance.
    Maybe it was for the best that his friends and acquaintances weren’t around. He could find his car, drive home, clean up, and no one would ever know what had occurred, what he had attempted to do. And then he wondered if the police would be waiting at his home when he returned. Would they take him to jail? Would he stand trial for murder?
    “Dear God,” he prayed, even though he wasn’t sure he believed in God. “Let me remember what happened.”
    Releasing the fin, he tested his balance by putting weight on his legs. He felt steady enough, although the nausea hadn’t subsided, or the throbbing in his head. In spite of how he felt, he had to get away. He had to.
    He started out slowly, edging his way around the po ol, then willed himself to go fa ster before anyone saw him. He took the stairs two and three at a time, ran across terraces, down rose-lined paths. Things seemed so different, lush, overgrown, not like they’d looked yesterday. But he’d consumed too much whiskey. Things were bound to look different.
    When his breath came in short gasps, when he thought he could run no more, he found his car. At least he remembered where he’d left it. Thank God one thing in this crazy nightmare he was living through seemed familiar.
    Reaching into his pockets for the key, he found a handful of loose change, his money clip with a dozen or so folded bills, and his cherished gold doubloon from Jack Warner. What had he done with the keys? He checked the ignition, hoping he’d left them in the car. But it was empty.
    He had to get home. He could think better there, figure out what was going on.
    He went to the other side of the vehicle and searched the glove box. An eyeglass case. A white handkerchief edged in lace. Things that did not belong to him. And no keys. Gripping the edge of the windshield, he pressed his forehead against the warm metal frame. He rested there for a moment, trying to think of something else to do, some other way of starting the car. But it was useless. All he could think of was the pain in his head and his desperation.
    The sweet scent of a woman’s perfume wafted up from the car’s interior. He thought he might have found the wrong vehicle, but he tilted his head to the left and through blurry eyes he saw the gold nameplate in the middle of the Duesenberg SJ’s dash: Custom built for Trevor Montgomery — 1932. At last, something familiar, something that was his.
    A woman’s scarf lay on the passenger seat. He lifted it, running the long length of black silk through his fingers. The perfume’s fragrance was stronger now. It permeated the scarf. Had a woman been with him on the drive north, a woman he couldn’t even remember? Was there anything else in the car he didn’t remember?
    A yellow-and-green plaid blanket rested next to a tan leather briefcase on the backseat. Just like the scarf, they didn’t belong to him and didn’t look familiar. He’d brought nothing with him on this trip except the tuxedo he was wearing. There’d been no need for anything else—he hadn’t planned to stay   ... or to leave.
    A wave of nausea wove from his stomach to his throat to his temples. He rested hi s head on the side of the car, t elling himself if he got through this, he’d never drink again.
    That was a lie, though. It would take more than this god-awful feeling to make him stop. He’d tried before, and failed. This time he had good reason to drink, and he wanted a bottle—now.
    He