Stranger In Her Arms. Lorna Michaels

remember a wreck.”

      “You said you had an accident.”

      He may have said so, but that didn’t mean a damn thing. Frustrated, he clenched his fist and felt a sharp pain in his chest. He made his hand relax. “I don’t remember what happened to the car,” he said. “I’m not sure I even had one. I don’t remember anything.”

      “Not…anything?”

      “Nothing. Not a car, not where I was going. Hell, I don’t even know my own name.” He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, hadn’t meant to say anything about that at all. But dammit, here he was in soaking-wet clothes, his chest and his head hurt like hell, and he didn’t have the brain power to figure out who he was or the willpower to keep the words from coming out.

      “You have a head injury, probably a concussion. You’ll remember soon.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself.

      That’s what he’d told himself as he crossed the field. He remembered that all right. He remembered waking up and walking over here, but other than that, zero. He hesitated, then asked, “Where…are we?” He felt stupid asking, but he had to know.

      “San Sebastian Island…Texas coast, near Galveston.”

      The name sounded familiar. Did he live here? Or had he come on vacation? He shook his head, wishing he could shake a thought loose. “Well, um… I, uh, guess you know your name?”

      A tight smile crossed her lips. “Christy. Christy Matthews. My—my husband will be home any time,” she continued, but she spoke without conviction. She was lying, he could tell. There was no husband coming home.

      Under the circumstances, she had to be scared. “Look,” he said, wanting to reassure her, “I don’t remember much about myself, but I’m not dangerous.”

      Christy Matthews raised a brow. “You’re in no shape to be dangerous,” she agreed, but she kept her gun pointed at his chest.

      She sighed, then said, “Since no one seems to be going anywhere, let’s get you to some place more comfortable. I’ll give you a hand.”

      He was tempted to wave her away. He didn’t enjoy being treated like an invalid. He had a little bump on the head, that’s all. But something made him reach for her.

      Damn, getting up was harder than he’d expected. All the blood seemed to rush out of his head, and the room took a sharp turn to the side.

      “Easy,” she murmured and slipped an arm around his waist. His body brushed against her breast, and she jolted and leaned away from him. But she was close enough for him to notice her scent again. Something light and flowery. Roses, maybe. He also noticed she grasped the gun firmly in her free hand.

      “Are you okay?” she asked.

      He gritted his teeth. “Fine.”

      He wasn’t fine. His legs were as shaky as a newborn colt’s, and beads of cold sweat popped out on his face. Even walking as far as the couch wore him out. When they bypassed it and Christy led him into a hallway that appeared endless, he wondered if she’d decided to torture him to pay him back for his unwanted visit.

      “I have an extra bed,” she said.

      “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” he muttered, “I can bunk on your couch for a while.” Or on the floor, since he was about to fall flat on his face.

      Christy shook her head and urged him forward. “The bed. You’re hurt, and you need it.” She opened the door to a bedroom and steered him toward the double bed. They stopped beside it, and she pulled off the spread.

      As soon as the sheets came into view, he sat.

      “Whoa,” Christy said. “Let’s get you out of those wet things.”

      He was dead certain she wasn’t the first woman who’d asked him to take off his clothes, but this was probably the only time he’d felt uncomfortable with the idea.

      Correctly reading him, Christy smiled fully this time. “I’m a nurse, remember?”

      “Yeah,” he muttered. But this wasn’t a hospital.

      She set the gun down on the nightstand. Inexperienced with weapons, he noted. If he’d been so inclined, he could easily have grabbed it.

      She turned to him again and pressed him firmly back against the pillows. Hand on the snap of his jeans, she paused and said, “I’ll lend you a pair of my husband’s pajamas.” He heard a tremor in her voice and was doubly sure that, pajamas or not, Christy Matthews’s husband would not be coming home tonight.

      To distract himself from the feel of her hand at his waist, he tried to concentrate on the sound of the storm—the rain pounding against the windows, the wind rattling the panes. But the distraction didn’t work. Regardless of his physical or mental condition, his reflexes—and his hormones—were in working order. His body reacted quite normally to soft female hands undressing him. He pushed the hands away. “I’ll take care of it,” he said gruffly.

      She let him deal with the snap but insisted on helping him peel off the jeans, and he got rock-hard as her fingers brushed his thighs. For a second, before she assumed a professionally distant air, he saw the light of awareness in her eyes and the tinge of pink in her cheeks, and he knew she hadn’t missed the bulge beneath his briefs.

      She tugged the jeans lower, then her hands stilled. He followed her gaze down to his thigh. An old scar puckered the skin.

      “That’s a bullet wound,” she said. She seemed surprised but not repulsed. He guessed, with her medical background, she’d seen a lot of those.

      Well, apparently he wasn’t a doctor because the sight of the wound shook him up a bit. “Is that what it is?”

      “Yes.” She gave him a level look. “Where’d you get it?”

      How in hell did she expect him to know? He searched his mind, hoping her question would elicit an answer. It didn’t. “I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember anything,” he said, hearing the frustration in his voice. He stared at his thigh. “Maybe the scar’s from something else.”

      “No,” she said. “I’ve been a nurse long enough to know a bullet wound when I see one.” She took a step back. “Who are you?” she whispered.

      “Dammit,” he growled, clenching his hands, “I don’t know. I—” Pain seared his chest and he lost his breath, lost all awareness of what he wanted to say. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He couldn’t see Christy, couldn’t see anything but the damned specks, then he felt a cool cloth on his forehead, and her face swam back into view.

      She bent over him, her fingers resting lightly on the pulse at his throat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That was a dumb question.”

      He tried to say something.

      “Hush, take it easy,” she warned. “Your ribs are bruised, you’ve hit your head, and whoever you are, we need to get you taken care of.” She pulled his jeans the rest of the way off, and this time he had no problem controlling his arousal. He doubted if Hollywood’s sexiest love goddess could have awakened his libido at that moment.

      When the jeans were off, Christy said, “We need to wash some of that sand off. I’ll give you a sponge bath.”

      In other circumstances, he might have welcomed a sponge bath by this woman with the soft hands and springtime scent. Not just now. He hurt like hell, but he didn’t relish being coddled. Besides, the thought occurred to him that if he looked in the mirror, he might remember who he was. “I’ll handle it,” he told her firmly. “Where’s your bathroom?”

      She pointed toward the hall, and he sat up and eased off the bed. Immediately, she was at his side, grasping his arm to steady him. God, her scent was intoxicating. Honeysuckle? Violets? Whatever, it woke his hormones again.

      Unwilling