An amnesia gothic--that drippiest of subgenres, here in the drabbest of contemporary versions. After a California car crash, Lisa Stephens remembers nada; so how can she protest when gorgeous but scary Enrique Fuente claims her as his just-wedded wife and whisks her off to his ancestral home in northern Spain? But ""my intuition was constantly setting off alarm bells regarding him,"" especially when Enrique insists on Lisa signing some important papers right away. ""Had I been brought to Spain as a surrogate wife, substituting for the girl who had been killed in the crash!"" And who is taking pot shots at Lisa. . . and who murdered Lisa's only ally, a sweet servant girl? Not Enrique, of course--so, after the usual showdown with the killer, Lisa can at last forget about escaping with that nice American and can succumb instead to her suppressed lust for her husband. Kistler's goopy style--""I counted each threatening hour, with fear singing a terrible song all about me""--was far less embarrassing in the exotic time and place of The Jarrah Tree (1977); so she'd probably be wise to lay off the 20th century and slip back into period costume.