A Love Remembered
✥
Annette Broadrick
ANNETTE BROADRICK
lives on the shores of The Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri where she spends her time doing what she loves most—reading and writing romantic fiction. For twenty-five years I've lived in various large cities, working as a legal secretary, a very high-stress occupation. I never thought I was capable of making a career change at this point in my life, but thanks to Silhouette I am now able to write full time in the peaceful surroundings that have turned my life into a dream come true."
Chapter 1
The first thing Tim Walker noticed when he woke up was the ferocious pounding in his head. It echoed like a steady drumbeat and created a pulsing pain that could not be ignored.
No hangover had ever felt so rough. He'd never been one to do much drinking, but he must have really tied one on this time.
He groaned, groping for his head in a useless attempt to stop the ceaseless drumbeat.
Tim received his first shock when a soft voice spoke from somewhere nearby. He froze, his hand halfway to his head.
"Are you in pain? Let me get your medication for you."
His eyes flew open. A light came on, and he used his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
He watched warily as a woman slipped from beside him in the bed and disappeared through a doorway nearby.
What the hell? he wondered, forcing his eyes to stay open despite the light. Who was she, and what was she doing in his bed?
Tim's second shock came when he discovered that he was not, in fact, in his room at all. He looked around, his sense of bewilderment growing. Was he dreaming? Or had something in the universe slipped a cog and had he somehow awakened in another time?
The room could have come from the nineteenth century or before. The bed in which he lay was a four-poster with a canopy. Draperies hung at each corner. Across the room was a massive fireplace, and grouped in front of it were two wing chairs and a table. Heavy drapes framed windows that were tall and narrow, ending only a few inches from the floor.
He closed his eyes deliberately, deciding that he was dreaming, even though he couldn't understand the significance of the dream.
Being single, he certainly wasn't used to waking up to find a woman in bed with him. At the moment he wasn't even dating anyone. Perhaps his lack of a love life had prompted him to dream about a woman, but why the room?
Slowly Tim opened his eyes. The room hadn't changed.
Where the hell was he?
He heard a sound and looked around. The woman was back.
"Here, these should help." Her voice was a rich contralto that caused a tingling in his spine as though she had run her fingers lightly across it.
She sat on the bed beside him and held out two white tablets and a glass filled with water. Now that the lamplight fell across her features he could see her more clearly.
He had never seen this woman before in his life. Without a doubt, he would have remembered.
Her silver blond hair shone in the soft light, falling around her shoulders and down her back in a profusion of waves. Green eyes, slightly tilted like a cat's, stared at him from behind a fringe of impossibly long dark lashes, their color a stark contrast to her hair.
High cheekbones created a classically shaped face, and yet it was her mouth that drew his attention. Her upper lip curved enticingly above a full lower lip that gave her mouth a slightly pouty look.
His gaze slowly lowered to take in the powder-blue silk and lace of her gown, lingering at the V between her breasts and finally coming to a stop at her hands, which held the glass and pills.
Tim stared at the pills with suspicion. "What are they?''
Her brows lifted slightly. ''The pain medication Dr. Madison prescribed. Don't you remember?"
Of course he didn't remember, damn it! He didn't remember much of anything at the moment, except the pain in his head. Tim decided that he wasn't going to admit his memory lapse. Not at the moment, at least. No doubt it was temporary, and he'd wake up in the morning and they would laugh about it.
He hoped.
At the moment he didn't really care about much of anything. The pain seemed to be intensifying, and his head felt as though it was going to explode momentarily.
He held out his hand, and she dropped the tablets into his pahn. Quickly tossing them into his mouth, he drank the water and slowly returned his head to the pillow, laying his arm across his eyes to shade them.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"You're welcome." Her voice held a faint trace of amusement, as though their formality in the middle of the night and in such an intimate situation teased her sense of humor.
If his head wasn't pounding so, no doubt he could better enjoy the joke. At the moment, Tim found nothing amusing.
He heard the small click of the light switch and allowed his arm to fall away from his head. Inky darkness greeted him. The mattress shifted, and he knew that the unknown woman was once again sharing his bed.
Tim continued to lie there staring into the darkness as he waited for relief from the pain. He let his mind wander in hopes of finding a stray answer or two to the situation. He didn't know where he was or why, nor did he know the lady who so calmly and intimately shared his bed.
What did he know?
His name was Timothy Joseph Walker. He lived in Denver, Colorado, and worked wherever he happened to be sent.
His work for the government was never defined. His name was not on any payroll, nor was his job description printed in any manual. Only a handful of people knew who he was and what he did. He thought of himself as a person who gathered information and at times utilized his negotiating skills.
Tim knew that he was good at what he did. He also knew that he was tired of his life-style, the lack of permanence and the danger inherent in what he did.
What was his last memory?
His mind seemed to blank out at the question.
He could come up with no explanation for what he was doing in a strange bedroom nursing a violent headache with a beautiful woman he'd never seen before playing nurturing angel. Whimsically he wondered if he had offered his headache as an excuse to the woman earlier in the evening.
Waking up in a stranger's bedroom was not typical behavior for him. So what was going on?
The pounding in his head began to ease, and he took a deep breath, allowing the air in his lungs to escape in a soft sigh.
The woman spoke in her soft, husky voice. "Is the pain easing any?"
She must be tuned to every sound he made, he decided with a sense of strain. ''Some."
''You'll probably feel much better by tomorrow. I hope the doctor knew what he was talking about when he called your concussion a mild one."
Cloudlike fog seemed to roll through his head, causing him to drift away from the sound of her voice. He could smell the light floral perfume she wore.
Searching through the whirling fog within his head, he finally found words to respond.
''I appreciate your concern.''
Her hand brushed his shoulder, then slid along his cheekbone. Once again he heard the slight sound of amusement in her voice. "Try to rest," she whispered.
He smiled, warmed by her touch. His last waking thought was to reflect that if this was a dream he certainly had great taste in fantasy women!
❧
The next time Tim awakened, sunlight poured through the windows across the room. He bhnked from the light and took careful inventory of the pain in his head before he did something foolish—like moving. He noted that the pain had lost some of its urgency but he was fairly certain that he would be well advised not to leap out of bed and start touching his toes.
Shifting slowly, he rolled onto his back and found himself staring into the top of the canopied bed. He hadn't dreamed the place after all.
Now that his head was clearer, Tim tried to search for answers. What had the woman said last night? Something about a concussion. Was that why he couldn't remember anything?
What could have happened to him?
He felt the bed shift, and he turned his head faster than he wished he had. Forcing himself to move more cautiously, Tim came up on his elbow and stared at the woman who slept beside him, curled up on her side, facing him.
Her long hair was draped across her shoulders and curled around her hand, which rested on the pillow. Her dark lashes brushed against softly tinted cheeks that looked like satin. The covers rested around her hips, showing him the curving Hne from her shoulders down to a narrow waist and widening slightly down to the covers.
Tim decided that he must have awakened in the middle of a fairy tale. He had found Sleeping Beauty.
He watched with a great deal of interest as she stirred once again, realizing that she must have moved earlier thereby awakening him. She rolled onto her back, her eyelids slowly opening to reveal her sleepy green gaze.
She blinked uncertainly when their eyes met.
Tim could feel himself responding to her deliciously disheveled appearance. He became aware of the heavy beat of his heart as his blood began to surge throughout his body.
"I must have done something right in my I'll," he mused aloud, "to be rewarded in such a manner. I just wish I knew what it was, and I would concentrate on continuing to do it.''
"What are you talking about?" she managed to say, despite a rather delicate—almost kittenlike—yawn.
"Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?" was his warm response.
Her startled reaction removed much of the sultry, sleepy look about her eyes. They rounded in surprise.
"You don't know?"
He shook his head. "Nope. I haven't a clue."
She raised her head slightly, staring into his eyes intently. "Oh, no.'' She closed her eyes and shook her head, a rather pained expression on her face.
"Not that I'm complaining, you understand." He immediately sought to reassure her. "I feel honored. More than honored, actually. I feel—"
"Never mind what you feel, Tim," she interrupted, her eyes scanning his taut body and heated gaze. "I'm afraid you're getting the wrong idea."
He glanced around the room as though searching for some explanation from the drapes or furniture, then looked at her with a grin. "How could I possibly misunderstand? What is there to misunderstand? You are here. I am here. You are a beautiful woman. I am very appreciative of all your charms. In fact, I'm—"
She sat up, inching away from him. "Yes, I'm very aware of what you are. You are concussed. You're not yourself." She imitated his all-encompassing glance around the room and added, almost to herself, "And I'm in trouble."
He reached out and cupped her bare shoulder soothingly. "Not at all. I'm perfectly harmless, you know. I wouldn't take advantage of you, not unless you encouraged me, of course." He peered at her hopefully. "You are encouraging me, aren't you?"
Despite her obvious effort to control it, she laughed. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were drunk," she admitted ruefully.
"Drunk on your charms," he agreed with a grin.
"What is my name?" she asked in a stern voice.
Tim blinked. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "What's in a name, after all? A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet."
She touched her forehead lightly with the tips of her fingers where a slight frown was forming. ''Isn't it a little early in the day for quoting poetry?"
Tim glanced at her in surprise. "Is that what I'm doing? You mean that wasn't original?"
She shook her head.
"But it was sincere," he pointed out.
"Do you remember anything?" She could not quite hide the concern in her voice.
"About what?" A reasonable enough request, he thought, for clarification this early in the day.
"Do you know who you are?"
"Of course I do."
"Tell me."
He looked at her suspiciously. "You mean you don't know? Are you in the habit of sleeping with strange men? I should warn you that such a habit could be quite lethaL"
"Of course I know who you are! Don't be ridiculous. You're the one that received the blow to the head!" She pushed her hair over her shoulder in exasperation and glared at him.
One long strand of hair continued to lie across the upper curve of her breast. With delicate precision Tim lifted the curl with his index finger and carefully moved his hand until the curl slid behind her shoulder. He glanced at her and smiled, feeling pleased with his helpful assistance.
She sighed and looked away from him.
He studied her profile, intrigued with the view of her small, patrician nose and the way her short upper lip revealed the pouting curve of her lower one. There was a great deal of determination exhibited in the Hft of her small chin. He found himself itching to trace the line of her jaw, the slender arch of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, the—
''Tim Walker," he finally said out loud in an effort to distract his thoughts.
She looked around at him, her eyes registering her relief.''Oh, thank God!"
"For what?"
"You remember something."
He shrugged modestly.
"Do you know where you are?"
He smiled. "In bed with you," he pointed out. "I would just like to add that I can think of nowhere else I would prefer to be at the moment. Now, then," he went on, sUpping his arm around her and tugging her toward him, "if that's all your questions, we can—"
He had caught her off balance, and she fell across him, causing him to land flat on his back once more. He winced and absently rubbed his head. Obviously he wasn't in as good shape as he could hope to be given the circumstances.
She pushed against his shoulders a little more forcefully than he considered necessary and drew away from him.
"Do you always come across so aggressively to women whose names you don't even know?" she asked sweetly.
His last move definitely had been a mistake. The sleeping drununers in his head had come awake with a vengeance, and the cadence of their beat pounded rhythmically along the lining of his skull.
''Only when I find them in my bed." he managed to reply, wishing she would lower her voice. He closed his eyes.
She was silent as though aware of his unvoiced wish.
Tim wished to hell he knew what was going on. Whatever had happened to him had certainly managed to incapacitate him on several levels, only one of which had to do with his memory.
"So who are you?" he finally repeated after the silence had stretched between them for several minutes.
''My name is Elisabeth Barringer—"
"Barringer?" He opened his eyes in surprise. "Are you any kin to Charles Winston Barringer?"
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "So. At least you remember my grandfather." She nodded, looking almost relieved.
Tim felt anything but relieved. "I just spent the night with Charlie's granddaughter? Dear God, he's going to kill me." If my head doesn't explode and wipe me out first he added silently.
As though she were talking to a child, Tim decided resentfully, Elisabeth continued. "What do you remember about my grandfather?"
Tim forced himself to concentrate, willing the pain to subside. "I met Charlie several years ago, when he was still in Washington, D.C. We became friends. After he retired we stayed in touch. We both had homes in Colorado... we had several things in common. ..." Tim opened his eyes. "I don't remember his ever mentioning having a granddaughter."
"Was there any reason he should?"
Tim considered the question for a few minutes, feeling as though his brain was made up of several cogs of machinery that had been drenched in molasses and refused to move with any degree of briskne
ss.
"No," he finally admitted. "I suppose not."
"Do you remember my grandfather's letter?"
Letter? Tim tried to think. He remembered the pile of mail that generally awaited him at the post office when he returned home after weeks away. What could he recall? A letter from Charlie? When? About what?
In disgust he shook his head, then wished he hadn't. He groaned.
''Your head is bothering you, isn't it?"
He opened his eyes, absently noting that the light seemed to create even more pain. He squinted, looking at her. ''You must be psychic."
She rolled her eyes. "And you are definitely being sarcastic."
Elisabeth tossed the covers back and climbed out of bed. In the daylight Tim could see that the bed was on some sort of platform. What the hell? Did Charlie treat his granddaughter like some damned princess? What was Charlie going to do when he discovered that the princess hadn't slept alone? It was one thing to find her sleeping. It was another to be spending the night sleeping beside her.
Maybe Charlie would listen to reason. Tim would explain about his hangover—no, she had called it a concussion. Even better. A concussion was not something one did to oneself, after all. He was concussed. He wasn't of sound mind. He'd be honest and explain that he didn't know how the hell he'd wound up in Princess Elisabeth's bed but it was all very innocent. He was in no condition for it to be anything else but innocent.
Perhaps he needn't go quite that far in his explanation. Now that he knew who she was, Tim would certainly make sure that he kept his hands off her.
Charlie had written him a letter? Why? Tim couldn't remember the last time he had visited Cripple Creek. He'd been in the habit of dropping in on his old friend when he had a free moment, but there never seemed much spare time in Tim's life.
Was that where they were now? It made sense, even though he'd never been through all the rooms of the hundred-year-old mansion that was Charlie's pride and joy. Certainly the downstairs area had been furnished in keeping with its period. Or perhaps Elisabeth had chosen to decorate her room in such a manner. He had a sinking hunch that he was, in fact, in Elisabeth Barringer's bedroom.
Max 2 - A Love Remembered Page 1