she stood, he felt an overwhelming urge to turn and run. And then she suddenly swayed on her feet and sat back down on the bed with a thump.
âI donât feel so good,â she said. âMy head is swimming.â
But Clay wasnât listening. He was in shock. Tentatively, he reached forward, expecting to feel nothing but air. Instead, his fingers curled around her wrist, absorbing the warmth of her skin.
âSweet Jesus,â he whispered again, and grabbed her by the shoulders.
âFrankieâ¦Frankieâ¦my God, youâre real.â
She frowned. âHave you been drinking?â
He couldnât answer. Instead, he slid onto the bed beside her and pulled her close, rocking her in his arms where they sat.
And then reality hit, and as suddenly as heâd held her, he thrust her away. His voice was low and shaking as he focused on her face.
âWhere the hell have you been?â
She stared. âYou have been drinking.â
Clay stood abruptly. âI want answers, Francesca.â
Frankie frowned. âAnswers to what?â
He stared at her as if sheâd lost her mind. âFor starters, answers as to where youâve been for the past two years.â
Something skittered through her mind. Something darkâsomething frightening. But it was gone before it became solid thought. Before she could answer, Clay suddenly grabbed her arms. Pain shot up her elbows as he yanked her close. She gasped. Stunned by his behavior, she missed the shock spreading across his face.
Clay felt numb. The needle tracks on her arms were impossible to miss.
âDrugs? Youâve been doing drugs?â
She looked at him as if heâd gone mad. âWhat are you talking about?â
âThis!â he yelled, and turned her arms so that her hands were palms up.
She looked down, frowning at the faint bruises still evident on her skin. Again something pulled at her memory, and again it was gone before she could focus. She rubbed her fingers across the tracks, stunned by their presence. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes.
âI donât do drugs. You know I donât,â she muttered, and then closed her eyes as the room began to spin.
âThen explain these,â he growled, yanking both arms toward the bedside lamp.
She groaned. The pain in her head was increasing, as was the nausea. She pulled away from his grasp, clutching her head with both hands.
âI donât feel good, Clay.â
He was shaking so hard he couldnât think.
âHell, Francesca, neither do I. You disappear out of my life for two goddamn years, and then you waltz back into it, talking about wet clothes and cooking dinner as if youâd never been gone. Have you lost your mind?â
She couldnât do anything but stare. He wasnât making sense. Two years? Why did he keep harping about two years? Heâd only been gone a few hours. But before she could pursue the issue, the room started to spin.
Clay saw her lose focus. He was grabbing for her as she started to slump. Within seconds, he had her back on the bed and was dialing 911.
âWhat is your emergency?â the dispatcher asked.
For a second Clay didnât know how to answer. A wife had come home. A missing woman had been found. And then reality surfaced, and he blurted it out.
âMy wife just passed out. I donât know whatâs wrong, but I think it might be an overdose of drugs. Pleaseâ¦I need help.â
âSirâ¦is she breathing?â the dispatcher asked.
Clay leaned down, feeling the soft ebb and flow of her breath against his cheek. As he did, tears sprang to his eyes.
âYes, yes, what do I do?â
His hands were shaking as he followed her instructions.
Ah God, donât let her die. Not here. Not now. Donât give her back just so I can watch this happen.
A few minutes later, he became aware of sirens.
âI hear the ambulance,â he told the