As he reached into the refrigerator for the makings of his chowder, he asked. “Do you like to cook?”
She looked around the kitchen, her thoughtful eyes studied the counter canisters, spice rack and kitchen appliances. With a strange sense of certainty, she said firmly, “No, I don’t. I’m not a good cook.”
Her expression puzzled him. Why did she look so pleased with herself? His suspicion that she was someone with money deepened. No doubt, she had hired help to do all the things that didn’t appeal to her, like cooking.
“What do you like to do?” he asked, noticing her polished nails.
“Oh, lots of things,” she said vaguely, as muscles tightened around her mouth. She had no answer to the simple question, and she quickly turned away from it. “What about you?
He wasn’t fooled. He had to admire the way she deftly avoided any talk about herself. Why was she so guarded about giving him any information? Was she running from the law? Could it be that he was harboring a fugitive? A spurt of resentment overtook him.
Ever since he’d purchased this cottage almost five years ago, he had jealously guarded his privacy. Even at the office, he was known as a loner, and although he was friendly enough with everyone, he avoided any personal intrusion in their lives, and he didn’t invite any of them into his. He was thirty years old, and it was ironic that a strange woman sitting in his kitchen, wearing his robe, might be drawing him into some unwanted involvement that he had been careful to avoid.
As Andrew prepared the meal, he gave up trying to make any more conversation. Trish was aware of his withdrawal. Outside, the sounds of the relentless surf beating upon the beach below scraped her frayed nerves. Her safety seemed more tenuous than ever. She felt as if she were holding on to a lifeline that he’d thrown her, and would suddenly pull it away if she said the wrong thing.
What if she told him the truth? Would he believe her? Or would he think she was taking advantage of the situation and him? How could she describe the terror that swept up in her when she tried to remember? How could she explain the melodramatic truth that an ever-present danger lurked in the dark corners of her mind? She desperately needed to know the truth about who she was and what had happened to her before she opened herself up to anyone. An unknown terror reached out to her from the dark abyss of her lost memory.
Andrew sensed her inner turmoil as he served her a steaming bowl of chowder and corn bread muffins. “You’ll feel better with some hot food in your stomach,” he told her with a smile.
“It smells wonderful,” she said, even as her tight stomach rebelled at the thought of food.
Instead of taking a chair opposite her at the tiny table, he perched on a high stool at a counter where he usually ate with a book in his hand. Her presence in the small kitchen seemed to demand some kind of social exchange, but her vague responses had discouraged any conversation between them.
She scarcely touched her food. “I’m sorry, I’m just not very hungry, after all,” she apologized when he had finished eating his.
“That’s okay. Sometimes food isn’t the answer. You’re probably needing a good night’s sleep. I’ll make up the cot in my computer room so you can have the bedroom.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you like that,” she protested, already sensing that just having her there was putting some kind of pressure on him.
“It’s no bother,” he answered politely. “Everything will look different in the morning.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will.” She forced a level of confidence into the words. Surely, whatever had caused her to lose her memory would be healed in sleep, allowing her to draw out of the depths of her unconscious the answers that were hidden from her. Somehow she knew that a temporary loss of memory could return as quickly as it was lost. Surely by morning she would know who she was, and why she had nearly lost her life in the raging storm.
ANDREW TRIED unsuccessfully to ignore the presence of the woman sleeping in his bed. As was his custom, he worked at his computer until after midnight, and then finally gave up because his mind kept wandering, plagued by unanswered questions about her. Why did he have a nagging suspicion that he was being used in some fashion? Even though his rescue of her seemed legit, could she have faked the whole thing for some nefarious purpose?
He plopped down on the living room couch. Sitting there and staring at the ebbing fire, he tried to come to some understanding of what he was feeling and what he should do next. His experience with conniving women had left him guarded and slightly bitter. He had long since decided that he wasn’t cut out for the mating games that went with heavy dating. His few ventures into romantic relationships had proved what he already knew—opening oneself up only brought hurt, big time.
He leaned his head back on the couch and had just closed his eyes when a piercing scream rent the silence of the house. He lurched to his feet, threw open the bedroom door, and saw her writhing on the bed, sobbing and crying.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he soothed and gathered her trembling body into his arms. Tears poured down her cheeks and she clung to him with the fierceness of a terrified child. Her breathing was rapid. Her body felt cold to his touch and she was caught in a spasm of shivers. Any doubts about her anguish being genuine were instantly dispelled. There was no way she could have pretended such an upheaval of emotion.
Trish heard his voice and struggled to find her way out of an enveloping panic. She clung to him and felt the warmth of his arms encircling her.
“You just had a bad dream,” he said gently.
A bad dream. Her mind grabbed at his reassurance. That’s all it was. A nightmare. Only fragments of images remained in her consciousness, and even as she tried to capture them, they faded away like shadows in a mist. Whatever had triggered the terror that had brought her screaming out of a tortured sleep, slipped away, leaving her empty and shaken.
As the drumming of her heart began to lessen, she managed to stammer, “I’m…I’m sorry…”
“It’s all right.” He stroked her hair and lifted it away from her moist cheeks, aware of the delicate contour of her face and the totally feminine body pressed against his. “Everything will look different in the morning,” he promised once again. He held her close until her breathing settled into a normal rhythm, then he eased her back down on the bed and quietly left the room.
Sleep evaded him as he settled down for the night on the cot in his computer room. His mind kept turning over unanswered questions. He was certain now that she was truly frightened about something or someone. Although he was sympathetic to her situation, whatever it might be, he still didn’t want to get involved. He suspected that there was a lover somewhere in the picture. She was very attractive, and more appealing than he was ready to admit. Holding her in his arms had ignited some tender needs that he thought he’d buried a long time ago. Turning restlessly on the narrow cot, he tried to forget how soft and vulnerable she had felt in his arms.
WHEN TRISH WOKE UP early the next morning, she was disoriented as she looked around the small room. Then a quiver of relief shot through her. She knew where she was. Everything came back from the moment that she’d been carried into the house. A man named Andrew had rescued her. And before that? And before that? The question kept ricocheting from one side of her head to the other.
Her lips quivered. Nothing. Nothing.
Hugging Andrew’s faded robe around her, she walked to the window and stared at the scene stretched out before her. The summer storm had passed, leaving a soft mist moving away from the land.
Dragging her eyes over a small rocky cove below the cottage, she searched the empty beach and rolling breakers, struggling to recover some vision of what had happened to bring her to that deserted stretch of sand.
A new day lay fresh and glistening in the sunlight. She swallowed