“Who are you?” he said, his voice rasping with the effort his weakened self was expending to hold on to her, as sharp pain flared in his shoulder.
She whiplashed against him, her legs kicking out and meeting nothing but air. Not a trained fighter, his brain cataloged, but he already could’ve guessed that from the way she’d bound him, with cords that had stretched easily under pressure.
He must’ve been weaker than he’d thought, though, because seconds later she got away from him, clawing and kicking. She hit the floor hard, scrambled up and bolted for the door, screaming.
“Damn it!” Heart hammering—and not just from the fight—he lunged and his legs folded beneath him. Landing hard, he reached out with his good arm, snagged her by an ankle and yanked, bringing her down with him. Strength failing, head pounding with a relentless beat, he went with expediency and lay full length atop her, pinning her with his weight.
She struggled, still screaming, though her screams had turned to words. A name. Romo.
He didn’t know the name, not really, but he was starting to remember the room. They had fallen halfway into a kitchen; a small night-light was on, allowing him to see more details of the homey, feminine space, and triggering the memory of coming to the house earlier in the day, knowing he’d be safe.
But if he was safe, why the hell had she tied him up? And why the hell was he practically naked?
Scowling, he glared down at his captive. She’d gone still and had stopped screaming, but her face was pale even in the diffuse light, her eyes stark and staring. And a hell of a face it was, too, even terrified.
He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes or hair, beyond knowing that they were both light-hued. But the dimness didn’t detract from the elegant lines of her face and swanlike neck, the sculpted arches of her eyebrows and the wide bow of her mouth. Beneath him, her body was lithe and strong—he could feel that strength in the sore places on his shin and arms, and the burn of his injured shoulder where she’d yanked against him in her struggles. But although she was strong, she was also wholly feminine, her curves pressing against him, bringing a stir of memory—this one older and more deeply buried.
As he lay atop her, he belatedly realized that he’d come here, to this woman, because he’d trusted her to help him.
Shame washed through him. Guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he didn’t let her up. “I was dreaming. Nightmare. Then I woke up, not sure where I was, and my arms and legs were tied.”
She took a shallow breath and he thought she might scream again. Instead, she said, “Your note didn’t give me much to go on. I was trying not to be stupid. Apparently, the bungees were borderline on the stupid factor.” He gave her credit for guts, though even as she tried to play it cool, her voice shook.
A roil of memories he couldn’t pin down, couldn’t place, had him stilling and loosening his hold, then rolling onto his side, taking her with him. She was free to move away, but she didn’t. Instead, she lay there facing him, her eyes searching his.
“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice hitching on a suppressed sob. “What happened to you?”
I don’t know. I don’t even know who I am. Who you are. Who we were together. That was what he should’ve said. Instead, he found himself staring, filling himself with the sight of her. Though he was no longer touching her, he felt her curves as though they’d been imprinted on his flesh, creating new memories to replace the ones that were gone. A wellspring of loneliness surged from nowhere and everywhere at once—an ache of longing and a deep sense of loss.
He reached for her blindly, moving purely on instinct. Incredibly, she met him halfway in a kiss that started soft and gentle. Then her lips parted on a small moan of surrender and he slipped his tongue inside to touch hers, tangle with hers. He stroked her hair, her face. She cupped his cheek in her palm.
And, for the first time since he’d regained consciousness in the forest, he felt as though he was exactly where he belonged.
Sara had seen the kiss coming, and could’ve pulled away if she’d wanted to. Nothing was holding her in place…except her own memories of the two of them together, and the grief she’d felt standing at his graveside. He’d been dead. Now he was alive.
That was why, when he leaned in, she met his kiss. That was why, when he touched his tongue to hers, she returned the move in kind and crowded closer to him so their bodies aligned, though lightly. And that was why, when her blood and body heated at the feel of his bare skin beneath her fingertips and the taste of him on her tongue, she didn’t retreat as she knew she should. Instead, she crowded closer, mindful of his injuries but wanting for a moment—just a brief, beautiful moment—to pretend that the past year or so had been a bad dream.
His taste was sharp with pain and fear, but underneath those flavors was that of the man she’d known, deep and complex, rich and multilayered. Her heart kicked in her chest as she soaked in the sensation of touching him and being touched, cherished his soft groan, and the softening of his caress to one of pleasure, and acceptance.
She let herself linger a moment more, then ended the kiss. Regret pierced her as she drew away from him—or had he pulled away first? She didn’t know, knew only that now they were lying on her living room floor facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, and he was there, really there after all these months.
And, she realized with a bite of disquiet, he still had the power to make her forget her better intentions, at least for a while.
Damn him.
Fanning the anger because it was a far safer emotion than any of the others he brought out in her, she sat up and glared at him. “If you tore your stitches, I’m going to leave you leaking.” Which wasn’t the most important issue by far, but was somehow the first thing that had come out of her mouth.
He just looked up at her for a moment, all hard muscles and man, sharp facial angles and clever dark green eyes, with a layer of masculine stubble on his square jaw and the thick dark hair that she’d delighted touching as they’d kissed, as they’d made love. No, she told herself, don’t think about that now, don’t remember those times. The present is far more important than the past, under the circumstances.
But before she could demand an explanation of where he’d been for the past several months, he said, “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t clear whether he was apologizing a second time for grabbing her, for disappearing and faking his own death, for kissing her or for potentially having messed up her stitches. Since she wasn’t actually sure which she would’ve preferred, she let it go, asking instead, “What happened to you?”
“I…I’m not sure.” He sat up slowly and started climbing to his feet, dragging one of the blankets with him in the absence of clothing. He was clearly feeling his injuries now that his body was draining of the adrenaline spike that must’ve powered him to this point.
Sara rose and gripped his good arm when he swayed, even though her own legs were far from steady. Forcing herself to focus on the practical stuff when nothing else seemed to make any sense, she said, “Come on. As long as you’re on your feet, let’s get you to the bedroom.” She had a feeling he’d be headed for a collapse once the last of the adrenaline had burned off, and would rather he didn’t wind up on the floor again.
He leaned on her heavily as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. She told herself to ignore the fact that he was mostly naked, that her hands gripped the warm, lithe flesh that had brought her such pleasure in the past. She watched his face as they crossed the spot where they’d made love so long ago. When his expression didn’t change, she cursed him for being an insensitive ass, and cursed herself for caring when they’d been broken up for more than a year, and he’d been dead—in theory, anyway—for nearly half that time.