Katrina returns with a tray of gourmet sandwiches along with two flutes of champagne. Today, she’s clad in tight-ass jeans, a turtleneck halter, and sky-high mules that make her look like a total Amazon. Her bountiful boobs stay as still as mountains as she saunters my way.

“Your doctor says you need to eat and rest to get your strength back,” she says, setting the tray on the coffee table.

I can’t argue with her. At the reminder of my ordeal, I inwardly shudder. According to Katrina and my doctors, I was almost People Magazine’s “Sexiest Man Dead!” I’m still weak and have lost some weight. Maybe a little R&R will help restore my memory. And potency. The cock is like a muscle, right? I remember reading somewhere that muscles have memory. Well, score one for me. I’ve remembered something. But why won’t my cock do the same?

Katrina reaches for the two flutes of champagne and hands one to me. “To us,” she toasts, holding up her glass. I clink mine against it. The ping resounds in my ears.

“I only drink Cristal,” my companion says as she lifts the crystal glass to her lips. They look much fuller than they did a couple of days ago. I follow her actions and take a sip of the chilled bubbly. The cool sparkling liquid sails down my throat and triggers another memory. I’d rather be drinking a beer.

“Katrina, do we have any beer? A Heineken by chance?”

She rolls her feline green eyes. “Darling, beer is a four-letter word reserved for peasants. We’re royalty. How can you not love the world’s finest champagne?”

Stuck with the champagne, I take a seat on the oversized u-shaped couch. Setting her flute back down on the tray, my fiancée follows me, except she straddles my long legs and sits on my lap. Her toned arms fold around my neck. Her tits skim my chest, and through my cotton T-shirt, I can feel her plastic-hard nipples. I have no desire to touch them or see what lies beneath her top. The scent of her cloying floral perfume wafts in the air and nauseates me.

“Does it feel good to be home?” she purrs before nuzzling my neck. Goosebumps pop along my skin, but that’s all that’s rising. Her mouth moves to my lips and she kisses me fiercely. Biting my lower lip, she forces me to part my mouth and her tongue darts inside. She takes the lead, swishing it around. Nothing’s familiar. My eyes stay wide open while awaiting some feeling of arousal. Nada. Not even a little buzz.

She breaks away. Her manicured forefinger traces my wet lips.

“Do you like the way I taste?” she breathes into my mouth.

“Yeah,” I lie. She doesn’t taste good. A hint of tobacco mixes with mint and champagne. Is she a smoker? She shoves the finger into my mouth, adding a salty layer of flavor.

While I force myself to suck her finger, she works the button and fly of my jeans. Successfully, she frees my soft cock. My unblinking eyes stay trained on her as she grips the thick length in her hand and goes down on the wide crown. Her lips wrap around it and then she trails her mouth down the shaft. Her tongue licks the underside as she comes back up. Moving her hand to the base, she squeezes my cock, pumping it hard as her mouth, in tandem, glides up and down. I finally feel the beginnings of a hard-on, but just as fast as it swells, it completely deflates. Frustrated, Katrina lets go of my cock and sits back up. Her eyes flare with fury.

“Brandon, what is wrong with you? I spoke to your doctor and he said there should be no problem. Especially with the Viagra.”

“I don’t know.” Screw the Viagra. I do know. I don’t like the way she tastes or the way she smells. And her sharp teeth scraped so hard against my shaft I must have teeth marks.

“Fuck you!” She jumps off my lap and, to my shock, flings her glass of champagne across the room. The glass hits the massive stone fireplace and shatters into shards.

Temper much?

“You’re mental,” she rants. “You need help.”

And she needs anger management. Before I can respond, the doorbell chimes. Literally saved by the bell, I leap up from the couch to open the front door.

It’s Scott. I’ve asked him to come over so I can review my finances and recent expenses. Dressed in a three-piece gray suit, he’s carrying a briefcase. He follows me into the living room where Katrina is cleaning up the mess she made. Her eyes connect with his and a smile crosses her face.

“Oh, hi, Scott. You’re just in time for lunch. Want some champagne?”

Scott declines, but helps himself to one of the fancy sandwiches. Chomping into it, he lowers himself into one of my overstuffed side chairs. After setting down his half-eaten sandwich on the tray, he raises his briefcase to his lap and pulls out a thick file. “Your expenses over the last month,” he says, handing it to me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Katrina sashay out of the living room, carrying the shards of glass on a plate. “I’ll be right back,” she calls out as she heads in the direction of the kitchen. She sure knows how to move her tight, perfect-shaped ass.

Once she’s out of sight, I open the file. Skipping over the pages and pages of hospital charges, which my insurance will cover, I start with the month before the accident. Man. I’m quite the big spender. Restaurant after expensive restaurant. Thousands and thousands dropped at Barneys. Numerous exorbitant charges at a florist I never heard of. A couple of trips to Vegas at the pricey Venetian.

“I like to gamble?” I ask Scott, stopping to look up at him.

His left eye twitches. He’s got some kind of weird eye tic. “Yeah. You’re a big gambler.”

News to me.

“And what about all these florist and Barneys charges?”

Scott smiles. “After meeting Katrina, you couldn’t stop buying her extravagant flowers and clothes. I’ve never seen anyone as smitten as you.” He takes another bite of the sandwich. “Katrina showed me the love letters you sent with your gifts. I swear, man, you’re a regular Shakespeare.”

I find it disconcerting that my fiancée would share something so personal with him. But then again, they must be close. Maybe she saved them. Reading them might help jar my memory and my amorous feelings toward her. With this thought in mind, I go back to scanning the multitude of expenses. Another entry jolts me—a hefty one hundred thousand dollar check made out to the Bella Stadler Academy of Acting. My eyes flutter. Bella Stadler…the name rings a bell. I ask Scott about it.

“Don’t you remember, Brandon? She was your acting coach. You give to her school annually. You’re a big supporter.”

Tugging at my bottom lip with my thumb, I dwell on her name, a memory trying to break through. It’s futile. I move on. A few minutes later I find what I’ve been looking for. A whopping one point two million dollar charge at Tiffany’s. Made on the day of my accident. Katrina’s engagement ring.

“Did I buy Katrina’s ring just before the accident?” I’m a little surprised I didn’t give her one over our engagement dinner the night before.

“After you proposed and she said yes, you wanted her to pick it out. I was there when you phoned in the charge. You were practically creaming your pants.”

“Wish I were doing that now,” I mumble under my breath before regretting I said anything at all about my condition.

Scott lets out a little laugh before clearing his throat. “Equipment trouble?”

None of your damn business, even though you’re my business manager is what I want to say, but I bite down on my tongue. Instead, I ask to see more of my statements. Without probing further, Scott reaches into the briefcase and hands me another thick file.

“This is your portfolio. You’re worth a billion dollars. You can thank me.”

Holy crap. I am. Or at least close to that I estimate as I leaf through page after page of my investments. I own a shitload of stocks and bonds along with a boatload of real estate around the world. This house alone is worth seven million dollars.