mind kept turning over unanswered questions. He was certain now that she was truly frightened about something or someone. Although he was sympathetic to her situation, whatever it might be, he still didn’t want to get involved. He suspected that there was a lover somewhere in the picture. She was very attractive, and more appealing than he was ready to admit. Holding her in his arms had ignited some tender needs that he thought he’d buried a long time ago. Turning restlessly on the narrow cot, he tried to forget how soft and vulnerable she had felt in his arms.
WHEN TRISH WOKE UP early the next morning, she was disoriented as she looked around the small room. Then a quiver of relief shot through her. She knew where she was. Everything came back from the moment that she’d been carried into the house. A man named Andrew had rescued her. And before that? And before that? The question kept ricocheting from one side of her head to the other.
Her lips quivered. Nothing. Nothing.
Hugging Andrew’s faded robe around her, she walked to the window and stared at the scene stretched out before her. The summer storm had passed, leaving a soft mist moving away from the land.
Dragging her eyes over a small rocky cove below the cottage, she searched the empty beach and rolling breakers, struggling to recover some vision of what had happened to bring her to that deserted stretch of sand.
A new day lay fresh and glistening in the sunlight. She swallowed hard. A new day. For what? Running and hiding? Running from what? Hiding from whom? She turned back toward the bed, ready to crawl back in and cover up her head, but hesitated when she heard sounds in the other rooms.
Andrew was up. She knew he would be wanting some answers, but what should she tell him? If she admitted that she had no clue who she was, or how she had ended up on his beach, he would probably insist on taking her somewhere. Something deep within warned her not to leave this haven of safety until she could remember why she felt threatened and in danger. She decided to take the coward’s way out—climb back in bed, cover up her head and pretend to be asleep.
Andrew prepared his usual breakfast of cereal and toast, and made two extra cups of coffee. This was one of his days in the office, but he’d hoped that he and his houseguest would have some time to talk before he left. Glancing at his watch, he knew that wasn’t going to happen unless she got up in the next few minutes.
She didn’t appear. The bedroom door was still closed when he was ready to leave. He listened for any sounds inside, and then quietly opened the door and peeked in. She was still in bed. He was about to close it again when she raised her head and gave him a startled look.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m about to leave for the office.” He frowned. He didn’t feel right about leaving her after last night’s sobbing nightmare, but he didn’t have any choice. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she readily lied. “Just tired.”
“Well, sleep in as long as you like. I’ve left some breakfast for you.” He hesitated, wanting to ask what her plans were, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. After her ordeal yesterday and the kind of night she’d had, it was clear that she needed rest. He felt a little uneasy, leaving a stranger alone in his house, but he really had no choice. “I’ve left a note with my cell phone number if you want to call me.”
She nodded.
There didn’t seem to be anything more to be said so he closed the bedroom door and left the house. The whole business was unreal. Never in the world would he have imagined twenty-four hours ago that he would have a strange woman sleeping in his bed, sabotaging his well-ordered life and cluttering up his mind with irritating questions. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t forget the way she’d clung to him last night. He’d been careful not to allow anyone to be dependent upon him for anything, but there was something of a lost soul about her that could easily get to him if he let it. Anyway, she’d probably be gone when he got back home, he told himself, and he could chalk the whole episode up to some kind of weird adventure.
His unsettled mood must have been communicated to his fellow workers because several of them asked, “What’s the matter with you today, Andrew? You don’t seem like yourself.”
He brushed off their comments with a shrug and vague answer. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself, wondering what their reaction would be if he told them the truth—that there was a strange lovely waif sleeping in his bed.
As usual, Andrew had lunch by himself in the coffee shop that he frequented. He exchanged pleasantries with the motherly waitress who was used to serving him in a back booth where he ate his usual corned beef sandwich with a book opened on the table beside his plate. He tried to resume his usual routine, but when he found himself staring at the pages without reading the words, he pulled out his cell phone and called home.
No one answered.
He let it ring six times before he hung up. She must have left or was still sleeping. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or irritated.
Later that afternoon, he called again. Still no answer.
TRISH HAD STAYED huddled in bed until midmorning. Finally, she took herself in hand, retrieved her clean clothes from the dryer and dressed. Thankful that she’d been given a slight reprieve from having to make any kind of decision, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee.
She saw that Andrew had left bread on the counter for toast and some cereal waiting to be heated on the stove, but her stomach was churning with too much anxiety to feel like eating anything.
What should she do? Where should she go?
Her mind played the questions over and over again. If she left the safety of this cottage, would she be walking straight into some unnamed danger? She knew with sickening certainty that something terrifying had happened to her, but that was all she knew. How could she protect herself when she didn’t even know who she was or where the threat lay?
Taking the cup of hot coffee with her into the living room, she sat down in his easy chair. A faint masculine scent was strangely comforting as she thought about the man who had rescued her. Who was this Andrew Davis? His personal imprint was all over the small house. Wooden shelves flanking the fireplace were crowded with books of all kinds, and in the corner of the room was a guitar. Framed pictures on the wall were obviously prints taken with a simple camera, probably his, she thought. The modest furnishings suggested a man comfortable with himself, and a man who invited trust. She remembered how he had held her last night, and the way his gentle reassurances had soothed her shattered state. Up until now, he hadn’t burdened her with a lot of questions, but she knew that that couldn’t go on. She had to make a decision. Either she was going to have to start lying or tell him the truth.
If she told him that she couldn’t remember anything before he found her on the beach, would he believe her? He might think she was just trying to con him with such a tale, and show her the door. Where would she go?
Maybe a lie would be better, she reasoned. Almost any story would seem more acceptable than the truth. What kind of a tale could she weave that would make it reasonable for her to stay here until she had some glimmer of her Lost Identity?
The sudden ring of the telephone sent her into instant panic. She was afraid to answer. What if they asked, “Who is this?” And what was more frightening, someone might be trying to find her.
She held her breath until it stopped ringing. Too late, she realized that it might have been Andrew calling to see if she was still there. Maybe he had wanted to tell her that he expected
