Lovers In Hiding. Susan Kearney
ran like the gusting wind and straight into the thundering storm, her lean legs eating up the distance with remarkable speed. It took longer than he’d have guessed to catch her. Then, after he’d almost caught up, she put on a burst of speed and dashed straight toward the water.
“Oh no you don’t.”
He’d had enough swimming thank you very much. Lunging, he tackled her and they both fell, rolling in the sand. He landed on his back with her on his chest, snuggled between his thighs. For a moment those soft curves pressed to his body kindled a primitive response.
And then her knee lifted, aiming for his groin.
“Lady, I swear if you kick me in the balls, I’ll deck you,” he threatened, knowing he wouldn’t and hoping she wouldn’t realize it. Due to an oversize workload, Clay had gotten less than ten hours of sleep in the last five nights. Twenty-three-hour days of nonstop pressure were starting to catch up with him, fraying his temper, increasing his irritability. This assignment had pulled him off an important job—one that could make a difference in setting U.S. diplomatic policy for a decade. His reactions and temper reflected a measure of his frustration. He twisted to the side, rolling them until he ended up on top, with her on her back beneath him, her black hair splayed across the sand like an exotic fan.
Before she could scratch the flesh off his face, kick him in the groin or chin, he pinned her wrists. She shook a stray lock of hair out of her way, her eyes burning coals of outrage. “Let me go, you biker bully.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
She rolled her eyes at the raining sky. “Oh, sure. Like I’m really going to believe you.”
Thunder roared overhead, pounding over them in flashing echoes. He paid no attention, focusing on the storm brewing beneath him. “Why shouldn’t you believe me? I saved your life, lady.”
“So you say.”
“You should be grateful.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said with saccharine sweetness and mockery. “Now that I’ve thanked you, you’ll let me go, right?”
He ignored her question. “Why did you run from me?”
She heaved a sigh of frustration and tried to shift him off by bucking her hips. He let her struggle, knowing she’d soon come to the conclusion that he was bigger and stronger, and she wasn’t escaping until he got his answer and freed her of his own accord.
“Look, mister biker-dude.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She arched a haughty eyebrow. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“I believe I did. It’s Clay. Clay Rogan.”
“Fine, Mr. Clay Rogan. I don’t know you. I have no memory of you before opening my eyes on this beach to find you standing over me. You say someone else forced my car into the water. But my car isn’t here. You say another car forced mine into the water, and guess what? That car isn’t here either. Then you said I told you my name—an outright lie. Don’t deny it, mister—you did lie.”
“Okay, I admit that was a mistake. If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Why should I?”
“Exactly my point. Why bother with a difficult truth when you obviously didn’t believe the easy stuff?” He paused to rein in his aggravation. “I assume, until you drove the car into the water, you had no idea you’ve been in danger?”
Her eyes widened, she struggled to free her wrists. He held her tighter.
She winced. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He loosened his grip slightly. “Will you get it through your stubborn head that the danger isn’t from me. Someone is after you.”
“So you say.”
“Look, this all started before I got here. You do remember leaving your house and driving to the beach?”
“Mister. Clay,” she amended, “you listen about as well as I remember.”
What had he missed? As he searched her eyes, he saw a turbulence of emotions, fear, anger and hesitation. “Tell me again.”
“I knew you’d lied about how you knew my name because I couldn’t have possibly given you that information.”
“Why not?”
All her sarcasm and sass evaporated, just as the rain poured down, soaking his back with slashing droplets of ice. “Because I haven’t just forgotten the accident. I don’t remember anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Not my name. Not my address. Not even what I do for a living.”
Chapter Two
She’d known the moment she opened her eyes on the beach that something was very, very wrong. Her heart pounded too hard, and her adrenaline had been sapped, her energy stolen as if she’d just run a marathon. Fear coiled through her body, leaving a sour taste in her mouth and twisting her gut into a hard knot, but she had no idea why she was so afraid.
She’d discerned her memory loss almost right away, and the realization knocked her for one doozy of a loop. While she gasped for air, her brain sucked in details of her surroundings; a wide beach pounded by rain and a devastatingly handsome, dangerous-looking man hovering over her, his grim expression as dark as the black leather clinging to his massive thighs.
Faced with the immediate threat of him, her memory loss shifted to a back burner. His eyes, green as the stormy sea and hard as the stone jetty, clued her in that he wasn’t the brotherly or husbandly type. While she might know him, she had the distinct impression from his sharp curiosity that they were complete strangers. She didn’t know his name, didn’t recognize his stony face, and was positive that if she’d met him before, she would remember something about him. He carried the distinctive scent of masculine leather on his skin. When he spoke, his breath carried an unusual cherry flavor that contrasted with his tough-guy image. His wide-set, sea-green eyes revealed anger and guilt, but she also glimpsed an inkling of concern that reached beyond her fear. His strong jaw, stubbled like a pirate’s, and his generous mouth, set with an arrogant firmness, suggested that this man was accustomed to others obeying his commands.
Not today she wouldn’t. She didn’t care if he had shoulders wider than the Gulf Stream or more muscles than Hulk Hogan, he’d fed her an inedible story that even a ten-year-old kid wouldn’t swallow.
The fact that she currently couldn’t remember her age, her address or her name didn’t mean she didn’t have a working brain. But it sure as hell was one gargantuan handicap. If she had to lose her memory, why couldn’t it have happened among friends? Or family? If she’d hit her head in a car accident—and the knot on her head and the aches in her muscles certainly felt as if she had—why couldn’t she have been rescued by the police, driven by paramedics to a hospital?
Instead she’d lost her memory and ended up with a menacing-looking hunk in black leather. She gazed at the muscular arms holding her down, finding it curious that he didn’t sport tattoos. He wore no earrings to accessorize, either. Maybe the man wasn’t as wild as he’d first appeared. He certainly didn’t seem to want to hurt her. He’d had ample opportunity, yet remained gentle.
He’d tackled her and landed so he’d taken the brunt of the fall. Even now, with her pinned beneath him, he spared her the crushing force of his full weight, while protecting her face from the teeming rain as he leaned over her and surveyed her with assessing eyes. Those eyes again. Caring eyes. Intelligent eyes.
He eased up on her wrists slightly. “When’s your birthday?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old are you?”
“I