if to underscore her words, thunder rattled the windows. And then he heard the sound of hail. He felt every hailstone that pounded the roof as if it were slamming against his head. He struggled to think. “How about…a cell?”
“I tried a minute ago but the line was busy.” She pulled a phone out of her pocket and dialed. “Still busy. We’ll have to try again later.”
He didn’t want to wait until later. He needed to get out of here now and go…somewhere. He pushed against the floor, seeking leverage.
“Don’t get up.” She put her hand on his shoulder with surprising firmness. “I don’t want you fainting on me again.”
“I need to—”
“You don’t need to do anything right now but lie still,” the woman said, then with a half smile, added, “Trust me, I’m a nurse.”
“Okay.” He would have trusted that voice and that smile no matter what. She sat silently beside him and he kept his eyes on her. Her face began to blur, and the floor seemed to tilt. No, dammit, he wasn’t going to pass out again. Using all his willpower, he forced himself to stay alert, to concentrate on her eyes until the dizziness passed.
She reached for his wrist and took his pulse. “Better now,” she murmured, then leaned over him, an anxious look on her face. “We need to get you to a doctor. No use waiting. My car’s in the garage out back. I’ll bring it around so you won’t have to walk so far.” She jiggled the gun at him. “Don’t move.”
“Okay.” He had no intention of moving. He shut his eyes and waited, hovering on the edge of sleep until the slam of the door roused him.
He opened his eyes and looked up. She stood in the doorway, her face taut with frustration. “The car,” she said in a voice midway between tears and anger. “It won’t start.”
“Flooded?” he asked.
“No.” She turned to stare at the rain pelting against the back windows.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” She spun around and glared at him. “I’m a nurse, not a mechanic. The motor makes a sound but it doesn’t catch.”
Their eyes met, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing: they were alone here, isolated, with no way to get out.
Swallowing a groan, he raised himself up on an elbow. “I’ll get out of your way,” he said. “I can walk to the hospital. How far—”
“Too far,” she said flatly. “You wouldn’t make it to the end of the street in your condition.” Then her eyes brightened. “What about your car? Is it driveable after the wreck?”
“Car,” he echoed stupidly. “Wreck. I don’t remember a wreck.”
“You said you had an accident.”
He may have said so, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. Frustrated, he clenched his fist and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He made his hand relax. “I don’t remember what happened to the car,” he said. “I’m not sure I even had one. I don’t remember anything.”
“Not…anything?”
“Nothing. Not a car, not where I was going. Hell, I don’t even know my own name.” He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, hadn’t meant to say anything about that at all. But dammit, here he was in soaking-wet clothes, his chest and his head hurt like hell, and he didn’t have the brain power to figure out who he was or the willpower to keep the words from coming out.
“You have a head injury, probably a concussion. You’ll remember soon.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.
That’s what he’d told himself as he crossed the field. He remembered that all right. He remembered waking up and walking over here, but other than that, zero. He hesitated, then asked, “Where…are we?” He felt stupid asking, but he had to know.
“San Sebastian Island…Texas coast, near Galveston.”
The name sounded familiar. Did he live here? Or had he come on vacation? He shook his head, wishing he could shake a thought loose. “Well, um… I, uh, guess you know your name?”
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,
