Christy frowned. He’d put himself in charge. Just like Keith. Give her ex a problem, anything from a broken teapot to a patient with head trauma, and he was certain he knew what to do. Better than anyone. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. Just because she’d had an overbearing husband didn’t mean she had to reject the advice of every male she met. Her helper was probably right. And injuries or not, he’d be better able to handle the heavy work than she. “I’ll see,” she murmured and went to get some blankets.
They barricaded the front door with a faded old beach blanket, then did the same with the back, using a cartoon character blanket that had once belonged to her brother Steve.
Then they got to work, dragging furniture around until they could roll up the dhurrie that covered the living-room floor and set it on the sofa. They put small items—a lamp, a magazine rack, an umbrella stand—on tables.
As they worked, Christy kept her eyes on the man, watching for any tricky moves. Her trust only went so far.
Periodically she stopped to dial 911 on her cell, always with the same result: a busy signal.
She was concerned about the stranger’s strength. A sheen of sweat covered his face, but he seemed to be holding up all right. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She frowned. “What should I call you?”
She saw him stiffen, then he turned. “Aren’t unidentified males called John Doe? How about J.D. for short?” His voice was flat. Not a shred of emotion showed in his eyes. The man had iron control.
Christy nodded. “J.D. All right.”
Not sure how he felt about giving himself a “name,” he turned away, mouthing the initials silently, wondering if he’d chosen his own. He went down the alphabet as he had last night. J slowed him down a bit, and he muttered, “Joe. Jack. Jerry.” None of the names felt right.
What else? He tried a few sentence beginnings: “I live in…” “My social security number is…” “Hell,” he muttered under his breath. “My social security number is zero zero zero.”
Obsessing over his identity wasn’t going to help him remember. He let his thoughts wander, and they came to rest on the woman working beside him. The voice of an angel, he thought. But she had a revolver tucked in the waistband of her jeans. Sweetness and spunk; the combination was immensely appealing. She was the kind of woman he’d enjoy sharing a burger and a beer with…or chateaubriand and champagne. If the weather were calm and she were his, he’d like to stroll along the beach with her under the summer sun. Or on a starlit night, with a soft Gulf breeze ruffling the hair that would drift like moon shadows to her shoulders.
A romantic image. Was he a romantic man? He pondered that for a moment and decided that no, he was more practical than poetic; yet something about Christy stirred him, called forth pretty words.
She bent to pick up a magazine that had dropped off a pile and gave him an enticing view of her backside. Nicely rounded. His hands itched to touch, to mold.
If she were his, on a day like this, they’d finish in here and he’d take her back to the bedroom and make love to her while the thunder growled and the storm battered the windows.
If she were his…
But she wasn’t, and the thought jerked him back to reality. She’d mentioned a husband last night. But the spouse was clearly an invention she’d come up with to protect herself from a stranger who might get ideas about a lone woman.
Well, he’d gotten them.
He’d like to…
A sudden question halted him midthought. What if he was married and thinking this way? Damn, this was a helluva mess.
He glanced at her to find her with the cell phone at her ear again, punching in 911. While he’d been imagining romantic scenes, she’d been doing her best to try to get rid of him.
She caught him staring. “What?” she asked.
Had he said something out loud? “Nothing,” he muttered. He pointed to the crowded bookshelves. “You don’t want these books ruined. We’ll move the ones from the lower shelves.” He pulled out a well-worn copy of The Secret Garden. “Looks like you’ve read this more than once.”
She nodded. “It was my favorite book when I was growing up. I read it every summer we were here, at least five years in a row.”
“You came here when you were a kid?” he asked.
“Yes, this is my parents’ beach house.”
He glanced around the living room. Big windows that could be opened to catch the Gulf breeze, shut now to keep out the rain. Comfortable furniture but not fancy. A fireplace. One that was actually used. A log lay in the basket beside it. On the mantel was a picture of a man holding up a huge fish. Christy’s father, he guessed. He scanned more of the book titles. “You have a brother.”
She nodded.
“Older than you.”
She cocked her head and stared at him. “Yes, but how do you know that?”
He gestured to the dog-eared volumes. “His books are on a higher shelf.”
He read more titles. The Hardy Boys, Huckleberry Finn, and Tom Sawyer. Funny, he knew the contents of all those books but couldn’t remember reading them. Dammit, why? Rubbing his hand over his temple in frustration, he turned away from the shelves.
“Let’s take a break,” Christy said. “I’ll fix us some lunch.”
“Okay.” He led the way into the kitchen without her asking. He already knew the drill; she didn’t want him behind her.
“I’ll make some cheese sandwiches,” she said.
Christy dawdled over her sandwich. J.D. was certain she did that to give him time to rest. He liked that, appreciated that she didn’t make a big deal out of it. He guessed she knew that would embarrass him.
She’d gone out of her way to help him, even though she still didn’t trust him. She kept plenty of space between them so he couldn’t snatch her gun, and except for that one delicious view she’d given him of her derriere, she never turned her back on him.
He wondered about her, this woman who was so strong. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. “Did you always want to be a nurse?” he asked.
She shrugged. “A nurse or an archaeologist.”
“And you settled on nursing.”
“I decided I wanted to be in health care.”
“Why not a doctor?” he asked, but she only shrugged.
He tried to picture her at work, wearing scrubs, her hair pulled back from her face. “What hospital do you work at?” he asked.
“You ask too many questions.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to pry.” He pushed his sandwich away. “I can’t do much but ask questions. I can’t tell you about me.”
She shrugged. “That’s okay. I don’t go for the ‘strangers on a plane’ routine.” She got up abruptly, punched 911 on her cell phone and backed away from the table.
At the kitchen door she stopped. “I’m getting through,” she said excitedly, and hurried out of the room.
J.D. sighed. Now she could call the paramedics or the police. Or both. Wouldn’t do much good though, he decided, looking out the window. No one would be able to get here. The roads were filled with water. The Gulf of Mexico was right at their doorstep.
Christy counted the rings as she stepped into the front hallway. After nine of them, a woman’s harried voice answered. “Emergency.”
Thank God. “This is Christy Matthews, 136 Gulf Bank Road. I have a man at my house who was in an accident last night—”
“Is his condition critical?” the woman interrupted.
“No, but—”
“We’re only picking up in life-and-death situations.”
“What about the police? I don’t know who the man is. I—I think he might be, um, dangerous.”
“You said he’s been there since last night? Has he threatened you?”
“Um, no—”
“Well then, you’ll have to sit tight. Police cars can’t get through and they only have one helicopter. Call back later. Or tomorrow.”
“I—” Before she could plead her case, the line went dead.
Well, what did she expect? This was like triage in an overcrowded emergency room. Priority went to the worst cases. But darn, the woman hadn’t even given her a chance to say the man had lost his memory and to ask if there was a missing person report. She dialed emergency again and this time got the familiar busy signal.
She dropped the phone back into her pocket. Somewhere, someone must be worried sick about J.D. Some woman, probably…
She shuffled back to the kitchen.
J.D. looked up.
“I got through. They’ll get here as soon as they can,” she said, deciding on a half-truth to make him think the paramedics or even the cops were on their way. He nodded but she saw he didn’t believe her. Why should he? Only his memory was gone; the rest of his brain seemed to be functioning just fine.
Didn’t matter anyway. With the rain still coming down in torrents, she’d just as soon have him here. She needed his help. She needed company, too. Having him here was better than facing the storm alone.
She didn’t like his asking questions though. It was safer not to give him any personal information.
A thought flashed into her mind. Last night she’d told him her husband was on his way. The water wasn’t high enough then to prevent his coming. Wouldn’t J.D. be wondering why he had never shown? So, Christy, why not? Okay, he worked in Houston and had planned to join her last night. He’d said he would be late and by the time he got started, he couldn’t get through. Sounded plausible. “My husband—”
“You’re not married.”
Stunned at the matter-of-fact statement, she stepped back. “How…what gives you that idea?”
“You don’t wear a wedding ring.”
“I—I was at the beach yesterday. I didn’t want to take a chance on losing it.”
He glanced at her ring finger. “Then you’ve left it off all summer.”
She followed the direction of his gaze. The skin of her fourth finger was evenly tanned.
“You haven’t tried to call him,” he pointed out.
He was infuriatingly logical. And, of course, he was right.
“Besides,” he added, “when I said that just now, about you not being married, you started to say, ‘How did you know?’”
“Okay, you’re right.” Deflated, she dropped into the chair across from him.
Eyes narrowed, he continued to study her. “You’ve been married though.”
Annoyed now, she frowned at him. “And what brings you to that conclusion?”
“Your choice of vacation spots. You picked your parents’ beach house. Doesn’t seem like a singles haunt.”
“Maybe I don’t like to travel.”
He shook his head. “The girl who once thought of becoming an archaeologist? I don’t think so.”
Christy felt a chill run down her spine. She didn’t like this man guessing so much about her. “What are you, some kind of mind reader?” she asked irritably.
“Just a good observer.” He studied her intently. “So why are you here?”
“I told you, you ask too many questions.”
“Then I’ll stick with answers. I believe you’re here to think things through, get away from nosy questions.” He flashed an engaging grin. “Like mine.” When she didn’t answer, he rose. “I’ll go back to work.”
Christy watched him leave. He’d disturbed her, intrigued her, and darned if that sexy grin hadn’t kindled a spark. Dumb, Christy. Dumb for her to feel it and it would be even dumber for her to let him see it. She’d have to be careful.
Feeling edgy, she rose abruptly, went to the breakfast-room window and stared out at the waterlogged landscape. The front yard looked like a lake. With a pang, she noticed that her parents’ beloved oleanders were awash in salt water. She remembered her mother planting them the summer they’d bought the beach house. “We’ll enjoy them when we’re old and gray,” her dad had said, touching her mother’s hand. They loved this house so much. Now she wondered if any of the bushes would survive the flood.
And whether the house itself would survive. Certainly not without damage. She’d heard shingles fly off the roof, seen a crumbled board floating toward the street. Sighing, she turned away from the window and joined J.D. in the living room.
Damn, the house was stifling. J.D. mopped his brow with his sleeve as they dragged more furniture around, putting rolled-up towels under the larger pieces, pots from the kitchen under the smaller ones. “Mind if I take my shirt off?”
“Go ahead,” she said, but he saw she was uncomfortable. She didn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t worry about that though. The heat and humidity were wearing him down. He shrugged off his shirt and laid it in the corner of the room.
He needed to rest for a few minutes, so he leaned against the wall. “Can I ask you something?” When she shot him a forbidding look, he added, “Nothing personal.”
She stiffened but nodded.
He pointed to the fireplace. “Ever use that?”
Apparently relieved at the innocuous question, she smiled. “Yeah, a lot. It was one of the features that convinced my parents to buy this particular house. I remember Steve asking why we needed a fireplace in a summer home and Dad saying we could come down in winter, too.”
“Did you?”
“Almost every year at Christmas.” She smiled. God, she had a sweet smile. “Even if it wasn’t cold—and usually it wasn’t—Dad would build a fire and we’d sit around drinking eggnog and singing carols.”
“I wish I could tell you how I spent Christmas growing up…or even last year,” he said.
“We should try some word associations,” she suggested. “Maybe that’ll help you remember something.”
“Can’t hurt,” he said. “Go.”
“Summer,” she said.
“Hot.”
“Island.”
“Beach,” J.D. answered.
“You woke up there, didn’t you?” Christy said. “Let’s go with that. Beach.”
“Tide.”
“Why tide?” she asked. “I would have said sand or shells.”
“It was coming in when I came to.” Thinking of that made his head ache.
“Okay, let’s try wreck.”
“Crash.”
“Did you?” she asked quickly.
He rubbed his head. “I don’t know.”
“Just say what comes into your mind.”
“Bang.”
“Not good,” she said. “Try again.”
“Hell, I don’t know. Bam.” He rubbed his head. “Forget it. This isn’t working.”
“You’re right. Let’s take a break.”
J.D. nodded, rotated his shoulders. “Mind if I borrow a book?”
“Go ahead.” As he glanced over the shelves, she came up behind him and touched his shoulder. “Sorry I upset you.”
Gentle. Her touch was so gentle, her hand so soft. It took every ounce of self-control not to turn, pull her into his arms and bury himself in that sweet, feminine embrace.
“’S okay,” he muttered and forced a smile. He pulled a volume off the shelf and headed for the kitchen.
Christy watched him go, then glanced at the hand that she’d laid on his shoulder. Her skin felt flushed, not just her hand but all over. Surely it was a natural reaction. Man, woman, locked up here together…alone. Natural for sexual tension to manifest itself. But would she feel the same if she were marooned with Dr. Ramsey, head of orthopedics, or Barry Walters, the physical therapist who saw patients on her floor? The answer was no.
She needed to think of something else. Where had she left the book she’d started yesterday afternoon? That seemed so long ago she could hardly remember.
She found it on top of a pile on the couch, picked it up, then put it back. She didn’t want to read a thriller. Why did people call them that anyway? She was in the midst of her own personal adventure; she didn’t need a fictional one. She scanned book titles and gra
bbed one of her dad’s books, a biography of Robert E. Lee she’d never read.
Since all the living-room chairs were propped on towels, she took the book into the kitchen. J.D. had chosen another of her father’s old books, an international adventure with agents, double agents and high-tech gadgetry, written by a relatively unknown writer trying to emulate Tom Clancy.
Christy sat across the table from J.D., opened her book, and glanced at him. Here she was, spending the day with a man she hadn’t known twenty-four hours ago. She’d housed him, fed him, tended to him…and now she was providing him with reading material.
Unable to get interested in her reading, she watched him. His head was bent over the book. Despite the black eye and the bruise along his jaw, he was a handsome man. A man she acknowledged she’d have been attracted to in a different situation. No, she was a woman who tried to be honest with herself. Judging from her reaction to barely touching him, she admitted that even in these circumstances she was strongly attracted. There was strength in his features and an animal magnetism about him that could draw a woman’s eye…and fuel her dreams.
Abruptly, she turned her chair sideways so that she faced away from him and tried to read. But she couldn’t concentrate. She had to force herself to keep still.
Thump!
She gasped at the unexpected sound. Heart racing, she fumbled for the gun as she looked up. J.D. had tossed his book on the table, that was all. “Wh-what?”
“Asinine story. Makes no sense. The author knows nothing about international intrigue.”
“And you do? Is that your line of work—espionage?”
He blinked as if he’d just awakened from a deep sleep. “I can’t say.” He got up and paced to the window and stood staring out into the gloom.
Christy watched him, noticing the rigid set of his shoulders, the hands clenched at his sides. He wasn’t faking his amnesia. He was confused, out of control, and like the majority of men she knew, what he needed most of all was control.
He unfolded his hands, spread them on the windowpane and leaned close to the glass. He reminded her of a caged animal, straining against the limits of his enclosure.
He turned and met her eyes. Quickly, she looked down at the book and pretended she was absorbed. But she knew he was watching her, felt his eyes bore into her like twin lasers.
Stranger in Her Arms Page 4