November Harlequin Presents 1(120)

Any desire he felt would be crazy, stupid—madness to act upon, no matter how strongly he felt it, how urgently it called to him to appease it. He didn’t need any further complications in his life. Things were already complex enough.

Wasn’t it bad enough that he couldn’t remember anything about the past twelve months? That anything he had learned about that year, and his accident, was something that he had had to take on trust, both in the hospital and since arriving home?

Home.

This time Andreas snapped off the shower completely and stepped out of the glass-walled stall, shaking his head like a big, angry dog, trying to drive away another flurry of unwanted thoughts that assailed and tormented him.

‘Home!’

He flung the word like a curse at his reflection in the huge, steamed-up mirror, scowling blackly into the dark blur of his eyes as he did so.

This was his home; he knew that at least. But from the moment that he’d arrived at the door, he had had the appalling feeling that something was very wrong. And that feeling had stayed with him as he’d walked through the house.

What he’d not been prepared for was the sheer wave of desolation that had overwhelmed him at just the thought of going into the obvious room, the master bedroom. There was no way he’d been prepared to admit to it, so he had turned instead and headed for the bedroom that was furthest away from it.

Which was why he had ended up in here.

Shaking his head again, he snatched up a towel and began to dry himself, his movements rough and almost aggressive as if he could wipe away the frustration of his lack of memory along with the water drops.

‘Damn!’

An unthinking movement caught the towel on a particularly dark-coloured bruise, making him draw in his breath in a sharp hiss between his teeth. But the stab of pain was easily dismissed, pushed out of his mind. It would heal. Another week or so and he would be back to normal. In his body at least.

But what about his mind?

Another string of curses, darker and even more vicious, spilled from his lips as he considered the prospect.

Without a memory or any knowledge of what had happened in the past year, how could he even think of any sort of relationship with a woman, even just the physical one that his hungry senses had been urging him on to? How could he ever allow himself any sort of emotional life when he knew nothing about the past one? He’d recognised Becca—remembered how he had felt about her. But what stage was that relationship at now?

That was certainly not a question he was ever going to ask Leander. There were some things that were too personal even for a personal assistant.

Flinging the wet towel away and snatching up a black towelling robe, Andreas shrugged it on and belted it tightly around himself, ignoring yet another protest from his bruised ribs.

He couldn’t stay in here a moment longer. He twisted the key savagely to unlock the door, his fingers closing tightly over the handle until the knuckles showed white.

Becca was too much temptation for him to be able to face the thought of her staying in the house when he wasn’t able to act on the sensual provocation she offered simply by existing. Just the memory of the way that his blood had heated in his veins as he’d touched her cheek had enough sting to make him fling open the door with unnecessary force.

‘This isn’t going to work…’

The words died on his lips as he took in the empty room, the door out onto the landing standing slightly open, showing which way she had gone.

So at least she’d done as she was told. He had been so sure that she would ignore his instructions and that when he opened the door he would find her still there, waiting for him, possibly even determined to tuck him up in bed again…

‘I’m—not one to fuss unnecessarily…’

The memory of Becca’s voice, soft and unexpectedly husky, speaking the words cut through another flare of sensual heat that surged along his nerves at the thought of being tucked up in bed by the lovely brunette, feeling her cool, soft hand on his brow, her fingers at his wrist checking his pulse. Immediately his pulse throbbed, desire giving him a hard, cruel kick low down in his body.

If it was this bad now, then how would it be if she stayed? What sort of ‘rest and recovery’ as ordered by the doctors would be possible with images such as that blazing inside his head? How could he live every day with her when just the sight of her woke a carnal hunger that he could barely restrain?

And how could he give in to that hunger when he didn’t know a thing about the missing months they must have spent together? It was better if she left, at least until he recovered somewhat.

His mind made up, he strode to the wardrobe, began pulling out clothes—a shirt and jeans—taking underwear from a drawer. He pulled on his clothes, and then headed down the stairs, bare feet padding silently on the polished wooden steps. The afternoon was coming to an end, the fierce heat of the day easing a little.