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  Those she knew about. The doctor had enumerated them for her when she'd seen him earlier—the bruise near her mouth, the laceration to her head, which had required twelve stitches to close, the hairline fracture to her skull, the concussion, and—a rare total loss of memory. Total in the sense that all details of her personal life had been lost, but not her store of knowledge.

  "I know where the Espace Masséna is—and the flower market on Cours Saleya. And Nice is in France; the capital is Paris—" She broke off the spate of facts. "Why was I at the Espace Mas-séna?"

  "I assume to participate in the Carnival festivities."

  "Carnival. It comes from the Old Italian word carnelevare—which loosely translates as a 'farewell to the flesh,’" she murmured, remembering that and so much more. "It's pagan in origin, isn't it?—a spring rite of the Greeks to celebrate the miracle of propagation, an annual event that the Romans subsequently corrupted with lewdness and the followers of Christianity eventually absorbed into their religion, making it an acceptable feasting time before the Lenten season. The custom of masking came from the French—along with the name Mardi Gras."

  The inspector smiled faintly. "Nothing is ever what it seems, is it, mam'selle?"

  "What about me?" she asked, suddenly intense. "What do I seem like to you?" As he hesitated in answering, she suddenly realized she had no idea what she looked like. She was trapped in the body of a person she knew absolutely nothing about. "Is there a mirror somewhere so I can see myself?"

  After taking a moment to consider her request, he nodded. "I will find one for you." He left the room and returned within minutes with a small hand mirror.

  A tension threaded her nerves as she took it from him, then slowly raised it to look at the reflection her face made. Her eye was first caught by the swathe of gauze around her head and the purpling near her mouth, which swelled part of her lip. She touched a lock of her shoulder-length hair, the tawny color of cognac, then noticed the paleness of her face. She wondered whether it was caused by the absence of makeup, the harshness of the light, or the drabness of the hospital gown.

  Not that it mattered, she decided, and instead directed her attention to the strong refinement in her features—the good cheekbones, smooth jaw-line, and solid angle to her forehead and chin. Her eyebrows were a sandy shade of brown, thick at the inner corners and arching naturally in a graceful sweep. Amber flecks shimmered in her hazel eyes, and her dark-brown lashes were long and thick, tipped with gold at the ends. Her lips were well shaped, with a full curve to the lower one and a bowing arch to the upper. With the slightest lift of their corners, attractive dimples appeared in her cheeks. Except for a faintly troubled darkness in her eyes, the image in the mirror looked dauntless and proud, a hint of daring about it that seemed to eagerly seek challenge.

  Was that her? In frustration she lowered the mirror. It was no use. She didn't remember that face. She didn't remember anything.

  "Who am I?" she said with impatience. "Where do I live? What do I do? Don't I have family, friends? I've been in this hospital for almost two days. Why hasn't anyone missed me? Could I have come to Nice alone? The gown—" She remembered the designer label it had carried. "It was by St. Laurent. Does that mean I'm wealthy?"

  "It is possible," the inspector conceded. "Though it is also possible the gown and the jewelry were gifts from a generous lover. The Cote d'Azur attracts many with income in rarefied brackets. And they, in turn, attract beautiful women to the area."

  "And you think I'm one of those women."

  "Perhaps." He shrugged noncommitally. "However, most—even today—are poor Bardot imitations, with tumbling blond hair, voluptuous curves, and pink, pouting lips. Few have the appearance of class you possess."

  "I think that's a compliment. Thank you," she murmured with a trace of dryness.

  "It was." His mouth curved with the same droll amusement she had shown. "In any case, beautiful women may arrive in Nice alone, but they seldom remain alone very long."

  "Then you think I knew the man I was seen struggling with?"

  "The two of you could have been engaged in a lovers' quarrel. Or—he wished to make your acquaintance, and you rejected his advances."

  "But why would I go to the Espace Masséna at night, during Carnival, without an escort, and without a purse?" she argued. "Or was the man a thief who stole my purse? That could have been the cause of the struggle—and it would explain why he ran."

  "But why would he take your purse and not your jewelry?"

  "I don't know." She sighed wearily, confused and frustrated by the constant blankness, the absence of any answers to the questions. "There has to be some way to find out who I am. Somewhere there has to be a room with my clothes in it, my makeup, my jewelry."

  "Inquiries are being made at all the hotels and pensions in the city," he told her. "But you must remember, during Carnival people frequently stay out all night. Therefore, the absence of a guest from his or her room for one night normally would not be worthy of notice. Two nights in a row, that is another thing. If we are fortunate, I may know something tomorrow."

  "I hope so. I have to find out who I am."

  He arched an eyebrow at her curiously. "You say that with unusual urgency, mam'selle."

  "I know." She heard the troubled note in her voice and tried to explain. "I have this feeling, Inspector—this vague yet very compelling feeling—that I'm supposed to be somewhere. It's important. It's more than important. It's as if something terrible will happen if I'm not there."

  "Where?" It was asked quietly, almost indifferently, as if to gently jar loose a fragment of her memory.

  But it didn't work. "I don't know." This time her voice was choked with the frustration and strain of trying to recall. But the more she struggled to remember, the harder her head pounded. Suddenly she didn't have the strength to fight them both. She sagged back against the hospital pillows and shut her eyes tight, hating the blankness.

  "I have overtired you with my questions. I am sorry," the inspector said, his voice gentle with regret. "You rest. I will come back tomorrow."

  Then he was gone and she was alone again— alone with the emptiness of her memory, an emptiness she seemed powerless to fill. With a turn of her head, she gazed out the window at the brilliant blue sky that had given the Côte d'Azur its name. If only there was something she could do, somewhere she could go—but where did a person go to find her memory?

  4

  From the hospital corridor came the murmur of typically hushed voices, the rustle of stiff polyester uniforms, and the whisper of white-stockinged legs brushing together in a striding walk. But no one approached her door, and no bouquets of flowers relieved the starkness of her room or sent their sweet fragrance into it to cover the sharp antiseptic smells.

  Agitated, restless, and tired of staring at the walls that echoed the blankness of her mind, she threw back the covers and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. A wave of dizziness hit her. She gripped the edge of the mattress and waited for the room to stop spinning, then slowly lowered her feet to the floor and stood up. Immediately she felt a coolness against her skin where the hospital gown gaped in back. But she had no robe to cover her—no clothes at all other than the evening gown. Turning, she pulled the blanket off the bed and draped it around her shoulders Indian-style.

  She was halfway to the door before she realized she was obeying that faint inner voice that said she had to leave, that she was needed somewhere. But where? Why? And why the urgency? Was she in some kind of danger? The man she'd been struggling with—had he deliberately tried to hurt her, or had he been trying to make her go somewhere with him? But where? And what was the danger? From whom? And where were they now?

  Driven by the endless questions, she crossed to the window with its postcard view of Nice, the city of fun and flowers, of sun, sea, and sex, a city that sizzled softly by day and crackled with action by night.

  In the distance the sunlight sparkled on the deep blue Mediterr
anean waters of the Baie des Anges, ringed by private beaches, crowded now with wall-to-wall sunburned flesh and languid egos. Closer were the red-roofed ocher buildings and Italianate churches of the town's old section, with its narrow streets opening to form little squares.

  She hugged the blanket more tightly around her and searched the scene with her eyes, a scene so reminiscent of paintings by Matisse and Cézanne. Here the dreaded mistral that roared down the Rhône Valley twisting and turning trees was but a breeze to stir the fronds of the palm trees along the Promenade des Anglais, and the architecture was distinctly Mediterranean in character rather than French, a reminder that less than a century and a half ago Nice belonged to Italy.

  Was it somewhere in Nice that she was supposed to be? Was that what had brought her here? But how could she be sure she didn't live here? The inspector claimed that she spoke English with an American accent, but she was fluent in French. The designer gown, the jewelry—it was possible she was a wealthy American living abroad, perhaps in Nice itself. After all, she knew the names of its streets, the location of a marvelous little tea shop on the Rue St. François-de-Paule, and . . . but a frequent visitor to the city might know such things too.

  If she wasn't supposed to be here, though, then where?

  Her head started to pound again. She turned from the window, absently massaging her temple.

  Inspector Armand stood inside the doorway, his relaxed stance conveying the impression that he'd been observing her for some time. She lifted her head sharply at the sight of him, her glance quickly taking in the shiny bald top of his head, the dark-gray hair shading to white at the temples, the pleasing plumpness of his features, and the keenness of his blue eyes. She hadn't heard him come in. He had slipped in quietly—like a principal slipping in to the back of a classroom to silently observe.

  "I see you are up and about today," he said, his sharp-eyed gaze continuing its assessing sweep of her. "That is good."

  She took a quick step toward him, then stopped, every muscle in her body strained taut. "Have you found out who I am?"

  "Regrettably, non. Our check of the hotels has turned up nothing. The whereabouts of all their guests have been accounted for, and no belongings have been left in any rooms, other than the normal one or two items that a departing guest might forget to pack."

  She had tried to brace herself for this answer, but it was still frustrating to hear it. "And I suppose no one answering my description has been reported missing."

  “Non”

  She sighed. "What now, Inspector?"

  "Now, we widen our search to include apartments, homes, villas, yachts. ..."

  "It will take time to check all those out." She looked down at her hands and the tight lacing of her fingers on the blanket, the tension, the turmoil, knotting them as it knotted her.

  "Unfortunately, a considerable amount of time."

  "I don't know if I can wait that long to find out who I am." She forced her hands to loosen their grip on the edge of the blanket. "There must be some other—quicker—way."

  "When you saw Dr. St. Clair this morning, was he able to tell you anything?"

  There was a wry pull at one corner of her mouth. "If you mean other than his opinion that the laceration to my head is healing nicely, no. But he's arranged for a specialist to see me this afternoon. A psychiatrist or psychologist, I don't remember which."

  "Perhaps he will be more helpful."

  "Perhaps." She sighed again. "If only I could remember something—anything."

  "Maybe it is more convenient not to remember."

  He suddenly had her complete attention. "What do you mean by that?" She saw the close way he was watching, observing every nuance of her reaction to this rather startling remark. "Do you think I'm faking this amnesia? Why? What would I gain by it?"

  "I have asked myself that too."

  She stared at him, stunned by the implication of his words. "My God, do you think I'm some criminal? Why haven't you run a check on me?"

  "It was one of the first things I did—merely as a matter of routine, you understand." His mouth curved in a faint, apologetic smile that took much of the sting out of his suspicion.

  "Obviously your 'routine' check didn't turn up anything, or I'd be arrested."

  "The results were negative," the inspector admitted.

  "You don't still think it's a possibility?" "In my profession it is never wise to rule out any possibility until the truth is uncovered."

  "I suppose it isn't. Right now I just wish I knew something. I am so tired of this endless circle of questions."

  "Life is a question, is it not? And we spend our whole life trying to find the answer to it." A smile made his cheeks rounder. "But it is ironic, non, that many people wish they could forget their past, while you seek so valiantly to remember yours."

  At that moment a small, quick man with bushy hair and beetle brows bustled into her hospital room, a clipboard and manila folder tucked under his arm. "I am Dr. Gervais. Dr. St. Clair asked—" He stopped and blinked at the inspector. "You have a visitor."

  "Inspector Claude Armand." He smoothly produced his identification.

  "You are here to question the patient?" The doctor blinked at him again, with a certain vagueness in his expression.

  "And you are here to examine her." The inspector smiled, but as usual, the smile didn't reach his eyes. "You have no objection to my sitting in, do you?"

  The doctor seemed momentarily taken aback by the request, then lifted his shoulders in a brief, indifferent shrug. "You may stay or go, as you wish." With that settled, he turned and introduced himself to her again. "Dr. St. Clair tells me the injury to your head has caused a defect in your memory."

  "A defect—that's an understatement, Doctor. I don't remember anything. Not my name, my address, or my family—assuming I have one."

  "Hmmm," he said, as if he found her response most interesting, then flicked a hand in her direction. "Please make yourself comfortable, and we will talk about this."

  "In other words, lie down on the couch," she murmured dryly.

  He gave her a startled look, then glanced around the room. "There is no couch," he said, then the curious frown that had pulled his heavy brows together cleared in a dawning realization. "Ahh, you make a joke. It is good you have retained your sense of humor"

  "It is one of the few things I've retained." Avoiding the bed, she crossed to a chair and sat down, conscious of the inspector standing quietly to one side, silently listening, observing.

  The doctor sat himself down in the other chair and crossed his legs at the knee, one foot swinging in a nervous rhythm as he arranged the clipboard on his lap and opened the manila folder to leaf through the papers inside. "Shall we begin?" he said.

  After thirty minutes, during which he tested her current memory retention, asked numerous general-knowledge questions, and questioned her extensively about her past, specifically her religion, her patience was exhausted.

  During a lull, she demanded, "What are we accomplishing with all this, Doctor?"

  He gave her a look that seemed to say the answer was obvious. "I am attempting to determine the extent of your memory impairment. Amnesia has many causes and takes many forms—senility, alcoholism, electroconvulsive therapy, acute encephalitis, brain trauma. ... In severe cases, amnesia symptoms primarily stem from damage to such brain structures as the mammillary bodies, circumscribed parts of the thalamus, and—"

  She broke in, shaking her head in confusion. "You are being too technical, Doctor."

  "My apologies." There was a quick bob of his bushy head. "My initial findings tell me that you have what we call traumatic amnesia, as a result of the concussion you suffered. This is a common aftereffect of a severe head injury."

  "But when will my memory return?"

  "That is impossible to say. It could be today, tomorrow, next week, next month." He leaned back in the chair and pulled thoughtfully at a thick eyebrow. "It will probably return gradually, with pieces of
your past coming back to you—perhaps in chronological order, from the most recent, or perhaps haphazardly, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that finally fit together."

  "But it isn't permanent?"

  "There have been cases where the patient has never recovered his memory, but they are rare." He hesitated, then added, "However, it is altogether possible that you may never remember the events that immediately preceded your injury."

  "In other words, I might not remember the identity or description of the man I was seen struggling with,' she concluded.

  "Correct."

  "You haven't said anything about treatment." And that omission bothered her. "What about drugs or hypnosis?"

  "Hypnosis is frequently helpful in cases of hysterical amnesia—where there is no physical cause, no damage to the brain."

  She stared at him. "Are you saying that all I can do is sit and wait for my memory to come back—if it does?"

  "Essentially, yes."

  "I don't accept that. There has to be something I can do." She rose to her feet and crossed stiffly to the window. "There has to be."

  "You cannot force your memory to return, mademoiselle. The more you grasp for it, the more elusive it becomes. It is better to relax your mind and allow your memory to return naturally."

  "It's bitter prescription you offer me, Doctor," she murmured, unable to keep the note of frustration out of her voice.

  "But it is the best one." He spent another few minutes briefly lecturing her about time and healing, then left.

  She stood at the window, fighting tears and railing at her helplessness. Then a faint stir of movement intruded to forcibly remind her of the inspector's presence in the room. She threw him a quick glance then tilted her head a little higher, fixing her gaze on the colorful sails of the pleasure craft in the bay.

  "The good doctor wasn't very helpful, was he?" she said.

  "No, although it was apparent from your conversation with him that your knowledge of medicine and anatomy is limited. I think it would be safe to assume that you are not associated with the medical profession."