Here to Stay (Silhouette Special Edition) (13 page)

“Is it my imagination, or is spring over?” Miles asked, startling her by taking the wine bottle from her hand. She felt her cheeks burn at the possibility that he’d caught her checking out his physique. He sliced off the wrapper at the bottle top and wielded her corkscrew expertly. “It was downright hot this afternoon, but it feels cold again now.”

Sasha grinned playfully, relieved that he hadn’t noticed her lecherous perusal. “Not your imagination. Welcome to spring in southern Ontario. Variety is the key. Some people think the weather bureau makes their predictions by spinning one of those big carnival wheels. I prefer to ask the horses.”

The cork slipped out of the bottle with a soft pop. She held out the glasses. Miles poured, then set the bottle into the Lucite wine cooler.

“You ask the horses? Like, ask Mr. Ed?” His brows rose.

She laughed. “Not exactly. I watch their coats. In spring I don’t send my winter jackets to the cleaners or pack away my long johns until the horses start shedding. And when the mustangs start growing their winter coats in August, I order extra firewood. Last year I knew in September that we were going to have a wicked winter, but the weather guys didn’t announce it officially until December first.”

“So it stays cold until what, June?”

“Not usually. Spring stutters and belches like an old engine, trying to warm up. Some January days can get into the low teens—that’s Celsius. Forties in Fahrenheit. This year March was milder than usual, and April has been cold. Did you know that in April of ’77, the Blue Jays played their first ever home game in a snowstorm?” She smiled at his incredulous expression.

He shook his head. “I wonder if I ever saw snow before. The image doesn’t feel familiar.” He met her eyes and shrugged. “Then again,
I
don’t feel familiar, so I guess I wouldn’t know,” he said, an edge to his voice. She started to say something placating, but he cut her off, saying, “Hey, let’s drink to spring and hope Mother Nature takes the hint.” He raised his glass toward hers, his hazel eyes now spar-kling with good humor.

Sasha smiled and touched her glass to his. “To spring.”

The wine tasted crisp and light, but it was the warmth in Miles’s answering smile that made her light-headed. To hide her reaction, Sasha lowered her lashes and sipped again.

“I’d say I can’t remember ever enjoying a conversation about the weather as much as this one,” Miles murmured, “but that line probably wouldn’t impress you, since you know I can’t remember much.”

She coughed on her wine. He flashed her a purely wicked grin. Sasha decided two could play.

“Miles, do me a favor?” She smiled sweetly. “Just for tonight, could you forget you have amnesia?”

His laugh rang out, the first truly lighthearted laugh she’d heard from him. She was so pleased with the success of her little witticism that she didn’t notice Miles reaching his free hand toward her until she felt his fingers comb through the hair near her face. Wide-eyed, she looked into his face. He was still smiling, the lines around his mouth and eyes deepening appealingly. If he leaned toward her, she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to accept his kiss, to kiss him in return.

“I’m glad you let your hair loose tonight,” he murmured. “I’ve been wondering what it would feel like out of that braid.” He dropped his hand, but his gaze still held hers.

Breathless, she asked, “Are the shrimp ready?”

“And waiting.”

“I’ll get the veggies.”

Sasha stepped away from Miles. When she set her glass down on the counter, she discovered her hand wasn’t quite steady. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she turned and reached into the refrigerator for the platter of cut, raw vegetables she’d prepared before showering. A few feet away Miles was rinsing the cooked shrimp over the sink, whistling softly along with the Bruce Springsteen song playing on the stereo. It struck Sasha that they’d settled into a very easy domesticity, without drawing up contracts or setting down ground rules. None of the men she’d dated had fit so casually, so easily into her life. One more irony, she mused, that Miles was the one man who had the least reason of all of them to share anything with her.

“Hey, Doc? Are you tuned out or is something wrong? I called you three times,” Miles said from inches behind her. She started and he caught her shoulders in his big hands. “Sorry. I thought you heard me. Are you okay?”

How could she be
okay
when he was touching her like that, making her aware of his strength and his tenderness, and of the impossibility of this situation? “Uh, yeah. Just daydreaming.”

“I was thinking it might be a good night to start a fire,” he murmured, still holding her so close to his body that she could feel his heat whispering along her back. “That okay with you?”

He had to be aware of the suggestive, seductive message under that innocent-sounding suggestion. He had to know the reason for her silence was
her
awareness of the other possible meaning for his words. Thank goodness he couldn’t read her mind, or he’d discover that she was sorely tempted to throw him to the floor and start that fire right there in the kitchen!

She felt him lift her hair from her neck, felt the tickle of his breath on her skin. Dear Lord, he
had
read her mind! He was going to kiss her neck, and that would be like touching a match to dry kindling. It would be like spontaneous combustion! It would be...the stupidest thing she could do, and absolutely heavenly.

“Sasha? Light that fire,” he murmured huskily, a breath away from her neck. “I’ll bring in the food and wine. We can have a picnic.”

He released her abruptly. By the time she had turned to gape at him, he was across the kitchen, loading plates and cutlery onto a tray. With a shake of her head she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room.

The second that Sasha disappeared into the hallway, Miles let his breath out slowly. He was trying. God knew, he was trying. He was trying to match her casual mood. Trying to keep their relationship strictly friendly. Trying—a little desperately, by now—to recall what his other relationships with women had been like. Dredging through the black hole of his memory for any clue as to how he usually was with a woman who interested him.

Interested him?
Hah! A pretty lukewarm phrase to describe how he felt about Sasha. He
wanted
her. Wanted her in his arms, in his bed, in his life. Unfortunately, he was sleeping in a bed that belonged to her, and his life, at the moment, felt as if it belonged to someone else. That left having her in his arms. He’d settle for that, no sweat.

Miles poured the cooled spiced shrimp into a big serving bowl. Princess leaped onto a chair to watch. She responded to his stern warning look with a wink and a swipe of her chops with her tongue. Feeling more than a little foolish, he broke off a piece of shrimp and offered it to her, enjoying her enthusiastic purring.

“The fire’s going,” Sasha said from the doorway. When he met her eyes, she smiled. “No mystery why she’s named Princess.”

He smiled back, drinking in the beauty of the woman across the room. Even in jeans and a big, soft sweater the color of honey, she made him ache. Had he ever felt like this about another woman? He wanted to be able to say she was
the most, the best,
but he had no memories of other women to compare her to. For him she was
the only.
It scared the daylights out of him and made him feel exhilarated at the same time. Like driving too fast around a blind corner.

“We better eat before there’s nothing left for us,” he answered, amazed that his voice worked at all.

Sasha had pulled two huge cushions onto the floor in front of the hearth. The fire was starting to catch at the logs in the grate. Together they set the food platters down. Sasha sank onto her cushion grace-fully. He grunted when his knee protested, then found a comfortable position. Sasha picked up a carrot stick and bit into it. He watched the way her lips closed on the vegetable and felt the blood rush to his loins. Oh, man, was he in trouble!

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?” she asked, reaching for a shrimp.

“I need to hook up with Eleanor’s computer and download as many files as I can, but the computers can do a lot of that without me. Why?” He popped a shrimp into his mouth.

“Pony Club starts at ten.”

“Is that an invitation or a warning?”

“Take your pick.”

“Okay. I’ll call it an invitation. I can probably work in some of those odd jobs around the place while you’re doing whatever you do with the kids.”

She nodded, then washed her shrimp down with a sip of wine. The silence stretched between them for a while, until she said, “Have you remembered anything else that might help you figure out why you were driving up here?”

“Not specifically.” He didn’t want to talk about the flashes of nightmares that had turned him into cowardly mush at the basement door.

“What I find interesting is the way you can simply do some things, like work with your computer or drive, or talk about baseball stats. But you can’t remember facts about yourself.”

“Yeah. It’s weird. I sat down at your computer and knew exactly what to do. Same with the car. But the only reason I know my name is Miles Kent is that I’ve got a photo ID and the cops say my fingerprints match. But I don’t really
know
that’s who I am. When someone says ‘Miles,’ I know they mean me, but I don’t
feel
like that’s who I am.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with having revealed so much of his confusion. Sasha was watching him with such understanding in her soft eyes that he found himself asking, “Does that make sense?”

“Yes, it does. Peter said he believes whatever your mind wants to forget probably doesn’t have anything to do with computers or baseball.”

He grinned. “How could anything about baseball be bad enough to forget?”

She snorted. “Bless that Y chromosome! What would you guys do without it?”

“Sing soprano?”

Her laugh started as a low chuckle, then rose to a peal of musical giggles. He savored the luxury of simply watching her sparkling dark eyes and her soft, expressive mouth. When her laughter faded she shook her head and reached for another shrimp.

The Springsteen CD ended, and a Bonnie Raitt one started. Sasha’s eyes reflected the change in mood, looking softer, the last traces of her laughter gone. She met his eyes, held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away. No wariness, but no invitation, either. What was she thinking? That he was an interesting puzzle, as Peter Simmons considered him? A special rescue project, as Sam suspected she felt? Or a man who had nothing to offer yet selfishly wanted her anyway, which he knew was the closest to the truth.

“Miles?” She spoke without looking at him.

“Hmm?”

“I wish you’d talk to me about what happened at the basement door. It scared me, because I realized I couldn’t do anything.”

“You don’t have to do anything, Sasha,” he told her gruffly. “I don’t want anyone doing things for me.”

“Why?” She turned her dark eyes on him, as if trying to see into his thoughts.

“I’m not your problem to solve.”

“No, you aren’t.” The touch of her fingers on the back of his hand zinged through his nerves like a shock. “You aren’t a problem. You’re a friend. Someone I like and care about. Someone who
has
a problem I’d like to help solve, except I don’t know how. I don’t know what you need.”

He turned his hand over to capture her fingers. To his relief, she didn’t pull away. “Do you really want to know what I need?” he asked softly. Her slender throat moved, then she nodded. “I need to hold you and kiss you.” He circled his thumb over the soft skin of her hand. “I need to hear you whisper my name in the dark. I need to make love to you.”

“O
h,” she said, her voice a husky whisper.

Sasha’s tongue slid along her lips. Miles gave in to the instinct to mirror her action, and smiled inwardly when her eyes darkened.

Using her free hand, Sasha raised her wineglass to her lips. Miles watched the delicate bones of her throat move as she sipped and swallowed. As she lowered the glass, he took it and set it out of the way, then pressed his thumb gently into the yielding flesh between her thumb and forefinger. Sasha’s smile wavered. Miles heard her breath catch. His heart hammered, but his head was sounding a warning he knew he had to listen to.

“But I’m not sure that’s the best thing for either of us right now.” He released her hand. “That last shrimp is yours.”

She drew a shaky-sounding breath, then let it out on a soft sigh. “Split it.”

Her long, slender fingers broke the shrimp in half. After popping one piece into her own mouth, she held out the other piece to him. Miles looked at the delicate morsel in her slender fingers and, leaning toward her, captured the piece of shrimp with his mouth, lingering a second longer than necessary to savor the feel of her fingers against his lips.

“Miles,” she whispered. The ragged sound snagged at his breath. He waited for her to speak again, to pull her fingers away. She didn’t move.

Firelight flickered on her ivory skin, gilding it, casting shadows that couldn’t hide the way her eyes darkened. He moved slowly toward her, hardly daring to breathe. The subtle flowery musk of her skin mingled with the scent of the fire. He paused, giving her a chance to decide. Her eyes widened, then drifted shut, long lashes casting shadows on her pale skin.

Trembling, he closed the distance between them. Her lips accepted his. In some way he couldn’t explain and didn’t understand in words, Sasha had a key role in helping him reclaim his lost memory, his alienated self. He didn’t dare risk losing her by taking her now, when everything between them was so tentative.

“Sasha?” he whispered against her lips.

She made a soft sound. Her lips touched his, sending his pulse into overdrive. For the moment, needs overcame caution. Miles pressed closer, seeking and offering. Sasha’s lips parted under his. She tasted of wine and spice and a sweetness of her own. Her mouth was warm, smooth, moist. When Miles slid his tongue over the inside of her lower lip, Sasha caught her breath. When the tip of her tongue met his, Miles caught his breath.

He was hard and aching with need, yet they’d only kissed twice. Their hands were still braced on the floor. Now Sasha increased the pressure of her mouth on his, offering him a glimpse of her response. Miles closed his eyes and gave himself up to the sensual torture of sweet kisses. His tongue slid deeper, filling his senses with the taste of her. She drew him into her mouth with a sweet boldness that sent lightning bolts to his groin.

Miles felt as if he’d never kissed a woman, but he didn’t doubt he knew how. Was he always so quick to arouse? Or was it just Sasha who made him hunger like this? Part of him raged that it didn’t matter what he was like before, but part of him argued that he needed to know what he was offering this special woman.

Sasha’s fingertips touched his jaw, as light as a butterfly’s wings. Miles groaned and reached for her. His hand found her hip, and he felt a jolt run through her. It was enough to shake some sense into his hormone-fogged brain. Reluctantly he took his hand off her hip, yet the heat of that brief contact tingled on his palm.

“Too much, too soon,” Miles murmured. “I don’t want either of us to hate me in the morning.”

He moved back enough to look into her eyes. For a moment he saw the regret in their dark depths. Then he saw an entirely different face, a face in his mind. A blonde, with turquoise eyes. A model-perfect, beautiful face spoiled by rage.
I hate you, Miles Kent! I hate you because you let me love you and you can’t love anyone!
she was saying, this face without a name. A memory. A memory merging with the pres-ent.

“What is it, Miles? Did you just remember something?”

Either he was as transparent as water, or she was incredibly perceptive. “Yeah, but not enough to talk about.”

“I’m here whenever you want to talk, Miles. All I want to do is help you to help yourself.”

He nodded at her words. “I’m going outside for a while. I’ll throw the horses their last hay.”

* * *

Liar!
Sasha accused herself as she gathered the remains of their firelight picnic. What simpering nonsense!
I want to help you help yourself.
She wanted to throw caution and logic and good sense out the window, and give herself up to the raging need she’d seen in Miles’s eyes. She could still taste the primal hunger of his kisses, restrained as they were. No other man had wanted her like that, or had made her want him like that.

The man must have a will of iron, and some powerful reasons for stopping. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be in the barn and she wouldn’t be on her way to the kitchen. They’d be naked in front of that fire, making love on the floor.

* * *

The next morning, by the time Sasha had finished her early chores, Miles had made coffee and was sitting in front of the computer, looking as if his mind were a million miles away. She gulped her breakfast, then went outside to work with Desperado. Unlike yesterday, he refused to come near her. Then Houdini and one of the mustangs got into a dustup and took down a fence board. Muttering about their childish behavior, Sasha stomped into the workshop to get a hammer and nails. Then she stomped out to the paddock to repair the fence before Donna and Marie and the Pony Club kids arrived.

She had intended to call Miles from his work herself, but Donna climbed out of her car, with four kids bounding after her, saying, “I hope it’s okay for the kids to see the puppies.” A moment later the six of them, followed almost immediately by Marie and four more youngsters, were trooping into the house. They made more noise shushing each other than they made talking.

Miles appeared in the kitchen doorway. Sasha looked up from handing one of the pups to Caitlin Dunne and felt her heart leap at the sight of him. He looked a little rumpled, as if he’d been running his fingers through his hair, and a little dazed at the activity in the corner of the kitchen. She smiled at him, then felt Marie tugging on her shirt. Donna quietly cleared her throat. Sasha grinned at her friends’ not-so-subtle hints.

After introducing everyone and promising a contest to name the puppies, Sasha shooed the kids outside.

“Do you still want to join us?” she asked Miles. “It could be pretty chaotic for a man who lives like a hermit.”

He grinned sheepishly. “I think I can stand it for a couple of hours. If not, Desperado and I can cut out and go fishing.”

He followed her outside and placed himself behind the little group of kids. During her talk about leg bandages and protective boots, she was conscious of Miles’s eyes on her and of Donna and Marie cast-ing surreptitious glances between them. It was a miracle she could concentrate at all. Finally she and her friends sent the kids to bring out the horses and practice some of their new grooming skills.

Sometime later, Sasha looked up from supervising the small hands carefully wrapping the scarred lower leg of one of the aging mustangs. Where was Miles? she wondered. A few minutes ago he’d been pa-tiently helping Caitlin balance on a stool while she practiced braiding Houdini’s unruly mane. Now she couldn’t see those strong legs braced behind the girl.

“Higher, Mr. Miles,” a little voice commanded. “I can’t reach my brush up to his poll.”

Sasha hid a smile. That was Ashley Reilly. Small for her seven years, she always had trouble grooming much above any horse’s shoulders. She was one of those girls born with all her feminine wiles already highly developed. Fortunately, she had also been born with a stubborn streak and a large dose of perfectionism. Ashley wheedled help, but she never allowed anyone to do her work for her.

“Better now?” Miles asked, and Sasha could hear the suppressed smile in his low voice.

“Much, thank you. I’m not supposed to leave any dust up here between his ears. He really likes the way the brush feels. See?”

Sasha peeked just in time to see Drummer Boy nod in pleasure at the grooming he was getting, then butt his bony head square into Miles’s chest. His breath came out in a
whoosh.
Sasha cringed in sympathy for his healing ribs. Then the old gelding snorted, covering Miles’s shirt with moisture. Ashley’s giggles rang through the yard. Sasha bit her lip to hide a smile, then approached the trio.

“You okay?” she asked Miles. “There’s a stepladder Ashley usually uses, if you need to set her down.”

Donna and Marie, making no pretense of not watching, started to laugh.

“I’ve been had, huh?” A sexy half grin curved his beautiful mouth. His eyes sparkled like sunshine.

“Looks like it,” she agreed. “Also looks like you have a way with kids.”

He gave her a long, searching look.

“Houdini! You come back here, you big dummy! We aren’t finished!” Caitlin Dunne’s voice shrilled, startling Sasha.

She turned to see Houdini, who had probably gotten bored, walking nonchalantly across the yard with Thomas Wilton hanging on to the tail he’d been learning to braid.

Miles snickered. “Looks like the old boy lives up to his name.”

Sasha dashed off to catch the escaping horse. Eventually everyone completed their lessons and had their efforts checked by Sasha, Marie or Donna. Then the horses were returned to their stalls, and the kids clamored to see the puppies again. This time, Miles stationed himself beside Copper’s nest and sternly hushed the rowdiest of the group. One by one, he let them sit beside him and hold a puppy—on a towel.

Miles caught Sasha’s eye over the head of one of the children. The thought that this was like a family—
their
family—struck Sasha like lightning. Quickly, so that Miles couldn’t see sudden longing in her eyes, she turned away.

The phone rang. Still shaken by her insight, Sasha climbed over humans and dogs to answer it.

“You up for a friendly game of poker tonight?” Sam’s voice asked by way of greeting.

She smiled. “Could be. Let me ask the assembled multitude.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Too bad. Hang on a sec.” She put her hand over the phone and relayed Sam’s invitation to Miles, Donna and Marie. Miles gave her a slow nod. Donna and Marie called out that they were also interested. She told Sam, then asked, “What time?”

“Eight. Bring food.” The dial tone followed.

Herding the kids outside, Donna and Marie told Sasha they’d meet her at Sam’s with suitable snack food. Miles stood beside her on the porch as the two cars drove out of the yard.

“Nice kids,” he said quietly. “Lucky, too. I don’t think the kids who brought Copper here are in anything like the Pony Club.”

“No, I doubt they are. I wish they’d come back to see her, so we could find out who they are, and do something. They could be placed in a foster home and—”

“That doesn’t always work,” he interrupted. “Not all foster homes are like your parents’.”

His bitterness sounded personal. She looked up at him, trying to read the thoughts in his golden eyes. “Did you remember something while you were working with the kids?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know for sure yet.” He turned away, then met her eyes again. “I hired an investigator.”

“To look into your background?” He nodded. “I think that’s a brilliant idea. Has he found anything yet?”

“No. I just brought him on-line.”

Even though the spring sunshine was quite warm, Sasha felt a chill. She wanted the best for him, and that was the full recovery of his memory. But she couldn’t help the selfish little feeling that once Miles regained his memory or learned the reason he’d driven from Florida to Canada, he’d leave.

“Whatever he finds out,” Miles said, as if reading her mind, “whatever I remember, I’m not leaving until we find those kids and make sure they’re safe.”

* * *

At eight that evening Miles parked his rental car in front of Sam’s house. The lights from another car followed them. From the rearview mirror he recognized Donna and Marie in Donna’s Jeep. Aware of Sasha’s gaze, he gave her a quick smile. She didn’t smile back.
Now what?
he thought.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

“Sam hasn’t exactly been your good buddy. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable for my sake.”

“Since the accident I’m not exactly comfortable anywhere, Sasha, so it might as well be for your sake as anything else.” Behind them, the Jeep doors shut. “Let’s go.”

Donna and Marie caught up with them. Miles liked Sasha’s friends. They were down-to-earth, like her. After an afternoon sleuthing through his computerized address book, he knew that none of the high-profile, fast-track women he’d dated could ever be described as remotely down-to-earth. Now he couldn’t imagine why he had collected fashion models, actresses, recording artists. His tastes had ap-parently changed, for the better. Too bad he was the same S.O.B. who had “liked them and left them.”

Miles let the three women get ahead of him while he took in first impressions of Sam’s place. The house was wood shingled, but the design was similar to Sasha’s, right up to the wide front porch. There was a barn, but no sign—or smell—of horses. A swing set, a wagon and some other things he couldn’t make out in the falling darkness stood in the yard to one side of the house. On the other side there was a wooden doghouse painted the same white and green as the house. Standing braced for action was a dog that looked a lot like a grizzly bear.

“Hi, Mo-Jo,” Sasha said. The on-guard stance suddenly became puppylike wiggles as the dog rushed to greet her. “That’s my boy, isn’t it? Who’s the best boy?” she crooned, bending to cuddle the beast. Then she turned back and smiled, making his breath catch. “This is Mo-Jo. He’s an Akita. Very fierce guard dog.”

“So I see,” he said, stopping to let Mo-Jo sniff his hand.

“Well, he’s off duty now, but he was bred to fight bears, so he’s one tough baby-sitter, aren’t you?”