Читать книгу: «Stranger In Her Arms»
A man stood beside the door.
Tall and lean, he was thoroughly soaked from the rain.
As she watched, he paced to the porch steps. He turned back, and she saw his face more clearly. A bruise marred his jaw.
Who was he? If she’d met him before, she’d have remembered. In spite of his bruises, he had the kind of face a woman would notice. Eyes as gray as the stormy skies, a firm, sensuous mouth above a square jaw, and the hint of a cleft in his chin.
“I’ve had an accident.” He drew in a sharp breath, put a hand against the house as if he needed support.
What should she do? Send the stranger back into the storm?
Something was telling her not to. Instead Christy opened the door.
Stranger in Her Arms
Lorna Michaels
LORNA MICHAELS
When she was four years old, Lorna Michaels decided she would become a writer. But it wasn’t until she read her first romance that she found her niche. Since then she’s been a winner of numerous writing contests, a double Romance Writer’s of America Golden Heart finalist and a nominee for Romantic Times magazine’s Love and Laughter Award. A self-confessed romantic, she loves to spend her evenings writing happily-ever-after stories. During the day she’s a speech pathologist with a busy private practice. Though she leads a double life, both her careers focus on communication. As a speech pathologist, she works with children who have communication disorders. In her writing, she deals with men and women who overcome barriers to communication as they forge lasting relationships.
Besides working and writing, Lorna enjoys reading everything from cereal boxes to Greek tragedy, interacting with the two cats who own her, watching basketball games and traveling with her husband. In 2002 she realized her dream of visiting Antarctica. Nothing thrills her more than hearing from readers. You can e-mail her at lmichaels@zyzy.com.
To Barbara Sher,
who taught me to dream.
And in memory of Rita Gallagher,
who taught me how to make my dreams come true.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 1
Christy Matthews loved storms—the noise, the roiling sky, the hint of danger. And what better place to enjoy one than on San Sebastian Island in her parents’ vacation cottage, with a rerun of Raiders of the Lost Ark on the tube? She’d left the back blinds open so she could see the oleanders tossing wildly in the yard, the lightning zigzagging overhead.
The weather report said the rain was likely to continue all night and into tomorrow. Christy smiled and inhaled the aroma of warm popcorn. It was a buttered-popcorn kind of evening, with weather that encouraged her to put the fat content of butter out of her mind.
She grabbed a handful of popcorn as Indiana Jones battled furiously with a pit full of hissing snakes. This was her favorite part.
The telephone rang. “Nuts,” she muttered as she picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hi, Toad.”
“Steve.” Her older brother had become overprotective since Christy’s divorce. And when Steve used the nickname he’d bestowed on her when she was five, Christy knew she was in for a long and heavy dose of brotherly concern. Too bad she’d settled for the classic movie channel instead of renting a video. With a last longing look at Indy, she pressed the mute button on the remote.
“How’s the weather?”
“Wet but not too bad.” An earsplitting crash of thunder, surely loud enough for her brother to hear, belied her words. “Um, thunder always sounds louder at the beach.”
“Maybe you should leave.”
“No way. This isn’t a hurricane, for heaven’s sake. It’s a tropical depression.”
Never the greatest listener, her brother said, “Karen and I will drive down and pick you up. You can spend your vacation with us.”
“No, Steve. I appreciate the offer, but I need some time alone.”
“Christy—”
“No, listen. In the year since Keith left, I haven’t had a minute to sit down and think about the future. Now that I have the time, I need to make some decisions. Do I stay in Houston, or leave, sell the house, put it up for lease—all that stuff.”
“You can make decisions here,” he insisted.
“I have to do this on my own. I am on my own now.” For sure. Her husband—ex-husband, she reminded herself—was on his honeymoon with Christy’s replacement even as she spoke.
“Besides,” she continued, “I want to relax. I’m going to spend two weeks reading steamy novels, roaming the beach and watching old movies.” Her eyes strayed to the TV. Indy galloped through the desert on a white horse, then swung into the cab of a truck as it careened along at breakneck speed.
“I worry about you staying in the house alone.”
Christy rolled her eyes. One trait she was working hard to cultivate was independence. She wouldn’t let anyone, including her well-intentioned brother, make decisions for her ever again.
“Are the Bakers next door?”
She was tempted to lie, but if she said they were in residence, Steve would probably call to ask them to keep an eye on her. Then he’d find out the truth. “They left this morning.”
“Anyone else around?”
“Warner and Ellie Thompson.”
“They’re way at the other end of the road. And you think you’re fine? In an isolated house with your nearest neighbor a mile away? You’re being naive.”
A bubble of anger formed in her chest. “It’s half a mile, and I’m not naive. Not about anything. Not after Keith.”
“I heard on the news there’s a serial killer loose in Houston.”
So the news about the Night Stalker had gone statewide. If he wasn’t caught soon, there’d be national coverage, as well, she supposed. “Houston’s over an hour away. I’m safer here than in the Medical Center,” Christy said. Every one of the Night Stalker’s victims had worked somewhere in the huge complex of hospitals where she was employed. “Besides,” she added, “I have protection.”
“What?” he said in that scornful big-brother tone she’d hated when she was a kid. “Did you bring a hypodermic syringe from the hospital?”
“Nope, my own 38 special.”
“You…you have a gun?”
“And I know how to use it. I took one of those courses you need to get a gun permit.” She and several fellow nurses had decided that was essential, when two women who worked in their very same hospital turned up dead within a week, victims of the maniac who’d been prowling the city since spring.
“Good God, Toad.” Steve’s voice sounded choked. “Be careful with the damn thing.”
Christy laughed. “You want me to be safe, but you worry that I have a gun. Make up your mind, brother dear.” She reached for the popcorn. Steve’s concern for her safety was misguided. Nothing was likely to happen to her in an isolated corner of a lazy family vacation spot. And if some small difficulty did arise, no problem. She could take care of herself.
Not far away, a man lay on the beach. He heard the rumble of thunder and stirred. Another sound, deeper and more constant, roared in his ears. A flash of lightning penetrated his closed lids; raindrops splattered against his bare forearms. His clothes were damp and uncomfortable. Must’ve left the window open, he thought. But why had he gone to bed with his clothes on? With an effort, he forced his eyes open.
He wasn’t in bed, wasn’t even in a room. He was…outside, sprawled on his stomach on a wet, sandy beach. And the tide was coming in. Salt water swept over his feet and up to his knees, then receded. A sand dune shielded him from the wind, but he was unprotected from the rain and the rapidly encroaching tide.
How in hell had he gotten here?
He tried to get up, but a wave of pain made him clutch his head and freeze. His vision blurred. Must’ve hit my head, he thought fuzzily. But how?
He had no time to think. He had to get up and away from the angry surf. Another flash of lightning and a roll of thunder told him all hell was about to break loose.
On hands and knees he scrambled around the sand dune, then tried to stand, but dizziness and nausea forced him down again. He touched his head, and his hand came away wet. Rain, he thought, then glanced at his fingers. Blood!
Had he had an accident? Been mugged? He couldn’t remember.
He ignored his throbbing head and struggled to his feet. He’d think about his head later, get himself to a hospital if necessary. First he had to figure out what was going on. Panting with exertion, he clambered up a low bank and away from the beach. Cold rain pelted him, and he shivered as he surveyed a deserted road and flat marshland on the other side of it.
Where was he? And how had he gotten here? His mind was too fuzzy to dredge up the answers.
He peered through the rapidly advancing darkness. He saw no one. If he’d been beaten, whoever had done it was long gone.
He scanned the area again and noticed a cluster of small cottages some distance from the beach. A light shone in the house on the end. A light meant people who could tell him where he was. Ignoring the rain, he crossed the road, walking carefully to avoid another attack of lightheadedness, then, with head bent, started up the narrow lane that led to the houses. Rain chilled his neck, drenched his clothing, but he kept going. He’d ask to use the phone and call…
Who?
He groped for a name, a phone number, but nothing came to mind. Surely he should be able to remember his…
Wife? Office? Home? The only phone number he could recall was 911.
Despite the deluge, he stopped and shut his eyes. In a minute, something would come to him: the color of his car, what he’d eaten for lunch, his shoe size. Rain coursed down his cheeks as he waited, but his mind whirled in confusion, his head throbbed with pain.
Opening his eyes, he forced himself to think, to concentrate. Facts flashed through his head: the capital of Minnesota, the number of symphonies composed by Beethoven, the square root of 144. His brain seemed to be a treasure trove of trivia. Totally useless information.
“My name is…” he muttered but couldn’t complete the sentence. He recited the alphabet, hoping he’d recognize the first letter of his name. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know who to call, where he’d come from, or where he’d been going.
He didn’t know who he was.
His jeans’ pockets were empty. Quickly, he searched the pockets of the denim shirt he wore. No wallet. No driver’s license. Not a clue to his identity. Nothing.
Fear clutched at him, and though he couldn’t recall anything about himself, he was certain he was a man who seldom knew fear. Clenching his fists, he started off again, walking faster. Obviously, he’d suffered a blow to the head. Loss of memory was natural under the circumstances. Soon everything would come back to him.
Mud sucked at his shoes, slowed his pace, but doggedly, he kept going. Not much farther. Before him, the light gleamed like a beacon. Fixing his eyes on it, he plowed ahead.
Christy reached for the last handful of popcorn. She should go to bed, but she was too lazy to get out of the chair. Maybe she’d sleep here in the—
The doorbell rang.
She smothered a gasp and jumped up, scattering kernels on the floor. Who in the world would be out in this weather? Putting a hand to her heart, she pattered across the living room. The bell rang again. Whoever her visitor was, he didn’t have much patience. “All right,” she called. “I’m coming.”
She flipped on the porch light and peered out through the living-room window. A man stood beside the door. Tall and lean, he was disheveled and thoroughly soaked from the rain. In the glow of the light, she could make out his features well enough to tell that she didn’t know him. She didn’t open her door to strangers, storm or no storm.
As she watched, he paced to the porch steps. He turned back and she saw his face more clearly now. A bruise marred his jaw and one eye was turning a grisly purple. Had he been in a fight?
Who was he? If she’d met him here before, she’d have remembered him. In spite of his bruises, he had the kind of face a woman would notice. Eyes as gray as the stormy skies, a firm, sensuous mouth above a square jaw, and the hint of a cleft in his chin.
He punched the doorbell again. Reaching up to be sure the dead bolt was fastened, she called, “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I need to use the phone.”
She wasn’t about to fall for that ploy. He might be dangerously handsome, but on the other hand, he could be just plain dangerous. “Give me the number, and I’ll call for you.”
“I don’t know the number. I’ve had an accident, and I…” He grimaced, and she heard him draw in a sharp breath. He put a hand against the house as if he needed support.
Christy squinted through the rain, trying to see his car, but couldn’t. He must have walked from the beach road.
A car drove past and slowed, its headlights glimmering through the rainy darkness. Perhaps, Christy thought hopefully, the car belonged to a friend of this man, someone who would help him. But it drove on.
Nervously, she chewed on her lip. What should she do? Send the stranger back into the storm? Cruel. Let him in? Foolish.
The gun.
“Just a minute,” she called and darted into the bedroom. She pulled her revolver out of the dresser drawer and returned to the door. Thanks to her course, she knew how to use the gun and if the guy tried any funny stuff, she would. More confident now, she turned the dead bolt. The man straightened, waited.
Christy opened the door.
He came inside. The wind howled banshee-like through the oleanders behind him. Rain followed him in, needle-sharp drops pelting Christy’s face.
He took a step, then halted, staring at the barrel of the gun. Slowly, he raised his arms. “I won’t hurt you.”
“No, you won’t.” She gestured for him to walk ahead of her. “The phone’s that way, in the living room.”
“Thanks. I’ll make a call and then…” He staggered forward. “…and then…I’ll be…on…my…”
He fell heavily against the side of a chair, dislodging a lamp from the table beside it. The lamp crashed to the floor and broke, but Christy hardly noticed. Her eyes were on the man. He’d landed on his stomach, and she could see an ugly wound on the back of his head. His hair was matted with blood, he lay spread-eagled on her living-room floor, and he didn’t move.
Chapter 2
“Oh, my God.” Christy set down the gun, knelt on the floor and leaned over the unconscious man. “Wake up!” she said. No answer. “Can you hear me?” she called louder, but he didn’t rouse.
Grunting with the effort, she managed to turn the man onto his side. His face was pasty white, his skin cold. Christy searched for the pulse at his throat and drew a breath of relief when she found it. She pried open his lids and checked his pupils. They were symmetrical, not dilated. Good.
Unbuttoning his shirt, she searched for other injuries. His chest was smooth; she had no trouble seeing a line of bruises that probably meant cracked ribs. No wonder he was heavy. His leanness was deceptive. He wasn’t as tall as she’d thought, but he was six feet of solid muscle.
She went to her room, dragged the quilt off her bed and covered him. He smelled of the sea and, with his bronzed skin and stubbled cheeks, he reminded Christy of the buccaneers who once roamed the Gulf of Mexico. She watched him for a moment, but when he still didn’t move or make a sound, she hurried into the kitchen to dial 911.
No dial tone. Only static.
The phone lines must be down because of the storm. She dashed into the bedroom for her cell phone, grabbed it out of the charger and dialed. A busy signal.
She tried again. Again. Each time she got the same result.
She shoved the cell phone in her pocket. She’d just have to drive him to the hospital herself. Provided he woke up and could walk. She was strong, but no way could she drag a six-foot-tall, unconscious, dead-weight man outside and lift him into her car. Maybe, despite the weather, one of her neighbors had come to the island and could help. She opened the door and went out on the porch. No lights shone in any of the windows. Disappointed, she went back inside.
Halfway down the block, obscured by the darkness, a black sedan was parked. The driver stared at the house, then pounded his fist against the steering wheel in rage and frustration. Today had been one piece of damn rotten luck after another.
He reviewed the evening in his mind. His plan had been so simple. Take the sonofabitch out with one quick, powerful blow to the head, drag him onto the beach, leave him there and let the tide take care of him. And in case it didn’t sweep him out to sea, empty his pockets so he’d be hard to identify.
First stroke of bad luck: he’d had to do the job quickly. A patrol car stopped on the other side of the highway, the cop warning him a storm was coming in. What’d the deputy think, he was blind? He could see the rain coming down as well as anyone.
He’d driven away without checking to be sure the bastard was dead, then he disposed of the wallet further down the beach. He didn’t want the deputy to stop by again and find him with a body, so he’d gone into town for a hamburger and a beer. Later, he went back to check on his prey and, more freakin’ bad luck: the sonofabitch was gone.
A cold dread took hold. Had someone rescued him?
He’d sped away from the beach, looking from right to left in the gray darkness. Then he’d seen the bastard on the porch of a house at the end of a block of small cottages. How the hell had he made it that far? Was he some kind of superhero?
A woman stood in the doorway. And dammit to hell, the worst luck of all: she opened the door and he went inside. Dumb broad. Didn’t she know better than to let a stranger into her house?
Now he ran over his options. Best thing would be to break in and finish what he’d started, get rid of the woman, too. He was about to get out of the car when he noticed a black and white around the corner. It didn’t turn onto the street he was parked on, but if it was patrolling the neighborhood, it’d be back soon. Okay, he’d go with plan B. And he’d be quick.
Inside the house, Christy turned back to her unwelcome visitor. He hadn’t moved. “Don’t do this to me,” she muttered…and then she heard him moan.
Thank heavens. She bent over him, put her hand on his forehead. “Can you hear me?” she asked.
Cool hand on his brow. Scent of flowers. A soft voice. “Can you hear me?” the voice called. He tried to answer, to form the word yes, but could only manage another moan.
“Good. You’re waking up,” the voice said. Such a sweet voice, the kind that belonged to an angel.
Angel? Good Lord, had he died?
“Can you open your eyes?” the angel-voice asked.
He wanted to see the owner of the voice, so he tried. With a monumental effort, he managed to force his eyes open—and saw, not an angel, but a woman bending over him, her green eyes filled with concern. He blinked, then recognized her. He’d rung her doorbell, he remembered, and she’d let him in. So how had he ended up on the floor? “Wh-what happened?” he rasped.
“You came in to use the phone and passed out.”
“Passed out,” he repeated. “But why…?”
“You had a wreck.”
Had he told her that? “No,” he muttered. “Have to call—”
“The phone’s out of order. The storm…”
As if to underscore her words, thunder rattled the windows. And then he heard the sound of hail. He felt every hailstone that pounded the roof as if it were slamming against his head. He struggled to think. “How about…a cell?”
“I tried a minute ago but the line was busy.” She pulled a phone out of her pocket and dialed. “Still busy. We’ll have to try again later.”
He didn’t want to wait until later. He needed to get out of here now and go…somewhere. He pushed against the floor, seeking leverage.
“Don’t get up.” She put her hand on his shoulder with surprising firmness. “I don’t want you fainting on me again.”
“I need to—”
“You don’t need to do anything right now but lie still,” the woman said, then with a half smile, added, “Trust me, I’m a nurse.”
“Okay.” He would have trusted that voice and that smile no matter what. She sat silently beside him and he kept his eyes on her. Her face began to blur, and the floor seemed to tilt. No, dammit, he wasn’t going to pass out again. Using all his willpower, he forced himself to stay alert, to concentrate on her eyes until the dizziness passed.
She reached for his wrist and took his pulse. “Better now,” she murmured, then leaned over him, an anxious look on her face. “We need to get you to a doctor. No use waiting. My car’s in the garage out back. I’ll bring it around so you won’t have to walk so far.” She jiggled the gun at him. “Don’t move.”
“Okay.” He had no intention of moving. He shut his eyes and waited, hovering on the edge of sleep until the slam of the door roused him.
He opened his eyes and looked up. She stood in the doorway, her face taut with frustration. “The car,” she said in a voice midway between tears and anger. “It won’t start.”
“Flooded?” he asked.
“No.” She turned to stare at the rain pelting against the back windows.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” She spun around and glared at him. “I’m a nurse, not a mechanic. The motor makes a sound but it doesn’t catch.”
Their eyes met, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing: they were alone here, isolated, with no way to get out.
Swallowing a groan, he raised himself up on an elbow. “I’ll get out of your way,” he said. “I can walk to the hospital. How far—”
“Too far,” she said flatly. “You wouldn’t make it to the end of the street in your condition.” Then her eyes brightened. “What about your car? Is it driveable after the wreck?”
“Car,” he echoed stupidly. “Wreck. I don’t remember a wreck.”
“You said you had an accident.”
He may have said so, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. Frustrated, he clenched his fist and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He made his hand relax. “I don’t remember what happened to the car,” he said. “I’m not sure I even had one. I don’t remember anything.”
“Not…anything?”
“Nothing. Not a car, not where I was going. Hell, I don’t even know my own name.” He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, hadn’t meant to say anything about that at all. But dammit, here he was in soaking-wet clothes, his chest and his head hurt like hell, and he didn’t have the brain power to figure out who he was or the willpower to keep the words from coming out.
“You have a head injury, probably a concussion. You’ll remember soon.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.
That’s what he’d told himself as he crossed the field. He remembered that all right. He remembered waking up and walking over here, but other than that, zero. He hesitated, then asked, “Where…are we?” He felt stupid asking, but he had to know.
“San Sebastian Island…Texas coast, near Galveston.”
The name sounded familiar. Did he live here? Or had he come on vacation? He shook his head, wishing he could shake a thought loose. “Well, um… I, uh, guess you know your name?”
A tight smile crossed her lips. “Christy. Christy Matthews. My—my husband will be home any time,” she continued, but she spoke without conviction. She was lying, he could tell. There was no husband coming home.
Under the circumstances, she had to be scared. “Look,” he said, wanting to reassure her, “I don’t remember much about myself, but I’m not dangerous.”
Christy Matthews raised a brow. “You’re in no shape to be dangerous,” she agreed, but she kept her gun pointed at his chest.
She sighed, then said, “Since no one seems to be going anywhere, let’s get you to some place more comfortable. I’ll give you a hand.”
He was tempted to wave her away. He didn’t enjoy being treated like an invalid. He had a little bump on the head, that’s all. But something made him reach for her.
Damn, getting up was harder than he’d expected. All the blood seemed to rush out of his head, and the room took a sharp turn to the side.
“Easy,” she murmured and slipped an arm around his waist. His body brushed against her breast, and she jolted and leaned away from him. But she was close enough for him to notice her scent again. Something light and flowery. Roses, maybe. He also noticed she grasped the gun firmly in her free hand.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He gritted his teeth. “Fine.”
He wasn’t fine. His legs were as shaky as a newborn colt’s, and beads of cold sweat popped out on his face. Even walking as far as the couch wore him out. When they bypassed it and Christy led him into a hallway that appeared endless, he wondered if she’d decided to torture him to pay him back for his unwanted visit.
“I have an extra bed,” she said.
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” he muttered, “I can bunk on your couch for a while.” Or on the floor, since he was about to fall flat on his face.
Christy shook her head and urged him forward. “The bed. You’re hurt, and you need it.” She opened the door to a bedroom and steered him toward the double bed. They stopped beside it, and she pulled off the spread.
As soon as the sheets came into view, he sat.
“Whoa,” Christy said. “Let’s get you out of those wet things.”
He was dead certain she wasn’t the first woman who’d asked him to take off his clothes, but this was probably the only time he’d felt uncomfortable with the idea.
Correctly reading him, Christy smiled fully this time. “I’m a nurse, remember?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. But this wasn’t a hospital.
She set the gun down on the nightstand. Inexperienced with weapons, he noted. If he’d been so inclined, he could easily have grabbed it.
She turned to him again and pressed him firmly back against the pillows. Hand on the snap of his jeans, she paused and said, “I’ll lend you a pair of my husband’s pajamas.” He heard a tremor in her voice and was doubly sure that, pajamas or not, Christy Matthews’s husband would not be coming home tonight.
To distract himself from the feel of her hand at his waist, he tried to concentrate on the sound of the storm—the rain pounding against the windows, the wind rattling the panes. But the distraction didn’t work. Regardless of his physical or mental condition, his reflexes—and his hormones—were in working order. His body reacted quite normally to soft female hands undressing him. He pushed the hands away. “I’ll take care of it,” he said gruffly.
She let him deal with the snap but insisted on helping him peel off the jeans, and he got rock-hard as her fingers brushed his thighs. For a second, before she assumed a professionally distant air, he saw the light of awareness in her eyes and the tinge of pink in her cheeks, and he knew she hadn’t missed the bulge beneath his briefs.
She tugged the jeans lower, then her hands stilled. He followed her gaze down to his thigh. An old scar puckered the skin.
“That’s a bullet wound,” she said. She seemed surprised but not repulsed. He guessed, with her medical background, she’d seen a lot of those.
Well, apparently he wasn’t a doctor because the sight of the wound shook him up a bit. “Is that what it is?”
“Yes.” She gave him a level look. “Where’d you get it?”
How in hell did she expect him to know? He searched his mind, hoping her question would elicit an answer. It didn’t. “I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember anything,” he said, hearing the frustration in his voice. He stared at his thigh. “Maybe the scar’s from something else.”
“No,” she said. “I’ve been a nurse long enough to know a bullet wound when I see one.” She took a step back. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“Dammit,” he growled, clenching his hands, “I don’t know. I—” Pain seared his chest and he lost his breath, lost all awareness of what he wanted to say. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He couldn’t see Christy, couldn’t see anything but the damned specks, then he felt a cool cloth on his forehead, and her face swam back into view.
She bent over him, her fingers resting lightly on the pulse at his throat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That was a dumb question.”
He tried to say something.
“Hush, take it easy,” she warned. “Your ribs are bruised, you’ve hit your head, and whoever you are, we need to get you taken care of.” She pulled his jeans the rest of the way off, and this time he had no problem controlling his arousal. He doubted if Hollywood’s sexiest love goddess could have awakened his libido at that moment.
When the jeans were off, Christy said, “We need to wash some of that sand off. I’ll give you a sponge bath.”
In other circumstances, he might have welcomed a sponge bath by this woman with the soft hands and springtime scent. Not just now. He hurt like hell, but he didn’t relish being coddled. Besides, the thought occurred to him that if he looked in the mirror, he might remember who he was. “I’ll handle it,” he told her firmly. “Where’s your bathroom?”
She pointed toward the hall, and he sat up and eased off the bed. Immediately, she was at his side, grasping his arm to steady him. God, her scent was intoxicating. Honeysuckle? Violets? Whatever, it woke his hormones again.
Unwilling to deal with his body’s inevitable reaction to her nearness, he held up a hand to ward her off. Clenching his jaw, he staggered out of the bedroom.
She followed along behind him and when he reached the bathroom, said, “Call if you need me.”
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