“Nothing.” She faced him determinedly, squelching whatever discomfort she might feel now regarding the custodial liberties she had taken then.
His dark gaze narrowed. “No rings ⦠a watch ⦠a wallet?”
Long chestnut tresses slithered about the curve of her shoulders as she shook her head. There had been nothing. Absolutely nothing!
Her visitor was still dubious. “Are you sure? I must know. Was there anythingâanythingâon my person ⦠?”
“Wait just a minute!” Her head shot up in sudden indignation. “Are you accusing me of filching something of yours?” She was on her feet in an instant, the legs of the chair scraping back across the floor. “Look, whoever you are, I went out in that hurricane yesterday morning and dragged you back here, into my home. Then I took care of you”âthe gold flecks in her eyes flared angrilyâ“and saw to it that you were dry and warm. Are you really accusing me of stealing something that belonged to you?”
A harsh laugh, sign of her frustration, grated through the tense air. “I'm not quite sure whether that's ludicrous first and ungrateful second, or the other way around.” Storming to the sink, she leaned against its stainless steel rim for support. “You might have died if I hadn't seen you!”
Her blunt words hung in the air. Even the dark stranger could sense the truth in them. So embroiled was she in curbing her temper that she was unaware of his approach until long fingers circled her arms. His touch was gentle, apologetic.
“I might have at that,” he murmured softly, “and I'm eternally grateful that you did find me. I'm sorry if I soundedâ” His sincerity struck a guilty chord in her.
“No,
I'm
sorry,” she interrupted, hanging her head, uncomfortably aware of the hands that continued their comforting hold. “I must be tired. Yesterday was exhausting. I didn't get much sleep. And now ⦠with this ⦔
His long fingers stroked her arms with tender innocence before withdrawing. When she turned around, it was to confront his broad back. The down-tilt of his head suggested his discouragement. “A wallet, jewelry might have been a clue. We've got to begin somewhere.”
At that instant, April's heart went out to him and his unfathomable dilemma. Wanting to return the comfort he'd offered her moments before, she reached out, raising her hand to the high crest of his sturdy shoulder.
“There has to be some way of determining your identity. Amnesia is a totally unpredictable ailment. It can be very short-lived; you could regain your memory at any time.”
“Are you a doctor?” He turned slowly, reading authority into her attempt at encouragement, catching her falling hand and holding it for an instant before releasing it.
Her lips curved gently. “Not that kind, I'm afraid. I've a Ph.D. in counseling,” she explained, relieved that the
more volatile issue had been temporarily abandoned. “Look,” she suggested, “why don't we have more coffee.” Without awaiting a response, she lifted the pot and refilled both their cups. The man had resumed his seat by the time she returned.
“You look awfully young to be
any
kind of doctor.” He eyed her speculatively, giving her the chance to answer.
April had grown quite accustomed to comments about her youthful appearance. Given the ivory-smooth sheen of her skin and the rich luster of her hair, not to mention a figure that was as petite as it was slender, she had had to defend her age often. Her standard response was that she would turn thirty at her next birthday. For a reason she did not pause to evaluate, she answered this stranger differently. “I'm just twenty-nine.”
A nod of appreciation preceded his voice. “And ⦠your name?” he asked calmly, his eyes dark yet warm on her suddenly flushed face. As he looked at her directly and with quiet intensity, she felt completely female and uncharacteristically shy, doctoral degree notwithstanding.
“April. April Wilde.”
“Doctor
April Wilde,” he prompted with an endearing grin that sent a shaft of tremored modesty through her.
She cocked her head in humored resignation. “If you must.”
“Do you live here all year?” His dubious glance toward the window lent silent comment on the weather conditions of Nantucket Island.
April laughed. “I'm told there aren't
that
many hurricanes. This is the first one in years. The weather here is supposedly milder than that on the Massachusetts mainland. And, yes. I'll be living here year round.”
“You
will
be?” He caught the subtlety of her phrasing. “Have you just recently moved here?”
She nodded. “Last month.”
“From ⦠?” he probed, not offensively.
“New York. The Big Apple. Manhattan, to be more precise.” Her grin faded at the sign of his frown. “Something rings a bell?”
“No. I don't think so. New York.” He tested the words on his tongue. “New York.” Again, the headshake. “No. Nothing. Tell me ⦠April,” he said, changing the subject eagerly, “why did you move here?”
Her shrug was an evasive one. “It seemed a ⦠quiet, peaceful place to work.” Her own words amused her. “That's funny! Peacefulâhah! The past twenty-four hours have been anything
but
!”
Her guest shared the humor briefly before sobering. “Speaking of the storm, are we stranded?”
April sat back in her chair, finally beginning to relax in his presence. “That's one word for it. Stranded. Marooned. Deserted. Take your pick. Whichever, we are!”
“Where is the nearest town?”
“There's 'Sconset village, several miles down the roadâuh, make that down the rustic, rutted and, most probably, flooded dirt roadâand Nantucket itself nine miles on farther.”
“You have a carâI saw it outside this morning. Any chance of using it?”
She sighed. “Not unless your bout with the sea has vested you with superhuman strength. Don't you remember the fiasco with the car?” When he shook his head, she enlightened him. “When I first managed to haul you up from the beach, I had grand hopes of driving you directly into town. Unfortunatelyâand to make a long story short”âshe grimacedâ“my tires are now hubcap deep in mud!”
“Phones?” He systematically explored the possibilities, though his voice grew progressively weary.
“Still out.”
“Neighbors?”
“Not for a mile.” She paused, smiling. “The way you
fire off questions, I would almost imagine you to be a police investigator.”
As though shot with pain, his jaw tensed. “Who knows,” he growled, standing quickly, “maybe I am.” When he swayed, April bolted up to his aid. Knowing intuitively that his anger was directed at the situation rather than at her, she ignored it and it passed.
“Perhaps you should rest awhile. You really did endure an ordeal yesterday.” Wrapping her arm about his waist to lend marginal support, she helped him back to bed. He seemed suddenly exhausted.
Yet when she was about to leave, his hand reached for hers and held it firmly, his thumb gently caressing her wrist's inner pulse. “Sorry to conk out on you like this, April. I'll be fine in a few minutes.” Even as he spoke, his grasp loosened. The other arm, thrown limply across his eyes, gave April the message. Turning unsteadily, she left him to sleep.
During her subsequent period of midmorning solitude, April pondered her stranger and his improbable predicament. Amnesiaâit sounded absurd! Yet, the man claimed to remember nothing. And
he
was quite believable. If only there were some link-up to the outside world, she might ferret out the information he could not provide! Yet power, both phone and electric, remained out, confirmed conclusively by her frequent checks. At one point, she opened the front door, then closed it again in disgust at the endless downpour. Somewhat later, she climbed the narrow stairway to the enclosed cupola, from which she had originally spotted her dark and nameless mariner. Despite its many problems and inconveniences, Ivan's effect on the seascape was nothing short of spectacular when viewed from this post of utter protection.
The shoreline was edged with voluminous lacings of pearly froth, yielding to the charcoal gray mass of undulating saltwater as the storm whipped its tail back and
forth. Sea grass lay, low and nearly prone, under the force of the wind, rising but occasionally to sway in clumped defiance. Overhead, holding it all in, was a leaden sky, its fiercely dark and impenetrable layer of rain clouds boding more of the same.
But within several days the sun would surely shine. Her mind held that bright image as she descended the stairs, washed up, and changed into fresh clothes. A yawn made its helpless escape as she took refuge in the corner of the living room sofa. What of her handsome stranger then? When all links with civilization were repaired, where would he go? What would he do? From all indications, he was intelligent and refined. For some woman, he must have made a devoted husband; for some children, a loving father.
As she sat with her arms curled protectively about her middle, the memory of his touch returned to herâhis hands moving gently on her arms; his grasp of her wrist, firm yet kind; his thumb, tender against her life's pulse. An eerie tingle passed through her, which she determinedly ignored as untimely and inappropriate. Yet she held his image in her mind as her own fatigue crept over her.
The very same image was before her when she awoke. “Good afternoon,” it said softly, its gaze directed at her slow-opening eyes.
She jerked her lids open and looked quickly around in an effort to reorient herself. “How long have I been sleeping?”
He sat on the sofa by her hip, very close and astonishingly intimate, one arm propped against the back of the cushion on her opposite side. “I'm not really sure, since I slept for a while myself. But it's nearly two o'clock now.”
“Any lights yet?”
The dark swath of hair fell dashingly onto his brow as he shook his head. “Nor phones. I checked.”
Self-consciousness flooded her at his nearness. “How long have you been sitting here ⦠watching me?”
When he grinned, there was a devilish twist to his lips that she hadn't seen before, one that stirred her pulse dangerously. “For a while. You're very lovely to watch.”
“I-I think I'd better get up,” she stammered, tearing her gaze from the handsome face and struggling to raise her body from its prone position. But the bulk of his weight effectively imprisoned her, and he seemed disinclined to move. “Uh ⦠excuse me ⦔
“Where are you off to?” he teased gently. “There's really nowhere to go until the storm abates.”
“Well, I can't just lie here. There must be something I can do to keep busy ⦔
“There is.”
She should have felt it coming, yet despite the strong vibrations coursing through her own body, she was unprepared. When he lowered his head, she froze. Then his lips touched hers lightly, tasting and teasing with feather-faint brushes, moving across her closed mouth in gentle exploration. When he drew back, the light of desire shone bright from deep within his dark and mysterious depths.
“Can you kiss back?” he murmured softly.
Hers was a fast whisper in return. “No.”
“You seem very sure. Why is that?”
“I don't even know you.”
“To the contrary. I'd say”âa black eyebrow arched roguishly into his foreheadâ“considering the fact that I was stark naked in your bed when I awoke this morning, that you can't consider me a
total
stranger.”
“That was different,” she argued quickly, her cheeks flaming. “Your clothes were drenched. If I hadn't taken them off, you might have caught pneumonia. I acted out of pure necessity. But ⦠I don't even know your name â¦
nor
do
you!”
He grew more serious, his voice dropping in deep flow. “Does that really seem so important right now?”
April seized her chance, mustering the courage to confront him bluntly. “Yes! It does! For all
either
of us knows, you may have a wife and family worried sick right nowâeven mourning you. How can you think to kiss me ⦠with that hanging over you?”
The dark gaze that had been soft and open seemed to instantly cool, then harden. His low curse was muffled as he pushed himself from the sofa and paced across the room. “Don't you think I've considered that?” Hands thrust into the back pockets of his jeans, he glared out the window. The shirt he had thrown on over his turtleneck jersey hung loosely but April could not help picturing the broad chest it hid. “I've thought of nothing else for the past two hours! I've gone over everything, trying to remember something. I've studied every inch of this place, hoping that some small item will trip the switch. And still I come up with nothing! There is no clue to my identityâor the possible existence of family. Even the monogram on this shirt is meaningless!”