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

“I won’t be late.” His mouth was warm and damp against her nipple, almost clearing her mind of coherent thought.

Her fingers tightening reflexively in his hair, she made a determined effort to concentrate. “I’ll wait here until after you and Mother leave for the diner, and then I’ll slip back into the house. With any luck, Mother will never realize I wasn’t there all night.”

“You’re afraid she’ll ground you?” he asked, lazy amusement in his morning-rough voice.

“No, of course not. She treats me as an adult—I just think it would be easier for all of us if we don’t let this get too complicated.”

“‘This?’” he repeated, his hands doing incredibly wicked and wonderful things beneath the sheets.

He was obviously in a good mood this morning. “You know what I mean,” she said. “I’m trying to plan what we’re going to do.”

“You sound just like Molly when she’s hatching one of her schemes,” Sam teased. “Always more complicated than it needs to be.”

Serena went very still. “Molly?”

He was still concentrating on her breasts. “Mmm,” he said absently. “Shane’s little—”

“Shane’s little what?” she asked with quiet urgency.

He lifted his head with a frown. “What?”

She pushed herself into a sitting position, pulling the sheet up with her. “You said something about Molly. Shane’s little…?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I think I was going to say sister.”

“Do you remember them?”

“I—” Rolling onto his back, he stared at the ceiling. “No. Maybe I did remember them for a moment, but it seems to be gone now.”

“Completely gone? There’s nothing left?”

He continued to gaze upward as if he could find answers there. “I can almost see their faces. A man—tanned, brown hair, blue eyes, a darker blue than my own. And a teenage girl. Red hair. Big, bright eyes. A smile that lights up a room.”

“They sound nice.”

“I think they are—if they even exist,” he added in a growl, rolling to sit on the side of the bed.

“Of course they exist. They’re obviously memories—friends or relatives. People who mean something to you.”

“Maybe. I’ve got to get ready for work.”

“You’re going to work now? Sam, you could be on the verge of a breakthrough.”

“And I could be on the verge of a killer headache,” he replied. “That’s what usually results from trying to push too hard to remember.”

“Did you tell Dr. Frank about those headaches?” she asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“I told him. He put it in my chart for the neurologist to study.”

“So you’re just going to work.”

“Right. Maybe more memories will return, maybe they won’t, but Bill Pollard’s going to want his ham and eggs and coffee.”

Serena sighed and pushed a hand through her tousled hair. There were times when she just didn’t understand this man at all.

Sam went through the motions of his job with almost mechanical efficiency that day. Business was brisk, and the atmosphere in the diner was pleasant and friendly. Though he doubted that waiting tables was his usual job, he actually enjoyed his stint here. He’d made friends and had felt useful and productive. He would miss being here when he was lying on a couch in some shrink’s office or sitting in a padded cell or wherever they stashed patients with Swiss-cheese minds.

The people he’d recalled that morning—Shane and Molly, whoever they were—seemed to indicate that his memories weren’t lost, only suppressed. And that they were beginning to surface. At least, that was the way Serena seemed to interpret it.