Heart Of A Hunter. Sylvie Kurtz

into a whirl until none made sense.

      Then the doctor had poked and prodded, asking her to do all sorts of things—smile, chew, swallow, follow his fingertips, walk, stand on one foot—until all she could feel was layer upon layer of pain.

      Just when she thought she could return to the security of her bed, someone had rolled in a wheelchair. Then they’d dragged her from machine to machine until fatigue took over. Finally, they’d left her alone, and she’d slipped into the welcoming blankness of sleep.

      She saw all this in her mind as if it were happening to someone else, making her feel as if she had no more substance than a ghost.

      â€œI should call a nurse,” the man said. His worry was crushing, and all she wanted was distance.

      â€œNo.” She didn’t want any more poking and prodding. She wanted to be alone. Struggling out of his hold, she slipped to the other side of the bed and hung on to the side of the mattress with fists curled around the stiff sheet. A wave of nausea surged, then ebbed. The throb in her head steadied. The room stabilized.

      â€œOlivia?”

      â€œI have to…” The words were in her head. She could feel them there, pinging like flies against a lightbulb in the dark. They stumbled across her tongue like stinging bees and spit out already half spent. “…go bathroom.” She slid one foot to the coldness of the linoleum floor and held her breath while the room wavered around her.

      â€œLet me help you.”

      â€œNo.” Don’t touch me. But she got tangled in the wires connecting her to machines.

      He came around the bed, unhooked the clothespin-like device biting her finger and untangled the white cord that had wrapped itself around her forearm. Dark eyes stared down at her, their intensity unnerving. Who was he? Why was he here? Her skin crawled with an electric buzz when he wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her up.

      â€œI fine.” She shrank away from the too close contact of his body against hers.

      His hand reached for her chin and gently forced her to look into his eyes. “Olivia…”

      She saw pain flash bright in the near blackness of his eyes, felt an unasked question float between them, sensed a fear that echoed along her nerves, sending them jangling like alarms. “I have…to go.”

      â€œOkay.” He looked away. She swallowed hard. A hollow keening rang inside her. The sense of loss was so deep she nearly buckled beneath it.

      â€œI’ve got you.” He tightened his hold on her.

      â€œNo. I’m. Fine.”

      â€œLet me…”

      Pain again. In his voice. In the pinching of his forehead. In the downward arch of his eyes. She tried to relax in his grip, but tasted tears with each step.

      She walked stiffly, grateful when they arrived at the bathroom. He turned on the light. “Do you…?” He shifted his weight and glanced at the toilet against the beige tile wall. “Do you…um…need—”

      â€œNo.” She pushed away his supporting hand. The thought of him watching her while she emptied her bladder was too embarrassing. “I’m fine.”

      â€œI’m right outside if you need help.”

      She nodded, then regretted the move when it set the room in motion once more. Holding on to the sink with one hand and the wall with the other, she held her breath until the man was no longer blurry.

      Forehead rucked like a V of geese, he nodded and closed the door.

      Once alone, she let her breath out in one long swoop. Turning, she braced both hands against the sink and caught a reflection in the mirror. Long strands of dark hair hung limply around a pale face streaked with blotches of purpling black on the left. A row of stitches crimped the hair-line from temple to ear. The eyes, with their eerie ring of blue around too-wide pupils, lent the image an air of panic—as if the woman in the mirror would take off at any second. Was that what the man had seen? This panic? Was that what scared him?

      Me? she wondered, searching every corner of the face. No, how could it be? She would know herself, wouldn’t she? Nothing looked familiar.

      â€œOlivia.” She tasted the name and swallowed it all wrong. It didn’t fit.

      â€œOlivia.” She tried again, straining for a scrap of recognition. She bit her lower lip with her upper teeth and watched helplessly as the image before her started to shake and tears to race a shiny run over the pale cheeks.

      â€œMrs. Falconer,” she sobbed. The echo of the name they’d called her as they’d probed and poked grated like a door needing oil. “Olivia Falconer.”

      They’d called the man with the intense eyes and the serious face her husband. Safe, they’d told her. He’ll keep you safe. A quiver of cold prickled down her spine, raising goose bumps along her arms. Married. She was married. To him. Then why did he feel like a stranger? As if she’d never seen him before? Shouldn’t she feel something more than panic when he held her, when he looked at her?

      She peered deep into the eerie blue eyes, tried to climb into the dark pupils to find the answers hidden beneath the shell of skull. And saw nothing. Her breath came in short bursts. Sweat, cold and clammy, slipped her hands along the edge of the white sink. And all she could hear was the thud of her heart.

      She reached a hand to the image of the woman she did not recognize in the mirror. “Who are you?”

      The knock on the door made her gasp. “Olivia? Are you all right? Should I get the nurse?”

      â€œNo. I’m…fine.” Closing her eyes against the reflection taunting her, she backed to the toilet and took care of nature’s call. Then she sat elbows on knees, head in hands, eyes closed, trying to glimpse into the deep velvet blackness of her mind. When he called to her again, she reluctantly stood and opened the door.

      He helped her back into bed. She slid as far away from him as she could. He took the open mattress space as an invitation and climbed in beside her. The solidness of his body against her side, the furnace of heat he generated, stiffened her.

      Go away. Leave me alone, she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her dry throat. An ill feeling crawled across her skin like a long-legged spider. She did not want to anger this man. Was he dangerous? Did a part of her know that? She rolled onto her side and stared at the restless chase of clouds over the moon. What was happening to her? Why was there nothing in her mind? What would become of her?

      â€œThe doctor said you could come home today,” the man said, startling her with his ability to read her mind.

      Home? Her heart thudded hard in her chest. Where was home? Why could she draw no pictures of the place where she’d lived with this man? For how long? The ache in her head started to burn again. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t go to a strange place with a strange man. But if not with him, then where?

      She drew the blanket tight under her chin. “Am I losing my mind?”

      â€œNO, SWEETHEART. You’re not going crazy.” Sebastian leaned in closer, wanting so badly to hold her. She bit her lower lip and curled her legs up to her chest, rounding her shoulders away from him like a baby in the security of a womb. Even though the doctor had warned him that the amnesia would cause anxiety, he hadn’t expected this rejection. Needing some sort of connection, he touched her shoulder. She rounded away from his touch and nestled her head deeper into the pillow, closing him out.

      Swallowing hard against her withdrawal, he rolled onto his back. She doesn’t know me. Hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. Where do we go from here?

      How