Stranger In Her Arms

A tight smile crossed her lips. “Christy. Christy Matthews. My—my husband will be home any time,” she continued, but she spoke without conviction. She was lying, he could tell. There was no husband coming home.

Under the circumstances, she had to be scared. “Look,” he said, wanting to reassure her, “I don’t remember much about myself, but I’m not dangerous.”

Christy Matthews raised a brow. “You’re in no shape to be dangerous,” she agreed, but she kept her gun pointed at his chest.

She sighed, then said, “Since no one seems to be going anywhere, let’s get you to some place more comfortable. I’ll give you a hand.”

He was tempted to wave her away. He didn’t enjoy being treated like an invalid. He had a little bump on the head, that’s all. But something made him reach for her.

Damn, getting up was harder than he’d expected. All the blood seemed to rush out of his head, and the room took a sharp turn to the side.

“Easy,” she murmured and slipped an arm around his waist. His body brushed against her breast, and she jolted and leaned away from him. But she was close enough for him to notice her scent again. Something light and flowery. Roses, maybe. He also noticed she grasped the gun firmly in her free hand.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He gritted his teeth. “Fine.”

He wasn’t fine. His legs were as shaky as a newborn colt’s, and beads of cold sweat popped out on his face. Even walking as far as the couch wore him out. When they bypassed it and Christy led him into a hallway that appeared endless, he wondered if she’d decided to torture him to pay him back for his unwanted visit.

“I have an extra bed,” she said.

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” he muttered, “I can bunk on your couch for a while.” Or on the floor, since he was about to fall flat on his face.

Christy shook her head and urged him forward. “The bed. You’re hurt, and you need it.” She opened the door to a bedroom and steered him toward the double bed. They stopped beside it, and she pulled off the spread.

As soon as the sheets came into view, he sat.

“Whoa,” Christy said. “Let’s get you out of those wet things.”

He was dead certain she wasn’t the first woman who’d asked him to take off his clothes, but this was probably the only time he’d felt uncomfortable with the idea.

Correctly reading him, Christy smiled fully this time. “I’m a nurse, remember?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. But this wasn’t a hospital.

She set the gun down on the nightstand. Inexperienced with weapons, he noted. If he’d been so inclined, he could easily have grabbed it.

She turned to him again and pressed him firmly back against the pillows. Hand on the snap of his jeans, she paused and said, “I’ll lend you a pair of my husband’s pajamas.” He heard a tremor in her voice and was doubly sure that, pajamas or not, Christy Matthews’s husband would not be coming home tonight.

To distract himself from the feel of her hand at his waist, he tried to concentrate on the sound of the storm—the rain pounding against the windows, the wind rattling the panes. But the distraction didn’t work. Regardless of his physical or mental condition, his reflexes—and his hormones—were in working order. His body reacted quite normally to soft female hands undressing him. He pushed the hands away. “I’ll take care of it,” he said gruffly.

She let him deal with the snap but insisted on helping him peel off the jeans, and he got rock-hard as her fingers brushed his thighs. For a second, before she assumed a professionally distant air, he saw the light of awareness in her eyes and the tinge of pink in her cheeks, and he knew she hadn’t missed the bulge beneath his briefs.

She tugged the jeans lower, then her hands stilled. He followed her gaze down to his thigh. An old scar puckered the skin.

“That’s a bullet wound,” she said. She seemed surprised but not repulsed. He guessed, with her medical background, she’d seen a lot of those.

Well, apparently he wasn’t a doctor because the sight of the wound shook him up a bit. “Is that what it is?”

“Yes.” She gave him a level look. “Where’d you get it?”

How in hell did she expect him to know? He searched his mind, hoping her question would elicit an answer. It didn’t. “I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember anything,” he said, hearing the frustration in his voice. He stared at his thigh. “Maybe the scar’s from something else.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve been a nurse long enough to know a bullet wound when I see one.” She took a step back. “Who are you?” she whispered.

“Dammit,” he growled, clenching his hands, “I don’t know. I—” Pain seared his chest and he lost his breath, lost all awareness of what he wanted to say. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He couldn’t see Christy, couldn’t see anything but the damned specks, then he felt a cool cloth on his forehead, and her face swam back into view.

She bent over him, her fingers resting lightly on the pulse at his throat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That was a dumb question.”

He tried to say something.

“Hush, take it easy,” she warned. “Your ribs are bruised, you’ve hit your head, and whoever you are, we need to get you taken care of.” She pulled his jeans the rest of the way off, and this time he had no problem controlling his arousal. He doubted if Hollywood’s sexiest love goddess could have awakened his libido at that moment.

When the jeans were off, Christy said, “We need to wash some of that sand off. I’ll give you a sponge bath.”

In other circumstances, he might have welcomed a sponge bath by this woman with the soft hands and springtime scent. Not just now. He hurt like hell, but he didn’t relish being coddled. Besides, the thought occurred to him that if he looked in the mirror, he might remember who he was. “I’ll handle it,” he told her firmly. “Where’s your bathroom?”

She pointed toward the hall, and he sat up and eased off the bed. Immediately, she was at his side, grasping his arm to steady him. God, her scent was intoxicating. Honeysuckle? Violets? Whatever, it woke his hormones again.

Unwilling to deal with his body’s inevitable reaction to her nearness, he held up a hand to ward her off. Clenching his jaw, he staggered out of the bedroom.

She followed along behind him and when he reached the bathroom, said, “Call if you need me.”

He managed a nod, then went into the small room, papered with a leafy design and smelling of a garden. He flipped on the light, shut the door and approached the mirror slowly, his heart beating heavily in his chest. Outside, rain drummed against the window. He stood still for a moment, listening to the storm and wondering. When he looked in the mirror, who would he see?

He stepped closer to the sink, took a breath, and lifted his eyes. Would he recognize himself?

He didn’t.

He must have looked in mirrors thousands of times, but tonight the man who stared back at him was as unfamiliar as a stranger he might pass on the street.

How could you see your own face and not know yourself? Dizzy with despair, he grasped the sink to keep from falling. “Who are you, damn you?” he snarled. He shut his eyes and concentrated, searching his mind.

No use. All he came up with was a blank.

Chapter 3

While the man was in the bathroom, Christy got the first aid kit her father kept for emergencies. Then she found a pair of his old pajamas, went into the hall, and knocked on the bathroom door. The stranger opened it a crack, stretched out a hand, and took the pajamas.

The sight of his bare arm, roped with muscle and bronzed from the sun, unsettled her. She felt as flustered as she had when she’d helped him undress. She, who’d been a nurse for nine years, who’d seen hundreds of naked men—totally naked men. None of them had raised her pulse one beat. Why did he?

Because she was alone and vulnerable, she decided as she went back into the bedroom to wait for him. Darn, she shouldn’t have mentioned a husband. How would she explain when her spouse didn’t show up? Maybe the stranger would forget what she’d said.

But she had more pressing matters to consider. Like how badly he was injured and how long she was going to keep him under her roof. She felt a twinge of fear as she thought of her brother’s warning. Was this man dangerous? If he was, she had no one to protect her. She had to take care of herself. A shiver went up her spine, and she picked up the gun she’d laid on the nightstand, wondering if she’d really have the guts to use it.

After a few minutes the man shuffled into the room. Clearly, every step was painful.

He looked less disreputable now that he’d cleaned up. In fact, he looked pretty good. Although the pajama pants came barely to his ankles and the sleeves were well above his wrists, the material stretched across broad shoulders, hugged a muscular frame, and made Christy uncomfortably aware again of the stranger’s masculinity.

He glanced at the weapon in her hand. His lips thinned but he said nothing, only lay down on the bed and waited.

“You have a nasty wound,” she said. “I’m going to clean it. You’ll have to lie on your side.” He turned, and she added, “I’ll try not to hurt you too much.” She opened a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and dribbled liquid into the wound. The peroxide fizzed, and she heard the man catch his breath.

“Try harder,” he muttered. “What are you cleaning it with? Battery acid?”

“Peroxide. You’ll feel worse if you get an infection.” She unscrewed the cap from a tube of antibiotic ointment and spread a liberal amount on the wound, then reached for a bandage and the adhesive tape.

Carefully, she pulled the edges of the gash together and taped them. The man’s breath hissed out, but he kept silent. “There. All done.”

“Are you sure you’re a nurse and not that crazy woman from Misery?” he muttered.

She chuckled. “Lie on your back now and unbutton the pajama top.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She laughed. “I’m a nurse. Cross my heart.” She bent over him and gently probed the bruises on his chest. His flesh had warmed. Her hand brushed a flat male nipple and immediately it puckered. The pulse at his throat beat strongly. She glanced up, and his gaze caught hers.

She cleared her throat, forced a professional tone. “You’ve got some bad bruises, but I don’t think your ribs are broken. You should get a tetanus shot at the emergency room, but—” She glanced at the window and shrugged. Rain beat steadily against the pane. “—we’re not going anywhere tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it. My shots are up to date.”

She started and frowned at him. “I thought you said you couldn’t remember anything. How do you know that?”

“I don’t have a clue. It just came to me.” He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. “That’s all. I don’t remember anything else.”

She stared at him dubiously, then shrugged. Injured or not, he was too big and imposing to risk arguing with him over what he could or couldn’t recall. “I’m going to put your clothes in the washer.”

She picked up his discarded clothing, took the gun and left the room. She didn’t feel comfortable leaving the man alone, but she decided she could chance it for a little while. He was pretty weak from the blow to his head. As long as she didn’t provoke him, she doubted he’d do any damage. Still she turned and looked over her shoulder as she started down the hall, then glanced pointedly at the gun in her hand.

In the utility room, she turned the washer on hot and poured in detergent. She tossed in his jeans, then paused with his long-sleeved blue shirt in hand. Maybe the pockets contained a clue to their owner’s identity. She wondered if he’d thought to check them.

The pockets were empty. She retrieved his jeans and checked their pockets next. Nothing. Why would a man wander around without a driver’s license, a wallet or any kind of identification?

Unless he’d been robbed. That would explain the empty pockets and the blow to the head.

Or had he gotten rid of the identification himself? Was he a fugitive, using her house as a convenient place to hide out? Feigning amnesia, playing her for a fool?

Slow down, Christy, she ordered herself. Why should she jump to that conclusion? Fueled by the storm, her imagination was working overtime. The stranger was probably a nice, normal guy, an attractive man she’d want to know better if she met him at a party. On the other hand, she thought, as her brother’s warning voice played in her mind, nice, normal guys didn’t walk around without any sort of ID. And didn’t have scars from bullet holes on their thighs.

Forgetting her resolve not to antagonize him, she marched back down the hall and faced the man in the bed. “What are you up to, mister?”

He gazed up at her blankly.

“You don’t have a wallet,” she snapped. “You don’t have a driver’s license.”

He stared at her, then shrugged. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know? I already noticed that.”

“The point is you’ve gotten rid of every means of identification. Why? Are you running from something? Dammit, you’ve invaded my home. Quit this ‘I-don’t-remember’ business and tell me the truth.”

He struggled up on one elbow, his face a mask of fury and frustration. Even barely able to move, he looked dangerous, and again Christy realized what a formidable man he was. “Lady, I would if I could. I don’t know any more about myself than you do.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “If you want me out, give me my clothes and I’ll be on my way.”

That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? For him to vanish as abruptly as he’d appeared. Whatever he was dealing with wasn’t her problem. Only a fool would keep him under her roof.

And yet—

She saw him wince with pain as he stood. She glanced outside at the unrelenting blackness, at the rain that pounded against the window. She’d been trained as a healer. Caring for the sick was ingrained in her. How could she toss an injured man out into the storm?

“Go to sleep,” she sighed. “You can leave in the morning.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. Get back in bed.” Maybe she was a fool, but she couldn’t order him to go.

She shut the blinds, turned the ceiling light off and a night light on, and sat in the rocking chair beside the bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“I’ve pulled night shifts before.” She kicked off her shoes and settled back. “I’m going to be right here all night. And don’t forget, mister, that I’m the one holding the gun.”

Bandaged head resting on the soft pillow in Christy’s guest room, the stranger fell asleep immediately. His dreams were hazy, disjointed. The roar of a motor, the crack of a rifle shot. Shouts, curses, gasps, a muffled sob and the stench of blood. He woke with his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his back.

He heard another roar, but this time of thunder, and he remembered the storm, remembered Christy, and opened his eyes. She sat beside the bed, her eyes on him, the gun pointed squarely at his chest.

The crash of thunder echoed in his head. He felt as if someone was pounding it from the inside with a massive hammer. He groaned and wiped his face with the pajama sleeve.

She leaned forward. “Want a drink?”

“Yeah, something strong enough to put me out of my misery.”

“Alcohol would be the worst thing for you,” she said, rising. “I’ll bring you a couple of aspirins with some water and an ice pack for your head.”

She brought him a glass and he drank thirstily, then lay against the pillows. She put the cold pack on his head and he sank back into sleep.

Other dreams came, vivid and disturbing. At intervals he woke, always to find Christy beside the bed. Once she brought a cool cloth and wiped his face. Her voice was soothing, her hands gentle. “Go back to sleep,” she murmured. Hoping his dreams would help him remember, he did.

Once he found himself in a long, dark hallway. Shadows glided ahead of him, tantalizing him, and he quickened his pace, but each time he reached them, the phantoms he chased eluded him. A wall of doors appeared, and he opened them, only to find empty rooms. He heard voices, but they were garbled and he couldn’t make out the words.

Near dawn he woke. His head ached, his ribs hurt, and his mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. The glass he’d drunk from during the night was empty.

He was about to get up to refill the glass when he heard a sigh. Christy, he thought. And turned to see her, eyes shut, gun still in her hand but pointed downward, aimed straight at her toes.

Forgetting his thirst, he lay back and studied her. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was girl-next-door pretty. Wavy auburn hair, smooth skin, a figure that was neither fashion-model gaunt nor screen-goddess voluptuous but just right. Sweetly curved hips, perky breasts that would fit a man’s hands to perfection. He felt a tightening in his lower body again and, with an effort, changed the direction of his thoughts.

She was in her late-twenties, he thought, and she had the appeal that came with maturity. She seemed to know who she was and to be comfortable with the knowledge.

In the gray light, he could see how tired she was. He didn’t know how she’d passed the previous day, but she’d spent the night alternately caring for him and holding a gun on him. Couldn’t have been easy.

He let her sleep for a while, but the position of the gun made him edgy. A reflexive movement could cause her to squeeze the trigger. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.

Deciding he’d better let her wake slowly, he cleared his throat.

Her eyes popped open and she straightened, aiming the gun again. Voice raspy with sleep, she asked, “Do you need another drink?” He nodded, and she picked up the glass and backed out of the room, keeping her eyes—and the gun—on him. In a minute, she returned with the water. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” he lied. He drank, set the glass on the nightstand, and carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll be out of your way as soon as I’m dressed.”

“Where will you go?”

Good question. He didn’t have a clue where to go. “I’ll figure something out,” he said with more certainty than he felt.

“You should see a doctor.”

“You’ve done a pretty good job of putting me back together.”

“Nevertheless. There’s a hospital in town, only a few miles from here.” She gestured vaguely. “I’d drive you to town if I could,” she added.

“No problem. If you’ll point me toward the road, I’ll walk or hitch a ride.”

She nodded, went to the window and pulled up the blinds. “Oh, my God.”

He got off the bed, crossed the room and looked over her shoulder. “Damn,” he muttered, staring at the scene before him. He could forget his plan of walking into town. Water, high enough so that only the top of the mailbox showed above it, filled the front yard and lapped at the porch steps. A lawn chair and several broken tree limbs floated toward the drive.

He glanced up at the leaden sky. Rain still fell in sheets and he doubted it would stop any time soon. A few more hours and water would be at the door.

As a crash of thunder resounded, his eyes met Christy’s. He wasn’t surprised to see nerves, wouldn’t have faulted her if she’d given in to them. She didn’t. “You’ll have to stay, at least for now,” she said, her voice steady.

“Looks like it. As long as I’m going to be here a while, I can help you out. Unless you like your furniture decorated with water marks, we need to start moving it and getting things off the floor.”

“Thanks, but you should take it easy.”

The way his head felt, he’d have to. “I’ll do what I can.”

She nodded. “I’ll get your clothes out of the dryer. And then I’m going to fill the tub. If we need water, we’ll have it.”

When she returned with his clothes, he went into the bathroom to dress. He peered into the mirror again but a stranger still stared back. No time to dwell on his problems now. Dealing with the flood took precedence. He dressed quickly and followed the sound of the television and the odor of frying bacon down the hallway.

In the living room, he halted. Out the back window he saw the gray of the Gulf and above it an ominous, pewter-colored sky. Waves thundered in, one after another, slamming across what had once been a beach. Water frothed at the edge of Christy’s yard, threatening to swallow it up, too. “Do we need an ark?” he called to Christy.

He left the window and went into the kitchen where she stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. She’d tucked the gun in her waistband. “You know,” she said, “I’ve always enjoyed storms, but this one is a little more than I bargained for.” Without looking up, she continued. “Pour yourself a glass of juice and have a seat.” She gestured toward the television. “The news isn’t good.”

Sipping his juice, he listened.

“Hal McCormick is standing by in the small town of Lerner, across the bay from San Sebastian Island.”

Christy took the pan of eggs off the burner and went to stand in front of the set.

“Hal, how does it look out there?” the anchor asked.

“Wet, Ray. And no let-up in sight.” The camera swung back for a wide-angle view. Abandoned cars were parked haphazardly by the seawall. Wind whipped the trees along the road. Three teenagers lugging a rubber raft waved and mugged for the camera. “What was labeled a tropical depression yesterday has been upgraded to a tropical storm and given the name Coral. Winds are not yet at hurricane force, but with Coral stalled over the Gulf of Mexico, nearly eight inches of rain have fallen here, leaving cars stranded, homes flooded, and power lines down. And the forecast is more of the same.”

“At least we have electricity,” Christy murmured. She returned to the stove, spooned eggs onto plates, added bacon and bagels, then joined him at the table. She reached for the gun, set it beside her plate, and watched as he lifted a forkful of food to his mouth. “Eggs okay?”

He nodded, glanced pointedly at the revolver. “I’d enjoy them more without the artillery.” He smiled at her. “I like the sound of snap, crackle, and pop, but from cereal, not from bullets.”

“You’ll have to put up with it.”

He shrugged, and they ate without further conversation.

The news broadcast continued. “San Sebastian, across the bay, is cut off from the mainland. Access to the causeway bridge was washed out early this morning.”

The implications of that were clear. “We’re trapped,” he murmured.

“Maybe we do need an ark.” Christy tried to smile but failed miserably.

Before he could answer, another voice blared from the TV. “We interrupt the weathercast for this bulletin, just received from the San Sebastian Island Police Department. A thirty-four-year-old woman, Martha McLane, was reported missing last night.”

Christy’s head jerked up.

“Mrs. McLane, who was vacationing on the island with her husband and two children, left their room at the Gulf View Motel around 5:00 p.m. to walk to a nearby supermarket and did not return.” The picture of a woman with dark, wavy hair appeared on the screen. “Witnesses who were in the Kroger parking lot reported seeing a woman meeting Mrs. McLane’s description getting into a dark-blue Toyota Corolla driven by a dark-haired white male, wearing jeans. Witnesses were uncertain about the color of his shirt, but it may have been blue.”

“Dark hair,” Christy muttered. “Jeans…blue shirt.” She turned from the TV set. Her eyes stared into his. It didn’t take a mind reader to figure out what she was thinking.

He laid down his fork. It clattered against his plate. Christy reached for the gun. “Was it you?”

“I don’t know.”

The news reporter continued, “San Sebastian police are concerned that the serial killer who has been terrorizing Houston has broadened his territory even further. They are working with an artist on a sketch of the driver of the car Mrs. McLane was seen entering.”