Stranger In Her Arms. Lorna Michaels
storm, she thought. The man wouldn’t hurt her, she assured herself. They were in this together. For now, she’d have to trust him. She tucked the gun back in the waistband of her jeans. “Let’s get started on the living room,” she said.
Insisting he walk in front of her, she followed him into the living room.
Hands on hips, he surveyed the room. “We’ll need to sandbag the doors first. Got any old blankets or pillows we can use?”
Christy frowned. He’d put himself in charge. Just like Keith. Give her ex a problem, anything from a broken teapot to a patient with head trauma, and he was certain he knew what to do. Better than anyone. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. Just because she’d had an overbearing husband didn’t mean she had to reject the advice of every male she met. Her helper was probably right. And injuries or not, he’d be better able to handle the heavy work than she. “I’ll see,” she murmured and went to get some blankets.
They barricaded the front door with a faded old beach blanket, then did the same with the back, using a cartoon character blanket that had once belonged to her brother Steve.
Then they got to work, dragging furniture around until they could roll up the dhurrie that covered the living-room floor and set it on the sofa. They put small items—a lamp, a magazine rack, an umbrella stand—on tables.
As they worked, Christy kept her eyes on the man, watching for any tricky moves. Her trust only went so far.
Periodically she stopped to dial 911 on her cell, always with the same result: a busy signal.
She was concerned about the stranger’s strength. A sheen of sweat covered his face, but he seemed to be holding up all right. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She frowned. “What should I call you?”
She saw him stiffen, then he turned. “Aren’t unidentified males called John Doe? How about J.D. for short?” His voice was flat. Not a shred of emotion showed in his eyes. The man had iron control.
Christy nodded. “J.D. All right.”
Not sure how he felt about giving himself a “name,” he turned away, mouthing the initials silently, wondering if he’d chosen his own. He went down the alphabet as he had last night. J slowed him down a bit, and he muttered, “Joe. Jack. Jerry.” None of the names felt right.
What else? He tried a few sentence beginnings: “I live in…” “My social security number is…” “Hell,” he muttered under his breath. “My social security number is zero zero zero.”
Obsessing over his identity wasn’t going to help him remember. He let his thoughts wander, and they came to rest on the woman working beside him. The voice of an angel, he thought. But she had a revolver tucked in the waistband of her jeans. Sweetness and spunk; the combination was immensely appealing. She was the kind of woman he’d enjoy sharing a burger and a beer with…or chateaubriand and champagne. If the weather were calm and she were his, he’d like to stroll along the beach with her under the summer sun. Or on a starlit night, with a soft Gulf breeze ruffling the hair that would drift like moon shadows to her shoulders.
A romantic image. Was he a romantic man? He pondered that for a moment and decided that no, he was more practical than poetic; yet something about Christy stirred him, called forth pretty words.
She bent to pick up a magazine that had dropped off a pile and gave him an enticing view of her backside. Nicely rounded. His hands itched to touch, to mold.
If she were his, on a day like this, they’d finish in here and he’d take her back to the bedroom and make love to her while the thunder growled and the storm battered the windows.
If she were his…
But she wasn’t, and the thought jerked him back to reality. She’d mentioned a husband last night. But the spouse was clearly an invention she’d come up with to protect herself from a stranger who might get ideas about a lone woman.
Well, he’d gotten them.
He’d like to…
A sudden question halted him midthought. What if he was married and thinking this way? Damn, this was a helluva mess.
He glanced at her to find her with the cell phone at her ear again, punching in 911. While he’d been imagining romantic scenes, she’d been doing her best to try to get rid of him.
She caught him staring. “What?” she asked.
Had he said something out loud? “Nothing,” he muttered. He pointed to the crowded bookshelves. “You don’t want these books ruined. We’ll move the ones from the lower shelves.” He pulled out a well-worn copy of The Secret Garden. “Looks like you’ve read this more than once.”
She nodded. “It was my favorite book when I was growing up. I read it every summer we were here, at least five years in a row.”
“You came here when you were a kid?” he asked.
“Yes, this is my parents’ beach house.”
He glanced around the living room. Big windows that could be opened to catch the Gulf breeze, shut now to keep out the rain. Comfortable furniture but not fancy. A fireplace. One that was actually used. A log lay in the basket beside it. On the mantel was a picture of a man holding up a huge fish. Christy’s father, he guessed. He scanned more of the book titles. “You have a brother.”
She nodded.
“Older than you.”
She cocked her head and stared at him. “Yes, but how do you know that?”
He gestured to the dog-eared volumes. “His books are on a higher shelf.”
He read more titles. The Hardy Boys, Huckleberry Finn, and Tom Sawyer. Funny, he knew the contents of all those books but couldn’t remember reading them. Dammit, why? Rubbing his hand over his temple in frustration, he turned away from the shelves.
“Let’s take a break,” Christy said. “I’ll fix us some lunch.”
“Okay.” He led the way into the kitchen without her asking. He already knew the drill; she didn’t want him behind her.
“I’ll make some cheese sandwiches,” she said.
Christy dawdled over her sandwich. J.D. was certain she did that to give him time to rest. He liked that, appreciated that she didn’t make a big deal out of it. He guessed she knew that would embarrass him.
She’d gone out of her way to help him, even though she still didn’t trust him. She kept plenty of space between them so he couldn’t snatch her gun, and except for that one delicious view she’d given him of her derriere, she never turned her back on him.
He wondered about her, this woman who was so strong. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. “Did you always want to be a nurse?” he asked.
She shrugged. “A nurse or an archaeologist.”
“And you settled on nursing.”
“I decided I wanted to be in health care.”
“Why not a doctor?” he asked, but she only shrugged.
He tried to picture her at work, wearing scrubs, her hair pulled back from her face. “What hospital do you work at?” he asked.
“You ask too many questions.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to pry.” He pushed his sandwich away. “I can’t do much but ask questions. I can’t tell you about me.”
She shrugged. “That’s okay. I don’t go for the ‘strangers on a plane’ routine.” She got up abruptly, punched 911 on her cell phone and backed away from the table.
At the kitchen door she stopped. “I’m getting through,” she said excitedly, and hurried out