Midnight Bride. Barbara McCauley

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СКАЧАТЬ voice was deep, husky. She’d heard it somewhere before, but it hurt too much to try to think of where. “Who—”

      Her throat felt like sandpaper. The bed dipped low as the man sat beside her and slipped his hand behind her neck. He carefully lifted her head and offered her a drink of water from a glass on the nightstand. The cool liquid eased the tightness in her throat.

      “Who are you?” she asked hoarsely. The room was in focus now, and the persistent throb in her head quieted. “Where am I?”

      “Why, Sarah, darlin’,” the man said, “after all we’ve meant to each other, you don’t remember me?”

      Confused, she stared at the man. Was that sarcasm she heard in his voice? “Why…why did you call me Sarah?”

      He lifted one dark brow. “What should I call you?”

      She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

       What should I call you?

      The pounding in her head increased. Her name.

       What was her name?

      “I—I don’t know,” she said weakly.

      He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t remember your name?”

      She closed her eyes against the encroaching pain. “No.”

      The weight on the bed shifted, and her eyes flew open again as the man climbed under the covers beside her.

      That’s when she realized what she was wearing. An oversize white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of thermal underwear.

      “What are you doing?” she gasped, struggling to move away. The man draped an arm around her waist and held her still.

      “Refreshing your memory,” he said. “Is this familiar?”

      He slid a hand over her hip.

      “No!” she cried out and moved his hand away. But somehow, the touch was familiar. Yet not.

      He raised himself on one elbow and stared down at her. “It’s me, Sarah. Caleb. Certainly you remember your husband.”

      Her eyes widened. Husband?

      “You can’t be my—I can’t be your—”

      She bit her lip. How could she not know her own name? Her own husband?

      “That’s not possible,” she whispered. “I—I don’t remember you…or us…”

      He hesitated a moment, and she felt as if he were looking into her very soul, reading her deepest, darkest secrets. Secrets she didn’t even know.

      “Do you remember this?” he asked, and ran his hand up her arm, then traced her collarbone with his fingers. Her heart began to race, and her breathing came in short, quick gasps. “Or maybe you remember this?”

      His hand dropped lower, very slowly unbuttoning the top button of the shirt she wore. His knuckles brushed the swell of her breast, but his dark gaze never left hers. Her skin tightened, her body came alive with a mind all of its own. Heat coursed through her, a mixture of embarrassment and—what? Desire?

      No, she didn’t remember him, and this most certainly was not familiar. She couldn’t speak, all she could do was shake her head.

      He stopped. So did her breathing. He watched her for a long moment, then refastened the button and inched away. Reluctantly, she thought.

      “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “What’s happened to me?”

      “You hit your head,” he said. “You were…out in the storm and fell.”

      The storm. She looked toward the window, stared at the rain beating against the panes…

       She was falling…falling. River. Cold.

      She sat up quickly, then squeezed her eyes shut and gasped at the pain that shot through her head.

      “Lie back,” the man—Caleb—said. “Here, take these.” He reached toward the nightstand, then pressed something into her mouth. Aspirin. His touch was gentle, and she didn’t resist when he held the glass to her lips. She swallowed, coughing as the tablets went down her throat.

      “Get some rest now.” Caleb slipped out from under the covers. She almost reached for him, felt frightened and cold with him gone. She clutched the blankets to her instead, wishing the blasted pounding in her head would stop.

      And as the medication slowly took effect, she slipped into blessed sleep with a strange image. Her bare skin, wet and slick, against Caleb’s.

      

      Caleb stared out the kitchen window, listening to the coffee percolate as the sky transformed from inky black to dusty gray. Rain fell steadily, alternating between hail and sleet, though not with the intensity of the night before. The thunder had moved north and was no more than an occasional distant rumble. He knew from experience the storm wasn’t finished just yet. Before the day was through, there would undoubtedly be another assault.

      And before the day was through, he also intended to have some answers.

      Sarah. He glanced at the wall separating the kitchen from the bedroom. He wasn’t even sure that was her name, but for now it would have to do.

      A scratch at the back door caught Caleb’s attention, and he let a soggy Wolf inside. The animal gave himself a shake, then padded across the kitchen into the living room. Caleb frowned at the paw prints on the hardwood floor. They had an understanding, he and Wolf. Caleb kept his food bowl filled, and the animal in turn kept unwanted visitors, human or otherwise, at bay.

      Until last night.

      With a sigh, he poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat at the kitchen table and ran a hand over the beginning stubble of a beard. So what did he know about his midnight intruder? She was probably in her midtwenties, approximately five foot three, maybe 110 pounds dripping wet, shoulder-length pale blond hair. Blue eyes. He remembered his initial reaction to those eyes, then frowned and continued his evaluation. Identifying marks: one small scar on her inside right elbow, approximately two and a half centimeters, and a small, heart-shaped mole on her left thigh. Caleb smiled. A very nicely shaped thigh at that, but he doubted that his mystery woman would appreciate that opinion.

      She hadn’t been dressed for a hike in the mountains, carried no identification, wore no wedding band. Her hands and legs were badly scratched, and she had a minor laceration behind her left ear.

      And no memory.

      He leaned back in his chair and took a swallow of the strong coffee. She was either telling the truth about not knowing who she was or was one hell of a good liar. He’d made up the story about being her husband and climbed into bed with her just to rattle her. Instead, he’d been the one rattled. The innocence that had shimmered from her was like a punch in the gut.

      True, he’d been without female companionship for a long СКАЧАТЬ