Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Epilogue

Copyright

“Johnny, Don’t Kiss Me.”

Before he could misunderstand, Francesca rushed on. “I want you to kiss me, but don’t, because if you do, I’m gonna do something crazy, and I can’t do anything crazy because I have to go to work.”

He did draw back, but the look he gave her left her as feverish as he’d been. “Maybe you should throw me out of here. I can’t seem to resist touching you.”

“Maybe that’s why I can’t throw you out, Johnny. No one’s ever found it a problem to resist me before.”

“Ah, sweetheart…” He took hold of her hand and placed an ardent kiss in her palm. “Don’t tell me things like that. It puts even crazier ideas in my head than are already there.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the wonderful world of Silhouette Desire! This month, look for six scintillating love stories. I know you’re going to enjoy them all. First up is The Beauty, the Beast and the Baby, a fabulous MAN OF THE MONTH from Dixie Browning. It’s also the second book in her TALL, DARK AND HANDSOME miniseries.

The exciting SONS AND LOVERS series also continues with Leanne Banks’s Ridge: The Avenger. This is Leanne’s first Silhouette Desire, but she certainly isn’t new to writing romance. This month, Desire has Husband: Optional, the next installment of Marie Ferrarella’s THE BABY OF THE MONTH CLUB. Don’t worry if you’ve missed earlier titles in this series, because this book “stands alone.” And it’s so charming and breezy you’re sure to just love it!

The WEDDING BELLES series by Carole Buck is completed with Zoe and the Best Man. This series just keeps getting better and better, and Gabriel Flynn is one scrumptious hero. Next is Kristin James’ Desire, The Last Groom on Earth, a delicious opposites-attract story written with Kristin’s trademark sensuality.

Rounding out the month is an amnesia story (one of my favorite story twists), Just a Memory Away, by award-winning author Helen R. Myers.

And next month, we’re beginning CELEBRATION 1000, a very exciting, ultraspecial three-month promotion celebrating the publication of the 1000th Silhouette Desire. During April, May and June, look for books by some of your most beloved writers, including Mary Lynn Baxter, Annette Broadrick, Joan Johnston, Cait London, Ann Major and Diana Palmer, who is actually writing book #1000! These will be months to remember, filled with “Tceepers.”

As always, I wish you the very best,

Lucia Macro

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Just a Memory Away
Helen R. Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

HELEN R. MYERS

satisfies her preference for a reclusive life-style by living deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas with her husband, Robert, and—because they were there first— the various species of four-legged and winged creatures that wander throughout their ranch. To write has been her lifelong dream, and to bring a slightly different flavor to each book is an ongoing ambition.

Admittedly restless, she thinks that helps her writing, explaining, “It makes me reach for new territory and experiment with old boundaries.” In 1993 the Romance Writers of America awarded Navarrone the prestigious RITA award for Best Short Contemporary Novel of the Year.

For Pam Williams

a special friend “Down Under”

with love and thanks to you and the family for the friendship and the laughter

Prologue

He’d been driving for hours since he’d stopped in Oklahoma City for lunch, and the miles were beginning to take their toll on him, along with the strain of driving in the dark. Unable to conclude whether his eyes or his butt ached more, he scowled at the green-and-white road sign that became visible on his right. According to it, he still had another ninety-minutes-plus of torture ahead of him before he reached Houston.

Hell. The fuel gauge indicated the car was getting seriously low on gas again, and he couldn’t wait much longer before stretching his legs. But except for the out-of-the-way filling station he’d noticed advertised behind that mileage sign, the next major rest stop was a good twenty miles down the road. He doubted the car had that much gas left in it. It served him right for not exiting ten miles back; but no, he’d snubbed that station once he’d recognized its corporate logo. No way had he been willing to give them another dime of his money; not after he’d lost that tidy bundle in the stock market because of them.

Why the devil hadn’t he simply flown down to Texas, as he usually did?

Because Sidney said you needed time off.

The first thing he planned to do upon checking in at his hotel was to call his golf-partner-cum-physician and tell him what he could do with himself the next time he got another of his brainstorms. “’Your blood pressure is going through the ceiling,’” he mimicked Sid with disgust. “’Slow down now or the only golf you’ll be playing is with the likes of J. Paul Getty and Diamond Jim Brady at that great country club in the sky.’”

So what had he done? When the business trip to Oklahoma City and Houston came up, he’d let Sid talk him into renting a car and driving down from Chicago. Driving. “Take time to notice the scenery for a change. Then catch a connecting flight to the Cayman Islands for a week and ingest some sea air. Ease up on the old ticker. Do it for me, okay?”

Well, he had news for Sid; if the Great Accountant in the Sky had wanted him to waste his time taxiing himself along some of the flattest geography in this country, He would never have allowed the invention of supersonic jets.

He sighed with exasperation as he exited for Peavy’s Country Store and Gas, thinking that the place damn well better provide the twenty-four-hour service it advertised.

Pine trees towered on either side of him as he coasted to a stop at the unlit crossroads. In fact, he couldn’t see a light of any kind in either direction, let alone a hint of any type of man-made structure.

It’s enough to make you miss downtown Chicago. At rush hour.

With a long-suffering sigh, he cut a sharp left turn as the advertisement had directed and thought he would like a few words with the environmentalists who kept crying wolf about the world’s population dilemma. The only thing in excess around here seemed to be trees.

He drove for about a quarter of a mile. The view didn’t change: varying degrees of blackness continued to cocoon him, thanks to the encroaching woods, and all that his headlights picked up was—

“What the…?”

His car’s beams illuminated a white compact with its hood raised. But what sent his mood plummeting straight into gloom was seeing that the driver was female.

Just what he needed. More woman problems.

If it had been a guy, he would have kept driving and notified the attendant at the station; but no such luck. The woman stood beside the car waving a white handkerchief or something. Apparently no one had ever told her that it was unsafe to get out of her car at night and flag down strangers.

“Brainless twit. You’re a walking crime statistic waiting to happen.” Lucky for her, he’d come along, because there was only one thing on his mind and it wasn’t trouble.

He turned on his emergency flashers and pulled up beside the miniskirted brunette. As he lowered the passenger window at the push of a button, she pressed a hand to her low-necked blouse and leaned over to eye him anxiously.

Now she got cautious? he fumed silently. He didn’t bother responding to her tentative smile. “Engine trouble?”

She eyed his attire and visibly relaxed.

“Thank God. I thought I was going to have to spend the whole night stranded out here. Do you know how to change a flat tire, sir?”

He stretched to peer at the compact’s front and back wheels. “I don’t see any flat.”

“It’s the front right one. I hate to trouble you.”

Right. He watched her abandon demureness to brush her hair back from her face, which gave him a blatant view of generous cleavage and creamy skin swelling over the cups of a lacy black bra. Sure, you hate to trouble me.

He sighed. “Save the floor show, honey. I’m in a hurry, but I will drive you to the station down the street. Peavy’s, I think the sign said. Someone there should be able to help you.”

For an instant her expression hardened, but she quickly replaced it with a beguiling smile. “You’re obviously not from around here or you’d know that place went out of business ages ago.”

Swearing under his breath, he downshifted, and climbed out of the car. What choice did he have? Contrary to what his last secretary had accused as she’d walked out on him, he wasn’t a bastard; just disciplined and busy. In any case, if the woman was a local and knew about Peavy’s, maybe she could tell him where the nextPreoccupied, his senses as numb as his body from the hours of monotonous driving, he was slow to hear someone approaching him from behind, slow to react. He began to turn, only to be stopped by a sharp blow to the back of his head.

The night exploded into dozens of headlights that blinded him. A sonic boom roared in his ears. As panic splintered every bone in his frame, he tried to run; but his legs betrayed him and he toppled to the street.

He knew another savage instant of pain as he hit the oily road. Then he knew nothing at all.

One

“Frankie—dance with me!”

“Thank you, Moose. But I value my toes too much to expose them to those clodhoppers of yours. Besides, it’s time for last call. Want another beer before you go home for the night?”

He did and he ordered another round for the other two regulars seated with him. Frankie nodded, wheeled around to her next table, and repeated the question.

“I got a better idea, Frankie, darlin’,” the potbellied man at the farthest end drawled with a tomcat smile. “Why don’t you take me home to that li’l ol’ trailer of yours? I’ve got a powerful hankerin’ to be tucked in t’night.”

“There’s no missing that you need tucking in, Howie,” she told him, as she exchanged the filled ashtray on the table for a clean one. “But what would your wife say?”

He grinned and his twinkling eyes vanished in the folds of his pudgy face. “That you didn’t have the sense of a chigger.

”

Frankie waited for his buddies to stop guffawing and slapping at the table. “Well, you know I do respect Pru’s judgment. On top of that, you don’t like animals. The man who gets tucked in by me has to be crazy about my pets, too.”

“Aw, ain’t nobody on earth ‘cept you could find those critters lovable, Frankie.”

With a shrug and a smile, she collected several longnecked beer bottles and added them to the empties on her tray. “They may not all be as pretty as Lassie or hold a conversation like Mr. Ed, but they’re better company than the two-legged critters I’ve gone out with. Stayed around longer, too,” she added with a wink. “Now except for Howie, who’s going to have coffee or else have his keys taken, what’ll it be, boys?”

A few requested a repeat of their last order, and she returned to the bar and called her list to Benny. As the owner of The Two-Step Club reached into the cooler for the beers, Frankie dropped the empty cans and bottles in their proper recycling drums.

When she’d started working here fourteen months ago, the routine was to toss everything into the industrial garbage receptacle out back. She convinced everyone to separate aluminum from glass. Once a week Benny loaded the barrels into her truck, and she took them to the recycling plant in the next town. Once a month the proceeds were split between owner and employees.

“Sure has been slow since those timber-company fellas moved up the road,” Benny muttered, adding a bourbon and water to her tray.

Frankie wrinkled her nose, as much for the cigarette-buttfilled ashtrays she dumped as for his observation. Just because her boss didn’t have people stacked three-deep at the bar, he acted as if he had one foot in bankruptcy court. For her part, she didn’t miss the timber people’s tips.

“Be glad they left while there are still some trees around,” she told him, thinking about the mess they’d left behind. She had to pass several of their so-called “cleared sites” on her way to and from work, and they more accurately resembled the aftereffects of a forest fire—or worse.

The skinny man’s sailor’s cap nearly fell off as he threw back his head and groaned to the ceiling. In the background the jukebox switched from a mournful country-andwestern ballad to a bawdy rock-and-roll tune. “Could we skip the environmentalist lecture for once?” He had to all but shout to be heard above the pulsating music. “You wouldn’t have so much time to stand on a soapbox if you got yourself a life!”

His declaration was nothing new, but it still didn’t bother her. “I have a life.”

“You live m an aluminum hot-dog wrapper, you collect garbage, and you commune with terrorist reptiles, rude birds, and neurotic flea-breeding strays.”

She eyed him mildly. “To each his own. Do I criticize your customers?”

“Never you mind them. They pay my taxes. What you’re doing isn’t normal. Look at you. You’re young, kinda cute in a short sort of way.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that five-five isn’t short, it’s average.”

“Sure, sure, and to a penguin you’re a giant. Well, you’d be five-six if you didn’t have that mop weighing you down.”

As he added the mug of draft beer to the rest, Frankie blew her thick, shaggy bangs out of her eyes, and gave him a benign look. “Now don’t let your insecurities get the best of you. I heard all about your disorder on one of those talk shows last week.”

“I have a disorder?”

With tongue in cheek, she swept up her tray. “In a manner of speaking. You’re one of those people who find the easiest way to ignore your own shortcomings is to point out someone else’s.”

“Who gets to ignore ‘em? Me? Ha!” The retired chief petty officer’s finger shook as he pointed at her. “I have news for you, Miss Mouth. Estelle keeps a list of my shortcomings on the refrigerator! Disorder, nothing. You’re looking at a persecuted man.”

With a playful “Aw,” Frankie left to deliver the drinks. She performed an abbreviated rendition of the Lambada to maneuver between the tables, secretly admitting to herself that she really didn’t mind Benny’s nagging. In fact she’d now been in Slocum Springs longer than she’d stayed anywhere since inheriting the Silver Duck from her grandfather five years ago. If Benny had been anything less than a sweetheart, she would have been long gone by now.

Nevertheless, his comments did linger in her mind, and it was what she was thinking about as she left the club an hour later. While driving home she concluded that regardless of how patiently she’d tried, she hadn’t yet succeeded in making people appreciate, or at least respect, her philosophy of life.

“Tough cookies,” she announced, tired of the subject.

She was twenty-seven years old, for pity’s sake. If her ideas didn’t come close to what the rest of the world practiced—

“Aaah!”

She hit the brakes, and hoped Petunia had enough left in her to respond. In the last second, she closed her eyes, convinced she was about to flatten the naked man standing in the middle of the road with her ancient truck.

Either the purple pickup’s brakes were in better shape than she’d believed, or she owed her guardian angel another debt of gratitude. In any case, Petunia squealed to a halt—inches away from the streaker.

Frankie stared at him. He blinked back at her.

“Well, now…what do we have here?”

This couldn’t be an April Fools’ prank, because it was months late. It couldn’t be a Halloween prank because it was months too early. The guy wasn’t wearing some sort of a costume, either; he was honestly naked—save for the handful of cottonwood and oak leaves he held unsteadily in front of his privates.

“Glory be.” This wasn’t some joke one of her mischievous customers had decided to pull on her. A person would deserve an Academy Award to fake that look of shock and fear.

Oh, yes, he was real, and that kept her from bursting into relieved, giddy laughter. Still, he did look funny in a bizarre, incredible sort of way. And how ironic that on the very evening Benny had lectured her again about her love life, she should get this dubious… offering.

As he hesitantly rounded to her side of the car, she rolled down her window. “Um…Adam, I presume?”

“You know me?”

Oh, brother. Maybe you jumped to one too many conclusions, Jonesy.

“That was a joke,” she told him. When he made no response, she decided he might simply be slow. “The leaves and all?” She gestured to his minute ensemble.

His blue eyes remained blank. “Can you help me?”

“I really don’t think-”

It was as he began looking around that she had a clear view of the other side of his face and spotted the blood streaking down his right temple. With a gasp, Frankie downshifted and secured her emergency brake. Careful not to knock him off-balance, she nudged him out of the way with her door, and eased out of the truck. Now that she was closer, she could see that he was shaking like a paint mixing machine, which left him none too steady on his feet.

“Holy hiccups, what happened?” she cried, grasping his upper arms to steady him.

“I—I’m not sure. I woke up, and… I don’t know.”

“Where do you come from?”

He looked around again and pointed over Petunia’s hood. Since there wasn’t a streetlight in sight, all that she could see out there was the ravine dropping off from the shoulder, and the black-on-black shadow indicating the woods beyond.

“Uh-huh.” The smell of being set up returned stronger than before. “Who are you?”

He tried to answer. She could tell by the way his facial muscles tightened and he broke out in a sweat. But in the end he simply gave her a confused look.

“Adam?”

She should have suffered whiplash from the way her skepticism switched to concern. Without thinking, she reached up to touch his bruised face. “You poor man. You don’t have a clue, do you?”

“No. Do you?”

She shook her head. “But don’t worry,” she added quickly. “We’ll find out in no time at all. First let’s get you settled in my truck, and after that I’ll go check out the ditch. Surely something’s there that will tell us what we want to know.”

If he agreed, he kept that to himself, and merely stood there looking as if whatever would come from her mouth had to be the gospel. Frankie decided it was one thing for Lambchop to take on that expression when she had to leave for work; it was another to have a grown man doing it.

With more questions than answers as to what she was dealing with, she helped him around to the passenger side of the truck. It wasn’t easy. He had to be at least six feet, maybe a bit more, and he had a sturdy build. No doubt his mother—or wife, she amended, embarrassed at how neatly she’d almost avoided that thought—had made sure he didn’t skip too many meals. At the same time, he was well toned. Taut. She tried not to let her gaze wander to places the leaves only began to cover, but who could help noticing?

Once she opened the door, she reached inside for the blanket kept behind the seat. “Here you go. This might itch a bit. It’s Maury’s and he tends to shed, but it’s all I have.”

The stranger looked over her shoulder as if waiting for someone to protest his having the covering. “I can share.”

What was she dealing with, here? Once again Frankie eyed him with suspicion. When she still saw no reason to think this was a cunning act, she wrapped the blanket around him and helped him into her vehicle.

She ripped out a few tissues from the mangled box crunched between the windshield and dashboard, to dab at the worst of the blood already beginning to dry on the side of his face. Once she got most of it, she pressed the tissues into his hand, grabbed her flashlight out of the glove compartment, and ran to look for his clothes and whatever else she might find that would indicate his identity.

She found an empty beer can, an ice-cream stick, and a number of cigarette butts, which made her grateful they’d been crushed out when discarded. She didn’t, however, find anything that would help her solve her mystery.

After prolonging her search a bit more, she returned to the idling truck and paused beside the open passenger door to consider the shivering stranger. The way he stared back at her made it clear that no matter what she asked him, she wasn’t going to be reassured by the answer.

But what a nice face—despite the ugly abrasion on his forehead, a less severe one on his cheek, and the dirt and weeds in his brown hair. He had a face that spoke of strength and frankness, centered by an Anglo-straight nose, balanced by a wide, generous mouth, and punctuated with a slightly stubborn chin.

It was his mouth that drew her attention most. With the slightest smile, he would undoubtedly steal hearts. With the grimmest frown, he would undoubtedly scare the hush puppies out of anyone. If she’d been the betting type, she would have bet tonight’s tips that this was the man everyone in school would have voted Most Likely to Succeed. Here was the guy no girl ever forgot, even if she never got lucky enough to date him. No doubt some woman somewhere was beginning to pace the floors and chew her fingernails to nubs with worry over him.

Frankie felt another pinch in the area of her heart, and in self-defense shifted her attention to the large-boned hands that clutched at the blanket. He wore no ring, which meant nothing; these days guys were professionals at hiding such minor technicalities as wives and children. But surely this man wasn’t one of those? Why else would she have such a powerful impulse to say, “Finders keepers"? He was definitely keeper material.

“I’d better get you to the hospital,” she told him, concerned that she’d let her fantasy go too—

“No!”

His sharp response stopped her from shutting the door. “Look, you’re hurt. You need medical attention.”

“You. You help me.”

As charming as this you-Jane-me-Tarzan dialogue was, it was starting to wear thin. “Listen, gorgeous, it doesn’t take a medical degree to see that this is more than a kiss-andmake-it-better situation.”

“You.”

He had no idea what he was asking of her. Shaking her head, she took the tissues from him—he hadn’t done a thing with them, anyway—and once again dabbed gently around his worst wound. “I don’t know why you’re making this difficult for me.”

“Just need to rest.” He winced, and shifted slightly away from her.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. At a hospital you could. And they would contact the police, who would—”

“Please.”

Frankie stopped dabbing and leaned close to look deeper into his eyes for a clue as to what was going on. In the dim overhead light the color wasn’t exactly dark like a deepwater blue, but more of a slate or stormy shade. Of course, some of that gray could be a result of the concussion or whatever it was that he was suffering from. In any case, it bothered her to be tempted to find out how they would look in the light of day, or when he was healthy. Smiling.

Stop it, Jonesy. You don’t need the trouble or the heartache.

Nevertheless, she heard herself murmur, “I guess I could take you down the road to my place. But I should warn you, it’s not fancy.”

“I only want to lie down. Get warm.”

He was cold? She’d thought he’d been shaking from the fright she’d given him, and from whatever he’d gone through that had put him in this state. After all, it was July, and it had to be at least seventy degrees or better. That more than anything else decided her.

She tossed the soiled tissues onto the floorboard, and carefully shut the passenger door. When she once again slid behind the steering wheel, she shot him a wry look.

“Maybe I’d better warn you about a few more things. I don’t live alone.”

He seemed confused for a moment, but soon inclined his head. “I won’t stay. Just… rest.”

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she could have sworn he looked disappointed. “You misunderstand. I mean that you won’t quite have the privacy you might want, because I have pets and they, um, get around.”

“I like dogs and cats. I think.”

She chuckled softly and shifted into gear. “Well, that’s a start.”

They drove a few miles, and during that time Frankie waited, hoping he would initiate more conversation, but he didn’t. He simply sat beside her. The shaking eased a bit; nevertheless, it didn’t stop entirely.

“I’d turn on the heater for you, but it doesn’t work. Neither does the air conditioner. Petunia has a few miles on her.” She patted the truck’s worn dashboard with affection.

Her companion merely peered into the dark night, as if trying to recognize something of his surroundings.

In an attempt to help him relax—and maybe herself, too—she offered, “My name is Frankie.”

That got his attention. “Why do you have a boy’s name?”

“Blame it on my mother.” Frankie made a face. “When she was a kid, she dreamed of being an actress. Not only didn’t that happen, she ended up marrying my father and inherited the last name of Jones. What a curse for poor Mom. All during her pregnancy with me, she went through book after book of baby names, until she came up with Francesca.”

“Francesca… pretty.”

Ugh, He would say something like that. “It’s not bad,” she said with hard-won grace, “but not for someone like me. Before I was five, I had everyone calling me Frankie.”

Her passenger went back to studying his surroundings. Almost as an afterthought he murmured, “I don’t know if I like my name.”

Boy, she’d all but stuck her whole leg in it that time. Frankie shot him an apologetic look. “Don’t worry. No doubt all you need is a good night’s rest.” Belatedly, however, she remembered having read somewhere that you weren’t supposed to let a concussion victim drift into too deep a sleep. She decided she would let the experts warn him about that when she finally got him to the hospital.

It took only another few minutes to reach her home. The Silver Duck was parked on the southwest boundary of Mr. Miller’s farm. Mr. Miller was a widower who owned several hundred acres bordering a creek that fed into the Trinity River. That creek also filled the stock pond where Frankie had parked her trailer. Her agreement with the oldtimer was that she watched over his southernmost boundary—he’d often been the victim of poachers and cattle rustlers—and in exchange, he let her tie into the utility box that he’d set up for a former ranch hand, who hadn’t stayed on.

No sooner did she park beside the hail-damaged and timeworn trailer than they found themselves surrounded by a small herd of animals. Amid the barking, meowing and general ruckus, Frankie noted her passenger’s wide-eyed stare at the three-legged cat that stared back at him through the windshield.

She grinned. “Don’t worry. This only looks and sounds like Little Big Horn. I assure you, they’re all fairly friendly. Hello, babies,” she cooed, as she eased open her door. The animals swarmed around her to nuzzle, lick, and playfully nip at her jeans and T-shirt.

When Frankie made it to the passenger side and opened the door to help out her newest houseguest, he hesitated. “I thought you said dogs and cats?”

“No, you did.”

And there was a dog and cat. Maury, named after a TV talk-show host, was a long-haired German shepherd, blinded in one eye from a carelessly aimed BB gun. The cat was Callie, short for Calico, who often acted as mother to the group, despite her handicap, the result of a near-fatal car accident.

There was also Samson, the potbellied pig, who used his girth to push his way into anywhere he wanted to go. George, a rather distinguished muskovy duck. Her beloved Lambchop, the clubfooted donkey, who brought up the rear of every family parade. And perhaps her most irascible member of the family, Rasputin, a goat with eyebrows as bushy as his long beard.

Once the stranger emerged from the truck, Maury and Rasputin initiated an instant tug-of-war with the blanket. Frankie sighed; she should have known they wouldn’t cut the new guy any slack.

“Guys, guys… not now!”

She gave her crew gentle nudges with her knees and elbows, whatever worked as she assisted her guest up the two steps to the deck she’d built herself last fall. For the most part, though, her efforts to keep her brood away from her guest were wasted. By the time she had the trailer door open, she had a feeling her company was wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off risking a night out under the stars beating off mosquitoes and God knew what else. She didn’t know how to warn him that he was in for round two, except to simply push open the door.

“I’m home!” she called into the darkness.

Even before she found the light switch, she was greeted with a scream. “Erk... save me! Save me!”

From across the room she heard a flutter of wings, and then felt claws grip her shoulder with flawless precision. “Ouch—watch it!” Frankie muttered, flicking on the wall switch.

As the room flooded with light, illuminating the crimson-and-azure parrot on her shoulder, the bird gave her a peck on the cheek. “Erk. Hello, Blondie.”

“You know you’re not supposed to let yourself out until I tell you it’s safe.”

“Erk. Gimmee a kiss.”

Although she complied, Frankie didn’t spare the bird a necessary scolding. “What I should do is let Dr. J. have you for dinner, you juvenile delinquent.”

That was too many words for the creature, and yet Honey seemed to get the message. She glided back across the room and into her cage, quickly tugging the door shut behind her. Just in time, too. Right on her tail came Dr. J., the Manx cat who’d recently come close to successfully slam-dunking the parrot into his food bowl.

“I really do work at keeping these two separated,” she told her guest, who stood mesmerized by the show. “But Dr. J.’s learned how to escape from the back bedroom, and I haven’t figured out what to do about that yet.”

“Are there any more?” the stranger asked, glancing around warily.

“Two. But you won’t meet them until they’re ready. They’re very shy.” She took his arm again. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up? We can talk more after. The bathroom’s the first door,” she said, pointing down the hall. “As for clothes… I’m afraid you’ll have to cope with the blanket, or a towel. I do have some sleep shirts, but somehow I don’t think even they’d be large enough.”

The stranger paused, and although he needed the support of the wall to stay on his feet, his gaze was direct—and grateful. “I may be confused, but… I know I’m asking for a great deal from you.”

Mercy, she could spend all night and more gazing into those eyes. “That’s okay.”

“Too much trust.”

“That’s okay,” she repeated, not caring if she did sound like a just-hatched chick.

He didn’t quite sigh, but he might as well have. “Thank you.”

The longer he watched her, the more active her imagination grew, until she began feeling her insides turn to taffy, her cheeks grow feverish. She gestured into the bathroom, while backing toward the kitchen. “I, um, have to feed the gang. Don’t drown in there, okay?”

“Miss… Frankie?”

She stopped. Waited.

“You won’t go too far? You…the sound of your voice… you’re very reassuring.”

Oh, help.

Right then and there she knew she was in major trouble. Between the lost tone in his voice and the look in his eyes, he might as well have put a one-armed nelson around her heart. Frankie could deal with mashers, professional flirts, and even a male-chauvinist porky, but a vulnerable man clearly in trouble…?

“Drat it and phooey. I thought you guys were extinct!”

“Wh- Extinct?”

This was not a time to knock him into a tailspin with her impulsive philosophizing. Frankie dismissed herself with a wave. “Never mind. Everybody feels as if they’re lost once in a while. Go take that shower, and we’ll take things from there. Okay?”

Two

The instant she heard him shut the bathroom door, Frankie pursed her lips together for a silent whistle. What a close call! If he’d stood there another few seconds, no doubt she would have offered to bathe him herself. Boy, if the guy could do that to her when dazed and grubby, there was no telling what impact he would have when spruced up and functioning on all eight cylinders.

Bemused by the prospect, she headed back toward the kitchen, only to stop at the sudden touch of hot breath on her cheek. It was followed by the flick of a sandpaper tongue, then the weight of two reptilian feet. Finally, the iguana climbed off a stereo speaker to wrap himself completely around her shoulders.

Frankie scratched Bugsy under his flabby neck. “So what do you think?” she whispered, continuing on her way. “I know you’re intrigued. You never come out to check out company unless you are.”

At the counter she stooped to let the iguana onto the steadier base, then flipped on more lights. Dr. J. was already settled on his favorite bar stool in the hope of getting a late-night snack, and Honey croaked from her cage, although she still had plenty in her feeder to nibble on.

“Okay, you guys,” Frankie said, conscious of the less patient scratching and braying that hadn’t stopped just beyond the screen door. “Everyone will get something, as usual, but keep it down. Mercy… far be it from you guys to wait five extra minutes while I try to take care of a guest!”

Maury uttered a low-throated growl through the screen. He always needed to get in the last word.

“I heard that.” Frankie held up the steak bone she’d brought from work that one of the girls had saved for her. “See this? No jealousy or I’ll let Samson chew on this.”

That earned her a snort of disgust from Maury, who then slapped the aluminum door with a huge paw. Rasputin supplied his support with a bump of his head.

Frankie couldn’t help but smile. No wonder her guest had looked dubious about getting out of Petunia. Even for someone familiar with them and as fond as she was, they could be a challenge. She knew she wouldn’t be able to play with them tonight as much as she would like, either, because she needed to save a bit of energy for the man who remained too quiet in the bathroom.

Despite her intentions, it took her a good twenty minutes to feed the motley group. By the time she issued “lovies” to the last animal, and returned to the bathroom, the prospect of a shower looked pretty good to her, too. Hoping that the stranger had finished, she knocked lightly on the door.

“How’s it going in there?”

She listened, but heard no reply.

“Hello? Are you all right?”

The silence had her imagining the worst: what if he’d been injured more severely than she’d imagined? What if he’d lost his balance and was bleeding to death on her bathroom floor? What if…?

“Mister! I’m going to come in, okay?”

When he still failed to answer, Frankie momentarily lost her confidence. Only darn it all, she couldn’t afford to; there was no one to do this if she didn’t!

As she cautiously peered around the door, she found her guest seated on the commode lid. He looked much the same as when she’d left him.

Not one to stifle too many emotions, she sighed and touched his shoulder gently so as not to startle him. “Hey. Didn’t you hear me?”

He looked up at her, and her heart did a little jig as his eyes brightened, warmed. “Hello,” he murmured.

“Hi. You’re supposed to be taking a shower.”

He glanced at the stall as if only now realizing its purpose. “I guess I forgot.”

Forgot the only instruction she’d given him? Frankie’s spirits sank again. “Please, don’t say that. You don’t know how close I am to calling the police for help.”

“No. No…don’t.”

“But you’re hurt, and it’s obvious this didn’t happen by simply falling over a tree stump. I could probably be put in jail for the infraction of some civil law by not already having you at a hospital. Failure to render aid or something—I seem to remember they have that law here.”

He frowned. “But you did help me.”

“Proper. Proper aid is the key word in this case.” Frankie crouched before him to make him meet her studious gaze. “Look…you have to work with me. You have to take that shower. You’ll feel much better if you get cleaned up, I’m sure of it. If not, I’ll let you lie down for a while afterward. You really don’t want to lie down on my clean sheets when you’re caked with mud and who knows what else, right? Can you do that for me?”

He inclined his head. It wasn’t, however, a full-fledged nod.

Not sure that he fully comprehended, Frankie gestured toward the fiberglass cubicle. “Well… anytime you’re ready.”

Obviously it wasn’t now. Her guest simply continued sitting there staring straight ahead.

Beginning to feel as if she was fighting an unwinnable battle, she took hold of his hands, which hung loosely between his knees. “Let me try a different approach…. Are

you making sense of anything I’m saying?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want to go in there.”

Frankie eyed the shower stall. What did he mean? Sure, her trailer didn’t look like much from the outside, even through the kind filter of darkness. After the death of her grandmother, her grandfather had towed the thing from one part of the States to another and then some, not missing a single pothole or dusty canyon on his journey of selfdiscovery. And there was no use trying to ignore the obvious: she could almost open her own zoo. That had its own cost. But concussion or no concussion, surely he could tell she was a painstaking housekeeper?

“I don’t understand,” she told him with quiet urgency.

“It looks—I can’t see.”

“See what?”

“See. In there.”

It took her a few seconds, but she finally understood what he meant. He would feel claustrophobic in the stall. Whether this was a result of his injury, or something deeper, she had no way of knowing; but it didn’t appear as if she was going to be able to talk him out of it before the sun rose.

“Holy Moly…” She sat back on her heels. “I’m definitely in way over my head here. You have to let me take you somewhere.”

“No.”

“To a doctor? For your own good?”

“No!”

Before she could react, he took possession of her wrists in a blood-draining grasp. He had impressive strength for an injured guy; in fact, his touch was so intense she had to bite back a cry. Sure, she’d been clawed, bitten and bullied time and again by the strays and abused animals she’d taken into her home; but this was different. This was more personal, more dangerous than anything she’d experienced before.

“Listen to me.” Ever so slowly, she lowered her head so that her cheek stroked against the powerful fingers shutting off the blood supply to her hands. “You’re hurting me… and you’re frightening me.”

He immediately let her go. Looking shocked, he touched her hair. “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry.”

The anguish in his voice was real, his touch gentle. Frankie abandoned her momentary impulse to run; however, she did sit up and eye him with renewed concern. “What am I going to do with you? Don’t you understand that you have to get cleaned up and get that dirt out of your wounds?”

He frowned, looked at the shower stall and then at her again. “Can you help me?”

Whoa.

He couldn’t be serious? But no sooner did Frankie open her mouth to tell him that, than she realized she didn’t have a choice. This wasn’t an act. “Aw…no,” she moaned, “don’t do this to me.”

“Please. It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m just not sure I can-”

“Manage on your own in such a small space?” At his brief nod, she groaned inwardly. Granted, the male body was hardly an unknown commodity to her, but she hadn’t seen all that many. Did he realize what he was asking of her?

Of course he did, she realized a moment later when a dark flush crept into his face. Otherwise he wouldn’t look as miserable and trapped as she felt.

She sighed. “Am I a wuss or what?”

“Sorry?”

“Anyone can be a marshmallow,” she said, rising to slide open the shower door and turn on the water. “It takes a rare talent to be a wuss.”

From the cabinet behind her, she took the biggest towel she owned and set it on the edge of the sink for when they were done. Then she slipped out of her sneakers.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she told the injured stranger as she tugged off her socks. “Any funny business and you’re dead meat, got it?”

“Not feeling very funny.”

“We’ll see.”

She didn’t turn away from him as she stripped off her jeans. Modesty wasn’t the issue; and despite her comment, she didn’t think he looked as if he was in any shape to really pull something. What’s more her T-shirt and panties left her more covered than when swimming with Holly at her friend’s apartment pool.

It was the stranger who presented the problem.

“Okay,” she said, adjusting the hot-and cold-water taps. “I guess I’m ready if you are.”

Frankie’s curiosity as to whether he was the modest type or not was answered seconds after she spoke. The stranger used her shoulder and the wall for support, and eased himself to his feet. The abandoned blanket simply fell away, and he stood before her as naked and unsteady as a one-year-old testing his legs for the first time.

And you thought keeping something on would make things less sexual? Jonesy, you are daffier than Honey.

She already considered the man a heartthrob, but that proved the father of all understatements. He was what the girls at the club would call a “stud.” Simply beautiful, as far as she was concerned. One inevitable cheater-glance downward, and she knew it would be a miracle if she got through this without making an absolute fool of herself.

She slipped an arm around his waist to offer additional balance. “Easy. Easy.” She coaxed him into the stall. “You’re doing great.”

“Feel lousy.”

“There’s a built-in seat in here. You can sit down in just a second.”

“Okay, just… don’t close the door.”

“I won’t.” Things were cramped enough as it was. She’d never thought about how small the shower was in all the time she’d owned the Silver Duck. But the stranger changed that the instant they were both inside the cubicle and she tried to help him onto the triangular bench. It was impossible. No matter how badly she wanted to avoid it, those long legs of his were tantamount to trying to maneuver around redwood trees in a gym locker. If she wanted to get him settled, not to mention cleaned up, she would have to suffer through a bit more body contact.

Tough work, Jonesy, but you are the only volunteer.

“Wait a minute.” Already wet, she was drenched by the time she maneuvered him to where he needed to be. “And we haven’t even been properly introduced,” she muttered, the third and hopefully last time his nose bumped against her breast.

Fortunately, he either didn’t hear her or else didn’t care to comment, and she quickly busied herself by adjusting the spray away from herself and back onto him. “Now, if you get dizzy or anything, hold on to me.”

For the moment, however, he seemed content to lean back against the fiberglass wall and close his eyes. In fact, he looked as if it would take dynamite to move him again.

That troubled her. “You can’t go to sleep on me.”

“Tired.”

“No, no, no. You have to help me to help you.”

“Try…”

She shook her wet hair out of her eyes and decided to work on his hair first. From the looks of the dirty water running down his face, she figured the sooner they got him cleaned up there, the better his chances of avoiding an infection in those cuts and scrapes.

Fortunately she used a fragrance-free shampoo and soap, so she didn’t have to worry about an allergic reaction; but she did worry about causing him additional pain. She asked him several times as she carefully worked the soap into a rich lather whether she was hurting him or not, until she finally believed he meant it when he said she had an “angel’s touch.”

“I sure hope so,” she said, getting more chatty to keep from focusing on how his thighs kept rubbing against hers. “I’d sure hate trying to explain to the police why I thought I could do a better job at patching you up than a hospital could.”

“No police. No hospital.”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you before.”

Once she rinsed out the shampoo, however, she had to sacrifice gentleness for thoroughness. Although she half drowned him, she used a washcloth to clean the wound at his temple; but, under the circumstances, it was the only way to make sure she got out every bit of grit.

By the time she had him lean forward to focus on the lump at the back of his head, he’d lost what was left of his equilibrium. When she released him to rinse out her cloth, he almost fell off the seat, nearly taking her with him.

She earned a bruised elbow for that one and a near heart attack. Once she got him steady, she tried again…and again. Each time, she had to deal with the same results.

“I know you’re beat,” she gasped, wearying herself, “but we have to get done.”

“Feel… sick.”

“Now, is that any way to talk to the woman who’s considering having your baby?” She peered at him, hoping that little shocker might have the desired effect. It didn’t. “Okay, then let’s try this. Brace your forearms on your knees and your forehead here.” She patted her tummy to show him.

At first the solution worked perfectly. He stayed steady, and she made good progress as she attended to the nasty bump on the back of his head.

Then she grew aware of how much hotter his breath was

than the water—against her tummy… her thighs…. And

as if that wasn’t enough, when he tilted off-balance again, he recovered by grabbing her legs!

Frankie froze, the feel of his big, strong hands moving on the backs of her thighs just a teensy bit more than she’d bargained for. “Um… mister.”

Could he be toying with her, after all? When he shifted his hold higher and almost cupped her bottom, she was nearly convinced. Then, just as she aimed the washcloth to slap his hands away, he uttered a deep, miserable moan.

“Can’t do this much longer.”

That makes two of us. But she forgave him. “Hold on. We’re almost through.”

“Too much trouble.”

“No, you’re a good sport.” Better than me.

“You. And you have… hands.”

She smiled. “There’s something else we have in common.”

“Great. Meant great hands.”

The fragmented compliment was another throwaway. He was grateful, that’s all; and yet a sharp little thrill raced through her. She was beginning to enjoy this a bit too much.

She tried to be discreet as she put some distance between them and concentrated on washing his neck and shoulders, his chest and arms. It didn’t help. How was she supposed to ignore that although he was on the pale side, his body had the well-developed tone of an athlete?

“Do you run, maybe on an indoor track? Work out at a gym?”

He was slow to answer. “Wish I knew.”

There it was again—that hesitant, anxious tone, As she dealt with yet another wave of sympathy for him, she forced a cheery note into her own voice. “I hate exercise myself. It’s crazy, because I’m going all the time. But tell me that I have to do some formal physical training and I turn into an amoeba. Almost failed gym in school.”

The stranger merely sighed.

It didn’t matter. They were finished anyway. Or finished enough. “Why don’t we get you to your feet.”

She instructed him how to stand, like before, and once again she tried to steady him. He had been a handful earlier; however, it took all her strength this time. As a result, there was no avoiding absolute intimacy—her breasts being crushed against his muscular torso, her cheek against the heavy thud of his heart, and lower…

Omigosh!

No longer was the stranger in a daze. At least one part of him was wide awake! He sucked in a sharp breath, as if only now realizing the problem himself.

“Here.” Once she had him out of the stall, she leaned him against the damp tile wall and reached for the towel. She needed to think, and she would do that better if they put something between them.

He seemed as eager to get the thick length of material around his waist as she was. But he also tried to catch her eye. “Frankie—”

“Careful where you step. We’ve made quite a puddle leaving the door open like we did.”

“Frankie.”

Blast him, but the man was persistent. “What?”

“Why won’t you let me…? I apologize.”

Yes, she was a wuss. She had only to hear his anguish, see the concern in his poor battered face, and she instantly turned into mush inside. And all this time she’d thought only animals could do that to her.

“Apologize for what? Being human?” She looked up at him and accepted another truth about his condition. “You’re not going to be able to endure another move tonight, are you?”

“Just want to… rest.”

“I know. Stay put.”

She’d been right about the hunch of letting him he down on her bed. She knew what to do now.

In the bedroom she flipped on only the small reading lamp, out of concern for his eyes. Then she folded back the coverlet from her queen-size bed and tugged down the sheet. Without trying, her imagination pictured him there, naked between her fresh sheets.

Get over it, Jonesy.

“I know you’re not quite dry,” she said upon her return to the bathroom. “But you won’t hurt anything. The important thing is to get you off your feet. You look ready to drop.”

She helped him to her room and into her bed, where as soon as she made him comfortable, she realized his forehead was bleeding again. Rushing back to the bathroom, she got her first-aid kit. Luckily she kept it well stocked for her animals.

Once she had him patched up, all the while chatting away like a computer phone recording, she thought of something else to do. “Aspirin. Your head has to be throbbing by now.”

She was gone and back in a flash. After feeding him the pill, she set the cup of water on the table beside the bed in case he got thirsty later.

“Can you think of anything else you might need?”

“No. Yes. Frankie, I didn’t want—”

Here they went again. “Try to get some rest now,” she said, not wanting to let him finish. She knew what he was going to say, and it was better left alone. She began to rise. “Don’t hesitate to call if you start feeling worse. I usually stay up for a while after I get home. I don’t need much sleep.”

“Francesca, stop.”

Who had a choice? Despite his condition, he’d moved faster than Samson when the little oinklet spotted anything edible, and now he had firm hold of her wrist. Wary but resigned, Frankie sat down on the edge of the bed. “What?”

“God, you make me dizzy.”

If only he knew his effect on her.

“You have to let me speak,” he continued.

“You don’t need to be speaking, you need to be resting.”

“But you’re still not—Don’t be afraid of me.”

He was too sharp for his own good. “May I remind you that you’re the one with the busted head and the Vacant sign flashing on and off in your eyes?”

“Frankie…” He looked as if he wanted to argue with her, but the effort was clearly more than he had to give. “You’re a very sweet and… sexy lady.”

This was what she’d really been afraid of; that he would say something considerate and tender when she was already reacting way too strongly to him. What’s more, the man not only had amnesia, he was blind as a bat! She’d caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. She looked about as appealing as Callie the time Maury had inadvertently pushed the cat off the dock and into the pond. She’d had no time to brush out her hair, and what little makeup she’d been wearing had either washed off or smeared.

“I’d better go,” she said, attempting to gently pry his fingers from around her wrist. She might as well have tried to reshape tungsten steel with a feather.

“I may not know who I am, but I don’t think—I know I would never hurt you.”

Frankie went still, and reluctantly met his troubled gaze. She knew that he told her the truth. At least, as he understood it. But he couldn’t know how that only served to add to her sense of wonder about him, about what was happening between them.

“I believe you,” she said, able to do nothing but accept the soft and achy feelings churning inside her. “Now will you please try to get some rest?”

He did ease his grip, but he didn’t release her completely.

A helpless laugh bubbled up her throat. “What’s wrong now?”

“You’re really going to leave me?”

“I’ll be in the next room.”

“Not yet.”

“You have to sleep.”

“I know. But… you make it bearable.”

‘It’?”

“Not knowing who… what I am.”

That had to be terrifying. She couldn’t imagine such a predicament herself, and she only had to look at him to see how it was tearing him up inside. That made chopped meat of the rest of her determination to put some distance between them.

“Keep telling yourself that this is only temporary,” she said, keeping her voice low and soothing. “Tomorrow you’ll probably open your eyes and, except for one humdinger of a headache, be as good as new. They do say the mind can do the most amazing things when it comes to healing and survival.”

“What if I’m not that lucky?”

“Wrong attitude. My gramps used to say, ‘Never let the negative gremlins get hold of you. Think of the possibilities and that’s half the battle.’ “ Frankie grinned at his dubious look. “It’s true. He had the best outlook on life, and I rarely saw him depressed or angry.”

“That explains you.”

“Oh, I’m a grouch in comparison.”

“Doubt it.” The stranger let his eyes drift shut. “You… lived with him?”

“Sometimes. As much as I could. My parents didn’t always approve. They didn’t understand the wanderlust that drove him, especially after my grandmother died. I had to settle for brief summer visits as a kid, until I got out of school and moved in with him. We had a wonderful time for a while. He passed away five years ago.”

“Parents?”

“They’re still back east in Pittsburgh, in the brownstone they bought shortly after they were married. My father is with a big insurance company. My mother is… Well, she buys things at garage and estate sales, polishes them up and sells them at a profit to her friends.”

“Your grandfather… whose?”

“Whose…oh! Whose parent? Mother’s. And she’s never stopped apologizing to my father and brothers.”

“How many brothers?”

Goodness, he was tenacious. What besides two knocks on the head did it take to put him out of action? “Four. Carson, Blake, Jason and Pierce. I’m the runt of the litter. An accident, actually. Mr. and Mrs. Jones had a little too much sparkling wine on their twelfth wedding anniversary, and nine months later, there I was. The bane of everyone’s existence.”

“Exaggeration.”

“Oh, it’s true. I played better bridge than Mom, better poker than Dad. You could never catch me to spank me, and I deserved more than a few. I got better grades in school, even while maintaining the largest paper route in our county, and just when my father had himself convinced that I was going to get through college and become something traditional like a teacher or nurse, I dropped out and began traveling with Gramps. My father wouldn’t speak to me for weeks.”

The story went over well. The stranger almost smiled. His breathing also was growing slower, deeper. Frankie began to inch off the bed.

He opened his eyes. “What do you do?”

“I’m an unapologetic underachiever now. I work at The Two-Step.” At his frown, she explained that it was a bar and grill on the other side of the interstate. “Far enough so that we don’t get any of its traffic, which makes it difficult for Benny, my boss, to keep a cook, so the ‘grill’ part isn’t always accurate.”

“Wonder what I do.”

Frankie didn’t like the tense note that had reentered his voice and endeavored to keep things light. “Well, you sure don’t mess with dirt-loving critters the way I do.” To prove it, she placed her hand next to his. Besides the obvious differences in size, hers displayed the short, sometimes-chipped nails and scratches that came from loving her pets too much.

The stranger stared at his hand. “He even took my ring.”

“What ring?” Frankie gasped.

“I don’t know. It just feels so… naked.”

A ring. The possibility that he had a wife, children waiting somewhere grew stronger. What were they going through tonight?

She would have liked pursuing the subject, but she could see it was having a debilitating effect on her patient. “That does it. Enough talking,” she told him, and rose. “Now you try to sleep.”

“You’ll stay close?”

At the rate he was tying knots in her emotions, he would be lucky if she let him go tomorrow. She always had time in her day and room in her heart to take in another lost or injured soul.

“Right on the couch, but sometimes not even that far, because I am going to have to wake you every once in a while to make sure you don’t slip into a coma.”

“Thanks.”

“One thing—if you need to get up at any time, call me. I don’t want you to, um, accidentally step on something. In this place it’s likely to bite in return.”

He looked a bit disturbed about that. “I’ll call.”

“Good night. Sleep well.”

“Frankie?”

She’d gotten as far as the door. Real progress. “Yes?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to say your name. To make sure there was one thing I remembered when I wake again.”

She couldn’t.answer because of the lump that lodged in her throat. But she thought of that unknown family again, and she knew an intense pang of envy. She hoped that whoever they were, if they existed, they knew how very lucky they were.

Three

Frankie kept her word, and over the next few hours checked on him frequently—partly out of concern that one of the animals might sneak into the back room and add to the few gray hairs he already had. But she also stayed close because of the man himself; aware that she was dealing with something unique here, something more complicated than anything she’d ever dealt with before.

If she was smart, she would have used the time he slept to dash over to Mr. Miller’s and ask him to call the sheriff’s office for her. The old man had become like a surrogate grandfather to her, allowing her to have her mail delivered to his place, and even taking calls from her family, because she refused to be bothered with a telephone. He wouldn’t have minded the ungodly hour, not once he recognized Petunia’s coughy-cranky engine.

She could have put an end to this, before it got out of hand. Before she let the dreamer in her get too much control of her imagination. But she didn’t.

Every half hour or so, she returned to the bedroom to gently rouse him, give him a drink of water, get him to say a few words. Afterward, she would brush his ash brown hair from his bandaged forehead, and softly encourage him to close his eyes and go back to sleep. He responded so well. Like a child. How could she leave him?

He finalized her decision the last time she checked on him. No sooner did she set the cup back on the nightstand, than he took hold of her hand and wouldn’t let go.

“I opened my eyes before,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “You weren’t here.”

“You only had to call me, and I would have come right away.”

That wasn’t good enough for him. He refused to release her.

She told him about how it was now past her bedtime. Fatigue was beginning to set in and she yearned for the length of the couch, old and lumpy though it was, not to mention hot due to its foam cushions and her lack of air-conditioning. “If I don’t lie down for a bit, I’m going to fall flat on my face come morning when you and everyone else around here will be wanting breakfast,” she told him, stifling a yawn.

To her surprise, he patted the vacant side of the bed. “I’ll share,” he told her for the second time tonight.

If he had been anyone else, she would have laughed in his face. As much as she loved people and tried to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, that didn’t mean she had the naiveté of a just-hatched chick. Yet instinctively she knew that despite their earlier reaction to each other, there was only one thing the stranger wanted from her right now.

Without another moment’s hesitation, she circled to the far side of the bed. “Keep it up and I’ll nominate you for sainthood,” she said, gratefully stretching out beside him.

“Want some of the sheet?”

Although she’d changed into a dry sleeper T-shirt, which was anything but suggestive, the thought of being under the same sheet with his stunning, naked body threatened to wipe the thought of sleep completely out of her mind. “That’s all right,” she murmured, curling into a fetal position with her back to him. “I’m fine. Sweet dreams.”

She must have fallen asleep quickly, because the next thing she knew the room was bathed in sunlight and a hand—a large, male hand—had a manacle grip on her thigh. Her heart thudded in sudden panic as she remembered. Everything.

What was he doing? Had she been wrong after all?

Not sure what to expect, she rolled over, startled to find her bedmate looking as if he was facing a firing squad himself. For good reason, she realized, once she followed his gaze.

While he attempted to push the bed’s headboard through the trailer’s wall, a boa constrictor inched up between his legs. It looked particularly ominous when it flicked out its forked tongue.

With a sigh, Frankie rose onto one elbow, snatched the snake, and brought it up to her face. “Stretch, you terrorist. I told you no funny stuff until you were properly introduced.” She scooped him up in both hands and carried him down the hall to his bed beneath the couch. “Bad snake. You’re lucky our company’s last name isn’t Robespierre. Now stay there until I apologize on your behalf.”

Since she was already close, she detoured to the kitchen to switch on the coffeemaker. On the way back to the bedroom, she let Dr. J. outside, patted Bugsy and uncovered Honey’s cage.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the man who remained frozen where she’d left him. “That was Stretch. He’s usually much friendlier. Most of the time you can use him as a pillow and he won’t care.” She did, however, keep her fingers crossed behind her back as she made that claim, for as well as she and Stretch got along, he liked to toy with Honey’s cage and Dr. J.’s mind, whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“You live with a snake?”

“A baby one. Barely more than three feet.” When her guest’s expression remained glazed, she added, “It’s not as though he’s a cobra or a rattler.”

“You mean he’ll get bigger?”

“He’s a boa,” she said, as if that explained everything. It certainly did to her. “But I won’t have him much longer. I took him in when a friend at the club found him in her bathroom after work one night. She lives in a pretty wild apartment complex, so there’s no telling how he got in there. At any rate, as much as I love him, I do have a problem with his dietary needs.”

“What does he eat? No, never mind,” her guest replied with a feeble gesture. “I don’t want to know.”

“Mmm. Not wise before breakfast. The zoo in Houston said they’d be happy to take him. I just have to wait for them to tell me that they have his new home ready. It will be good knowing he’ll have friends, because he does enjoy company.”

The stranger closed his eyes.

Frankie used the opportunity to study him. He looked both better and worse this morning; his coloring was better, but his injuries appeared angrier in the light of day. Unable to harness all of her caretaker instincts, she crossed over to him, settled on the edge of the bed and touched his forehead. Her fingers were twice as tanned as his pale, broad forehead.

“Your fever’s gone,” she murmured, sensitive to how strong his pull was when she got this close. “How do you feel?”

“As if there should be an ax sticking out of my head. Is there?”

“No, no ax, but…” Frankie noticed that the bandage at the back of his head had come off in his sleep, and she retrieved it while gently checking the injury with her other hand. “Oh, poor man. That’s one humongous Easter egg you have back there. No wonder your hurting. I’ll get you more aspirin as soon as we put something in your stomach. The good news is that there doesn’t seem to be any more bleeding.”

“Did I mess up your bed?” He began to twist around, only to wince at the sudden move.

“Easy.” Frankie stopped him with a fleeting touch to his cheek. “Don’t worry about blood. I’m an expert at stains and stuff. I have to be, or else I’d be replacing my clothes every week. Is the pain receding? Maybe you better lie back down.”

“It doesn’t hurt so much when you’re with me.”

How could anyone who looked like next month’s centerfold for a women’s pinup magazine be this sweet? She hesitated, but knew she had to ask. “Do you remember my name?”

Slate-blue eyes that should probably have seemed cold and hard warmed as he took in her sleep-tousled hair, her rumpled T-shirt and tanned, bare legs. “Frankie.”

She could have kissed him. “And your name?”

He tried. She could see it in the way the veins swelled at his temples, the way the muscles around his mouth and along his neck tensed. But in the end he could only make a negative movement with his head.

“Nothing?”

“Adam…?” he murmured, looking confused. “I remember hearing or dreaming the name Adam.”

Frankie grimaced. “That was a joke. I called you that last night when I found you, because you were—Never mind.”

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