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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.”

He managed a nod, then went into the small room, papered with a leafy design and smelling of a garden. He flipped on the light, shut the door and approached the mirror slowly, his heart beating heavily in his chest. Outside, rain drummed against the window. He stood still for a moment, listening to the storm and wondering. When he looked in the mirror, who would he see?

He stepped closer to the sink, took a breath, and lifted his eyes. Would he recognize himself?

He didn’t.

He must have looked in mirrors thousands of times, but tonight the man who stared back at him was as unfamiliar as a stranger he might pass on the street.

How could you see your own face and not know yourself? Dizzy with despair, he grasped the sink to keep from falling. “Who are you, damn you?” he snarled. He shut his eyes and concentrated, searching his mind.

No use. All he came up with was a blank.

Chapter 3

While the man was in the bathroom, Christy got the first aid kit her father kept for emergencies. Then she found a pair of his old pajamas, went into the hall, and knocked on the bathroom door. The stranger opened it a crack, stretched out a hand, and took the pajamas.

The sight of his bare arm, roped with muscle and bronzed from the sun, unsettled her. She felt as flustered as she had when she’d helped him undress. She, who’d been a nurse for nine years, who’d seen hundreds of naked men—totally naked men. None of them had raised her pulse one beat. Why did he?

Because she was alone and vulnerable, she decided as she went back into the bedroom to wait for him. Darn, she shouldn’t have mentioned a husband. How would she explain when her spouse didn’t show up? Maybe the stranger would forget what she’d said.

But she had more pressing matters to consider. Like how badly he was injured and how long she was going to keep him under her roof. She felt a twinge of fear as she thought of her brother’s warning. Was this man dangerous? If he was, she had no one to protect her. She had to take care of herself. A shiver went up her spine, and she picked up the gun she’d laid on the nightstand, wondering if she’d really have the guts to use it.

After a few minutes the man shuffled into the room. Clearly, every step was painful.

He looked less disreputable now that he’d cleaned up. In fact, he looked pretty good. Although the pajama pants came barely to his ankles and the sleeves were well above his wrists, the material stretched across broad shoulders, hugged a muscular frame, and made Christy uncomfortably aware again of the stranger’s masculinity.

He glanced at the weapon in her hand. His lips thinned but he said nothing, only lay down on the bed and waited.

“You have a nasty wound,” she said. “I’m going to clean it. You’ll have to lie on your side.” He turned, and she added, “I’ll try not to hurt you too much.” She opened a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and dribbled liquid into the wound. The peroxide fizzed, and she heard the man catch his breath.

“Try harder,” he muttered. “What are you cleaning it with? Battery acid?”

“Peroxide. You’ll feel worse if you get an infection.” She unscrewed the cap from a tube of antibiotic ointment and spread a liberal amount on the wound, then reached for a bandage and the adhesive tape.

Carefully, she pulled the edges of the gash together and taped them. The man’s breath hissed out, but he kept silent. “There. All done.”

“Are you sure you’re a nurse and not that crazy woman from Misery?” he muttered.

She chuckled. “Lie on your back now and unbutton the pajama top.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She laughed. “I’m a nurse. Cross my heart.” She bent over him and gently probed the bruises on his chest. His flesh had warmed. Her hand brushed a flat male nipple and immediately it puckered. The pulse at his throat beat strongly. She glanced up, and his gaze caught hers.

She cleared her throat, forced a professional tone. “You’ve got some bad bruises, but I don’t think your ribs are broken. You should get a tetanus shot at the emergency room, but—” She glanced at the window and shrugged. Rain beat steadily against the pane. “—we’re not going anywhere tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it. My shots are up to date.”

She started and frowned at him. “I thought you said you couldn’t remember anything. How do you know that?”

“I don’t have a clue. It just came to me.” He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. “That’s all. I don’t remember anything else.”

She stared at him dubiously, then shrugged. Injured or not, he was too big and imposing to risk arguing with him over what he could or couldn’t recall. “I’m going to put your clothes in the washer.”

She picked up his discarded clothing, took the gun and left the room. She didn’t feel comfortable leaving the man alone, but she decided she could chance it for a little while. He was pretty weak from the blow to his head. As long as she didn’t provoke him, she doubted he’d do any damage. Still she turned and looked over her shoulder as she started down the hall, then glanced pointedly at the gun in her hand.

In the utility room, she turned the washer on hot and poured in detergent. She tossed in his jeans, then paused with his long-sleeved blue shirt in hand. Maybe the pockets contained a clue to their owner’s identity. She wondered if he’d thought to check them.

The pockets were empty. She retrieved his jeans and checked their pockets next. Nothing. Why would a man wander around without a driver’s license, a wallet or any kind of identification?

Unless he’d been robbed. That would explain the empty pockets and the blow to the head.

Or had he gotten rid of the identification himself? Was he a fugitive, using her house as a convenient place to hide out? Feigning amnesia, playing her for a fool?

Slow down, Christy, she ordered herself. Why should she jump to that conclusion? Fueled by the storm, her imagination was working overtime. The stranger was probably a nice, normal guy, an attractive man she’d want to know better if she met him at a party. On the other hand, she thought, as her brother’s warning voice played in her mind, nice, normal guys didn’t walk around without any sort of ID. And didn’t have scars from bullet holes on their thighs.

Forgetting her resolve not to antagonize him, she marched back down the hall and faced the man in the bed. “What are you up to, mister?”

He gazed up at her blankly.

“You don’t have a wallet,” she snapped. “You don’t have a driver’s license.”

He stared at her, then shrugged. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know? I already noticed that.”

“The point is you’ve gotten rid of every means of identification. Why? Are you running from something? Dammit, you’ve invaded my home. Quit this ‘I-don’t-remember’ business and tell me the truth.”

He struggled up on one elbow, his face a mask of fury and frustration. Even barely able to move, he looked dangerous, and again Christy realized what a formidable man he was. “Lady, I would if I could. I don’t know any more about myself than you do.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “If you want me out, give me my clothes and I’ll be on my way.”

That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? For him to vanish as abruptly as he’d appeared. Whatever he was dealing with wasn’t her problem. Only a fool would keep him under her roof.

And yet—

She saw him wince with pain as he stood. She glanced outside at the unrelenting blackness, at the rain that pounded against the window. She’d been trained as a healer. Caring for the sick was ingrained in her. How could she toss an injured man out into the storm?

“Go to sleep,” she sighed. “You can leave in the morning.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. Get back in bed.” Maybe she was a fool, but she couldn’t order him to go.

She shut the blinds, turned the ceiling light off and a night light on, and sat in the rocking chair beside the bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“I’ve pulled night shifts before.” She kicked off her shoes and settled back. “I’m going to be right here all night. And don’t forget, mister, that I’m the one holding the gun.”

Bandaged head resting on the soft pillow in Christy’s guest room, the stranger fell asleep immediately. His dreams were hazy, disjointed. The roar of a motor, the crack of a rifle shot. Shouts, curses, gasps, a muffled sob and the stench of blood. He woke with his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his back.

He heard another roar, but this time of thunder, and he remembered the storm, remembered Christy, and opened his eyes. She sat beside the bed, her eyes on him, the gun pointed squarely at his chest.

The crash of thunder echoed in his head. He felt as if someone was pounding it from the inside with a massive hammer. He groaned and wiped his face with the pajama sleeve.

She leaned forward. “Want a drink?”

“Yeah, something strong enough to put me out of my misery.”

“Alcohol would be the worst thing for you,” she said, rising. “I’ll bring you a couple of aspirins with some water and an ice pack for your head.”

She brought him a glass and he drank thirstily, then lay against the pillows. She put the cold pack on his head and he sank back into sleep.

Other dreams came, vivid and disturbing. At intervals he woke, always to find Christy beside the bed. Once she brought a cool cloth and wiped his face. Her voice was soothing, her hands gentle. “Go back to sleep,” she murmured. Hoping his dreams would help him remember, he did.

Once he found himself in a long, dark hallway. Shadows glided ahead of him, tantalizing him, and he quickened his pace, but each time he reached them, the phantoms he chased eluded him. A wall of doors appeared, and he opened them, only to find empty rooms. He heard voices, but they were garbled and he couldn’t make out the words.

Near dawn he woke. His head ached, his ribs hurt, and his mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. The glass he’d drunk from during the night was empty.

He was about to get up to refill the glass when he heard a sigh. Christy, he thought. And turned to see her, eyes shut, gun still in her hand but pointed downward, aimed straight at her toes.

Forgetting his thirst, he lay back and studied her. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was girl-next-door pretty. Wavy auburn hair, smooth skin, a figure that was neither fashion-model gaunt nor screen-goddess voluptuous but just right. Sweetly curved hips, perky breasts that would fit a man’s hands to perfection. He felt a tightening in his lower body again and, with an effort, changed the direction of his thoughts.

She was in her late-twenties, he thought, and she had the appeal that came with maturity. She seemed to know who she was and to be comfortable with the knowledge.

In the gray light, he could see how tired she was. He didn’t know how she’d passed the previous day, but she’d spent the night alternately caring for him and holding a gun on him. Couldn’t have been easy.

He let her sleep for a while, but the position of the gun made him edgy. A reflexive movement could cause her to squeeze the trigger. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.

Deciding he’d better let her wake slowly, he cleared his throat.

Her eyes popped open and she straightened, aiming the gun again. Voice raspy with sleep, she asked, “Do you need another drink?” He nodded, and she picked up the glass and backed out of the room, keeping her eyes—and the gun—on him. In a minute, she returned with the water. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” he lied. He drank, set the glass on the nightstand, and carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll be out of your way as soon as I’m dressed.”

“Where will you go?”

Good question. He didn’t have a clue where to go. “I’ll figure something out,” he said with more certainty than he felt.

“You should see a doctor.”

“You’ve done a pretty good job of putting me back together.”

“Nevertheless. There’s a hospital in town, only a few miles from here.” She gestured vaguely. “I’d drive you to town if I could,” she added.

“No problem. If you’ll point me toward the road, I’ll walk or hitch a ride.”

She nodded, went to the window and pulled up the blinds. “Oh, my God.”

He got off the bed, crossed the room and looked over her shoulder. “Damn,” he muttered, staring at the scene before him. He could forget his plan of walking into town. Water, high enough so that only the top of the mailbox showed above it, filled the front yard and lapped at the porch steps. A lawn chair and several broken tree limbs floated toward the drive.

He glanced up at the leaden sky. Rain still fell in sheets and he doubted it would stop any time soon. A few more hours and water would be at the door.

As a crash of thunder resounded, his eyes met Christy’s. He wasn’t surprised to see nerves, wouldn’t have faulted her if she’d given in to them. She didn’t. “You’ll have to stay, at least for now,” she said, her voice steady.

“Looks like it. As long as I’m going to be here a while, I can help you out. Unless you like your furniture decorated with water marks, we need to start moving it and getting things off the floor.”

“Thanks, but you should take it easy.”

The way his head felt, he’d have to. “I’ll do what I can.”

She nodded. “I’ll get your clothes out of the dryer. And then I’m going to fill the tub. If we need water, we’ll have it.”

When she returned with his clothes, he went into the bathroom to dress. He peered into the mirror again but a stranger still stared back. No time to dwell on his problems now. Dealing with the flood took precedence. He dressed quickly and followed the sound of the television and the odor of frying bacon down the hallway.

In the living room, he halted. Out the back window he saw the gray of the Gulf and above it an ominous, pewter-colored sky. Waves thundered in, one after another, slamming across what had once been a beach. Water frothed at the edge of Christy’s yard, threatening to swallow it up, too. “Do we need an ark?” he called to Christy.

He left the window and went into the kitchen where she stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. She’d tucked the gun in her waistband. “You know,” she said, “I’ve always enjoyed storms, but this one is a little more than I bargained for.” Without looking up, she continued. “Pour yourself a glass of juice and have a seat.” She gestured toward the television. “The news isn’t good.”

Sipping his juice, he listened.

“Hal McCormick is standing by in the small town of Lerner, across the bay from San Sebastian Island.”

Christy took the pan of eggs off the burner and went to stand in front of the set.

“Hal, how does it look out there?” the anchor asked.

“Wet, Ray. And no let-up in sight.” The camera swung back for a wide-angle view. Abandoned cars were parked haphazardly by the seawall. Wind whipped the trees along the road. Three teenagers lugging a rubber raft waved and mugged for the camera. “What was labeled a tropical depression yesterday has been upgraded to a tropical storm and given the name Coral. Winds are not yet at hurricane force, but with Coral stalled over the Gulf of Mexico, nearly eight inches of rain have fallen here, leaving cars stranded, homes flooded, and power lines down. And the forecast is more of the same.”

“At least we have electricity,” Christy murmured. She returned to the stove, spooned eggs onto plates, added bacon and bagels, then joined him at the table. She reached for the gun, set it beside her plate, and watched as he lifted a forkful of food to his mouth. “Eggs okay?”

He nodded, glanced pointedly at the revolver. “I’d enjoy them more without the artillery.” He smiled at her. “I like the sound of snap, crackle, and pop, but from cereal, not from bullets.”

“You’ll have to put up with it.”

He shrugged, and they ate without further conversation.

The news broadcast continued. “San Sebastian, across the bay, is cut off from the mainland. Access to the causeway bridge was washed out early this morning.”

The implications of that were clear. “We’re trapped,” he murmured.

“Maybe we do need an ark.” Christy tried to smile but failed miserably.

Before he could answer, another voice blared from the TV. “We interrupt the weathercast for this bulletin, just received from the San Sebastian Island Police Department. A thirty-four-year-old woman, Martha McLane, was reported missing last night.”

Christy’s head jerked up.

“Mrs. McLane, who was vacationing on the island with her husband and two children, left their room at the Gulf View Motel around 5:00 p.m. to walk to a nearby supermarket and did not return.” The picture of a woman with dark, wavy hair appeared on the screen. “Witnesses who were in the Kroger parking lot reported seeing a woman meeting Mrs. McLane’s description getting into a dark-blue Toyota Corolla driven by a dark-haired white male, wearing jeans. Witnesses were uncertain about the color of his shirt, but it may have been blue.”

“Dark hair,” Christy muttered. “Jeans…blue shirt.” She turned from the TV set. Her eyes stared into his. It didn’t take a mind reader to figure out what she was thinking.

He laid down his fork. It clattered against his plate. Christy reached for the gun. “Was it you?”

“I don’t know.”

The news reporter continued, “San Sebastian police are concerned that the serial killer who has been terrorizing Houston has broadened his territory even further. They are working with an artist on a sketch of the driver of the car Mrs. McLane was seen entering.”

Both he and Christy swivelled to face the screen. He held his breath. Would he see a likeness of himself?

“As soon as the sketch is available we will interrupt regularly scheduled programming to broadcast it.”

Christy sighed, then turned to him again. In her eyes, he could see the question: was he the kidnapper? “Look, if it was me, I wouldn’t be the one beaten up,” he said reasonably.

“I don’t know about that. Maybe she grabbed the steering wheel, made you go off the road.”

He stared down at his plate, frustration churning in his gut. Without looking up, he shook his head. “I…don’t…know.”

“Maybe you don’t, or maybe you’re faking. Whichever, it doesn’t matter.” She grasped the gun with both hands. “Until you can tell me different and make me believe you, I’ll have to figure you might be him.”

“I understand how you feel—” he began.

“No, you don’t. You haven’t got a clue how I feel.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashing. She glanced out the window, then quickly returned her gaze to his. “You wouldn’t be able to get far in the flood, so I won’t send you out. And I tried my cell phone again. All I get is a busy signal, so I can’t call the sheriff’s department. You’ll have to stay here and help me.” She leaned forward. “But if you try anything—anything at all, I won’t think twice. I’ll shoot you, understand?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t blame her. She’d never seen him before last night. He had no identification. He’d come to her door with some cock-and-bull story about losing his memory. What was she to think? Hell, he didn’t know what to think.

He wanted to reassure her, wipe the fear off her face. He shut his eyes and strained to remember. But his memory extended only as far back as waking last night. He recalled no blue Corolla, no pretty dark-haired woman. There was nothing. Only an endless black void.

He opened his eyes and stared at his half-eaten breakfast. The thought of finishing it, of putting even a morsel of food into his mouth, sickened him. He pushed his plate away and started to get up.

An earsplitting crash sounded.

For a moment he thought Christy had shot him and wondered why he felt no pain. Then he realized he’d heard thunder.

The television screen was black. The kitchen light was out, the hum of the air conditioner stilled.

“The power,” Christy groaned, then slammed her fork down on her plate. “Dammit to hell. What next?”

Chapter 4

After a moment he saw Christy pull herself together. She squared her shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do but get to work,” she said. “These dishes need washing.”

“Dishes?” he asked, surprised she’d waste time in the kitchen with the water lapping at the porch steps.

“The water’s not up to the door yet. We have time, and I like things neat.” She gestured with the gun. “You do them. I’ll watch.”

She wasn’t going to turn her back on him, and in spite of the quandary they were in, that amused him. He hid a smile as he headed for the sink.

Christy impressed him. Some people would cry over the situation and some would curse louder and longer than she had moments ago. She was playing the hand she’d been dealt.

He’d have to do the same.

Keeping busy—that would get him through this. At least he felt better this morning. The pounding in his head had given way to a dull ache, and now that he’d eaten part of a meal, his strength had begun to return.

Christy watched him and aimed the revolver at his back. If her family had any idea what she’d done—opening her door to a stranger, maybe a kidnapper—they’d have her committed. At least, with the gun in her hand, she felt more in control. Still, she watched the dark-haired man’s every move as he scrubbed and rinsed the dishes.

Then she saw the bread knife.

On the counter, inches from his hand. She’d left it there after she’d sliced the bagels.

Silly to be afraid, she told herself. After all, she had the gun.

But would she use it? She’d told him last night she would, but in her heart, she wasn’t sure.

What if he grabbed the knife and refused to give it up? Big man with knife versus small woman with gun. She was afraid he’d have the edge.

Maybe he hadn’t noticed the knife yet. Should she casually walk over and get it? But then she’d be beside him and he could snatch her gun.

Uncertain, she watched him put a plate in the dish drainer, wash another. Then he reached for the knife.

She was on her feet, her finger trembling on the trigger when he dunked the knife in the soapy water. He ran the sponge over it and dropped it into the rinse water.

Legs like jelly, she sank back down on the chair. He’d had his chance with the knife, and he didn’t take it. Now she could get through the morning with a little less stress.

The man turned and their eyes met. His were a deep, smokey gray. The eyes of a criminal? No, she didn’t see evil there. The stranger’s gaze conveyed sincerity, even compassion.

As a hospital nurse, she was used to seeing people in the worst of circumstances, in situations where they were stripped down to their essential selves. What could be worse than losing your memory? Yet he was handling his predicament better than most.

Unmoving, he continued to hold her gaze while outside the storm raged and Christy’s heart pounded. Which did she fear most—him or the storm?

The storm, she thought. The man wouldn’t hurt her, she assured herself. They were in this together. For now, she’d have to trust him. She tucked the gun back in the waistband of her jeans. “Let’s get started on the living room,” she said.

Insisting he walk in front of her, she followed him into the living room.

Hands on hips, he surveyed the room. “We’ll need to sandbag the doors first. Got any old blankets or pillows we can use?”

Christy frowned. He’d put himself in charge. Just like Keith. Give her ex a problem, anything from a broken teapot to a patient with head trauma, and he was certain he knew what to do. Better than anyone. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. Just because she’d had an overbearing husband didn’t mean she had to reject the advice of every male she met. Her helper was probably right. And injuries or not, he’d be better able to handle the heavy work than she. “I’ll see,” she murmured and went to get some blankets.

They barricaded the front door with a faded old beach blanket, then did the same with the back, using a cartoon character blanket that had once belonged to her brother Steve.

Then they got to work, dragging furniture around until they could roll up the dhurrie that covered the living-room floor and set it on the sofa. They put small items—a lamp, a magazine rack, an umbrella stand—on tables.

As they worked, Christy kept her eyes on the man, watching for any tricky moves. Her trust only went so far.

Periodically she stopped to dial 911 on her cell, always with the same result: a busy signal.

She was concerned about the stranger’s strength. A sheen of sweat covered his face, but he seemed to be holding up all right. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She frowned. “What should I call you?”

She saw him stiffen, then he turned. “Aren’t unidentified males called John Doe? How about J.D. for short?” His voice was flat. Not a shred of emotion showed in his eyes. The man had iron control.

Christy nodded. “J.D. All right.”

Not sure how he felt about giving himself a “name,” he turned away, mouthing the initials silently, wondering if he’d chosen his own. He went down the alphabet as he had last night. J slowed him down a bit, and he muttered, “Joe. Jack. Jerry.” None of the names felt right.

What else? He tried a few sentence beginnings: “I live in…” “My social security number is…” “Hell,” he muttered under his breath. “My social security number is zero zero zero.”

Obsessing over his identity wasn’t going to help him remember. He let his thoughts wander, and they came to rest on the woman working beside him. The voice of an angel, he thought. But she had a revolver tucked in the waistband of her jeans. Sweetness and spunk; the combination was immensely appealing. She was the kind of woman he’d enjoy sharing a burger and a beer with…or chateaubriand and champagne. If the weather were calm and she were his, he’d like to stroll along the beach with her under the summer sun. Or on a starlit night, with a soft Gulf breeze ruffling the hair that would drift like moon shadows to her shoulders.

A romantic image. Was he a romantic man? He pondered that for a moment and decided that no, he was more practical than poetic; yet something about Christy stirred him, called forth pretty words.

She bent to pick up a magazine that had dropped off a pile and gave him an enticing view of her backside. Nicely rounded. His hands itched to touch, to mold.

If she were his, on a day like this, they’d finish in here and he’d take her back to the bedroom and make love to her while the thunder growled and the storm battered the windows.

If she were his…

But she wasn’t, and the thought jerked him back to reality. She’d mentioned a husband last night. But the spouse was clearly an invention she’d come up with to protect herself from a stranger who might get ideas about a lone woman.

Well, he’d gotten them.

He’d like to…

A sudden question halted him midthought. What if he was married and thinking this way? Damn, this was a helluva mess.

He glanced at her to find her with the cell phone at her ear again, punching in 911. While he’d been imagining romantic scenes, she’d been doing her best to try to get rid of him.

She caught him staring. “What?” she asked.

Had he said something out loud? “Nothing,” he muttered. He pointed to the crowded bookshelves. “You don’t want these books ruined. We’ll move the ones from the lower shelves.” He pulled out a well-worn copy of The Secret Garden. “Looks like you’ve read this more than once.”

She nodded. “It was my favorite book when I was growing up. I read it every summer we were here, at least five years in a row.”

“You came here when you were a kid?” he asked.

“Yes, this is my parents’ beach house.”

He glanced around the living room. Big windows that could be opened to catch the Gulf breeze, shut now to keep out the rain. Comfortable furniture but not fancy. A fireplace. One that was actually used. A log lay in the basket beside it. On the mantel was a picture of a man holding up a huge fish. Christy’s father, he guessed. He scanned more of the book titles. “You have a brother.”

She nodded.

“Older than you.”

She cocked her head and stared at him. “Yes, but how do you know that?”

He gestured to the dog-eared volumes. “His books are on a higher shelf.”

He read more titles. The Hardy Boys, Huckleberry Finn, and Tom Sawyer. Funny, he knew the contents of all those books but couldn’t remember reading them. Dammit, why? Rubbing his hand over his temple in frustration, he turned away from the shelves.

“Let’s take a break,” Christy said. “I’ll fix us some lunch.”

“Okay.” He led the way into the kitchen without her asking. He already knew the drill; she didn’t want him behind her.

“I’ll make some cheese sandwiches,” she said.

Christy dawdled over her sandwich. J.D. was certain she did that to give him time to rest. He liked that, appreciated that she didn’t make a big deal out of it. He guessed she knew that would embarrass him.

She’d gone out of her way to help him, even though she still didn’t trust him. She kept plenty of space between them so he couldn’t snatch her gun, and except for that one delicious view she’d given him of her derriere, she never turned her back on him.

He wondered about her, this woman who was so strong. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. “Did you always want to be a nurse?” he asked.

She shrugged. “A nurse or an archaeologist.”

“And you settled on nursing.”

“I decided I wanted to be in health care.”

“Why not a doctor?” he asked, but she only shrugged.

He tried to picture her at work, wearing scrubs, her hair pulled back from her face. “What hospital do you work at?” he asked.

“You ask too many questions.”

“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to pry.” He pushed his sandwich away. “I can’t do much but ask questions. I can’t tell you about me.”

She shrugged. “That’s okay. I don’t go for the ‘strangers on a plane’ routine.” She got up abruptly, punched 911 on her cell phone and backed away from the table.

At the kitchen door she stopped. “I’m getting through,” she said excitedly, and hurried out of the room.

J.D. sighed. Now she could call the paramedics or the police. Or both. Wouldn’t do much good though, he decided, looking out the window. No one would be able to get here. The roads were filled with water. The Gulf of Mexico was right at their doorstep.

Christy counted the rings as she stepped into the front hallway. After nine of them, a woman’s harried voice answered. “Emergency.”

Thank God. “This is Christy Matthews, 136 Gulf Bank Road. I have a man at my house who was in an accident last night—”

“Is his condition critical?” the woman interrupted.

“No, but—”

“We’re only picking up in life-and-death situations.”

“What about the police? I don’t know who the man is. I—I think he might be, um, dangerous.”

“You said he’s been there since last night? Has he threatened you?”

“Um, no—”

“Well then, you’ll have to sit tight. Police cars can’t get through and they only have one helicopter. Call back later. Or tomorrow.”

“I—” Before she could plead her case, the line went dead.

Well, what did she expect? This was like triage in an overcrowded emergency room. Priority went to the worst cases. But darn, the woman hadn’t even given her a chance to say the man had lost his memory and to ask if there was a missing person report. She dialed emergency again and this time got the familiar busy signal.

She dropped the phone back into her pocket. Somewhere, someone must be worried sick about J.D. Some woman, probably…

She shuffled back to the kitchen.

J.D. looked up.

“I got through. They’ll get here as soon as they can,” she said, deciding on a half-truth to make him think the paramedics or even the cops were on their way. He nodded but she saw he didn’t believe her. Why should he? Only his memory was gone; the rest of his brain seemed to be functioning just fine.

Didn’t matter anyway. With the rain still coming down in torrents, she’d just as soon have him here. She needed his help. She needed company, too. Having him here was better than facing the storm alone.

She didn’t like his asking questions though. It was safer not to give him any personal information.

A thought flashed into her mind. Last night she’d told him her husband was on his way. The water wasn’t high enough then to prevent his coming. Wouldn’t J.D. be wondering why he had never shown? So, Christy, why not? Okay, he worked in Houston and had planned to join her last night. He’d said he would be late and by the time he got started, he couldn’t get through. Sounded plausible. “My husband—”

“You’re not married.”

Stunned at the matter-of-fact statement, she stepped back. “How…what gives you that idea?”

“You don’t wear a wedding ring.”

“I—I was at the beach yesterday. I didn’t want to take a chance on losing it.”

He glanced at her ring finger. “Then you’ve left it off all summer.”

She followed the direction of his gaze. The skin of her fourth finger was evenly tanned.

“You haven’t tried to call him,” he pointed out.

He was infuriatingly logical. And, of course, he was right.

“Besides,” he added, “when I said that just now, about you not being married, you started to say, ‘How did you know?’”

“Okay, you’re right.” Deflated, she dropped into the chair across from him.

Eyes narrowed, he continued to study her. “You’ve been married though.”

Annoyed now, she frowned at him. “And what brings you to that conclusion?”

“Your choice of vacation spots. You picked your parents’ beach house. Doesn’t seem like a singles haunt.”

“Maybe I don’t like to travel.”

He shook his head. “The girl who once thought of becoming an archaeologist? I don’t think so.”

Christy felt a chill run down her spine. She didn’t like this man guessing so much about her. “What are you, some kind of mind reader?” she asked irritably.

“Just a good observer.” He studied her intently. “So why are you here?”

“I told you, you ask too many questions.”

“Then I’ll stick with answers. I believe you’re here to think things through, get away from nosy questions.” He flashed an engaging grin. “Like mine.” When she didn’t answer, he rose. “I’ll go back to work.”

Christy watched him leave. He’d disturbed her, intrigued her, and darned if that sexy grin hadn’t kindled a spark. Dumb, Christy. Dumb for her to feel it and it would be even dumber for her to let him see it. She’d have to be careful.

Feeling edgy, she rose abruptly, went to the breakfast-room window and stared out at the waterlogged landscape. The front yard looked like a lake. With a pang, she noticed that her parents’ beloved oleanders were awash in salt water. She remembered her mother planting them the summer they’d bought the beach house. “We’ll enjoy them when we’re old and gray,” her dad had said, touching her mother’s hand. They loved this house so much. Now she wondered if any of the bushes would survive the flood.

And whether the house itself would survive. Certainly not without damage. She’d heard shingles fly off the roof, seen a crumbled board floating toward the street. Sighing, she turned away from the window and joined J.D. in the living room.

Damn, the house was stifling. J.D. mopped his brow with his sleeve as they dragged more furniture around, putting rolled-up towels under the larger pieces, pots from the kitchen under the smaller ones. “Mind if I take my shirt off?”

“Go ahead,” she said, but he saw she was uncomfortable. She didn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t worry about that though. The heat and humidity were wearing him down. He shrugged off his shirt and laid it in the corner of the room.

He needed to rest for a few minutes, so he leaned against the wall. “Can I ask you something?” When she shot him a forbidding look, he added, “Nothing personal.”

She stiffened but nodded.

He pointed to the fireplace. “Ever use that?”

Apparently relieved at the innocuous question, she smiled. “Yeah, a lot. It was one of the features that convinced my parents to buy this particular house. I remember Steve asking why we needed a fireplace in a summer home and Dad saying we could come down in winter, too.”

“Did you?”

“Almost every year at Christmas.” She smiled. God, she had a sweet smile. “Even if it wasn’t cold—and usually it wasn’t—Dad would build a fire and we’d sit around drinking eggnog and singing carols.”

“I wish I could tell you how I spent Christmas growing up…or even last year,” he said.

“We should try some word associations,” she suggested. “Maybe that’ll help you remember something.”

“Can’t hurt,” he said. “Go.”

“Summer,” she said.

“Hot.”

“Island.”

“Beach,” J.D. answered.

“You woke up there, didn’t you?” Christy said. “Let’s go with that. Beach.”

“Tide.”

“Why tide?” she asked. “I would have said sand or shells.”

“It was coming in when I came to.” Thinking of that made his head ache.

“Okay, let’s try wreck.”

“Crash.”

“Did you?” she asked quickly.

He rubbed his head. “I don’t know.”

“Just say what comes into your mind.”

“Bang.”

“Not good,” she said. “Try again.”

“Hell, I don’t know. Bam.” He rubbed his head. “Forget it. This isn’t working.”

“You’re right. Let’s take a break.”

J.D. nodded, rotated his shoulders. “Mind if I borrow a book?”

“Go ahead.” As he glanced over the shelves, she came up behind him and touched his shoulder. “Sorry I upset you.”

Gentle. Her touch was so gentle, her hand so soft. It took every ounce of self-control not to turn, pull her into his arms and bury himself in that sweet, feminine embrace.

“’S okay,” he muttered and forced a smile. He pulled a volume off the shelf and headed for the kitchen.

Christy watched him go, then glanced at the hand that she’d laid on his shoulder. Her skin felt flushed, not just her hand but all over. Surely it was a natural reaction. Man, woman, locked up here together…alone. Natural for sexual tension to manifest itself. But would she feel the same if she were marooned with Dr. Ramsey, head of orthopedics, or Barry Walters, the physical therapist who saw patients on her floor? The answer was no.

She needed to think of something else. Where had she left the book she’d started yesterday afternoon? That seemed so long ago she could hardly remember.

She found it on top of a pile on the couch, picked it up, then put it back. She didn’t want to read a thriller. Why did people call them that anyway? She was in the midst of her own personal adventure; she didn’t need a fictional one. She scanned book titles and grabbed one of her dad’s books, a biography of Robert E. Lee she’d never read.

Since all the living-room chairs were propped on towels, she took the book into the kitchen. J.D. had chosen another of her father’s old books, an international adventure with agents, double agents and high-tech gadgetry, written by a relatively unknown writer trying to emulate Tom Clancy.

Christy sat across the table from J.D., opened her book, and glanced at him. Here she was, spending the day with a man she hadn’t known twenty-four hours ago. She’d housed him, fed him, tended to him…and now she was providing him with reading material.

Unable to get interested in her reading, she watched him. His head was bent over the book. Despite the black eye and the bruise along his jaw, he was a handsome man. A man she acknowledged she’d have been attracted to in a different situation. No, she was a woman who tried to be honest with herself. Judging from her reaction to barely touching him, she admitted that even in these circumstances she was strongly attracted. There was strength in his features and an animal magnetism about him that could draw a woman’s eye…and fuel her dreams.

Abruptly, she turned her chair sideways so that she faced away from him and tried to read. But she couldn’t concentrate. She had to force herself to keep still.

Thump!

She gasped at the unexpected sound. Heart racing, she fumbled for the gun as she looked up. J.D. had tossed his book on the table, that was all. “Wh-what?”

“Asinine story. Makes no sense. The author knows nothing about international intrigue.”

“And you do? Is that your line of work—espionage?”

He blinked as if he’d just awakened from a deep sleep. “I can’t say.” He got up and paced to the window and stood staring out into the gloom.

Christy watched him, noticing the rigid set of his shoulders, the hands clenched at his sides. He wasn’t faking his amnesia. He was confused, out of control, and like the majority of men she knew, what he needed most of all was control.

He unfolded his hands, spread them on the windowpane and leaned close to the glass. He reminded her of a caged animal, straining against the limits of his enclosure.

He turned and met her eyes. Quickly, she looked down at the book and pretended she was absorbed. But she knew he was watching her, felt his eyes bore into her like twin lasers.

Finally she couldn’t stand him staring any longer. She shut her book and stood. “It’s almost dinner time. I have some tuna in the pantry. I can’t do much with it. We’ll have to take it like it is. And I’d better light some candles. It’s getting dark.”

She placed the candles on saucers and set them on the table and prepared their meager meal. “Thanks,” he said. “Tuna by candlelight.”

Not what you’d expect of a candlelight dinner, Christy thought. Tasteless tuna on paper plates in a steamy kitchen. And yet, in the near-dark, with the candles flickering, and the light playing across J.D.’s skin and adding bronze highlights to his hair, she felt her heartbeat quicken.

Christy couldn’t keep her eyes off his smooth chest, the muscles that rippled in his arms. She’d seen his body—more of it, actually—last night, but this was different. Then he’d been a patient; now he was a man.

Disturbed by the powerful figure before her, confused by her response to him, Christy forced her gaze down to her plate. Her hand trembled as she picked up her fork. She knew why. There was always an attraction in danger—the challenge of seeing how close you could venture to the fire without getting burned. J.D. was danger personified.

They ate in silence. The only sound was an occasional growl of thunder and the incessant rain. And then it slacked off.

“It’s stopping.” Christy jumped up and ran to the window. The force of the rain had lessened, but even in the dark she could see that the sky was still leaden. Water lapped threateningly at the porch. No one was going to rescue them tonight.

She got out more candles, set them in saucers and lit them. The flames cast shadows that fluttered against the walls and disappeared like ghosts.

J.D. rose. He yawned and stretched, and, to Christy, his figure, silhouetted on the wall behind him, looked large, menacing. The man who’d intrigued her minutes ago now seemed threatening.

“You should get some rest,” she told him. Her voice sounded thin.

He nodded and picked up one of the makeshift candleholders. “You should, too.”

He was right. She couldn’t stay awake to watch him for another eight hours.

What should she do?

She wished she could lock him in the front bedroom, but the bedroom doors had no locks. Carrying her own candle, she followed him down the hall and into his room. “I want to check your wound,” she told him.

He gave her a little-boy frown. “Aw, geez, Mom, do you have to?”

“Yes, I do. Sit.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and clenched his fists while she dabbed more peroxide around the wound. “Nurse Ratched,” he muttered.

“I heard that.”

“Sorry.”

“You remember the book or, later, the movie,” she said hopefully.

“Sure. One Flew Over the…um, Robin’s Nest.”

“Cuckoo,” she corrected.

“You talkin’ to me?” he asked.

“Nope, and that’s another movie.”

He looked up. “Taxi Driver. Also about a nut case,” he said and gave her one of his dazzling smiles.

She backed quickly away. “Good night. Call me if you need anything.”

She hurried down the hall to her bathroom. She needed a long, cool shower, but she settled for a short one, then went to the bedroom. She shut the door, stared at it, then got a chair and shoved it against the door and under the knob. It wouldn’t keep him out if he really wanted in, but at least it would slow him down, give her time to get her weapon. Lord, how could she have predicted when the doorbell rang last night that she would spend tonight barricaded in her room?

She lay down and shut her eyes, but couldn’t sleep. The room was stifling. She cracked the window open, then shut it when rain blew in.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. She held her breath. Was it him? Was he coming this way? She sat up, reached for her revolver and waited. Nothing happened and she ordered herself to calm down. They’d been alone all day and isolated. Why should she be any more afraid of him at night?

Who was he?

Unable to answer that question, she asked another. What did she know about him? What had she learned in the day they’d been together?

He was strong. In spite of his injury and what had to be considerable pain, he’d worked all day without a word of complaint. He’d been helpful and—and kind. He’d backed off immediately when she’d let him know his questions and his uncannily accurate observations made her uncomfortable. No matter who—or what—he was, there was something about him, something that drew her. Maybe it was his combination of strength and compassion; maybe it was because he was a mystery, even to himself. Although she believed people control their own destiny, she had a strange feeling that Fate had sent him to her door. Finally she fell asleep, seeing his face in her dreams.

Down the hall, J.D. lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Through clenched teeth, he whispered, “Who am I?”

Was someone searching for him? Agonizing over his disappearance? Maybe not.

For a while at least, Christy had thought he might be a criminal. Could she be right? He wanted to say no, but he remembered the bullet wound in his thigh, the blow to his head last night—evidence of violence, even though he didn’t think he was a violent person.

Maybe he didn’t remember what happened because he didn’t want to. He had no clue.

The only thing he was sure about was Christy. When she’d bent over him, he’d wanted to touch her, to draw in her scent, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. He’d had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for her.

He shut his eyes, pictured her face and fell asleep.

His dreams were as disjointed as they had been last night and frightening. Empty rooms that weren’t really empty. Faces in the shadows. Someone stalked him, grabbed him by the throat. He twisted, groaned, trying to get away.

Christy woke abruptly. She sat up in bed, hugging the sheet around her. What was that noise?

A man’s voice.

Had someone broken in? Or was it J.D.? Was he all right?

Reaching for the gun, she held it in front of her as she’d been taught, then made her way down the hall. The noise came from his room: a moan, then a half scream.

With a trembling hand, she opened the door.

The sheets tangled around him, he tossed and turned on the bed, muttering unintelligible words.

She moved closer. The sheets were damp, his skin soaked with perspiration. She put her hand on his brow. “Shh, it’s all right,” she murmured…

From under the sheet, his hand whipped out. He grabbed her arm and jerked her forward with surprising strength.

Christy screamed as she toppled to the bed.

Chapter 5

“No!” Christy choked, struggling against J.D.’s superior strength. “No.” The gun dropped out of her hand and crashed to the floor.

All her earlier fears about him now stared her in the face.

He had her by the shoulders. She tried to kick, but her legs were tangled in the sheet, tried to twist away, but he held her fast. He forced her onto her back and she lay powerless, helpless to get away.

Terrified, fighting for breath, Christy stared up at him.

He loomed over her, nostrils flaring, his lips peeled back in a grimace. His eyes were…shut.

Asleep. He had to be asleep.

Forcing air into her lungs, Christy cried, “Stop, J.D. Let me go.”

He made a growling sound in his throat. And then his eyes opened.

“Wh—?” He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. Then recognition dawned. “Christy?” he muttered. “What’s…going on?”

“You—you were having a nightmare.”

His grip loosened. “What happened? How did you…? How did I…?”

She sat up and struggled to control her shaky voice. “I—I stumbled into your bad dream. I came in to see what was wrong and—and you grabbed me.”

He stared down at the hand that had seized her. “Ah, Christy, I—I—”

She saw the shock on his face, heard the revulsion in his voice, and her fear faded. “You were asleep. You didn’t know what you were doing.” But still, she rubbed the arm he’d jerked.

He sat up, wide awake now, his tone sharp. “Did I hurt you?”

She dropped her gaze. “Not much.”

“Let me see.” He took her arm, carefully this time as if afraid he might break it. “You are hurt. Bruised.” His voice filled with self-loathing, he let go of her. “Damn, what kind of man am I?”

“Don’t,” she said softly. “You didn’t mean to hurt me. I’m sure of that.” And she was…now.

Without thinking, she bent toward him and gently touched his cheek. “Relax,” she murmured to him. “Go back to sleep.”

He raised his eyes to hers. “Christy,” he breathed as she stroked the rough stubble on his face. “Christy…”

He leaned closer; his mouth was inches from hers. Her lips parted.

He put his hands on her shoulders. He was going to kiss her. She wanted this—the warmth of his breath, the taste of his mouth. Her eyes closed.

Gently, he pushed her away. “No.”

Her eyes flew open. Humiliated, she straightened as her ex-husband’s mocking voice sounded in her ear: I don’t want you. Neither did J.D.

This man was a stranger. His rejection shouldn’t sting the way Keith’s had. But it did.

She wanted to run away, hide her embarrassment and her hurt. Turning her back on J.D., she struggled to her feet.

J.D. caught her hand. “Christy, wait.”

“No, I…you…need to get back to sleep.” But he held her in place.

“Look at me,” he said, giving her arm a gentle tug, and slowly, unwillingly, she turned.

He urged her back down on the bed. When she perched stiffly on the edge, he dropped her hand and caressed her cheek, his fingertips soft on her heated skin. “I don’t know…who I am…or what my situation is.” He glanced at his left hand.

Christy’s eyes followed his. “There’s no ring,” she murmured.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice filled with regret. “There could be someone. I…don’t know, and until I do, I can’t do this to you. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

“You’re right, of course,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I do. And just for the record, I was thinking the same thing.”

If he could fight this attraction, so could she. She cleared her throat. “I, um, should go.”

“Yeah, you should.”

She got up, bent and picked up the gun. “Good night,” she whispered.

In her room, she sat on the edge of the bed and touched her still-warm cheek. She’d told J.D. she hadn’t known what she was thinking. Trouble was, she hadn’t been thinking at all. She’d been feeling. Wanting.

She’d been alone for nearly a year. Was that the reason? No, she’d had her chances to be with a man. Friends had urged her to start dating so she’d given in and gone out a few times. But she hadn’t enjoyed the dating scene, the rush to take someone to bed. Acquaintances—really nonacquaintances—of a few hours were ready to hit the sheets. Not Christy.

But tonight had been different. If J.D. hadn’t said no, she’d be in his bed right now. She covered her face with her hands.

He was a man with integrity, she thought. He’d saved them both from embarrassment, maybe even heartache.

She thought of the gentleness in his tone when he’d let her go, the sincerity in his eyes.

How different he was from Keith. J.D. didn’t know if he was involved, yet still he wouldn’t take a chance of hurting someone. Keith had no compunctions about betraying the wife he saw every day.

Christy glanced at the revolver she’d set on the nightstand and shook her head. Another embarrassment.

All her pride in her ability to defend herself had been in vain. Even with a gun in her hand, J.D. had easily overpowered her. In his sleep.

With a snort of disgust, she opened the drawer and shoved the gun inside, all the way to the back.

When Christy woke the next morning, she hurried to the window and opened the blinds. The rain had stopped, but the sky still looked ominous, and though the water was beginning to recede, the road was still flooded.

She dressed slowly. She dreaded coming face to face with J.D. after last night. After she’d practically jumped into bed with him. Well, she couldn’t avoid him. They were, after all, the only two people in their tiny, isolated world. She’d just have to pretend last night had never happened and hope he had the good manners not to mention it.

He didn’t say a word. He greeted her in the kitchen and handed her a glass of too-warm orange juice. “Sorry, the kitchen is still closed,” he said.

“Did you try the phone?”

“Still down.”

She took out her cell. Low battery, the screen said. And of course, she had no way to charge it. Damn, if something could go wrong, it would. She wanted to fling the phone onto the table. Instead she put it carefully into her pocket.

Now they could do nothing but wait.

She glanced across the table at J.D. as she nibbled on half-stale, untoasted bread.

He looked up from his breakfast and met her eyes. Goose-bumps erupted on her arms, a blush warmed her cheeks, and all her plans to keep silent about what had happened between them evaporated. “Um, about last night—”

“I don’t recall a thing. I have amnesia, remember?” That quick, charming grin spread across his lips.

“I guess I don’t remember either, then,” Christy said. But she knew she wouldn’t forget, not even when J.D. was out of her life. She’d still wonder how his lips would have tasted, still regret not finding out.

They finished their breakfast. “Do you want to put the furniture back?” J.D. asked.

“I don’t think so. It may rain again.”

“Didn’t you say your car wouldn’t start?” he asked. “Want me to take a look?”

Even with amnesia, the guy figured his auto mechanics gene was still functioning. Typical male. “Doesn’t matter if it works or not,” she said. “My Toyota’s so low to the ground it would drown in a few inches of water.”

“We could—”

The doorbell rang and Christy jumped up.

Was this a delayed response to her 911 call?

But when she opened the door, she found Warner Thompson, the retired banker who lived down the street, his ruddy face wreathed in a smile. “Glad to see you survived the storm, young lady. Have any problems?”

Her heart began to pound. Here at last was her chance to tell someone about J.D.

Christy hesitated as Warner waited for her answer. Say you have a problem, say a stranger invaded your house, ask Warner for help. Do it.

Yesterday she would have, without hesitation. But the words didn’t come. She and J.D. had reached a turning point last night. Everything was different now. She shook her head.

Behind her, she heard footsteps. J.D. strolled into the living room, carrying a glass in one hand and a dishcloth in the other. Warner’s eyes widened.

What did her neighbor see? A delightful domestic scene. He was probably mentally congratulating Christy on replacing Keith with such an attractive man.

“Hello there,” Warner said and put out a hand. “Warner Thompson.”

J.D. shook it. “J. D. Russell.”

Christy’s gaze leaped to J.D.’s. Had he remembered? Was that his real name? But J.D.’s smile was bland and his eyes focused on Warner.

“I’m going to try and drive my SUV into town,” Warner said. “You two want to ride along?”

Christy nodded. “That would be great. J.D. had a little accident yesterday. I’d like Dr. Mayes to take a look at it.”

“Come on then.”

As they drove to town through streets filled with debris and still knee-deep in water, Warner unabashedly quizzed J.D. about himself.

“Where are you from, son?”

Christy cringed. Warner had always reminded her of a jovial Santa Claus, but today she wished he weren’t so outgoing and interested in others.

J.D., however, fielded the question with ease. “Houston.”

“Nice place for you young folks, but too chaotic for Ellie and me. We like the quiet life here. Haven’t been back to Houston but a couple of times since we retired here three years ago, and that was for doctor’s appointments. Under protest.” He glanced at J.D. “What kind of work do you do?”

“Consulting. Human relations.”

“Teach those CEOs to be more compassionate, eh?”

J.D. smiled. “Something like that.”

Christy’s eyes widened at his glib answers. Either J.D. was an accomplished liar who’d been feeding her a line about having amnesia these past two days, or he’d regained his memory. She tried to send him a what’s-going-on? message with her eyes, but he avoided her gaze and continued the conversation.

“How’d you two meet?” Warner asked as he turned onto San Sebastian’s main street.

“At a party,” Christy said.

“At the gym,” J.D. replied at the same time.

Christy’s cheeks heated as she met Warner’s startled gaze. “Which?” he asked.

“Party,” Christy repeated, then forced a chuckle. “We’d seen each other at the gym, but we didn’t really meet until that party. Remember, hon?” She turned and patted J.D.’s hand. “J.D. has such a bad memory for, um, details like that.”

“Terrible memory,” he agreed, and added, “Really all I remember of that evening is Christy. She bowled me over. You could say I fell at her feet.”

“Yeah, you could,” Christy muttered. She let out a breath of relief when Warner pulled the SUV into a parking space.

“Well, here you are,” Warner said. “I need to pick up a few things for Ellie. Why don’t you two meet me at the hardware store around the corner in, say, three hours?”

“Fine.” Christy could hardly wait to escape from his curious gaze. She tugged J.D. across the street toward the small medical building where Dr. Mayes practiced. She stopped in front of the door. “You remembered everyth—”

“Nothing.”

“But you gave Warner your name.”

J.D. shook his head. “When you went to answer the door, I figured I’d be meeting someone. I saw a notepad from Russell’s Pharmacy on the counter, so I used the name. The rest—I had to say something.”

“Maybe some of it was true.”

“Don’t know, except for falling at your feet.”

“Yeah,” Christy muttered. “You did do that.” If he hadn’t, she’d have had him out of her house in minutes, and then she’d have missed:

 A. The adventure of her life.

 B. A lot of grief.

 C. Both of the above.

Didn’t matter. Here she was, and here he was. “Let’s go see if the doctor’s in,” she said.

They found Dr. Tom Mayes’s waiting room filled with patients and his receptionist’s chair empty. They rang the bell and waited at the window. After a few minutes, the doctor bustled out of an examining room, followed by a young woman with a whimpering toddler. “You just give him a couple of baby aspirin every few hours, Amanda, and he’ll be fine.”

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