Книга - Secret Agent Dad

Secret Agent Dad
Metsy Hingle


THE UNDERCOVER FATHER His memory lost, secret agent extraordinaire Blake Hunt found himself in the loving and capable hands of lonely farmhouse widow Josie Walters. And more than a little perplexed that he seemed the proud owner of adorable baby twins!Yet even as the details of his mission started coming back to Blake, Josie's sultry green eyes beckoned him to a seductive future with her. Would discovering the truth about his identity tear them apart - or unite their hearts forever… ?Five wealthy Texas bachelors - all members of the state's most exclusive club - set out on a mission to rescue a princess… and find true love.







Letter to Reader (#uba9d51e3-1082-5bf3-aa35-333cb7fadd15)Title Page (#u9d920bd6-9aad-5de3-944b-739ca382603c)Dedication (#u40ff70da-3b36-51cc-b8dc-8ff5a825e62e)Acknowledgments (#u894a9d3e-ffdb-5c9f-ab91-45f1b8b9f732)About the Author (#ue0f63319-be3d-5d5e-848c-0caadf86c250)“What’s Happening in Royal?” (#ud438e719-5320-535b-9b73-6a030bee2830)Prologue (#ua7f2be81-f3fd-53db-926a-1d9ae7f32b14)Chapter One (#udedbb5f1-8f78-5e70-a6d6-11fb7bcfd61b)Chapter Two (#u64e9e7e7-180b-5af7-8da4-855c1b2b7100)Chapter Three (#u2b523029-6e06-55e1-9621-e5ca4073b4f2)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Teaser chapter (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


This month, in SECRET AGENT DAD

by Metsy Hingle, meet Blake Hunt—

debonair secret agent. Disguised as a father of

twins, Blake was not prepared for

Josie Walters—a beautiful country widow who

wants to be a mother to those two precious babies!

SILHOUETTE DESIRE

IS PROUD TO PRESENT THE






Five wealthy Texas bachelors—all members of

the state’s most exclusive club—set out on a

mission to rescue a princess...and find true love.

And don’t miss LONE STAR PRINCE

by Cindy Gerard, the final installment of the

Texas Cattleman’s Club, available next month in

Silhouette Desire!


Dear Reader,

Hey, look us over—our brand-new cover makes Silhouette Desire look more desirable than ever! And between the covers we’re continuing to offer those powerful, passionate and provocative love stories featuring rugged heroes and spirited heroines.

Mary Lynn Baxter returns to Desire and locates our November MAN OF THE MONTH inthe Heart of Texas, where a virgin heroine is wary of involvement with a younger man.

More heart-pounding excitement can be found in the next installment of the Desire miniseries TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB with Secret Agent Dad by Metsy Hingle. Undercover agent Blake Hunt loses his memory but gains adorable twin babies—and the heart of lovely widow Josie Walters!

Ever-popular Dixie Browning presents a romance in which opposites attract in The Bride-in-Law. Elizabeth Bevarly offers you A Doctor in Her Stocking, another entertaining story in her miniseries FROM HERE TO MATERNITY. The Daddy Search is Shawna Delacorte’s story of a woman’s search for the man she believes fathered her late sister’s child. And a hero and heroine are in jeopardy on an island paradise in Kathleen Korbel’s Sail Away.

Each and every month, Silhouette Desire offers you six exhilarating journeys into the seductive world of romance. So make a commitment to sensual love and treat yourself to all six!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to.

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., PO. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian PO. Box 609, Fort Ene, Ont. L2A 5X3


Secret Agent Dad

Metsy Hingle










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To the four talented authors with whom I’ve had the

privilege of sharing this series—Dixie Browning,

Caroline Cross, Cindy Gerard and Peggy Moreland—

and for the brave editor who directed us all:

Karen Kosztolnyik


Special thanks and acknowledgment are given

to Metsy Hingle for her contribution to the

Texas Cattleman’s Club series.


METSY HINGLE is an award-winning, bestselling author of romance who resides across the lake from her native New Orleans. Married for more than twenty years to her own hero, she is the busy mother of four children. She recently traded in her business suits and a fast-paced life in the hotel and public relations arena to pursue writing full-time. Metsy has a strong belief in the power of love and romance. She also believes in happy endings, which she continues to demonstrate with each new story she writes. She loves hearing from readers. Write to Metsy at P.O. Box 3224, Covington, LA 70433.


“What’s Happening in Royal?”

NEWS FLASH, November 1999—Who could have predicted that a storm the size of our Lone Star State would blow into these parts with such vengeance? Never has the town of Royal seen such theatrics as the thunder-‘n’-lightnin‘ show put on by good ole Mother Nature. Power lines knocked out...roads aplenty closed down. The Royal Diner is especially concerned about that lovely widow Josie Walters, who left the diner in her pickup the day of the storm on her way back to her farm—she’s quite a woman to be running things all on her own out there in the middle of nowhere!

Royal is also buzzing regarding the whereabouts of Blake Hunt, the man of mystery and dashing younger brother of hotshot attorney Gregory Hunt. Seems his older brother has been seen about town fraught with worry....

And rumors are flying about a possible “royal” sighting of the formidable Prince Ivan Striksy. Could our Texas Cattleman’s Club members be entertaining this princely visitor...or keeping him under wraps? Our sources will tell you soon!


Prologue

The blood in Blake Hunt’s veins chilled at the sound of a baby’s whimper coming from the backseat of his car. He’d learned a major lesson in the past forty-eight hours—bachelors and babies did not mix. Given a choice, he’d rather face a firing squad than the four-month-old twins strapped m the seats behind him.

“Why couldn’t I get a simple assignment—like disarming a band of terrorists?” Pressing one booted foot to the accelerator, he sent the sedan speeding down the dark Texas road, barely visible in the heavy rainstorm courtesy of La Niña.

Bone tired from the mission he’d undertaken on behalf of the Alpha Team and his brother Greg, Blake replayed the escape from the palace in his head. Even with his training as a former Cobra, getting the royal twins out of the tiny principality of Asterland where they had been held hostage had not been an easy task. But he’d done it. He’d rescued the motherless babies and thwarted Prince Ivan’s plans to use them in his plot to gain control of the kingdom of Oberland. And in less than two hours, weather permitting, his end of the mission would be completed. They would be in Royal, Texas, and he would gladly turn the pair over to their aunt.

Another whimper cut through his musings. Despite the November cold, sweat beaded across his brow. He lifted his gaze heavenward. Please. Don’t let them wake up again. The whimper escalated to a wail. “So much for prayers,” he muttered.

“Hang on a second, sugar britches,” he soothed, dividing his attention between the blue-eyed babies seated behind him and the storm-ravaged road stretched out before him. He negotiated the sedan around another curve and swore as a fist of wind came at him and nearly tossed them off the road. Gripping the steering wheel, Blake fought to steady the car while he braced himself for the second baby to join its twin’s protests. As if on cue the other baby began to howl, and the wails continued in chorus. Blake still didn’t know which was worse—the nerve-wrenching cries of the twins or driving through the worst rainstorm to hit West Texas since Noah had piloted his ark.

Sighing, he darted another glance at the healthy-lunged duo seated behind him. An unexpected warmth spread through him as he looked at the tiny pair all bundled up in the ugly camouflage jackets he’d put on them in their escape from the palace. Miranda—he was sure it had to be that future heartbreaker—stretched out her little arms toward him.

Blake’s heart did a nosedive.

“Shh. It’s okay, sugar. Uncle Blake’s here.” Unfastening his seat belt, he stretched one arm behind him to stroke her tiny hands with his finger. Despite the contact, she continued to sob. And each one of those pitiful sobs ripped right through him. Nearly frantic, he tried to think what to do. “Pacifiers!” Groping in the diaper bag on the seat beside him, his fingers closed around a rubber nipple. “Here you go,” he said, managing to pop it in her mouth.

He was debating whether to stop and get the other nipple for Edward, when the baby stopped crying, and started to doze off. Relieved, Blake directed his attention back to the road and frowned. The weather appeared to be worse now than when he’d started out from the airport where he’d landed his plane earlier. The usually dry gullies were filling rapidly. Never once in his thirty years could he remember weather like this in West Texas. But he couldn’t stop and wait for it to blow over. He had to get home—to Royal—tonight. His brother Greg and the Alpha Team, all members of the exclusive Texas Cattleman’s Club, were counting on him. So was Princess Anna.

Another glance at the backseat revealed the twosome were asleep. Anger twisted inside him as he thought about Prince Ivan and his attempts to use them. From what he’d learned of the man, the prince would not be a gracious loser. “Don’t you two worry. Uncle Blake won’t let him get anywhere near you again. I promise.”

Rain pummeled the car like fists, making it nearly impossible to see the road. The windshield wipers worked furiously, offering him only split-second views of the road. His thoughts still on the prince, Blake didn’t see the shattered arm of a windmill in the road until he was almost on top of it. He whipped the wheel to his left, just missing it. Struggling to maintain control, he began applying the brakes. A blast of wind slapped at the car from behind and sent the sedan skidding sideways across the road. Blake fought to keep the car from flipping over, but there was no way to avoid hitting the low bridge over the creek. He slammed into the railing, and the car pivoted and began skidding down the shoulder. The babies screamed. Blake lurched forward, cracking his head against the windshield before the car came to a halt.

Dazed, blood trickling down his forehead, the frightened cries of the babies pierced his fogged senses. The twins! He had to get the twins. Fighting pain and the darkness that threatened to engulf him, Blake shoved against the door. It opened, and he fell to his knees in mud and water. He tried to stand, but the wind slammed him back against the car. His head struck the door, and pain exploded in his skull. His vision blurred. Clutching his head in his hands, he slumped to the ground, unaware of his wallet falling beside him, of the wind tossing the black billfold down toward the creek and into the rushing water.

And as the rain beat down over him, Blake succumbed to the beckoning darkness.


One

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Josie Walters smacked her fist against the steering wheel of her aging Explorer and glared at the windshield wipers as they waged a losing battle with the punishing rain. Slowing to little more than a crawl, she pointed the blue truck down the dark, empty road. “I should never have waited so long to leave Royal,” she grumbled.

She should have been home hours ago, safe and warm in her farmhouse, not driving through this monster-size storm. And she would have been, if she hadn’t listened to that Pollyanna voice in her head again.

“What made me think that placing an ad for a farmhand would be the answer to my prayers? Some answer!” Clenching the steering wheel with her fingers, Josie mocked her own foolish optimism.

“You’re a first-rate idiot, Josie Walters.” Because only an idiot would have convinced herself to wait for that last job applicant, believing he would be any different from the other five men she’d interviewed and ruled out. Not only had number six, a drifter named Pete Mitchell, been just as incapable and overpriced as the others, but the man had actually expected access to her bed as a fringe benefit.

“The jerk! Sex-starved widow, indeed!” Remembering the remark, she fumed, and prayed that Forrest Cunningham, a member of that ritzy Texas Cattleman’s Club, hadn’t overheard him. Everyone else in the diner probably had, though. How would she ever be able to set foot in Royal again? The fact that she’d even allowed the beady-eyed excuse for a man to finish making the proposition with his hand on her rear end before she’d dumped her coffee m his lap proved what a desperate fool she was. At the admission, some of the fight went out of her, and she sighed.

When will you learn, Josie? You are not Cinderella. Not even close. Didn’t all those years of being passed over for adoption teach you that much? If you had any doubts, surely that cheating man you married hammered home the message. After all, it wasn’t you he’d taken with him to Dallas when he wrapped his car around that utility pole. You didn’t quite measure up, remember? That’s why he’d taken that pretty new waitress from Midland with him. Face it, Josie girl. The only fairy-tale endings or princes you’re likely to find are between the covers of a book.

Pushing the painful memories aside, Josie focused on today’s blunder while she continued to creep down the road. Not only was she out the cost of the ad, she’d also lost another day. A day she could ill afford to lose when so much work still needed to be done before the bank’s inspection. How was she supposed to get the farm in shape if she couldn’t find help that she could afford? And what would she do if the bank turned down her request for a loan and she lost the farm?

Acid churned in Josie’s stomach at the thought. She wouldn’t lose the farm. She couldn’t. Regardless of her disaster of a marriage, at least Ben had left her the farm. And despite its run-down condition, the place was her home. Home. For the first time in her twenty-nine years she actually had one she could call her own. And she wasn’t about to give it up without a fight. Somehow, some way, she would find a way to keep it with or without the loan. She had to.

Suddenly a speed limit sign flew into her path, and Josie swerved to miss it. Her heart slamming in her chest, she pulled onto the shoulder of the road and noted for the first time that the storm was getting worse. When she’d left Royal there had only been a stiff wind. But now sheets of rain had joined the howling wind, whipping across the landscape and her truck. Josie shivered and turned up the collar of her denim jacket. Maybe she’d be wise to shelve her worries about the farm for the time being and concentrate on getting home in one piece.

Shifting the truck out of Park, she carefully eased it back onto the road. She’d never seen weather like this before—not in this part of Texas, where rain was such a rarity. Thinking back on how often she’d wished for rain for her roses, Josie shook her head. She certainly had never wanted anything like this... this deluge. She could handle the occasional sandstorms common to the area, but she didn’t have a clue on how to deal with a flood. Suddenly nerves twisted like knots in her stomach, because judging by the amount of water already in the normally dry creek bed, she could very well be facing a flood by morning unless this stopped.

Leaning forward to peer through the windshield, Josie tried to see the road between the swipes of the windshield wipers. Up ahead she could make out the arm of a windmill lying smashed in the middle of the road. A prickle of uneasiness skipped down her spine.

As she approached the broken windmill blade, a glimmer of light to the left caught her eye. Her heartbeat tripled at the sight of a car pointed nose down toward the rising creek bed. Then she spied a body sprawled next to it. “Oh, my God!” Pulling her Explorer off to the side of the road, Josie set the emergency brake and quickly released her seat belt.

Not bothering with an umbrella or slicker, she shoved open the truck’s door and broke into a run down the incline toward the wrecked car. Before she’d gone three feet, she was soaked to the skin and shivering from the cold. Slapping hair out of her eyes, Josie clamped her chattering teeth together and dropped down beside the man’s body. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer as she pressed her fingers to the pulse in his neck. Relief shot through her when she found it strong and steady.

“Can you hear me?” she yelled to be heard above the wind. When he moaned, she tilted his head toward the light shining down from her truck. Josie’s breath caught as she saw him. Oh my. What a face. The face of a golden prince. High cheekbones, sharp jaw, sexy mouth. Even unconscious and with a nasty cut on his forehead, the man would make grown women drool. He stirred, moaned again, then his eyelids fluttered. Brown eyes with flecks of gold stared up at her.

“Wh-what happened?” he asked, his voice as rough as sandpaper and barely audible above the roar of wind.

“You’ve had an accident,” she fairly shouted, trying to make herself heard. Although the rain seemed to slacken, the wind had picked up considerably. “You must have hit that broken windmill blade in the road. Judging by that nasty cut on your forehead, you probably hit the windshield.” She glanced over at his car, then back at him. “It’s a wonder the air bag didn’t inflate,” she said and wondered if he had disconnected it.

He looked at her as though he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Then he lifted his hand to her face.

The unexpected touch of his fingers on her face sent a shock through Josie. Her stomach tightened. She wasn’t used to being touched—especially by a man, and it had been a long time since she’d responded so strongly to a man. Ben’s philandering and his catalog of her shortcomings had long ago killed any secret cravings she had to be touched by a man. An hour before she would have sworn that that part of her femininity had died long before her husband had. Evidently she’d been wrong, because her skin tingled where he’d touched her. Feeling foolish and embarrassed by her thoughts, she began checking him for other injuries.

“Wh-who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Josie. Josie Walters.”

“I didn’t know angels had last names.”

Josie’s hands stilled on his ribs. She shot her gaze back to his face. “I’m not an angel,” she told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she assured him.

“I always pictured angels with eyes like yours—the color of summer grass.”

The conversation was absurd, Josie told herself. She was kneeling on the side of the road in a storm with an accident victim discussing the color of her eyes. Still, she couldn’t stop that fluttery sensation in her stomach. Noting the way he was watching her, she swallowed. She had to be imagining things, Josie told herself. Men didn’t look at her like that. Most men didn’t even look twice—at least not men like this one. There were too many beautiful women in Texas to settle for one with skinny curves, unruly hair and a forgettable face. Evidently the bump on the fellow’s head had affected his eyesight. “Sorry to disappoint you, cowboy, but I’m no angel.”

“I guess that means that I’m not dead, then.”

Josie bit back a smile. She swiped the sopping hair from her eyes again. “Nope. You’re not dead. And as far as I can tell, you don’t have any broken bones, either.” Still kneeling, she sat back on her heels. “You’ve got a few bruises and a knot the size of a lemon on the back of your head. But that cut on your forehead looks like it’s going to need stitching. Do you think you can sit up?”

“Yeah.”

She slipped one arm behind his neck and eased him up to a sitting position. As she did so, her breast brushed his arm. A flicker of heat licked through her at the innocent contact. Surprised and confused by her reaction, Josie bit back the urge to jerk away. But as soon as he was sitting up on his own, she dropped her arm and eased back a fraction. “Even if your car will still run, I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive. My truck’s parked up there on the road.” She motioned to where she had left the Explorer running with the lights on. “I’m no lightweight, but I doubt that I can carry you. Do you think if I help you that you can make it up to my truck? We need to get you to a hospital.”

The dazed look in his eyes cleared for a moment, then sharpened. A fierce scowl transformed his face from the GQ label she’d pegged him with, to someone dangerous, untamed, a man who defied any label. His response to her was quick and razor edged, but it was lost in another rush of wind.

“What?” she asked, leaning closer.

“No hospitals.”

“But your head—”

As though he’d forgotten the mjury, he pressed his fingers to his forehead. They came away with blood, which the rain quickly washed away. When he looked up at her again, a frown lined his brow. “I’ll be okay. No hospitals.”

“But you’re hurt.”

His dark eyes grew clouded. He looked confused for a moment, then the GQ pinup was back. A lopsided grin curved his lips. “Just a scratch,” he insisted. “I bet a kiss would make it all better.”

Josie blinked rain from her eyes. Her stomach dipped. “You’re crazy,” she told him and started to stand.

His hand shot out and he captured her wrist. Before she could stop him, he tugged her toward him, and sent them both toppling back to the muddy ground. Then his mouth—that wet, sexy mouth of his was covering her own—kissing her with a skill and a gentleness that made Josie’s head spin. She forgot about the rain. She forgot about the cold. She forgot about the fact that she was on the side of a deserted road sprawled atop a stranger—an injured stranger—with the eyes of a dark angel who kissed like a fairy-tale prince.

Suddenly, as though by magic, the wind’s angry hiss lost some of its bite. Even the rain slowed. And that’s when she heard it. A baby crying—crying at the top of its lungs. The sound slashed through Josie’s kiss-dulled senses like a scalpel. She jerked her mouth free and scrambled back from him quicker than a snap. She gave her head a shake to clear it. Lord, now she was imagining she heard babies.

“I was right. I don’t need a hospital after all. All I needed was a kiss. I’m feeling a lot better,” he told her, pushing himself up to his elbows as though he were stretched out on a couch and not on the side of a road in mud.

Feeling foolish for her reaction to him, she shoved herself to her feet. “Obviously, you’re not hurt as badly as I thought.”

Turning her back on him, she started for her truck. Then she heard it again—a baby crying. She stopped, looked back. “This is going to sound crazy, but—”

He was right where she’d left him—only now he was lying flat on his back, his eyes closed. She hurried over to him, discovered him out cold. And once again she heard the baby crying—only this time it was louder. Pushing to her feet, Josie stepped past the unconscious stranger and headed for his wrecked car. Her boots slid in the mud as she sought purchase on the incline where the car rested at an angle. He’d shut off the engine, but the lights were still on, and the driver’s door was slightly ajar.

Flinging her braid back from her face, Josie yanked open the rear door of the fancy sedan. “Oh, my God,” she whispered at the sight of the two red-faced, squealing infants strapped into car seats. One of the babies held out its little arms and hands toward her as though pleading to be picked up.

A fist closed around Josie’s heart. Her brain shut down, and her heart took over. “Shh. It’s okay, precious,” she murmured. Ducking inside the car, she released the latch on the car seat nearest to her and took the first little one into her arms. She held the baby against her breast, smoothed her fingers over the tufts of blond hair and stroked the tiny back. Almost at once the baby’s sobs lessened and a tiny thumb went into its mouth.

The other baby continued to wail brokenheartedly. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you, sweetie.” She leaned over the seat to stroke the other baby’s cheek, and planted a kiss on its little fingers. Then, pulling the jacket hood up over the head of the baby she held, Josie shifted the bundle to her left shoulder and used her free hand to grab its car seat. “I’ll be right back,” she promised the other sobbing infant. As much as she hated to leave the remaining baby alone for even a second, she didn’t dare try to take them both at once and risk falling. Shielding the baby with her body as best she could, Josie headed for her truck.

Three trips later, she had both babies strapped in the rear seat of her Explorer, relatively content with the pacifiers she’d found. The matching diaper bags and a tote with enough diapers, baby food and formula to last several weeks had been stowed safely on the back floor. All she had to do now was get their still-unconscious daddy into her truck.

Any thoughts she’d had about leaving him and going home to call for help went out the window after she discovered the babies. Opening the vial of smelling salts she’d retrieved from her truck’s first-aid kit, she waved it under his nose.

He grunted, slapped the bottle away and grabbed her wrist in a paralyzing grip. His strength surprised her, given the fact that he’d been unconscious. But it was the deadly glitter in his eyes that made her heart race. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s me. Josie Walters. Remember?”

“Josie?” he repeated, his expression wary.

“Yes. You had an accident. Remember? I stopped to help. I need to get you out of the rain. My truck’s just up there on the road. Can you stand up?”

He didn’t say anything, but allowed her to help him to his feet. “That’s it. Just lean on me,” she told him. What seemed an eternity later, she had him in the front seat of her truck. She’d no sooner gotten him strapped in before he passed out again.

The stretch of road that normally took her fifteen minutes to drive took a full thirty as she was forced to maneuver past fallen trees, signs and a road slick with mud and rain. When she finally pulled up to her farmhouse, Josie nearly wept at the welcoming sight of the lights burning inside.

She cut off the truck’s engine and flexed her fingers, positive that she’d left dents in the steering wheel during the harrowing drive. “We’re home,” she told the sleepy-eyed duo in the backseat. Unfastening her seat belt, she braced herself for the cool air and opened the door.

Blake felt the cool air swirl around him and tried to fight his way up from the darkness. Tossing and turning, he struggled toward the sound of a woman’s soft voice. But try as he might, other voices intruded, pulled him back into the dark...back into a long, dark hall of marbled floors and foreign scents....

Hurry.

The word was a chant in his blood as Blake removed his arm from around the guard’s throat. The man’s body slid to the floor unconscious. Hurry. Have to hurry, Blake thought. Stepping over the guard, he made his way down the long, shadowed corridor, his feet moving silently along the polished surface. Nothing could go wrong, he told himself. Too many people were depending on him. He had studied the layout of the palace, memorized every detail, down to the posdtion of each monarch’s portrait that had lined these walls since the sixteenth century. Even in the deep shadows, he knew ten feet to his left the Asterland coat of arms hung beside the door that led to the royal nursery. He moved silently, quickly, as he had been trained to do, and took out the two guards stationed outside the door. Removing the specialized set of picks from his wallet, he inserted them into the lock. Moments later the tumblers clicked, and Blake stepped inside the room.

A check of the nanny’s quarters revealed the old dragon was out cold, a snore whistling through her wrinkled lips. A smile curved his mouth as he thought of his friend wooing the lady. He’d have to remember to send Pierre an extra hundred francs as a bonus for combat pay. Romancing the woman in order to slip the drug into her wine could not have been an easy task for his friend, who preferred sleek beauties with large breasts.

Exiting the nanny’s suite, he stepped inside the room of her two charges. A sliver of moonlight fought through the balcony doors, illuminating the two cribs. Nerves were bunched like fists in his gut at the task before him, but the adrenaline rush that he experienced with any mission had him heading for the balcony doors. He flicked open the locks, and without waiting to see who entered, he started toward the cribs. He hesitated at the tiny sleeping bundles. A live grenade he could handle. But a baby? What if he dropped it? What if...

“Hurry, mon ami.”

The other man’s voice spurred him to action. The baby didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash as he wrapped it up and eased it into the pouch strapped to his chest. When he went to retrieve the other one, big blue eyes stared up at him. “Hey, sugar britches. Uncle Blake’s going to take you on a trip to see your Aunt Anna. How would you like that?” The little one didn’t protest, merely reached out tiny fingers to touch his black-sooted face. Blake’s throat went dry. He caught the little hand, not wanting to dirty those perfect white fingers with a warrior’s paint.

“Blake,” the other man spit out his name in warning.

“There’s something going on downstairs. Guards are rushing inside the palace.”

Steps sounded outside in the corridor. Deciding quickly, he unstrapped the pouches from his chest and began fastening them to the other man’s body. “Take them to the boat.”

“Are you crazy? I know nothing of babies. ”

“Neither do I,” Blake informed his companion as he urged him to the balcony doors.

“What if they cry?” the other man asked, his dark eyes wide with fear and his accent more pronounced

“Try singing to them. You always say the ladies love your voice.”

The other man grumbled something in his native tongue, which Blake made no attempt to translate in his head. Grateful that neither baby protested this middle-of the-night intrusion, he pressed a kiss to each tiny head. “Be good for Michel. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“But, Blake—”

“Go,” Blake ordered.

“Hurry, mon ami.”

Hurry. Hurry.

The words came at him again from out of a fog—this one of blinding rain and skidding tires. His head hurt, felt like it was ready to explode any minute. He swiped at his head, and groaned at another stab of pain. He could feel something warm and sticky on his fingertips. Blood, Blake realized. Doesn’t matter. Have to keep moving.

He couldn’t see. The road was too dark, the rain too strong. And he was tired. So tired. But he couldn’t stop, didn’t dare stop or they’d find him, kill him, steal the babies. He couldn’t let that happen. Only his head hurt something fierce, and he couldn’t seem to remember which way to turn.

Remember, we’re depending on you, Blake. Be careful, and for God’s sake man, hurry.

Blake heard the man’s voice, and he struggled to sit up. “Have to hurry. Can’t let them down. Gave my word,” he muttered.

“Shh. It’s okay.” Gentle hands pressed him back down to the bed. “You can’t go anywhere right now. You need to rest.”

Blake tried to open his eyes, to see the face that went with the new voice that came to him out of the fog. But try as he might, his eyes refused to obey. He tried to sit up again, but was pressed back against the mattress.

“It’s storming outside, and the phone lines are down,” she told him. “Even if the roads are still passable, you’re in no condition to drive. So, you might as well quit fighting me and try to rest.” Fingers as soft and warm as the voice stroked his brow, eased the ache in his head.

“If you’re worried about your babies, you don’t need to be. They’re safe and sound asleep in the next room.”

Babies? He didn’t have any babies.

He wanted to tell her that, tried to make sense of what she was saying to him, but it hurt too much when he tried to think. Instead, he allowed himself to be soothed by the gentle touch of her fingers, the sweet sound of her voice.

“Yes. That’s it. Try to rest,” she murmured. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to wake you up again in an hour. That’s what the book says to do for head injuries. Wake up the injured party every hour so that you don’t go into a coma.”

Talk of head injuries, comas and babies jumbled in his brain. So he focused on her touch, the soothing sound of her voice. Her familiar voice. Frowning, he tried to remember. Was she friend or enemy? Could she be trusted? When she started to press something cold against his head, he grabbed her hand.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, but made no attempt to wrestle free. “You pulled the bandage loose. I’m just putting more ointment on that cut before I bandage it up again.”

The need to see her, to see the face that went with the voice was so strong he battled to open his eyes. When he finally managed to do so, he caught a glimpse of familiar green eyes. “Angel,” he whispered, his eyes closing again. But even as the darkness began to tug him under, he could still see those clear green eyes—the eyes of his angel.


Two

You’re a good girl, Jocelyn. Not everyone can be counted on to remain calm and clearheaded in a crisis.

The crisp tone of Sister Charles Marie’s voice came back to Josie as though it were only yesterday and not twenty years ago that she’d snuffed out a grease fire in the kitchen of the orphanage and saved another girl from being badly burned.

Today had been another crisis, Josie realized, as she tamed her thick, black hair into a braid. She’d remained calm and clearheaded while she’d settled the twins into the spare bedroom. She’d even managed to remain calm and clearheaded when she’d maneuvered the little darlings’ daddy to the only other room with a bed—her own. And somehow, she’d managed to stay fairly calm and clearheaded when the man had started thrashing about on the bed and pulled his bandage free. But there had been nothing calm or clearheaded about the way she’d felt when he’d opened his eyes and called her “angel” again before passing out. No one had ever called her by a pet name before—certainly no one from the orphanage or the foster homes she’d lived in. To them she’d always been Jocelyn, and even Ben had never strayed from the “Josie” she’d insisted on being called. She’d come to accept the fact that she wasn’t the sort of person that people called “sweetie” or “honey” or “sugar.” Deep down she’d sometimes wondered if it was because she simply wasn’t special enough to warrant such an endearment.

But he had called her “angel.” Not once, but twice. It was ridiculous that his doing so should make her pulse quicken or make her feel like her heart was smiling. After all, the man had been injured, and in his delirious state he probably thought she was someone else. Yet he had looked at her the way a man looks at a woman—with appreciation, with interest—and for those few seconds awareness had hummed between them and lingered like the scent of her roses. By the time she’d repaired his bandage, she’d been too flustered to even attempt to rid him of his wet clothes.

Now, having had the benefit of a hot shower and a change of clothes herself, guilt sneaked in on her. She really shouldn’t have left him in those wet things, she conceded, then groaned. “I didn’t even take off his boots!” Irritated with herself, she dismissed that sexual zing of his kiss and blamed her reaction on the steady diet of romantic dreams she’d fed herself for years. She dug out a pair of Ben’s old jeans and shirt from the box marked for charity, determined to march right in there and get him out of those wet clothes before the fellow caught pneumonia. Suddenly her throat went dry at the prospect of undressing him.

Get over it, Josie. It’s not like you haven’t seen a naked man before.

And it wasn’t, Josie reminded herself. She had been married for pity’s sake. Feeling some of her calm and clearheaded self return, she armed herself with aspirin, a pitcher of water, a glass, and the clothes. She picked up her tray and headed to the bedroom to check on her patient.

A teensy measure of her newly reclaimed calm slipped when she opened the bedroom door. He lay motionless on the four-poster bed, looking too big and too male amidst the pale rose and ivory bedding. Lamplight framed his handsome face, making his hair gleam like wet gold. The white bandage on his forehead stood out in stark relief against bronzed skin. Once again the image of a golden prince came to mind.

Dismissing the fanciful thoughts, Josie made her way over to the bed. She placed the tray on the bedside table, but continued to hang on to the clothes she’d brought him. “It’s time to wake up,” she said. “Remember, I told you I’d have to wake you every hour? Well, it’s time again. I’ve got some aspirin, and I’ve brought some dry clothes for you to change into.”

Nothing. Not so much as a grunt or a flicker of an eyelid out of him.

Clearing her throat, Josie tried again, this time more forcefully. “You have to wake up now. I’ve brought you some aspirin to help your head and a change of clothes.”

Still, nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t utter a sound.

Frowning, Josie reached over and gave his shoulder a nudge. He stirred, and she snatched her hand back. “You need to take some aspirin and get out of those wet things,” she said again, this time in her firmest schoolteacher’s voice.

He muttered something that she suspected was no.

Annoyed now rather than nervous, his response made her more determined. It also triggered what Ben had called her do-gooder streak, and what she liked to think of as her human streak—that “something” inside her that had made her rescue a stray, or stop in the middle of a storm to help a stranger. Since she’d saved the man’s life, he was her responsibility, she reasoned. Well, at least for the time being. And that meant making sure he didn’t catch pneumonia. The man was going to get into dry clothes—one way or another. Besides, she thought, humor making her lips turn up at the corners. He was only a man. She hadn’t managed to work as a teacher for nearly six years without learning how to exert some authority. It was the schoolteacher m her that made her put aside the clothes and sit on the bed. Slipping an arm behind his neck, she lifted him to a sitting position and with the aspirin in her palm, she tapped her finger against his lips. “Open up,” she ordered.

“What the—”

She shoved the aspirin between his lips, then quickly followed with water. Strong, powerful fingers locked around her wrist at the same time that he clamped his mouth closed and sent water dribbling down the front of his already-wet shirt. The muscles in his neck had gone stiff, and his body felt like corded steel beneath her fingers. Stunned, Josie’s gaze shot up to meet his. The dark eyes trained on her were just as hard as the rest of him... and wary.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, it’s only aspirin and water. Not poison.” When he still failed to respond or release his vicelike grip on her wrist she said, “Please. You need to swallow the aspirin. I know you must be in a lot of pain with that gash on your head. The aspirin will make you feel better.”

After a moment something inside him eased. His mouth lost some of the hard edge. Tipping her wrist, he drank deeply from the glass she held, but his eyes remained open, never once leaving hers. The intensity of his gaze reminded her of the wild kiss he’d given her out in the storm, and Josie felt that shivery heat spilling through her. By the time he finished the water and released her hand, she was feeling anything but calm and clearheaded. In fact, all of those female nerves were jumping inside her again.

With less-than-steady hands, she returned the glass to the tray, determined not to let him know how he had rattled her. “I’ll leave you to get out of those wet things. Just yell for me if you need anything,” she told him and started to leave. Then she noticed that his eyes were closed again. Frowning, she said, “Did you hear me? I’m leaving so you can change clothes.”

When he still failed to respond, she jabbed a finger at his shoulder. Again, no response. “Great,” she muttered. The man was obviously out cold again—either from exhaustion or from his injury or from both. Worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, she debated what she should do. She didn’t have any options, she admitted. She was going to have to get him out of his wet things and into something dry.

Josie studied her patient and frowned again. Changing the babies’ clothes had been one thing. Changing their daddy’s clothes was quite another. After wiping her hands on her jeans, Josie moved toward the foot of the bed. She’d start with his boots, she decided, and as she reached for the first one, she fervently wished she’d taken the dirty things off him before they’d had an opportunity to become acquainted with her comforter. Maybe I’ll be lucky and he’ll wake up before I’ve even got the first boot off and finish the job himself.

She wasn’t lucky. He didn’t wake up. The man didn’t stir even after she’d made several attempts to get the blasted boots off. Finally the first one came free. Even wet, the deep brown leather was butter soft, expertly stitched and obviously expensive. From the size of the thing, she suspected he’d had them custom-made. “All right. One down. One to go,” she muttered. After dropping the boot beside the bed, she reached for its mate. She gave it one hard tug, then another, and on the third tug Josie went tumbling back and onto the floor with his soggy boot in her hands and a wicked-looking gun in her lap. Stunned, Josie dropped the boot and picked up the shiny black weapon.

Oh, my heavens! What kind of man carries a gun in his boot? An escaped convict? A bank robber? A government spy?

Stop it, she told herself, and slammed the brakes on her runaway thoughts. She stared at the gun in her hands, turning the thing over, studying it. It felt hard, cold, lifeless and sent a shudder through her. Oh for pity’s sake, she chided herself for her reaction. This was Texas. Half the men in the state owned a gun. Just because she didn’t particularly like the things meant zip, she reasoned. Besides, hadn’t she read somewhere that owning a gun was some sort of guy thing? That’s probably all this was, too—a guy thing. Walking over to the armoire, she tucked the gun inside a drawer and out of sight, then turned around and went toward the bed.

Besides, discovering that the man carried a gun was the least of her problems at the moment Getting him out of those wet clothes was. With nerves bouncing in her stomach like Ping-Pong balls, she reached for the button of his shirt.

By the time Josie had unfastened the last of his buttons and had wrestled the shirt off him, she wasn’t so sure that leaving him in his wet things would have been such a bad idea after all. Although he was about the same size as her former husband had been, there the similarities ended.

While Ben had been fair-skinned, this man appeared to have been kissed by the sun. And talk about shoulders! He had linebacker shoulders, and a well-toned chest to go with them. A silver medal lay against his chest, suspended by a chain from his neck. She started to reach for the disc to examine it, then decided she’d better not. Instead she directed her attention to the other major difference between this man’s body and that of her former husband‘s—chest hair. Ben’s chest had been as smooth as a baby’s bottom. But her patient had a swirl of deep gold hair that arrowed down the center of his chest all the way to the taut muscles that stretched across his abdomen and then vanished beneath the waist of his jeans. Heat curled in Josie’s belly as she looked at him, struck by the masculine beauty of his body. Surprised and embarrassed by her reaction, Josie reminded herself that she had a job to do. And that job didn’t include ogling the man’s body and thinking inappropriate thoughts.

Inappropriate or not, by the time Josie lowered his zipper and tugged off his jeans, her fingers were shaking. And if she were being honest with herself, her accelerated breathing had little to do with exertion and everything to do with the man who lay stretched out on her bed naked—save for a pair of black briefs. Fascinated, her eyes tracked that vee of dark gold hair that disappeared beneath the low-rise briefs. And the curl of heat inside her twisted, slid lower.

Get a grip, Josie, she told herself. Or else she was going to end up embarrassing the man and making a complete fool of herself. It was the thought of making a fool of herself that snapped her back to her senses. Pride, Josie conceded, had seen her through a mountain of disappointments more times than she cared to remember. While the Almighty might have skimped on her when it came to looks and family, He had given her an abundance of pride. And it was pride that made her yank the comforter up over the man and leave the room.

He came awake as he always did—instantly and fully alert. In the blink of an eye he noted the position of the exits. Assured he was alone, and sensing no immediate danger, he gave in to the need to clutch his aching head. He didn’t know what had happened, but he felt as though he’d gone ten rounds with a Mack truck. Based on the wad of gauze and tape across his forehead, he could only assume that he’d lost.

Willing himself not to focus on the pain in his head, he took quick stock of his surroundings and tried to determine where he was. He noted the ceiling painted a soft shade of cream, the delicate floral border that wrapped the room’s four walls. He gazed past the empty overstuffed chair in faded chintz positioned several feet from the bed. A small dressing table covered in lace sat against the far wall, a vase of pale pink roses, glass bottles and a ceramic box sat atop it. Continuing his assessment, he skimmed past the old-fashioned armoire in one corner and paused at the quaint bench seat beneath a window decked out in mint-and-ivory-colored drapes.

Nothing about the room or its contents triggered any warning bells. Nor did the place strike any chords of familiarity. But that fact didn’t alarm him. Although he had no idea where he was or exactly how he’d gotten here, he was sure of one thing-the room and the bed he occupied belonged to a female. Pleased by the thought, he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and smiled. Now that he did recognize—the scent of roses and rain. And of a woman.

But who was she?

He searched his memory for a picture to match with the scent. At first none came to him. Then an image began to play at the fringes of his memory—an image of a raven-haired angel with clear, green eyes leaning over him, speaking to him in a honeyed voice. The smile curving his lips widened. Opening his eyes, he stared at the empty space in the bed beside him and probed for a name to go with the face of the woman whose bed he’d shared.

“Good morning.”

He turned his gaze toward the doorway at the sound of the voice and stared at its owner. “Morning,” he replied, giving her a quick once-over and then a slower one. The tray she held blocked his view of her upper torso, but he noted with appreciation the way the jeans hugged her long legs, the slight sway of her hips as she walked toward the bed. His body responded to her immediately, tightening as he thought of her stripping off those jeans and shirt and joining him back in bed. He started to invite her to do just that, only he couldn’t come up with her name.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he replied, only to wince when a pain shot through his head as he pushed up to his elbows. “Correction. Not so fine. My head feels as if it went a couple of rounds with a tank and lost.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He shifted to a sitting position and was surprised to discover that he still had on his briefs. Must have really tied one on, he reasoned, which also surprised him since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such sad shape. Not only couldn’t he remember her name, but he usually slept in the raw. Heaven knows what in the devil he’d done to his head. He was just about to ask her what had happened when the scent of coffee derailed his thought processes. He sniffed. “Please, tell me that’s coffee I smell.”

“It’s coffee,” she assured him with a friendly smile and placed the tray on the table beside the bed. “After last night, I thought you could use a cup.”

After last night? Frowning he tried to remember what had happened last night. But for the life of him, his memory of their evening between the sheets and exactly what had led to his monster-size headache remained blank.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry or not, but I brought some biscuits to go with the coffee just in case.”

“Actually, I’m starved,” he told her and realized he was. “Biscuits sound great.”

“Really? That’s wonderful,” she said and proceeded to transfer biscuits to a plate.

Ah, she was eager to please, he decided and continued to study her, contemplating her hands as she fiddled with butter and napkins. Her nails were short, unpolished, but there was a gracefulness in her movements. Gentle hands, soft hands, with long soothing fingers, he thought, and another image winked at the edges of his memory. An image of those fingers stroking his face tenderly while she spoke to him in that lyrical voice. He lifted his gaze, noting the long column of pale skin at her throat, the fullness of her unpainted mouth. He tried to recall her taste, but it eluded him, just as her name did. Disturbed that he couldn’t remember kissing her, he drew in another deep breath, and this time caught her scent—roses and rain. Desire stirred inside him as he continued to watch her, tried to remember what it had been like to make love to her. And once again he drew a blank. As though sensing his scrutiny, she looked up, and her gaze tangled with his. Suddenly the air snapped with the sexual vibrations bouncing between them.

Just as quickly she looked away. “According to what I read in the book I checked last night, having an appetite after an experience like this is considered a good sign.”

“Excuse me?” She’d actually read books about what to expect from sex?

“I have to admit, you really had me worried last night,” she said, as she handed him a napkin.

“I did?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Um, why?” he asked, hoping for some clue.

“Well, mostly because you were so restless. You seemed to be having some disturbing dreams—which is understandable, of course.”

“Not for me, it isn’t. I don’t usually dream much.”

“Yes. But under these circumstances, I suspect it’s only normal.”

Under these circumstances? What in the hell had happened last night?

While he desperately wanted to ask the question, he didn’t. After all, how was he supposed to tell a woman whose bed he’d obviously shared that not only could he not remember making love with her, but he couldn’t even remember her name? The answer was simple. He didn’t tell her.

“So how do you take your coffee?”

The question gave him pause. Evidently they hadn’t been lovers very long if she didn’t know how he drank his coffee. “Black, one sugar,” he told her. Deciding he needed some answers to the questions buzzing in his head, he said, “But the coffee can wait. There’s something else I need first.”

Her fingers hovered over the sugar bowl. She tipped a glance at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have thought to ask if you wanted more aspirin for your head right off. That was a nasty cut you got. I’ll just be a minute—”

“Angel,” he said, something stirring inside him at her eagerness to please him. He reached out, captured her hand. “I would like that aspirin—in a minute. But right now what I want is you.”

He tugged, and she squealed as she fell to the bed against him. Surprise streaked across her features when he closed his arms around her and flipped her body beneath his. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She appeared so genuinely shocked and her tone so schoolmarm proper, he almost released her, sure he’d made a mistake. Then he caught that flicker of heat in her eyes, that shy yearning he’d glimpsed earlier when she’d looked at him, and he decided he hadn’t been wrong after all. “I’m remembering,” he whispered and lowered his mouth to hers.

She tasted sweet. Incredibly sweet and... innocent. And familiar. Yet not familiar at all. He nipped her bottom lip, and when she opened, he slid his tongue inside for a deeper taste. A shudder went through her, reverberated in him. When she pressed her hands against his shoulders, he lifted his head a fraction, again thinking he’d made a mistake. But one look into those soft, dreamy eyes and he knew that the only mistake about this kiss was that he didn’t remember the previous ones they’d shared. So he dipped down to kiss her again and make a new set of memories for them both.

For the space of a heartbeat, she relaxed beneath him, her body molding to fit his like a glove. Her fingers curled, dug into the bare skin at his shoulders. She returned his kiss with an eagerness that surprised him, aroused him, touched some part of him that he was sure had never been touched before. Damn, how could he have forgotten her? How could he not remember this fire that they created together? One thing he was sure of, he decided, angling his head and taking the kiss deeper, he wouldn’t forget making love to her this time.

So caught up in the wonder and anticipation of what was to come, several moments ticked by before he realized her fingers were no longer clinging to him, but were shoving at his chest. He lifted his head. “What’s wr—”

She drew her knee up like a weapon, and he sucked in his breath at the threat. “Get off of me, you...you jerk!”

He pulled back, confused as much by her demand as by the mixture of outrage in her voice and the panic in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” she repeated, color shooting up her pale cheeks as she scrambled off the bed. “You have the nerve to ask me that after...after mauling me?”

The accusation hit him like a sucker punch, sparking anger and sending a rush of blood through his system that made the pain in his head intensify. “Mauling?”

Another streak of color shot up her cheeks, and she looked away. “At least have the decency to cover yourself.”

He looked down, noted his still-aroused state wasn’t exactly hidden by the briefs. He yanked the sheet over his lower body. “All right. Now you want to tell me what’s going on here? Why the mauling accusation?”

“Maybe mauling was a bit strong,” she conceded. “But you caught me off guard. I certainly didn’t expect you to kiss me.”

Puzzled, he asked, “Why wouldn’t I kiss you?”

Defiance gleaming in her eyes, she tipped up her chin. “Because we’re strangers,” she shot back.

“What in the devil are you talking about? I spent the night in your bed, didn’t I?”

She gave him a wary look. “Well, yes. But I wasn’t in it with you.”

“You weren’t?”

“Of course not. I told you, we’re strangers. I never laid eyes on you before last night.” She frowned. “I know everyone says not to trust strangers, but I’ve always gone with my instincts, and you were hardly in any shape to be a threat to me. Anyway, you needed help, and I just couldn’t leave y‘all out there in the storm.”

Trying to make sense out of what she was saying made his head ache even more. He closed his eyes a second, massaged his temples and tried to remember. “Back up a minute, angel. You couldn’t leave me out where?”

“You know where—on the side of the road where you wrecked your car.”

“I was in a wreck?”

She eyed him as though he’d gone crazy. “You know you were. I don’t know exactly what happened, but you wrecked your car.”

Panic started to sneak its way into his blood as he tried to remember driving through a storm, having an accident. He drew another blank. So he tried something simple—what day it was, where he was. When he came up empty again, he told himself to remain calm. He touched the bandage on his forehead. “I hit my head in the accident.”

“Yes. At least I think that’s what happened. There was a lot of blood, and you’ve got a really nasty cut. You should have gone to the hospital. But the storm was awful, and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back to town, so I brought you here instead.”

Which 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 assured her with a steel in his voice that matched the determination in his eyes.

“I’m sure you will.” At least she hoped he would. “But in the meantime, you need to rest.”

“I don’t want to rest. I want to find out who I am,” he said, frustration emanating from him in waves. The fingers rubbing at his temples stopped abruptly, and he whipped his attention to her. “What about ID? I must have had some sort of identification on me. A driver’s license? Credit cards?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. All I found was a money clip with the initial B and a wad of bills. If you had a wallet, I guess it’s possible it’s still in the car. I didn’t take the time to look too closely. Or it could have fallen on the road when you got out of your car.” And if that were the case, they would never find it, thanks to the rising water and wind, she added silently. “When the storm lets up, I’ll drive out to where you had the wreck and see what I can find.”

“No. I’ll go. It’s my problem, and I’ve already put you to enough trouble.”

She shrugged, seeing no point in arguing that he really wasn’t well and shouldn’t be behind the wheel of any vehicle. “Well, neither one of us will be going anywhere until this storm lets up.” She paused, wondering whether she should tell him what else she had found.

He turned laser-sharp eyes on her. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

It unnerved her that he could read her so clearly, and made her pray he hadn’t been able to read how attracted she was to him. “Besides the money clip and cash, you had a gun. It was hidden in one of your boots.”

The frown creasing his brow deepened, but he said nothing, simply continued to watch her.

“I put it over there, in the top drawer.” She pointed to the armoire in the corner. “The money clip and cash are with it.”

Still silent, he pushed to his feet. And when he swayed, she reached out instinctively to steady him, and another sizzle of heat rippled through her. Awareness, lightning quick, flashed into his eyes. He sank back down to the bed, and Josie snatched her hand away. “Guess my head’s not as hard as I thought The damned. .darned thing feels like somebody took a hammer to it,” he muttered.

“I’ll go, and let you get some rest.”

“No,” he responded quickly. “I’ve had enough rest. I’d like to get dressed and then take a look at that money clip and gun. Maybe seeing them will trigger my memory.” He stood again, this time steady.

Unable to stop herself, Josie stared at him. He had a magnificent body. Tall, strong, solid. He reminded her of a mythical god, a warrior prince cast in bronze and gold, she thought. She ran her gaze over him and paused at a jagged scar on one shoulder, wondering how he’d gotten it. She skimmed past the flat stomach, and shifted lower to where his sex strained against the black briefs. Liquid heat spilled through her as she recalled the feel of him pressed hot and heavy against her thighs. Recognizing the dangerous direction of her thoughts, Josie forced her gaze up to his face. But looking into his eyes proved no safer. They were dark, mysterious and burned with a sensual fire that had the air backing up in her lungs.

“Angel, unless you’ve changed your mind about joining me in this bed, I think you’d better stop looking at me like that and let me get dressed.”

Mortified to have been caught gawking at him like a lovestruck schoolgirl, she took a step back to allow him to pass.

But he made no attempt to leave. Instead he stood there looking impossibly sexy and tempting. The bandage on his forehead added an edge of danger to his appeal, but was at odds with the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, irritated and hurt that he found the mousy little widow’s fascination with him funny.

“No. I just realized that you must have been the one to undress me last night.”

Her pride pricked that she’d made herself such a vulnerable target by gaping at him. She hiked up her chin. “It was either that or let you catch pneumonia. You were soaked to the skin.”

“Hey, I wasn’t complaining. At least not about you undressing me. I just think it’s a shame that I don’t remember.” The grin he flashed her was quick, reckless and did strange things to her pulse.

“Nothing to remember except being wet and cold,” she informed him primly. Feigning a nonchalance she was far from feeling, Josie said, “You might want to put on some clothes.”

“Be happy to. But first you’ll need to tell me where I can find them.”

Color stained her cheeks, and she once again wanted to cringe over letting the man rattle her so badly. “Your things are in the bathroom. I hung them there to dry last night. I’ll get them,” she offered, eager to put some distance between them.

“That’s all right,” he told her, catching her by the arm as she started to turn away. Another stab of heat shot through Josie at his touch, making her heart slap against her ribs to the beat of a Texas two-step. From the expression on his face, she wasn’t the only one having trouble breathing. “I’ll get them,” he said, his voice rough, gravelly. “I need to use the facilities, anyway.”

Sure she’d swallow her tongue if she tried to respond, Josie simply nodded. And not until the bathroom door closed behind him was she able to breathe again. Get a grip, Josie. Now is not the time to be hit with your very first lust attack! You’ve got to think, girl. Think!

But thinking around him wasn’t an easy task, she admitted, as she walked over to the window and sank down to the floral cushion that covered the bench seat. She stared out into the storm that continued to rage outside. A perfect reflection of her own feelings, she mused. None of it made any sense—not her reaction to his man or the predicament she found herself in.

And she was in a predicament. A real fix, Sister Mary Claire would have called it. She was all alone, isolated on a remote farm nearly two hours from the nearest town with a sexy stranger who claimed to have no memory, but who rattled her common sense and awakened hormones in her that she hadn’t even known she’d possessed. To make matters worse, the normally dry creek bed that ran alongside the road leading to her farm had already overflowed when she’d checked earlier this morning—which meant driving him into Royal or Midland or asking the sheriff from either town to come out here to get him was not an option. Of course, added to the list was the problem of the babies.

The babies! For Pete’s sake! She smacked her forehead. She hadn’t even told him about the babies. Surely seeing his children would help him remember who he was.

And remind him that he had a wife?

The question sneaked itself right into her thoughts. Despite his claim that he wasn’t married and the fact that he lacked a wedding band, she knew darn well the man hadn’t come by those two little darlings by himself. Having been on the receiving end of a cheating husband herself, she certainly didn’t want to be the cause of some other woman’s pain. Because whoever the woman was—wife or girlfriend—she had helped him create two adorable children.

A tender ache blossomed inside Josie as she thought about the twins. What would it be like to be their mother? To hold their little mouths to her breast as she nursed them, to cradle them in her arms and love them? She had been so sure she would have a houseful of babies of her own by now.

But no babies had grown inside her. Not a single one. She pressed her hand to her flat belly. Ben had claimed he wasn’t ready to be a father, had wanted to wait. Even if he hadn’t died, she wasn’t sure there would have ever been any babies—given the troubles in their marriage. But, oh, how she’d wanted a child of her own, someone to give all the love she had stored up in her heart. Josie brought the heel of her hand to her chest, rubbed at the spot where her heart beat.

She heard the door to the bathroom open, and Josie shoved her sad thoughts aside as he came walking into the bedroom again—this time wearing jeans and with a towel draped around his neck. Lord, but the man was beautiful.

“I found an unopened toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and used it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” She slid off the bench seat and started toward him, intent on telling him about the babies. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. How I could have forgotten to tell you—”

One of the babies started to cry, flooding the quiet house with an unhappy wail.

“What the—” He jerked his gaze toward the doorway, . then back to her. “What was that?”

“A baby. That’s what I started to tell you. You—”

“You have a kid?”

“Me? That’s not my—”

The second baby got in on the act and started to cry with its twin, creating a set of sobs that would break any mother’s heart or make her tone-deaf if she wasn’t careful.

He groaned, held a hand to his head and looked back at her. “Jeez. How many kids do you have, anyway?”

“I don’t have any.” She winced as the cries reached an all-time high note that Josie thought would shatter glass. She made a dash for the door. “But you have two...twins.”

Her reply hit him like a prizefighter’s punch, paralyzing him for long seconds. Speechless, he watched Josie’s cute little tush clear the room, her long legs moving at a fast clip. Unable to move, after the bomb she’d dropped on him, he stood there with his mouth open, his bare feet planted on the floor, his head spinning. The room swam before him. Damn near sure he was going to pass out, he braced his hands against the wall and sucked in air. The dizziness subsided, leaving him feeling as weak as a kitten and wishing he could just start the entire day over. And he’d start it by remembering who he was and erasing that little bombshell Josie had just dropped on him.

But wishing wasn’t worth spit. Wishing couldn’t solve his problems. Only he could. And he intended to do just that— starting with Josie. Shoving away from the wall, he moved toward the door on legs not quite as steady as he’d like them to be. What he wouldn’t give to just sit down—preferably with a shot of good Irish whisky, he mused. And he would. Just as soon as he set a certain raven-haired woman straight about a major misconception on her part. All right. Maybe he had lost his memory, and he didn’t remember his name. But he was damn sure about one thing—he was not anyone’s daddy.

Daddy!

Just the idea made him shudder. Him? A father? No way! The very notion was absurd. Just the thought of being responsible for one baby, let alone two, sent fear crawling down his spine. Surely this was not the reaction of a man who had kids. Besides, loss of memory or not, what he knew about kids wouldn’t fill a nutshell. If he were a father—which he didn’t believe for a minute that he was—he sure as hell would have remembered the fact.

Wouldn’t he? A man just didn’t forget that sort of thing, he reasoned. Nope. He wasn’t any squalling, pint-size person’s daddy. To even think he was had been a mistake. And Miss Josie Walters with the angel eyes and sulky mouth had been the one to make it Intent on telling her just that, he started down the hall to find her.





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