Skyler Hawk: Lone Brave. Sheri WhiteFeather
thinking about him. “Sky looks different than I thought he would.”
Edith responded in her typical no-nonsense fashion. “I didn’t mention how handsome he was because I didn’t want you to think I was trying to be a matchmaker. You know I’m not encouraging hanky-panky. Sky knows that, as well.” The elderly woman continued in a softer voice. “But you don’t have to worry about him. Sky is a decent man. He would never take advantage of a lady.”
Not unless she wanted to be taken advantage of, Windy thought. Sky might be decent, but he wasn’t exactly Boy Scout material. Nor would he be canonized a saint. That smile bordered on devilish.
Edith cleared her throat again and Windy adjusted the phone, anxious for some answers. “Why didn’t you tell me he was hit by that car?”
The other woman sighed. “I thought it was Sky’s place to tell you.”
“Why? What happened to him?”
“Oh, goodness. I should have known he wouldn’t tell you all of it.”
Windy grimaced. “All of what?”
Edith sighed again. “Sky lost his memory in the accident. He remembers very little about himself.”
Windy’s heartbeat doubled. Amnesia? Sky had amnesia? “Oh, my God.” No wonder he had a difficult time talking about the accident. “He must remember something. I get the feeling he’s at odds with his past.”
The other end of the line remained silent, as though Edith pondered Windy’s observation. When she finally answered, her voice lowered. “There is a bit more to his story, but it’s much too complicated to discuss over the phone. I promise we’ll get together this week. We’ll have a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Anxious, she toyed with her fork. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”
Edith “tsked” like a disapproving grandmother. “You always were an impatient one. A few days won’t make a difference to you or to Sky. That accident happened almost sixteen years ago.” Fatigue sounded in the older woman’s voice. “Now I should get to bed. It’s late and I have a busy day tomorrow.”
Windy knew Edith’s days consisted of volunteer work: church rummage sales, women’s shelters, literacy tutoring. Things far more important than Windy’s nagging curiosity. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
“Goodbye, dear.”
Windy tossed the phone aside and filled her mouth with another bite just as a light knock vibrated her bedroom door.
“Honey, it’s Sky.”
Honey? The endearment sounded intimate—sensuous and husky—even through the thick, painted wood. The food nearly stuck in her throat. “Just a minute,” she called back.
She bounded off the bed. Should she open the door and peek out the crack, or keep it closed and simply ask what he wanted?
No. She smoothed her oversize attire. That would seem rude. Smile and act friendly. Platonic friendly, she reminded herself. Don’t pant or drool. And don’t pester him about his memory. Be patient. Professional.
She opened the door just enough to expose her head and shoulders. “Hi.”
“Hi.” A slow smile spread across his face. “I saw your light on. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No. I’m up.” And breathing him in. She tried not to, but couldn’t help herself. His scent had changed. An earthy blend misted him now. Horses, hay and…beer?
She looked into his eyes. A gaze as clear and blue as a summer sea stared back at her. A social drink, she decided. He wasn’t drunk.
“Just wanted to let you know that I’m movin’ my things in,” he said. “Didn’t want the noise to scare you.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Windy noticed he wore the same clothes, but his hair wasn’t flowing over his shoulders. It rested in a tight ponytail at his nape. “How was work?”
“Good. It was my first day, but I know the routine.”
“Did you work the early show?”
“Yeah.”
She wanted to touch his dimples. He looked boyish when he smiled, rugged when he didn’t. “Do you play a cowboy or an Indian?”
“Both.” The left dimple indented deeper than the right. “In one segment I’m an Indian. In the other, a villainous cowboy. I get shot in that one. Fall right off my horse.” Shyness crept into his voice. “And then near the end, I’m just me. Riding and roping.”
“Do you like being a performer?” Unlike most of the gorgeous L.A. population, Sky didn’t fit the let’s-have-lunch, I-want-to-be-a-star mold. But then, how could he? He hated California.
He shrugged. “The horses are the true performers. I just consider myself along for the ride.”
A fast, crazy ride, no doubt.
Windy realized she had allowed the door to fall open while they’d chatted. She stood in full view now. A tousled blonde in a Minnie Mouse nightshirt and bare feet, an unmade bed and carton of half-eaten stir-fry behind her. She sent him a nervous smile. Her room had caught his attention. She could see him scouring it with an amused gaze. Apparently he hadn’t expected mosquito netting and various shades of leopard and zebra prints.
“My room wasn’t vandalized,” she said. “I guess they didn’t get that far.” Thank God. Although she didn’t keep anything particularly valuable in her bedroom, it was her sanctuary, with her bras and panties, scented candles and perfumes.
“I like the jungle motif. Always thought animal prints were sexy.”
“Oh, umm…thanks.” She glanced back at the bed. It did look sexy. Wild and inviting. What a thing for him to notice.
Silence clung to the air like moss. Thick and heady.
When he shifted his stance, his boots scraped the hardwood floor. “Guess I should bring my stuff in. The terrarium won’t fit in my bedroom, though. It’ll have to go in the living room.”
Terrarium, aquarium. Plants, fish. It didn’t matter. She needed to escape. He stood too close, smelled too virile, looked too good. “That’s fine. Good night, Sky.”
“’Night, Pretty Windy.”
Pretty Windy. She closed the door and leaned against it. Another minute and she would have melted into a pool of hot, steaming liquid.
Oh, get over it, she told herself, hating the watery feeling in her legs. Swooning over a man was shallow and immature. She knew better. Dang it. What was it about him that had her behaving like a doe-eyed teenager? The cowboy drawl and long-legged swagger? The shoulder-length hair and sparkling blue eyes? Or was she just caught up in the mystery surrounding him?
Moving toward the bed, Windy fingered the sheets. She knew. Deep down, she knew. Troubled souls fascinated her. And this troubled soul sported dimples and a crooked smile. A dangerous combination for a woman hell-bent on mending fractured lives.
She sighed and climbed under the covers, even though sleep would be a long time coming.
The following morning brought a bright ray of sunshine and a stiff neck. Windy stretched and groaned. What her weary body needed was a long luxurious shower, water therapy. After gathering a fluffy new bath towel and her favorite worn-out terry cloth robe, she stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, noting Sky’s door remained closed.
A pulsating spray from the shower head massaged her shoulders, washing away the tension. She hadn’t slept well. Her “sexy” bed, with its sleek leopard-print quilt, had blanketed her like a jungle cat’s warm, muscular body—a jungle cat with exotic blue eyes.
Struggling to clear her mind, Windy reached for the shampoo, squeezed a large citrus-scented