A Man She Couldn't Forget. Kathryn Shay

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СКАЧАТЬ answered on the fourth ring. “Hello.”

      His mood lightened at the sound of her voice. “Hi, honey. It’s me.”

      No response.

      Damn it, didn’t she even recognize his voice? “Jonathan.”

      “Yes, hi. How’s Chicago?”

      “I’ve had a successful trip. But I miss you.”

      Please say you miss me, too.

      “Successful?”

      “We got the contract.”

      “Is that good?”

      “Very. I’ll explain the details when I get back.”

      “When will that be?”

      “Friday night. I’ve made reservations at your favorite restaurant.”

      A long hesitation. “Oh, good.” He heard another sound.

      “Was that a yawn? Are you getting enough sleep?”

      “Uh-huh. I’m in bed right now. I was watching TV.”

      “Do you remember any shows?” He hadn’t thought of this side of amnesia—would she recognize songs, shows, films?

      “A couple brought flashbacks.”

      “Any of me? We used to watch Law and Order together.”

      “Um, no, but I’ll make sure I catch an episode and see what happens.”

      He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. This wasn’t her fault, but he could curse fate for what had happened. “Honey, it’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

      “I know.”

      “Go to sleep.” He waited. “And dream of me.”

      When she hung up, he stretched out on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. He’d meant it when he’d told Mitch that he had never loved anyone like he loved Clarissa. And it had been going so well. Still, he hadn’t lost yet.

      As he lay there, he convinced himself that as soon as he got back to Rockford, she’d start remembering him. When that possibility began to worry him—there were definitely some things he didn’t want her to remember yet—he pushed them out of his mind.

      All would be well as soon as they could spend some quality time together.

      It would. It would!

      CHAPTER FOUR

      WITH THE LATE-MORNING sun beating down on them, Brady stood behind Clare, one hand at her waist, the other on her arm. Man, it felt good to touch her again. Too good. His whole body responded to her nearness. “Adjust your hips to the left,” he said rather hoarsely. “That’s it. Now, turn your grip about forty-five degrees on the racket’s handle. Good. That’s how you hit your backhand.”

      They’d been reviewing the mechanics of tennis, and she seemed to remember them with only one demonstration. “Got it.”

      Reluctantly he backed away, but he didn’t move to the other side of the court. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

      “Dr. Summers said I could play if we took it easy.”

      “She told you that yesterday morning. I’m not sure she meant for you to run right out and do it.”

      Rays of sun caught her hair, turning its blond strands lighter. He knew how silky it would feel if he ran his hands through it.

      “Brady, you’re sweet to be concerned, but this is my fourth day home, and I’m dying for more exercise.”

      “I’ll hit you some shots, but take it easy.”

      He’d gotten a cage full of bright green balls from the clubhouse at Midtown Tennis, and they’d gone outside, forgoing the indoor courts. He knew she’d been playing at Harris’s swank country club, a place she didn’t recall, so he didn’t remind her. If only the rest were that easy.

      From the other side of the net, she smiled over at him. “Thanks, Brady. For this and everything.”

      “You’re welcome. I snapped my Achilles tendon four years ago playing basketball, and you were a huge help. So I’m returning the favor.”

      She stared at him, trancelike. “You were a big baby about it.”

      “I was not!” His eyes narrowed when he saw the gleam in hers. “You don’t really remember, do you? You’re making that up.”

      “Gotcha.”

      He laughed out loud as he took his position. “Ready?”

      “I hope so.”

      He hit a weak one over the net. She returned it easily.

      Three more followed in the same vein.

      She bounced the ball in front of her a few times, which used to be her habit when they’d played together. “This is boring, isn’t it?”

      “We usually play harder.”

      “Let’s put at least a little more behind the hits.”

      They continued to lob the ball back and forth, using more oomph each time.

      At a pause in the volleying, she asked, “Who wins, Brady, when we really play?”

      “I do, of course.”

      She gave him a sideways glance. “You’re lying. I’ll bet I’m better than you.”

      “Are you remembering that?”

      “No.”

      “Then, nope, I’m the better player.”

      This time she laughed out loud, which hadn’t happened much since the accident. Laughter and pure fun had been a routine part of their lives together until Harris had come along. Snagging the next ball with her hand, she headed to the back of the court.

      “That outfit looks great on you,” he called from behind her. It did, too, and made his mouth water. And it felt good to flirt with her again. This also had been part of their history—the innocent, suggestive remarks that made them both smile. Though for him, things between them had been far less innocent long before the accident.

      She glanced down at the white skirt and red halter top she wore. When she pivoted back around, she gave him a haughty look. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

      Huh. She was distracting him, big-time. “I don’t need to. I told you I always win.”

      Stopping at the serve line, she faced him. “Let’s play a game.”

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