and into his room. “I want to check your wound,” she told him.
He gave her a little-boy frown. “Aw, geez, Mom, do you have to?”
“Yes, I do. Sit.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and clenched his fists while she dabbed more peroxide around the wound. “Nurse Ratched,” he muttered.
“I heard that.”
“Sorry.”
“You remember the book or, later, the movie,” she said hopefully.
“Sure. One Flew Over the…um, Robin’s Nest.”
“Cuckoo,” she corrected.
“You talkin’ to me?” he asked.
“Nope, and that’s another movie.”
He looked up. “Taxi Driver. Also about a nut case,” he said and gave her one of his dazzling smiles.
She backed quickly away. “Good night. Call me if you need anything.”
She hurried down the hall to her bathroom. She needed a long, cool shower, but she settled for a short one, then went to the bedroom. She shut the door, stared at it, then got a chair and shoved it against the door and under the knob. It wouldn’t keep him out if he really wanted in, but at least it would slow him down, give her time to get her weapon. Lord, how could she have predicted when the doorbell rang last night that she would spend tonight barricaded in her room?
She lay down and shut her eyes, but couldn’t sleep. The room was stifling. She cracked the window open, then shut it when rain blew in.
A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. She held her breath. Was it him? Was he coming this way? She sat up, reached for her revolver and waited. Nothing happened and she ordered herself to calm down. They’d been alone all day and isolated. Why should she be any more afraid of him at night?
Who was he?
Unable to answer that question, she asked another. What did she know about him? What had she learned in the day they’d been together?
He was strong. In spite of his injury and what had to be considerable pain, he’d worked all day without a word of complaint. He’d been helpful and—and kind. He’d backed off immediately when she’d let him know his questions and his uncannily accurate observations made her uncomfortable. No matter who—or what—he was, there was something about him, something that drew her. Maybe it was his combination of strength and compassion; maybe it was because he was a mystery, even to himself. Although she believed people control their own destiny, she had a strange feeling that Fate had sent him to her door. Finally she fell asleep, seeing his face in her dreams.
Down the hall, J.D. lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Through clenched teeth, he whispered, “Who am I?”
Was someone searching for him? Agonizing over his disappearance? Maybe not.
For a while at least, Christy had thought he might be a criminal. Could she be right? He wanted to say no, but he remembered the bullet wound in his thigh, the blow to his head last night—evidence of violence, even though he didn’t think he was a violent person.
Maybe he didn’t remember what happened because he didn’t want to. He had no clue.
The only thing he was sure about was Christy. When she’d bent over him, he’d wanted to touch her, to draw in her scent, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. He’d had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for her.
He shut his eyes, pictured her face and fell asleep.
His dreams were as disjointed as they had been last night and frightening. Empty rooms that weren’t really empty. Faces in the shadows. Someone stalked him, grabbed him by the throat. He twisted, groaned, trying to get away.
Christy woke abruptly. She sat up in bed, hugging the sheet around her. What was that noise?
A man’s voice.
Had someone broken in? Or was it J.D.? Was he all right?
Reaching for the gun, she held it in front of her as she’d been taught, then made her way down the hall. The noise came from his room: a moan, then a half scream.
With a trembling hand, she opened the door.
The sheets tangled around him, he tossed and turned on the bed, muttering unintelligible words.
She moved closer. The sheets were damp, his skin soaked with perspiration. She put her hand on his brow. “Shh, it’s all right,” she murmured…
From under the sheet, his hand whipped out. He grabbed her arm and jerked her forward with surprising strength.
Christy screamed as she toppled to the bed.
Chapter 5
“No!” Christy choked, struggling against J.D.’s superior strength. “No.” The gun dropped out of her hand and crashed to the floor.
All her earlier fears about him now stared her in the face.
He had her by the shoulders. She tried to kick, but her legs were tangled in the sheet, tried to twist away, but he held her fast. He forced her onto her back and she lay powerless, helpless to get away.
Terrified, fighting for breath, Christy stared up at him.
He loomed over her, nostrils flaring, his lips peeled back in a grimace. His eyes were…shut.
Asleep. He had to be asleep.
Forcing air into her lungs, Christy cried, “Stop, J.D. Let me go.”
He made a growling sound in his throat. And then his eyes opened.
“Wh—?” He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. Then recognition dawned. “Christy?” he muttered. “What’s…going on?”
“You—you were having a nightmare.”
His grip loosened. “What happened? How did you…? How did I…?”
She sat up and struggled to control her shaky voice. “I—I stumbled into your bad dream. I came in to see what was wrong and—and you grabbed me.”
He stared down at the hand that had seized her. “Ah, Christy, I—I—”
She saw the shock on his face, heard the revulsion in his voice, and her fear faded. “You were asleep. You didn’t know what you were doing.” But still, she rubbed the arm he’d jerked.
He sat up, wide awake now, his tone sharp. “Did I hurt you?”
She dropped her gaze. “Not much.”
“Let me see.” He took her arm, carefully this time as if afraid he might break it. “You are hurt. Bruised.” His voice filled with self-loathing, he let go of her. “Damn, what kind of man am I?”
“Don’t,”
