The Stranger in Room 205

She didn’t respond this way to other men.

“There’s something about you,” he said after a long moment, “that makes me forget every promise I made to myself. Something that completely destroys my willpower.”

“Trust me,” she said after moistening her tender lips. “I know the feeling.”

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, lifting his head.

This was definitely not the time to talk about anything important. She could barely speak, much less think clearly. Still, she was curious. She studied his face. That lost look was in his eyes again—the one that sneaked behind the few defenses she had left against him. There was a sadness in Sam she didn’t understand and didn’t know how to alleviate.

Realizing she was still standing in his arms, their bodies still intimately pressed together, she eased away from him. “We’ll talk tomorrow….”

Dear Reader,

Many people read romance novels for the unforgettable heroes that capture our hearts and stay with us long after the last page is read. But to give all the credit for the success of this genre to these handsome hunks is to underestimate the value of the heart of a romance: the heroine.

“Heroes are fantasy material, but for me, the heroines are much more grounded in real life,” says Susan Mallery, bestselling author of this month’s Shelter in a Soldier’s Arms. “For me, the heroine is at the center of the story. I want to write and read about women who are intelligent, funny and determined.”

Gina Wilkins’s The Stranger in Room 205 features a beautiful newspaper proprietor who discovers an amnesiac in her backyard and finds herself in an adventure of a lifetime! And don’t miss The M.D. Meets His Match in Hades, Alaska, where Marie Ferrarella’s snowbound heroine unexpectedly finds romance that is sure to heat up the bitter cold….

Peggy Webb delivers an Invitation to a Wedding; when the heroine is rescued from marrying the wrong man, could a long-lost friend end up being Mr. Right? Sparks fly in Lisette Belisle’s novel when the heroine, raising Her Sister’s Secret Son, meets a mysterious man who claims to be the boy’s father! And in Patricia McLinn’s Almost a Bride, a rancher desperate to save her ranch enters into a marriage of convenience, but with temptation as her bed partner, life becomes a minefield of desire.

Special Edition is proud to publish novels featuring strong, admirable heroines struggling to balance life, love and family and making dreams come true. Enjoy! And look inside for details about our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest.

Best,

Karen Taylor Richman, Senior Editor

The Stranger in Room 205

Gina Wilkins

GINA WILKINS

is a bestselling and award-winning author who has written more than fifty books for Harlequin and Silhouette Books. She credits her successful career in romance to her long, happy marriage and her three “extraordinary” children.

A lifelong resident of central Arkansas, Ms. Wilkins sold her first book to Harlequin in 1987 and has been writing full-time since. She has appeared on the Waldenbooks, B. Dalton and USA Today bestseller lists. She is a three-time recipient of the Maggie Award for Excellence, sponsored by Georgia Romance Writers, and has won several awards from the reviewers of Romantic Times Magazine.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“S ir? Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

The woman’s voice was nice, but muffled, and there was a funny buzzing noise underlying it. Like static, he thought without opening his eyes. The darkness was intense, cocooning him like a warm, heavy comforter. He wanted to wrap it more tightly around himself and drift back into oblivion, but the voice intruded again.

“I know you’re in pain, but you really should try to open your eyes,” the woman advised him. “You need to let us know you’re awake.”

He wanted to tell her to leave him alone. He was tired. He would appreciate it if she went away and let him rest. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but only a hoarse croak emerged from his dry throat.

“Oh, good, you are waking up. Can you tell me your name?”

It seemed there would be no rest for him until he acknowledged her. Maybe if he opened his eyes—just for a moment—she’d go away. He forced his lids apart, then groaned when light assaulted his pupils, causing an eruption of pain inside his head.

He glared at the woman leaning into his face. This was her fault. She’d nagged him out of the tranquil darkness and brought this pounding to his temples. All in all, he thought it would be better if he went back to sleep.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Wake up and tell me your name. I want to know you’re all right before I leave you here.”

Leave him where? Suddenly he realized that he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. He opened his eyes again and tried to ask, but the results of his attempt at speech were pathetic. Sounded like a bullfrog had mistaken his tongue for a lily pad. The woman touched his face. Her hand was cool. Soft. Felt good. Too bad about her face, though. It kept …changing. Four eyes, then three, then four again. They were rather pretty eyes. Blue. Or maybe green. However many of them she had.

He allowed his own to close again, welcoming the relief of the darkness. The light was too painful to deal with for now.

“Sir? Before you go to sleep again, isn’t there someone you’d like me to call? Your family, perhaps?”

His family? Did he have a family? Funny—at the moment, he couldn’t remember. Probably because the pain drowned out everything else. It seemed so much easier to slip away from it. He allowed himself to do just that.

“He’s out again.” Serena sighed and sat back in the straight chair beside the wounded man’s bed. She was alone in the small hospital room with him, and she glanced at her watch, thinking of the hour that had passed since he’d been brought to the hospital by ambulance, with her following in her own car. The stranger had drifted in and out of consciousness several times, but never fully enough to really consider him awake.

She’d missed her morning meeting, of course. She simply hadn’t been able to abandon this poor guy until she was reassured that there was someone who knew or cared where and how he was. He’d had the misfortune to be brought in at almost the same time a bus full of teenagers returning from a church-sponsored field trip had run off the road and into a ditch on the way home. None of the passengers was critically injured—broken bones and abrasions the most severe consequences of the accident—but the little hospital was in chaos with hysterical adolescents and parents crowding the hallways. Her stranger, as she’d taken to calling him until she had a better name for him, had been examined, pronounced in fair condition except for a concussion and left in this room until one of the overwhelmed small staff had time to deal with him more fully.

Serena knew she had no obligation to sit by his side, since she had done no more than find him in a ditch and summon help for him, but something kept her there. That overdeveloped sense of responsibility of hers, most likely. It seemed like most of her life was spent doing things she felt obligated to do, rather than things she truly wanted to do.

She was becoming concerned about his continued unconsciousness. Sure, he was wired to all sorts of monitors and such, but was anyone really keeping a close eye on him with everything going on outside this room? She could hear an overwrought parent shouting down the hall, demanding attention for his daughter even as an exasperated nurse tried to assure him that someone would be with him as soon as possible. The guy sounded like Red Tucker, Serena thought with a wince, pitying the poor nurse. Everyone knew Red had a temper that matched his nickname, and a severe patience deficiency to boot.

As if the noise outside had disturbed his fitful sleep, her stranger muttered something, bringing Serena’s attention back to him. She studied his face curiously. Though presently disfigured with swelling and bruises, she would bet his features were usually quite handsome. His hair, when clean and styled, was probably a rich gold, and the eyes she had seen so briefly were a bright blue. He was slim and fit, probably in his early thirties—only a year or two older than herself, she would guess. His hands were well-tended, except for the abraded knuckles that indicated he’d fought back when he’d suffered the vicious beating that had landed him here. His nails were clean and neatly trimmed. She doubted that he’d ever done much manual labor.

He wore no watch or other jewelry, had been dressed only in a ripped pullover and a pair of jeans, had carried nothing in his pockets and had worn no shoes or socks. If robbery had been the motive for the vicious beating, his attacker had taken nearly everything. She didn’t recognize this man and neither had anyone else who’d seen him so far, which was unusual for such a small community. So where had he come from? What had he been doing on the side of a gravel road that led nowhere outside of this off-the-beaten-path little Arkansas town?

Someone opened the door behind her. She expected to see a doctor or a nurse when she looked around, but discovered Dan Meadows walking in, instead. “I wondered when someone would get around to calling the police,” she murmured.

“’Evening, Serena,” the chief of police said. He showed no surprise at seeing her there, which meant he’d already talked to someone outside. “Heard you found a wounded stray behind your house.”

She tucked a strand of her chin-length brown hair behind her ear and nodded. “He was in the ditch beside Bullock Lake Road. My sister’s dog got out of my yard and I was chasing him when I found this man lying facedown in the grass.”

A tough-looking, slow-talking man in his mid-thirties, Dan crossed the room with his trademark rolling amble and studied the man in the bed. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Neither have I. I have a feeling he’s not from around here.”

“Got any other hunches you’d like to share with me?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I can’t imagine what he was doing there. There was no ID on him—or anywhere around him in the ditch. I looked.”

“Looks like someone beat the hell out of him.”

“Apparently. Dr. Frank said he has a concussion, a few broken ribs, a badly sprained wrist and several painful cuts and bruises.”

“Stitched up his head, did they?”

“He had a deep cut to the scalp at his right temple. It took six stitches to close it.”

Dan nodded, still looking at the man on the bed. “Has he been awake?”

“Not for more than seconds at a time. I thought he was waking up a few minutes ago, but he drifted off again. They’ve pumped him full of antibiotics and who knows what else. I suppose the drugs could be affecting him.”

“More likely the concussion. LuWanda said she’d be in to check on him as soon as she gets Red Tucker calmed down. I’d better get out there and help her. Nothing like a hospital full of panicky parents to keep everyone hopping.”

“Thank God none of the students was seriously injured.”

“Yeah. My niece was on that bus,” Dan admitted with a grimace. “Scared the stuffing out of me when I heard about it.”

“Polly’s okay?”

“She’s fine. Got herself a bloody nose and a black eye, but she’ll be okay once she gets over the scare.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yeah. By the way, your scoop girl’s out there making a nuisance of herself. Want me to send her in to keep you company?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Let Lindsey do her job.”

“Asking all the parents how it feels to almost lose a child in a bus accident? Hell of a job, if you ask me.”

Dan had never made any secret of his opinion of the reporters who worked for the Evening Star, the newspaper Serena’s great-grandfather had started, and which she now owned through a set of circumstances that still bewildered her. Before she could defend the importance of the press to him—for perhaps the thousandth time—an outburst in the hallway caught their attention.

Dan sighed. “Sounds like Red’s getting wound up again. I’d better go give LuWanda a hand with him. You going to stay around awhile?”

She nodded. “I feel as though I should stay until things calm down a bit and someone has time to spend with this poor man.”

“‘This poor man?’” Dan’s expression was quizzical. “You know something about him that I don’t?”

“No, of course not. I just—well, you know. I found him and now I feel sort of responsible for him.”

“Mmm. That’s the kind of thinking that gets well-intentioned folks in trouble. Better find out who he is before you adopt him.”

Fully aware that Dan was always suspicious of outsiders in his town and would be particularly wary of anyone who showed up under these circumstances, Serena nodded. She was as vigilant as Dan about keeping their hometown free from the crimes that had taken hold in so many places even as small and unremarkable as this.

Dan glanced again at the man in the bed on his way out of the room. “Have someone call me when he wakes up, will you? I have a few questions for him.”

Serena watched him leave. He left the door open a couple of inches, so she could hear him speaking in his measured, authoritative manner, his voice fading as he moved away with Red Tucker and whoever else had been in the hallway outside the room. And then she ran a hand through her hair again and turned to keep watch over the man in the bed—only to find that his eyes were open and focused intently on her face.

“Oh. So you’re awake again. Are you able yet to talk to the chief of police, or would you like me to give you a few minutes before I call him back in?”

The woman was sitting in a chair very close to the narrow bed on which he found himself. She leaned slightly toward him as she spoke, and there appeared to be concern in her eyes. He knew those eyes. Blue. Or maybe green. Pretty. There were only two of them this time. One nose. One mouth. All very nicely arranged in an oval face framed in a soft brown bob. Whatever had happened to him—and he was awake enough to realize that he was lying in a hospital room—he was still able to recognize that this was a very attractive woman. He found that observation reassuring. He couldn’t be damaged too badly if he was still interested in the opposite sex.

“Sir?” she repeated when he continued to stare at her rather than answering. “Did you hear me? Can you speak to me?”

He blinked, trying to recall what she’d said. Something about…police? He frowned, then winced when his swollen, sore face rebelled against the expression. “Uh—yeah, I can hear you,” he managed to say, his voice gruff, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.

The sound of it seemed to encourage her. “How do you feel?”

The only appropriate phrase he could come up with in answer seemed inappropriate for mixed company. He settled for, “Not great.”

“I don’t doubt it. You have several very painful injuries, but the doctor said you’ll be fine. Things are rather hectic here tonight because of a school bus accident, but it’s a decent little hospital. They’ll take good care of you.”

“Where…?” He swallowed to clear his thick voice, then tried again. “Where is this hospital?”

“Edstown,” she answered.

“Ed’s town?” he repeated blankly. “Who’s Ed?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you…it’s Edstown,” she said again. “Edstown, Arkansas.”

“Arkansas.” He repeated the name of the state slowly, trying to make it mean something to him. “How did I get here?”

“I found you lying in a ditch near my house. You had been severely beaten—perhaps left for dead. I called an ambulance and accompanied you here. Do you remember any of this?”

Actually, there were quite a few things he didn’t remember—but he wasn’t ready to get into that. Not with the word “police” still echoing hollowly in his mind.

She was studying him with a frown. “Maybe I’d better go get a doctor….”

“No.” He tried to hold up a hand to stop her, but both his arms seemed to be strapped down, the left wrist in a splint or bandage of some sort. “Wait. Don’t go yet.”

For some reason, he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to lie here alone, hurting and fighting the confusion that was steadily threatening to overwhelm him. He was sure everything would come back to him once he’d had a chance to rest and recover for a few minutes. Considering the circumstances, it was no wonder he couldn’t even remember his…

“Your name,” the woman was saying. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

Tom? Dick? Harry? Nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. How the hell could he forget his own name? he wondered in mounting frustration.

She seemed to go suddenly tense. “You do remember your name, don’t you?”

He pictured her reaction if he admitted that his mind was achingly blank. She’d probably panic. She’d start calling doctors and nurses…maybe that chief of police she’d mentioned. The medical staff would rush in, poking and peering and treating him like some kind of freak, and who knew what the cop would believe. “Of course I remember my name.”

She waited.

“Sam,” he said, seizing the first moniker that came to him.

“Sam?” Her smooth brow wrinkled again. Obviously, his hasty answer hadn’t satisfied her.

He groped for a surname. Nothing. His gaze skimmed the room as if searching for an answer. Bed. Chair. Floor. “Wall,” he murmured. “Er…Wallace,” he amended quickly.

He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to admit the truth. Just tell her he couldn’t for the life of him remember his name—or anything else that mattered. Actually, maybe he should be worried. He could be suffering brain damage. Something a doctor should look into immediately. Could be bleeding from the brain. God only knew what else. But something kept him quiet. He felt so stupid…he was sure it would all come back to him in a minute. He just needed a little time.

Whoever he was, he apparently believed in handling his own problems in his own way.

“Sam Wallace?” she repeated, a bit doubtfully.

Hell, why not? It would work until something better occurred to him. Like his real name. “Yeah. Sam Wallace. Who are you?”

“Serena Schaffer.”

Serena. It suited her, he decided. “Thank you for rescuing me, Serena Schaffer,” he said.

“I didn’t do that much, but you’re welcome. Now I really should get someone in here. The doctor will want to know you’re awake…and Dan Meadows, our chief of police, wants to talk to you. Just to ask you a few questions about what happened to you.”

The word police made him tense again. He wished he knew why. It was like…an instinct. Something inside him that told him to be very careful. At least until he remembered—

The door opened and a very large woman in a white uniform bustled in, shaking her head and muttering to herself. “What a night. I swear, if that Red Tucker says one more cross word to me, I’m going to snatch him bald-headed. We’re taking care of all those kids the best we can, and he’s out there… Oh, my, he’s awake.”

“Yes, we’ve been talking,” Serena replied.

The nurse nodded. She leaned over the bed and peered into his eyes. “Headache?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“He seems a little disoriented,” Serena added, proving she hadn’t been entirely fooled by his act.

The nurse didn’t look surprised. “That’s to be expected with the concussion. The doctor will be in soon, but they’ve got him running out there now.”

He tried to nod, but went still when his head hammered in protest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She didn’t smile. “How bad is the disorientation? Do you remember how you came to be here?”

According to Serena, he had been severely beaten. Left for dead in a ditch. “I know what happened.”

“Do you remember the attack itself?”

It seemed safe enough to say, “Not much, I’m afraid.”

“That’s to be expected. Any other memory loss?”

He looked straight into her dark eyes. “No.”

She seemed to believe him. Her pen hovered over the clipboard cradled in her left arm as she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Sam Wallace.”

“Middle initial?”

“None. Just Sam.” The parents he’d just invented for himself weren’t particularly creative. He wondered what his real parents were like. Were they even now looking for him, frantic with worry? Was he being a total idiot not to tell someone what was going on between his ears? The answer, of course, was yes. Still, he didn’t change his mind.

“Birth date?”

As far as he could remember, he’d been born less than half an hour ago. He chose a date at random, finding it mildly curious that he could remember things like names and months and numbers, even though they held no personal meaning for him. “June twenty-second.”

“Yeah? Today’s the twentieth, so that means you’ve got a birthday coming up in a few days. What year were you born?”

Year? He wasn’t even sure what year it was now. He couldn’t remember what he looked like, whether his hair was dark or light or gray—if he even had hair. He didn’t feel old…but he didn’t feel young, either.

Damn it, what was going on here? Why the hell couldn’t he remember?

He groaned.

Serena stood and rested her hand on his shoulder, the gesture oddly protective. “He’s obviously in pain, LuWanda. Isn’t there anything you can do for him?”

LuWanda closed the clipboard. “I’ll get the doctor.”

He was grateful for the brief reprieve. He gave Serena a shamelessly pitiful look. “My head’s killing me,” he said.

She brushed a lank strand of hair off his forehead, her fingertips cool against his skin. So he did have hair. Nice to know.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you? Someone I can call for you?”

He thought again of the family that could be searching for him. With a mental apology to them—if, indeed, they existed—he shook his head. “There isn’t anyone to call, but thank you for offering.”