be the truth.”
“And what are those theories?”
“That I was a notorious criminal or a spy, someone with a dark and dangerous past and who’s in desperate need of a second chance, a clean slate. And now that it’s been given to me, I’d rather not remember the past—my own identity most of all.”
She struggled to sit up, groaning at the aches he knew her body had amassed. He tried to stop himself.
He failed. He lunged to help her, tried not to feel the supple heat of her flesh fill his hands as he pulled her up, adjusted her bed to a gentle slope. He struggled to ignore the gratitude filling her eyes, the softness of trust and willingness exhibited by every inch of her flesh. He roared inwardly at his senses as the feel and scent of her turned his insides to molten lava, his loins to rock. He gritted his teeth, made sure her intravenous line and the other leads monitoring her vital signs were secure.
Her hands joined his in checking her line and leads, an unconscious action born of engrained knowledge and ongoing application. He stepped away as if from a fiery pit.
She looked up at him, those royal blue eyes filling with a combo of confusion and hurt at his recoil. He took one more step back before he succumbed to the need to erase that crestfallen expression.
She lowered her eyes. “So—you’re a doctor. A surgeon?” He was, for once, grateful for her questions. “Neurosurgeon.”
She raised her eyes again. “And from the medical terms filling my mind and the knowledge of what the machines here are and what the values they’re displaying mean—I’m some kind of medical professional, too?”
“You were a senior trauma/reconstructive surgery resident.”
“Hmm, that blows my criminal or spy theories out of the water. But maybe I was in another form of trouble before I ended up here? A ruinous malpractice suit? Some catastrophic mistake that killed someone? Was I about to have my medical license revoked?”
“I never suspected you had this fertile an imagination.”
“Just trying to figure out why I’m almost relieved I don’t remember a thing. Was I perhaps running away to start again where no one knows me? Came here and …hey, where is here?”
He almost kept expecting her to say gotcha. But the notion of Cybele playing a trick on him was more inconceivable than her total memory loss. “This is my private medical center. It’s on the outskirts of Barcelona.”
“We’re in Spain?” Her eyes widened. His heart kicked. Even with her lids still swollen and her face bruised and pallid, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Okay, scratch that question. As far as my general knowledge can tell—and I feel it remains unaffected—there is no Barcelona anywhere else.”
“Not that I know of, no.”
“So—I sound American.”
“You are American.”
“And you’re Spanish?”
“Maybe to the world, which considers all of Spain one community and everyone who hails from there as Spanish. But I am Catalan. And though in Catalonia we have the same king, and a constitution that declares ‘the indissoluble unity of the Spanish nation,’ we were the first to be recognized as a Nacionalidad and a Comunidad Autónoma or a distinct historical nationality and an autonomous community, along with the Basque Country and Galicia. There are now seventeen such communities that make up Spain, with our rights to self-government recognized by the constitution.”
“Fascinating. Sort of a federation, like the United States.”
“There are similarities, but it’s a different system. The regional governments are responsible for education, health, social services, culture, urban and rural development and, in some places, policing. But contrary to the States, Spain is described as a decentralized country, with central government spending estimated at less than twenty percent.” And he was damned if he knew why he was telling her all that, now of all times.
She chewed her lower lip that was once again the color of deep pink rose petals. His lips tingled with the memory of those lips, plucking at them, bathing them with intoxicating heat and moistness. “I knew some of that, but not as clearly as you’ve put it.”
He exhaled his aggravation at the disintegration of his sense and self-control. “Pardon the lesson. My fascination with the differences between the two systems comes from having both citizenships.”
“So you acquired the American citizenship?”
“Actually, I was born in the States, and acquired my Spanish citizenship after I earned my medical degree. Long story.”
“But you have an accent.”
He blinked his surprise at the implication of her words, something he’d never suspected. “I spent my first eight years in an exclusively Spanish-speaking community in the States and learned English only from then on. But I was under the impression I’d totally lost the accent.”
“Oh, no, you haven’t. And I hope you never lose it. It’s gorgeous.”
Everything inside him surged. This was something else he’d never considered. What she’d do to him if, instead of hostility, admiration and invitation spread on her face, invaded her body, if instead of bristling at the sight of him, she looked at him as if she’d like nothing more than to feast on him. As she was now.
What was going on here? How had memory loss changed her character and attitude so diametrically? Did that point to more neurological damage than he’d feared? Or was this what she was really like, what her reaction to him would have been if not for the events that had messed up their whole situation?
“So …what’s your name? What’s mine, too, apart from Cybele?”
“You’re Cybele Wilkinson. I’m Rodrigo.” “Just …Rodrigo?”
She used to call him Dr. Valderrama, and in situations requiring informality she’d avoided calling him anything at all. But now she pressed back into her pillows, let his name melt on her tongue as if it were the darkest, richest chocolate. He felt her contented purr cascade down his body, caress his aching hardness….
This was unbelievable. That she could do this to him now. Or at all. It was worse than unbelievable. It was unacceptable.
He shredded his response. “Rodrigo Edmundo Arrellano i Bazán Valderrama i de Urquiza.”
Her eyes widened a fraction more with each surname. Then a huff that bordered on a giggle escaped her. “I did ask.”
His lips twisted. “That’s an excerpt of my names, actually. I can rattle off over forty more surnames.”
She giggled for real this time. “That’s a family tree going back to the Spanish Inquisition.”
“The Catalan, and the Spanish in general, take family trees very seriously. Because both maternal and paternal ancestors are mentioned, each name makes such a list. The Catalan also put i or and between surnames.”
“And do I have more than the measly
