Owen's Touch

by Lee Magner

  “I doubt the local judge relies on ’old sayings’ in writing his rulings,” Owen answered. “And I detest packing. So I’ll just leave my things where they are for now.” He led her toward the guest room. “However, I did get a few things out....”

  There were two bedrooms, both with beds. One bed was made, and there were towels hung in the adjoining bathroom. That was Owen’s master suite. He grabbed an extra set of towels out of an open box and carried them into the guest room.

  “I’ll find you some sheets and a blanket,” he said. He grinned. “This may not provide the level of service you’re used to from Cleary Hospital, but sheets and blankets I have.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “They were wonderful to me,” she said. “But this is a big improvement. No antiseptic smells. No people asking me questions all day. No waking up every few hours to be turned, poked, examined or discussed...” She shook her head and sighed. “As an innkeeper, Mr. Blackhart, you beat the hospital’s facility ten ways to Tuesday.”

  He grinned and went looking for sheets and a blanket.

  “I need to get back on my feet,” she murmured to herself. “And for that, I’ll need money.”

  When Owen returned with the linens, they briskly made up the bed for her to sleep in that night.

  “Do you happen to have a newspaper, Owen?”

  He stared at her, startled by the unexpected question.

  “Probably. A local one.”

  “Great! Could I read it?”

  “Sure.” He frowned a little but he headed toward the living room.

  She followed close at his heels.

  He reached behind a stack of boxes and plucked the day’s paper off the top of a pile of clothes waiting to be taken to the laundry.

  “Here it is,” he said. He sat on the corner of one large, heavy box and watched her with frank interest.

  She flipped through the pages until she reached the Help Wanted ads in the Classified section.

  “Reading the Personals?” he teased.

  “The...?” She blinked and looked at the Personal columns. “‘Single man seeks single woman for companionship and exercise. Free between twelve and two every other Wednesday,’” she read. She burst out laughing. “Why, he’s an out-of-towner looking for a no-strings-attached... Er, I don’t know if you can even call it an affair!” she exclaimed.

  Owen grinned at her outrage.

  “I guess you aren’t checking out the Personals, then.”

  “The Impersonals would be a better description of it,” she said. She bent her head down over the paper, searching for the employment ads, which she’d lost in the sea of one-inch ads of the lovelorn seeking companionship.

  “At least he’s up front about it,” Owen remarked.

  She glared at him and harrumphed her sense of contempt.

  “Some of the others promise idyllic relationships, but they’re just trying to bait the hook. Once they’ve caught the attention of a likely little fish, they try for seduction. And that’s usually followed by abandonment not long after.”

  She blinked and looked at him. “Did that happen to someone you know?” she asked uncertainly.

  “year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So’s she.” He shrugged. “She survived. She was a lucky one.”

  “Well...I’m not looking for social companionship,” she assured him.

  He laughed cynically. “Neither are those guys,” he observed.

  “Well I’m not hunting for a mate, either,” she said, becoming a little cross. “After all, I may already have a mate...or a serious relationship...or something.”

  He nodded. “You’re an attractive woman,” he observed dispassionately. “It seems logical to assume you’ve got a man in your life....”

  Their eyes met.

  That warmth slid over her skin again. As it had before. Her cheeks reddened and she swallowed hard. How could she feel this attracted to Owen Blackhart if she had a man in her life already? she wondered. She just didn’t believe that was possible. She didn’t know a thing about herself, of course. And she wanted to believe that she was free. Unencumbered by a “significant other.”

  “If there is a man in my life, why isn’t he shouting from the rooftops that I’m missing?” she asked irritably.

  “Good question.”

  Owen kept the potential answers to himself for the time being. If she hadn’t thought of them, he wasn’t about to rush her into that unhappy list of possibilities. He glanced at the newspaper she was studying with such intense interest.

  “So, you’re not reading the Personals,” he mused. “You don’t have any money, so it’s safe to assume you’re not looking for antique auctions or special sales ads. That leaves...the Want ads?”

  He raised his brow questioningly.

  “Don’t sound so pleased with your powers of deduction,” she declared, amused. “You can see very well that’s what I’m reading.”

  “You don’t have to pay me back tomorrow,” he stated.

  “I know. But I’d like to have my own money...even if it’s just a little. I don’t think I was cut out to be a career deadbeat.”

  He laughed. “Find anything?” he asked curiously.

  She frowned and chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I’m sure I can do a lot of things, but who’d hire me? I have no customary identification, no permanent address, no social security card, no references, no work history, no educational transcripts....” She stopped in exasperation.

  “That doesn’t sound insurmountable to me,” he said with a shrug.

  “Really?” she said dubiously.

  “Really. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll take you to breakfast at Rafael’s Café. While you’re rolling salsa and Mexicali eggs over your tongue, we’ll see what kind of nickel-and-dime work there is in this two-bit town.” He grinned at her expression of astonishment. “Hey...lots of people pick up work without papers. If you really want to do it...”

  “I dol” she exclaimed.

  He grinned. Her skin kind of glowed when she was agitated, he realized. And a soft sheen of moisture glistened here and there on her. He had the almost unbearable urge to press his mouth against that smooth, salty flesh...to kiss the silky skin.

  She wondered why he was looking at her like that. But almost as soon as she noticed the look in his eyes, it dawned on her what the expression might mean. And it made her feel very strange indeed. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart beat in a painfully noticeable way. And she was momentarily bereft of the power of speech.

  “I..do....” she managed to repeat, although it took a concentrated effort. “The sooner I’m earning money, the sooner I can support myself. And maybe I’ll remember who I am and be able to go back. Maybe doing things...little tasks—will jog my memory.”

  “Like sensory stimulation did this evening?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The sensory stimulation that she visualized had nothing to do with the events earlier in the evening. She swallowed hard and stretched over her face what she fervently hoped was a harmless smile.

  “Would you like to listen to some music as you fall asleep?” he asked softly.

  She stared at him, feeling hypnotized by his voice...that familiar, that so very trusted voice.

  “Uh-huh...” she replied.

  “I’ll put on a CD....”

  “That’s...great....”

  He watched her head off for her bedroom.

  And he began to wonder if perhaps he should have taken her someplace else to spend the night after all.

  He’d spent so much time worrying what would become of her, it had never occurred to him to worry about what might happen to him.

  Owen swore softly under his breath.

  He was experienced enough to handle this, he told himself bluntly.

  He put on the CD, and he fell asleep to the soulful strains of a New Orleans jazz group.

  It felt as hot as the Louisiana delta all night.
/>
  Chapter 7

  Mouth-watering aromas wafted a delicious welcome over Owen and his green-eyed lady as they entered Rafael’s Café for breakfast the following morning.

  The uncertain woman at his side surveyed the intimate little restaurant as they walked to a corner table. It was framed by windows on the connecting walls. The sunshine was streaming in invitingly.

  A smiling, dark-haired woman wearing a colorful red cotton skirt and a lacy white blouse brought a steaming pot and a pair of gaily painted mugs to their table.

  “What can I fix for you this morning?” she asked, smiling at them warmly, and handing them each a well-worn menu.

  A half hour later, they were sipping hot coffee and forking delicious huevos rancheros into their mouths.

  “Taste familiar?” Owen asked her in amusement.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, loving the familiar blend of tomato sauce, spices and cheese. “Mmm...”

  “Shut your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “It may help you visualize the memories associated with those flavors,” he explained. He speared some of the fresh fruit on his plate and popped it into his mouth.

  She took another mouthful of the tasty main dish and closed her eyes.

  “Relax,” he said quietly. “Just taste the flavors...smell the spices...hear the sounds....”

  In the background, she was vaguely aware of some lively Mexican music. Energetic violins. A vibrant, mournful trumpet. A man’s tenor voice. A deep-voiced guitar.

  Then Rafael’s Café receded, and instead she began to see tiles.

  Hand-painted tiles.

  With blue borders and dark red designs amid splashes of rich yellows and delicate dabs of green.

  There were tiles along parts of the walls. And along the border of a pool. And brick to walk on. A brick-tiled patio. Her mind expanded the view, and she saw a familiar adobe house. With red dirt around it. And cactus. And mountains nearby. A road. With an occasional car. A view of a desert. And in the distance... scrubby trees along a nearly dry riverbed. And a small town. No...not so small. Just in the distance...so it looked not so very big. There were paints...and charcoal...the kind an artist used to draw with...and a potter’s wheel. And pots, lined up to go into a kiln. Ready to be glazed.

  She froze. Her throat felt paralyzed. She couldn’t swallow the food in her mouth. With an effort, she forced herself to remember how, and finished eating what she’d already half begun chewing.

  She frowned, and she listened hard. There was a distant voice. Coming closer. A woman’s voice. Speaking to her on a phone. She was hearing a woman whose voice was very familiar, and yet, she couldn’t quite make out what was being said. Or clearly visualize the face of the woman speaking to her.

  Her body stiffened with the effort to break through the unwelcome barrier encasing her mind. The memories were all there...so very near.... She could almost grasp them.... Almost...

  “...help me... I can’t trust anyone else... Please!...I beg of you...” the voice said. It was a woman’s voice, brittle with anxiety and shaking in panic. A little slurred. Thoroughly drenched in fear. “Mariana...”

  Her eyes flew open then, and she gasped. She felt as if someone had just punched her in the stomach. But instead of seeing stars, the light came on brightly in the depths of her mind, and a name burst forth that had been hidden from her. Mariana.

  “Of course,” she murmured, deeply shaken. “How could I have forgotten?”

  She blinked, and Owen’s face came into focus. He was staring at her through narrowed eyes. Like a cat watching its prey, he watched her. Waiting for her to speak.

  “What did you remember?”

  “My name is Mariana,” she whispered. Then, more firmly, with an edge of triumph in her voice and the beginnings of a smile on her lips, she repeated it “My name is Mariana. Mariana! That’s why ‘Mary Ann’ didn’t quite seem right It’s close. But it’s not my name.”

  He nodded slowly. “You don’t seem...completely happy to have remembered that,” he said slowly.

  “Something is very wrong. Somewhere a woman is in mortal danger. She’s connected to me. She’s...a part of me.... I remembered a sliver of a phone call....” She shivered. She wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t that cold in the café. “It’s still coming back to me in broken shards. In bits and pieces. It’s very frustrating,” she muttered.

  Owen poured her some more coffee.

  “Hold the mug,” he suggested. “It’ll warm you up. And a drink of the coffee...black, no sugar...will help put some steel rods in your spine.”

  She lifted the mug and took a bracing swallow.

  “I hate it like this,” she said, shuddering at the bitter taste. “I’m strictly a café-au-lait woman,” she admitted ruefully.

  “This situation isn’t for Milquetoasts,” he said with a, shrug. “There’s nothing you can do but try to remember the facts...and then face them.”

  “Easy for you to say!” she exclaimed, outraged by his cavalier attitude.

  He grinned unrepentantly. “Yes. It is. But it’s still the truth, and you damn well know it—” he hesitated, “—Mariana.”

  Her name rolled off his tongue like a warm caress.

  Their eyes met, and she felt as if he were putting his arms around her and pulling her close. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Her throat felt like cotton, and she looked at her mug in panic.

  She shakily raised it to her lips and drank more of the bitter brew.

  “It does stiffen the spine,” she conceded with a grimace.

  “Tell me what else you remembered,” he said grittily.

  “I live in the Southwest somewhere. In a kind of rustic, adobe house...with tile inlaid in the walls and a view of the desert, the mountains and a fair-sized city. There were artist’s tools around...and I felt like they belonged in my hands.”

  “So you think you’re an artist?”

  “Yes.”

  “And...the woman in the phone call...who is she?”

  “Someone very close to me. She sounds like me.... Except, she’s scared to death.” Mariana paused and frowned. “When I was knocked down that mountainside and lost my memory, I had some dreams...or maybe they were memories trying to surface in dreams. I remember seeing a face. The face of a man. I was afraid of him. He radiated evil...and danger.”

  Mariana paused, trying desperately to recall what she could of that threatening, hovering face. His eyes were the features she most clearly could conjure up in her mind. Especially the cold, ruthless expression in them. And the shape of his mouth...thin and hard...and a small scar along his jaw, just a threadlike trail of white.

  “Could you sketch him?” Owen asked abruptly.

  She looked at Owen in surprise. Thought about it. And grinned.

  “Maybe. I think maybe I could.”

  “Let’s get you something to draw with and find out.”

  Appreciatively she inhaled the warm, inviting aromas clinging to the café air as Owen paid the bill.

  “I’d like to come back,” she murmured wistfully. “Do you suppose Rafael could use a good dishwasher? I wouldn’t mind a temporary job here.”

  Owen laughed and opened the restaurant door for her.

  “We’ll call him later, if we still need to. At the rate you’re going, you may remember everything and be on your way home by dinner.”

  She gave Owen a dubious look and laughed uneasily. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she, too, was in danger, just like the woman on the phone. For some reason, home didn’t seem like a safe place to be right now. Wherever home was.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To pay a call on Seymour Rushville. I saw some sketch pads and artist’s pencils by his cash register when I was in his bookstore. The store’s just down the street.”

  “Good. I need a walk after that breakfast!” she exclaimed. She linked her arm through his and strode alongside him.

  He glanced at her in surprise. When their eyes h
ad met a little earlier, he had felt the small jolt that she had. He’d known why she quickly looked away, frowning at her coffee cup intently while a soft rose color brushed across her cheekbones.

  And yet, here they were, walking side by side. Arm in arm. And she was smiling and looking around, more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.

  “Mariana,” he murmured softly.

  “Hmm?” She looked up at him. Her dark green eyes were open and unguarded.

  “Just...Mariana,” he said. A crooked grin softened his serious expression. “It fits you.”

  “You have no idea what a relief it is to know my own name,” she confessed. “Such a small thing...just a word...but without it, I felt like I didn’t really exist...like I was a mannequin in a store window, not a real person.”

  “I guarantee you, Mariana, that you are a living, breathing, red-blooded person.” He grinned and looked her over. “Female person.”

  She laughed. She was glad he’d noticed that. It might be unwise to feel that way, since they were spending so much time together, and she still had no place to stay, really. Still...it was wonderful to see that admiration in his eyes. Maybe he’d open the shutters and let her see it again, Mariana thought a little wistfully.

  Owen told himself he should unlink their arms and put a little distance between them. Physical distance. He should. He inhaled, and the soft scent of her hair filled his nostrils.

  He tightened his hold on her arm.

  “Watch your step,” he said gruffly.

  She took a long stride over the crumbling curb and continued with him across the street.

  He forgot about letting go of her. Hell. He liked her arm where it was, damn it. He liked the feel of her body close to his. The occasional light brush of her hip against his as they walked on the uneven pavement. The scent of her skin and her hair swirling and teasing his senses as the light breeze washed across her and over him.

  Somewhere in the depths of him, something stirred. Something very ancient and very male. Something familiar. That he’d felt before. More than once. And yet...this time, it was different.

  It wasn’t just the first curls of sexual desire emerging from the depths of him, encouraging him to pursue the woman at his side. There was a tenderness mixed in this soft, burning sensation. And an uneasiness...that she might leave a mark on him...a deep, wounding reminder of her presence in his life. Pain and pleasure were a lot alike sometimes, he thought grimly. They could be hard to tell apart, until it was too late.