The Stranger In Room 205 (Hot off the Press! 1)

“Thirty-one,” he corrected with an exaggerated grimace. It sounded like a nice age. Not too young, not too old.

“So you were born in nineteen…” Her voice trailed off as she scribbled numbers on her form.

“Address?”

“I’m, um, between addresses right now. Between jobs, too,” he added to answer her next question.

“Do you have insurance?”

Lady, I don’t even have a name. “No.”

“Next of kin?”

He closed his eyes. “None.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Just a mother of a headache.”

“I’m sorry. Only a few more questions. Are you allergic to any medications?”

He was tired. So damned tired. He should tell her the truth. I can’t remember. There’s nothing between my ears but dead air. Call in your experts, lady. One genuine freak, here for their viewing pleasure.

He couldn’t do it. Maybe he’d tell someone tomorrow. Or maybe by then it wouldn’t be necessary.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m not allergic to anything.” And it would serve him right if they injected him with something and he died a horrible, painful death from an allergic reaction.

She asked him other questions about his medical history. Keeping his eyes closed, he made up answers in a lethargic monotone.

You’re an idiot, Sam. Or whoever the hell you are. A coward. A fool. A liar. A jerk. Tell the lady the truth.

But still he lied. For he, himself, was afraid of the truth.

He heard her close the cover of the clipboard. “All right,” she said. “That’s enough for now.”

Sam let out a long, ragged breath when he was finally alone again. He was so fatigued he could hardly move, both mentally and physically exhausted. Every inch of him ached. He needed rest. He wanted out of this place. He hadn’t a clue where he would go when he left.

He didn’t even know what he looked like, but there were a few things he’d learned about himself during the past couple of hours. He had more pride than was good for him, he didn’t like admitting weakness or vulnerability and he utterly hated being at the mercy of others.

All those traits felt familiar to him. Felt right. So who the hell was he? And why couldn’t he remember?

He really was a nice-looking man beneath the bruises. Even flat on his back in a hospital bed, there was a sort of…well, grace to him, Serena mused the next morning, studying Sam from the chair beside the bed. His lips were slightly parted, and he wheezed a little when he breathed—a result of the blows he’d taken to his chest. His lashes were long against his scraped cheeks, oddly dark in contrast to his golden hair. Those thick curling lashes were the only softening feature on his firmly carved face.

She thought of the sketchy history he’d given Dan. He’d implied that he was a rootless drifter, rambling from place to place, supporting himself with temporary jobs. No permanent home, no family. Looking again at his beautifully shaped hands, marred only by the abrasions across his knuckles, she wondered what the odds were that those temporary jobs had involved sitting behind desks crunching numbers. She found it hard to believe those rather elegant hands had ever wielded a shovel or a sledge hammer. And if his clean oval nails hadn’t been professionally manicured recently, she’d kiss her sister’s dog—right on his slobbery mouth.

Raising her gaze from the man’s hands to his face, she was momentarily disconcerted to find his brilliant blue eyes open and trained unblinkingly on her. “Oh. Good morning.”

“Serena.”

He said her name as if it was important that he had remembered it. She nodded. “Serena Schaffer.”

“You’re the one who found me.”

“Yes. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Have you ever tried to sleep in a hospital?”

“No. I’ve never been hospitalized.”