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.
Chapter 3
While the man was in the bathroom, Christy got the first aid kit her father kept for emergencies. Then she found a pair of his old pajamas, went into the hall, and knocked on the bathroom door. The stranger opened it a crack, stretched out a hand, and took the pajamas.
The sight of his bare arm, roped with muscle and bronzed from the sun, unsettled her. She felt as flustered as she had when she’d helped him undress. She, who’d been a nurse for nine years, who’d seen hundreds of naked men—totally naked men. None of them had raised her pulse one beat. Why did he?
Because she was alone and vulnerable, she decided as she went back into the bedroom to wait for him. Darn, she shouldn’t have mentioned a husband. How would she explain when her spouse didn’t show up? Maybe the stranger would forget what she’d said.
But she had more pressing matters to consider. Like how badly he was injured and how long she was going to keep him under her roof. She felt a twinge of fear as she thought of her brother’s warning. Was this man dangerous? If he was, she had no one to protect her. She had to take care of herself. A shiver went up her spine, and she picked up the gun she’d laid on the nightstand, wondering if she’d really have the guts to use it.
After a few minutes the man shuffled into the room. Clearly, every step was painful.
He looked less disreputable now that he’d cleaned up. In fact, he looked pretty good. Although the pajama pants came barely to his ankles and the sleeves were well above his wrists, the material stretched across broad shoulders, hugged a muscular frame, and made Christy uncomfortably aware again of the stranger’s masculinity.
He glanced at the weapon in her hand. His lips thinned but he said nothing, only lay down on the bed and waited.
“You have a nasty wound,” she said. “I’m going to clean it. You’ll have to lie on your side.” He turned, and she added, “I’ll try not to hurt you too much.” She opened a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and dribbled liquid into the wound. The peroxide fizzed, and she heard the man catch his breath.
“Try harder,” he muttered. “What are you cleaning it with? Battery acid?”
“Peroxide. You’ll feel worse if you get an infection.” She unscrewed the cap from a tube of antibiotic ointment and spread a liberal amount on the wound, then reached for a bandage and the adhesive tape.
Carefully, she pulled the edges of the gash together and taped them. The man’s breath hissed out, but he kept silent. “There. All done.”
“Are you sure you’re a nurse and not that crazy woman from Misery?” he muttered.
She chuckled. “Lie on your back now and unbutton the pajama top.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She laughed. “I’m a nurse. Cross my heart.” She bent over him and gently probed the bruises on his chest. His flesh had warmed. Her hand brushed a flat male nipple and immediately it puckered. The pulse at his throat beat strongly. She glanced up, and his gaze caught hers.
She cleared her throat, forced a professional tone. “You’ve got some bad bruises, but I don’t think your ribs are broken. You should get a tetanus shot at the emergency room, but—” She glanced at the window and shrugged. Rain beat steadily against the pane. “—we’re not going anywhere tonight.”
“Don’t worry about it. My shots are up to date.”
She started and frowned at him. “I thought you said you couldn’t remember anything. How do you know that?”
“I don’t have a clue. It just came to me.” He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. “That’s all. I don’t remember anything else.”
She stared at him dubiously, then shrugged. Injured or not, he was too big and imposing to risk arguing with him over what he could or couldn’t recall. “I’m going to put your clothes in the washer.”
She picked up his discarded clothing, took the gun and left the room. She didn’t feel comfortable leaving the man alone, but she decided she could chance it for a little while. He was pretty weak from the blow to his head. As long as she didn’t provoke him, she doubted he’d do any damage. Still she turned and looked over her shoulder as she started down the hall, then glanced pointedly at the gun in her hand.
In the utility room, she turned the washer on hot and poured in detergent. She tossed in his jeans, then paused with his long-sleeved blue shirt in hand. Maybe the pockets contained a clue to their owner’s identity. She wondered if he’d thought to check them.
The pockets were empty. She retrieved his jeans and checked their pockets next. Nothing. Why would a man wander around without a driver’s license, a wallet or any kind of identification?
Unless he’d been robbed. That would explain the empty pockets and the blow to the head.
Or had he gotten rid of the identification himself? Was he a fugitive, using her house as a convenient place to hide out? Feigning amnesia, playing her for a fool?
Slow down, Christy, she ordered herself. Why should she jump to that conclusion? Fueled by the storm, her imagination was working overtime. The stranger was probably a nice, normal guy, an attractive man she’d want to know better if she met him at a party. On the other hand, she thought, as her brother’s warning voice played in her mind, nice, normal guys didn’t walk around without any sort of ID. And didn’t have scars from bullet holes on their thighs.
Forgetting her resolve not to antagonize him, she marched back down the hall and faced the man in the bed. “What are you up to, mister?”
He gazed up at her blankly.
“You don’t have a wallet,” she snapped. “You don’t have a driver’s license.”
He stared at her, then shrugged. “You think you’re telling me something I don’t know? I already noticed that.”
“The point is you’ve gotten rid of every means of identification. Why? Are you running from something? Dammit, you’ve invaded my home. Quit this ‘I-don’t-remember’ business and tell me the truth.”
He struggled up on one elbow, his face a mask of fury and frustration. Even barely able to move, he looked dangerous, and again Christy realized what a formidable man he was. “Lady, I would if I could. I don’t know any more about myself than you do.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “If you want me out, give me my clothes and I’ll be on my way.”
That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? For him to vanish as abruptly as he’d appeared. Whatever he was dealing with wasn’t her problem. Only a fool would keep him under her roof.
And yet—
She saw him wince with pain as he stood. She glanced outside at the unrelenting blackness, at the rain that pounded against the window. She’d been trained as a healer. Caring for