by Susan Crose
Knowing she was playing with proverbial fire, she warned herself to leave, but she was too caught up in the wonder of being held by him, the feel of his wet body pressed against hers, to consider why his feelings had changed. She didn't care that her clothes were ruined. She'd waited too long for this glorious moment—to have him hold her and want her again.
His tongue rimmed her mouth before parting her lips insistently. Moaning her surrender she felt his mouth crush against hers, his tongue touch and glide with hers, delving delicately then flicking away as she ached for more. Her blood raced uncontrollably, and her heart hammered crazily against her ribs.
She didn't know why he had chosen this moment to love her again. She could only hope that he'd somehow experienced a breakthrough with his memory and could remember everything—especially how much they had loved each other.
His warm lips slid lower on her neck to the base of her throat and the white skin exposed between the lapels of her soggy blouse. The wet silk clung to her, and her nipples, proudly erect, were visible beneath the thin layer of silk and lace, sweetly enticing just above the lapping water.
Lazily, as if he had all the time in the world, his tongue touched her breast, hot as it pressed against her skin. She cried out, couldn't help herself, as he slowly placed his mouth against her, nuzzling her, sending white-hot rivulets of desire through her veins.
She could only cling to him, holding his head against her breast, feeling the warmth within her start to glow and a dull ache begin to throb deep at her center.
She didn't resist as with one hand he undid the buttons of her blouse, baring her shoulders, and letting the sodden piece of silk drift downward into the clear depths of the pool. Her bra, a flimsy scrap of lace, followed.
She was bare from the waist up, her breasts straining and full beneath his gaze as clear water lapped against her white skin.
"You are so beautiful," he groaned, as if her beauty were a curse. He gently reached forward, softly stroking her skin, watching in fascination as her nipple tightened, his eyes devouring every naked inch of her skin. "This is crazy, absolutely crazy," he whispered. Then, almost angrily, he lifted her up and took one bare nipple into his mouth, feasting hungrily on the soft white globe, his hand against her back, causing goose bumps to rise on her skin.
"Love me," she cried, aching to be filled with his spirit and soul. Her hands tangled in the hair of his chest and her eyes glazed as she whispered, "Please, Parker, make love to me."
"Right here?" he asked, lifting his head, short of breath.
"I don't care . . . anywhere."
His lips found hers again and as he kissed her, feeling her warm body in the cool water, a jagged piece of memory pricked his mind. Hadn't there been another time, another place, when Shawna—or had it been another woman—had pleaded with him to make love to her?
The sun had been hot and heat shimmered in vibrant waves over the river. They were lying in a canoe, the boat rocking quietly as he'd kissed her, his heart pounding in his ears, her suntanned body molded against his. She'd whispered his name, her voice rough with longing, then . . .
Just as suddenly as the memory had appeared, it slipped away again.
"Parker?"
He blinked, finding himself in the pool with Shawna, her green eyes fixed on his, her white skin turning blue in the suddenly cold water.
"What is it?"
"I don't know," he admitted, frustrated all over again. If only he could remember! If only he could fill the holes in his life! He released her and swam to the edge of the pool. "I think maybe you'd better get dressed," he decided, hoisting his wet body out of the water and reaching for a towel. "I—I'm sorry about your clothes."
"No—"
But he was already limping toward the door.
Dumbfounded, she dived for her blouse and bra, struggled into them, and surfaced at the shallow end. "You've got a lot of nerve," she said, breathing rapidly, her pride shattered as she climbed, dripping out of the pool. "What was that?" Gesturing angrily, she encompassed the entire high-ceilinged room to include the intimacy they'd just shared.
"A mistake," he said, wincing a little. Snatching his cane from a towel rack, he turned to the door.
"Mistake?" she yelled. "Mistake?" Boiling, her female ego trampled upon one too many times, she caught up to him and placed herself, with her skirt and blouse still dripping huge puddles on the concrete, squarely in his path. "Just like the other night was a mistake?"
His gaze softened. "I told you—we need time."
But she wasn't listening. "I know what you're doing," she said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "You're trying to shame me into leaving!"
"That's ridiculous!"
"Is it? Then explain what that scene in the pool was all about! We nearly made love, for crying out loud, and now you're walking out of here as if nothing happened. Just like the other night! That's it, isn't it? You're trying to mortify me!" All her pent-up emotions exploded, and without thinking she slapped him, her palm smacking as it connected with his jaw. The sound reverberated through the room.
"Thank you, Dr. McGuire," he muttered, his temper erupting. "Once again your bedside manner is at its finest!" Without another word he strode past her, limping slightly as he yanked open the door and slammed it shut behind him.
Shawna slumped against the brick wall. She felt as miserable and bedraggled as she looked in her wet clothes. Stung by his bitterness and the cruelty she'd seen in his gaze, she closed her eyes, feeling the cold of the bricks permeate her damp clothes. Had he set her up on purpose? Her head fell to her hands. Had he planned to make love to her only to throw her aside, in order to wound her and get her out of his life? "Bastard!" she cursed, flinging her wet hair over her shoulder.
Maybe she should leave. Maybe there was no chance of ever recovering what they had lost. Maybe, just maybe, their love affair was truly over. Sick at heart, she sank down against the wall and huddled in a puddle of water near the door.
Then her fists clenched tightly and she took a long, steadying breath. She wouldn't give up—not yet, because she believed in their love. She just had to get him to see things her way!
❧
Parker slammed his bedroom door and uttered a quick oath. What had he been thinking about back there in the pool? Why had he let her get to him that way? He yanked off his wet swim trunks and threw them into a corner.
Muttering to himself, he started to struggle into a pair of old jeans when the door to his room swung open and Shawna, managing to hold her head high though her clothes were wet and dripping and her hair hung lankily around her face, said, "You've got company."
"I don't want—"
"Too late. She's here."
"She?" he repeated, seeing the pain in her eyes.
"Melinda. She's waiting in the den."
Parker zipped up his jeans, aware of her gaze following his movements. He didn't care, he told himself, didn't give one damn what she thought. Grabbing a T-shirt and yanking it over his head, he frowned and made a sound of disgust. "What's she doing here?" he finally asked, holding onto the rails of the bed as he hobbled toward the door.
"Your guess is as good as mine, but I don't think I'll stick around to find out. You know the old saying, three's a crowd."
He watched as she marched stiffly upstairs. He could hear her slamming drawers and he cringed as he made his way to the den.
Melinda was there all right. Standing next to the windows, she straightened as he entered. "So Shawna's still here," she said without any trace of inflection.
"So far."
"And she's staying?" Melinda asked, not meeting his eyes.
"That remains to be seen." He flinched as he heard Shawna stomping overhead. A light fixture rattled in the ceiling. Cocking his head toward an old rocker, he said, "Have a seat."
"No. I'm not staying long. I just came to find out what you intend to do—about the baby, I mean. You do remember, don't you? About the baby?"
Sighing w
earily, he stretched his bad leg in front of him and half fell onto the raised hearth of the fireplace. The stones were cold and dusty with ash, but he couldn't have cared less. "What do you want to do?" he asked.
"I don't know." Her chin quivered a little and she chewed on her lower lip. "I suppose you want me to have an abortion."
His skin paled and he felt as if she'd just kicked him in the stomach. "No way. There are lots of alternatives. Abortion isn't one."
She closed her eyes. "Good," she whispered, obviously relieved as she wrapped her arms around herself. "So what about us?"
"Us?"
"Yes—you and me."
He heard Shawna stomp down the stairs and slam the front door shut behind her. Glancing out the window, he saw her, head bent against the wind as she ran to her car. Suddenly he felt as cold as the foggy day.
"Parker?"
He'd almost forgotten Melinda and he glanced up swiftly. She stared at him with wounded eyes and it was hard for him to believe she was lying—yet he couldn't remember ever loving her.
"We have a baby on the way." Swallowing hard, she fought tears that began to drizzle down her face and lowered her head, her black hair glossy as it fell over her face. "You still don't believe me," she accused, her voice breaking.
"I don't know what to believe," he admitted. Leaning his head back against the stones, he strained for images of that night. His head began to throb with the effort. Dark pieces emerged. He remembered seeing her that rainy night, thought she'd held him and cried into the crook of his neck. Had he stroked her hair, comforted her? God, if he could only remember!
"You're falling in love with her again," she charged, sniffing, lifting her head. When he didn't answer, she wiped at her eyes and crossed the room. "Don't be fooled, Parker. She'll lie to you, try to make you doubt me. But this," she patted her abdomen, "is proof of our love."
"If it's mine," he said slowly, watching for any sign that she might be lying. A shadow flickered in her gaze—but only for an instant—then her face was set again with rock-solid resolve.
"Just think long and hard about the night before you were supposed to get married, Parker. Where were you before the accident? In whose bed?"
His skin tightened. Surely he hadn't— Eyes narrowing, he stared up at her. "If I was in your bed, where was Brad?" he asked, as memory after painful memory pricked at his conscience only to escape before he could really latch on to anything solid.
"Passed out on the couch," she said bitterly, hiking the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "He'd drunk too much."
He almost believed her. Something about what she was saying was true. He could sense it. "So," he said slowly, "'if I'd planned to stay with you that night, why didn't I take Brad home first?"
She paled a bit, then blinked back sudden tears. "Beats me. Look, I'm not trying to hassle you or Shawna. I just took her advice by giving you all the facts."
"And what do you expect to get out of it?" he asked, studying the tilt of her chin.
"Hey, don't get the wrong idea, you don't have to marry me—we never had that kind of a deal, but I do want my son to know his father and I would expect you to ..." She lifted one shoulder. "You know . . . take care of us."
"Financially?"
She nodded, some of her hard edge dissipating. "What happened—the accident and you losing your memory—isn't really fair to the baby, is it?"
"Maybe nothing's fair," he said, then raked his fingers through his hair. He'd never let anyone manipulate him and he had the distinct feeling that Melinda James was doing just that. Scowling, he felt cornered, and he wanted to put her in her place. But he couldn't. No matter what the truth of the matter was, her unborn child hadn't asked to be brought into a world with a teenager for a mother and no father to care for him.
When the phone rang, she stood. "Think about it," she advised, swinging her purse over her shoulder and heading toward the door.
Closing his eyes, he dropped his face into his hands and tried to think, tried to remember sleeping with Melinda, making love to her.
But he couldn't remember anything. Though he strained to concentrate on the dark-haired young woman who claimed to be carrying his child, the image that swam in front of his eyes was the flushed and laughing face of Shawna McGuire as she clung to the neck of a white carousel stallion.
Once again he saw her laughing, her blond hair billowing behind her as she reached, grabbing blindly for a ribboned brass ring. Or was the image caused by looking too long at photographs of that fateful day?
Think, Harrison, think!
A fortune-teller with voluminous skirts sat by a small table in a foul-smelling tent as she held Shawna's palm. Gray clouds gathered overhead, rain began to pepper the ground, the road was dark and wet, and Brad was screaming. . . .
Parker gritted his teeth, concentrating so much his entire head throbbed. He had to remember. He had to!
The phone rang again, for the fourth or fifth time, and he reached to answer it just in time to hear the smooth voice of Lon Saxon, a friend and private detective. "That you, Parker?"
"Right here," Parker replied.
"Good. I've got some of the information you wanted on Melinda James."
Parker's guts wrenched. Here it was. The story. "Okay, tell me all about her."
❧
Shawna's fingers were clammy on the wheel as she turned into the drive of Parker's house. After driving aimlessly through the damp streets of Portland, she decided she had to return and confront him. She couldn't run from him and Melinda's baby like some wounded animal.
Silently praying that Melinda had already left, Shawna was relieved to see that the girl's tiny convertible wasn't parked in the drive.
"Remember that he loves you," she told herself as she flicked off the engine and picked up the white bags of hamburgers she'd bought at a local fast-food restaurant. "Just give him time."
Inside, the house was quiet, and for a heart-stopping minute, Shawna thought Parker had left with Melinda. The den was dark and cold, the living room empty. Then she noticed a shaft of light streaming from under the door of his bedroom.
She knocked lightly on the panels, then poked her head inside.
He was still dressed in the old jeans but his shirt was hanging limply from a post on the bed, and his chest was stripped bare. His head was propped by huge pillows and he stared straight at her as if he'd never seen her before.
"Truce?" she asked, holding up two white bags of food.
He didn't move, except to shift his gaze to the bags.
"Was it bad? With Melinda?"
"Did you expect it to be good?"
Hanging on to her emotions, she walked into the room and sat on the bed next to him. The mattress sagged a little, but still he didn't move.
Though her hands were trembling, she opened one bag and held out a paper-wrapped burger. When he ignored the offering she set it, along with the white sacks, on the night stand. "I didn't expect anything. Every day has a new set of surprises," she admitted, tossing her hair over her shoulders and staring straight at him, refusing to flinch. "Look, let's be completely honest with each other."
"Haven't we been?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "I—I just don't know where I stand with you any more."
"Then maybe you should move out."
"Maybe," she said slowly, and saw a streak of pain darken his eyes. "Is that what you want?"
"Honesty? Isn't that what you said?"
"Yes." She braced herself for the worst.
His jaw grew rock hard. "Then, honestly, I want to do the right thing. If the baby's mine—"
"It isn't," she said.
The look he gave her cut straight through her heart. "Do you know something I don't?"
"No, but—Yes. I do know something—something you don't remember—that we loved each other, that we would never have betrayed each other, that Me-linda's baby can't be yours."
"I remember her," he said softly.
She gave a
weak sound of protest.
His throat worked. "And I remember being with her that night—holding her. She was crying and—"
"No! This is all part of her lies!" Shawna screamed, her stomach twisting painfully, her breath constricted and tight. She wanted to lash out and hit anyone or anything that stood in her way. "You're lying to me!"
"Listen to me, damn it!" he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her forward so that she fell across his chest, her hair spilling over his shoulders. "I remember being with her that night. Everything's not clear, I'll grant you that. But I was in her apartment!"
"Oh, no," she whispered.
"And there's more."
"Parker, please—"
"You were the one who wanted honesty, remember?" His words were harsh, but there wasn't any trace of mockery in his eyes, just blue, searing torment.
"No—"
"Her story checks out, at least part of it. I had a private detective in Cleveland do some digging. Her mother's dead. Her father is an unemployed steelworker who hasn't held a job in ten years! Melinda supported him while she went to high school. He was furious with her when he found out she was pregnant."
Shawna's fingers clenched over the sheets. "That doesn't mean—"
"It means she's not a chronic liar and she obviously has some sense of right and wrong."
"Then well just have to wait, won't we?" she asked dully, her entire world black. "Until you regain your memory or the baby's born and paternity tests can be run."
"I don't think so," he said thoughtfully. She didn't move, dread mounting in her heart, knowing the axe was about to fall. "She told me she wants me to recognize the baby as mine and provide support."
"She wants you to marry her, doesn't she? She expects it?"
"No—" he let his voice drop off.
"But you're considering it!" Shawna gasped, all her hopes dashed as the realization struck her. Parker was going to do the noble deed and marry a girl he didn't know! Cold to the bone, she tried to scramble away, but he held her fast. "This is crazy—you can't marry her. You don't even remember her!"