Secret Agent Dad. Metsy Hingle
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explained the headache and his fuzzy memories. “And exactly where is here?”
“My farm.”
“Thank you for stopping to help me.”
She nodded. “You still need to see a doctor, and I’m pretty sure that cut needs to be stitched. But the rain’s still coming down. The road’s under water now, and the phone lines have been out since last night, so I haven’t been able to notify the sheriff about the accident.”
“It’s no big deal, and I’m sure my head will be fine,” he told her, instinctively shying away from the thought of her calling hospitals or the law.
“The worst part is that without the phone, there’s no way for you to even notify your wife that y‘all are okay.”
“My what?” he said, jerking his attention back to her and sending pain slicing through his skull at the quick movement.
“Your wife,” she repeated.
“Angel, I don’t have a wife,” he informed her, then realized he couldn’t remember if he had a wife or not. At least he didn’t think he had one. For some reason the thought of being married had acid churning in his stomach. He darted a glance at her hands and was relieved to see no jewelry at all.
“I see,” she said, censure in her voice.
“I’m certainly glad one of us does,” he muttered, puzzled by her disapproval.
“Pardon?”
He sighed. “I, um, I’m having a bit of trouble remembering certain things.”
“Like what?”
“Like last night. Did you and I—Did we—?”
“No,” she said, her cheeks pinkening. “I slept on the couch.”
“Sorry.” And he was. Judging by the sparks they generated, he suspected the two of them would be good together in bed. He couldn’t help noting the way she kept crumpling and then smoothing out the napkin that she’d picked up from the floor. Nerves, he decided, and for some reason found her flustered state endearing. Maybe they would be lovers yet, he mused. That is, as soon as he started remembering things. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. But there’s one other thing I’d like to ask you to do for me, if you would.”
“Yes?”
“Tell me your name.”
“Josie,” she told him. “Josie Walters.”
“Josie,” he repeated the name, trying out the sound of it on his lips and deciding he liked it. “Am I correct in assuming there’s no Mr. Walters?”
“I’m a widow. My husband died about a year ago.”
“Sorry for your loss, and for the misunderstanding.”
“No problem,” she said, giving him a shy smile. “But you never did tell me what your name is.”
Extending his hand, he said, “I’m... I’m...” Panic began to churn in his blood again, making his head throb. Sweat broke out across his brow. He tried not to give in to that panic as he groped for some memory, any memory, of what his name was, who he was, where he was from. But try as he might, his memory was an empty page that began and ended with Josie’s face, the sound of her voice.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t have any idea who I am.”
Three
“What do you mean, you don’t know who you are?”
“Just what I said.” Stripping off the covers, he sat up on the side of the bed, shoved his hands through his hair. “I can’t remember who I am.”
The despair in his voice touched something deep inside Josie. So did the sight of his near-naked body. Despite her marriage, she’d had little experience when it came to men. Certainly not with gorgeous men who seemed inclined to kiss her. Averting her gaze from all that bronzed skin and muscle, she insisted, “But you must remember something.”
He pinned her with eyes that had gone flat and hard. “I don’t remember a damn thing—except for you.”
“Me?” The word came out as little more than a squeak. She swallowed, tried again. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would you remember me? We don’t even know each other.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t remember my name. I certainly don’t remember any accident or hitting my head.” He rubbed at his temple as though in pain, but when he lifted those chocolate eyes to hers, they were filled with irritation...and with need.
Josie’s stomach tightened like a fist.
“The only thing that I do remember is you. Your face. The sound of your voice. Even the way you smell. When you came walking through that door a few minutes ago, I could have sworn that you and I were—”
“Um, yes. I, um, get the picture,” Josie told him. And she did. She knew exactly what he’d thought, given the way he’d tumbled her to the bed and kissed her. Even now just thinking about that kiss made her knees sag. And considering the way she’d responded, was it any wonder the man had thought they were lovers?
How could she have behaved that way? Allowed him such liberties? Taken such liberties herself? Her behavior had been outrageous. She’d obviously taken temporary leave of her senses. What else could account for that heady sensation she’d experienced? Or the fact that she’d actually enjoyed being wrapped in his arms, of feeling his hard body pressed against hers, of discovering the taste and texture of his mouth? And that mouth! She hadn’t known a mouth could be so skilled, so hungry, so eager. Not for her.
Her lips tingled at the memory, and she pressed her fingertips against them. No one had ever kissed her that way before. Not even in the early days of her marriage had she experienced that kind of passion—so powerful, so huge, so consuming. During those few moments desire had exploded inside her, obliterating her ability to think. Even now, just remembering sent shivers of longing curling through her—confusing her, shaming her and exciting her all at the same time. For a woman who had always considered herself less than hot natured when it came to sex, and had even accepted that she was at least partly responsible for Ben’s straying, her response to this stranger’s kiss made absolutely no sense. Yet there was no denying that she’d wanted more. What did that say about her character? Not much, she decided. Squeezing her eyes shut, she could only be grateful that he hadn’t realized just how close to the edge she had been. That one kiss from him had had her swimming in those fairy-tale dreams again.
“Damn it! Why can’t I remember anything?”
Josie’s eyes snapped open at the sharpness in his tone, saw him wince and grab his head. “You’ve got to calm down,” she told him. “Getting upset isn’t going to help matters. That blow to your head must have caused some sort of temporary amnesia.”
He fingered the bandage on his forehead, traced the square of white gauze and tape. “Amnesia,” he repeated with a frown, then lifted his eyes to hers. “How long does that usually last?”
“I...um...I’m not sure,” Josie admitted.
“Well, how long do you think? A day? Two days? A week?”
“It isn’t the flu,” she informed him, irritated by his impatience. “From the few things I remember reading about amnesia, each case varies. Some people get their memory back in a few days. Some take weeks or months, even years. And others, well, others take...longer.”
Something in her tone must have alarmed him because he narrowed his eyes. “How much longer?”
“Some people never get their memory back.”
“I’ll get mine back,” he