GINA WILKINS - The Stranger in Room 205

“I don’t think so,” LuWanda had murmured thoughtfully. “Have you seen the look in his eyes? Something tragic happened to him—maybe the death of someone he loved deeply or something awful like that. He’s running from a broken heart or tragic memories. I’d bet my next week’s salary on it.”

Remembering those fanciful words, Serena studied Sam’s eyes. Once again the first adjective that came to her mind when she tried to identify his expression was “lost.” She wasn’t sure if Sam Wallace was running away from something or looking for something, but he was obviously not a happy man. But, oh, could he turn on the charm.

Before he could wonder why she was just sitting there staring at him, Serena stood. “I’ll leave you to your delicious dinner.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She chuckled at his unenthusiastic response. “I’ll see you in the morning, Sam.”

She was aware that he watched her leave—as if he was reluctant to see her go. The poor guy must really be lonely, she thought—and then realized in annoyed exasperation that she was beginning to sound just like her mother. Both of them had darned well better be careful—just in case Sam Wallace wasn’t as charming as he appeared.

B y ten the next morning, Sam was free to go. The IV had been removed and he’d been given a list of instructions and a few painkillers, in case he needed them. The only thing he didn’t have was clothes. He was still wearing the backless cotton hospital gown. The shirt and pants he’d worn when he’d been brought in had been cut away, he was apologetically informed. Someone would try to find him a pair of pajamas to leave in.

He was working up to a pretty good case of self-pity when Serena came into his room, her arms filled with blue plastic discount store bags. “I brought you some clothes,” she said without preamble. “They aren’t exactly designer label, and I had to guess at sizes, but they should do until you can replace your own things.”

He eyed the pile of bags she had dumped unceremoniously on the foot of the bed. “You bought me clothes?”

She shrugged, obviously determined not to make a big deal of it. “Just a few things. Almost all of it was on sale. I picked up two pairs of shoes in different sizes. I hope one of them fits. I’ll take the other pair back for a refund.”

He was oddly touched by her actions, and by her painfully self-conscious expression. “Thank you.”

She avoided his eyes. “I’ll go have a cup of coffee or something while you get dressed.”

“I won’t take long. I’m more than ready to get out of this place.”

He’d been half afraid Dr. Purtle—the man everyone referred to as Dr. Frank—was going to change his mind about the release. Sam wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong during the exam that morning, but Dr. Frank hadn’t seemed quite satisfied with the results. He’d asked repeatedly if Sam was experiencing a headache—which he wasn’t—and if he was sure he was seeing clearly—which he was. And then he’d asked if Sam was experiencing any loss of memory other than about the attack itself, which was natural. Sam had looked the kindly, concerned older man straight in the eye and lied through his teeth.

“No memory gaps, Doc,” he had said. And it hadn’t been a real lie, he reflected bitterly. There were no gaps in his memory. There was no memory at all. Not a clue who he’d been or what he’d done prior to waking up in this hospital with Serena Schaffer sitting beside his bed.

He didn’t know if the amnesia was a sign of a physical problem or an emotional one—maybe he just didn’t want to remember his past—but it was real. Whether he was brain damaged or a candidate for a psych ward, no amount of effort on his part had brought forth a single detail about his life. He probably did belong on a psych ward. What kind of nutcase would let himself be released from a hospital without admitting to anyone that there was still something seriously wrong with him?

To distract himself from a question that had no rational answer, he dug in the bags Serena had carried in. He found underwear, T-shirts and tube socks. Two pairs of classic styled jeans, a brown leather belt and three T-shirts in assorted colors. Two button-up shirts—one white, one blue denim. A package of disposable razors, a can of shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb—things the hospital had provided for him, but thoughtful additions on Serena’s part. And the two pairs of sneakers she’d mentioned—size ten and eleven. For all he knew, he wore an eight or fourteen—his shoe size was as lost to him as his real name.

Fifteen minutes later he had to acknowledge that Serena had a good eye for sizes. He wore the denim shirt with a pair of jeans and the size-eleven shoes. The thirty-four-inch-waist jeans were a little loose, but he cinched the belt to make up for it. The shirt fit perfectly.

He was frowning at the bruise the IV needle had left on his hand when Serena tapped on the door and then entered. She appraised his appearance with one quick, comprehensive glance. “Looks like my guesses were close.”

“Everything fits fine. You can return the size-ten shoes. I’ll pay you back for everything as soon as I can.”

“There’s no rush,” she assured him, looking uncomfortable again. “You’ll need to pay your medical bills first. Actually, you could consider the clothes a birthday present.”

“A birthday present?” he repeated blankly.

She smiled. “Today’s the twenty-second. Had you forgotten?”

June twenty-second. The day he’d selected at random when the nurse had asked for his date of birth. At the time, he hadn’t even known it was June. He wished now he’d chosen a date in December. “I’ll pay you back for the clothes,” he said, and he tried to make it clear that he didn’t want any further argument about it.

Serena only shrugged and turned toward the remaining packages. “I should have thought to include a duffel bag or something. I guess these bags will have to do for now. I’ll tell LuWanda we’re ready to go. I think you have to leave in a wheelchair.”

“I think not.” The very suggestion made his lip curl.

Eyeing his expression, Serena said hastily, “I’m sure they’ll let you walk, if you prefer.”

Fortunately, LuWanda didn’t try to insist on a wheelchair. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Wallace,” she said, patting his arm. “And if you have any problems, you be sure and give Dr. Frank a call. Any dizziness, headache, double vision—anything like that—you pick up a phone, you hear?”

Since he wasn’t experiencing any of the above, it seemed safe enough to agree. “Sure. I’ll do that.”

LuWanda gave him a long, rather stern look. “Your health isn’t something to take for granted, young man. The doctor can’t help you if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.”

It was entirely possible that he hadn’t been doing as good a job at fooling everyone as he’d believed. She didn’t know what his problem was, of course, but she obviously suspected there was something he was holding back. He wanted to get out of here before he somehow gave himself away. If he decided to reveal his memory loss to Dr. Frank, he wanted it to be his choice, and on his own terms.

On an impulse, he leaned over to brush a kiss against the nurse’s soft, plump cheek, ignoring the protest from his cracked ribs. “Thank you for everything,” he murmured.

He had the satisfaction of seeing the gruff-spoken, kindhearted tyrant blush as she hurried out of the room.

Sam turned to Serena, finding her watching him with a wary frown. “What?”

She shook her head and gathered plastic bags into her arms. “I’m going to be keeping a close eye on you, Sam Wallace.”