by Laura Taylor
She felt her muscles start to unravel, just a second before her insides began to turn molten. She sighed, the sound as faint as butterfly wings brushing up against the petal of a flower.
"It’s manageable now."
Her head tilted sideways, all of the muscles in her body going slack. She peered up at him through half–lowered lashes, fascinated by the intensity she saw in his dark eyes and character–filled face, as well as stunned by the potency of his body and his touch.
Leah welcomed the weight and strength of his big hands when he briefly settled them atop her shoulders. As he slid them down the length of her arms, she had the impression that he was fighting some fierce inner battle. She also sensed that she bore some responsibility for it. She fought her own inner battle then, torn between the emotional chaos of not knowing her identity and the feelings he evoked.
"If you need anything, just call out to me. I’m a light sleeper."
"I will," she promised. "I honestly didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable before. It’s just that my emotions are really out of control right now. I’d like to think I’m not some clingy female, especially not the kind who doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together and can’t function without a man to lean on."
Brett managed a tight smile. "Trust me, you aren’t some clingy female, not even on your worst day. You never have been, and you never could be. For the record, I’m not sorry you reached out to me, Leah, but you’re not yourself right now. Taking advantage of you is at the top of my list of things not to do tonight. We’re… friends. I care enough about you to observe all of the rules that go along with friendship."
Color spotted her cheeks. Embarrassed, she slipped free of him, climbed into bed, and drew the covers up to her chin. She pretended to be calm and in control, but her body continued to clamor for his touch even as heat streamed through her veins like unfurling ribbons of flame.
Brett turned off the bedside lamp. Leah caught his hand before he stepped away from the bed. She felt his gaze sweep over her like a brushfire in the semi–darkness, and she scrambled to remember the question she wanted to ask.
"Will you tell me about my life tomorrow?"
"I’ll tell you everything you need to know, but only if you get some sleep."
She gave him a troubled look. "I can’t remember the people in the photos I found in my wallet, but they’re my family, aren’t they?"
"Most of them," he conceded, his voice a low, rough rumble.
"Do you really think I’ll get it all back?"
Brett released her hand and tucked it beneath the covers. "If I have anything to say about it, your life will be back to normal as quickly as possible."
"I don’t know how to thank…"
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Then don’t, because there’s no need."
"Yes, there is," she whispered. She fought back tears, not simply the urge to wrap her arms around him and just hold on until the current storm passed. She extended her hand and gently stroked the side of his face. Her fingertips tingled, and her hand began to tremble. "This would be a total nightmare if you weren’t here to help me deal with it."
Still bent over her, he cradled her hand and pressed her palm to his strong jaw. She felt the prickle of a beard that needed shaving, the warmth of his skin, and the tantalizing strength in his long, narrow fingers. She breathed in the faintly woodsy scent of his skin, and then she exhaled. A shudder rumbled through him. She heard the ragged sigh that followed, and she felt certain now that he’d told her the truth. They were, or they’d once been, more than friends. Much, much more. But why not now? she couldn’t help but wonder.
Brett straightened, his spine rigid as he stepped back from the bed and crossed the room. He hesitated near the door. "You aren’t alone, and I have no intention of leaving you alone. I’ll be with you every step of the way, Leah. That’s a promise. Now, close your eyes and rest. I’ll be in and out while you sleep in order to check on you."
Exhausted, Leah closed her eyes and sank back against the pillow. As she drifted into a restless doze, she questioned Brett’s reluctance to deal with the obvious chemistry between them. She was attracted to him, and she knew he wanted her. Why, then, she wondered, would he deny the obvious?
** ** **
I trust you.
Her words echoed in his head like a repetitive accusation. Brett laughed mirthlessly as he paced the sitting room. He didn’t deserve Leah’s trust. Christ! He’d never deserved it. Or her, for that matter.
He couldn’t relax, and he didn’t even try to sleep. When he wasn’t pacing in an effort to tamp down the fever heating his blood and relieve the desire that throbbed in concert with his every pulse beat, he periodically checked on Leah in the hours that followed. He hated to wake her, but he knew the necessity of making sure that she hadn’t relapsed into the semi–conscious state of the evening before.
Brett repeatedly cursed himself for having placed her in jeopardy even as he used the quiet night hours to plan the route they would take into the Pacific Northwest once she was rested enough to travel. He also struggled, on a minute–by–minute basis, against remembering the passion and love they’d once shared. He failed. Completely. He would never be able to discard the memories that had haunted him during their years apart.
He still craved her tenderness. He always would, especially in the face of his escalating dissatisfaction with the cold, violence–filled world he’d inhabited for most of his adult life.
Brett slipped into Leah’s bedroom shortly before dawn. Clad in a pair of snug, unfastened jeans, he padded barefoot through the semi–darkness to the side of her bed. He hated to disturb her again, but neither one of them could avoid the reality of her head injury.
After switching on the bedside lamp, he sat down on the edge of the mattress. He reached for her as he reminded himself that her memory could return at any moment.
Leah opened her eyes.
Brett saw the clarity and focus of her gaze, and he realized she was wide awake. "You should be asleep."
She smiled and stretched. As she raised her arms, her breasts swelled against the aged cotton of a t–shirt he’d given to her a thousand and one memories ago. He longed to fill his hands with her silky flesh. Instead, he forced his gaze to her heart–shaped face and kept his hands to himself.
"So should you," she countered as she lowered her arms. She frowned at the expression on his face. More tension than earlier, she realized. "You’re tied up in knots. What’s wrong?"
He cleared his throat twice before he answered her. "Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright."
"Were you a doctor in another life?" She smiled as she pulled herself up into a half–recline against a mound of pillows. "Or maybe a compulsive mother hen?"
He chuckled at her good–humored teasing. "Not that I know of, but I’ve had emergency first–aid training courtesy of the navy."
"Nice sound, by the way," she said, referring to his low chuckle. "You should do that more often."
"I love it when a woman quotes me."
She grinned.
"Nice teeth."
Her grin turned to laughter. "You’re horrible. Next thing you’ll tell is that I used to have braces."
"I took an oath long ago never to discuss your braces. Can’t break it now."
"So I did have braces."
"No comment." His smile faded. "Now, answer my question."
"I’m fine. Really. I’ve just got a lot of thoughts racing around my head that keep waking me up."
"What kind of thoughts?"
She heard his quiet concern. "Nothing in particular. Definitely nothing to worry about, so you can stop scowling at me." She smoothed her fingertips across the top of his clenched fist until he opened his hand and let her lace their fingers together. "I’m glad you’re here."
"Ditto. How’s your headache?"
"Not too bad." She gave him a conspiratorial grin. "Why are we whispering?"
"Probably because m
ost of the world’s still asleep."
"Brett Matthew Upton."
"That’s me." He silently applauded her memory of their earlier conversation.
"I like the sound of your name. It’s sturdy and reliable, like you."
Brett sobered. He knew the truth, and she would soon remember it. She hadn’t been able to rely on him when she’d needed him most. He’d failed her, and he didn’t ever expect to be able to undo the damage of his actions. And when she recalled his failure, she would reject him. So, repairs were a moot point.
She looked away from his intent gaze. "I’ve been dreaming about you."
"Why?" His voice sounded hoarse. He was almost afraid to hear her answer.
"I’m not sure."
"Any nightmares?"
"None that I recall."
He said a silent thank you for that small favor. He hated the possibility that she might be haunted by night terrors caused by the men who’d tried to kidnap her.
She dropped her gaze to their laced fingers. After studying them for several silent seconds, she whispered, "Would you stretch out beside me and hold me for a little while?"
Rendered motionless by her request, he sat there and worked at concealing both his surprise at her request and his hunger for whatever physical contact that she felt inclined to allow. "Now?"
Leah nodded. "You make me feel safe." She lifted her face, the worry he saw in her eyes revealing the true depth of her vulnerability. "I really need to feel safe, Brett."
He stood and circled the foot of the bed, his thoughts in disarray as he joined her. Despite his concern that he was tempting fate, he stretched out atop the bedspread, crammed a few pillows behind his back before settling against the headboard, and then drew Leah into his arms.
When she turned into him and rested her head against his bare shoulder, his heart stuttered to a stop. It eventually began to beat again, but at a hectic pace when he felt her slender fingers sink into the thick mat of dark hair that covered his chest and belly. He responded instantly to her closeness and her touch, his nerve endings igniting, his muscles tensing beneath her fingertips, and his sex straining for release.
"Are we lovers, Brett?"
Shock pummeled his senses like a fighter gone mad in the ring.
Shifting in his arms, she peered up at him. "Are we?"
He exhaled shakily. "No, Leah." We haven’t been for a long time, but it isn’t because I don’t want you every second of every day.
"Were we lovers at some point in the past?"
He nodded.
She sighed. "That must be why I feel as though we’ve been intimate. Why else would I feel so comfortable one minute and so aroused the next?" She freed herself from his encircling arm, shoved aside the covers, and knelt on the bed at his side. "Why else would I trust you so completely? Why do I want to make love with you every time you look at me or touch me? And why would I want you now if we aren’t lovers?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch with each subsequent question.
He seized her by the waist, dragged her into his lap, and held her despite her initial struggle. Although still grappling with her bluntness, he said, "I’m glad you trust me." He thought yet again of all the reasons why she shouldn’t. The list was as long as his arm. "But I can’t answer all these questions. It’s not the right time. You need to remember your life on your own. When you do, we’ll talk if that’s what you still want. I promise."
"Is that a polite way of telling me that I’ve just made a complete fool of myself? Damn it! You must think I’m demented." She sagged against him, arms sliding around his neck as she rested her forehead against his chin and sighed.
He embraced her, the sound of her frustrated sigh and the tension he felt in her slender limbs spiking his guilt to new heights. "I don’t think you’re anything of the kind. You’ve been through a lot during the last twelve hours, so relax and give yourself a break, why don’t you?"
She squirmed free of his encircling arms, eased backward, and wound up seated astride his hips. Brett shifted beneath her, but not quickly enough to conceal his body’s hunger for her.
"You want me," she accused. "I can feel how much you want me." She trailed her hand down across his chest, her fingertips pausing millimeters from the half–open zipper of his jeans and the hard length of flesh that spoke of need long denied.
She paused, drew in a shaky breath, and met his gaze. Those dark eyes of his reminded her of hot coals. She sank her fingers into the thatch of coarse dark hair at the base of his abdomen, her gaze remaining fixed on his strained facial features the entire time. He jerked beneath her gliding fingertips.
"You… want… me," she said a second time.
The muscles bunched in his jaw as he ground his back teeth together. After slowly counting to ten, he spoke. "You’re stating the obvious, but this isn’t the time or place, Leah." He shoved her hand aside when all he really wanted to do was flip her onto her back, plunge into her body, and succumb fully to the bliss he would find there.
"That was stupid of me," she reluctantly admitted.
"I’m trying to make allowances for you tonight, but pull another stunt like that and all bets are off."
She absently rubbed her wrist, her gaze speculative as she studied him. "You seemed surprised earlier when I told you I trusted you. Why?"
"I’m no Boy Scout. Never have been."
"And I’m too old to be a Girl Scout. So where does that leave us?"
He saw the recklessness that glinted in her eyes. This was not the Leah he remembered. Micah had warned him that she’d grown assertive and outspoken, but he hadn’t listened. He knew now that he should have.
He tugged her forward so that she rested against the hard wall of his chest. Despite the torment of having her draped across his torso, he gently stroked her back until her breathing slowed to an even pace. When she sighed, he felt the wash of her warm breath against his neck and knew she’d finally stopped fighting herself and him.
"Talk to me, please," she whispered. "Tell me about my life. I need to know about myself."
"Your thirtieth birthday was last month," he began in a steady voice despite the agony of having her molded tightly to his body. "You’re beautiful and funny and smart. Everyone loves you. You’ve got a stubborn streak ten miles wide, you’re one of the most honest women I’ve ever known, and you aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty if there’s work to be done. You’re strong and courageous in a crisis, and you’re compassionate and patient when your friends need you."
Surprise and pleasure brightened her eyes as she eased back and stared at him. "Maybe I am Girl Scout."
"You were." He smiled, and it lessened the fatigue that shadowed his eyes.
"I actually sound like a nice person."
"You’re more than nice. Much more," he said, his voice low and his eyes so dark that they looked black.
She sank against him once more, her breasts plumping against his hard chest, her gently rounded stomach mating with the rock solid surface of his belly, and her inner thighs like soft brackets on either side of his narrow hips. Wrapping her arms around him, she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
Brett continued to run his hands up and down her narrow back. He lost track of time and the world. Focused on Leah, he felt every breath she took and heard every sigh that escaped her. She began to drift off, her shapely body going slack against him. For his part, he felt as though someone had poured hot lava over his body and set a match to his senses.
Lowering his hands once he heard the measured cadence of her deepening respiration, he cupped her hips, closed his eyes, and savored his sensual memories of this woman in his arms. The woman whose skin turned to hot satin in the throes of passion, the woman who’d always given of herself with sensual generosity and spontaneity, and the woman who had conceived a son in his bed before he’d thrown her away like a fool.
As his mind continued to produce a series of erotic images, Brett’s body tightened until he felt that so m
uch as a glance from Leah would incinerate his soul. He inhaled, taking in the scent of her skin, and then he exhaled raggedly. He shuddered a few seconds later, aware that he couldn’t risk having her in his arms much longer. Moving carefully, he shifted her off his lap and back onto the bed.
"What’s the matter?" she asked as he settled her on her pillow and smoothed her hair away from her face.
"Nothing. Go back to sleep," he urged, his hand cradling her cheek as he leaned over her.
Her eyes fluttered closed. She turned her face to his open palm and pressed her lips to his callused skin, shocking him with the wet glide of the tip of her tongue and the imprint of her lips.
She both branded him and humbled him in that instant. Even without a single memory of her life, Leah still possessed the instinct–driven ability to express her feelings.
The dam restraining his emotions and desires crumbled under the force of her tender kiss. Desperate for the taste of her, he relinquished the control he’d always demanded of himself. He claimed her mouth. Shattering hunger and painful arousal dominated. Brett abandoned his private war of resistance and reclaimed what had been his so long ago, his lips and tongue seeking and finding the sweet, hot passion that only Leah could give him.
Her lips parted almost instantly. Her tongue darted into his mouth. She tasted like the finest wine. She gripped his shoulders, her nails scoring his flesh. He experienced nothing even close to pain. A heartbeat later, he registered the restless movement of her legs as she kicked free of the covers, drew him down beside her, and molded her body to his. He didn’t know where she stopped and he began. And, in that moment, he couldn’t have cared less.
He’d lost his mind, he realized. There was only now and Leah and his need, the latter a steady, consuming force coursing through his veins with blazing intent.
She utterly seduced him as she answered each thrust of his tongue with one of her own. He felt whole because her arms were around him, her hands frantic as she clung to him and moaned his name against his lips and into his mouth like an unending mantra of need too long unquenched. He felt loved for the first time in years, and the shock to his emotions churned like a tornado in the depths of his heart.
