Lorna Michaels - Stranger In Her Arms

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 grabbed 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.