In startled surprise, she caught the key between her knees to keep it from falling.
He reached across her to the glove compartment and retrieved his wallet. Flipping it open, he withdrew a credit card, which he also tossed at her. "Use this to pay for the room. If you decide to leave town, you can rent a car with it. Call my office and leave a message where I can pick up mine."
She blinked at him in disbelief. "You're trusting me with your car and your credit card? But … you don't even know me!"
He turned to her with a glare that was both angry and intimate. "I know you, Sarah. I just don't know a damn thing about you. And it seems you want it that way." He slung open his door and got out.
By the time she'd opened hers, he'd crossed a grassy yard with a few long strides and climbed the stone steps of a quaint log cabin. The night had grown surprisingly cold after the heat of the day, and she shivered in his thin chambray shirt as she followed him.
"Connor!" she cried, shaken by his anger. "Please, wait."
He stopped on the porch and regarded her in chilly silence.
"I can't take your car, or your credit card."
His expression darkened into a definite scowl. "Why not?"
"To start with, I can't drive." She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and comfort. "I don't have a license."
"What?" he exclaimed, incredulous.
"And I doubt if they'd let me use your credit card. I … I don't have any identification."
He stared at her.
She climbed the few steps and held out his key and credit card.
He took her hand instead. Slowly, insistently, he pulled her to him. His arms came around her with a welcoming warmth. Sighing in frustration, he settled his beard-stubbled jaw against her temple. He didn't ask a single question.
"You were right," she admitted, no longer afraid to tell him. He'd been willing to let her go. She had no idea why that revelation should make her feel so free, but it did. The knowledge that he'd allow her to leave him put to rest an uneasiness that had been growing from the first time she'd sensed his desire. "I lied to you."
He didn't speak or move. He simply held her there in the chilly, moonlit shadows of his front porch.
"But before I tell you the truth, I want you to promise me something." She leaned back in his arms just enough to meet his somber gaze. "Promise you won't do anything about this. Nothing at all. You've got to leave the matter entirely up to me."
He frowned, as if he might refuse. His gaze intensified, and after a moment, he reluctantly uttered, "Okay. I promise."
"Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a hundred needles in your eye?"
That coaxed a smile to his eyes, if not to his lips. "Don't push it."
Her heart felt infinitely lighter. They shared another gaze; a calmer, deeper one.
"I told you that I suffered no memory loss after the head trauma," she began, "but I did. Quite a bit, actually. I, uh, can't remember anything about my past." She swallowed a sudden dryness in her throat. "I don't know who I am."
The fire danced and crackled in the gray-stone hearth beside them as they lounged on large floor pillows and a handwoven rug. They'd finished the ham sandwiches he'd made with delectable homemade bread and now nursed glasses of light, dry wine.
She'd told him everything she remembered, including her certainty that someone had been chasing her before the accident. Someone dangerous.
"So you lied to the doctors in the hospital," he summarized. "You told them your memory had returned because you were afraid they'd keep you there and word would get out about your amnesia."
"That's right. I was afraid that whoever had been chasing me would find me, and I—" a light shiver of fear went through her "—I felt very strongly that I was in danger. I wanted to get away without leaving too much of a trail."
"And that was why you kept the amnesia a secret from me and everyone else in town. You were afraid word would reach the wrong ears."
"That, and the fact that people don't trust a stranger who claims to have amnesia. I heard Annie's husband tell her he doesn't trust me. I couldn't afford to have everyone in town suspicious or I'd never have gotten a job."
He studied her intently for a long while. "You dream about it, don't you?" he asked softly. "About being chased, I mean."
She glanced at him in surprise. "Yes. How did you know?"
He shrugged. "A guess. You had a nightmare this afternoon while you slept."
"I did?" She could hardly believe it. "The nightmares usually wake me."
"This one probably would have," he said, "if I hadn't been holding you." Sensuality tingled through her at the huskiness of his voice and the directness of his gaze. "Your fear might be a reaction to the head trauma, Sarah, but if there is any basis for it, I won't let anyone hurt you."
His protectiveness touched her, but at the same time, filled her with anxiety. She'd already dissuaded him from calling the authorities to report her amnesia. She'd had to firmly remind him of his promise to do nothing.
Would he keep that promise?
She worried not only for herself now, but also for him. He'd be hurt. Physically hurt. Any man who tried to help her would be hurt. She knew it with a certainty that frightened her.
"The fear is probably groundless," she assured him as convincingly as she could, wishing she'd never mentioned it, "but I'd rather wait until more memories come back before I publicize my amnesia." She stared down into her wineglass. "I'm not ready for some stranger to step forward and … and claim me."
"Claim you," he repeated. Their gazes locked again. "My God. You might be married."
Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded.
"But you weren't wearing a ring," he stated.
She understood it to be a question. "No. No ring."
"And you said Annie has been checking for bulletins about your disappearance and hasn't found any."
"Right."
"If you had a husband," he reasoned in a tight, level voice, "he would report your disappearance. And you'd be wearing his ring." His jaw hardened. "You're not married."
"Probably not."
Neither had to voice the doubt that held them painfully arrested. Probably not.
He sat for a long moment clenching his jaw and staring at her. He then swore softly, set his wineglass aside and turned toward the fire, where he stared for a while longer. "Are you sure you don't remember anyone, Sarah?"
"No one at all."
He slanted her an oddly doubtful glance. "Not even … Jack?"
"Jack?"
"You said the name in your sleep."
"I did? I said 'Jack'?" She set her wineglass on the hearth to keep from spilling it as her pulse skipped and raced. A clue, at last! A clue that might open the door to memories! "Jack," she repeated, searching her mind hopefully for a glimmer of recognition.
None came.
"How did I say it?" she asked, frustrated at her inability to remember. "Did I sound scared, or … or … relieved, or…"
"You just said it." He looked rather sullen. "You'd been moaning and sobbing a little, and then you whispered, 'Jack.'"
She tried again to put a face to the name. "I don't remember him." Her lips compressed in disappointment. "If I dreamed about him, why can't I remember him?"
Connor blew out a harsh breath that could have passed for a laugh. "Here you are, racking your brain to remember—" his mouth slanted in self-deprecation "—and I'm half hoping you won't. I know it's crazy, and selfish of me—" his voice grew soft and hoarse "—but whoever this Jack is, I don't want him in the picture."
Her heart thudded and she lost herself in the heat of his tumultuous stare.
"I want you, Sarah," he said in a gruff, drawn-out whisper. "Damn it all to hell … I want you."
She wanted him, too.
Connor read it in her eyes and, before reason could stop him, he kissed her. Her lips opened for him, sweet and lush … the taste he'd been craving since their last kiss. This one quic
kly grew hot, probing and sexual.
He molded her body to his, from breast to thigh, but still, he needed more of her. His hands surged around every curve, filling themselves with her exquisite softness.
She moaned and moved against him in ways that provoked him to a maddening hardness. He'd never wanted with such urgency; never kissed with such compelling need.
He found her breasts beneath the chambray shirt, imprisoned by the stretchy swimsuit. Impatiently he pushed it down, out of his way, and filled his hands with warm, silky perfection.
Her mouth broke from his and she gasped his name as her nipples hardened into points against his kneading palms. He kissed her jaw, then swirled his tongue in savoring laps down the length of her throat. He wanted to fill his mouth with her…
"Connor," she cried, catching at his shoulders. "Wait."
He paused, his lips against her velvet skin, his heart pounding. They'd need protection, he realized. She would tell him they needed protection. He'd find some…
"We can't do this," she whispered.
He raised his head to meet her gaze, to assure her that they could. The look in her eyes stopped him. Beside the undeniable longing, he saw regret. Regret.
"I might be married."
Something painful lurched in his chest. "You're not."
"We don't know if I am."
"Then you're not."
Blinking back moisture that sprang to her eyes, she pressed a brief kiss to his cheek. Never had a kiss disturbed him more. "I have to find out," she said.
He shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers. He couldn't, wouldn't, let her go.
Her hands settled over his, which still cradled her breasts beneath the shirt. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have kissed you back."
Drawing in a much-needed breath, he slowly released her. With a gaze meant to hammer the point home, he uttered, "Don't ever not kiss me back."
Rising to his feet, he felt as shaken as if he'd stuck a wire into a light socket. He shoved his hand through his sweat-dampened hair and paced across the empty room to stare blindly out into darkness through the front bay window.
Reason came back to him in slow, painful increments. As much as he hated to face it, she'd been right to stop him. She could be a married woman. Another man's wife. And she might still be in love with him—her husband, the one she couldn't remember. They might have children together. A family.
The ultimate complication.
He wanted to break something, to smash his fist through a wall and scream and rant.
And make love to her anyway.
What the hell was happening to him? He had his life laid out neatly before him, exactly as he'd wanted it. Contentment, professional success, kinship within his community. He had no need for Sarah Flowers, if that was even her name. He had no need for her.
Except that he did.
He turned back to her and found that she'd risen, smoothed her billowing hair into a silky mass of waves around her shoulders, and now waited near the door. His heart stood still. She was ready to leave.
"If you want to take me to the hotel now, I'll understand."
"If you think I want to take you anywhere other than the next room," he replied hoarsely, "you don't understand at all." He paced toward her, wanting her back in his arms. "How long do you think your money would last if you stay at a hotel?"
"Not long," she admitted. "Would you consider making me a loan? I'll pay it all back, with interest. It might take me a while, but—"
"You can have all the money you need," he promised, stopping a short distance away from her, "but I don't want you staying at a hotel." He anchored an arm against the log wall, very near to where she stood. "Stay here, Sarah. You can have my guest bedroom."
"I can't stay in town if I don't have a job, and when word gets around about Lorna firing me—and her reasons for it—I doubt if anyone will hire me. I couldn't blame them. A lot of people saw us leave the pool together. I have no work history or references to prove my reliability. I don't even have a social security number."
He understood now why she'd valued her job with Lorna so much. And he realized how impossible it would be for her to find another one in Sugar Falls. By tomorrow, the people who could afford to hire her would close ranks against her. He'd had those ranks closed against him when he was a boy … and only because of his unconventional upbringing. Chances were slim of doors opening for a woman accused of wrongdoing.
"I know someone who could use a housekeeper," he said.
"You do?"
"Me."
"You don't need a housekeeper."
"Look around. I've got boxes and furniture stacked ceiling-high in both spare bedrooms. I moved in three months ago and haven't had time to unpack. My practice keeps me busy." Not quite the truth. He could have found the time. He simply hadn't seen the need to unpack more than he would use. He saw the need now—to keep her here. "I don't cook much. I live on cold cuts and fast food. That's enough to kill anyone. You'd be saving my life by cooking for me."
"Do you really want me to stay," she asked with hesitant hope, "as your housekeeper?"
"Yes." He wanted her as much more than that.
As their gazes melded and shifted, she whispered, "Do you think it would be wise?"
"No."
She flushed and glanced away. He could almost read her thoughts as she reviewed her alternatives.
He disrupted the process by turning her face toward his. "I'd never pressure you into anything," he swore, his fingers lingering at her jawline. "I can't say that I don't want you, or that I won't think of kissing you whenever you're near me, but—"
"And I can't say I'll always be levelheaded enough to stop you."
He drew in a breath, fighting the urge to kiss her now. He had to keep his head. He couldn't take advantage of her vulnerability. He released a frustrated sigh. "We have to find out who you are, Sarah. We can't just wait and hope that you'll remember."
"I have a plan that might jog a few memories."
"What plan?"
"I thought I'd go to Denver, to the scene of the accident, and walk around the neighborhood. See if I remember anything."
"I'll drive you there, whenever you're ready. And if you don't remember anything substantial, I'll hire a private detective. If you approve."
"A private detective? That would cost a fortune."
"I'll pay for it."
"Oh, Connor." She caught his face between her hands. "You're doing too much for me already. I feel guilty enough as it is. Kissing you, then pushing you away. Accepting the job you offered, but—"
"You're accepting it?"
Self-consciously, as if she'd just realized that she'd touched him, she lowered her hands from his face. "I suppose I am."
He smiled. So did she.
Though he knew he shouldn't, he drew her to him in a celebratory hug. She didn't seem to mind. "I'll get your suitcase from the car," he whispered, keenly relishing the scent of her hair and the feel of her in his embrace. "You can stay in the guest bedroom. There's not much other than a bed set up in it, and a lot of unpacked boxes."
"It'll be perfect. Thank you, Connor … for everything you're doing for me."
"There's something else I can do," he said. "As a doctor."
She cocked a questioning glance at him.
"You asked my nurse at the office whether I could tell if you've ever had a baby." He gently brushed a silky tendril from her eyes. "I could, Sarah. I could tell you. Tonight."
* * *
6
« ^ »
She spent an entire hour showering, soothing herself with fragrant skin lotion, leisurely drying her hair and dressing for the night. When she had finished, she still hadn't decided what that night would hold.
He'd offered her a quick, simple exam that could tell her, here and now, whether she'd ever given birth. She could know whether she was someone's mother … someone who might be waiting for her, crying for her, wondering where she'd
gone. The possibility tore at her heart.
If she'd had a baby, she'd go to the authorities immediately about her amnesia, despite the fear that pounded through her at the very thought. She couldn't abandon her children.
She could know tonight, from one simple exam.
She'd told Connor she'd think about it. Over the past hour, she'd thought about nothing else, vacillating wildly between yes and no. She desperately wanted the information the exam could give her—she didn't want to wait even another day—but she couldn't quite come to grips with the idea of allowing him, Connor, to perform that exam.
Her long, silky nightgown and matching robe—a gift from Annie while she'd been in the hospital—wafted around her in the cool shadows of the log home as she approached the living room. Her heart thudded in her throat.
He sat in the leather recliner wearing the faded jeans he'd put on earlier and a soft white shirt left open, allowing a shadowed glimpse of his muscled, furred chest. His short-cropped hair and tanned skin shimmered bronze in the firelight. He looked strong, handsome and intensely virile, his elbow anchored on the armrest, his jaw resting against his fist as he stared at the fire.
There was nothing doctorly about him now.
The flames hissed, crackled and sent shadows dancing across the log walls and high-beamed ceiling. The smoky scent of kindling and oak mixed with the fragrance of the wine they'd left unfinished on the hearth. The mountain night pressed close around the log home, cloaking them in intimate seclusion.
He glanced up at her before she'd said a word. His vivid hazel eyes made a slow sweep over her face, her unbound hair, her peach-colored nightgown and her satin slippers as she stood near his bedroom doorway.
His gaze returned to hers with an added warmth. He gestured to an armchair that had somehow appeared beside his recliner since she'd left.
The silk of her nightgown billowed and whispered against her skin as she crossed the room and settled into the armchair. She couldn't help but notice how close he'd set the chair to his—close, and at an intimate angle for a heart-to-heart chat.
SAY AHHH... Page 8
