A man stood beside the door.
Tall and lean, he was thoroughly soaked from the rain.
As she watched, he paced to the porch steps. He turned back, and she saw his face more clearly. A bruise marred his jaw.
Who was he? If she’d met him before, she’d have remembered. In spite of his bruises, he had the kind of face a woman would notice. Eyes as gray as the stormy skies, a firm, sensuous mouth above a square jaw, and the hint of a cleft in his chin.
“I’ve had an accident.” He drew in a sharp breath, put a hand against the house as if he needed support.
What should she do? Send the stranger back into the storm?
Something was telling her not to. Instead Christy opened the door.
Stranger in Her Arms
LORNA MICHAELS
Books by Lorna Michaels
Silhouette Intimate Moments
The Truth About Elyssa #1124
Stranger in Her Arms #1349
LORNA MICHAELS
When she was four years old, Lorna Michaels decided she would become a writer. But it wasn’t until she read her first romance that she found her niche. Since then she’s been a winner of numerous writing contests, a double Romance Writer’s of America Golden Heart finalist and a nominee for Romantic Times magazine’s Love and Laughter Award. A self-confessed romantic, she loves to spend her evenings writing happily-ever-after stories. During the day she’s a speech pathologist with a busy private practice. Though she leads a double life, both her careers focus on communication. As a speech pathologist, she works with children who have communication disorders. In her writing, she deals with men and women who overcome barriers to communication as they forge lasting relationships.
Besides working and writing, Lorna enjoys reading everything from cereal boxes to Greek tragedy, interacting with the two cats who own her, watching basketball games and traveling with her husband. In 2002 she realized her dream of visiting Antarctica. Nothing thrills her more than hearing from readers. You can e-mail her at [email protected].
To Barbara Sher,
who taught me to dream.
And in memory of Rita Gallagher,
who taught me how to make my dreams come true.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 1
Christy Matthews loved storms—the noise, the roiling sky, the hint of danger. And what better place to enjoy one than on San Sebastian Island in her parents’ vacation cottage, with a rerun of Raiders of the Lost Ark on the tube? She’d left the back blinds open so she could see the oleanders tossing wildly in the yard, the lightning zigzagging overhead.
The weather report said the rain was likely to continue all night and into tomorrow. Christy smiled and inhaled the aroma of warm popcorn. It was a buttered-popcorn kind of evening, with weather that encouraged her to put the fat content of butter out of her mind.
She grabbed a handful of popcorn as Indiana Jones battled furiously with a pit full of hissing snakes. This was her favorite part.
The telephone rang. “Nuts,” she muttered as she picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hi, Toad.”
“Steve.” Her older brother had become overprotective since Christy’s divorce. And when Steve used the nickname he’d bestowed on her when she was five, Christy knew she was in for a long and heavy dose of brotherly concern. Too bad she’d settled for the classic movie channel instead of renting a video. With a last longing look at Indy, she pressed the mute button on the remote.
“How’s the weather?”
“Wet but not too bad.” An earsplitting crash of thunder, surely loud enough for her brother to hear, belied her words. “Um, thunder always sounds louder at the beach.”
“Maybe you should leave.”
“No way. This isn’t a hurricane, for heaven’s sake. It’s a tropical depression.”
Never the greatest listener, her brother said, “Karen and I will drive down and pick you up. You can spend your vacation with us.”
“No, Steve. I appreciate the offer, but I need some time alone.”
“Christy—”
“No, listen. In the year since Keith left, I haven’t had a minute to sit down and think about the future. Now that I have the time, I need to make some decisions. Do I stay in Houston, or leave, sell the house, put it up for lease—all that stuff.”
“You can make decisions here,” he insisted.
“I have to do this on my own. I am on my own now.” For sure. Her husband—ex-husband, she reminded herself—was on his honeymoon with Christy’s replacement even as she spoke.
“Besides,” she continued, “I want to relax. I’m going to spend two weeks reading steamy novels, roaming the beach and watching old movies.” Her eyes strayed to the TV. Indy galloped through the desert on a white horse, then swung into the cab of a truck as it careened along at breakneck speed.
“I worry about you staying in the house alone.”
Christy rolled her eyes. One trait she was working hard to cultivate was independence. She wouldn’t let anyone, including her well-intentioned brother, make decisions for her ever again.
“Are the Bakers next door?”
She was tempted to lie, but if she said they were in residence, Steve would probably call to ask them to keep an eye on her. Then he’d find out the truth. “They left this morning.”
“Anyone else around?”
“Warner and Ellie Thompson.”
“They’re way at the other end of the road. And you think you’re fine? In an isolated house with your nearest neighbor a mile away? You’re being naive.”
A bubble of anger formed in her chest. “It’s half a mile, and I’m not naive. Not about anything. Not after Keith.”
“I heard on the news there’s a serial killer loose in Houston.”
So the news about the Night Stalker had gone statewide. If he wasn’t caught soon, there’d be national coverage, as well, she supposed. “Houston’s over an hour away. I’m safer here than in the Medical Center,” Christy said. Every one of the Night Stalker’s victims had worked somewhere in the huge complex of hospitals where she was employed. “Besides,” she added, “I have protection.”
“What?” he said in that scornful big-brother tone she’d hated when she was a kid. “Did you bring a hypodermic syringe from the hospital?”
“Nope, my own 38 special.”
“You…you have a gun?”
“And I know how to use it. I took one of those courses you need to get a gun permit.” She and several fellow nurses had decided that was essential, when two women who worked in their very same hospital turned up dead within a week, victims of the maniac who’d been prowling the city since spring.
“Good God, Toad.” Steve’s voice sounded choked. “Be careful with the damn thing.”
Christy laughed. “You want me to be safe, but you worry that I have a gun. Make up your mind, brother dear.” She reached for the popcorn. Steve’s concern for her safety was misguided. Nothing was likely to happen to her in an isolated corner of a lazy family vacation spot. And if some small difficulty did arise, no problem. She could take care of herself.
Not far away, a man lay on the beach. He heard the rumble of thunder and stirred. Another
sound, deeper and more constant, roared in his ears. A flash of lightning penetrated his closed lids; raindrops splattered against his bare forearms. His clothes were damp and uncomfortable. Must’ve left the window open, he thought. But why had he gone to bed with his clothes on? With an effort, he forced his eyes open.
He wasn’t in bed, wasn’t even in a room. He was…outside, sprawled on his stomach on a wet, sandy beach. And the tide was coming in. Salt water swept over his feet and up to his knees, then receded. A sand dune shielded him from the wind, but he was unprotected from the rain and the rapidly encroaching tide.
How in hell had he gotten here?
He tried to get up, but a wave of pain made him clutch his head and freeze. His vision blurred. Must’ve hit my head, he thought fuzzily. But how?
He had no time to think. He had to get up and away from the angry surf. Another flash of lightning and a roll of thunder told him all hell was about to break loose.
On hands and knees he scrambled around the sand dune, then tried to stand, but dizziness and nausea forced him down again. He touched his head, and his hand came away wet. Rain, he thought, then glanced at his fingers. Blood!
Had he had an accident? Been mugged? He couldn’t remember.
He ignored his throbbing head and struggled to his feet. He’d think about his head later, get himself to a hospital if necessary. First he had to figure out what was going on. Panting with exertion, he clambered up a low bank and away from the beach. Cold rain pelted him, and he shivered as he surveyed a deserted road and flat marshland on the other side of it.
Where was he? And how had he gotten here? His mind was too fuzzy to dredge up the answers.
He peered through the rapidly advancing darkness. He saw no one. If he’d been beaten, whoever had done it was long gone.
He scanned the area again and noticed a cluster of small cottages some distance from the beach. A light shone in the house on the end. A light meant people who could tell him where he was. Ignoring the rain, he crossed the road, walking carefully to avoid another attack of lightheadedness, then, with head bent, started up the narrow lane that led to the houses. Rain chilled his neck, drenched his clothing, but he kept going. He’d ask to use the phone and call…
Who?
He groped for a name, a phone number, but nothing came to mind. Surely he should be able to remember his…
Wife? Office? Home? The only phone number he could recall was 911.
Despite the deluge, he stopped and shut his eyes. In a minute, something would come to him: the color of his car, what he’d eaten for lunch, his shoe size. Rain coursed down his cheeks as he waited, but his mind whirled in confusion, his head throbbed with pain.
Opening his eyes, he forced himself to think, to concentrate. Facts flashed through his head: the capital of Minnesota, the number of symphonies composed by Beethoven, the square root of 144. His brain seemed to be a treasure trove of trivia. Totally useless information.
“My name is…” he muttered but couldn’t complete the sentence. He recited the alphabet, hoping he’d recognize the first letter of his name. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know who to call, where he’d come from, or where he’d been going.
He didn’t know who he was.
His jeans’ pockets were empty. Quickly, he searched the pockets of the denim shirt he wore. No wallet. No driver’s license. Not a clue to his identity. Nothing.
Fear clutched at him, and though he couldn’t recall anything about himself, he was certain he was a man who seldom knew fear. Clenching his fists, he started off again, walking faster. Obviously, he’d suffered a blow to the head. Loss of memory was natural under the circumstances. Soon everything would come back to him.
Mud sucked at his shoes, slowed his pace, but doggedly, he kept going. Not much farther. Before him, the light gleamed like a beacon. Fixing his eyes on it, he plowed ahead.
Christy reached for the last handful of popcorn. She should go to bed, but she was too lazy to get out of the chair. Maybe she’d sleep here in the—
The doorbell rang.
She smothered a gasp and jumped up, scattering kernels on the floor. Who in the world would be out in this weather? Putting a hand to her heart, she pattered across the living room. The bell rang again. Whoever her visitor was, he didn’t have much patience. “All right,” she called. “I’m coming.”
She flipped on the porch light and peered out through the living-room window. A man stood beside the door. Tall and lean, he was disheveled and thoroughly soaked from the rain. In the glow of the light, she could make out his features well enough to tell that she didn’t know him. She didn’t open her door to strangers, storm or no storm.
As she watched, he paced to the porch steps. He turned back and she saw his face more clearly now. A bruise marred his jaw and one eye was turning a grisly purple. Had he been in a fight?
Who was he? If she’d met him here before, she’d have remembered him. In spite of his bruises, he had the kind of face a woman would notice. Eyes as gray as the stormy skies, a firm, sensuous mouth above a square jaw, and the hint of a cleft in his chin.
He punched the doorbell again. Reaching up to be sure the dead bolt was fastened, she called, “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I need to use the phone.”
She wasn’t about to fall for that ploy. He might be dangerously handsome, but on the other hand, he could be just plain dangerous. “Give me the number, and I’ll call for you.”
“I don’t know the number. I’ve had an accident, and I…” He grimaced, and she heard him draw in a sharp breath. He put a hand against the house as if he needed support.
Christy squinted through the rain, trying to see his car, but couldn’t. He must have walked from the beach road.
A car drove past and slowed, its headlights glimmering through the rainy darkness. Perhaps, Christy thought hopefully, the car belonged to a friend of this man, someone who would help him. But it drove on.
Nervously, she chewed on her lip. What should she do? Send the stranger back into the storm? Cruel. Let him in? Foolish.
The gun.
“Just a minute,” she called and darted into the bedroom. She pulled her revolver out of the dresser drawer and returned to the door. Thanks to her course, she knew how to use the gun and if the guy tried any funny stuff, she would. More confident now, she turned the dead bolt. The man straightened, waited.
Christy opened the door.
He came inside. The wind howled banshee-like through the oleanders behind him. Rain followed him in, needle-sharp drops pelting Christy’s face.
He took a step, then halted, staring at the barrel of the gun. Slowly, he raised his arms. “I won’t hurt you.”
“No, you won’t.” She gestured for him to walk ahead of her. “The phone’s that way, in the living room.”
“Thanks. I’ll make a call and then…” He staggered forward. “…and then…I’ll be…on…my…”
He fell heavily against the side of a chair, dislodging a lamp from the table beside it. The lamp crashed to the floor and broke, but Christy hardly noticed. Her eyes were on the man. He’d landed on his stomach, and she could see an ugly wound on the back of his head. His hair was matted with blood, he lay spread-eagled on her living-room floor, and he didn’t move.
Chapter 2
“Oh, my God.” Christy set down the gun, knelt on the floor and leaned over the unconscious man. “Wake up!” she said. No answer. “Can you hear me?” she called louder, but he didn’t rouse.
Grunting with the effort, she managed to turn the man onto his side. His face was pasty white, his skin cold. Christy searched for the pulse at his throat and drew a breath of relief when she found it. She pried open his lids and checked his pupils. They were symmetrical, not dilated. Good.
Unbuttoning his shirt, she searched for other injuries. His chest was smooth; she had no trouble seeing a line of bruises that probably meant cracked ribs. No wonder he was heavy. His leanness was deceptiv
e. He wasn’t as tall as she’d thought, but he was six feet of solid muscle.
She went to her room, dragged the quilt off her bed and covered him. He smelled of the sea and, with his bronzed skin and stubbled cheeks, he reminded Christy of the buccaneers who once roamed the Gulf of Mexico. She watched him for a moment, but when he still didn’t move or make a sound, she hurried into the kitchen to dial 911.
No dial tone. Only static.
The phone lines must be down because of the storm. She dashed into the bedroom for her cell phone, grabbed it out of the charger and dialed. A busy signal.
She tried again. Again. Each time she got the same result.
She shoved the cell phone in her pocket. She’d just have to drive him to the hospital herself. Provided he woke up and could walk. She was strong, but no way could she drag a six-foot-tall, unconscious, dead-weight man outside and lift him into her car. Maybe, despite the weather, one of her neighbors had come to the island and could help. She opened the door and went out on the porch. No lights shone in any of the windows. Disappointed, she went back inside.
Halfway down the block, obscured by the darkness, a black sedan was parked. The driver stared at the house, then pounded his fist against the steering wheel in rage and frustration. Today had been one piece of damn rotten luck after another.
He reviewed the evening in his mind. His plan had been so simple. Take the sonofabitch out with one quick, powerful blow to the head, drag him onto the beach, leave him there and let the tide take care of him. And in case it didn’t sweep him out to sea, empty his pockets so he’d be hard to identify.
First stroke of bad luck: he’d had to do the job quickly. A patrol car stopped on the other side of the highway, the cop warning him a storm was coming in. What’d the deputy think, he was blind? He could see the rain coming down as well as anyone.
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