Return of the Italian Tycoon
The taunt brought renewed pain as he frowned. He put his arm back on his head. Nice as her touch was, her insistence undid any good her soothing brought. Her goal, no doubt. It would take more than pride to drag him to his feet tonight. Possibly a crane would do it.
“Look, I’m not interested, okay? You’re a beautiful woman, but I’m injured here.”
“I’m not hitting on you.” Outrage sent her voice up an octave. “I’m concerned.”
“Are you sure? I’ve never had a cop run their fingers through my hair before.”
“So you’ve been detained before?” She was quick to pick up on the inference.
He just stopped himself from shaking his head. “Just saying.”
“That’s it. I’m calling for an ambulance.”
Everything in him rejected the option of being delivered to the hospital.
“Wait.” He opened his eyes. She stood over him, hands on shapely hips, a scowl pinched between her stormy blue eyes. Clenching his teeth against the need to scream like a girl, he shifted to sit, and then pushed to his feet. Holding his shoulders back, he forced himself to meet her poppy blue eyes without flinching.
“Satisfied?”
She ran those cop eyes over him, assessing him from top to bottom. She nodded once as if satisfied by what she saw. It took all his strength not to sag in relief. But he wasn’t out of hot water yet.
She cocked a trim black eyebrow. “And your first name?”
He was tempted to lie, to toss her any old name. But that felt wrong. Too easy. The falsehood didn’t bother him—being predictable did. She expected him to blow her off. It was what he’d been doing since she’d entered the cell.
Forget that. Now he’d made the effort to get on his feet, he saw the value in getting a doctor’s opinion. And some serious meds.
He met her stare-for-stare and confessed. “I can’t remember.”
* * *
“I can’t remember.?
?? The words seemed to echo through the cell.
Grace blinked up at him. A rare enough occurrence—at five-nine she didn’t often have to tip her head back to look a man in the face—but standing at his full height of six-three JD required her to do just that to assess his truthfulness.
Amnesia?
It seemed a stretch. Still, he had a sizable bump on his head and displayed signs of a concussion. It would explain his disorientation and his unwillingness to talk about himself.
Then again it was a tad convenient. Except why bother? He’d been told he’d be free to go in the morning.
“You don’t remember your name?” She needed to determine the extent of his missing information.
“No.”
“Do you know what year it is?”
He answered correctly.
“How about the President of the United States?”
Another correct response. He swayed on his feet, reminding her that, regardless of the state of his mind, his pain was all too real. She decided to let the doctor sort him out.
“Let’s go.” She led him to her desk, where she handed him his jacket. “I already made a call for Parker to come drive you. He should be here any minute.”
“Oh, joy.”