know much about amnesia, but recalled that no certain cure existed. The likelihood of the stranger recovering his memory soon was slight.
She pulled a flimsy scrap of leopard-print cloth out of the jeans, then tossed the pants into the washer with detergent and set the water to the hottest setting. After vainly checking for a label in the shirt, she added it to the washer with the socks.
Coming to the underwear, she stopped. Leopard-print thongs seemed out of character for her cowboy. Were they silk? She poked at the fabric. Searching for the label, she thought they were the kind of sexy underclothing that a man might receive as a gift from a lover.
Her teeth ground together. She took a deep breath, seeking calmness, before putting the underwear into the wash with his other clothes. She told herself that she cared if he had a girlfriend only because a lover would miss him and, perhaps, search for him. Otherwise, Serenity decided, she wasn’t concerned at all. Letting a man into her life wasn’t an option for her.
She dropped the lid over the churning, bubbly wash and went to the kitchen to clean up the remains of their supper. Nice of him to flatter her cooking. Hank never had. She washed the plates and stacked them in the drainer to drip dry.
She sniffed at the dregs of his iced tea before rinsing his glass. The tea should promote sleepiness, if her Healing Herbs book was to be believed. She doubted its efficacy. She doubted everything.
He’d drunk close to three glasses. If the stuff worked, he should be so woozy that he’d fall asleep in the shower.
Walking down the hall, she listened as the sound of the water stopped. The glass door creaked, then slammed. She guessed that he’d stepped out and was drying off.
She imagined a taut, muscular body gleaming with wetness as he rubbed one of her towels across his chest. Her feminine, peach-colored linens would be a spine-tingling contrast with his developed pecs and furry, masculine chest.
Leaning against the doorpost of the guest room, she mopped her damp brow with the sleeve of her dress before squelching those wild thoughts. She hadn’t dared to dream about any man since shortly after she’d married.
She couldn’t be attracted to him. That was just plain stupid, and she hadn’t survived by being stupid. Chances were that Hank had sent him. She’d been lucky that this stranger had lost his memory.
The usual treatment for amnesia was to place the sufferer back into his normal environment. There, surrounded by the familiar, each reminder of who he was would trigger a flood of memories. But that remedy wasn’t an option for the stranger. In her home, she could keep him comfortable but ignorant.
Who had said keep your friends close but your enemies closer? That was her plan, though deep down, big men still frightened her.
She’d have to get over it.
Serenity opened the door to the guest bedroom. She generally used the room for craft projects—stringing crystal necklaces and the like. Since she was a naturally tidy person, no evidence of her work littered the desk. Her unexpected visitor would dwarf the narrow, single bed, but she couldn’t change either the size of the bed or the stature of the stranger.
Besides, she wouldn’t want to change him. She liked his stature just fine.
Serenity parted the beige drapes, then slid open the screened window to let the warm, sage-scented desert breeze into the room. She adjusted the black-and-white Mexican serape covering the bed, then fluffed the pillow. A rustle warned her of his presence. She turned.
He filled the doorway, tall and lean and powerful, with only a small peach towel covering his narrow hips. Droplets of water sparkled in his hair. A curly, dark masculine fluff dusted solid-looking pecs.
Blood roared in her ears as a long-dormant need awakened. Seminude, he looked better than she’d imagined. Where undecorated by hair, his amber skin looked satiny, touchable. She’d love to give him a massage, have a legitimate excuse to explore that body without fear. He wasn’t so big as to be intimidating, she realized. Not a giant. Just a man, though a very good-looking one.
She remembered to breathe. “Excuse me.” She had to get out of there fast, before she hyperventilated.
“Uh, Serenity, where are my clothes?”
“In the washer. They were filthy.”
He grinned, eyes twinkling at some unknown joke.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothin’. Hey, what am I supposed to do, run around nekkid?”
Not a bad idea. She swallowed. “Aren’t you sleepy?” Given the amount of tea he’d drunk, he ought to collapse.
Blinking, he stretched his arms over his head. His triceps bulged. The towel slid.
Sweating, she averted her eyes. A regular at the local clothing-optional swimming hole, she wasn’t body-shy. But this unknown stranger aroused a feminine passion she hadn’t felt for a long time, and one she didn’t want to feel now.
She peeked. His stretch made him look like a lean, powerful cougar, golden and sleek. He rolled back his shoulders, then cracked his knuckles. “I do believe you’re right, ma’am. After that delicious supper and nice, relaxing shower, bed would feel fine.” He winked at her.
On fire, she fled for the door. She didn’t want to think about, much less see, his entire body as he dropped the towel and slid between the sheets. “I’ll…I’ll get you another cold compress.” But she was the one who needed to chill out, though a little bitty compress wouldn’t cool the sudden fire he’d ignited.
She probably needed the entire North Pole.
Chapter Two
He ran through the darkness, fleeing a nameless, shapeless foe. Clinging sand conspired with the sharp desert wind in his face to slow him down.
He rolled over the side of an arroyo, hoping to find cover to wait out the threat. Easier to run on the firm-packed bottomland, but dangerous. The fitful moonlight concealed as much as it revealed, distorting the path. Any shadow could be a leg-breaking, ankle-wrenching pothole. With his pursuers gaining, a fall would be disastrous.
Rising, he sprinted down one twisting, turning cleft, then risked a look over his shoulder. His eyes confirmed what his ears already knew: they were closer.
Subterfuge, then. He dodged behind a boulder and crawled, wishing that the slight concealment would shadow his movements as he turned ninety degrees into a branch of the arroyo.
Bad move into a dead end. Dead end. He’d always hated that turn of phrase.
He checked for a cave at the back of the cleft, hope warring with his knowledge of the desert.
Nothing. Unless he could climb out fast, he was a goner.
His nose twitched, scenting an aroma different than the ordinary smells of sage and sand that perfumed the desert at midnight.
It was warm, with good associations, yet burning. Not wood smoke.
Coffee?
He
