His Unforgettable Fiancée. Teresa Carpenter

I was hit by a truck.”

      “Is that what happened?”

      Thump! Thump! Suddenly his head hurt worse. Have mercy, he didn’t think it possible. Couldn’t people just leave him alone?

      “I thought I was here because I was intoxicated.”

      “You denied drinking.”

      He had no answer for that. He’d jump on it if he thought she’d let him go, except he wasn’t ready to move.

      “You were walking when the officer came across you.”

      “It’s not against the law to walk.”

      “No. But it’s uncommon for tourists to arrive by foot.”

      He didn’t respond. It hadn’t been a question, after all. The low, husky timbre of her voice might be soothing if not for the interrogation.

      “What do you drive?”

      Drive? His brows drew together. Hadn’t she just said he was walking?

      “You were wearing a leather jacket and chaps. Where’s your motorcycle?”

       Thump! Thump!

      He lifted his arm to lay it across his forehead. He gnashed his teeth at the show of weakness, but he had the desperate need to hold his head on, like if he didn’t brace it in place it might explode.

      “Are you okay?” Her voice hovered right above him and he smelled the freshness of peaches. She’d obviously moved closer.

      “Can we do this another time? My head hurts.”

      “I’m going to check your wound,” she warned him, the warm breath of her words blowing over his forearm. “It’s possible you’re hurt worse than we originally thought. This may hurt.”

      Her body heat warmed him as she loomed close. He shivered. With the pain racking him, he hadn’t noticed how chilled he’d grown.

      Thump! Thump! Sharp pain shot across his head.

      “Ouch.” He flinched away from her probing, all thoughts of the cold chased away.

      “I’m sorry.” She softly ran her fingers through his hair.

      Yes. That felt good. He leaned toward the soothing touch.

      “I need you to move your arm. I’m going to check your pupils.” She suited action to words and he suffered the agony of a flashlight scorching his retinas.

      “Irregular pupils. You have a concussion. I think we need to get you to the hospital,” she declared.

      “I’d be fine if you’d leave me alone.” He dismissed her claim, waved off her hand. “I just need to rest here for a while.”

      “It’s not up for discussion,” she stated simply. “I’m obligated to see to your care. It’s up to you whether we go in my cruiser or I call for an ambulance.”

      “I’m not riding in any cryptmobile.”

      “Then we need to get you on your feet.”

      “I think I’ll just lay here for a while.” Just for a bit, until he could breathe without pain and the room stopped spinning.

      “I can’t allow that. You have a concussion. You’re disoriented. You need to be seen by a doctor. It’s department policy.”

      “Well then.” She wanted to disrupt him, ratchet up the pain, all to meet department policy? Right. He had fifty pounds on her. He wasn’t going anywhere.

      “How did you get hurt?”

       Thump.

      “Where’s your motorcycle? Your wallet?”

       Thump, thump.

      “What’s your name?”

       Thump! Thump! Thump!

      “Will you stop? Your talking hurts my head.” So a few details were missing. It would come back once the pounding stopped.

      “That doesn’t really reassure me. Tell you what, if you stand up, look me in the eyes and tell me your first name, I’ll consider leaving you alone.”

      “I don’t want to stand up.” Why wouldn’t she just go away?

      “Don’t want to? Or can’t?”

      The taunt brought renewed pain as he frowned. He put his arm back on his head. Nice as her touch was, her insistence undid any good her soothing brought. Her goal, no doubt. It would take more than pride to drag him to his feet tonight. Possibly a crane would do it.

      “Look, I’m not interested, okay? You’re a beautiful woman, but I’m injured here.”

      “I’m not hitting on you.” Outrage sent her voice up an octave. “I’m concerned.”

      “Are you sure? I’ve never had a cop run their fingers through my hair before.”

      “So you’ve been detained before?” She was quick to pick up on the inference.

      He just stopped himself from shaking his head. “Just saying.”

      “That’s it. I’m calling for an ambulance.”

      Everything in him rejected the option of being delivered to the hospital.

      “Wait.” He opened his eyes. She stood over him, hands on shapely hips, a scowl pinched between her stormy blue eyes. Clenching his teeth against the need to scream like a girl, he shifted to sit, and then pushed to his feet. Holding his shoulders back, he forced himself to meet her poppy blue eyes without flinching.

      “Satisfied?”

      She ran those cop eyes over him, assessing him from top to bottom. She nodded once as if satisfied by what she saw. It took all his strength not to sag in relief. But he wasn’t out of hot water yet.

      She cocked a trim black eyebrow. “And your first name?”

      He was tempted to lie, to toss her any old name. But that felt wrong. Too easy. The falsehood didn’t bother him—being predictable did. She expected him to blow her off. It was what he’d been doing since she’d entered the cell.

      Forget that. Now he’d made the effort to get on his feet, he saw the value in getting a doctor’s opinion. And some serious meds.

      He met her stare-for-stare and confessed. “I can’t remember.”

      * * *

      “I can’t remember.” The words seemed to echo through the cell.

      Grace blinked up at him. A rare enough occurrence—at five-nine she didn’t often have to tip her head back to look a man in the face—but standing at his full height of six-three JD required her to do just that to assess his truthfulness.

      Amnesia?

      It seemed a stretch. Still, he had a sizable bump on his head and displayed signs of a concussion. It would explain his disorientation and his unwillingness to talk about himself.

      Then again it was a tad convenient. Except why bother? He’d been told he’d be free to go in the morning.

      “You don’t remember your name?” She needed to determine the extent of his missing information.

      “No.”

      “Do you know what year it is?”

      He answered correctly.

      “How about the President of the United States?”

      Another correct response. He swayed on his feet, reminding her that, regardless of the state of his mind, his pain was all too real. She decided to let the doctor sort him out.

      “Let’s go.” She led him