Dangerous Temptation

He remembered the smell—a sickening odour of kerosene—and the searing heat of the ball of fire that had consumed what was left of the aircraft. He knew that more people had died, engulfed by the flames, while he’d lain there unable to do anything.

They said he’d been knocked unconscious, which accounted for his memory loss now. He just wished he could have forgotten the aftermath of the crash. At present, it was the only thing on his mind.

Yet, if he concentrated, he could remember superficial things. It caused the throbbing in his head to increase, but he knew the name of the president who was presently occupying the White House, and he was pretty sure he could still read and write. For instance, those blacksmiths who were taking his skull apart had to come from somewhere. And no one had had to tell him where he was.

Or was that strictly true? Had he really known he was in a hospital in New York? He frowned. So, okay, someone had told him that, but he’d known what a hospital was, and he’d known what was happening after the crash.

The hammering was worse, much worse, and his mouth felt as dry as a dust bowl. Probably tasted like one, as well, he thought ruefully, wishing he could call a nurse. The injection they had given him earlier to relieve the pain must have worn off.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, a face swam into view. A female face, oval shaped and somehow vulnerable, it was gazing at him rather uncertainly. As if the woman didn’t quite believe he was alive, he mused, forcing himself to concentrate on who she was. She was nothing like the nurse who’d attended him earlier, who’d scolded him for trying to get out of bed. Just because he’d wanted to go to the bathroom instead of using one of their damn bedpans. Dammit, he might have lost his memory, but he still had some pride.

He wondered briefly if he’d died and gone to heaven. The way his head had been hammering earlier, there was always a chance. And surely only an angel could have eyes that vivid shade of sapphire. Or were they violet? he pondered dazedly as a sooty fringe of lashes swept her cheeks.

He licked his lips, but whatever romantic words had formed in his mind, his outburst was hopelessly prosaic. “A drink,” he whispered, giving in to the urgent needs of the moment. “I need a drink. I’m parched.”

Every word caused the pain in his skull to expand, and her timid “What?” had him groaning for relief. Dammit, what was the matter with her? Was he speaking a foreign language? Why was she gazing at him with those big blue eyes, as if he’d scared her half to death?

“Oh—water,” she eventually stuttered faintly. And now he heard the unfamiliar inflection in her voice. “I didn’t think—I didn’t realise—you want a drink?” She glanced around. “I’ll get the nurse. Just hang on a minute.”

“No,” he began as she would have moved away, and although he sensed her reluctance to obey him, she stayed where she was. “There,” he croaked, “on the cupboard.” And she turned to look at the carafe of water and the glass.

It was her accent, he realised as she poured a little of the water into the glass, dropped in a straw, and slid a slim arm beneath his shoulders. It was different, unfamiliar—English? Yes, that was it. He would almost swear it was English So—he knew her accent, but he didn’t know who she was.

A drifting cloud of fragrance enveloped him as she lifted him. And her breath, as she murmured, “Are you sure this is all right?” was just as sweet. Perfume, he breathed; nurses didn’t usually use expensive perfume. Or wear fur-trimmed overcoats besides, he thought as the softness of her sleeve brushed his neck.

He was so bemused by what his senses were telling him that when she brought the straw to his lips, he felt some of the water go sliding down his chin. Oh, great, he thought, he was dribbling like a baby. What an impression he was going to make.

Nevertheless, the drop of water that made it past his lips was refreshing. The straw was only plastic like the glass, and the liquid had a faint metallic taste, but it felt like liquid honey on his tongue. It eased the awful dryness that was almost choking him, and although his head was still throbbing, the woman’s appearance had distracted him from his woes.

When she lowered him back to the pillow, he groped blindly for her hand. “Who are you?” he demanded, hearing his voice, hoarse and anxious in his panic. He gripped her wrist, feeling the narrow bones taut, and somehow fragile, beneath his fingers. “You’re not a nurse,” he stated with more conviction. “Nurses don’t dress—or smell—the way you do.”

She hesitated. “Don’t they?”

“No.” He frowned. “I guess I should know you, right? We have—we have met before?”

“You don’t remember?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”

He sighed. That was stupid. He had to calm down. Getting angry with her wasn’t going to achieve anything. She was here because she was concerned about him, not to listen to his griping. It wasn’t her fault that the damn plane had crashed.

“If—if they let you in to see me, you must be a relation,” he ventured steadily. He expelled his breath in frustration. “I can’t remember.”

She licked her lips now, her tongue appearing almost hypnotically to lave her upper lip. Its tip, pink and provocative, was mesmerising. It reminded him that his emotions hadn’t been paralysed by the crash, and he let go of her wrist, not wanting her to recognise his reaction. For God’s sake, the woman could be his sister, though he sensed with a kind of gut feeling that she wasn’t.

“You don’t remember—anything?” she asked at last, clearly as dismayed by the circumstances as he was himself. And, although he had no reason to think so, he sensed that it alarmed her. So their relationship was not as simple as he’d like to think.

Yet why wouldn’t she be alarmed to hear he was virtually a stranger? He was someone who couldn’t even tell her why she was here. It must have been a shock. Hell! It was something more than that to him. But he still had the feeling there was something she was trying to hide.

“Nothing—personal,” he replied at last, his headache rapidly overtaking his will to speak to her. He was too weak to play word games, and he half wished she would go. That surge of sexual attraction had all but dissipated, and he just felt tired. Deathly tired, actually. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

She was still watching him, warily, he thought, his imagination refusing to give in. He guessed she was trying to decide whether she believed him or not, and that was strange. Why would she think he might lie? What might he have done to make his answer seem so untenable? In the present circumstances, she must surely realise his limitations. For Christ’s sake, he was lucky to be alive.

Or not …

“You don’t remember going to see your father?” she ventured, and it was a great temptation to yell that he didn’t know who the hell his father was. But at least she’d supplied another piece of the jigsaw. He had a father, if no one else. He wasn’t completely alone.

“No,” he sighed, finding the strength to answer her somehow. “Believe it or not, I didn’t know I had a father until you said so. Or—a girlfriend, either,” he added weakly. “Perhaps if you told me your name …?”

Her lips parted. “I’m not your girlfriend!”

Her denial was absolute, and his hands curled helplessly into fists. For God’s sake, she couldn’t be his sister! He recoiled from that solution with a tortured breath.

“Then who…?” he began, but the effort defeated him. Behind his eyes, the darkness was rising, albeit against his will. With a sense of shame, he felt his senses slipping. The woman, whoever she was, dissolved.

When he opened his eyes again, it was evening. He knew it was evening because the long blinds had been lowered over the windows in the wall opposite, and there were lamps glowing all about the ward. It was strange how in such a short time the place had become familiar. But—God!—it was the only point of contact that he had.

His head wasn’t aching quite so badly now. Even when he moved his head on the pillow, he didn’t get the awful hammering he’d had before. The shaking in his limbs had receded to an occasional spasm, and he actually felt as if he might be able to sit up.

He could smell food and he wondered what time it was. Early evening, he surmised, judging by the muted activity in the ward. They’d be serving supper soon, and then they’d allow the patients to have visitors. At least, that’s what he seemed to remember had happened the night before.

His lips twisted at the word: remember. It was ironic, really, how some things seemed so clear. Like the night before, when he’d been transferred to this bed, and they’d been serving chicken soup for supper. He wondered what it would be tonight and if he’d be allowed to eat.

He closed his eyes for a moment as if to test his powers of perception. Yes, opening them again was definitely not the effort it had been. Last night, he’d felt as helpless as a baby. Which was silly, really, when he hadn’t been badly hurt.

He closed his eyes again, and this time the image of the woman he had seen earlier that day swam into his vision. Her vivid gaze seemed so real that he opened his eyes once more, half-convinced he’d find her sitting beside his bed. But there was no one near him; the activity of the ward went on around him. Had she really existed? he wondered, or had he dreamt the whole thing?

He shifted restlessly, and a drift of perfume brushed his consciousness. She’d been wearing perfume, he remembered. He’d noticed it when she’d put her arm around him and lifted the glass of water to his lips. The scent of her must have lingered on his pillow. So, she hadn’t been a dream; she’d actually been there.

Such a distinctive fragrance, he reflected, luxuriating in the memory. Cool and somehow innocent, yet purely sensual in its appeal. He knew instinctively it was the kind of perfume he liked to smell on a woman, and he briefly entertained the thought that she’d worn it just for him.

Yet when he’d suggested she might be his girlfriend, she’d been so affronted. As if the idea was too ridiculous to be borne. So—what? If not his sister, could she be his—wife? Dear God, he thought, if that were so, surely he would have known.

Or would he? Excitement stirred. The idea that he might be married to the beautiful creature who’d leant so confidently over his bed was tantalising. And it was an idea that, once having taken root, was hard to shift. Was that why she’d hurried to his bedside? And was she nervous because they’d had some altercation before he left?

But he’d been going to England, he reminded himself uneasily. And she hadn’t been with him, so far as he knew. No, she couldn’t have, to be so calm and collected. So had he been going to see her? Did they live apart?

She was English. He remembered that. Or if not English, then she’d lived there for some considerable time. God, if only he knew what had caused their separation. He knew so very little about himself.

As another thought struck him, he lifted his left hand and examined his third finger. But there was no ring—not even a sign that one had been there. But that meant nothing, he told himself fiercely. Not all men wore wedding rings. He frowned. Had she?

Refusing to let the insidious waves of panic scramble his already tortured senses, he made an intense effort to remember everything he knew about her. As if she were part of some imagined identity parade, he summoned up her image. Blue eyes simply weren’t enough. He needed to recall her face in intimate detail.

But the features he forced back into focus were no more familiar now than they had ever been, and the knowledge that he could meet someone from his past without feeling any sense of identification almost frightened him to death. She’d known his father, he reminded himself desperately, which meant she had a part in his life. But what part? And for how long? And where was his father? The questions scared him more each time he struck out.

Panic almost overwhelmed him. He could smell the cold sweat that had broken out all over his useless body. Fighting it back, he struggled to find something to hold on to. But terror had him firmly in its grip.

Christ, what would he do if he never regained his memory? If the black hole he called a brain refused to work? What did people do in circumstances like this? Did they all feel so helpless? God, he thought, he’d have given anything for a shot of a single malt.