by Unknown
Once, his investing must have given him the same sense of satisfaction, perhaps, but he couldn’t remember it. Not even a flicker.
He had what the doctors called a dissociative fugue, a form of amnesia. His memory hadn’t been completely wiped out, selectively so. As if someone had flipped a breaker on his brain that shut off the power in only one room. The one that housed any memory of his work.
Leo knew who he was and where he lived. He knew everything about his life—except for his work, how to do it, and anything or anyone associated with it. He’d awakened in the hospital with absolutely no idea why he was there.
From what he heard and read in the news, that was perhaps a lucky thing too. A former client who had suffered some big losses had come into the office with a gun. Leo didn’t remember any of it, though the pain in his shoulder reminded him.
He didn’t recognize the people whose funerals he attended, nor his boss or any of the survivors. He couldn’t make any sense of stock prices or financial news on TV, not any more than your average person could. It was all gone. Or, buried. Deep.
The doctors said the fugue could lift at any time or not at all. The brain was a funny thing.
Leo didn’t feel like an investment banker, but the proof was all there. He had the midtown Manhattan condo, the closet full of suits and the bank account to prove it. There were pictures of him on the office walls for hitting various investment records and all of the files on his computer. His boss, Neal, who owned this beach house, said he was in line to make associate partner sooner than later. He’d told Leo to use the beach house for as long as he needed to when the psychologist said maybe getting out of town would help.
So here he was.
Leo wondered if maybe he didn’t want to remember. Some things were better to forget? The news reports, the pictures in the paper, seeing the anguish of people in the aftermath, were all bad enough.
Except that now he was drifting somewhere between his past and his future, waiting for one or the other to take shape. How long did he wait?
Heading into the shower, he shaved and pulled on some cargo shorts and a white tee shirt. He’d had to buy a bunch of new clothes. Back in New York, except for some workout clothes and one pair of designer jeans, all he had were suits. How sad was that?
He didn’t even like suits. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to tie a tie. His ruminating stopped when he walked back to the deck and she was there.
She stood facing the water and the sun, and then started moving gracefully, working through a routine of poses he knew was yoga.
Watching this woman move was extraordinary. Everything so smooth, easy and precise, seemingly timed with the waves hitting the shore. Her copper hair broke loose from its coil and moved around her face, the wind making her part of the scene. The body-hugging, scant yoga gear she wore drove his imagination wild—not that he needed much imagination. He could make out every curve, every contour of her lovely shape.
Desire, he realized, was still alive somewhere down deep in his blood; at least that hadn’t died inside of him.
His last sexual encounter made him frown. A blur of limbs and release, but nothing that made any lasting impression. He couldn’t remember the name of the woman he’d been with.
Looking at the woman on the beach, sex was all he could think about. It made him feel alive, normal. He grasped on to that. There was life somewhere, waiting for him.
As usual, one by one her group would show up. Some older, some younger. Men, women, heavy, thin. They all followed her as she helped them, correcting their posture.
He couldn’t hear her, but he wanted to. What did her voice sound like? Would it be as sensual as her moves, her shape? Or strong and steady like her stance?
She stood at the back of her group, suddenly turning to meet his gaze, as if she knew he was watching. He did the stupidest thing possible and put his hand up, offering a short wave.
She stared for another second and then looked away without returning his gesture.
He felt like an idiot.
Leo knew the routine as well as they did. There were moments he felt his muscles twitch in sympathetic movement, his body wanting to join in as his mind held it back.
Maybe it was time to change that. He’d been sitting in this house for two weeks, waiting for what? Waiting for his life to come back? He wasn’t even sure if he wanted it to. His shoulder ached all the time, and his physical therapist had urged him to do some kind of therapeutic exercise, including yoga.
He’d dismissed the idea until this moment.
Why not? Leo waited for the class to end, and when she was alone, he headed down to the beach.
Jasmine Stanford pretended to be busy packing up her gear, but she knew he was heading directly for her. It was inevitable, she supposed. He’d been up there gawking for the last week or so, eating his breakfast and enjoying the show.
Normally, she didn’t mind if people observed her classes, she even liked and encouraged it. She found a lot of new students that way, but she didn’t really care for serving as some trust-fund guy’s morning entertainment.
“Hi.”
It was him. She realized that he was right behind her.
She straightened, turning as she prepared to give him a quick brush-off—but stopped when she met his eyes. Jasmine had never seen quite that combination of brown and gold—caramel and chocolate—two of her favorite things. Any response choked in her throat. She couldn’t quite name it, but she could feel the emotion radiating through those gorgeous eyes. A deep sadness reached out and touched her.
He kept staring, and she finally blinked and spoke. “Hi.”
He was a bit taller than her five-nine, with an athletic build under the loose, casual clothing he wore.
It was an expensive brand, she noted. Of course.
What didn’t fit into the image were the shadows under his eyes; his skin was a bit pale, as well. Up too late partying? Not likely, if he was out of bed as early as she was in the morning.
A slash of dark hair that the wind kept blowing down over his face made his features all the more dramatic.
She looked him up and down. “On vacation?”
He smiled, as if the question was funny somehow. “In a way.”
What the heck did that mean?
“I wanted to come down and say hello. I’ve enjoyed watching your class. Leo Fischer,” he said, holding out a hand.
His accent was New York, not Boston.
She took his hand and foolishly caught her breath a little at the contact. He didn’t let go right away.
Leo shifted his stance, and she couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of strong thigh muscles moving under the light material of his shorts and how his tee pulled over his nicely shaped chest and biceps. A little tingle of something ran down her spine. She was a yoga instructor, attuned to people’s bodies, their movements, but this wasn’t professional interest.
“Nice to meet you.” His smile was genuine and changed his face, softening it and making him even more handsome. “Except that you haven’t told me your name.”
Jasmine smiled back, in spite of herself. “Jasmine.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks. Can I help you with something?”
He stared at her for a long minute, as if he didn’t understand the question, and then he blinked.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I wanted to ask about joining your class. I have a bad shoulder. I was in physical therapy for a while, but it’s still bothering me. I wondered if yoga might help.”
“How’d you injure it?” Old football injury? Too much jet-setting?
He looked like the sort who had a lot of money and spent it enjoying his leisure time. Probably his parents’ money. Jasmine knew the life; she had been on the same track way back when.
“Not exactly. It’s from a gunshot wound, actually.”
That stopped her thoughts cold.
“Wait—did you say you were shot?”
“Yeah. It’s healing up
pretty well.” He pushed up the sleeve of his shirt to show her a fresh scar. “But the doctor said the impact caused some nerve damage. They wanted me in physical therapy for longer, but I needed to get out of the city for a while.”
“What happened?”
He shifted his stance, looking away from her. “You know, I’d rather not talk about it. I actually don’t remember much, anyway. Post-traumatic amnesia. Who knows, maybe yoga will help with that too, you think?” he asked with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
One Hot Night
Samantha Hunter
She’s been there, done that—but never with the sexy hockey player next door.
Old Port Nights, Book 1
Dating, marriage, divorce…Audra Leone has been there, done that. These days she’s focused on her antiques business and doesn’t need a man complicating her life.
Still, she can’t help but notice the flirty ex-hockey player who owns the sports bar next door, but he’s got two strikes against him. He’s her landlord, and he’s almost ten years younger—which puts Audra way outside the flock of twenty-somethings vying for his attention.
When Scott Beckett sees Audra hasn’t closed shop during a major snowstorm, he checks in on her—to find her shackled to a post. He’s more than happy to help and close the distance she keeps firmly between them. He’s well over his playboy days and hungering for something stronger, something lasting.
One spontaneous, bone-melting kiss leads to an explosive night of passion, and Scott realizes the quiet antiques lady is everything he craves. But it’ll take some doing—and maybe a disaster or two—to convince her to give forever a chance.
Warning: Contains a wounded heroine who’s put her heart on ice, and an ex-jock who still knows how to run interference on her defenses. Could have you wishing for snow in July.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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One Hot Night
Copyright © 2013 by Samantha Hunter
ISBN: 978-1-61921-761-4
Edited by Anne Scott
Cover by Valerie Tibbs
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First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: December 2013
www.samhainpublishing.com
