“Why Did You Call Me That?”
She Demanded.

Dan was completely taken aback. “What? Why did I call you Princess? I don’t know. You just seem—”

She boldly met his eyes. “Don’t ever call me that.”

“Why?”

“I—I don’t remember. But I don’t like it.”

“Fine. But I’ve got to call you something.” Dan refused to delve into the princess thing. Tomorrow hopefully, he wouldn’t be calling her anything at all. “How about Angel?”

A slow, soft smile broke over her face. “You think I’m an angel, Dan?”

That smile gripped him and he lost himself, lost his mind and his control for a moment. “I think you’ve got the face of an angel. I’m not sure about the rest of you—” his traitorous gaze traveled the length of her “—yet.”

Dear Reader,

Let Silhouette Desire rejuvenate your romantic spirit in May with six new passionate, powerful and provocative love stories.

Our compelling yearlong twelve-book series DYNASTIES: THE BARONES continues with Where There’s Smoke… (#1507) by Barbara McCauley, in which a fireman as courageous as he is gorgeous saves the life and wins the heart of a Barone heiress. Next, a domineering cowboy clashes with a mysterious woman hiding on his ranch, in The Gentrys: Cinco (#1508), the launch title of THE GENTRYS, a new three-book miniseries by Linda Conrad.

A night of passion brings new love to a rancher who lost his family and his leg in a tragic accident in Cherokee Baby (#1509) by reader favorite Sheri WhiteFeather. Sleeping with Beauty (#1510) by Laura Wright features a sheltered princess who slips past the defenses of a love-shy U.S. Marshal. A dynamic Texan inspires a sperm-bank-bound thirtysomething stranger to try conceiving the old-fashioned way in The Cowboy’s Baby Bargain (#1511) by Emilie Rose, the latest title in Desire’s BABY BANK theme promotion. And in Her Convenient Millionaire (#1512) by Gail Dayton, a pretend marriage between a Palm Beach socialite and her millionaire beau turns into real passion.

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Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Sleeping with Beauty
Laura Wright

MILLS & BOON

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LAURA WRIGHT

has spent most of her life immersed in the world of acting, singing and competitive ballroom dancing. But when she started writing romance, she knew she’d found the true desire of her heart! Although born and raised in Minneapolis, Laura has also lived in New York City, Milwaukee and Columbus, Ohio. Currently, she is happy to have set down her bags and made Los Angeles her home. And a blissful home it is—one that she shares with her theatrical production manager husband, Daniel, and three spoiled dogs. During those few hours of downtime from her beloved writing, Laura enjoys going to art galleries and movies, cooking for her hubby, walking in the woods, lazing around lakes, puttering in the kitchen and frolicking with her animals. Laura would love to hear from you. You can write to her at P.O. Box 5811 Sherman Oaks, CA 91413 or e-mail her at laurawright@laurawright.com.

To my Dan…

Contents

Prologue

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

Prologue

Princess Catherine Olivia Ann Thorne sat pole straight between her father and her aunt Fara at the head table, watching the people of Llandaron eat, drink, dance and be merry. Tonight, missing only the eldest brother, Alex, they celebrated the return of her younger brother Maxim and his wife, Fran, from their month-long honeymoon. The family celebrated the couple’s fantastic news of their pregnancy.

And they celebrated love.

Music drifted up from the twelve-piece orchestra, encircling the brightly lit room. Scents of roast lamb and summer heather joined in the dreamy rotation, creating a blithe, warm atmosphere in the ballroom.

But inside Cathy a cold heaviness dwelled.

Her gaze moved over her brother and new sister-in-law as they danced, so close, eyes locked, mouths turned up into intimate smiles.

Anyone could see how desperately in love they were. And it wasn’t that Cathy begrudged them such happiness. Not in the least. She loved her brother with all her heart, and thought the world of Fran. She just wanted to feel a little of that happiness—a little of that love—for herself.

“Your tour of Eastern Europe has been extended another month, Catherine.”

Cathy’s stomach clenched at her father’s words. She’d only returned from Australia three days ago, yet her social secretary had her scheduled to leave for Russia at the beginning of next week.

And now, another month was being tacked on.

“You look pale, Cathy dear,” Fara remarked, the beautiful old woman’s violet eyes narrowed with concern.

The big, white-haired bear of a man touched his daughter’s gloved hand. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, Father.” Actually, no, Father. The mask of composed princess fought the restive, reckless woman who resided deep in Cathy’s heart. Over the last several months something inside her, in her mind and soul and blood, had started to wilt. Frustration built day by day, tour after tour. Granted, she loved the visits, and especially her charity work, but she was exhausted.

Cathy stood up, dropped her silk napkin beside her untouched plate. “I’m very tired. If you’ll excuse me, Father, Fara.”

She barely waited for them to nod. With a grace she was born and bred to, she glided out of the room, into the empty hall and up the stairs, her lavender ball gown swishing against her unsteady legs. Months of supervised, heavily guarded travels, dictated protocol, and hounding press made her need for privacy akin to her need for air. The quiet, albeit temporary, sanctuary of her bedroom sounded like heaven.

But the way to her room was blocked.

“That mane of amber curls and those wide amethyst eyes.”

Perched on the landing stood a portly woman, gnarled with age and garbed in a long tank dress of red and purple, ropes of tangerine beads hanging from her neck. Cathy didn’t recognize her.

“You are every bit as beautiful as I told your mother you’d be, lass.”

Cathy gripped the banister. “You knew my mother?”

“Aye. I knew the late queen.” The woman’s thin lips twisted into a cynical smile. “When you were just a speck in your mother’s belly, I asked Her Royal Highness to allow me to read your future. But she refused my gift. Laughed at me, she did.”

The woman’s anger sat like a spoiled child between them, immobile unless appeased. A strange surge of unease coursed through Cathy. “Who are you?”

The old woman ignored the query. “I gave the king and queen my gift regardless. Aye, I told them that you would be beautiful and kind and clever. I told them that you would be spirited and brave.” Her large brown eyes darkened. “I told them that if they did not take great care of you…”

Cold fingers inched up Cathy’s spine as the woman’s voice trailed off. But she refused to show her fear. She forced on her finest royal countenance and said, “I think you should finish the story.”

The old woman’s yellow smile widened. “I told your father and mother that if they did not take great care, they would lose ye.”

“Lose me?” she exclaimed.

“Aye.”

Deportment all but dropped away. “What are you talking about?”

“Cathy, you up there?”

The call shot between Cathy and the woman, breaking the trance that seemed to hold them both captive. Whirling around, her heart pounding in her chest, Cathy saw Fran coming up the steps, her blond hair bouncing about her shoulders.

“What’s wrong, Cath?” Her sister-in-law’s deep brown eyes were filled with apprehension.

“This woman. She’s—”

Fran cocked her head, glanced past her. “What woman?”

Cathy stilled, her pulse pounding a feverish rhythm in her blood. Slowly, she turned. The woman was gone.

On legs that had gone from unsteady to leaden, Cathy lumbered up the stairs, saying nothing, Fran following closely behind her. Cathy tried not to wonder where the old woman had disappeared to, or if there had been a woman at all. She tried not to think that perhaps she’d gone crazy.

As they entered the bedroom, Fran asked softly, “Are you all right, Cath?”

Cathy sat on her bed, shoulders falling forward. No, she wasn’t all right. She was completely and totally overwhelmed. She turned to Fran and explained, “I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman who’s rarely been alone, rarely known happiness and never known love. I’m so bloody tired of living on other people’s terms.” She searched her new sister’s eyes. “Do you understand what that’s like, Fran?”

Fran sat down beside her, took her hand. “Yes, actually I do. Until I met your brother, I hadn’t lived at all.”

“Why is that, do you think? Were you afraid to live or—”

“I think I was afraid to believe that love existed for me.” A soft smile graced Fran’s mouth, the smile of a woman who now knew differently. “I’d been hurt pretty badly, and I didn’t want to feel that kind of pain again. But your brother offered me a second chance.”

Cathy sighed. “I’d like a first chance—to live. I think I deserve one.”

“Of course you do.”

Seven years of thoughts, plans, midnight fantasies and heartfelt hopes danced through Cathy’s brain. Was she brave enough? Weary enough? Desperate enough to grab hold, to take what she wanted?

Perhaps the old woman had come with a warning, not just a story from the past. A warning from her mother and maybe even from Cathy herself, that if she continued on this path, living in unhappiness, not really living at all, she’d truly be lost.

A shadow of apprehension grazed her heart, but she brushed it away. “You’re my sister now, Fran. Can I count on you?”

Fran squeezed her hand. “Just tell me what I can do.”

“Help me pack.”

One

Mosquitoes nibbled on her neck, unseen animals made sounds she didn’t recognize and the package of oatmeal she’d consumed an hour ago sat like a steel plate in her stomach.

But Cathy had never felt happier in her life.

Three days ago, dressed in typical college-backpacking-across-Europe grungewear, armed with a fake passport she’d paid dearly for and an American accent she’d learned to flawlessly imitate during her many years of travel, Cathy had followed through on her seven-year-old plan and left Llandaron for her own tour of the United States.

True to her word, Fran had helped Cathy pack and get to the airport. And as the burden of giving the king his daughter’s runaway note was a great one, Cathy thought it best not to tell her sister-in-law where she was headed.

During the entire flight to New York, Cathy had worried about her father’s reaction. But once she’d arrived in the Big Apple, she’d forced herself to let go of her concerns. Regardless of his anxiety over her whereabouts he would have to understand that in her current state of mind, she was of no use to him or to the people he wanted her to visit.

From New York, she’d taken another flight to Dallas, then another to Denver, then a cab to the hiking company’s office, enjoying her freedom every step of the way.

Her plans for the trip had gone off without a hitch, and she was certain that no one had followed her.

She grinned. She was fairly certain of it anyway.

To her right, the morning sun filtered through a stand of fragrant pine, as though eager to spotlight the needled path she walked. To her left, shards of silvery-white water cascaded down a canyon to a rushing river. The gentle slap of water against rock lulled her, yet drove her farther, up into the majestic mountains. The Colorado Rockies were just as beautiful as her old friend from finishing school had told her they would be.

A perfect place for a weary princess to escape.

As requested, the hiking company had dropped Cathy off at the base of the mountains, where the trails began, climbed and spread. Armed with a full backpack of supplies, a walking stick, pepper spray and an emergency beeper, she hiked deep into the mountains. Each night she followed the map to one of the hiking company’s sparse little cabins. She ate what was packed for her, slept on the hard, thin mattress that was provided and never complained.

She embraced her freedom, the adventure and the survival.

The word survival nicked her on the ear, made her pause midstep on the precarious stretch of narrow trail. Instinct gripped her sharply. She cocked her head to one side, listened.

She’d heard something.

Ten feet below, water smacked against rock. High above, birds twittered gaily in the swaying trees. She’d heard it all before.

Yet, there was something else.

Before she could examine the sound further, all thought suddenly froze in her brain. Barreling out of the woods came a horse and rider. Black stallion and shadowed man, heading straight for her. Time seemed to slow as river and hooves pounded.

Cathy’s heartbeat hammered in her chest, stumbling as she tried to think. She could only stare, motionless, as the snorting stallion drew nearer, nearer, then reared.

Cathy scrambled to get out of its way. Left, then right. Dust and pine needles flew and crackled. But in her haste, her foot caught on a rock still wet with dew.

Down she went, her backpack slipping off her shoulders, tumbling away, over the ravine. A scream escaped her throat as she saw only rock—her last thought on the old woman’s prediction.

“I told them they would lose ye…”

Then the ground rose up to claim her.

A violent blast of curses echoed through the mountain air. Gut tight, Dan Mason jumped off his now-lame horse and scrambled over to the woman. He touched her hand, but she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Where the hell had she come from anyway? he wondered, gaze flickering up and around. These paths were always clear. Especially at 6:00 a.m., when a man was looking to run from the demons of the night before, month before—years before.

As gently as a man used to dealing with hard-core criminals could manage, he rolled the woman to her back, brushed aside strands of long tawny curls and touched the base of her throat. A strong, steady pulse beat against his fingers. He leaned close, felt her easy breath against his jaw.

He shook his head, released a weighty sigh.

With the eyes of a deputy U.S. marshal, he assessed her condition. She didn’t appear to have any broken bones. She did, however, have a ruthless bruise on her forehead, a bruise that, thankfully, swelled outward.

As his gaze moved over her heart-shaped face, those marshal eyes turned into the eyes of a man. He couldn’t help it. He was base, a needful bastard. And she looked like an angel. Cupid-bow lips, satin skin, long neck. Then there was that firm chin that hinted at a real stubborn streak.

His gaze flickered downward. Thin gray sweatshirt, worn jeans and man-killer curves.

He inhaled sharply, called himself a depraved idiot and forced his game face back on. All in all, she was a typical hiker with typical hiking gear. Except for the boots. No mistaking. Those were top of the line. The woman had money.

The river roared from its bed ten feet down, snatching his attention like a fire alarm, spitting up spray. A muscle jumped in Dan’s jaw. She could’ve gone over the edge.

He leaned toward her, whispered sharply, “Lady, wake up.”

He got nothing. Nothing but one helluva sweet scent.

“Lady, can you hear me?”

A soft moan slipped from those pale-pink lips. She moved slightly, her face twisting, no doubt in pain. Pain was good, he thought. But getting her to wake up was better.

In a tone more suited to press criminals than soothe victims, he urged her on, “You’ve got to wake up now. Open your eyes and look at me.”

At that, tawny lashes fluttered, then opened. Eyes the color of violets stared up at him, made his chest constrict.

“Can you hear me?”

Blinking drunkenly, she nodded.

“You out here alone?”

Confusion swept her angel face as she uttered hoarsely, “I don’t know.”

“Do you feel dizzy? Sick to your stomach?”

“A little.”

He frowned. He knew something about head wounds. And this sounded like a concussion. “Your head hurt?”

“Aches.” Her responses came out as uneasy whispers. But it was the look in her eyes, the confusion, the fear that had his teeth clenching in undisguised anger.

He could see another woman, his partner, his fiancée, face pale, lips parted, staring up at a six-foot-five heavily muscled fugitive who was supposed to be on the other side of her gun.

Had Janice looked like this woman? Frightened, desperate?

Dan’s jaw threatened to crack. That horrific night had happened over four years ago, for chrissakes. How many times was he going to go through it, relive it? He hadn’t been there for her, case closed—couldn’t’ve been there for her. He’d been tied to that hospital bed, a bullet lodged in his thigh.

And hell, the bastard was behind bars where he belonged now anyway. Granted, a little more bruised and beaten than when he’d last faced a cell. Something Dan had seen to, something that had gotten his ass suspended and sent up to a mountain cabin to think about what he’d done, and if all went according to plan, feel remorse for it.

He grunted. His superiors were going to be waiting a long time for that to happen.

On a pained sigh, the woman in front of him let her lids close. All questions, all memories dropped to the back of his mind for more pressing and present matters.

This woman needed a doctor. But how was he going to contact one? Her pack had fallen over the crag, had to be a mile downstream by now. He didn’t have a cell phone.

Truth was, he hadn’t wanted any contact with the outside world. And now this woman was forcing his hand.

Options were few. Town was a full day’s ride away.

With a sharp sigh, he gathered her small frame into his arms, snatched Rancon’s reins and headed back to his cabin.

Two

Thumbnail sketches of flowered hillsides and rocky coastlines and one dangerously handsome man with dark, probing eyes drifted in and out of her muddled brain, warring with the sting over her left eyebrow and the dull pounding in her skull.

From far off she heard a moan. A feminine sound, but low and gravel-like. She wanted to run toward the woman, embrace her, whisper soothing words. But where was she?

“You need to wake up.”

The male voice slashed through the fog of her mind. The sting turned sharp as she strained to do as she was commanded. She tried to move, tried to shake her head. But her limbs felt heavy, water-filled. All she wanted to do was sleep, just sleep.

“I know you hear me,” came the masculine growl once again. “Open your eyes or there’s going to be trouble.”

She felt fingers, strong and cool at the base of her throat. She inhaled sharply at the touch, taking in the scents of pine and leather and sweat and…male…

With great effort, she forced her eyes open. Inches from her was a man—a ruthlessly handsome man with mussed black hair, piercing eyes, obstinate jaw and previously broken nose that she’d seen…

When?

Muscles tense with fear, she stared into those brown eyes of his, dark as chocolate, melted, hot chocolate, and uttered a hoarse “Who are you?”

The man’s hard gaze moved boldly over her face, hovered near her mouth, then lifted to her eyes and narrowed. “You first.”

Confused, she felt her forehead crease, but she didn’t argue with him. For, a more alarming predicament was rising up, biting her on the ear. When she opened her mouth, fully expecting her name to slip out easily, thoughtlessly…nothing emerged.

Terror twisted in her belly, shooting off balls of anxiety that had no direction, no catcher. She began to shake. Her throat went dry as a summer wind. She shut her eyes, willed herself to concentrate, to relax. This was ridiculous. The truth was there, on the tip of her tongue, who she was and where she’d come from.

Moments passed.

Nothing came.

She lifted her eyelids. “I don’t know who I am.”

A curse, ripe and hot, fell from his lips.

There had to be a logical explanation for this whole situation, she reasoned, must be. She just had to think, take a moment and concentrate.

Forcing a calm tone she hardly felt, she asked, “Are we lovers? Married?”

He snorted. “No.”

“Friends, then? Acquaintances—”

“No.”

Nervously, she looked around the room. She was in a small bedroom, sparsely furnished with just the bed, an old dresser and rocking chair. Above, the ceiling sported scores of rustic wood logs, while the large windows in front of her peered out over imposing mountains.

A log cabin.

And none of it rang one tiny bell of recognition.

“This is your house?”

He offered only a curt nod.

She shifted nervously under the covers. “This is your bed?”

“Yes.” An almost imperceptible glimmer of danger passed through his eyes. “I only have the one. Thought you’d be more comfortable here than on the couch.”

“I…appreciate that.”

With another quick nod, he stood. “You should probably get some rest.”

Without thought, she reached out, grabbed his wrist. “Wait. Please.”

He glanced down, frowned. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry.” Blushing, she released her grip on him. “I just want to know what happened—”

“Later. Rest now.” He turned, started for the door.

“Can you at least tell me your name?” she asked.

He stopped but didn’t turn around. “Dan.”

“Dan what?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

And with that, he left the room. Left a woman with no memory and a million questions staring after him.

As twilight arrested and called in the day, Dan hauled in the wood he’d chopped that morning and dropped it beside the fireplace.

Physical labor of any kind was his saving grace. If his mind dropped back to the past or shot into the future, he’d just grab the ax and have at it. Sometimes mucking out Rancon’s stall emptied his mind as well.

But not tonight.

The mystery woman with her violet eyes, I-need-you voice and fancy accent was sleeping in his bed, between his sheets—had been for the past four hours—and the thought was slowly but surely making him nuts.

He was now entirely over the fact that she could be a criminal or a spy or some such bull. Now his suspicious nature had turned into something far more dangerous: desire. With just a glance, that woman had his blood pumping and his curiosity piqued—two things he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Two things he’d never wanted to feel again.

Bottom line, if he wanted to stay marginally sane, she had to go. And soon. He wasn’t looking for romance. Anything close to that had rendered itself defunct four years ago.

Besides, foreign debutantes weren’t his thing. Especially foreign debutantes with zero memory. No doubt she had family, friends and some top-drawer kinda guy from England or Scotland—or wherever she was from—waiting for a word of her whereabouts.

After lighting a fire in the fireplace, Dan grabbed a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, took a healthy swallow, then plunked his body down on the couch. Tomorrow, if the woman was up for it, he’d take her into town, drop her off at the doctor’s and head back, back to silence and solitude and the always interesting notion of peace.

Dan paused, beer halfway to his mouth. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

He heard a small gasp behind him, glanced over his shoulder. Hands behind her back, the petite beauty stood a few feet away in her rumpled hiking gear with the moonlight beaming through the window, illuminating her face. She looked a little dazed. But beautiful. Too beautiful.

He turned back around. “You need to rest.”

“I know.” She walked around the couch, sat down beside him, crossed her legs at the ankles. “I woke up and felt a little scared, so I thought…”

“You thought you’d come hang out with me?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Mind? Why should he mind? Just because his body revved to life whenever he looked at her? “No, I don’t mind. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that it’s any safer out here.”

He watched her lips part, shock brighten those killer eyes, and pink color those high cheekbones. He tilted his beer toward her, trying for a lighter mood. “Thirsty?”

Her smile was short and tentative. “No, thanks.”

“No, probably not good for you.” Neither the beer nor the company.

“Not tonight anyway. Maybe another time.”

Her words snaked through him. Innocent enough, but they were sulfur to a match that had been stripped for a long time.

His hand tightened on the neck of the beer bottle as he watched her brush a strand of long curly hair away from her face, hair that reflected several shades of red and blond and brown in the blaze of firelight.

Aside from the bruise on her forehead, she really did have the look of an angel about her.

The kind of look a devil like him steered clear of.

He took a pull on his beer, dropped back against the couch and asked, “Are you feeling any better?”

“A little tired. My body aches. But otherwise, not too bad.”

“How about your head? That fall you took was pretty serious.”

She inhaled sharply. “I fell? Where? In the mountains? Why?”

“Take it easy, lady. Look, all I know is that you and my horse scared the bejesus out of each other this morning, that you both ended up injured and that as soon as it’s possible, we’ll get you back to who and where you belong.” He took another swallow of beer. “Now, are you going to tell me how that head of yours is doing?”

“All right,” she said, a soft smile twitching her lips. “The pain’s gone and the head’s still attached.”

“And the memory?”

That smile wavered. “I still don’t remember anything.”

“You will.”

“Well, if you say so, then I’ll believe it.”

It was as though someone had wrapped a tire iron around the stone he used for a heart and squeezed. “Why is that?”

“I don’t know, I just…I feel like I can trust you.”

He shot her a cynical twist of a smile. “You shouldn’t trust anyone.”

Confusion lit her eyes. And right then Dan knew exactly where she’d come from: Innocent Avenue, round the corner from Sheltered Street, in the never-polluted city of Naive. Those kind of people made him crazy. You had to see the world for what it was if you wanted to survive. Didn’t she know that?

Of course she didn’t.

“You hungry?” he asked, hoping to redirect both their attentions.

She nodded eagerly. “But I’d like to wash up first if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. How about a shower?”

Her eyes went wide. “A shower?”

Dan wanted to laugh. Really he did, that is, if he could remember how. “That was just a gentlemanly offer, not a come-on.”

“A come-on?”

“A line. A play to get you naked, wet and soapy.”

Her pretty face glowed with pink embarrassment. “Oh.”

This was getting out of control. This prim-and-proper thing she had going was really getting under his skin, making his body ache like hell. On an irritated grumble, Dan seized her hand, helped her to her feet and led her into the bedroom and over to his closet. After grabbing a few extra-large items that wouldn’t tempt him, he handed them to her. “Here.”

“What are these?”

“Clean clothes.”

“I know that,” she said. “I was just wondering if these were your clothes?”

“Yeah. Gotta problem with that?”

For a moment she just stared at him, then shook her head and said, “Not in the least.”

“Good.” He led her to the bathroom door, beckoned for her to walk past him. And as soon as she did, he followed.

It took her about three seconds to notice him. And when she did, when she turned to look at him, that stubborn chin of hers was tilted up. “Where do you think you’re going, Dan?”

He pointed past her. “In there.”

She blinked. “With me?”

“That’s right.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Listen, lady, as I said before, this isn’t a come-on.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then what is it exactly?”

He growled irritably and stalked past her, jerked open the navy-blue shower curtain and turned on the hot water. “You have a head injury. I need to be here in case something happens.”

“Something like what?”

“Like you could get dizzy, faint, keel over—”

She shook her head. “I’m feeling much better now. Nothing like that is going to happen.”

He shoved a white towel at her. “That’s what I’m here to make sure of.”

She didn’t move, just stared at him. “Perhaps I’ll take the shower another time.”

Leaning against the wall, he expelled a breath and said, “Oh, for chrissakes, I’m doing you a favor here. Do you really think this is how I want to spend my night? Standing guard outside a shower curtain?”

She shrugged, gripped the towel and clothing closer to her body. Honestly, she had good reason to be suspicious. She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t know who she was.

But despite the fact that she made fire erupt inside him, he wasn’t a total jerk. He wasn’t about to take advantage of a naked woman with a head injury and no memory.

Unless she asked him to, of course.

“Look, Princess, the curtain is a dark color. I won’t be seeing a thing, okay?”

She went stiff as a mannequin at his words, except for the faint twitch under her right eye. Teeth clenched, she fairly sputtered, “Why did you call me that?”

He was completely taken aback by this unexpected reaction: “What? Why did I call you what? Princess? I don’t know. You just seem—”

She boldly met his eyes, all Rambo and don’t-mess-with-me. Damn appealing. “Don’t ever call me that.”

“Why?”

“I…I don’t remember. But I don’t like it.” Even over the sound of bathwater rapping against porcelain, the gravity in her voice was evident.

“Fine. But I gotta call you something.”

The bristles retracted somewhat as she seemed to think this over. “How about Beatrice?”

He frowned. “Beatrice? Where did that come from?”

She shrugged. “It’s a nice enough name. And far better than the P word.”

Dan refused to delve into the princess thing. Tomorrow, hopefully, he wouldn’t be calling her anything at all. But for tonight, there needed to be something. And Beatrice didn’t suit her. Actually, he wasn’t sure what suited her. Mystery woman. Innocent one minute, full of fire the next.

“How about Angel?”

A slow, soft smile broke on her face. “You think I’m an angel?”

Her smile gripped him low in the gut. Match struck rough surface and he lost himself, lost his mind and his control for a moment. “I think you got the face of an angel. I’m not sure about the rest of you…”

His traitorous gaze traveled the length of her as his foolish mouth uttered, “Yet.”

What the hell was he thinking playing this game with her? Dan admonished himself seconds later. A game that would be over before it even had a chance to begin.

That was an easy one. He wasn’t thinking.

He watched her lips part, hoped she was going to scold him with that sweet brogue of hers, tell him to get out and go straight to hell.

But she didn’t. She licked her lower lip, slow and seductive and totally unguarded.

He snatched open the shower curtain. Hot steam poured into the tiny bathroom. “Let’s go. Clothes off, Angel. Time to get wet.”

Three

Hot water pelted her aching muscles. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, allowing the water to cleanse her wound and her spirit. The fresh citrus scent of shampoo drifted from her hair, while the soapy suds slid down her back, over her buttocks, thighs and calves.

All anxiety slipped down the drain with the bubbles and the day’s dirt.

“How’s it going in there?”

Her pulse kicked and her skin tightened at the gruff query.

So much for relaxation.

Dan stood guard outside the sway of a shower curtain, the outline of his exceptional frame a mere inches from her naked body—strangely, a body and a face she’d hardly recognized when she’d spied herself in the mirror earlier. The strangeness of this entire situation was staggering, from the blank canvas that was her mind to the thrilling shots of awareness she felt whenever her rescuer was near.

But there was nothing for it. She was going to stay here tonight, in his cabin in the woods, feel an overwhelming surge of need and try like hell to keep her wits about her.

Actually, step one of that strategy had gone off without a hitch. Before she’d removed her clothing and stepped under the spray, she’d removed Dan. When she was safely behind the blue curtain, she’d told him he could return, as per their agreement.

And they’d had to make an agreement. The man was incredibly stubborn and protective and arrogant and handsome and—

“Angel?” The pet name glided over her heated skin like the soft, cotton washcloth in her hand.

“Yes?”

“I asked how it’s going in there.”

“Everything’s fine. Just fine. Thank you. No worries. Or problems.” Except for the fact that she was rambling on like an idiot.

“You sure you don’t need any help?”

“Positive. Except…”

“Except for what?”

“Well, there is one thing—soap.”

“You don’t like it?”

“There is none.”

“Oh. Sorry about that. I must’ve used up the last of it this morning.”

“Perhaps I could use the shampoo as a—”

“No, no, I’ll get you another bar.”

Over the thrashing water, she heard a cabinet door open, then the sound of paper being torn. And before she could even think, blink or gasp, a hand—Dan’s hand—shot through one side of the curtain.

“Here you go.”

She mumbled a quick, “Thank you,” but didn’t take the soap from his hand. In fact, she didn’t move at all.

She felt incredibly exposed as she stared at his hand, at his long, tapered fingers wrapped around that pale-blue cake of soap. Shudders of electricity began in her stomach, then dropped lower as her mind conjured images of that hand cupping something else…cupping her, her face, her hip, her breast.

“It’s the manly scented stuff, but it gets the job done.”

Clearing her throat, she managed to say, “I’m sure that it does.”

All she had to do was take the bloody bar. What was wrong with her? When she’d fallen and hit her head, had she unleashed some lusty side of her that had gone unchecked? Because, Lord, she felt as though she’d never had thoughts like this.

“Aren’t you going to take it, Angel?”

With an unsteady hand, she reached out. Her fingers wrapped around his, eased the bar from his hand.

Soft and wet met dry and rough.

Her breath came out in a rush. Her fingers lingered.

So did his.

“Angel?”

She snatched her hand back. The soap slipped, dropped into the tub with a thud. She stared at it, unable to go near it. “I’m almost done in here,” she called out. “I just have to rinse off. You can go. Really. I can dress myself.”

He was silent for a moment, then, “You sure?”

“Quite sure.” Her tone excessively firm, she added, “Now, please go. I’m fine. I’ll be dressed and out in a few moments.”

“All right. But careful getting out. It’s slippery.”

When he left, she snatched up the notorious bar of soap and leaned against the shower wall, tried to regain her composure. Around her, the steam moved, breathed, like a living being.

Suddenly, a memory tugged at her mind. She’d been here, or in some place like this, surrounded by some kind of white haze, before. And more than once.

She tried to claim more of the impression, but the vision evaporated and she was left with only current memories, ones that made her skin tighten with a frightening sense of excitement she didn’t recognize but was tempted to explore.

She stood directly under the shower’s spray, hoping to rid herself of such thoughts and feelings. But as soon as she touched the fragrant bar of soap to her skin, she was lost.

For, just moments ago, it had been in his hand.

Nothing fancy. But it’ll do.

Dan scooped up some of the warmed, canned spaghetti into two bowls, placed a few slices of buttered bread on a plate and brought it all to the table. He was no cook. Too much career, too little time for anything else.

“May I help?”

Dan turned at the silky-sounding offer, watched the woman walk out of the bathroom, rosy-cheeked, hair down and damp. “Nope. It’s all set.”

She was wearing his clothes. Big and baggy clothes. But that didn’t stop his imagination from running wild. Just as it had during her shower.

He’d stood there, back to the curtain, trying to stop himself from thinking, from breaking the zipper on his jeans, and from sliding open the curtain and joining her. And now, here she stood, dressed in his gray sweats. Her skin, her thighs, the backs of her knees, her breasts, all brushing against the fabric.

Dan forced himself to get back under control, back to the hard-nosed lawman he was. Maybe the boys down at the office were playing a trick on him. Maybe his superiors had sent this sexy creature up here to make him nuts, make him cave, make him so desperate for the world of the living that he’d admit he was wrong for messing up the perp responsible for killing his fiancée.

“Everything looks wonderful,” she remarked, glancing around the table.

It sure as hell did… “Clothes fit all right?”

She lifted the sweatshirt just enough for him to see the waistband and one blessed inch of flat stomach. “These pants are a tad large. I have to hold them up with one hand, but I don’t mind.”

Heat pounded him in the groin. This was too much. He stalked into the kitchen, fumbling around in a drawer, grabbed a piece of rope and came back.

“Lift the sweatshirt again.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Tentatively, she did as he instructed. He had the rope around her waist in one second, tied in another. “There.”

She stared up at him, an uncertain smile playing around her mouth. “Much better. Thank you.”

He should’ve taken a step back, run out the friggin’ front door, but he didn’t. He stood there, looked down into her eyes and wanted to haul her against him, cover her mouth with his, feel her tongue…

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

It had been a long time since he’d stood this close to a woman and felt a pull so strong it fairly knocked him off his feet.

Getting involved with someone in the past four years, even sexually, had seemed too easy and totally undeserved. No matter how masochistic it sounded, he felt the need to punish himself, deny himself, always and forever. After a while, he’d just forgotten to want.

Then, this violet-eyed temptress had stepped into his path, got herself hurt, got herself dropped between his sheets. Thank God she was only going to be around here for one night.

He held out a chair for her. “Have a seat.”

She sat with her back to the fire, her wet hair glowing tricolor fire. “If I didn’t say this before, I really appreciate all that you’ve done. I’m sure I’ve inconvenienced you terribly, and as soon as you deem me well enough to travel, I’ll be out of your way.”

“It’s not a problem.” What a bold-faced lie.

“But it is a bother. Were you on holiday? Is this your vacation spot?”

“No.”

“Oh. Do you live up here year-round then?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing up here?”

His gaze lifted. He watched as she twirled her spaghetti against a spoon. “You know, you ask a lot of questions for someone with no memory.”

Spaghetti stopped twirling, forehead creased. “Are you in some type of law enforcement, Dan?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why would you ask that?”

“You’re very suspicious of me. I doubt very much that I am a criminal.”

He doubted it, too, but after five years as a cop and ten as a marshal, you wondered about everyone. Especially someone you were attracted to. Could make for big problems.

“Perhaps I’m asking questions,” she began, returning to her dinner, “because I’m frustrated. I have no memory, no identification, no personal effects. Perhaps I’m asking questions because I think learning about someone else’s past might trigger memories of my own.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“Yes.”

The pasta suddenly felt like worms in Dan’s mouth. He dropped his fork onto his plate, sat back in his chair. “I have no past.”

She raised her gaze, studied him. “What does that mean?”

“That means, Angel, that I don’t want to talk about it.” He ground out the words, frustration building inside him.

“Sounds rather daunting. Maybe you would feel better if you did.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Let’s try and—”

“You know what I feel?” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Tired.” He pushed away from the table, took his bowl into the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, enjoying the crashing sound it made.

Sure, he owed this woman his care, his protection. But his personal life was none of her business. It was no one’s business. “You can take my bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“The couch is very small. I’d hate to have you be so uncomfortable.”

A swift jolt of desire rose up and bit him on the butt. She was making him crazy with all her questions and good manners. He spun around. “We could share the bed.”

Her gaze met his for a moment, then dropped to her plate. “No, no.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t mean… The offer for your bed is a very generous one.”

He exhaled. “Tomorrow, we’ll head into town. See the doctor.”

“All right,” she agreed, taking a dainty bite of pasta.

And the doctor could take her off his hands for good. Then things would get back to normal. Fishing and cussing and forgetting about the past. He could go back to eating in peace and not thinking about beautiful violet-eyed women and where his soap had been.

At that moment, the beautiful violet-eyed woman in question stood up and began collecting plates and bowls. “You know, you’re a very good cook, Dan. Was there fresh thyme in the tomato sauce?”

The woman had to be a diplomat or something. He shrugged. “You’d have to ask Chef Boyardee.”

“You have a chef?”

Dan paused, rewound. Then a chuckle—an honest to goodness chuckle—escaped his dusty lungs. Leaning back against the sink, he shook his head. “Man, you really have lost your memory. The pasta’s from a can.”

“And so is the chef?”

He nodded.

Her face broke out into a wide grin.

His, too.

He reached for her plates and placed them in the sink, this time with only a mild clatter. She disarmed him with that smile and easy way of hers. Extraordinary.

Yet worrisome. If she could make him smile a dozen times—and laugh—all in one day, she was a bigger batch of trouble than he’d even imagined.

“You should probably head in to bed,” he suggested. “I have an injured horse who needs tending.”

She nodded. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, thanks again for dinner.”

“No problem.”

“And I really hope my memory returns in the morning.”

“So do I.” Truer words were never spoken. “Make sure to keep the door open a crack.”

“Okay. Good night.” After one of those irresistible smiles, she turned and left the room.

“Good night, Angel.”

Dan grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the couch, his bed for the night. In the fireplace, the flames crackled and sputtered, fighting to stay alive. He knew their fierceness, their hunger.

For four years, he’d been crawling around on his belly, unwilling to stand up. He’d never thought he’d have the pluck.

From the bedroom, he heard the woman pull back the comforter, heard the bed dip with the weight of her body.

Around her, he had the pluck. Around her, he had the urge to stand.

He drained his beer, then headed for the front door.

Around her, he had a new hunger, dangerous and demanding.

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