Books by Linda Conrad Read online

  The waitress showed up with an order pad in hand. "What'll you have?"

  Carley looked confused. "We haven't seen a menu yet."

  "We don't have menus. What'll you have?"

  Now Carley looked annoyed. "What do you serve?"

  The waitress rolled her eyes and shifted all her weight to one foot. "Look, lady, this is a steak place. We've got rib-eyes, twenty-ounce sirloins, fillet mignon and, if your taste buds run hot, steak-fajita tacos … but they're all steak. Now, how do you want your steak cooked?"

  Carley raised an obviously irritated eyebrow at the surly young woman. "I'll have a fillet, cooked medium, with a baked potato and salad with blue cheese dressing." She gestured to Houston. "He'll have the sirloin, bloody, with fries and refried beans. And bring us both a long-neck beer … put mine in a glass, please."

  "Why didn't you just say so?" The waitress twirled around and headed for the bar.

  Houston's surprise at that whole scene made him shake his head in wonder. "Carley, you just ordered for me."

  She jerked around to face him. "Uh … yeah. Do you mind? I'm so used to ordering for Cami that I guess it's become a bad habit. I didn't mean to be so pushy."

  "That's not the point. How'd you know what I wanted?"

  "Did you want something else?"

  "No. You ordered exactly what I'd decided to have." Houston's surprise turned into skepticism. "You took the words right out of my mouth. That's pretty good … guessing. Or do you also read minds?"

  Carley's mouth cracked into a sheepish grin. "I'm a psychologist, remember? I've, um, made a study of people's tastes. You just look like a man who'd want his steak rare."

  "Yeah, I suppose so." For a second Houston saw a flash of some old scene in his brain. But the image vanished before he could capture the memory.

  Carley had just reminded him of why he'd agreed to come tonight. "I'd like to talk to you about something. Patient to psychologist, so to speak. If you wouldn't mind?"

  She stared silently into his eyes for a minute too long. What did she see when she looked at him that way?

  "Of course not. What can I do for you?"

  "I…" He glanced around one more time to be certain no one sat within earshot. "I don't know who I am."

  Staring at her hands, she swallowed hard, thought a minute, and when she finally looked up at him, her eyes danced with amusement. "Do you mean literally, or existentially?"

  "This isn't funny. If you're going to make a joke, forget I said anything."

  Carley laid her hand on top of his, and zinging heat singed him. "I'm sorry. Please continue." Her sugarcoated voice wrapped around him like a soft, warm coat on a winter day.

  Houston silently swore he'd heard that tone in her voice before … somehow. But he couldn't breathe while she continued to touch him.

  "I woke up a year and a half ago with no memory." He pulled his hand free. "It's like a nightmare I can't shake."

  "That … must be terrible." The look in her eyes turned to hurt, as if she could feel his pain. "Don't you remember anything at all?"

  Houston wished he hadn't started this. He didn't want her to go through any of the agony that he'd felt, and she seemed so sensitive to him. "I have what I call 'dreams.' But they're more like still photographs … or flash cards. They kinda float through my mind … watery and indistinct."

  "Would you say they're like little islands of memory?"

  "Sort of. Except these islands are under the water. All blurry and fuzzy."

  "Hmm. Why don't you tell me whatever you can about these images? Do any of them stick with you?"

  "Some. I think I've lived on a ranch or farm at some time. I remember working with animals."

  "Well, that's something. Anything else? Do you remember any people or faces?"

  Houston closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, but a stabbing pain blindsided him. He hadn't been expecting the lightning jolt to his temple. His eyes popped open and he rubbed at the side of his head. "There's something … something close to the surface. I think it's a woman's face, but … no, never mind. It's gone again."

  Carley blew out a huge breath, as if she'd been holding it for a long time. "Can you remember anything about the woman? Color of eyes … outstanding features?"

  "No, not really. There's blackness around her, and pain. I can feel the pain." He absentmindedly touched his temple once more.

  The waitress arrived with their beers. "Food will be out in a minute, folks," she announced, turning to another table.

  Carley smiled and poured her beer into the icy glass. "Don't force anything. And don't do anything that hurts. That could make it worse." She took a sip, and the tip of her tongue languidly licked the foam from around her upper lip.

  Houston could do nothing but stare at Carley's mouth. The sight of her slowly licking away the bubbles was erotic as hell. His mind immediately pictured her tongue licking his lips, his tongue, his skin, his…

  He took a big sip from the bottle, then placed the cold glass against his forehead. When he had his body back under control, he opened his eyes to find her scrutinizing him.

  "What?"

  "I just wondered how you picked the name Houston. Did someone help you?"

  "Oh, that." He chuckled and swallowed another swig of beer. "I was shot and beat up pretty badly. Wasn't found with a wallet or ID, and my clothes were in tatters. Doc Luisa patched me back to health. When she looked for hints about my identity, she noticed a label from a department store in Houston in my ripped pants. The name of the city kinda rang a bell, and seemed like the only thing that really meant something. I just took it for my own."

  The skinny young waitress showed up with huge platters of food layered across her arms. Houston was grateful for the reprieve from talking about himself. Plus, the tantalizing smells of steak grilling had left him starving.

  * * *

  As desolate as Carley felt, she wouldn't let her misery show. Obviously, the man tried his best to remember. The memories of his past life … of her … were locked inside his brain behind a door he just couldn't force open. In silence she picked at her food.

  After the plates were cleared away, she took a beginner's two-step lesson from him. The two-step came easily enough after all her years of calisthenics and ballroom dancing lessons. But the two-step wasn't what she'd really wanted. The dance turned out to be fun and lively, but it wasn't close. Carley desperately wanted to be close.

  In a little while the band began the strains of an old, half-forgotten standard, redone in slow, country-style. Houston stood in the middle of the dance floor for a moment and narrowed his eyes at her in some unspoken question.

  When he reached for her hand, she gave him hers slowly, tentatively. The look in his eyes stumped her, but she tried to act casual and unconcerned. What did he expect from her? She would give him the world. But he had to ask. She wasn't allowed to tell him.

  Houston drew her into his arms. Carley put one hand on his shoulder while he continued to hold her fingers in his own. He slid his right arm around her waist and placed the palm of his hand flat in the small of her back.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled the spicy scent of aftershave and beer, mixed together with a hint of a musky smell she remembered so clearly—the smell that haunted her dreams.

  Carley inched closer to his warmth and nuzzled into the vee in his neck, under his chin, where she'd always fitted so well. Nothing had changed. Nothing but the fact that this was Houston Smith—not her lost lover, Witt Davidson.

  He pulled her closer still and edged his leg between hers to guide their movements. They moved around the border of the darkened dance floor, but within seconds Carley was lost. Lost in the music. Lost in her dreams.

  She could feel the wisps of chest hair that escaped the top button of his shirt as they tickled her cheek. She could feel the beating of his heart in time with hers. Right here was where she'd longed to be. In his arms was where she wanted to stay.

  A few of the lyrics seeped
inside her head. Something about "the memory of a love's refrain … dreaming in vain … haunting … reverie." The heat in the room became oppressive, and the ache in her chest grew stronger.

  Houston brought their clasped hands into his chest and lowered his head so that his lips were next to her ear. Carley heard him breathing, hot and heavy. A trickle of sweat formed at her temple.

  When he ringed her earlobe with his tongue, Carley heard herself make a little sound that reminded her of a strangled gasp. But instead of slowing him down, it seemed only to encourage him. As her body loosened, his tightened. As she fitted more snugly against him, his muscles bunched and flexed.

  Houston gently sucked her earlobe into his mouth and tugged. The pull rocketed down her body, stopping to peak her breasts, then moved lower to pool between her legs with enough heat and wetness to make her squirm.

  The two dancers melded together, as close as the thin layers of clothes would allow. So close that Carley felt his arousal pressing into the flesh of her belly.

  Houston let go of her earlobe and placed tiny kisses along her jawline. As he drew nearer to her mouth, she turned into the kiss. His lips were sweet, warm and gentle—barely a whisper against hers.

  She wanted him closer still. Wanted the feel of his skin gliding along hers. Carley couldn't hold back another moan.

  He answered her moan with a murmur against her lips. "Charleston, darlin'."

  Carley's heart did a little flip. She loved it when Witt used her given name. So few people ever called her by the name her father had bestowed on her before he died.

  Suddenly her eyes flew open. Witt? Charleston? She used the palms of her hands to push on his chest. Carley leaned her head back and looked at the man whose arms were still tight around her.

  "What did you just call me?"

  Houston's eyes were glazed, unfocused. "What? I don't know."

  "You called me Charleston. How did you know that's my real name?"

  He licked his lips and shook his head slightly. "I guess I must have heard someone call you that."

  "No, Houston. No, you haven't. I've never been anything but Carley around you." She turned her head to find the music stopped and the rest of the dance floor empty.

  She took a step back from him and studied his face as he tried to come out of his sexual trance and concentrate on what just happened between them. Carley felt cold and wrapped her arms around her waist to hold herself steady.

  Houston swiped a hand across his face. When his eyes opened again, they were steel gray and sharp. "We've done that before, haven't we? Danced, kissed … been together?"

  "Yes. Are you all right?"

  "Why? Why didn't you tell me?" His eyes narrowed into slits. "What were we to each other? Were we married?"

  She remained silent but shook her head.

  "Lovers, then?"

  "Yes, but…"

  He held up his hand, palm out, to stop her speech. "You let me rattle on about losing my memory and said nothing? You just let me think I was kissing a stranger when all the while…"

  Houston clamped his mouth shut and gingerly rubbed his left temple. "I can't deal with this right now," he finally managed. He spun himself around, heading straight past tables full of diners and directly toward the front door to the parking lot.

  Carley nearly panicked. He couldn't be mad at her. So much was at stake. She simply had to make them allies—had to make him trust her.

  She dashed past the staring strangers and dragged open the heavy nightclub door. Stepping into the calm but humid evening, she tried to adjust the focus of her eyes. Through the starlit parking lot, she saw Houston slam the driver's door of the huge pickup. The engine grumbled to life.

  Oh, God, no!

  Her heart thudded against her ribs, and her knees turned to jelly, making her feel as if she was moving in slow motion. Hashes of jumbled thoughts exploded in her head as she tried to run across the parking lot in her spiky high heels.

  She had to make him listen to her. But what could she say? She couldn't just blurt out the whole truth and tell him who he was and that she loved him. What if that forced his memories to disappear forever?

  Carley wanted her man back in one piece—whole and capable of returning to the operation. Otherwise Reid would put him in protective custody. He'd end up in an institution.

  This just couldn't be happening. There was danger for him at every turn. She had to do something … say something. She had to stop him from running, and calm him down.

  Out of breath, she finally reached the truck as it thundered noisily in place.

  "Houston, you don't understand. Wait!"

  Chapter 6

  H ouston sat, blankly staring out the windshield of the four-by-four pickup, his white-knuckled fingers wrapped around the steering wheel in a death grip. Blinded by the searing pain in his head and frozen with anger and confusion, he couldn't move enough to put the doggone transmission into gear. Besides, deep inside, a little voice told him that no matter what, it was not in him to leave a woman stranded in a strange place.

  His head told him Carley had betrayed him, but his heart … well, he couldn't quite tell what was in his heart when it came to Charleston Mills.

  On the dance floor he'd been entranced by her—literally. She'd felt so right in his arms. The lighting, the soft music, her yielding body, all seemed so familiar. Houston knew he'd totally lost control. If she hadn't turned out to be an old flame, he'd be downright embarrassed by his behavior in a public place.

  She'd tricked him. Lied to him. Damn her.

  A soft knock on the passenger window roused him from his haze of anger. He reached over and unlocked the door, quickly turning to face forward again. He couldn't look at her face. Carley was so beautiful, so full of life and lust. He'd dreamed about her last night, tossed and turned with wanting her. And all the while, in reality, she'd known him—known him in the most intimate way.

  Houston turned the key again, silencing the engine.

  All he knew for sure was that Carley was not the same woman from his nightmares. She couldn't be the woman who caused the excruciating terror. There must have been another. Had he hurt someone else so badly that he could feel her pain every time he closed his eyes?

  Carley opened the door and slipped into the truck. For one uncomfortable minute, she sat silently staring straight ahead, the same as he did, taking several deep breaths.

  Turning to face him, she pleaded, "Please give me a chance to explain. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm only trying to do what's best … to do the right thing."

  Houston spun to face her, but his hands still gripped the wheel. "Lying to me was the 'right' thing?"

  "I didn't lie. I … just didn't tell you the truth. Believe me, there is a difference."

  He couldn't continue to look at her, but he couldn't force his eyes away, either. "Right. Why don't you explain the difference to me?"

  "I'm a psychologist. You do remember that, don't you?"

  At his stony silence, she took another deep breath and continued. "When I realized you'd lost your memory, I contacted a specialist in amnesia. He warned me against rushing to tell you about your past. He claimed that if you push yourself to remember, there's a possibility you'll bury the memories so deeply you'll never be able to retrieve them."

  Houston gritted his teeth. How could Carley sit there looking so calm? Every fiber inside him was stretched tighter than the rope holding a calf's legs right before its rump felt the branding iron.

  "I was prepared to wait until you remembered me before…"

  His desperation and need caused him to blurt out, "I'm sorry, but I don't remember you. Not really."

  The anguish shone clearly in her eyes. When he saw her tears welling up, all his anger disappeared, leaving utter and complete frustration.

  He bent his head to the steering wheel and beat his hand against the dashboard. "Oh, God. Who am I?"

  She put a gentle hand on his shoulder, causing more sensations in him than si
mple comforting should.

  "A good man. Brave and strong—and caring," she whispered. "You'll get through this. I'm here to help."

  "I don't want your kind of help, dammit!" Houston jerked his shoulder from her light touch.

  When Carley gasped and pulled her hand back to her chest in a defensive motion, Houston felt like a real heel. He swallowed back his rising turmoil. "I want to remember you. I want to remember everything, but it's just not happening. Your being here only seems to add to my confusion."

  In the glare of the parking lot lights, he saw her bite down on her lip and stare at him with a pain that matched his own. The tug in his heart surprised him.

  "Tell me, what is my name?"

  Again, her hurt and haunted look tortured his soul. "Witt." Her voice was rough and filled with pain, and she cleared her throat to go on. "Witt Davidson."

  "Witt?" Houston rolled the name across his tongue, tasting the consonants, listening to the sound. "Not much of a name, is it?"

  "I always thought it was a good name … that it was as strong as you are."

  He nearly spit the name back in her face, but held his temper. "I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Houston." He didn't feel the least bit strong. In fact, he noticed his hands were shaking, so he grabbed the wheel again. "That's the name I can hold on to. The only one I recognize."

  Carley smiled softly. "Of course. I told you, you're better off not to rush things. If you try too hard, you may bury the truth forever."

  "Do I have a family? Parents? Brothers and sisters … or maybe a … wife and kids who might need me?"

  "Your parents died when you were young. Your grandparents raised you on a ranch in West Texas. They're gone now, too. You were an only child and have never been married."

  "So no one cares one way or the other if I'm lost?"

  "I care."

  "That brings up another good question. How'd you find me? And why?" Suddenly he worried that she might yet turn out to be a threat to his safety.

  "Manny Sanchez. You and he worked together once a few years ago. He recognized you and notified me."

  "Manny?" So it was true. If you couldn't remember your past, you never knew who to trust. "What … what kind of work? Criminal? Or something legit? And why you?"