Under the Mistletoe with John Doe. Judy Duarte
dad had just about given up on having a baby, and she owed all she was to them, to their love and emotional support. So every moment she spent with them now was precious.
Instead of commenting about how busy she was, Betsy smiled at her friend. “As a wife and a new mommy, I imagine your time is stretched to the limit.”
“It is, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t imagine life without Chase or Megan.” Molly closed the file she’d been reading and moved it aside. “So what—or rather who—brings you up to the third floor?”
“John Doe—unless his memory returned and he’s going by another name now.”
“No, he’s not. From what I was told, he was pretty agitated about it last night. So Dr. Kelso sedated him.”
“Is he sleeping now?”
“No. I was just in there a few minutes ago, and he was awake. But he’s still not sure who he is.”
“Which room is he in?”
“Three-fourteen.”
“Thanks.”
As Betsy made her way to John Doe’s room and peered inside, she spotted him lying in bed, his head turned toward the window, revealing the gauze that covered the wounds he’d received from the assault.
His hair, which was a bit long and curled at the neckline, looked especially dark on the white pillowcase.
When he sensed her presence—or maybe he’d heard her footsteps—he turned to the doorway, and their gazes met.
He’d been cleaned up, but no one had taken time to shave him. The dark stubble on his jaw and cheeks made him look rugged and manly, completely mocking the soft, baby-blue hospital gown he was wearing.
“Good morning,” she said, entering the room. “I’m Dr. Nielson. You may not remember me, but I treated you in the E.R. last night.”
“Actually,” he said, “I remember that.”
“Being in the E.R.?”
He nodded. “Well, at the time, while looking up into the bright lights, I saw you and assumed I was standing at the Pearly Gates with a redheaded angel. But I never figured heavenly beings would be so pretty.”
She didn’t know whether he was serious, joking or flirting. It was impossible to tell from his tone or his expression. Yet for some crazy reason, her hand lifted inadvertently to feel for loose strands of hair that might have fallen from her brass clip.
“And then,” he added, “in the middle of the night, before they drugged me—or maybe afterward—I saw you again.”
“I’m afraid that wasn’t me. I spent the early morning hours in the E.R., patching up a drunk who walked through a plate-glass window and treating a toddler for croup.”
“I figured as much. The last time you appeared over my bed, you were hanging out with a gang of leprechauns. I figured you were their queen.”
“I’m afraid my days of running with the wee ones are over.” She smiled as she moved closer to his bed. “By the way, the police came by the E.R. to question you last night, and I suggested they come back in the morning. Have they been in yet?”
“No, but it’ll be a waste of their time. The only thing I remember is the color of your hair, those emerald-green eyes and the way everyone around you jumped when you gave orders. So it’s nice to know that some of the crazy visions I had last night were real.”
“I can only attest to the bright lights in the E.R. and barking out orders. The rest of those sightings must have been a result of the mugging or the sedative Dr. Kelso gave you.”
“Maybe so.” He studied her now, and as his eyes sketched over her face, her heart rate spiked and sputtered—clearly not a professional response.
Time to exit, stage right.
Yet her feet didn’t move.
“So how are you feeling now?” she asked, trying to gain some control over her hormones.
“I’m doing all right, I guess. My head’s pounding like hell, though. And I can’t remember anything. How long is that going to last?”
“The amnesia? I’m not sure. A few hours? A couple of days?” She didn’t dare tell him that it could go on for a long time.
“Damn. That sucks.”
She had to agree. She had no idea what she’d do if she found herself in a strange hospital with no idea of who she was or how she’d gotten there.
“So what do you know about me?” he asked.
“Just that you were at one of the local honky-tonks, asking about a man.”
“What man?”
“Somebody named Pedro. And for what it’s worth, no one in the bar knew him.”
He thought about that for a moment, as if trying to place the man or the reason for his search. Then he seemed to shrug it off. “What happened after that?”
“You had a beer and left. In the parking lot, someone decided to lift your wallet, but didn’t want to risk a tussle with you. So they hit you with a tire iron and made sure you couldn’t put up a fight.”
She let him ponder that for a while, then said, “When the medics brought you into the E.R., you asked about a child and her mom. No one was with you at the bar. Could they have been witnesses?”
“It’s possible, I guess. But you’ll have to forgive me. I’m still drawing a complete blank.”
“That’s understandable. But you might want to pass that information on to the sheriff, just in case.”
“All right.” For some reason, she got the idea that he was used to giving orders. If so, being laid up was going to be tough on him.
“Anything else?” he asked.
She crossed her arms and tossed him a wry grin. “I’d venture to say that you’re in your late twenties or early thirties. You stand about six foot tall or more and you’re in good shape.”
He was also one of the most attractive men she’d seen in a long time, with broad shoulders and tight abs—as bruised as they were when she’d examined him—she couldn’t help noticing. He also had eyes the shade of Texas bluebonnets, which was unusual for a man who appeared to have more than a little Latin blood.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“Pretty much. You were well dressed and wore expensive clothing, so I think you’ve got a decent job—or a trust fund.” Of course, Doug had taught her to be skeptical of men like that, so she added, “Then again, you could be a con artist.”
“Yeah, well, apparently whatever money I may or may not have isn’t available to me anymore.”
Rather than answer, she gave a little who-knows? shrug.
He paused a beat, then sobered. “So you think that I was just passing through town?”
She doubted that he was a drifter, if that’s what he meant. And the mystery about him, both medical and otherwise, intrigued her.
So did the spark of life in his eyes.
And the square cut of his jaw.
But she wasn’t comfortable talking to him about her observations, when he might think that she found him attractive.
Okay, so he definitely was hot, and any woman who still had breath in her body couldn’t help but agree.
Betsy wouldn’t act on it, though. And if John picked up on those vibes, no good would come of it.
“Well,” she said, backing away from the hospital bed. “I’d better head home. I’ve got to get some sleep because