Rob kept his mouth full because he didn’t want to rain on her parade by reminding her that the hypnotic state hadn’t confirmed her identity. She’d made an assumption based on the art gallery and feeling at home there.
He hadn’t seen her eat with such gusto since he’d picked her up in the desert, so he swallowed and stuffed another few fries in his mouth.
As they finished up their meal and Rob reached for his wallet, a dark-haired man stormed through the door of the café, his mouth agape and his eyes wide. Rob’s muscles coiled, as the man made a beeline for their table.
“Mel!” The man tripped to a stop and made a grab for Libby’s hand, which she jerked away from him.
“Mel, what’s wrong? Thank God I found you. I’ve been searching the hospitals, everywhere.”
Libby put her hands in her lap and hunched her shoulders. “Who are you? My name’s not Mel.”
The man’s jaw dropped open, and his gaze flew from Libby’s face to Rob’s. “What do you mean, Mel? What’s happened to you? Who’s this man?”
Libby swept her tongue over her lips. “My name’s not Mel. It’s Libby, Libby James.”
The man started to laugh and then choked. “What’s going on here? Where have you been?”
“Hold on a minute.” Rob stood up, towering over the shorter man with the ponytail. “Who are you? How do you think you know Libby?”
The man’s dark eyes glittered, and a flush spread beneath his brown skin as he squared his shoulders.
“I don’t think I know her. She’s my wife, and that’s—” he jabbed his finger in the air at a petite Latina holding a gurgling baby “—our baby.”
Chapter Eleven
Libby swiveled in her seat to take in a young woman with an infant clinging to her side. The room spun, and she grabbed the edge of the table. “I—I’m not...”
She lost the words in a haze of confusion and despair, slumping against the vinyl banquette.
“Are you all right?” Rob shoved a glass of water toward her. “Drink this.”
The man with the ponytail braced his hands on the table, leaning toward her, invading her space. “What kind of joke is this? What’s going on?”
Rob held up his hand. “Back off a minute. Let’s take this conversation outside.”
Her so-called husband’s hand formed into a fist, and he banged on the table. “Who are you to give me orders? Why are you with my wife? Where has she been the past two days?”
“I’ll explain everything once we get outside.” Rob tossed some bills on the table. He reached out a hand to Libby under the glare of the man with the ponytail, and then stuffed it in his front pocket. “Are you okay, Libby? Can you get up by yourself?”
The man snorted. “She’s not Libby James, and what’s wrong with you, Mel? Why can’t you move on your own?”
Stepping closer to the man, Rob dipped his head. “She’s been in an accident. We’ll talk outside. Get out of her space.”
Libby grabbed her purse and hitched it over her shoulder, gripping the strap. Rob didn’t believe this man, did he? Because she didn’t...not for one minute.
Her gaze strayed to the sweet-faced young woman bouncing the baby. The girl gave her a shy smile and said, “Hola, Senora Bustamante.”
Libby shook her head and covered her eyes with one hand. She wasn’t married to this man. She didn’t have that baby with him. He hadn’t been in her recovered memories.
As she rose from the table, the stranger put his hand on her back, and she twitched.
He blinked his long lashes. “Mi querida.”
She wasn’t his dear or anyone else’s. She longed to fall into Rob’s arms right now, collapse against his broad chest. But she straightened her spine and walked away from both men, giving the baby a wide berth.
The eyes of the other customers tracked their progress out of the restaurant as Sydney called after them, waving the two twenties. “Thanks, Rob.”
Out on the sidewalk, Rob took charge again. “There’s a park across the street. Let’s get the baby some shade.”
“You took control of my wife, and now you want control of my baby, too?” The fake husband puffed up his chest.
“I’m not taking control of anyone.” Rob dragged his wallet from his pocket and flipped it open. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m Border Patrol.”
The man’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. “Is it the drugs? They’re not ours.”
Libby cleared her throat and found her voice. “Stop. Talking.”
“It’s not about any drugs.” Rob curled his fingers into his hair. “There, on the bench under the tree.”
When they got across the street, Rob placed his hand on the young woman’s arm. “Como se llama?”
“Teresa.”
“Sientate, aquí con la bebe, Teresa.” Rob patted the back of the bench, and Teresa sank down, cuddling the baby in her lap.
“Your Spanish stinks.” The man’s lip curled, and Rob rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, I know.” He turned to Libby and asked her if she wanted to sit down, with less solicitation in his voice than he’d had for Teresa.
Was he already starting to distance himself from a woman he thought was another man’s wife? But she wasn’t Senora Bustamante. He had to believe that.
She declined to sit and held on to the back of the bench for dear life instead. If Rob believed this man, she didn’t want him framing her story, either. She had to grab hold of this narrative before it careened out of control.
She took a deep breath. “I was in a car accident. I had a head injury and lost my memory but I’ve already been under hypnosis to regain it, and I know I’m Libby James. I’m not married. I don’t have any children.”
“Thank you. That explains it.” The man closed his eyes and placed his hands together. “I’m Pablo
