Читать книгу Stranger In Her Arms - Lorna Michaels, Lorna Michaels - Страница 8

“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 deceptive. 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.

He’d driven away without checking to be sure the bastard was dead, then he disposed of the wallet further down the beach. He didn’t want the deputy to stop by again and find him with a body, so he’d gone into town for a hamburger and a beer. Later, he went back to check on his prey and, more freakin’ bad luck: the sonofabitch was gone.

A cold dread took hold. Had someone rescued him?

He’d sped away from the beach, looking from right to left in the gray darkness. Then he’d seen the bastard on the porch of a house at the end of a block of small cottages. How the hell had he made it that far? Was he some kind of superhero?

A woman stood in the doorway. And dammit to hell, the worst luck of all: she opened the door and he went inside. Dumb broad. Didn’t she know better than to let a stranger into her house?

Now he ran over his options. Best thing would be to break in and finish what he’d started, get rid of the woman, too. He was about to get out of the car when he noticed a black and white around the corner. It didn’t turn onto the street he was parked on, but if it was patrolling the neighborhood, it’d be back soon. Okay, he’d go with plan B. And he’d be quick.

Inside the house, Christy turned back to her unwelcome visitor. He hadn’t moved. “Don’t do this to me,” she muttered…and then she heard him moan.

Thank heavens. She bent over him, put her hand on his forehead. “Can you hear me?” she asked.

Cool hand on his brow. Scent of flowers. A soft voice. “Can you hear me?” the voice called. He tried to answer, to form the word yes, but could only manage another moan.

“Good. You’re waking up,” the voice said. Such a sweet voice, the kind that belonged to an angel.

Angel? Good Lord, had he died?

“Can you open your eyes?” the angel-voice asked.

He wanted to see the owner of the voice, so he tried. With a monumental effort, he managed to force his eyes open—and saw, not an angel, but a woman bending over him, her green eyes filled with concern. He blinked, then recognized her. He’d rung her doorbell, he remembered, and she’d let him in. So how had he ended up on the floor? “Wh-what happened?” he rasped.

“You came in to use the phone and passed out.”

“Passed out,” he repeated. “But why…?”

“You had a wreck.”

Had he told her that? “No,” he muttered. “Have to call—”

“The phone’s out of order. The storm…”

As if to underscore her words, thunder rattled the windows. And then he heard the sound of hail. He felt every hailstone that pounded the roof as if it were slamming against his head. He struggled to think. “How about…a cell?”

“I tried a minute ago but the line was busy.” She pulled a phone out of her pocket and dialed. “Still busy. We’ll have to try again later.”

He didn’t want to wait until later. He needed to get out of here now and go…somewhere. He pushed against the floor, seeking leverage.

“Don’t get up.” She put her hand on his shoulder with surprising firmness. “I don’t want you fainting on me again.”

“I need to—”

“You don’t need to do anything right now but lie still,” the woman said, then with a half smile, added, “Trust me, I’m a nurse.”

“Okay.” He would have trusted that voice and that smile no matter what. She sat silently beside him and he kept his eyes on her. Her face began to blur, and the floor seemed to tilt. No, dammit, he wasn’t going to pass out again. Using all his willpower, he forced himself to stay alert, to concentrate on her eyes until the dizziness passed.

She reached for his wrist and took his pulse. “Better now,” she murmured, then leaned over him, an anxious look on her face. “We need to get you to a doctor. No use waiting. My car’s in the garage out back. I’ll bring it around so you won’t have to walk so far.” She jiggled the gun at him. “Don’t move.”

“Okay.” He had no intention of moving. He shut his eyes and waited, hovering on the edge of sleep until the slam of the door roused him.

He opened his eyes and looked up. She stood in the doorway, her face taut with frustration. “The car,” she said in a voice midway between tears and anger. “It won’t start.”

“Flooded?” he asked.

“No.” She turned to stare at the rain pelting against the back windows.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” She spun around and glared at him. “I’m a nurse, not a mechanic. The motor makes a sound but it doesn’t catch.”

Their eyes met, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing: they were alone here, isolated, with no way to get out.

Swallowing a groan, he raised himself up on an elbow. “I’ll get out of your way,” he said. “I can walk to the hospital. How far—”

“Too far,” she said flatly. “You wouldn’t make it to the end of the street in your condition.” Then her eyes brightened. “What about your car? Is it driveable after the wreck?”

“Car,” he echoed stupidly. “Wreck. I don’t remember a wreck.”

“You said you had an accident.”

He may have said so, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. Frustrated, he clenched his fist and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He made his hand relax. “I don’t remember what happened to the car,” he said. “I’m not sure I even had one. I don’t remember anything.”

“Not…anything?”

“Nothing. Not a car, not where I was going. Hell, I don’t even know my own name.” He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, hadn’t meant to say anything about that at all. But dammit, here he was in soaking-wet clothes, his chest and his head hurt like hell, and he didn’t have the brain power to figure out who he was or the willpower to keep the words from coming out.

“You have a head injury, probably a concussion. You’ll remember soon.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.

That’s what he’d told himself as he crossed the field. He remembered that all right. He remembered waking up and walking over here, but other than that, zero. He hesitated, then asked, “Where…are we?” He felt stupid asking, but he had to know.

“San Sebastian Island…Texas coast, near Galveston.”

The name sounded familiar. Did he live here? Or had he come on vacation? He shook his head, wishing he could shake a thought loose. “Well, um… I, uh, guess you know your name?”

A tight smile crossed her lips. “Christy. Christy Matthews. My—my husband will be home any time,” she continued, but she spoke without conviction. She was lying, he could tell. There was no husband coming home.

Under the circumstances, she had to be scared. “Look,” he said, wanting to reassure her, “I don’t remember much about myself, but I’m not dangerous.”

Christy Matthews raised a brow. “You’re in no shape to be dangerous,” she agreed, but she kept her gun pointed at his chest.

She sighed, then said, “Since no one seems to be going anywhere, let’s get you to some place more comfortable. I’ll give you a hand.”

He was tempted to wave her away. He didn’t enjoy being treated like an invalid. He had a little bump on the head, that’s all. But something made him reach for her.

Damn, getting up was harder than he’d expected. All the blood seemed to rush out of his head, and the room took a sharp turn to the side.

“Easy,” she murmured and slipped an arm around his waist. His body brushed against her breast, and she jolted and leaned away from him. But she was close enough for him to notice her scent again. Something light and flowery. Roses, maybe. He also noticed she grasped the gun firmly in her free hand.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He gritted his teeth. “Fine.”

He wasn’t fine. His legs were as shaky as a newborn colt’s, and beads of cold sweat popped out on his face. Even walking as far as the couch wore him out. When they bypassed it and Christy led him into a hallway that appeared endless, he wondered if she’d decided to torture him to pay him back for his unwanted visit.

“I have an extra bed,” she said.

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” he muttered, “I can bunk on your couch for a while.” Or on the floor, since he was about to fall flat on his face.

Christy shook her head and urged him forward. “The bed. You’re hurt, and you need it.” She opened the door to a bedroom and steered him toward the double bed. They stopped beside it, and she pulled off the spread.

As soon as the sheets came into view, he sat.

“Whoa,” Christy said. “Let’s get you out of those wet things.”

He was dead certain she wasn’t the first woman who’d asked him to take off his clothes, but this was probably the only time he’d felt uncomfortable with the idea.

Correctly reading him, Christy smiled fully this time. “I’m a nurse, remember?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. But this wasn’t a hospital.

She set the gun down on the nightstand. Inexperienced with weapons, he noted. If he’d been so inclined, he could easily have grabbed it.

She turned to him again and pressed him firmly back against the pillows. Hand on the snap of his jeans, she paused and said, “I’ll lend you a pair of my husband’s pajamas.” He heard a tremor in her voice and was doubly sure that, pajamas or not, Christy Matthews’s husband would not be coming home tonight.

To distract himself from the feel of her hand at his waist, he tried to concentrate on the sound of the storm—the rain pounding against the windows, the wind rattling the panes. But the distraction didn’t work. Regardless of his physical or mental condition, his reflexes—and his hormones—were in working order. His body reacted quite normally to soft female hands undressing him. He pushed the hands away. “I’ll take care of it,” he said gruffly.

She let him deal with the snap but insisted on helping him peel off the jeans, and he got rock-hard as her fingers brushed his thighs. For a second, before she assumed a professionally distant air, he saw the light of awareness in her eyes and the tinge of pink in her cheeks, and he knew she hadn’t missed the bulge beneath his briefs.

She tugged the jeans lower, then her hands stilled. He followed her gaze down to his thigh. An old scar puckered the skin.

“That’s a bullet wound,” she said. She seemed surprised but not repulsed. He guessed, with her medical background, she’d seen a lot of those.

Well, apparently he wasn’t a doctor because the sight of the wound shook him up a bit. “Is that what it is?”

“Yes.” She gave him a level look. “Where’d you get it?”

How in hell did she expect him to know? He searched his mind, hoping her question would elicit an answer. It didn’t. “I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember anything,” he said, hearing the frustration in his voice. He stared at his thigh. “Maybe the scar’s from something else.”

“No,” she said. “I’ve been a nurse long enough to know a bullet wound when I see one.” She took a step back. “Who are you?” she whispered.

“Dammit,” he growled, clenching his hands, “I don’t know. I—” Pain seared his chest and he lost his breath, lost all awareness of what he wanted to say. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He couldn’t see Christy, couldn’t see anything but the damned specks, then he felt a cool cloth on his forehead, and her face swam back into view.

She bent over him, her fingers resting lightly on the pulse at his throat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That was a dumb question.”

He tried to say something.

“Hush, take it easy,” she warned. “Your ribs are bruised, you’ve hit your head, and whoever you are, we need to get you taken care of.” She pulled his jeans the rest of the way off, and this time he had no problem controlling his arousal. He doubted if Hollywood’s sexiest love goddess could have awakened his libido at that moment.

When the jeans were off, Christy said, “We need to wash some of that sand off. I’ll give you a sponge bath.”

In other circumstances, he might have welcomed a sponge bath by this woman with the soft hands and springtime scent. Not just now. He hurt like hell, but he didn’t relish being coddled. Besides, the thought occurred to him that if he looked in the mirror, he might remember who he was. “I’ll handle it,” he told her firmly. “Where’s your bathroom?”

She pointed toward the hall, and he sat up and eased off the bed. Immediately, she was at his side, grasping his arm to steady him. God, her scent was intoxicating. Honeysuckle? Violets? Whatever, it woke his hormones again.

Unwilling to deal with his body’s inevitable reaction to her nearness, he held up a hand to ward her off. Clenching his jaw, he staggered out of the bedroom.

She followed along behind him and when he reached the bathroom, said, “Call if you need me.”

He managed a nod, then went into the small room, papered with a leafy design and smelling of a garden. He flipped on the light, shut the door and approached the mirror slowly, his heart beating heavily in his chest. Outside, rain drummed against the window. He stood still for a moment, listening to the storm and wondering. When he looked in the mirror, who would he see?

He stepped closer to the sink, took a breath, and lifted his eyes. Would he recognize himself?

He didn’t.

He must have looked in mirrors thousands of times, but tonight the man who stared back at him was as unfamiliar as a stranger he might pass on the street.

How could you see your own face and not know yourself? Dizzy with despair, he grasped the sink to keep from falling. “Who are you, damn you?” he snarled. He shut his eyes and concentrated, searching his mind.

No use. All he came up with was a blank.