Her Man To Remember

by Suzanne McMinn

  She was acutely aware of him sliding his hand between them, cupping her breast possessively then dipping lower, to the core of need burning for his touch again.

  “Leah.” He slipped inside again, and she was already aching and hot and damp for him. “Remember me here, Leah.”

  He flicked his fingertip against a hidden nub she hadn’t even realized existed. She whimpered and moaned against his mouth. He kissed her again, even as he explored the secret cleft of her femininity, lighting erotic fires inside her body. Then sharply, unexpectedly, a fireburst rocketed through her, and she dug her nails into his back, riding the tumultuous storm of his touch and her response, then coming back to some slow free fall only to find he was doing it again. And again, as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

  And she couldn’t get enough of him, this stranger-husband who felt like home in her arms. She explored back with restless fingers, moving from his back to his buttocks and then to the steel-hard heat that told her just how much he wanted her. Then she wrapped her legs around him, instinctively, and guided that hot length of him into her, no longer satisfied with mere fingers.

  His mouth fused to hers as he rocked with her, and she gripped him for dear life, hanging on by the one sensual thread of his kiss. Every breath now was a whimper, a little cry, each rhythmic rock taking her higher, and he with her. Inside her, the burning ache quivered and spilled over again. She breathed his name against his mouth and he breathed hers back.

  “Oh, Roman,” she gasped, and clutched his shoulders as another shudder took her away, shattered her into splintering pieces of pure pleasure.

  “Leah, sweetheart,” he groaned, and she was vaguely aware of him collapsing, damp and spent, over her, then carefully shifting his weight from her. He lay back on the bed, breathing as hard as she. The scent of him, musk and mint and lost need, both comforted her and shocked her with its familiarity.

  She felt so right here in his arms.

  He was the first to move, pressing gentle kisses against her face, her neck, and all that she couldn’t remember and didn’t know fell away. She settled into the crook of his strong shoulder, and when she dreamed, it was only of him, and for once she dreaded waking more than sleeping.

  Light filtered through the terrace sheers, painting the bungalow with dawn fingers. Leah opened her eyes, dazed for a long beat. She wasn’t alone.

  She was in Roman’s bungalow. Roman’s bed.

  He lay with one arm sprawled over her. There was a slightly purplish shadow beneath one eye. The events of the day before—and of the night—crashed over her, and she recalled how she’d come to be here in his bungalow.

  Oh, God, she had made love with him. In the surreal cocoon only darkness could create, she had yielded to what she had longed to do since she’d laid eyes on him that first day in the bar. Danger, railroad-crossing bars, stop signs had all been forgotten, swept away. She had used his arms, his lovemaking, to blot out her fears.

  The pieces of her nightmare lay in puzzlelike fashion in her mind. Mixed up with the dream of making love to this stranger, the picture they were meant to form was lost in the shrouded mist of the night, familiar and yet mysterious, beautiful and horrible at one time.

  She remembered Roman holding her, comforting her. Making love to her. Gazing at his sculpted face, she realized with a little shock that she’d hit him. She had caused that bruise beneath his eye. And he had been so gentle with her. But he could be fierce, too. His lovemaking had been that of a man long denied and possessive. What manner of man was this husband of hers? Hard and tender, open yet enigmatic.

  Safe and dangerous.

  As she watched he opened his eyes, and he stared at her for a very long time. She saw the memory of their lovemaking in his glimmer-blue depths. “Good morning, Leah,” he finally said.

  And it felt so right, so familiar, it bladed a tight keening of loss into her chest.

  “Your eye,” she said, unable to deal with the emotion inside her. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not sorry about anything that happened last night, Leah.”

  Their gazes held.

  She thought of what a fragile facade it was, the two of them together in this honeymoon bed. It was so perfect, she could almost believe it would last forever. But it wasn’t possible. She had no memory, no idea of her past, who she truly was beyond Roman’s wife.

  And that truth, when she found it, could destroy everything.

  “This isn’t fair to you,” she began. “To you, I’m your wife, to me, you’re—”

  “A stranger,” he finished for her.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m a big boy, Leah,” Roman said quietly. “I’m not expecting anything from you. Last night…was last night.” He reached up, touched her cheek briefly. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Just let it be what it was—something we both wanted, needed.”

  His words, his gaze, were so direct, and yet a shield all at the same time. He was protecting himself and her. How would he feel when he knew the truth, whatever it turned out to be? He couldn’t know and neither could she.

  The emotions building within her, long hidden even from herself these past eighteen months, were surfacing, out of her control. The more time she spent with Roman, the more of those emotions could come out. And if last night had been a mistake, the more hurt both of them could be when it was all over.

  “This is so complicated.” Her soft voice sounded bleak to her own ears in the quiet bungalow. I don’t even know who you are and already I don’t want to lose you, she wanted to say. But she couldn’t. She didn’t dare.

  “Only if we make it that way,” he said, his eyes shuttered.

  The palm fronds rustled in the morning breeze outside the terrace. She sat up, fumbling for the sheet with cold, clumsy fingers despite the warmth around her.

  “There was something new in my dreams last night,” she said. Even her nightmares were easier to talk about than her feelings of what had happened between them in the darkness.

  His gaze sharpened. He lay there against the bed, unshaven, excruciatingly handsome, watching her. How many times had she seen him this same way?

  Concentrate. It was so hard to focus when she was in this bed with him, remembering how his hands had felt on her skin, awakening her body to…

  To things she had no business thinking about. Not now.

  “I was in a city,” she said carefully, marshalling her train of thought. “There were tall buildings, long streets—”

  “New York?”

  “I don’t know.” She hesitated, trying to bring back more details. “I was being chased, and I fell.”

  “Who was chasing you?”

  “All I remember is that he wore a white coat with some kind of insignia on it, like his name, but I didn’t read a name in my dream. Like a doctor or laboratory coat. Or a pet groomer, for all I know.”

  She chewed her lip, adjusting the sheet to keep her body hidden in this bare morning light. Last night in the darkness had been one thing. In the day she felt modest, strange about her nakedness. She saw a shadow cross his eyes. He noticed her shyness. Did it hurt him that the wife he knew so well was so uncomfortable in her nudity before him?

  There was no way for her to know. He was far too skilled at quickly cloaking his feelings from her view.

  “If something did happen in my past,” she continued. “If I did do something wrong, maybe I was sent to doctors, hospitals, I don’t know.” She shuddered at the prospect that she might have been in a mental institution at one time. The not knowing just got worse all the time as more and more possibilities occurred to her. “Maybe it’s why I have this fear of seeing a doctor now.”

  “If you were in trouble and had been seen by a doctor, he would hardly have been chasing you down a city street,” Roman pointed out.

  “It was a nightmare. I could have things mixed up. A few months ago I dreamed I was carrying out plates of seashells to customers. When I woke up, I realized I’d for
gotten to put in an order I was supposed to put in with one of our suppliers. Dreams aren’t literal—they’re more like phantoms of our fears. I’m afraid of men in little white coats. That can’t be good.”

  She tried to laugh as if she could make light of it, but the sound she made came out more like a choked hiccup.

  “Hey,” he said. “We don’t know that yet, okay? Remember that.”

  She remembered it all too well.

  Then he got out of the bed and she realized he was naked, too. Her gaze zeroed in on his muscular buttocks. She felt a quivery panic-desire in her belly, and she watched him as he walked across the floor. He made absolutely no attempt to cover himself. And she made no attempt to stop looking at him, to her own shock.

  Despite her modesty about her own body, she was, oh my, shameless about his—and she’d been equally shameless in the way she’d responded to him sexually last night. She loved sex, and she loved having it with this man. It was a dangerous revelation. It was pure insanity that all she wanted was for him to come back to the bed…and her.

  Yep, she was ready for the men in little white coats. She wanted to stay at the White Seas all day and have sex with her stranger-husband despite all the reasons why that would be wrong.

  At the door of the bathroom, he turned back and caught her watching him.

  Chapter 11

  The sea rolled lazily through the Shark and Fin’s plateglass windows. A deep blue gray formed on the horizon. A storm was brewing somewhere out in the Atlantic, breaking the bright morning into shades of light and dark. Roman watched Leah move around the bar, her expression subdued, pensive as she went about her routine filling napkin dispensers and laying bar shakers on the counter.

  She’d had a grueling few days. She was obviously not okay today. And neither was he. He felt shaken and torn up inside. But he was more worried about her, about the pressure she was under. The nightmares, the fears, it was like a noose tightening around her.

  He unloaded a box of bar straws into a container. It was early yet, and none of the other staff had arrived.

  “Are you serious about buying the bar?” Leah asked suddenly. “Or was that all a ruse, to get close to me?”

  “It’s real,” Roman said, amazed at the fact that it was real as he spoke the words. He’d come up with the notion of purchasing the business merely to spend time with her, but somehow in the days that had passed he’d realized that he wanted to own the Shark and Fin. It fit perfectly into the way he wanted to live now and in the future. And he wanted Leah by his side. “You always said we could be happy here in the Keys, running a bar. You were right.”

  “Don’t buy it because of me.”

  “I have no desire to go back to my life in New York,” he told her. “That was the life of a different man.”

  She watched him, her eyes tense, exhausted. Did she believe him? Despite how freely she’d given her body to him last night, her mind was still far away, secret, shielded from him.

  “Leah, take the day off.”

  She put down the last bar shaker and looked at him. “What?”

  “You’re tired, and you have a right to be. You’re going to end up sick if you keep pushing yourself.”

  “Morrie—”

  “Would want you to take the day off if he cares about you like you say he does.”

  “I can’t leave Joey shorthanded.”

  “Call in extra staff.”

  She was running out of excuses and he had no intention of letting her off the hook. The phone rang, and she startled. Roman went to grab it but she got to it first. “Shark and Fin.”

  Still so damn independent. But it was plain she was on edge, big-time.

  “I’m sorry, Viv. I know I haven’t been in for two days. I’m fine. Just…busy.” Leah was silent for a beat. “I was wondering,” she said then. Roman saw her turn, gaze out the windows at the undulating sea. “I haven’t listened to the news today. I was just about to turn on the TV in the bar. Thanks.”

  “What was that about?” Roman asked when she hung up.

  “Tropical storm on the way,” she said. “We could be evacuating in a few days if it keeps its course. Just part of life in the Keys.”

  Roman imagined how the traffic would tie up in that case, with one highway leading to Miami. “I bet that’s a mess.”

  “If it turns into a hurricane, we’ll have plenty of warning. Usually storms slow down or miss us.”

  He thought of the story she’d told him about the Keys residents who’d died trapped in that lighthouse. He felt a fierce rush of protectiveness and wanted to do something, take Leah away now. But she was right, the storm would more than likely pass the Keys by. They’d have to wait and see. It was just one more thing that was out of his control.

  Like the storm itself, he couldn’t control what was happening to Leah. He could only follow it through to whatever end fate held in store, protect her as best he could. But hadn’t the calculating businessman who controlled every aspect of his life always been lost with Leah? She had been like a beam of sunshine he could never quite catch.

  Nothing had changed.

  He hated the feeling of helplessness, the not knowing. At least he could track a storm.

  There was a set over the bar and Leah picked up the remote, flicked it on. She surfed to the cable network that specialized in weather.

  Picking up the phone, Roman punched in Mark’s number at the hospital while he listened to the weather anchor.

  “A new line of strong storms is developing in the Atlantic. Upper winds don’t favor rapid development at this time, however, the disturbance has the potential to build in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

  Leah leaned on the bar, focused on the screen. Roman worked his way through two receptionists and a nurse before connecting to the floor where Mark was making rounds.

  The announcer’s voice continued: “Air Force Reserve reconnaissance aircraft are currently en route to investigate this system and updates will—”

  “Hey, bud,” Mark said. “How’s it going down there in the Keys? Sun, sand, no work. Man, are you sure you’re not having a midlife crisis down there?”

  Roman felt a knot of irritation at Mark’s blithe questions. Mark knew he wasn’t down here taking a vacation. He knew he was here with Leah. But he didn’t believe him. He thought Roman was nuts. “You got a name for me?”

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday, but some of us are still working,” Mark said, his tone turning curt. “Look, I know you think you’ve seen Leah down there, but it’s not possible, Roman. She’s dead. And if she’s not—what the hell is she doing down there? Why didn’t she come back to you? You’ve got to be careful, Roman. More careful than you were in the first place.”

  Roman knew what Mark was referring to. He was talking about their marriage, how fast it had all happened. Mark had never accepted Leah any more than the rest of the family had, but in addition, he’d been Nikki Bates’s doctor. Leah had blamed him for prescribing the medication Nikki had used to kill herself, which had only increased the conflict in Roman’s family over his marriage.

  “I just need the name, Mark. Or if that’s too much trouble, I’ll get out the phone book. But I really want to deal with the best. So if you don’t mind—”

  “What did you ever know about that girl?” Mark asked.

  Roman felt the knot tighten in his gut. That girl.

  Leah watched him, her eyes sharp, haunted.

  “Either give me the name, or I’m getting off the phone.”

  “Fine,” Mark said. “It’s your funeral. Kent Thompson. He’s a top-notch psychiatrist out of Miami.” Mark gave him the number. Roman scratched it down. “Gen’s worried about you.”

  “Tell her she doesn’t need to be. I’m fine. Did you tell her about any of this?”

  “No, you asked me not to.”

  “Thanks for the name, Mark.” He hung up before his brother-in-law could ask any more questions.

  “You
got the name of a doctor?” Leah asked.

  Roman nodded. He didn’t want to expand on the conversation. Leah took the piece of paper with the number and he noticed her hand shook slightly.

  “I’m not ready,” she said.

  Roman nodded. “Just keep it.” This was one thing he couldn’t push. Only Leah could decide she was ready to seek medical treatment. He had to let her call the shots, whether he liked it or not.

  A knock sounded on the front door of the bar. Roman strode across the floor, pulled back the bolt. Behind him, Leah muted the television.

  “I’m Officer Striker, with the Thunder Key PD. Are you Mr. Bradshaw?”

  Roman shook the officer’s hand. “Thank you for coming by.”

  Striker was a short man, wiry, possessing a steady, even gaze that conveyed confidence.

  “This is Leah…Wells.” Dammit, he wanted to say Leah Bradshaw, but for now, until they knew more about who or what was behind the man with the camera and gun stalking Leah, it was best to stick with the identity under which she’d created this life in Thunder Key.

  As much as Roman hated it.

  Leah came forward, shook the officer’s hand.

  The three of them settled at a booth. Roman slid in next to Leah, and both of them faced the policeman opposite. Roman laid out the notebook with the names and other notes he’d made from his conversation with Leah the night before.

  “You mentioned a possible intrusion into Ms. Wells’s apartment,” the detective began. “And someone watching her, photographing her.”

  “I noticed him a couple of days ago in the bar,” Leah said, not content to let the officer and Roman discuss her as if she weren’t there. “At first, I just thought he was photographing the bar—a lot of tourists do that. Then I realized he was taking pictures of me. But still, I thought it might be nothing.” She gave a light shrug.

  “Then what?” Striker probed.

  “He was talking on a cell phone, then I thought I saw a gun inside his windbreaker. Joey—the cook here—asked him if he was carrying a gun, and he left.”