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
