Passion (In Wilde Country 2)

“”It’s all right, cara.”

“It isn’t. Having no memory… They explained it, over and over. What amnesia is, I mean, and I understand the explanation. But I can’t understand it inside me, where it matters. Because it doesn’t make sense,” she said, tears rising in her eyes. “To have no knowledge of my own name, of anything before I woke up in that emergency room…”

“Ariel.” Gently, Matteo thumbed the tears from her cheeks. “I know it must be terrible, not knowing these things, but your memory will come back.”

“Will it?”

There was despair in those two simple words.

“Yes,” he replied. How could he say otherwise?

“Because—because, you know, it has to! I can’t go on not knowing who I am.” Her glittering eyes searched his. “I have to remember things. All this, for instance, what you’ve done for me… How can I not remember you? We must have—we must have an important relationship if yours was the only name they found on me, if you came to—to rescue me, to do all this for me.” She drew a shuddering breath. “And I don’t even know who you are.”

He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead.

“Sure you do,” he said softly. “I’m Matteo Bellini. I’m an attorney.”

“Is that how we know each other?”

Dammit. He should have known one simple question would lead to another.

“No.”

“Then, how do we know each other? Who are you to me?”

The questions were no longer simple. He recalled Stafford’s warning about letting her memory come back on its own.

“Ariel,” he said, “do you trust me?”

She gave a sad little laugh. “I must, or what would I be doing here?”

“If you trust me, you have to be patient. I can’t give you the answers you want.”

Her eyes flashed. She yanked her hand from his.

“Dammit I’ve lost my memory, not my ability to think!”

Good. She was angry. It was the first emotion she’d shown that didn’t involve fear or, even worse, compliance.

“I know that.”

“No. You don’t, or you wouldn’t treat me like a child.”

“I’m only following Stafford’s orders.”

“Stafford.” She shook her head. “He thinks he knows what’s best for me, but he isn’t me. He can’t imagine what it’s like to look inside and see—and see only darkness.”

“He wants you to get better. So do I. You’re hurt and upset.”

“I am fine!”

“You’re better than fine. You’ve brave and strong…but you need to rest. Right now, you look as if you went ten rounds against the heavyweight champion of the world.”

She kept glaring at him. Then, she sighed.

“And lost.”

He laughed. “Let’s just say you look as if you put up a good fight.”

“Right. Black eyes. Stitches. A cast. Some good fight.”

“Actually,” he said softly, “you look beautiful.”

She smiled. “I’ll bet.”

“Beautiful,” he said solemnly, and he leaned in and kissed her.

It was a soft kiss. A tender one. He told himself he’d done it only to soothe her, but the feel of her mouth under his made him want to keep kissing her until she kissed him back.

He jerked away, shot to his feet. She looked stunned. Well, hell, why wouldn’t she? They were strangers. He knew that, even if she didn’t.

Should he apologize? Explain? Yes. Absolutely. An explanation was in order. It was what she deserved.

Only one problem.

He didn’t have one.

He’d kissed her because he’d wanted to kiss her. Because her mouth was a soft, pink invitation. Because he’d wanted to kiss her two nights ago, when they’d first met.

Because he’d known she’d taste like honey, and she did.

Matteo bit back a groan.

Wonderful. He was one hell of a guy. He was alone with a woman in physical and emotional pain. She was confused, frightened, baffled—and he’d ignored all those things and kissed her.

Of course he should apologize. But what would he say?

He could say…he could say he’d only wanted to reassure her. Let her see that everything was going to be fine. That his kiss had been meant as a friendly gesture…

“Matteo?” Her voice was low. “Is that the kind of relationship we have? Are we—are we intimate?”

“Ariel. Honey, I’m sorry. I—”

“Are we lovers?”

Ah, God! “No,” he said. “We’re not. “

“I didn’t think so. Because even though I can’t remember anything else, I know I’d remember if we—if you and I were lovers.”

He stood with his back to her, his hands on his hips, taking deep breaths, then expelling them.

“That kiss was a mistake.”

No answer.

“I shouldn’t have done it.”

Still, no answer. He swung around. She was sitting in the chair, looking down at the floor.

“I promise,” he said, “it won’t happen again.”

She looked up. “You can’t keep avoiding my questions.”

“This isn’t the time to have this conversation.”

“When is the time?”

Why not tell her the truth? “I don’t know,” he said. “Right now, we need to eat something. Ride out this storm. Figure out what we’re going to do in the morning.”

He was right. She knew it. Despite everything, her belly was growling. She was freezing in the thin scrubs, and what they would do tomorrow sounded like the greatest puzzle in the world.

“Okay,” she said. “What can I do?”

He went to the bed and pulled back the spread and blanket.

“You can climb in here and rest while I head across the road and get us some food. The guy at the office said there’s a big, all-night drugstore in that same little mall. With luck, I’ll be able to fill the prescriptions the doctor gave us, see if I can’t get you something to wear that’ll be warmer than the scrubs, and before you know it, I’ll be back. You good with all that? Great,” he said, without waiting for an answer. “You lie down, take it easy, don’t open the door for anybody except me. Got it?”

She studied his face for what seemed forever before she jerked her head in assent.

“Good,” he said, “f

ine. I won’t be long.”

He went out the door without looking back, and locked it behind him.

The snow was heavy; the mall was directly opposite. Better to walk than take the car, he decided, not only because driving looked like a bad idea, but because a trudge through the storm might just clear his head.

Because it needed clearing.

Matteo almost laughed.

Talk about understatements, he thought, and he set out toward the lights piercing the veil of snow.

CHAPTER SEVEN

He lucked out.

The all-night drugstore had an all-night pharmacy counter.

The clerk took the prescription slips Matteo handed him, looked them over, said he’d have them ready in half an hour.

“How about ten minutes?” Matteo said, handing the guy a twenty.

“Ten minutes it is,” the clerk said.

Matteo nodded, moved away from the pharmacy counter, snagged a cart and started going up and down the aisles.

More luck.

The place was apparently hoping to give Walmart competition.

He picked up toothbrushes, toothpaste, a tin of bandages, a bottle of peroxide, a pack of cotton swabs and a bottle of ibuprofen. Two more aisles yielded a three-pack of boxer shorts, a denim shirt, T-shirts, jeans, socks and a pair of ugly boots for him, jeans, T-shirts, a sweater and heavy socks for Ariel. He tossed in a pack of panties—size small, he figured, without trying to dwell on it—and a pair of boots even more ugly than his.

At the last second, he added a pair of oversized dark glasses for her to hide behind.

When he got to the pharmacy, the prescriptions were ready.

“These for you?” the clerk asked.

Matteo said they were. If the guy couldn’t figure ‘Ariel’ was a girl’s name, why clue him in?

“Take the antibiotic every four hours, and take the painkiller as needed. Be careful, ’cause it’s potent stuff.”

Matteo thanked him, paid, and headed for the McDonald’s next door.

The place had at least a dozen customers in it, and a line in front of the only open cash register.