at the window. Skin sweaty and muscles tense, he shifted his legs in a too short, too narrow bed, untangling himself from the twisted sheets.
Where was he? Who was he? Had his dream been a memory? Who had been chasing him? Why?
He remembered where he was. Safe. Relief flowed through his body like a cooling tide. He was safe in the guest room of the mysterious Lori Perkins, aka Serenity Clare, fortune-teller and organic cook.
His heartbeat tripped, then slowed. He stretched his body as much as he could in the tiny bed, taking inventory. His head hurt, but only at the site of the injury. The headache had gone, he realized with a sigh of relief.
Rising, he didn’t see his clothing. He chuckled. He didn’t mind going au naturel if nakedness got the reaction he wanted from pretty Serenity. He bet she had a trim little body underneath her loose, hippie-style clothes.
Guilt gnawed at the edges of his conscience. Serenity had generously welcomed him into her home and showed him nothing but kindness. She didn’t deserve a needy male getting fresh with her.
Besides, she might have a lover. Though he hadn’t seen a ring on her left hand, a woman as cute and nice as sweet little Serenity probably attracted men the way water drew horses after a long day’s ride.
He sniffed again. Coffee. How natural was coffee? Knowing Serenity, the coffee had probably been organically grown, roasted over an open fire, then ground by holy-spirited Tibetan monks. She’d brew it with Evian or some other kind of fancy, pure water, in a hand-blown, glass coffeepot that was free from hazardous chemicals.
He laughed out loud. He was doggone cynical, wasn’t he? Wrapping the now-dry towel around his midsection, he went in search of Serenity Clare and her magic coffee.
After striding into the living room, he stopped, arrested by the spectacle that met his surprised eyes.
The curtain on a wide picture window was open, giving a view of dawn over the desert. In front of the glass, an enormous, curved chunk of amethyst stood on a wooden holder. Ambient light caught and refracted through the lavender crystals studding the rock.
Before this display, Serenity sat, cross-legged, on a mat. Clothed in a gauzy robe that clung to her lithe body, her arrow-straight back was silhouetted by the first pale rays of dawn.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He sucked in a breath.
She emitted a hum. “Ommmmmm…” Her chant grew in volume as the sun rose.
A sunbeam, pure and sharp as a blade, knifed over the horizon and struck the amethyst. Split by the crystal into a thousand disparate rays, rainbows bounced around the room.
Serenity leaped to her feet, hands flung above her head, stretching her slender body as though she wanted to touch the sky. She arched back, her body bowing, then forward, slapping both palms on the ground.
He was confronted by her upturned bottom, outlined by her enveloping robe. Lust whipped through him, elemental and violent as lightning.
Shame immediately followed. How could he even think of repaying Serenity’s kindness with a pass during her morning meditation?
He crashed down the hall to the bathroom, scrabbling for control. Turning the shower on full-blast, he jumped in, punishing himself in the stinging, icy spray.
He hated not knowing who he was, but did he really want to find out? What kind of jerk was he? He hoped he didn’t react like a caveman every time he laid eyes on a woman. Sure, Serenity was pretty and nice, but he’d better learn to control himself around her. Or he’d have to leave, and he had no idea where to go or how to seek his past.
When he emerged from the bathroom, he heard her singing. Not “om,” but something lively and charming about a hard-knock life. Tentatively touching the healing bump on his head, he found that the song struck a chord with him.
He walked through the living room, now blessedly vacant of the resident dawn worshiper. At the kitchen door, he spied Serenity, dressed and seated at the table, earthenware mug nearby.
She looked up, her smile sunny as the newborn day. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Uh, I guess,” he answered, remembering his nightmare.
“What’s wrong?” She rose, approaching to press a palm to his forehead.
“I’m okay. I had some odd dreams, that’s all.”
Her smile faded. A concerned little pleat appeared between her eyebrows.
Before she could say anything, he asked, “Are my clothes dry?”
“I’ll check.” She left the kitchen through a door he hadn’t yet investigated. The yellow skirt of her loose, summery dress swished around her calves.
When he followed, he found a room full of ancient appliances. One was a washer, so his question was answered.
Serenity walked through a door that opened onto a small patio. The broken concrete adjoined an expanse of scrubby grass lined with desperate-looking succulents. A vine, leaves limp from neglect, hesitantly twined halfway up the back fence. The ground beneath it looked parched and cracked.
Next to the door stood two chairs, similar to those in the kitchen. One had a broken rung. A clothesline, hung with his apparel, dominated the tiny yard.
Holding on to his towel, he rubbed his heavy denim jeans between two fingers. Still damp and unwearable. His blue chambray shirt could also use more time in the sun. Only a minuscule scrap of leopard-print silk had dried.
He didn’t remember taking off underwear. He must have pulled down the thongs when removing the jeans. Fingering the silk, he stared at Serenity. She wore a small, ironic smile, the mate of the cynical grin he’d already seen on his own face when he’d looked in the mirror.
“These are mine?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“None other.” Her smile broadened. “Leopard-print thongs just aren’t my style.”
He couldn’t resist. “So what is your style?”
She went pink, a good color with her yellow dress and lightly suntanned skin.
He discovered that he loved to flirt, at least with Serenity Clare. He dangled the thong in her face by one thin strap. “Not natural enough?” he asked with a wink.
She chuckled. “Not unless spun by organic silk-worms on a communally owned farm.”
He guffawed. Serenity, the New Age priestess, had kept her sense of humor.
“Coffee?” She stepped back into the house.
After she’d gone, he draped the towel over the line and donned the skimpy underwear, feeling like an idiot. Once again he wondered what kind of a man he could be. He didn’t much like the thong. Was he a Chippendale dancer or something?
Seated at the farmhouse table, Serenity watched as the stranger entered the kitchen, clothed only in the scantiest scrap of silk she’d ever seen. She envied the fabric clinging to his body. How would his warm, satiny skin feel, caressed by her hand?
Tearing
