by Leslie Kelly
“Miles? Are you sure you’re all right? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see Aunt Hildy until it was too late.” She glanced at her own fingers. “We were, uh, otherwise occupied.”
Okay, what the hell had he forgotten? And, more important, how would she react if he leaned just a little bit closer and tasted that sweet, tempting curve? Because right now, all he could think about was sliding his tongue under the fabric, teasing that dark, puckered nipple with his lips and pulling one of her legs over his hips to straddle him.
If only he didn’t feel as though someone had buried an ax behind his ears. “Where am I?” His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, the headache increasing with each word he spoke.
“You’re in the kitchen of the Little Bohemie Inn,” the blond vision replied. “Don’t you remember?”
“No.”
She nibbled at her lip, reminding him of how much he liked kissing women with sultry, pouty bottom lips. At least, he thought he did. For some reason, he wasn’t entirely sure. Not sure of anything, actually.
“You were unconscious for a few minutes. It’s natural that you might be a little confused.” She glanced around the room and lowered her voice. “Do you remember why you’re here at the inn?”
He tried to shake his head, then thought better of it. “No, I don’t. Christ, I don’t remember much of anything.”
A flash of disappointment tugged her brow down and he imagined how that must have sounded. If he’d been kissing her, he must know her. If not, they’d had a fast-moving acquaintance.
“You might need a minute or two for your head to clear.”
He didn’t know which of them she was trying to convince, but he appreciated the concern, again wondering how well he knew her. While her face sparked something deep inside his brain—something instinctive and elemental—he couldn’t have spoken her name if someone put a gun to his head.
“Let me help you get that jacket off,” she continued in that low, sultry whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear. “I’m nervous about you lying here with your gun underneath you.”
Holy crap. A gun. He had a gun? Why would he have a gun?
“I’m armed?”
She nodded, nibbling her lip.
“You’re sure?”
“Shh.” She looked around again. “Keep your voice down. You’re lying here, exposed and vulnerable.”
Exposed? He shifted his eyes, checking everything out, making sure nothing was…er…left undone. Considering the world-class hard-on he’d been sporting since she’d leaned over him, he figured he’d have noticed if his pants weren’t fastened. The room wasn’t exactly warm, and he definitely wasn’t feeling a draft. In fact, that particular area of his anatomy was getting damned hot.
“You showed it to me.”
Showed it? His brow shot up. “I did?”
She nodded. “It wasn’t very big.”
Bullshit.
“Your gun, I mean,” she clarified quickly, a faint blush the only indication that she’d correctly interpreted the half offended, half disbelieving expression on his face. “I was talking about the gun. You’re lying on it. So you should probably take your jacket off.”
“All right.” Though the pain was beginning to recede until it resembled a butcher knife rather than a hatchet in his brain, he still cringed as he lifted his shoulders to remove the jacket.
Her comments about being “exposed” and “showing it” might have been made in perfect innocence. But he couldn’t help risking another quick lap check. All clear. Except for the continued discomfort of a pair of pants that, like the Grinch’s heart, suddenly felt two sizes too small.
She helped him slip out of the jacket, her body coming incredibly close to brushing against his. All his senses perked right up, conscious of the brush of her hair against his face, the sweet scent of her skin, the husky rhythm of her heavily indrawn breaths.
An inch. One inch closer and she’d be almost lying across his lap while she pushed the jacket off one shoulder and reached around to tug it out from under him. One inch and all that would keep them apart would be her silky white gown, his own dark clothes, and a headache the size of Milwaukee.
She pulled away, as if feeling the same flash of heated awareness. Tossing his jacket onto a chair, she turned a deeper shade of pink as he watched her, still trying to figure out just what had happened. Where it had happened. Why it had happened. And when it could happen again.
Unfortunately, without the leather coat as a barrier, he quickly became aware of a cold, wet sensation spreading on his back. “Am I lying in something? I’m getting wet. You sure your aunt didn’t bash me with a snow globe?”
“Sorry. You tipped over a bottle of water when you fell.”
“Great,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’m soaked.” Not giving it another thought, he carefully sat up and reached for the waistband of his black jeans. He tugged the bottom of his lightweight black sweater out and began pulling it up.
“What are you doing?”
Given the note of near panic in her voice as she watched him undress, he had the feeling he and the blond one hadn’t been about to progress from kissing to removing clothing. Too bad. He’d half hoped they’d been heading toward having wild sex on the kitchen table. That might have made up for him getting knocked out by a penny-armed granny. It also might have given him something to look forward to when his brain stopped throbbing and started working again.
“I’m soaked.” His tone told her he was in no mood to argue over her delicate sensibilities. She watched, lips parted as she drew in deep breaths. She was all pink and flushed. So damned wide-eyed and innocent, her pulse beating wildly in her neck.
He suddenly had an almost uncontrollable impulse to growl, low in his throat, and gently nip at that neck. He wanted to taste her sweet skin, to feel her pulse beating against his tongue as he savored her.
Later. Definitely later.
She didn’t help him tug the shirt off at first, maintaining a physical and mental distance. But when he tried to tug the sweater over his head, it scraped painfully against a boulder growing out of the back of his skull. He groaned.
“Let me help you,” she insisted, sounding disgruntled.
She didn’t act disgruntled, though. In fact, her hands almost lingered as she tugged the fabric free of his shoulders. He felt her fingers move lightly across his bare chest, and he shivered a bit in instinctive reaction. Then she slid her hands under the turtle neckline and eased it over his head.
“Better,” he murmured.
“Better,” she repeated, still kneeling close. So close he could see the flecks of gold in her beautiful amber irises, could see her gaze drop to his lips. To his shoulders. To his bare chest and stomach.
The throbbing in his groin became more urgent than the one in his head. Her stare held such heat. Such sensual want. Without thinking, he reached out and tangled his fingers in her hair, tugging her close. “I wanna kiss you.”
“But your head…”
“It’ll damn well be worth the pain.”
She didn’t pull away, silently inviting him to proceed. He did. He tugged her forward, tightening his fingers in her hair, curling them around her head and holding her close while he dragged her mouth to his. Her lips parted, and their tongues met in a lazy, gentle mating of two people in tune with each other, familiar with each other’s tastes, likes and dislikes.
They’d done this before, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
It wasn’t until she lifted her hands to tangle in his hair that he remembered the painful lump. Her fingers brushed against it and he gave a small jerk. Wincing, he watched her pull away.
“I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just a killer headache.”
At least, he thought he was fine. But there was more than a pounding in his head making him feel unsettled, uncomfortable. Like something was hovering right out of reach, but he didn’t even know what it was he sought.
&n
bsp; Then he realized something. Something that made him stop and think. Really think.
In those few moments of trying to figure out where he was, and wondering about the nature of his relationship with the luscious blonde in the white nightgown—who she was, how well they knew each other—he hadn’t quite grasped the real problem. The main thing he’d forgotten. The question of the hour.
Who the hell was he?
6
MICK WINCHESTER was a light sleeper. Particularly when he was sleeping alone, in a great big bed, and there was an irresistible redhead occupying the next room. The lady doctor from out of town had been cool during cocktails…but that’s just because she hadn’t gotten to know him yet.
Since he’d gone to bed thinking about her, sleep proved elusive. So he was awake to hear a soft knock on the door to the next room. He grabbed a pair of jeans and tugged them up over his hips. Not bothering to fasten them all the way, he padded over to look out into the hall. “Everything all right?”
He spied the elderly owner of the inn talking with the doctor. The doctor who was scantily clad in a red silk teddy. He grinned as she stepped behind the door frame, discreetly removing herself from his view. “Let me dress and I’ll come down,” she whispered.
“What’s wrong?” he asked after the other door clicked shut.
Hildy Compton might be pushing ninety, but she was a wicked flirt. “Sleeping alone doesn’t sit right with you, does it, Mr. Winchester?” She gave him a visual once-over that made him laugh instead of making him dive for his shirt. Hildy was harmless. So far, she hadn’t pinched his butt or anything, though he didn’t trust her enough to turn his back.
“Not really,” he admitted.
“What happened to the little chickie you were supposed to bring with you this weekend?”
He didn’t want to discuss the little chickie, a telephone solicitor he’d been dating for a few weeks. They’d planned to spend the weekend at the inn, since the first time they’d met had been here at his party last Halloween. Then, they’d both been with other people. Now, they were both single again. Mainly because she couldn’t understand any word longer than two syllables. And because he always hung up on telephone solicitors.
“Mrs. Compton, is someone hurt?”
She nodded, then lowered her voice to whisper, “There’s a secret agent man knocked out cold in the kitchen.”
Of all things he expected to hear, this definitely wasn’t on the top ten list. “An unconscious secret agent,” he repeated, wondering if the old lady had gone off her meds. Or her rocker.
“Yep. It’s very hush-hush. You can’t tell the doctor who he is—she’s a stranger. But I’ll tell you because Gwen likes you. She’d have to, otherwise, I expect she’d have bloodied your nose for putting the moves on her one too many times.”
Old news. Once she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, he and Gwen had developed a friendship. He liked her. She was hot, but even he recognized she wasn’t his type. “Hildy, are you feeling all right? Maybe the doctor should check you out.”
“No thanks,” the old lady sniffed. “I’m of sound mind and body. Just ask your grandpa.”
Mick scrunched his eyes shut at the quick mental image her words invoked. The old woman testing the springs in his eighty-seven-year-old grandfather’s bed. Not someplace he wanted to go.
“I’m ready.” The doctor returned, wearing a tight sweater and jeans that hugged some mouthwatering curves.
“Do you need help?”
She cast a quick, assessing glance over his naked chest and unfastened jeans. Though she went for cool dismissal, he couldn’t miss the flush rising in her cheeks. “I can handle it. Mrs. Compton says she struck someone and he’s unconscious.”
The old lady had knocked out the secret agent? Uh-huh. “All the same, maybe I’ll come, too. Do you know this person’s name?”
The old lady scrunched her brow. “Can’t recall. Gwen mentioned it.” Then she snickered. “But I don’t know how much the two of them could have talked with his lips stuck to hers.”
Ahh…now this was getting interesting. He’d like to meet the man who could break through Gwen’s cool, reserved facade. “I’ll be down in a minute. Let me dress.”
He turned to walk away, overhearing the last bit of Hildy’s conversation with the doctor. “Handsome devil he is.”
“Mr. Winchester?” the doctor asked, making Mick smile.
“Him, too. But I meant the stone-cold bit of goods in the kitchen. He’s tall. With thick, dark hair. Good chin. Got a wicked, half-circle scar on his left hand, so he’s the dangerous type, I think.” Her voice suddenly grew louder, as if she wanted Mick to hear. “I just remembered his name. It’s Miles Stone.”
Stone. Miles Stone. The name seemed familiar, and not only because it was pretty awful. How much would a set of parents have to dislike their own offspring to saddle him with such a name?
Mick tugged a sweatshirt over his shoulders. Then he froze, a memory tickling in the back of his brain. Tall. Dark hair. A half-circle scar on his hand. And a name Mick had made up for his cousin to use at his party last Halloween. “No, it’s impossible.”
Or maybe it wasn’t.
Not giving it another thought, he raced down the stairs toward the kitchen, arriving in time to hear Hildy exclaim, “You mean he’s got amnesia? He doesn’t know who the heck he is?”
From impossible to frigging surreal. Mick watched, his mouth agape, taking in the scene. His cousin Jared was the man sitting on the kitchen floor, looking up at the three women. Jared was bare-chested, wide-eyed and clutching his head. His expression vacillated between looking with visual hunger at the nightgown-clad Gwen Compton, and merely looking mad as hell. He was also demanding to know who and where he was.
Some instinct made Mick duck back out of the room. “This has gotta be a gag.” Jared was playing a Halloween prank. He must have found out Mick was at the inn and set this up. He’d been threatening retaliation against Mick for ages, ever since the strippers-at-the-book-signing incident. It could even go back as far as their childhood years, to the time Mick had removed a ladder, leaving his cousin stranded on the roof for five hours.
Jared still blamed him for his problem with heights.
He chuckled. Damn, it was good to have the fun, joke-playing Jared back. The past few times he’d seen him, his cousin had been so bloody intense and brooding. It was about time he’d remembered he had a sense of humor. Judging by the way he’d been looking at Gwen, he’d rediscovered his libido, too.
Mick wondered how long Jared would carry on with the joke now that he’d been distracted by his sexy hostess. Speaking of which…he peeked around the doorjamb again. His cousin still stared intently at the blonde, ignoring the attractive doctor hovering over him. He had eyes for no one but Gwen, inhaling her with every glance, offering her that mysterious half smile that had been known to drive women crazy since he’d been a teenager.
Mick recognized that look: Jared when intrigued. It was good to see it. He hoped his real cousin was back for good and that the brooding introvert was long gone.
Chuckling softly, he decided to do some reconnaissance, starting by searching Jared’s car. If this was a joke, he needed to prepare himself. And plan his revenge.
If it wasn’t a joke, and his cousin really was hurt—well, judging by the way Jared was reacting to the innkeeper, Mick had the feeling he was in pretty capable hands.
Either way, it was shaping up to be a damned entertaining Halloween weekend.
GWEN WISHED the doctor, Anne Wilson, wasn’t wearing a high-necked sweater—she’d like to get another look to make sure she saw no signs of a birthmark. Unfortunately, she had to rely on her memory from earlier in the evening.
She did like the efficient, concerned way Dr. Wilson examined their unexpected patient. She also liked that the attractive woman didn’t openly drool over that patient’s bare, muscle-rippled chest, or his strong, broad-as-a-board shoulders. Gwen found herself having to
look away, wishing he’d put his wet shirt back on. Clothed, the man was striking, but at least manageable. Unclothed, he could rock the entire world. Or, at the very least, her little corner of it.
Dr. Wilson ran a series of quick tests, paying close attention to Miles’s reflexive responses, his pupils and the injury on the back of his head. Though Gwen had offered to help him move into the parlor, for more light, they hadn’t needed to. Somehow, the overhead kitchen fixture had started working again once Hildy had fiddled with the switch.
Gwen still wasn’t convinced this was all real, and that she wasn’t asleep in her bed, having dreamed the whole situation. Hearing him admit he didn’t know who he was had been as shocking and dramatic as the kiss they’d shared minutes before. She was still stunned—from the kiss, and from his apparent amnesia. Not to mention the whole secret agent thing.
She’d read about amnesia, seen it in the movies, but had never witnessed it firsthand. There was no denying, however, that Miles had no clue who or where he was. He’d said as much, the minute their last kiss had ended. She’d had time to tell him only her name—and his—before Hildy had returned with the doctor.
“You’re sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” the doctor asked as she finished her examination. “You probably have a slight concussion.”
“But he doesn’t need stitches.” Hildy sounded defensive, probably feeling guilty about her assault. “You said my pennies didn’t break the skin.”
The doctor looked amused. Miles…less so.
“I don’t want to go to a hospital,” he stated. “I just need aspirin for the pain. Oh, yes, and a pill to pop my memories back into my head would be nice.”
The doctor chuckled. “No magic pill. Sorry. But don’t worry, this type of thing is not that unusual. A brief period of memory loss isn’t uncommon after a head injury involving a bout of unconsciousness. I’ll lay money that tomorrow morning everything will fall back into place.” Then she crossed her arms. “But I was serious about the concussion. Someone needs to watch you for a while. A hospital would be the best solution.”