Memory Reload. Rosemary Heim

I’d say you’ve been very lucky.”

      “Like I said, sugar, a charmed life. So, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” He gave her hands an encouraging squeeze before releasing them. Pulling his chair around the table, he sat down, scooting closer to her until their knees nearly touched.

      She shifted on the cushioned chair seat, crossing then uncrossing her legs. With each movement, their knees brushed together, her dark leggings against his bare skin. Each brush sent heat curling up his leg. Ryan spread his legs, giving her a little more room. Giving himself a break from the unexpected torture of that oh-so-brief touch.

      He took a sip of lemonade to ease the sudden dryness of his mouth. “Let’s start at the beginning. Will you tell me your name?”

      Confusion flickered across her face, she blinked, her gaze darted around the room. “I…I can’t,” she choked out.

      “I promise you, if it’s a matter of safety, no one else will know.”

      A fine tremble shook her fingers as she tucked her hair behind her ears. “It’s not that. At least, I don’t think so.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.

      “Then, what is it?” He kept his voice low and calm, then waited through the silence.

      She sat up straighter, pulled her shoulders back and finally met his gaze head-on. “You want to start at the beginning?”

      He nodded.

      “That would be on the beach, when I woke up thirty-four minutes before you found me.”

      “You slept on the beach? All night?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs and cupping her knees in his hands. The scent of the beach—sunshine, sand and salt—clung to her clothes. Another fragrance, subtler, more feminine, teased his senses. He thought of pulling back, putting some distance, some breathing space between them, but the fear on her face drew him closer. The need to protect and comfort her ignited a slow-burning fire deep within him.

      He searched her eyes, trying to find the answers hidden in the stormy depths. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

      She shook her head.

      “Sugar, I can’t help you if you don’t give me anything to work with.”

      “Ryan, I can’t tell you my name, because I don’t remember it.” Her words came out in a rush, tumbling one over the next in her urgency to say them. “I don’t remember why I was on the beach or how or when I got there. I don’t recognize my own voice. I couldn’t describe myself until I looked in the mirror. My mind is a huge void.”

      Ryan sat back, staring at her for a moment before releasing a soft whistle. “Well now, that is a fix, ain’t it?”

      Truth echoed in her words. Of course, she could just be a good actress. It wouldn’t be the first time a beautiful woman had fooled a man with tears and a woeful smile.

      He studied her, searched her face for clues to what was really going on. Her gray eyes never wavered from his. He saw honesty and a silent plea asking him to believe.

      Her body language reinforced the image. She sat with her arms wrapped around her waist, as though trying to hold the fear in before it overpowered her. She still held on to the camera-bag strap as though it was her only anchor of certainty in an unknown world.

      His instincts said this wasn’t an act; she told the truth.

      Another set of instincts, the undercover-survival instincts, kicked in. He leaned forward, reaching toward her.

      She flinched at his first touch, but didn’t pull away, just sat motionless as he burrowed his fingers through her hair. The dark mass slid over his hands in a soft caress. The sensation called up the image of her hair falling in a curtain around him. He tamped down his reaction. Now was not the time.

      Starting at her temples, he conducted a thorough exam of her skull. “Do you have any bruises, bumps, sore spots, anything to indicate some kind of injury?”

      “No.” Her whispered answer brushed over his inner arm, raising gooseflesh.

      He smoothed the silken mass of her hair back over her shoulder and probed her neck and shoulders. None of his prodding elicited a flinch of pain. He broke the physical contact with her and leaned back in his chair. A silent sigh of relief escaped his lips. “What about a headache?”

      “Only when I strain to remember.”

      “What about your ID? You must have something on you with a name.”

      Early-morning sunlight slanted through the kitchen window, gleaming in her midnight hair as she shook her head. “No. There’s nothing. No pockets except this one.”

      He followed her gesture toward her breast. The outline of the slip of paper he’d given her looked harsh against the roundness of her breast. His mouth went dry as cotton.

      This was getting out of hand. He had to get his reactions to her under control before his libido completely took over. If he didn’t, he’d be useless to both of them. He swallowed and forced his attention back to her face.

      “What about the camera bag?” He downed the rest of his lemonade and refilled the glass.

      “I looked. There’s nothing.”

      “Everything looked normal?”

      She nodded.

      Ryan tugged at his earlobe. There had to be something, some clue to her identity. Maybe she hadn’t noticed it because it looked normal. People sometimes missed the obvious because they were so intent on finding the obscure. Hide in plain sight.

      Or maybe it was all there in the bag and she didn’t want her little game to end just yet.

      “Do you mind if I look?” He held out his right hand, testing her, wondering if she’d let him search the bag.

      She leaned over, lifted the bag by the handle and set it in her lap. Her long fingers rubbed the bag, her fingertips pressing into the nylon as they slid over the surface. It was an odd gesture. Almost that of a child reluctant to give up a cherished security blanket. She hesitated, gnawing on her lower lip for a moment before handing the bag to him.

      The weight of it caught him off guard. She’d been handling the bag with such ease there’d been no indication of its heft.

      He pushed his chair back and stood. After clearing the small table, he set the camera case on the sunny yellow Formica top. He slanted a glance at her. “What’ve you got in here?”

      “Cameras, lenses, film. Pretty much what you’d expect.”

      “I guess that depends on what you expect.” He lifted it and let it drop back on the table with a soft thunk. “It seems mighty heavy.”

      “No more than usual.” She shrugged.

      Ryan hesitated. Had she just slipped? Or was this a spontaneous memory breaking through the amnesia? When she didn’t say any more, he shifted back to the camera bag. He began his search with the outside pockets, snapping open each quick-release catch and pulling out the contents. He checked each item before laying it on the table. Packets of lens tissues, a shutter-release cable, several cases holding filters, a small cloth coin-purse. He spilled its contents onto the table, revealing a few coins and several small bills.

      Once the pockets were emptied, he ran his hands over the interiors, double-checking for any items that may have escaped his initial notice.

      He shifted a little, positioning himself so he could watch her reactions as he opened the body of the case. The zipper slipped over its teeth with surprising silence. The ticking of the kitchen clock sounded louder in the quiet room. As he folded back the cover he forgot about watching her, doing a classic double take when he saw the contents.

      This was not a tourist’s camera bag.

      He’d seen one camera when he came across her