Chapter Three

Her dark eyes grew big. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

A void had settled over him as he saw the information he needed and craved from afar in his mind’s eye, but it was just out of reach. “I mean, I don’t know who I am. I don’t know anything. I don’t know who you are or where I am.” He gripped the blanket between lean fingers.

“Easy, easy, now. We were never properly introduced so you shouldn’t know who I am. Okay. Calm down, my name is Dezarae. Just take it easy.” One dark hand reached out to touch him in a comforting gesture, but at the last second she decided not to and withdrew it to rest at her side.

He began to breathe a bit easier. His mind raced as he tried to figure out what was going on. If he could just remember one thing…anything... “So you didn’t ask me to test me, did you?” The dark head looked around her definitely feminine room and he asked, “You don’t know who I am either, do you?”

“No. I don’t.” Clearly a bit uncomfortable, she moved back away from the bed, cup in hand. “You should get some rest. It’s not like you can go anywhere, anyway.” For a brief second, a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes before it was gone, masked under a face of indifference. “Your clothes are still being washed; that’s why I said what I said.” For the second time in a matter of an hour, she bolted from her own bedroom.

In the kitchen, Dezarae held her hand over her chest and tried to slow the out-of-control beating of her heart. Her gaze took in the rattling of the windows as the storm only increased in intensity. The phones were down; she had already tried to call the sheriff, but she would go in the morning and see if anyone knew her mysterious guest. Assuming the weather would cooperate, that was.

Eyes open or closed, it didn’t matter. All she could see was his chiseled body. He wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t huge, either. He was full of defined muscles from his head down. Undressing him had been fun; if only he hadn’t been near death, she might have enjoyed it even more. Even so, she had appreciated what he offered.

Back in the floral bedroom, the dark-haired, gray-eyed man fought his growing panic. He had no clothes save for the boxers he was wearing, no idea of where he was, how he got there, or what he was doing in this woman’s bed. Topping it off, he had no freaking idea who he was.

The more he tried to come up with his God-given name, the worse his head felt. Looking down his near-naked body, he frowned as he located a tattoo over one pectoral. It was of an anchor and a chain and the backdrop was a rebel flag. “Who am I?”

Well, she had been right about one thing. He needed some more sleep and so he snuggled down deeper into the plush mattress on the full-size bed and allowed the gentle smell of some flower he couldn’t quite identify to cocoon around him as succumbed to slumber.

He was sound asleep when Dezarae came back into the room.

She smiled as she took in the stranger in her bed. He had curled up against her stuffed tow truck. His face was finally at peace. Moving silently, she left the room and went to make herself some dinner. While it was cooking, she took his clothes from the dryer, folded them, and placed them beside the bed where he still slept. Again, Dezarae reached out her hand like she was going to stroke his face only to again withdraw it. There was something about this man that called to her, but she wasn’t sure what. It could have been the real fear she had seen when he couldn’t remember his own name, but she didn’t know.

After one more glance at his body, she slipped back out of the room with an extra blanket for her own use that night. As she was leaving the room, she didn’t notice the slate gaze that settled upon her retreating back, watching the sway of her hips with considerable less mistrust in them.

Glancing at her watch, she knew how long she had before dinner and so, sliding on her coveralls, Dezarae went to the garage and began to work on her vehicle. She was restoring a classic—a 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500, obsidian black.

Her hands were gentle as they moved over the shell of the car. Restoring cars was her passion. She was good at it, as the shop next to her house would suggest, but it was this car that she worked on in her free time, little by little, savoring the experience, for it relaxed her immensely.

So, with a grin, she lifted out the dismantled engine and began to clean parts again, laying them out to dry after she was done. James Blunt played through her garage as she worked. When her watch beeped she stood up, degreased her hands, and unzipped the coveralls, draping them across one worktable, and tuned off the radio before going back into the warm house.

Her home was small with two bedrooms and one bath. It worked for her but with the extra guest she was going to be sleeping on the couch. It was fine, she had done it before.

Pulling the casserole out of the oven, she placed it on the trivet on the countertop. The smell filled her kitchen as she walked to the cupboards and got down some dishes. As she turned around, she froze. Leaning in her doorway stood the man she had picked up alongside the road.

He stood there like he owned the place. He’d dressed only in his jeans that she had left folded beside the bed, the defined abs that disappeared below the waistband of those blue jeans visible to her gaze. Her eyes traveled over the anchor tattoo on his left pec. Suddenly the rebel flag didn’t give her shivers; well, it did, but not like it usually would.

He oozed sex as he leaned there watching her with those intense gray eyes that roamed over her body again as if he owned her and the property rights to her. Up and down, slowly, his gaze moved. Burning her, branding her. It was as if he were learning her most private thoughts just from a look.

“I’m sorry I scared you earlier,” he said in a deep voice.

“How are you feeling?” Dezarae asked him, ignoring the trembles his voice had created in her body.

“Good.” He took a step towards her but stopped as she shrank back. A sad expression filled his hand-some face. “I won’t hurt you.”

It was hard for him to explain how her recoil from him felt. It hurt, but it was more than that. This feeling of wanting to make her feel safe and protected felt familiar to him. But she’d said they didn’t know each other.

Still, the fact apprehension had flooded her beautiful sepia face at his forward motion crushed him. He didn’t want that expression anywhere near her. So he stayed in the doorway. But his eyes never left her; he willed her to believe him.

How could she when he didn’t even know who or what he was? A groan of frustration left him as he realized this situation was bordering on hopeless.

Hearing the groan, Dezarae took a step towards him, immediately concerned for his wellbeing. “Are you okay?” She walked up to him and realized just how much bigger than her he was. He stood about six feet, four inches, and all of it was well muscled.

The man clenched his jaw and nodded abruptly. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Do you feel well enough to eat something?” she asked as she retreated back to the cupboard and took down another set of dishes.

“I think so.”

“Well, it isn’t fancy but it will stick to your ribs. I hope you don’t mind chicken casserole.”

“Not at all.”

She felt him staring at her, as if hoping she would turn and meet his gaze, but she steadfastly avoided his eyes. After she set the table, she turned and began to prepare a salad as the house shook from the force of the winds.

“Grab a seat,” she murmured, opening the fridge to take out the pitcher of cold water she had in there. Turning towards the table, Dezarae sent the man sitting there a nervous smile, wishing he wouldn’t gaze at her so.

She dished up the food silently and put the plate in front of him. She then turned her attention to her food, not the bronzed torso muscles he had. Concentrating on keeping her gaze firmly on the plate in front of her, she began to eat. Stay firm and concentrate on food. Girl, you know he is firm.