Lovers In Hiding

“So you say.”

“You should be grateful.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said with saccharine sweetness and mockery. “Now that I’ve thanked you, you’ll let me go, right?”

He ignored her question. “Why did you run from me?”

She heaved a sigh of frustration and tried to shift him off by bucking her hips. He let her struggle, knowing she’d soon come to the conclusion that he was bigger and stronger, and she wasn’t escaping until he got his answer and freed her of his own accord.

“Look, mister biker-dude.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She arched a haughty eyebrow. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“I believe I did. It’s Clay. Clay Rogan.”

“Fine, Mr. Clay Rogan. I don’t know you. I have no memory of you before opening my eyes on this beach to find you standing over me. You say someone else forced my car into the water. But my car isn’t here. You say another car forced mine into the water, and guess what? That car isn’t here either. Then you said I told you my name—an outright lie. Don’t deny it, mister—you did lie.”

“Okay, I admit that was a mistake. If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Why should I?”

“Exactly my point. Why bother with a difficult truth when you obviously didn’t believe the easy stuff?” He paused to rein in his aggravation. “I assume, until you drove the car into the water, you had no idea you’ve been in danger?”

Her eyes widened, she struggled to free her wrists. He held her tighter.

She winced. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

He loosened his grip slightly. “Will you get it through your stubborn head that the danger isn’t from me. Someone is after you.”

“So you say.”

“Look, this all started before I got here. You do remember leaving your house and driving to the beach?”

“Mister. Clay,” she amended, “you listen about as well as I remember.”

What had he missed? As he searched her eyes, he saw a turbulence of emotions, fear, anger and hesitation. “Tell me again.”

“I knew you’d lied about how you knew my name because I couldn’t have possibly given you that information.”

“Why not?”

All her sarcasm and sass evaporated, just as the rain poured down, soaking his back with slashing droplets of ice. “Because I haven’t just forgotten the accident. I don’t remember anything.”

“Nothing?”

“Not my name. Not my address. Not even what I do for a living.”

Chapter Two

She’d known the moment she opened her eyes on the beach that something was very, very wrong. Her heart pounded too hard, and her adrenaline had been sapped, her energy stolen as if she’d just run a marathon. Fear coiled through her body, leaving a sour taste in her mouth and twisting her gut into a hard knot, but she had no idea why she was so afraid.

She’d discerned her memory loss almost right away, and the realization knocked her for one doozy of a loop. While she gasped for air, her brain sucked in details of her surroundings; a wide beach pounded by rain and a devastatingly handsome, dangerous-looking man hovering over her, his grim expression as dark as the black leather clinging to his massive thighs.

Faced with the immediate threat of him, her memory loss shifted to a back burner. His eyes, green as the stormy sea and hard as the stone jetty, clued her in that he wasn’t the brotherly or husbandly type. While she might know him, she had the distinct impression from his sharp curiosity that they were complete strangers. She didn’t know his name, didn’t recognize his stony face, and was positive that if she’d met him before, she would remember something about him. He carried the distinctive scent of masculine leather on his skin. When he spoke, his breath carried an unusual cherry flavor that contrasted with his tough-guy image. His wide-set, sea-green eyes revealed anger and guilt, but she also glimpsed an inkling of concern that reached beyond her fear. His strong jaw, stubbled like a pirate’s, and his generous mouth, set with an arrogant firmness, suggested that this man was accustomed to others obeying his commands.

Not today she wouldn’t. She didn’t care if he had shoulders wider than the Gulf Stream or more muscles than Hulk Hogan, he’d fed her an inedible story that even a ten-year-old kid wouldn’t swallow.

The fact that she currently couldn’t remember her age, her address or her name didn’t mean she didn’t have a working brain. But it sure as hell was one gargantuan handicap. If she had to lose her memory, why couldn’t it have happened among friends? Or family? If she’d hit her head in a car accident—and the knot on her head and the aches in her muscles certainly felt as if she had—why couldn’t she have been rescued by the police, driven by paramedics to a hospital?

Instead she’d lost her memory and ended up with a menacing-looking hunk in black leather. She gazed at the muscular arms holding her down, finding it curious that he didn’t sport tattoos. He wore no earrings to accessorize, either. Maybe the man wasn’t as wild as he’d first appeared. He certainly didn’t seem to want to hurt her. He’d had ample opportunity, yet remained gentle.

He’d tackled her and landed so he’d taken the brunt of the fall. Even now, with her pinned beneath him, he spared her the crushing force of his full weight, while protecting her face from the teeming rain as he leaned over her and surveyed her with assessing eyes. Those eyes again. Caring eyes. Intelligent eyes.

He eased up on her wrists slightly. “When’s your birthday?”

“I don’t know.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Parlez-vous français?”

God! A multilingual biker. Did he have to sound so sexy when he spoke to her? “I don’t speak French.”

“But you understood the question.”

“Don’t you know phrases in languages you don’t speak?” she countered, wondering how long this inquisition would go on, wondering what he intended to do with her when it was over. At the realization of his power over her and her helplessness to fight him, she shivered. He could take whatever he wanted from her, and this man seemed accustomed to taking.

Panic rose up her throat, and she reminded herself that he likely wouldn’t have told her his name if he intended to hurt her.

As if reading her racing fears, Clay let out a frustrated sigh. “This is one hell of a mess. Let’s hope your memory comes back real soon. Meanwhile, I’ll have to hide you.”

“Hide me?” She didn’t like the sound of that at all. She didn’t want to go anywhere with this man. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know herself enough to trust her judgment or believe the clear ring of tension in his voice.

“I need to keep you safe.”

“Then take me to the cops,” she suggested.

“You’ll be safer with me than the cops.” He rolled off her and tugged her to her feet, never releasing her wrist. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way back to my bike.”

The moment he released her, the ripping rain and slicing wind bombarded her like hail. She refused to miss the warmth of his arms. Instead, she told herself, she was glad he no longer pressed her back into the cold, wet sand. She didn’t want to go anywhere with Clay Rogan—especially to his bike where he could spirit her away to some isolated place where she’d never be seen again.

Why couldn’t she recall her family? Friends? Or maybe a wonderful husband who might be frantically searching for her even now? It finally occurred to her that if Melinda was her real name, as he claimed, then Clay could tell her more about herself.

“What’s my last name?” she asked as he tugged her along the beach where the waves rolled in, attacked the sand, then receded in a white froth of sucking sounds.