Stranger in Her Arms

by Lorna Michaels

  J.D. leaned forward. A series of killings. The phrase grabbed his attention. He concentrated on the scene as the camera panned a field and zoomed in on a muddy spot beneath a tree.

  Christy shuddered. “A gravesite,” she said.

  “Dump site. He buried the body there,” J.D. corrected.

  Here in this isolated field, the most recent of thirteen bodies was discovered last week, Phillips continued. Like the others, this young victim was a middle-school student. With no success tracking down the killer, police have sought the help of FBI profiler, Horace Means, here with us now. What can you tell us, sir, about this monster who has cut short so many lives?

  J.D. frowned. Means would say the killer chose his victims because they were young, nonthreatening…because he was passive…

  “The murderer is a passive individual who is intimidated by women, so he chooses young teenagers. They’re not yet mature enough to be threats to him. He can—”

  “—he can manipulate them,” J.D. murmured.

  “—bend them to his will,” Means said.

  “What kind of person is he?” Phillips asked.

  “A monster,” Christy said.

  J.D. started. He’d forgotten she was beside him. No, monster was a layman’s term, he thought, knowing how the profiler would respond. He’s physically mature but probably inexperienced sexually, possibly a virgin…

  Shaken, J.D. listened as the FBI agent echoed his thoughts. His head began to throb. The scene before him—the field, the police officers, the profiler—everything was eerily familiar. As Means continued, describing the killer’s need to prove his manhood by enlisting in the military but probably failing, J.D.’s heart slammed against his chest, adrenaline spurted through his veins. He clutched his pounding head, his eyes fixed on the screen. Sweat poured down his face.

  From somewhere far away, he heard a voice. Christy’s voice. “J.D., are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer. Couldn’t, because every cell in his body was focused on the television.

  Means was right, he thought through the roaring in his ears. He knew because—because he’d see the case the same way…because he…

  Christy touched his arm. “J.D.”

  He wasn’t J.D.

  Dizzy, he turned away from the television set, stared blindly at Christy.

  “J.D.,” she pleaded, “what’s wrong?”

  “I remember,” he whispered. “I know who I am. My name…is…Jonathan. Jonathan…Talbot.” He lurched from the sofa. “I have to call Houston.”

  Chapter 10

  Stunned, Christy watched J.D. stride across the room and grab the phone. He punched in a number, waited. “This is Talbot. Put me through to Chief Nichols.”

  Nichols. Adam Nichols, Chief of Police in Houston? Was J.D. a cop?

  He grimaced. “Here’s my number. Have him call me back ASAP.”

  Christy went to him. “Tell me.”

  “I’m—” he began.

  Noticing his pallor, she interrupted. “Wait, come sit down. You look a little unsteady.”

  “Yeah.” They sat on the couch. “I’m a…no, I used to be a profiler for the FBI.”

  That explained a lot of things. The old bullet wound, the quick reflexes, his ease with a weapon. And his uncanny ability to put information together. “And now?” she asked. She wanted, needed, to know everything about this shadow-man who’d been the focus of her life for the past four days.

  “I teach in the criminal justice program at the University of Houston,” he went on. “Lately I’ve been working with the Houston police on a case. The Night…Crawler…no, Stalker. The Night Stalker.”

  “The guy who kills women at the Medical Center.”

  “Right.”

  “He’s why I bought the gun.”

  His lips quirked, just a little. “The one you don’t feel comfortable using.”

  Christy nodded. She thought for a moment. “I remember an article in the newspaper a couple of weeks ago. It said the police were forming a task force and they’d hired ‘a noted psychologist with FBI experience.’” Dumbstruck, she stared at him. “That’s you.”

  “Apparently it is.”

  “You’re Jonathan Talbot,” she said slowly. “Doctor Talbot.”

  “Doctor…I think so.” He frowned. “Yes.”

  “And I accused you of being a criminal. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize.” He reached over and touched her hand, sending shock waves up her arm. “Based on circumstantial evidence, you had plenty of reasons to think so.”

  “But, J.D., um, Jonathan, what were you doing in San Sebastian?”

  He rubbed his temple, stared into space for a moment. “I came to…question someone, the…ex-husband of one of the Stalker’s victims.”

  “And he hit you?”

  “I don’t know. When I called to set up the interview, he asked me to park somewhere…I think in the alley behind his house. I remember doing that, getting out of the car…and that’s it. Someone must’ve hit me.”

  “And driven you to the beach. The Night Stalker?” Christy shuddered.

  “Good guess. God,” he said, kneading his temple, “the task force must be going crazy trying to figure out what happened to me when I didn’t show up or call in.”

  “I imagine.” And who else was “going crazy” over his disappearance? So far, he hadn’t said anything about a wife or a family.

  She turned to him, caught him gazing at her with a dark, intense look. She had to find out where she stood with him. She swallowed, promised herself she’d handle whatever he said, then clenched her hands to keep them from trembling. “What about your family?” she asked, then took a breath. “Your…wife? Won’t she be worried?”

  “I’m not married,” he said. “Not involved.”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes.

  The telephone shrilled, and they both started.

  “For me, I imagine.” Jonathan got up to answer. “Adam, yes, this is Jonathan. Sorry, I’ve had a little trouble here.”

  Christy got up and went into her bedroom. She’d give him some privacy.

  She stood at the window, staring out. The sun had gone down, and stars dotted the black velvet sky.

  She was happy for J.D.—for Jonathan. Of course, she was.

  Ah, heck, admit it, Christy. Not completely. Yes, she was thankful he’d recovered his memory. But was she glad that now he could go back to his old life? Her feelings were so muddled, she wasn’t sure.

  She tried to sort things out. He lived in Houston; so did she. Was this a beginning for them, a chance to spend time together? Or was tonight an ending? Would she soon become just a vague memory, part of a story he’d tell about the time he’d gone after a killer and been hit on the head? An anecdote over dinner or cocktails? A tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it away.

  Footsteps sounded behind her and she turned to find Jonathan in the doorway, his form backlit by the glow from the hall. He’s going to tell me goodbye. Trying to smile, she waited.

  But he said nothing, just stood across the room, gazing at her, a question in his eyes. Christy couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t tear her eyes from his.

  How many moments passed in silence, she didn’t know. How many times the Earth spun around while they stood locked in each other’s gazes, she couldn’t guess. Her heart beat a deep and steady rhythm in her chest; her blood tingled in her veins. The world shrank, narrowed to only Jonathan and the space between them. Nothing else mattered. Nothing existed beyond this room.

  She caught her breath, held it. And waited. Poised, uncertain.

  And then, at the same time, both she and Jonathan moved. Closer and closer. Until she was in his arms at last, clutched to his chest, with his heart beating madly against hers.

  “I want you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with desire.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “yes.”

  He bent his head, and his mouth took possession of hers, took it with urgency and
thoroughness. He caressed her with his lips and tongue, nipped gently with his teeth, murmured low in his throat with appreciation. She kissed him hungrily, nibbled at the tip of his tongue, invited it deeper. Kissing him now, as a prelude to lovemaking, was like being lifted and spun wildly into a world she’d only imagined. Her legs went weak, and she clung to him. He was the only solid thing in a spinning vortex of desire.

  Tearing his lips from hers, he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her chin. When his tongue dipped into her ear, she cried out from the sheer pleasure of it. He returned to her mouth and drove her higher until she sagged against him, no longer able to hold herself upright.

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed while she kissed him over and over. He set her on the bed and she pulled him down beside her and reached for his shirt. Hurry, she thought. But her nurse’s fingers, always so nimble, were suddenly inept. She fumbled with the buttons, muttered her frustration.

  He caught her hand and kissed it, running his tongue across the palm. “Take it easy.” He pressed her hand against his heart. “We’ve waited for this. Let’s go slow.”

  “Mmm, sounds like a good plan,” Christy said. It sounded fabulous. Long, slow lovemaking. Discovering one another, while the night stretched before them and the everyday world was still far away.

  Jonathan lifted her hand again, kissed her wrist and spread more kisses up her arm. “Ever since I saw you, I’ve wanted you. Wanted this.”

  Christy sighed. “Me, too.”

  “When I came to after I passed out in your doorway, the first thing I heard was your voice. I thought I’d died and you were an angel.”

  “I’m not an angel, Jonathan,” she said softly. “Just a woman.”

  “A woman who cared enough to let a stranger in trouble into her home.”

  Into her heart. Whatever that meant. She refused to face that question. She touched his face. “A woman who wants you.”

  He smiled. Not that quick grin she’d come to know so well in these past few days, but a slow, tender smile. “Then let’s make a memory.”

  “All right.” If he left after tonight, she’d have this. She’d never forget the softness of the pillow beneath her head, the fragrance of the lilac sachet she kept with her linens, mingling with the scent of Jonathan, warm and male. The rich brown of his hair, the shape of his hands, the deep baritone of his voice. All that plus the patch of ebony sky outside her window, the pale light of the new moon, and always in the background, the deep rhythm of the Gulf. No matter what happened after tonight, whenever she heard the tide, whenever she came to the island, she’d remember him.

  “You have the sweetest face,” he said. He traced the outline of her cheeks, her forehead. Christy’s eyes drifted closed as she gave herself up to his touch. He kissed her lashes, the bridge of her nose, then moved slowly, leisurely, down to her chin. “Soft,” he said, his voice low and sensuous.

  “Now let me,” Christy said and took her hands and lips on the same delicious journey. She loved the rough, newly grown beard on his face, the cleft in his chin, his silky lashes.

  They undressed each other slowly, button by button. Dreamily, Christy learned the breadth of his shoulders, the texture of his skin, the indentation of his navel. She’d seen him before, but not like this, with every inch of him hers to explore. And explore she did, marveling at the utter maleness of him. Even when he lay pliant in her arms, holding his desire in check and leaving her free to touch and taste to her heart’s content, there was a toughness about him, a coiled strength. Somehow she knew he was as much a warrior as a lover. And he was the kind of lover a woman only dreamed of. When he parted her shirt and slipped the bra from her shoulders, his eyes went black, and he looked at her as if he wanted to devour her. She wanted him to.

  Her rigid nipples strained toward him, aching for his hands, for his mouth. But he touched only the tip of one, circled it, his finger featherlight, his eyes intent on the turgid bud. Christy moaned.

  “Tell me what you want,” he murmured.

  “More. Everything. You.”

  “Soon,” he said and leaned closer. He took her nipple in his mouth, sucking deep, until she thought she would surely die from the exquisite torture he inflicted. His other hand roamed downward. Past her stomach, along her hips and thighs. She didn’t know she could want this much. When he finally found the core of her, she cried out at his touch, heard his answering moan.

  “Slow” was forgotten as their legs tangled, their hands flew over one another. Light touches gave way to deep caresses, soft kisses to intense ones. Moans became cries…became…

  A groan, then a curse.

  “Christy…damn, I’m not…prepared.” Jonathan rolled away. “I can’t protect you.”

  Of course he couldn’t. He’d come to her with empty pockets. On the brink of completion, she clenched her fists in frustration. They’d waited so long. An eternity. And now…. This was… So incredibly rotten.

  Should they take a chance? And complicate an already complicated relationship? Uh-uh. No way.

  Suddenly, a thought struck her, and she sat up. “I think I have a solution.” Oh, man, she hoped so.

  She sprang out of bed, turned to look at him and couldn’t help but smile. With the fingers of one hand clenched, and the other arm thrown across his face, he looked utterly miserable. She bent and kissed him. “I’ll be right back. Don’t lose our place.”

  She heard him mutter, “Not much chance of that,” as she dashed out of her room and down the hall to Steve’s. He and Karen had been on the island in June. Hoping he kept a stash of condoms here, she rummaged through his nightstand. A paperback Western, a bottle of aspirin, three pencils, an old fishing magazine. Frantically, she tossed them on the floor. Where the heck did he keep his condoms?

  Aha! At the very back of the drawer, not exactly a handy place to keep it, she discovered an unopened package. “I owe you, big brother,” Christy murmured and scurried back down the hall. “Nurse Ratched to the rescue,” she said, holding the small box aloft.

  “Nurse Ratched, hell. I knew you were an angel.”

  Christy knelt on the bed beside Jonathan. “I’m going to make sure you believe that.” She removed a small packet and laid it beside her. “You’ve had this memory problem, so just in case you’ve forgotten where we were, let me remind you.”

  “Trust me, I haven’t forgo— Christy!” he groaned as she bent and took him in her mouth.

  The taste of male. The taste of him was overpowering.

  She drew him in, laving him with her tongue. While she made love to him with her mouth, her hand caressed his thigh, his belly. She lifted her head. “Do you remember?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Sure?” She closed her hand around him, worked it slowly up and down his shaft.

  “Cross my heart. Woman, you are Nurse Ratched. You’re driving me insane.” He turned and grabbed for the foil packet but she was too quick for him. She snatched it up, tore it open and sheathed him. But slowly, leisurely, until, half laughing, half groaning, he swung around, and pinned her to the bed.

  He licked her neck. “Tease,” he muttered against her throat. “I’d make you wait, but I…don’t think…I can.”

  “Then don’t.” She opened her arms, urged his mouth back to hers, and spread her legs in welcome.

  He entered her with one powerful thrust. With bodies joined at last, they moved together. Racing, straining toward climax, leaving everything behind but this.

  Christy tightened her arms around him. She’d been waiting all her life for this night. That was her last coherent thought before she tumbled into space and shattered.

  Afterward, they lay heart to heart. Christy sighed as she drifted back to earth.

  “Tired?” Jonathan asked.

  Lazily, she traced a finger around his nipple and over his chest. “Happy.”

  “Satisfied?”

  “That, too,” she said. “I’m glad I was able to find that box and that you were…ava
ilable.”

  “I’m available again,” he said.

  “Already?”

  “The FBI teaches you how to conserve and maintain your energy level.”

  “For sex?”

  “For anything,” he said solemnly.

  “Care to prove it?” Christy asked.

  “Don’t mind a bit.” He rolled over, straddled her, and proved without a doubt that FBI agents had amazing stamina.

  They slept afterward but not for long. They woke hungry, and slipping on their shirts, strolled hand in hand to the kitchen. They raided the pantry, heated up tomato soup and opened a box of crackers.

  Seated across from him, Christy tilted her head. She’d spent the last few hours doing the most intimate things with this man, yet he was still a stranger. “How long have you lived in Houston?” she asked.

  Jonathan thought for a moment. He frowned and Christy saw a flash of panic in his eyes. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t I remember that?”

  She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “You’ve only had your memory back a few hours. I’m sure the rest will come.” She didn’t know if that was true, but it had to be. He couldn’t just recover part of his life.

  “God, this is frustrating.”

  She kept her voice calm, hoping to reassure them both. “Remember Dr. Mayes said not to force the memories. Think about what you do know.”

  He nodded, relaxed the fist he’d made. “Okay, I was born in Seattle, grew up there, and went east to college.”

  “Yale,” Christy guessed. “You look like a Yale man.”

  “Columbia,” he said. “You grew up in Texas, went to nursing school in-state.”