almost overwhelmed him. He could smell the cold sweat that had broken out all over his useless body. Fighting it back, he struggled to find something to hold on to. But terror had him firmly in its grip.
Christ, what would he do if he never regained his memory? If the black hole he called a brain refused to work? What did people do in circumstances like this? Did they all feel so helpless? God, he thought, he'd have given anything for a shot of a single malt.
He blinked rapidly, feeling the incipient twinges of the headache he seemed to have had forever gnawing at his temple. It seemed as if whatever way he turned there was no relief. Dammit, he wasn't a chicken; he had to overcome this. But for someone who seldom got headaches in the normal way, it was draining his strength.
He swallowed. Now, how had he known that? he wondered shakily, clinging to the thought like the proverbial drowning man. How did he know he wasn't a slave to migraines, or suffer hangovers whenever he drank? And he did enjoy a drink; he was fairly certain. Oh, Lord, was his memory slowly coming back into life?
Afraid to explore something that still seemed so fragile, he turned his attention to what he had been trying to do before. With a determined effort, he forced the woman's face back into his consciousness. She must hold the key, if he could only remember what it was.
Her face seemed familiar now, but he knew that was just an aberration. Because he'd been concentrating on her image for so long, it had acquired a recognisable shape. But he didn't doubt that she was real; that she existed. He knew her, and that had to be a plus.
He breathed heavily. She'd had light brown hair, he decided, recalling the silky strands that had brushed his collar. Sort of toffee-coloured, he amended, and streaked with butter. Like caramel and cream or corn and coffee. He delighted in the comparisons. And just as smooth.
As far as her face was concerned, that was harder. It was oval, yet she'd had quite a determined chin. Her cheekbones had been high, her cheeks streaked with colour; and she'd had a mouth that he'd badly wanted to kiss.
Ridiculous!
He dispatched the thought instantly, drawing in another unsteady breath. It was no use speculating about their relationship. Until she told him who she was, it was far too dangerous to permit.
Once again he forced back the frightening void that loomed in front of him. He had to stop being so negative about his condition. That doctor—Harper—had said there was no easy answer. It would take days or weeks or months to recover completely.
Or never
…
Of course, it was easy for a doctor to say. He didn't have to live with this terrible emptiness, this lack of knowledge that threatened to drive him mad. He didn't have to wake up to an awareness that was only partial. He didn't know his name, his age, his identity. He didn't have a life.
The brief spurt of optimism he'd been feeling while he was recalling the woman's image faded. There was no point in pretending he was getting anywhere with that. She was just as much a stranger now as she had ever been. Beautiful, yes, but anonymous just the same.
Which surely proved that their relationship couldn't be an intimate one, he decided wearily. And, looking back, she had shown little joy in finding he was alive. If his opinion meant anything, she'd seemed to look at him almost critically. As if she was searching for some recognition she hadn't found.
But that way lay danger. He refused to allow himself to approach the abyss again. She had to know who he was. Why else had she come here? The name—his name—Nathan Wolfe, had meant something to her.
A draught of air cooled his throbbing temples, but when he opened his eyes it was to find a nurse lifting the clipboard from the end of his bed. On it, he knew, were all the details of his present condition. They kept a note of his temperature, his blood pressure and his pulse.
And what else? he wondered. Judging by the way he
Christ, what would he do if he never regained his memory? If the black hole he called a brain refused to work? What did people do in circumstances like this? Did they all feel so helpless? God, he thought, he'd have given anything for a shot of a single malt.
He blinked rapidly, feeling the incipient twinges of the headache he seemed to have had forever gnawing at his temple. It seemed as if whatever way he turned there was no relief. Dammit, he wasn't a chicken; he had to overcome this. But for someone who seldom got headaches in the normal way, it was draining his strength.
He swallowed. Now, how had he known that? he wondered shakily, clinging to the thought like the proverbial drowning man. How did he know he wasn't a slave to migraines, or suffer hangovers whenever he drank? And he did enjoy a drink; he was fairly certain. Oh, Lord, was his memory slowly coming back into life?
Afraid to explore something that still seemed so fragile, he turned his attention to what he had been trying to do before. With a determined effort, he forced the woman's face back into his consciousness. She must hold the key, if he could only remember what it was.
Her face seemed familiar now, but he knew that was just an aberration. Because he'd been concentrating on her image for so long, it had acquired a recognisable shape. But he didn't doubt that she was real; that she existed. He knew her, and that had to be a plus.
He breathed heavily. She'd had light brown hair, he decided, recalling the silky strands that had brushed his collar. Sort of toffee-coloured, he amended, and streaked with butter. Like caramel and cream or corn and coffee. He delighted in the comparisons. And just as smooth.
As far as her face was concerned, that was harder. It was oval, yet she'd had quite a determined chin. Her cheekbones had been high, her cheeks streaked with colour; and she'd had a mouth that he'd badly wanted to kiss.
Ridiculous!
He dispatched the thought instantly, drawing in another unsteady breath. It was no use speculating about their relationship. Until she told him who she was, it was far too dangerous to permit.
Once again he forced back the frightening void that loomed in front of him. He had to stop being so negative about his condition. That doctor—Harper—had said there was no easy answer. It would take days or weeks or months to recover completely.
Or never
…
Of course, it was easy for a doctor to say. He didn't have to live with this terrible emptiness, this lack of knowledge that threatened to drive him mad. He didn't have to wake up to an awareness that was only partial. He didn't know his name, his age, his identity. He didn't have a life.
The brief spurt of optimism he'd been feeling while he was recalling the woman's image faded. There was no point in pretending he was getting anywhere with that. She was just as much a stranger now as she had ever been. Beautiful, yes, but anonymous just the same.
Which surely proved that their relationship couldn't be an intimate one, he decided wearily. And, looking back, she had shown little joy in finding he was alive. If his opinion meant anything, she'd seemed to look at him almost critically. As if she was searching for some recognition she hadn't found.
But that way lay danger. He refused to allow himself to approach the abyss again. She had to know who he was. Why else had she come here? The name—his name—Nathan Wolfe, had meant something to her.
A draught of air cooled his throbbing temples, but when he opened his eyes it was to find a nurse lifting the clipboard from the end of his bed. On it, he knew, were all the details of his present condition. They kept a note of his temperature, his blood pressure and his pulse.
And what else? he wondered. Judging by the way he
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