Here to Stay (Silhouette Special Edition) (9 page)

His anger rose swiftly, blinding him to the sweetness he’d been taking for granted. “Cut the Pollyanna crap, Doc! It’s not like turning off a switch. My past is still with me, even if I can’t remember it. I can pretend to start over all I want, but what about when that past catches up with me? Who will I be then, Doc?”

He watched her swallow, wanting to press his mouth to her slender throat despite his anger. “You’ll be what we all are, Miles. A combination of past and present.”

“That’s the point, Sasha. I have to know what that past is, before I can decide about the future.”

“You have to do whatever you think is right, Miles,” she answered evenly, gently, as if he hadn’t been bellowing at her.

“You think I’m wrong,” he challenged, needing to work out this pent-up belligerence toward fate. “You think I should stay and let you treat me like that godforsaken beast you think you can make nice to. I’m not a horse, Doc. I’m a man, and that makes me a lot more dangerous. Isn’t that what your friend Sam told you? That I’ll use you, then leave you.”

She fussed with the already neatly folded dish towel, then shrugged. “I’m not a teenager with a crush, Miles. I’m an adult offering aid and comfort to another adult. Sex has nothing to do with it.”

He had her in his arms and pressed against his body so quickly that he felt as surprised as she looked. He felt her stiffen, then relax and lean into him, pliant and yielding. Her head tipped back, her eyes meeting his. Her pulse surged wildly at the base of her throat. His breath fought its way past his own galloping heart. When she slowly ran the tip of her tongue across her lower lip, he felt the blood race to his loins. As he grew harder, Sasha’s eyes widened, but she didn’t try to escape his hold.

The knowledge that he could have her, that she felt the same desire he did, rocked him to the core of his soul. It took every ounce of his self-control and whatever was left of his self-respect to release her before he gave in to the temptation to take her mouth. She stood before him, her breathing as rapid and shallow as his.

“Smarten up, Sasha!” he growled, clenching his hands to keep from reaching for her again. “If you give me half a chance, damn it, I
will
use you and leave you. I’m trying to get out of your life before it comes to that.”

Very slowly she nodded. “I’ll get you my travel agent’s phone number for the morning,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “She also can get you a flat-rate taxi to the airport, since I’ll be out on calls all day.”

His anger dropped away. All he felt was exhaustion and regret. “Thanks. See you in the morning.”

She smiled, but there was a sad light in her eyes.

“Good night, Miles. Sleep well.”

* * *

Sasha knew she couldn’t follow Miles up the stairs as if nothing had happened between them. She wasn’t sure
what
had just happened, but something very powerful had nearly gotten out of control. Her nerves still tingled with the imprint of Miles’s body on hers. Her pulse still fluttered. Her hands still shook.

Bemused and confused, she grabbed her jacket and went outside to clear her head. The night air was cool and damp, but even with her jacket open, she felt overheated.

Never had a man touched her like that. Not physically, although it was true no one else had ever grabbed her like a pirate seizing the spoils of a battle, but emotionally. Miles touched her deep inside. No other man had made her tremble like that. No other man had made her hunger for passion, for a bonding that reached beyond sex. Like a ready mare, she’d become instantly receptive at the first wild step of the ageless mating dance.

With a shiver Sasha realized she’d walked most of the way to Desperado’s paddock. His white coat shone like a reverse shadow in the security lights of the stable yard. Head up, he sniffed the air, then blew and snorted. A moment later, as Sasha reached the fence, he began a nervous jig, turning first one way, then the other.

Sasha dug a piece of horse crunch out of her jacket pocket and crooned gently to the uneasy stallion. To her amazement and delight, he stopped his frantic pacing and slowly made his way toward her. With his muzzle extended suspiciously, Desperado halted several feet from the fence. She held the piece of crunch out on the flat of her palm.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” she coaxed. “It’s for you. All you have to do is take it nicely. There’s a good boy.”

The horse sighed deeply and began to inch toward her extended hand. Sasha stood motionless and continued to croon at him, waiting patiently for him to lip the treat off her hand. When Desperado was within easy reach, he paused, then came even closer. At the very moment that she expected him to take the piece of crunch as a token of his acceptance of her presence, his neck snaked toward her and his teeth snapped. With a gasp, Sasha pulled her hand back a split second before those teeth would have closed on her hand.

“Didn’t you ever hear the advice not to bite the hand that feeds?” she muttered.

* * *

Miles shut the door to his bedroom and called himself every kind of jerk for snarling at Sasha. She was only trying to help him find a way out of this maze with no landmarks. Hell, she had her own problems. He knew she had to be sore from the stallion’s attack. If he really was this selfish bastard, he didn’t think getting his memory back was going to do anyone any favors.

“M’row?” came from somewhere in the room. He looked around, taking in the simple, sturdy furnishings, the tasteful prints in wooden frames, the cheerful curtains and upholstery. No cat in sight.

Then the bed skirt moved, and a black-and-gold cat slunk out from under the double bed. It yawned, stretched and licked its chops, then parked its butt on the faded Oriental carpet and blinked up at him. Its long tail curled around its feet, the tip slowly rising and falling in a regular rhythm.

“Okay, pal,” he muttered, feeling foolish for talking to the damn animal. “Here’s the door.”

He stood by the open door, but the cat continued to stare at him as if he’d missed some subtle but important point. Finally the cat simply shrugged off their staring contest by lifting a forepaw and del-icately licking at it, then scrubbing its face. Bemused at being outmaneuvered, he shut the door and moved toward the bathroom.

When he came back out, the damn cat was curled in the middle of the rumpled bed, looking very much at home. Suddenly too tired to argue with anyone or anything, Miles pulled back the down quilt and sat on the edge of the bed. The cat made room for him to lie down, then curled up against his hip, purring loudly. The last thing he remembered thinking, before he closed his eyes, was that he’d never get to sleep with the cat making that much noise.

* * *

When Miles awoke, his watch said it was past midafternoon on Monday. Stiff and woolly brained, he managed to get downstairs to the kitchen, where he found a note from Sasha and a pot of hot coffee. Attached to her note, which simply said, “Good luck,” was the business card of a travel agent. Holding the card in his hand, he turned to look at the phone on the wall. It seemed very far away.

The black-and-gold cat leaped onto the counter beside him. He pivoted quickly, too quickly. The kitchen tilted and darkness pressed in on his eyes. Gripping the edge of the counter, Miles fought to control his breathing and clear his vision. He finally straightened and found the damn cat watching him.

“M’row?”

“I know, I know,” he muttered. “Even you wouldn’t drag me in.” He considered the coffeepot. Immediately his stomach rose in protest. No way he could face coffee, even though he was desperate for a jolt of caffeine to wake him up. The cat yawned widely. Miles grunted in agreement. He put the travel agent’s card down on the counter. “Later.”

Slowly he made his way back upstairs. His entire body felt heavy, as if he were dragging a ball and chain. Darkness threatened to close in on him with every movement. Dimly he wondered why he felt so much worse now than he had the previous night. Then his stomach rolled in a clear warning. Calling on his last reserves of strength, he reached the bathroom before he was violently sick.

The next time Miles awoke, he was shaking with cold. The room was dark. No light came through his closed blinds. He clenched his teeth and hunched under the thick quilt. A flash of memory drifted through his fevered brain: a little boy, sick like this. Himself in thin pajamas. Crying quietly in the dark, curled in fetal position on a cold concrete floor. Angry voices coming through the ceiling from the rooms upstairs.

He closed his eyes to erase the images. When he awoke again, the sun was shining overhead, and according to his digital watch, it was Wednesday. Vaguely he recalled Sasha speaking to him, touching his shoulder, offering cool water. Had he been dreaming? Where had two days gone? In disbelief and exhaustion he closed his eyes again.

* * *

The faint ringing of a phone in the distance penetrated his dreams. Opening his eyes, Miles glanced at the lit numbers on the clock radio on the bedside table. Two twenty-five Thursday morning. He’d fallen asleep again. The black-and-gold cat lay curled against his side. His head no longer throbbed with every pulse, and his stomach had settled, but he felt as if his limbs were floating. He struggled to get up, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. As soon as he moved, the cat started to purr.

He was almost asleep when he heard Sasha close her bedroom door. A stair creaked. A moment later he heard the front door shut, and then the muffled roar of her truck starting in the quiet of night. The thought that she’d been tending him, as well as her patients, sent a wave of guilt washing over him. She must be exhausted. The best way to repay her would be to leave soon.

“M’row?”

“Must be an emergency call.”

“M’row,” the cat agreed, then yawned widely. Miles yawned, too, then let himself drift back to sleep. This time he felt as if he were sinking into Sasha’s embrace, the way he had in the front seat of her truck. This time his dreams left him smiling.

* * *

The first thing Sasha noticed at seven in the morning when she tiptoed into the house was the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She peered into the kitchen and found Miles standing at the counter, the morning paper spread in front of him. For a moment she leaned against the doorframe and simply savored the sight of a beautiful male animal in her kitchen.

And even from the back, Miles was a beautiful male animal. Tall, broad shouldered, lean hipped, long legged. His faded jeans rode low on his hips, and his torso was bare except for the shadows of his healing bruises. The muscles of his back, shoulders and arms bunched and flowed into each other as he turned over a page of the newspaper. If he were a horse, she’d definitely recommend him as a stud.

The sudden
clunk
of the toaster startled her. Miles turned and gave her a long, assessing look that made her wonder if he could read her thoughts. Lord, she hoped not!

“Coffee’s ready. Want toast or cereal?” he said in that gruff voice that could set up walls between him and the world, or sound so intimate that it gave her shivers. At the moment, with him offering her breakfast, she was fighting shivers and wishing for walls.

“Toast, thanks. How are you feeling?”

“Better. I think a flu hit me. I couldn’t wake up.”

She nodded. “That’s what my doctor thought, too. She said to let you sleep, and let nature take its course.”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she told him. There was no way she was going to tell Miles that she’d also been in his room as often as possible, offering him sips of water and clear chicken soup, sponging him off and chang-ing his sweat-soaked bedding around his weakened body. Instead, she said, “I’m a mess. Give me a couple of minutes to clean up.”

Sasha hurried upstairs to change into clean jeans and shirt and wash her face and hands. Her shower would have to wait until the end of the workday. There was too much to do and not enough time to do it all, as usual. Still, she looked forward to sitting with Miles before she had to start her rounds.

Thank goodness he was over the flu, although, of course, that meant he’d be leaving soon. Tugging a clean sweatshirt over her head, she reminded herself once again that the best way for Miles to regain his memory was to go home to things that were familiar. She could nurse him through a stomach flu, but she couldn’t cure his amnesia. And even if she could, his life was on Secret Island, in Florida, and hers was here, on Lilac Hill Farm, in Ontario. They didn’t even live in the same country.

Any fantasies to the contrary would only make her miss him more than she already did—and he hadn’t left yet.

She found Miles sitting at the kitchen table, coffee mug in his left hand, frowning at the newspaper open over his untouched toast. A pad and pen sat to the right of his plate, the pad covered with scrib-bles. On the counter another mug stood beside the coffeemaker, and two slices of bread sat waiting in the toaster. She crossed the room to pour her coffee and push the lever on the toaster. He glanced up when she pulled the chair out opposite him.

She smiled, much too aware that shirtless, from the front, Miles was a disturbing sight this early in the morning. His shoulder muscles flowed into his chest muscles, which were covered with silky dark hairs. His abdomen, as she’d noticed in the hospital, rippled with taut muscles. With the bruises and cuts on his face almost healed, he was ruggedly, breathtakingly handsome. Much too distracting. It was just as well, she told herself firmly, that he was leaving before she got in over her head.

“Thank you for breakfast,” she said as she sat, “but you really didn’t have to get up so early.”

“Yeah, I really did, with that damn cat line dancing on my face.” He brought his mug to his lips. She watched his Adam’s apple move when he swallowed, watched his tongue slide across his lips. She pictured her own lips touching his lips and tongue, imagined kissing his neck and the hollow of his throat, and felt her pulse race. “Besides, I owe you for taking care of me while I was sick.”

So he’d been aware of her! Her face burned as she wondered how much he recalled. It was much less complicated treating horses. Much less...intimate. She decided to ignore his reference to his illness. “The cat is Princess,” she managed to say reasonably evenly. “She’s like the five-hundred-pound gorilla. She sleeps wherever she wants. All the other cats give her plenty of room, although she loves people.” The toaster clunked and ejected her toast. She took a plate and carried her breakfast back to the table.