The Cowboy And The Countess. Darlene Scalera

got a feather-duster scepter, too.”

      “You’re the woman in the ads?”

      “As a former roller derby champion, Ronnie thought it was beneath her dignity.”

      “Now I understand.” Leon relayed to Anna everything Kent had remembered right before the accident.

      “Seeing you on the back of the bus must’ve triggered some long-buried memory in his mind,” he concluded. “I wouldn’t even be surprised if now that he’s seen you, his memory comes back. What’s he doing now?”

      “Sleeping.”

      “Sleeping? Good. Sleep is good. Why, he could wake up right this very second and be back to his old self. And all this nonsense will be over.”

      Anna heard the hope in Leon’s voice.

      “Any minute now, everything could be back to normal. Give me your address, and I’ll be right over to get him.”

      She recited her address.

      “And Anna,” Leon cautioned before hanging up, “keep an eye on him. The CEO of Landover Technology wandering about L.A. in pajamas and slippers isn’t exactly the image the company wants to project.”

      She promised, hung up the phone and went out to the reception area. Ronnie was taking a call. Anna’s mother was on-site with a new group of girls. Anna started toward the stairs.

      At the doorway, she heard Ronnie say, “How’s our cowboy?”

      Anna turned around. “I spoke with a vice president at Landover Technology. Kent had a car accident yesterday. He has amnesia.”

      “Amnesia?”

      Anna nodded. “Right before the accident he saw me in a Clean Queens ad. Seeing the ad, then taking the blow to his head somehow altered his memory. When he woke up, he believed K. C. Cowboy and the Countess were real. It makes perfect sense.”

      “I suppose—”

      “Of course it does.” She wasn’t going to allow any alternative speculations. She’d already heard enough nonsense about destiny and fate and the power of true love.

      “The man has a big bump on his head. It’s as simple as that.” She started again toward the stairs, ending the discussion. She made her steps on the stairs quick and light.

      He was still sleeping, smiling. Again she pulled the quilt up to his neck, even though she knew the gesture was done more for her than him. The comfortably warm temperature in the room made any covers unnecessary. She would go now. Soon, so would he.

      She had even taken a step when his hand closed around her wrist and pulled her back, landing her in the curve of his resting body, his mouth meeting hers in a movement fluid, fine, like the first taste of wind.

      Another’s breath, another’s being, one she had longed for her whole life, found her and filled her. She felt her lips widen, her need expanding, grasping. He touched his tongue to her, and her need breathed, ballooned, banishing all else. Reason, protest, rationale, all to blackness.

      She went to him, pressing close to the reclining angle of his body, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin shirt. She lay full on the hard relief of his chest, feeling the sheer solidness of him, reveling in the cocoon of his arms. Hold me, she prayed, even then, in the delirium of her desire, hearing the folly of her thoughts. Still, her incantation played: Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go.

      She bid his tongue into her mouth, the press of her body matching the press of her desire. Her hands found his face. As she touched the day-old beard shadowing his cheeks, she smiled beneath the circle of his lips. Her fingertips feathered across his forehead, arced across his eyes closed to the world. There was only her; there was only him. She drew her fingertip across one blond brow, then the other, needing to touch, to feel, to remember.

      Her hands moved on, touching each temple, the beginning border of thick curls. One hand threaded through the wave to curve about that magnificent blond crown. The other passed again across his forehead, feeling the slight swell of skin there, remembering, remembering too much.

      She sat up. Her hands touched him a second longer as if her responses had slowed, and her very body was denying her demands. She stood up, angry only with herself. She turned her back to him. Her eyes closed, seeking once more the blackness, but this time, the blackness of complete control.

      It came, so that when he stood and touched her back, she was able to silently step away.

      “Anna?”

      Such a sweet voice, she thought. She alone could hear the child in it. The child she had known. Sometimes before, when there had been only pictures to indulge her foolish fantasies, she had looked hard, seeking the child. Beneath the sharp lines of tailored suits, the determined angles of his profile, the slashes drawn across his brow, slanting down his cheeks, she looked and there was the child. She would peer closely, remembering the boy, the smile willing, the body knobby and awkward before the hardness and denial had drawn it up stiff. She remembered herself and him and the happiness they alone believed possible.

      And now, finally, although it made no sense and would be short-lived, so had he. It was enough to allow her to smile and, smiling still, turn and face him.

      She hadn’t been prepared for the confusion, the despair she saw on his face. His hands were lifted to her, offering, entreating.

      “Anna, I love you. Is it wrong?”

      She took those hands in hers, but when he began to step toward her, she tightened her hold, halting him.

      “Let’s sit down,” she said, leading him back to the couch still warm from their presence.

      “Kent—” she began.

      “K.C.” he insisted.

      “K.C.” she started again, concentrating on his face, keeping her voice kind, “I spoke with the vice president of Landover Technology a little while ago.”

      He looked at her, puzzled.

      “Leon,” she said. “Leon Skow.”

      His brow wrinkled. “Leon,” he murmured. “Short guy? Talks fast?”

      She laughed. “I’ve never seen him in person, but he does talk fast.”

      He smiled. “Bit abrupt but a nice enough fella. I met him yesterday at the hospital.”

      “You remember?”

      “Sure, he was there with some dark-haired woman.” He smiled again as he remembered. “They were so confused.”

      “They were confused?”

      He nodded. “They thought I was some other guy named Kent Landover. Some big shot here in L.A. who owns that company you mentioned.”

      “Landover Technology.”

      “That’s it. He must be pretty rich.”

      “He is,” she confirmed.

      “You know him?”

      She looked into the blue wash of his eyes, so clear and light, they seemed to spill silver.

      “Kent…”

      His eyes clouded to the color of shadows on snow.

      “Anna, we need to talk about us,” he said. “Not these strangers.”

      “They aren’t strangers, Kent.”

      Despite the tight hold she had on his hands, he pulled free. “K.C., Anna,” he pleaded. “I’m K.C.”

      “Leon told me you had an accident yesterday.”

      “I told you that, too.” He stood and went to the window as she’d done only moments ago. It was his time to turn his back.

      “That’s