Читать книгу Secret Agent Dad - Metsy Hingle - Страница 12

Two

You’re a good girl, Jocelyn. Not everyone can be counted on to remain calm and clearheaded in a crisis.

The crisp tone of Sister Charles Marie’s voice came back to Josie as though it were only yesterday and not twenty years ago that she’d snuffed out a grease fire in the kitchen of the orphanage and saved another girl from being badly burned.

Today had been another crisis, Josie realized, as she tamed her thick, black hair into a braid. She’d remained calm and clearheaded while she’d settled the twins into the spare bedroom. She’d even managed to remain calm and clearheaded when she’d maneuvered the little darlings’ daddy to the only other room with a bed—her own. And somehow, she’d managed to stay fairly calm and clearheaded when the man had started thrashing about on the bed and pulled his bandage free. But there had been nothing calm or clearheaded about the way she’d felt when he’d opened his eyes and called her “angel” again before passing out. No one had ever called her by a pet name before—certainly no one from the orphanage or the foster homes she’d lived in. To them she’d always been Jocelyn, and even Ben had never strayed from the “Josie” she’d insisted on being called. She’d come to accept the fact that she wasn’t the sort of person that people called “sweetie” or “honey” or “sugar.” Deep down she’d sometimes wondered if it was because she simply wasn’t special enough to warrant such an endearment.

But he had called her “angel.” Not once, but twice. It was ridiculous that his doing so should make her pulse quicken or make her feel like her heart was smiling. After all, the man had been injured, and in his delirious state he probably thought she was someone else. Yet he had looked at her the way a man looks at a woman—with appreciation, with interest—and for those few seconds awareness had hummed between them and lingered like the scent of her roses. By the time she’d repaired his bandage, she’d been too flustered to even attempt to rid him of his wet clothes.

Now, having had the benefit of a hot shower and a change of clothes herself, guilt sneaked in on her. She really shouldn’t have left him in those wet things, she conceded, then groaned. “I didn’t even take off his boots!” Irritated with herself, she dismissed that sexual zing of his kiss and blamed her reaction on the steady diet of romantic dreams she’d fed herself for years. She dug out a pair of Ben’s old jeans and shirt from the box marked for charity, determined to march right in there and get him out of those wet clothes before the fellow caught pneumonia. Suddenly her throat went dry at the prospect of undressing him.

Get over it, Josie. It’s not like you haven’t seen a naked man before.

And it wasn’t, Josie reminded herself. She had been married for pity’s sake. Feeling some of her calm and clearheaded self return, she armed herself with aspirin, a pitcher of water, a glass, and the clothes. She picked up her tray and headed to the bedroom to check on her patient.

A teensy measure of her newly reclaimed calm slipped when she opened the bedroom door. He lay motionless on the four-poster bed, looking too big and too male amidst the pale rose and ivory bedding. Lamplight framed his handsome face, making his hair gleam like wet gold. The white bandage on his forehead stood out in stark relief against bronzed skin. Once again the image of a golden prince came to mind.

Dismissing the fanciful thoughts, Josie made her way over to the bed. She placed the tray on the bedside table, but continued to hang on to the clothes she’d brought him. “It’s time to wake up,” she said. “Remember, I told you I’d have to wake you every hour? Well, it’s time again. I’ve got some aspirin, and I’ve brought some dry clothes for you to change into.”

Nothing. Not so much as a grunt or a flicker of an eyelid out of him.

Clearing her throat, Josie tried again, this time more forcefully. “You have to wake up now. I’ve brought you some aspirin to help your head and a change of clothes.”

Still, nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t utter a sound.

Frowning, Josie reached over and gave his shoulder a nudge. He stirred, and she snatched her hand back. “You need to take some aspirin and get out of those wet things,” she said again, this time in her firmest schoolteacher’s voice.

He muttered something that she suspected was no.

Annoyed now rather than nervous, his response made her more determined. It also triggered what Ben had called her do-gooder streak, and what she liked to think of as her human streak—that “something” inside her that had made her rescue a stray, or stop in the middle of a storm to help a stranger. Since she’d saved the man’s life, he was her responsibility, she reasoned. Well, at least for the time being. And that meant making sure he didn’t catch pneumonia. The man was going to get into dry clothes—one way or another. Besides, she thought, humor making her lips turn up at the corners. He was only a man. She hadn’t managed to work as a teacher for nearly six years without learning how to exert some authority. It was the schoolteacher m her that made her put aside the clothes and sit on the bed. Slipping an arm behind his neck, she lifted him to a sitting position and with the aspirin in her palm, she tapped her finger against his lips. “Open up,” she ordered.

“What the—”

She shoved the aspirin between his lips, then quickly followed with water. Strong, powerful fingers locked around her wrist at the same time that he clamped his mouth closed and sent water dribbling down the front of his already-wet shirt. The muscles in his neck had gone stiff, and his body felt like corded steel beneath her fingers. Stunned, Josie’s gaze shot up to meet his. The dark eyes trained on her were just as hard as the rest of him... and wary.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, it’s only aspirin and water. Not poison.” When he still failed to respond or release his vicelike grip on her wrist she said, “Please. You need to swallow the aspirin. I know you must be in a lot of pain with that gash on your head. The aspirin will make you feel better.”

After a moment something inside him eased. His mouth lost some of the hard edge. Tipping her wrist, he drank deeply from the glass she held, but his eyes remained open, never once leaving hers. The intensity of his gaze reminded her of the wild kiss he’d given her out in the storm, and Josie felt that shivery heat spilling through her. By the time he finished the water and released her hand, she was feeling anything but calm and clearheaded. In fact, all of those female nerves were jumping inside her again.

With less-than-steady hands, she returned the glass to the tray, determined not to let him know how he had rattled her. “I’ll leave you to get out of those wet things. Just yell for me if you need anything,” she told him and started to leave. Then she noticed that his eyes were closed again. Frowning, she said, “Did you hear me? I’m leaving so you can change clothes.”

When he still failed to respond, she jabbed a finger at his shoulder. Again, no response. “Great,” she muttered. The man was obviously out cold again—either from exhaustion or from his injury or from both. Worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, she debated what she should do. She didn’t have any options, she admitted. She was going to have to get him out of his wet things and into something dry.

Josie studied her patient and frowned again. Changing the babies’ clothes had been one thing. Changing their daddy’s clothes was quite another. After wiping her hands on her jeans, Josie moved toward the foot of the bed. She’d start with his boots, she decided, and as she reached for the first one, she fervently wished she’d taken the dirty things off him before they’d had an opportunity to become acquainted with her comforter. Maybe I’ll be lucky and he’ll wake up before I’ve even got the first boot off and finish the job himself.

She wasn’t lucky. He didn’t wake up. The man didn’t stir even after she’d made several attempts to get the blasted boots off. Finally the first one came free. Even wet, the deep brown leather was butter soft, expertly stitched and obviously expensive. From the size of the thing, she suspected he’d had them custom-made. “All right. One down. One to go,” she muttered. After dropping the boot beside the bed, she reached for its mate. She gave it one hard tug, then another, and on the third tug Josie went tumbling back and onto the floor with his soggy boot in her hands and a wicked-looking gun in her lap. Stunned, Josie dropped the boot and picked up the shiny black weapon.

Oh, my heavens! What kind of man carries a gun in his boot? An escaped convict? A bank robber? A government spy?

Stop it, she told herself, and slammed the brakes on her runaway thoughts. She stared at the gun in her hands, turning the thing over, studying it. It felt hard, cold, lifeless and sent a shudder through her. Oh for pity’s sake, she chided herself for her reaction. This was Texas. Half the men in the state owned a gun. Just because she didn’t particularly like the things meant zip, she reasoned. Besides, hadn’t she read somewhere that owning a gun was some sort of guy thing? That’s probably all this was, too—a guy thing. Walking over to the armoire, she tucked the gun inside a drawer and out of sight, then turned around and went toward the bed.

Besides, discovering that the man carried a gun was the least of her problems at the moment Getting him out of those wet clothes was. With nerves bouncing in her stomach like Ping-Pong balls, she reached for the button of his shirt.

By the time Josie had unfastened the last of his buttons and had wrestled the shirt off him, she wasn’t so sure that leaving him in his wet things would have been such a bad idea after all. Although he was about the same size as her former husband had been, there the similarities ended.

While Ben had been fair-skinned, this man appeared to have been kissed by the sun. And talk about shoulders! He had linebacker shoulders, and a well-toned chest to go with them. A silver medal lay against his chest, suspended by a chain from his neck. She started to reach for the disc to examine it, then decided she’d better not. Instead she directed her attention to the other major difference between this man’s body and that of her former husband‘s—chest hair. Ben’s chest had been as smooth as a baby’s bottom. But her patient had a swirl of deep gold hair that arrowed down the center of his chest all the way to the taut muscles that stretched across his abdomen and then vanished beneath the waist of his jeans. Heat curled in Josie’s belly as she looked at him, struck by the masculine beauty of his body. Surprised and embarrassed by her reaction, Josie reminded herself that she had a job to do. And that job didn’t include ogling the man’s body and thinking inappropriate thoughts.

Inappropriate or not, by the time Josie lowered his zipper and tugged off his jeans, her fingers were shaking. And if she were being honest with herself, her accelerated breathing had little to do with exertion and everything to do with the man who lay stretched out on her bed naked—save for a pair of black briefs. Fascinated, her eyes tracked that vee of dark gold hair that disappeared beneath the low-rise briefs. And the curl of heat inside her twisted, slid lower.

Get a grip, Josie, she told herself. Or else she was going to end up embarrassing the man and making a complete fool of herself. It was the thought of making a fool of herself that snapped her back to her senses. Pride, Josie conceded, had seen her through a mountain of disappointments more times than she cared to remember. While the Almighty might have skimped on her when it came to looks and family, He had given her an abundance of pride. And it was pride that made her yank the comforter up over the man and leave the room.

He came awake as he always did—instantly and fully alert. In the blink of an eye he noted the position of the exits. Assured he was alone, and sensing no immediate danger, he gave in to the need to clutch his aching head. He didn’t know what had happened, but he felt as though he’d gone ten rounds with a Mack truck. Based on the wad of gauze and tape across his forehead, he could only assume that he’d lost.

Willing himself not to focus on the pain in his head, he took quick stock of his surroundings and tried to determine where he was. He noted the ceiling painted a soft shade of cream, the delicate floral border that wrapped the room’s four walls. He gazed past the empty overstuffed chair in faded chintz positioned several feet from the bed. A small dressing table covered in lace sat against the far wall, a vase of pale pink roses, glass bottles and a ceramic box sat atop it. Continuing his assessment, he skimmed past the old-fashioned armoire in one corner and paused at the quaint bench seat beneath a window decked out in mint-and-ivory-colored drapes.

Nothing about the room or its contents triggered any warning bells. Nor did the place strike any chords of familiarity. But that fact didn’t alarm him. Although he had no idea where he was or exactly how he’d gotten here, he was sure of one thing-the room and the bed he occupied belonged to a female. Pleased by the thought, he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and smiled. Now that he did recognize—the scent of roses and rain. And of a woman.

But who was she?

He searched his memory for a picture to match with the scent. At first none came to him. Then an image began to play at the fringes of his memory—an image of a raven-haired angel with clear, green eyes leaning over him, speaking to him in a honeyed voice. The smile curving his lips widened. Opening his eyes, he stared at the empty space in the bed beside him and probed for a name to go with the face of the woman whose bed he’d shared.

“Good morning.”

He turned his gaze toward the doorway at the sound of the voice and stared at its owner. “Morning,” he replied, giving her a quick once-over and then a slower one. The tray she held blocked his view of her upper torso, but he noted with appreciation the way the jeans hugged her long legs, the slight sway of her hips as she walked toward the bed. His body responded to her immediately, tightening as he thought of her stripping off those jeans and shirt and joining him back in bed. He started to invite her to do just that, only he couldn’t come up with her name.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he replied, only to wince when a pain shot through his head as he pushed up to his elbows. “Correction. Not so fine. My head feels as if it went a couple of rounds with a tank and lost.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He shifted to a sitting position and was surprised to discover that he still had on his briefs. Must have really tied one on, he reasoned, which also surprised him since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such sad shape. Not only couldn’t he remember her name, but he usually slept in the raw. Heaven knows what in the devil he’d done to his head. He was just about to ask her what had happened when the scent of coffee derailed his thought processes. He sniffed. “Please, tell me that’s coffee I smell.”

“It’s coffee,” she assured him with a friendly smile and placed the tray on the table beside the bed. “After last night, I thought you could use a cup.”

After last night? Frowning he tried to remember what had happened last night. But for the life of him, his memory of their evening between the sheets and exactly what had led to his monster-size headache remained blank.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry or not, but I brought some biscuits to go with the coffee just in case.”

“Actually, I’m starved,” he told her and realized he was. “Biscuits sound great.”

“Really? That’s wonderful,” she said and proceeded to transfer biscuits to a plate.

Ah, she was eager to please, he decided and continued to study her, contemplating her hands as she fiddled with butter and napkins. Her nails were short, unpolished, but there was a gracefulness in her movements. Gentle hands, soft hands, with long soothing fingers, he thought, and another image winked at the edges of his memory. An image of those fingers stroking his face tenderly while she spoke to him in that lyrical voice. He lifted his gaze, noting the long column of pale skin at her throat, the fullness of her unpainted mouth. He tried to recall her taste, but it eluded him, just as her name did. Disturbed that he couldn’t remember kissing her, he drew in another deep breath, and this time caught her scent—roses and rain. Desire stirred inside him as he continued to watch her, tried to remember what it had been like to make love to her. And once again he drew a blank. As though sensing his scrutiny, she looked up, and her gaze tangled with his. Suddenly the air snapped with the sexual vibrations bouncing between them.

Just as quickly she looked away. “According to what I read in the book I checked last night, having an appetite after an experience like this is considered a good sign.”

“Excuse me?” She’d actually read books about what to expect from sex?

“I have to admit, you really had me worried last night,” she said, as she handed him a napkin.

“I did?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Um, why?” he asked, hoping for some clue.

“Well, mostly because you were so restless. You seemed to be having some disturbing dreams—which is understandable, of course.”

“Not for me, it isn’t. I don’t usually dream much.”

“Yes. But under these circumstances, I suspect it’s only normal.”

Under these circumstances? What in the hell had happened last night?

While he desperately wanted to ask the question, he didn’t. After all, how was he supposed to tell a woman whose bed he’d obviously shared that not only could he not remember making love with her, but he couldn’t even remember her name? The answer was simple. He didn’t tell her.

“So how do you take your coffee?”

The question gave him pause. Evidently they hadn’t been lovers very long if she didn’t know how he drank his coffee. “Black, one sugar,” he told her. Deciding he needed some answers to the questions buzzing in his head, he said, “But the coffee can wait. There’s something else I need first.”

Her fingers hovered over the sugar bowl. She tipped a glance at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have thought to ask if you wanted more aspirin for your head right off. That was a nasty cut you got. I’ll just be a minute—”

“Angel,” he said, something stirring inside him at her eagerness to please him. He reached out, captured her hand. “I would like that aspirin—in a minute. But right now what I want is you.”

He tugged, and she squealed as she fell to the bed against him. Surprise streaked across her features when he closed his arms around her and flipped her body beneath his. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She appeared so genuinely shocked and her tone so schoolmarm proper, he almost released her, sure he’d made a mistake. Then he caught that flicker of heat in her eyes, that shy yearning he’d glimpsed earlier when she’d looked at him, and he decided he hadn’t been wrong after all. “I’m remembering,” he whispered and lowered his mouth to hers.

She tasted sweet. Incredibly sweet and... innocent. And familiar. Yet not familiar at all. He nipped her bottom lip, and when she opened, he slid his tongue inside for a deeper taste. A shudder went through her, reverberated in him. When she pressed her hands against his shoulders, he lifted his head a fraction, again thinking he’d made a mistake. But one look into those soft, dreamy eyes and he knew that the only mistake about this kiss was that he didn’t remember the previous ones they’d shared. So he dipped down to kiss her again and make a new set of memories for them both.

For the space of a heartbeat, she relaxed beneath him, her body molding to fit his like a glove. Her fingers curled, dug into the bare skin at his shoulders. She returned his kiss with an eagerness that surprised him, aroused him, touched some part of him that he was sure had never been touched before. Damn, how could he have forgotten her? How could he not remember this fire that they created together? One thing he was sure of, he decided, angling his head and taking the kiss deeper, he wouldn’t forget making love to her this time.

So caught up in the wonder and anticipation of what was to come, several moments ticked by before he realized her fingers were no longer clinging to him, but were shoving at his chest. He lifted his head. “What’s wr—”

She drew her knee up like a weapon, and he sucked in his breath at the threat. “Get off of me, you...you jerk!”

He pulled back, confused as much by her demand as by the mixture of outrage in her voice and the panic in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” she repeated, color shooting up her pale cheeks as she scrambled off the bed. “You have the nerve to ask me that after...after mauling me?”

The accusation hit him like a sucker punch, sparking anger and sending a rush of blood through his system that made the pain in his head intensify. “Mauling?”

Another streak of color shot up her cheeks, and she looked away. “At least have the decency to cover yourself.”

He looked down, noted his still-aroused state wasn’t exactly hidden by the briefs. He yanked the sheet over his lower body. “All right. Now you want to tell me what’s going on here? Why the mauling accusation?”

“Maybe mauling was a bit strong,” she conceded. “But you caught me off guard. I certainly didn’t expect you to kiss me.”

Puzzled, he asked, “Why wouldn’t I kiss you?”

Defiance gleaming in her eyes, she tipped up her chin. “Because we’re strangers,” she shot back.

“What in the devil are you talking about? I spent the night in your bed, didn’t I?”

She gave him a wary look. “Well, yes. But I wasn’t in it with you.”

“You weren’t?”

“Of course not. I told you, we’re strangers. I never laid eyes on you before last night.” She frowned. “I know everyone says not to trust strangers, but I’ve always gone with my instincts, and you were hardly in any shape to be a threat to me. Anyway, you needed help, and I just couldn’t leave y‘all out there in the storm.”

Trying to make sense out of what she was saying made his head ache even more. He closed his eyes a second, massaged his temples and tried to remember. “Back up a minute, angel. You couldn’t leave me out where?”

“You know where—on the side of the road where you wrecked your car.”

“I was in a wreck?”

She eyed him as though he’d gone crazy. “You know you were. I don’t know exactly what happened, but you wrecked your car.”

Panic started to sneak its way into his blood as he tried to remember driving through a storm, having an accident. He drew another blank. So he tried something simple—what day it was, where he was. When he came up empty again, he told himself to remain calm. He touched the bandage on his forehead. “I hit my head in the accident.”

“Yes. At least I think that’s what happened. There was a lot of blood, and you’ve got a really nasty cut. You should have gone to the hospital. But the storm was awful, and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back to town, so I brought you here instead.”

Which explained the headache and his fuzzy memories. “And exactly where is here?”

“My farm.”

“Thank you for stopping to help me.”

She nodded. “You still need to see a doctor, and I’m pretty sure that cut needs to be stitched. But the rain’s still coming down. The road’s under water now, and the phone lines have been out since last night, so I haven’t been able to notify the sheriff about the accident.”

“It’s no big deal, and I’m sure my head will be fine,” he told her, instinctively shying away from the thought of her calling hospitals or the law.

“The worst part is that without the phone, there’s no way for you to even notify your wife that y‘all are okay.”

“My what?” he said, jerking his attention back to her and sending pain slicing through his skull at the quick movement.

“Your wife,” she repeated.

“Angel, I don’t have a wife,” he informed her, then realized he couldn’t remember if he had a wife or not. At least he didn’t think he had one. For some reason the thought of being married had acid churning in his stomach. He darted a glance at her hands and was relieved to see no jewelry at all.

“I see,” she said, censure in her voice.

“I’m certainly glad one of us does,” he muttered, puzzled by her disapproval.

“Pardon?”

He sighed. “I, um, I’m having a bit of trouble remembering certain things.”

“Like what?”

“Like last night. Did you and I—Did we—?”

“No,” she said, her cheeks pinkening. “I slept on the couch.”

“Sorry.” And he was. Judging by the sparks they generated, he suspected the two of them would be good together in bed. He couldn’t help noting the way she kept crumpling and then smoothing out the napkin that she’d picked up from the floor. Nerves, he decided, and for some reason found her flustered state endearing. Maybe they would be lovers yet, he mused. That is, as soon as he started remembering things. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. But there’s one other thing I’d like to ask you to do for me, if you would.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me your name.”

“Josie,” she told him. “Josie Walters.”

“Josie,” he repeated the name, trying out the sound of it on his lips and deciding he liked it. “Am I correct in assuming there’s no Mr. Walters?”

“I’m a widow. My husband died about a year ago.”

“Sorry for your loss, and for the misunderstanding.”

“No problem,” she said, giving him a shy smile. “But you never did tell me what your name is.”

Extending his hand, he said, “I’m... I’m...” Panic began to churn in his blood again, making his head throb. Sweat broke out across his brow. He tried not to give in to that panic as he groped for some memory, any memory, of what his name was, who he was, where he was from. But try as he might, his memory was an empty page that began and ended with Josie’s face, the sound of her voice.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t have any idea who I am.”