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.
