Chapter 1 #3
He managed to brace one hand on the floor and push himself up a couple of inches. He was dazed, he admitted to himself, but he wasn’t dead. And she felt like heaven beneath him. “Maybe I’m too weak to move.”
Was that amusement? Yes, Libby decided, that was definitely amusement in his eyes.
That ageless and particularly infuriating male amusement.
“Hornblower, if you don’t move, you’re going to be a whole lot weaker.
” She caught the quick flash of his grin before she squirmed out from under him.
She made a halfhearted attempt to keep her eyes on his face—and only his face—as she helped him up.
“If you’re going to walk around, you’re going to have to wait until you can manage it on your own.
” She slipped a supporting hand around his waist and instantly felt a strong, uncomfortable reaction.
“And until I dig through my father’s things and find you some pants. ”
“Right.” He sank gratefully onto the couch.
“This time stay put until I come back.”
He didn’t argue. He couldn’t. The walk to the kitchen doorway and back had sapped what strength he’d had left.
It was an odd and unwelcome feeling, this weakness.
He couldn’t remember having been sick a day in his adult life.
True, he’d bashed himself up pretty good in that aircycle wreck, but he’d been, what—eighteen?
Damn it, if he could remember that, why couldn’t he remember how he’d gotten here? Closing his eyes, he sat back and tried to think above the throbbing in his head.
He’d wrecked his plane. That was what she—Libby—had said. He certainly felt as though he’d wrecked something. It would come back, just as his name had come back to him after that initial terrifying blankness.
She walked back in carrying a plate. “Lucky for you I just laid in supplies.” When he opened his eyes, she hesitated and nearly bobbled the eggs a second time.
The way he looked, she told herself, half-naked, with only a blanket tossed over his lap and the glow of the fire dancing over his skin, was enough to make any woman’s hands unsteady. Then he smiled.
“It smells good.”
“My specialty.” She let out a long, quiet breath, then sat beside him. “Can you manage it?”
“Yeah. I only get dizzy when I stand up.” He took the plate and let his hunger hold sway. After the first bite, he sent her a surprised glance. “Are these real?”
“Real? Of course they’re real.”
With a little laugh, he took another forkful. “I haven’t had real eggs in—I don’t remember.”
She thought she’d read somewhere that the military used egg substitutes. “These are real eggs from real chickens.” The way he plowed his way through them made her smile. “You can have more.”
“This should hold me.” He looked back to see her smiling as she sipped her ever-present cup of tea. “I guess I haven’t thanked you for helping me out.”
“I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Why are you here?” He took another look around the cabin. “In this place?”
“I suppose you could say I’m on sabbatical. I’m a cultural anthropologist, and I’ve just finished several months of field research. I’m working on my dissertation.”
“Here?”
It pleased her that he hadn’t made the usual comment about her being too young to be a scientist. “Why not?” She took his empty plate and set it aside. “It’s quiet—except for the occasional plane crash. How are your ribs? Hurt?”
He looked down, noticing the bruises for the first time. “No, not really. Just sore.”
“You know, you’re very lucky. Except for the head wound, you got out of that with cuts and bruises. The way you were coming down, I didn’t expect to find anyone alive.”
“The crash control . . .” He got a misty image of himself pushing switches. Lights, flashing lights. The echo of warning bells. He tried to focus, to concentrate, but it broke apart.
“Are you a test pilot?”
“What? No . . . No, I don’t think so.”
She put a comforting hand on his. Then, unnerved by the depth of her reaction, cautiously removed it again.
“I don’t like puzzles,” he muttered.
“I’m crazy about them. So I’ll help you put this one together.”
He turned his head until their eyes met. “Maybe you won’t like the solution.”
A ripple of unease ran through her. He’d be strong.
When his injuries healed, his body would be as strong as she sensed his mind was.
And they were alone . . . as completely alone as any two people could be.
She shook off the feeling and busied herself drinking tea.
What was she supposed to do, toss him and his concussion out into the rain?
“We won’t know until we find it,” she said at length. “If the storm lets up, I should be able to get you to a doctor in a day or two. In the meantime, you’ll have to trust me.”
He did. He couldn’t have said why, but from the moment he’d seen her dozing in the chair he’d known she was someone he could count on. The problem was, he didn’t know if he could trust himself—or if she could.
“Libby . . .” She turned toward him again, and the moment she did he lost what he’d wanted to say. “You have a nice face,” he murmured, and watched her tawny eyes turn wary. He wanted to touch her, felt compelled to. But the moment he lifted his hand she was up and out of reach.
“I think you should get some more rest. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs.” She was speaking quickly now, her words fast and edgy. “I couldn’t get you up there last night, but you’d be more comfortable.”
He studied her for a moment. He wasn’t used to women backing away from him.
Cal mused over that impression until he was certain it was a true one.
No, when there was attraction between a man and a woman, the rest was easy.
Maybe all his circuits weren’t working, but he knew there was attraction on both sides.
“Are you matched?”
Libby’s brows lifted into her fringe of bangs. “Am I what?”
“Matched? Do you have a mate?”
She had to laugh. “That’s a quaint way of putting it. No, not at the moment. Let me help you upstairs.” She held up a hand before he could push himself up. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep that blanket on.”
“It’s not cold,” he said. Then, with a shrug, he hooked the material around his hips.
“Here, lean on me.” She draped his arm over her shoulder, then slipped her own around his waist. “Steady?”
“Almost.” When they started forward, he found that he was only slightly dizzy. He was almost sure he could have made it on his own, but he liked the idea of starting up the stairs with his arm wrapped around her. “I’ve never been in a place like this before.”
Her heart was beating a little too quickly. Since he was putting almost none of his weight on her, she couldn’t blame it on exertion. Proximity, however, was a different matter. “I suppose it’s rustic by most standards, but I’ve always loved it.”
Rustic was a mild word for it, he mused, but he didn’t want to offend her. “Always?”
“Yes, I was born here.”
He started to speak again, but when he turned his head he caught a whiff of her hair. When his body tightened, he became aware of his bruises.
“Right in here. Sit at the foot of the bed while I turn it down.” He did as she asked, then ran his hand over one of the bedposts, amazed. It was wood, he was certain it was wood, but it didn’t seem to be more than twenty or thirty years old. And that was ridiculous.
“This bed . . .”
“It’s comfortable, really. Dad made it, so it’s a little wobbly, but the mattress is good.”
Cal’s fingers tightened on the post. “Your father made this? It’s wood?”
“Solid oak, and heavy as a truck. Believe it or not, I was born in it, since at that time my parents didn’t believe in doctors for something as basic and personal as childbirth.
I still find it hard to picture my father with his hair in a ponytail and wearing love beads.
” She straightened and caught Cal staring at her. “Is something wrong?”
He just shook his head. He must need rest—a lot more rest. “Was this—” He made a weak gesture to indicate the cabin. “Was this some kind of experiment?”
Her eyes softened, showing a combination of amusement and affection.
“You could call it that.” She went to a rickety bureau her father had built.
After rummaging through it, she came up with a pair of sweatpants.
“You can wear these. Dad always leaves some clothes out here, and you’re pretty much the same size. ”
“Sure.” He took her hand before she could leave the room. “Where did you say we were?”
He looked so concerned that she covered his hand with hers. “Oregon, southwest Oregon, just over the California border in the Klamath mountains.”
“Oregon.” The tension in his fingers relaxed slightly. “U.S.A.?”
“The last time I looked.” Concerned, she checked for fever again.
He took her wrist, concentrating on keeping his grip light. “What planet?”
Her eyes flew to his. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn the man was serious. “Earth. You know, the third from the sun,” she said, humoring him. “Get some rest, Hornblower. You’re just rattled.”
“Yeah.” He let out a long breath. “I guess you’re right.”
“Just yell if you need something.”
He sat where he was when she left him. He had a feeling, a bad one. But she was probably right—he was rattled. If he was in Oregon, in the northern hemisphere of his own planet, he wasn’t that far off course. Off course, he repeated as his head began to pound. What course had he been on?
He looked down at the watch on his wrist and frowned at the dials. In a gesture that came from instinct rather than thought, he pressed the small stem on the side. The dials faded, and a series of red numbers blinked on the black face.
Los Angeles. A wave of relief washed over him as he recognized the coordinates. He’d been returning to base in L.A. after . . . after what, damn it?
He lay down slowly and discovered that Libby had been right. The bed was surprisingly comfortable. Maybe if he just went to sleep, clocked out for a few hours, he would remember the rest. Because it seemed important to her, Cal tugged on the sweats.
***
What had she gotten herself into? Libby wondered.
She sat in front of her computer and stared at the blank screen.
She had a sick man on her hands—an incredibly good-looking sick man.
One with a concussion, partial amnesia .
. . and eyes to die for. She sighed and propped her chin on her hands.
The concussion she could handle. She’d considered learning extensive first aid as important as studying the tribal habits of Western man.
Fieldwork often took scientists to remote places where doctors and hospitals didn’t exist.
But her training didn’t help her with the amnesia. And it certainly didn’t help her with his eyes. Her knowledge of man came straight out of books and usually dealt with his cultural and sociopolitical habits. Any one-on-one had been purely scientific research.
She could put up a good front when it was necessary.
Her battle with a crushing shyness had been long and hard.
Ambition had pushed her through, driving her to ask questions when she would have preferred to have melded with the background and been ignored.
It had given her the strength to travel, to work with strangers, to make a select few trusted friends.
But when it came to a personal man-woman relationship . . .
For the most part, the men she saw socially were easily dissuaded.
The majority of them were intimidated by her mind, which she admitted was usually one-track.
Then there was her family. Thinking of them made her smile.
Her mother was still the dreamy artist who had once woven blankets on a handmade loom.
And her father . . . Libby shook her head as she thought of him.
William Stone might have made a fortune with Herbal Delights, but he would never be a three-piece-suit executive.
Bob Dylan music and board meetings. Lost causes and profit margins.
The one man she’d brought home to a family dinner had left confused and unnerved—and undoubtedly hungry, Libby remembered with a laugh. He hadn’t been able to do more than stare at her mother’s zucchini-and-soybean soufflé.
Libby was a combination of her parents’ idealism, scientific practicality and dreamy romanticism.
She believed in causes, in mathematical equations and in fairy tales.
A quick mind and a thirst for knowledge had locked her far too tightly to her work to leave room for real romance.
And the truth was that real romance, when applied to her, scared the devil out of her.
So she sought it in the past, in the study of human relationships.
She was twenty-three and, as Caleb Hornblower had put it, unmatched.
She liked the phrase, found it accurate and concise on the one hand and highly romantic on the other.
To be matched, she mused, was the perfect way to describe a relationship.
She corrected herself. A true relationship, like her parents’.
Perhaps the reason she was more at ease with her studies than with men was that she had yet to meet her match.
Satisfied with her analysis, she slipped on her glasses and went to work.