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  He retrieved the towel and folded it neatly. “You’re not the first person to notice, but my name came from a more…historical source.” With surprising ease, he took her into his confidence. “My father is an American history professor.”

  Harley found his admission, accompanied by a sheepish, half-tilted grin, more beguiling than uppity. He gestured to the door, then waited while she picked up the leather jacket and bustier. The tone of his voice had softened, and the harsh lines of tension faded from his face like midmorning fog. At the same time, Harley’s taut nerves eased. She hadn’t realized how her shoulders and stomach had cramped from anxiety. She felt, if only momentarily, safe from the unknown.

  Safe with a perfect stranger.

  “Don’t tell me.” She followed him into the living room. “You were named for the great Union general.”

  “The one and only. But I’d appreciate your keeping that under wraps.” He stopped midway into the room, peered out the picture window, then leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Many of my investors are Southern retirees.”

  She chuckled again, then watched as her amusement transferred to him, lighting his face with a slight, yet powerful grin. Though she’d known him for less than an hour, she decided this man should laugh more often.

  “My lips are sealed.” She twisted her fingers over her mouth as if locking her lips with a key.

  For the briefest moment, his gaze lingered longingly on her mouth. When she blinked, he’d turned away. If not for the steady ache at the back of her scalp, she would have shaken some sense into herself. Every gesture, every expression, every nuance of this man’s body language garnered her undivided attention. With her own mind blank, did she seek to fill the void with knowledge of him?

  The possibility made her quiver.

  They passed through the living room, prompting her to consider asking him more about the party. Just how wild had the celebration gotten before the Hindu sex guide clunked her on the head? She glanced around. All remnants of the party had vanished. She had awakened fully dressed. Except for the headache and the apprehension she fought with every step, she felt pretty darn good.

  But why was she a stripper? Where did she come from? She stopped and took a deep breath. There was no sense in badgering herself. If she could just relax, her brain might kick into gear on its own. Maybe she’d regain her memories by morning, like the doc said.

  Grant motioned upstairs, waiting for her to pass before he followed. She grabbed the handrail and climbed carefully. After reaching the midway point, she realized Grant was several steps below her—undoubtedly at eye level with her backside. A volcanic blush spread over her cheeks, neck and chest.

  Some stripper she was, she thought.

  “What about the doc?” Harley filled the silence with nervous chatter, hoping he wouldn’t notice the reddening of her skin. “I don’t remember any valiant generals named Gus.”

  She stopped when he snickered, and her quick backward glance caught a flash of amusement in his eyes. Deep brown eyes. Sexy eyes. Maybe he’d think her flush came from the exertion of climbing the stairs.

  “Father chose my name, since I was born first. However, my brother fell victim to Mother’s whim.”

  “’Gus’ is a whim?”

  “His real name is Gustave. Mother is a professor of European literature.”

  “Oh,” she said knowingly, “and a student of scandal.”

  “Pardon me?”

  She paused and faced him. “You meant Flaubert, right? Gustave Flaubert? Author of Madame Bovary, among others?” Words popped into her head as if she read them from an internal page. “The scintillating story of an underappreciated wife who steps into the sordid world of illicit extramarital affairs.”

  He nodded, obviously as surprised by her knowledge as she.

  “Hey, what do you know?” she said proudly, turning to take the last few steps to the top. “I’m an educated stripper.”

  The minute she finished the rotation, she knew she’d spun too quickly. Bright light shot from inside her eyelids, and her foot missed the next step.

  Grant caught her behind the elbows, his hands big and strong and steady. “Whoa. One injury a night is enough, don’t you think?”

  His tone was neither disapproving nor accusatory, yet Harley felt compelled to apologize. “Sorry. I guess I’m still a little dizzy.”

  “That’s understandable.” He steadied her all the way to the second door from the top of the stairs and didn’t release her until she eyed his palms cupping her elbows. He coughed uncomfortably.

  He opened the door, leaned in and flicked on the light, then backed away to let her enter. When she passed, he looked aside and shoved his hands in his pockets, unwilling or unable to make eye contact. Suddenly chilled, she crossed her arms and rubbed her elbows precisely where his hands had caught her, missing their warmth.

  The room was tasteful, although austere in decor. The limited spectrum of creams and taupes decorated the traditional, whitewashed maple furniture—bed, bureau, nightstand, wardrobe, chaise lounge—and met every need except a creative one.

  She summoned the most appropriate description she could muster. “It’s, um, nice.”

  He looked around, his interest indicating he hadn’t been in the room before. Or if he had, he hardly remembered. “This guest room hasn’t been used since I moved in, but my housekeeper sees that the linens are changed regularly, just in case.” He pointed. “The bathroom is through that door. The closet is there.”

  She held up her jacket and bustier. “These shouldn’t take up too much room.”

  His gaze dropped to the floor, then returned to her face, stabbing her with sharp disapproval. Or was his expression only mirroring his unease? “I’ll find you something to sleep in and I’ll arrange for more…casual clothes tomorrow. If we have to.”

  If we have to. She could regain her memory and be out of his world in just a matter of hours. Why did that bother her? Returning to her own life and anyone who might worry about her, miss her, or need her should fill her with elation. In wanting to stay, she was just clinging to the familiar. The recently familiar.

  Better a devil she knew. A devil who’d taken her in before she’d even asked.

  He left momentarily, returning with a clean T-shirt, a new toothbrush, and a warning to stay in her room when his boss dropped by. As he moved to leave, she shifted her weight from right to left, then willed herself to remain still.

  “Grant, wait.” She clutched the T-shirt to her chest, somewhat disappointed that she smelled only fabric softener in the smooth white cotton. “I want to thank you. You didn’t have to take me in like this.”

  His eyebrow arched skeptically and his smile tilted only one side of his mouth. “I didn’t? What would you have done if I’d tried to throw you out?”

  An iced shiver snaked across her midsection, despite how his tone told her he would never have stooped so low as to refuse to help someone who’d lost everything to one bump on the head. Honestly, she didn’t know what she would have done. She didn’t think she was the cry-’til-you-get-your-way type, nor would she threaten a frivolous lawsuit like the one she’d overheard him mention.

  “I suppose I would just have had to appeal to your chivalrous side,” she decided.

  His smile hinted at a wickedness that sent shock waves throughout her body. “What if I didn’t have a chivalrous side?”

  She moved to toss her jacket on the bed, then, remembering the dish towel, hung it up instead. “You do. So for that, I’m grateful.”

  He acknowledged her thanks with a stilted nod, the smile wiped from his lips. He had a chivalrous side, but wasn’t the least bit comfortable with it. For a few minutes, she mused over why he’d regret being gallant and gentlemanly, then abruptly stopped. She had her own past to worry about. More than likely, she wouldn’t know this man beyond tomorrow morning. Something deep in her gut told her that obsessing over Grant Riordan could lead to nothing but trouble.

  Sh
e took a quick shower then climbed into bed. Though she adjusted the pillows and indulged in several yawns, sleep remained elusive. The room was too big. Too quiet. The bed too cold and empty.

  Fighting the dull throb from her injury, she tried to remember something—anything—about who she was. After the exchange on the stairs, she knew she had probably gone to college, yet she remembered nothing about school.

  As for her “career,” nothing came to mind. Grant and Gus told her she was a stripper, and she’d certainly dressed like one, but the idea seemed ludicrous. She pulled up the comforter and settled in, trying to picture herself prancing around to some seductive instrumental and peeling her clothes off in front of catcalling, salivating men. She didn’t believe she could do such a thing—until that picture focused solely on Grant Riordan.

  She imagined shedding her leather in front of him alone. The image darkened as if in a room lit only by colored gels, the music slow and sexy. She fantasized about shimmying out of her snug leather jeans, shrugging out of the jacket and bustier, then leaning over to let him untie the bow of her bikini top.

  Then she visualized Grant’s face. The fantasy ended. His disapproving frown doused her imagination with stinging cold. Even in her dreams, the man needed to lighten up.

  She might not remember anything specific about herself, but Harley decided she was a good and decent person, in spite of her profession. He’d be damned lucky to have her.

  With a derisive “humph,” Harley snuggled into the pillows. Someplace, somewhere, somebody waited for her. Worried about her. Considered themselves lucky and honored to be her friend. She repeated the mantra in her mind a thousand times, but her heart remained unconvinced. Deep down, and with no proof to present to her malfunctioning mind, Harley feared the dawn. What if she woke up with her memory intact, and learned she was alone in the world?

  Or worse, what if she woke up still trapped by amnesia?

  Harley finally drifted to sleep, thinking of how she had no one to count on, no one to help her but herself…and the gorgeous stranger in the bedroom down the hall.

  GRANT SIMPLY HAD to find somewhere else for her to go. He tossed onto his left shoulder, pounded the pillow with a grunt, and tried to think of some secret place he could stash Harley until her memory returned and he sent her on her merry way. That was, after all, the right thing to do. First Investment couldn’t withstand another scandal. Not even a hint of one. The Board members and stockholders were good people who’d put their trust in him. Even though he loathed the pressure, he needed his job long enough to fix Nanna’s antiquated house and ensure his own future wealth—wealth some conniving woman couldn’t win away by court order.

  Harley could ruin his plans with one bump and grind.

  Just after Phipps left, Mac had called with the news that no one matching Harley’s description had been reported missing, nor did he find her in his computer. Gus still couldn’t find Moana’s number, though he promised to keep looking. The local taxi service hadn’t made any drop-offs in his neighborhood and the two largest Tampa companies Grant called both refused to help until the manager returned in the morning.

  Reserving her a room in the local hotel was out of the question and Harley probably wouldn’t agree to lodgings as far away as Tampa or Orlando. At least, not yet. He thought about hiding her with his grandmother, but how would he explain Harley to Nanna Lil?

  Grant was stuck with her.

  Shifting onto his right shoulder, Grant tried to force away the attendant pleasure that fact brought him. He shouldn’t be enjoying this predicament. He had no right to call up her image, either slick in black leather or sweet in an oversized T-shirt, with such sensual ease. But he couldn’t help himself.

  Gus hadn’t helped matters any with the note he’d so carefully folded and shoved at Grant before he’d left. Grant had unwrapped the note just before he’d checked Harley the first time. He’d hoped his physician brother had written down what warning signs or symptoms he should look for when he woke Harley.

  Instead, he’d found a foil-wrapped condom and the phrase, “You only live once” penned in bold, block letters.

  Since then, he could think of little else but making love to the woman who could so easily ruin his life.

  He glanced at the clock. An hour had passed since he’d last checked on her. By 3 a.m., he’d been to her room four times, each time dreading waking her from her fitful sleep, each time anticipating her dreamy yawn, sleepy azure eyes, and groggy, “I’m fine. Go to sleep.”

  He threw back the covers. He’d check once more. That’s all. Then he’d let her sleep. If she hadn’t suffered any adverse symptoms by now, she must be well on the road to recovery.

  First, he shoved the condom deep into the bottom drawer of his bedside table.

  Leaving the light off in his room, he crossed through the hallway, dark except for the glow of the floodlights shining through the oculus window at the front of the house. He grabbed the doorknob to the guest room, intending to enter quietly as he had before. He’d wake her by calling her name from a safe distance, then retreat. Instead, he nearly fell forward when she yanked the door open.

  “I’m not getting a lick of sleep with you waking me every hour,” she complained, pushing past him, pillow tucked beneath her arm and his T-shirt reaching just below her wonderfully rounded bottom. “Last time I couldn’t fall back to sleep. My brain’s too busy anticipating your next ‘How are you feeling?’”

  Her voice mocked him, but he barely noticed. His attention focused on the sexy way she walked. Gracefully, but with her toes pointed slightly out.

  “Where are you going?” The question, purely instinctual since she was obviously headed to his room, sounded much more gruff than he’d intended. Still, he wasn’t ready to invite her into his bed.

  His groin tightened. Okay, so he was ready. He just couldn’t. Not and wake up with a clear conscience. Here was a woman who appealed to his every hidden desire, even if he didn’t approve of her profession. He suspected she wouldn’t shy from him as Camille had. Harley probably had a few delights of her own to share.

  Still, he’d never made love to a woman who didn’t know who she was. How could Harley be sure about who or what she wanted when she couldn’t be sure of herself?

  She stopped just before she crossed the threshold into his room. Her eyelids, weighted by something more than sleepiness, hooded her bright blue irises. Though she thrust one fist onto her hip and leaned cockily sideways, her expression betrayed a deeper emotion than anger—something more akin to desperation.

  “Why couldn’t you just let me sleep?”

  He matched her aggressive stance with one of his own, folding his arms over his chest and trying to ignore that he wore only a pair of boxers.

  “Gus said I should check on you intermittently,” he defended, trying to remain distant when his instinct goaded him to take her into his arms and erase the lost look from her eyes.

  “He also said I should get some rest. This way, we can both be happy.”

  She disappeared into his darkened bedroom, reminding him of how Gus used to find excuses to sneak into his room after they’d broken their parents’ ban on creepy horror flicks. From the hall, he heard the muffled squish of her negligible weight sliding onto his motionless waterbed, the soft rustle of her legs delving into the depths of his smooth cotton sheets, the appreciative feminine sigh signaling the end of all movement.

  He’d definitely gone too long without a woman. With a shrug, he followed her into the room.

  She’d snuggled to the right side of the king-sized bed, the comforter pulled just beneath her breasts, her midnight-tinted hair fanning into a semicircle on the pillow. She’d closed her eyes, but hadn’t had time to fall asleep.

  “Harley, I think—”

  “Don’t think. No one’s going to know but you, me and the bedbugs. This way, you can see I’m okay from just across the pillows.”

  She wiggled, wedging deeper into the fluffy bedclothes.
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  He could do this. She was tired. He was tired. They’d fall immediately to sleep. He’d have no time to really think about the sexiest woman he’d met in years lying prone and vulnerable in his bed. A woman who catered to men’s fantasies for a living.

  No problem.

  Sure.

  He shook his head in defeat. Even with her eyes closed, she had a determined set to her shoulders. Besides, he needed sleep. In less than three hours, he had to haul himself to work and act as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  He climbed into bed, turned away from her, shut his eyes and thought about his agenda for the next day—a surefire sleep aid if ever there was one. The Board members met promptly at eight o’clock. He had a nine o’clock appointment with his biggest investor. By ten….

  Before he reached the third entry in his mental appointment book, Harley’s perfume, or at least the haunting remnants of her distinctive cinnamon scent, teased his nostrils like freshly baked Christmas cookies—delicious, but forbidden—meant to be saved for someone else. The additional heat of her skin warmed him beneath the sheets. She turned. Her foot brushed his leg, sparking a thrill through him that brought his senses to full attention.

  “This isn’t working,” Harley announced quietly, voicing the very thought screaming through his brain.

  “Go to sleep, Harley.”

  “I can’t.”

  She turned again, and this time her smooth kneecaps connected with the sensitive skin just behind his calves. She scooted away to avoid further contact, but the damage was done.

  “Gus said you needed rest.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  For a moment, silence reigned. She didn’t move. Neither did he. Neither muscle nor sheet rustled until her whisper drifted into his ear with the force of a bullhorn.

  “I feel so alone.”

  He remained still as a statue, though his heart hammered. Four little words triggered the timing mechanism of a powerful bomb. She had no idea how her admission touched him, right in the place he hid so well. He knew all too well what it felt like to lie in bed with someone and still feel completely and utterly isolated. Again, the instinct to take her into his arms made his muscles tighten. He couldn’t afford even the most simple gesture of compassion. Touching her could lead to so much more.