Stranger In Her Arms. Lorna Michaels

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СКАЧАТЬ killer who has been terrorizing Houston has broadened his territory even further. They are working with an artist on a sketch of the driver of the car Mrs. McLane was seen entering.”

      Both he and Christy swivelled to face the screen. He held his breath. Would he see a likeness of himself?

      “As soon as the sketch is available we will interrupt regularly scheduled programming to broadcast it.”

      Christy sighed, then turned to him again. In her eyes, he could see the question: was he the kidnapper? “Look, if it was me, I wouldn’t be the one beaten up,” he said reasonably.

      “I don’t know about that. Maybe she grabbed the steering wheel, made you go off the road.”

      He stared down at his plate, frustration churning in his gut. Without looking up, he shook his head. “I…don’t…know.”

      “Maybe you don’t, or maybe you’re faking. Whichever, it doesn’t matter.” She grasped the gun with both hands. “Until you can tell me different and make me believe you, I’ll have to figure you might be him.”

      “I understand how you feel—” he began.

      “No, you don’t. You haven’t got a clue how I feel.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashing. She glanced out the window, then quickly returned her gaze to his. “You wouldn’t be able to get far in the flood, so I won’t send you out. And I tried my cell phone again. All I get is a busy signal, so I can’t call the sheriff’s department. You’ll have to stay here and help me.” She leaned forward. “But if you try anything—anything at all, I won’t think twice. I’ll shoot you, understand?”

      “Yes.”

      He couldn’t blame her. She’d never seen him before last night. He had no identification. He’d come to her door with some cock-and-bull story about losing his memory. What was she to think? Hell, he didn’t know what to think.

      He wanted to reassure her, wipe the fear off her face. He shut his eyes and strained to remember. But his memory extended only as far back as waking last night. He recalled no blue Corolla, no pretty dark-haired woman. There was nothing. Only an endless black void.

      He opened his eyes and stared at his half-eaten breakfast. The thought of finishing it, of putting even a morsel of food into his mouth, sickened him. He pushed his plate away and started to get up.

      An earsplitting crash sounded.

      For a moment he thought Christy had shot him and wondered why he felt no pain. Then he realized he’d heard thunder.

      The television screen was black. The kitchen light was out, the hum of the air conditioner stilled.

      “The power,” Christy groaned, then slammed her fork down on her plate. “Dammit to hell. What next?”

      Chapter 4

      After a moment he saw Christy pull herself together. She squared her shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do but get to work,” she said. “These dishes need washing.”

      “Dishes?” he asked, surprised she’d waste time in the kitchen with the water lapping at the porch steps.

      “The water’s not up to the door yet. We have time, and I like things neat.” She gestured with the gun. “You do them. I’ll watch.”

      She wasn’t going to turn her back on him, and in spite of the quandary they were in, that amused him. He hid a smile as he headed for the sink.

      Christy impressed him. Some people would cry over the situation and some would curse louder and longer than she had moments ago. She was playing the hand she’d been dealt.

      He’d have to do the same.

      Keeping busy—that would get him through this. At least he felt better this morning. The pounding in his head had given way to a dull ache, and now that he’d eaten part of a meal, his strength had begun to return.

      Christy watched him and aimed the revolver at his back. If her family had any idea what she’d done—opening her door to a stranger, maybe a kidnapper—they’d have her committed. At least, with the gun in her hand, she felt more in control. Still, she watched the dark-haired man’s every move as he scrubbed and rinsed the dishes.

      Then she saw the bread knife.

      On the counter, inches from his hand. She’d left it there after she’d sliced the bagels.

      Silly to be afraid, she told herself. After all, she had the gun.

      But would she use it? She’d told him last night she would, but in her heart, she wasn’t sure.

      What if he grabbed the knife and refused to give it up? Big man with knife versus small woman with gun. She was afraid he’d have the edge.

      Maybe he hadn’t noticed the knife yet. Should she casually walk over and get it? But then she’d be beside him and he could snatch her gun.

      Uncertain, she watched him put a plate in the dish drainer, wash another. Then he reached for the knife.

      She was on her feet, her finger trembling on the trigger when he dunked the knife in the soapy water. He ran the sponge over it and dropped it into the rinse water.

      Legs like jelly, she sank back down on the chair. He’d had his chance with the knife, and he didn’t take it. Now she could get through the morning with a little less stress.

      The man turned and their eyes met. His were a deep, smokey gray. The eyes of a criminal? No, she didn’t see evil there. The stranger’s gaze conveyed sincerity, even compassion.

      As a hospital nurse, she was used to seeing people in the worst of circumstances, in situations where they were stripped down to their essential selves. What could be worse than losing your memory? Yet he was handling his predicament better than most.

      Unmoving, he continued to hold her gaze while outside the storm raged and Christy’s heart pounded. Which did she fear most—him or the storm?

      The storm, she thought. The man wouldn’t hurt her, she assured herself. They were in this together. For now, she’d have to trust him. She tucked the gun back in the waistband of her jeans. “Let’s get started on the living room,” she said.

      Insisting he walk in front of her, she followed him into the living room.

      Hands on hips, he surveyed the room. “We’ll need to sandbag the doors first. Got any old blankets or pillows we can use?”

      Christy frowned. He’d put himself in charge. Just like Keith. Give her ex a problem, anything from a broken teapot to a patient with head trauma, and he was certain he knew what to do. Better than anyone. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. Just because she’d had an overbearing husband didn’t mean she had to reject the advice of every male she met. Her helper was probably right. And injuries or not, he’d be better able to handle the heavy work than she. “I’ll see,” she murmured and went to get some blankets.

      They barricaded the front door with a faded old beach blanket, then did the same with the back, using a cartoon character blanket that had once belonged to her brother Steve.

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