It was only now as he quickly tethered the horse and strode toward me that I realized this was Sloan Campbell, my sister Cameron’s fiancé.
“You could have been killed.”
The anger in his voice was clear—even though it was tightly leashed. And the simple truth of his statement had a chill moving up my spine. He was no less intimidating than when he’d been thundering toward me on the top of the horse. There he’d looked mythical. Now he looked tough, arrogant and furious. He’d evidently spent all of his patience on Saturn.
Why had it taken me so long to realize who he was? I’d certainly spent enough time studying his photos. Perhaps it was because the magnetism I’d sensed in the pictures was even more potent in real life.
“How badly are you hurt?” His tone was sharp with accusation.
“I’m not hurt. The horse didn’t touch me. I just twisted my ankle. I—”
He dropped to his knees and focused his attention on my ankle.
“It’s swollen,” he said. His fingers were as gentle as they’d been on the horse as they moved the wet jeans up my legs. While he probed my ankle, I found myself staring at his hands—the long fingers, the wide palms—and I tried to ignore the warmth that was unfurling in little ribbons up my leg. Other men had touched me, some casually, others intimately, but I’d never felt this kind of intensity before.
Adrenaline. I’d nearly been run down by the horse. That’s why I was reacting this way.
“I don’t think it’s broken.” I heard relief in his tone. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He glanced up at me then.
“No. You handled the horse beautifully. I’m—” Every other word I intended to say slipped out of my mind as I met his penetrating gaze. His eyes…they were dark gray, the color of the kind of fog that could swallow you up and make you lose all sense of direction. I suddenly felt as though I were losing mine.
Then as if he’d satisfied himself that I was all right, he grabbed my shoulders and gave me a quick shake. “Where the hell have you been for the past five weeks?”
SLOAN TOOK A DEEP BREATH and clamped down hard on the all-too-familiar emotions swirling through him. Anger, annoyance, relief. Those were the standard feelings that Cameron had been able to pull out of him ever since they’d been kids and his job had frequently been to get her out of scrapes.
But not this time. Five weeks ago when she’d first run off, he’d understood her need to get away and think. The truth was, he’d needed some time himself. But as the weeks had rolled by, understanding had turned into annoyance and finally into anger.
“Five weeks is a long time. Couldn’t you have at least called your father to let him know you were safe?”
“I couldn’t. I—”
“Couldn’t? Or maybe you expected me to come running after you and drag you back here so that you could save face?”
“Save face?”
He barely kept himself from shaking her again. In spite of the fact that James McKenzie had claimed he was confident that Cameron would return when she’d had time to think everything through, the old man had been worried. Hell, he’d begun to worry himself—and now she’d returned, looking so damned innocent. It had been years since Cameron had tried to use that innocent look on him.
That realization was what had him narrowing his eyes and studying her more carefully. There was something about her…something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Her eyes were that same brilliant shade of green, but they seemed different. Darker. And there was something in them right now. Something that he’d never seen before. Arousal?
The sudden response in his gut was also new. He tightened his grip on her arms. “What the hell kind of game are you playing?”
4
HE THOUGHT I was playing a game? I struggled to get my mind around what he’d just said. But as long as I was looking into Sloan Campbell’s eyes, my brain felt numb. My body, on the other hand, was far from numb. My senses were operating at full power. Sloan was only touching my shoulders, yet I could feel the pressure of each one of his fingers—hot like a brand on my skin. He was so close that I could catch the scent of rain and horse, so close that I could feel his breath on my lips. So close that if I leaned forward just a bit, I could taste him.
Don’t move, I told myself. Don’t move. But I was shocked at how hard it was not to.
“Well?” He prodded me with another little shake, and it helped.
“I’m sorry.” My voice and my mouth were finally working. Now it was up to my brain. And he was right. I was playing a game, so I’d better make my first move. “I don’t remember being Cameron. I am. I must be, but I just don’t remember.”
“Come again.” He dropped his hands then, but I could feel those eyes boring into me while I told him my story—the mugging, the fact that my purse had never been recovered so there’d been no way for the police to identify me. When I told him about waking up in the hospital and not having any idea who I was, I had the distinct impression that he could see right into me, that he knew what I was thinking. A little tendril of fear worked its way up my spine. Sloan Campbell might have a gentle side, but I sensed that this was a man who could be hard when he wanted to be.
“You’re saying that you don’t remember anything before you were mugged?”
His tone was skeptical, but I’d expected that. I could handle it. After all, how many people encountered a person who’d lost their memory in real life? Mostly, it occurred as a plot device in movies, romance novels, or soap operas. “My doctor assures me it’s temporary.”
“If you don’t remember who you are, how did you get here?”
That explanation I had down pat. I told him how I’d hired Rossi Investigations to find out who I was. “It took them a while because no one ever filed a missing persons report.”
“We assumed you’d come back after you’d sorted things out.” His tone was neutral. I couldn’t tell if he was buying the memory loss or not. I wasn’t an actress. I just wrote story lines for professionals who could bring them to life.
Then he was quiet for so long that nerves knotted in my stomach. To fill the void, I said, “I drove one of the SUV’s up here to see if getting a bird’s-eye view of the ranch would stir up some memories.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“Do I look familiar to you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t remember you, but I recognize you from the newspaper clippings the P.I.’s gave me. You’re Sloan Campbell, Cameron’s—my fiancé.”
Tilting his head to one side, he continued to study me. “I’m not sure what kind of game you’re playing.”
The man’s eyes were mesmerizing, and for a moment, just one mad moment, I was tempted to confess. Then I thought of Cameron and what I’d come here to do. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. Why are you so sure I’m playing a game?”
He touched me then, just the brush of a finger along my jawline. “Because you’re all about games. And you’re a sore loser.”
“Loser?” I had no idea what he meant. I was finding it very hard to think while he was touching me.
Without warning, Sloan slid his hand to the back of my neck and touched his mouth to mine. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. The kiss was so soft. He didn’t press, didn’t demand. He simply tasted very gently. Still a riot of sensations moved through me.
Don’t respond, I told myself. But I could feel my lips soften and part. I could feel my whole body melt.
All the time he watched me with those