The Rancher And The Amnesiac Bride Read online

  Max strode across the room and went out the back door.

  “So full of yourself,” Josie rattled on to the empty room. “So...so...” She sighed, plunked her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her palm. “So gorgeous it’s sinful. Oh, Josie, get a grip.”

  Well, dandy, she thought. She’d just made a complete fool of herself, had come across like an adolescent panting after a movie star. Surely she didn’t go around falling at men’s feet all the time. No, she couldn’t, wouldn’t believe that of herself.

  She knew—how, she wasn’t certain—that she was acting out of character in regard to Max. He was dangerous, and he was drawing her down a path she didn’t ordinarily travel. But her weakened, vulnerable condition was no excuse for her ridiculous, embarrassing behavior.

  Well, she was now very aware of the effect Max had on her. She would stay on the alert, not fall prey to his masculine magnetism.

  “So there,” she said aloud.

  She wrinkled her nose in the direction of the back door, then laughed softly at this final addition to her adolescent performance. In the next moment she glanced around the messy kitchen.

  Her headache was much better. She should, she supposed, clean up, since Max had done the cooking. No problem. She could load a dishwasher as well as anyone.

  Josie got to her feet, picked up the plates and walked toward the counter. She stopped, looked to the left, the right, then rolled her eyes heavenward.

  Max Carter didn’t have a dishwasher.

  Max fully intended to stay busy in the barn until he was tired enough to drop and could be at least fairly certain Josie was asleep for the night.

  “Oh, hell,” he said aloud just after ten o’clock. He suddenly remembered that he was supposed to wake Josie every hour to assure that she was suffering no lingering effects from the concussion.

  Wasn’t that just great? He’d have to sit on the edge of her bed, call her name, maybe even touch her to waken her. He’d be in sexual agony, going up in flames. The night ahead was going to be the longest of his life.

  Maybe Rusty... No, the old guy was sound asleep in his room at the end of the barn. The two other hands had their own places in town; they came out to the ranch at dawn and left at dusk.

  There was no one to dump this on, Max thought, striding toward the house. Josie was his problem, pure and simple.

  He was the one who was keeping her here with his lies in order to protect his land.

  He was the one who’d decided Ms. Wentworth also needed to learn that people’s private lives were just that—private.

  So now he’d pay the piper. This was going to call for every bit of willpower he could muster.

  In the kitchen he pulled off his boots, set his Stetson on the table and absently registered the fact that Josie had cleaned up after their meal.

  He’d bet a buck, he thought crossly, she’d pitched a fit when she discovered he didn’t have a dishwasher.

  Good. She’d had to put her lily white hands and manicured nails in a sinkful of hot, soapy water. That, Josie Wentworth, was how the other half lived.

  Max sighed and sank onto one of the chairs at the table.

  He was, he had to admit, coming on awfully strong about Josie’s money and social status. He’d agreed that he would knock it off, and he would.

  There was no one major incident that had created his dislike for the idle rich. It had simply been a lifetime of scraping out a living while observing those who had only to snap their fingers to get what they wanted.

  He’d watched his father work himself into an early grave on a Texas ranch. His mother? She’d split when Max was two, having realized she was facing hard labor with few rewards for the endless years to come.

  So, okay, he’d willingly chosen the same existence for himself when he’d bought the Single C, but by then his attitude about the rich getting undeservably richer was deeply entrenched in his mind.

  Josie was one of them, and he wanted her off his land and out of his life as quickly as possible. He was not, however, running the risk of the Wentworth family’s suing him for Josie’s bump on the head.

  A sudden thought struck him and he got to his feet, crossed the room and lifted the receiver from the wall telephone. A few minutes later he was speaking with Jeff Wilson.

  “Get the drift?” Max said finally. “It just seems to me that Josie is better off getting a solid night’s sleep than having me disturb her every hour.”

  “Well, any medical textbook would say she should be wakened every hour to be certain she still knows basic information, that sort of thing.”

  “Forget the books, Jeff. She ate dinner, cleaned the kitchen, carried on a lengthy conversation with me during the meal.”

  Max, are you and I having an affair?

  “Believe me,” Max said dryly, “her busy little mind was going nonstop.”

  “Is she asleep now?”

  “I assume so. I just got in from the barn.”

  “Okay, we’ll compromise,” Jeff said. “Go wake her, ask her some questions, the whole nine yards. If she’s got it together after having been asleep, then don’t wake her again. But, Max, if she suffers increased pain in her head, double vision or dizziness tomorrow, call me right away.”

  “Fine. Thanks, Jeff.”

  “You must be getting old, Carter.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re talking a blue streak to stay out of a beautiful woman’s bedroom. Yep, you hit thirty on your last birthday and you’re losing it.”

  “Good night, Jeff.”

  Max hung up the receiver with the sound of Jeff’s laughter echoing in his ear.

  He decided he was hungry, and he made and consumed a sandwich he really didn’t want. His next conclusion was that the gentlemanly thing to do was to take a shower before waking Josie, instead of having her assaulted by the odors of sweat and horse manure.

  Finally, clad only in a clean pair of jeans, Max realized he was completely out of ideas on how to postpone the inevitable, other than washing the living room walls or vacuuming the floor, neither of which appealed.

  He walked slowly, very slowly, from his bedroom to the one he’d designated the guest room, then stopped in the open doorway.

  The curtain on one of the windows didn’t close properly and bright moonlight was pouring over the bed like a silvery waterfall. Heart thundering, Max moved next to the bed and stared down at Josie.

  Her auburn hair was fanned out on the pillow, the moonlight making it appear like strands of polished copper. Her skin looked like lush velvet, causing his fingertips to tingle with the urge to stroke her soft cheek, then sift through her hair.

  Heat churned in him, a hot, tight, aching.

  A moonlight angel, his mind whispered. That was what Josie was, lying there so still, as though sculpted from the finest ivory. She was the picture of feminine beauty, woman to his man.

  Max started to sit down, hesitated, drew a steadying breath, then settled carefully on the bed next to Josie’s slender hip. The blanket was drawn to just below her breasts, which were covered by a pale pink T-shirt. He jerked his gaze from her breasts to concentrate on her face.

  “Josie,” he said, hardly recognizing the gritty quality of his voice. “Josie, wake up.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Josie,” he repeated more loudly.

  Max closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head.

  He was going to have to touch her, he realized, opening his eyes again and becoming aware of his feelings of panic. He’d... Okay, he’d jiggle her shoulder. That was safe enough. A shoulder that was just inches from her breast. No, forget the shoulder.

  He’d tap gently on her cheek... but that was next to those kissable lips that were driving him right out of his ever-lovin’ mind.

  For cripe’s sake, Carter, he admonished himself. Just pick a spot and do it. Wake Josie up, ask her something inane—like what she’d had for dinner—then get the hell out of the room.

  Do it, C
arter. Now.

  In Josie’s dream she was snuggled in a bed that had been placed in a field of wildflowers. Somehow she knew she mustn’t move until Max came, until Max touched her, caressed her, made it clear that at last, at last, he was going to gather her into his strong arms, hold her and kiss her.

  Make love with her.

  She was waiting for Max.

  And she wanted him so very, very much.

  With a hand that was not quite steady, Max nestled his palm on Josie’s cheek.

  “Josie,” he said, “it’s me, Max. Wake up. Josie?”

  Josie’s lashes fluttered, then she opened her eyes, a lovely smile forming instantly on her lips.

  “Max,” she whispered, “you came, just as I knew you would.”

  Max snatched his hand from her cheek.

  “What?” he said, frowning.

  “I was waiting for you and now you’re here.” Josie’s arms floated upward, reaching toward him. “Oh, Max.”

  She sat up and leaned forward, entwining her arms around his neck. He stiffened and swallowed heavily.

  “Max?” Josie said, a catch in her voice. “What is it? What’s wrong? Don’t you want to hold me, touch me, kiss me? Don’t you want to make love with me, Max?”

  And Max Carter was lost.

  With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he wrapped his arms around Josie, then lowered his head and claimed her lips in a searing kiss.

  Chapter Six

  The kiss was fire.

  The embers of desire that had smoldered within Josie and Max from the moment they’d met burst into raging flames that consumed their bodies and overrode their ability to think, to reason, to remain linked to the reality of the wrong or right of what they were doing.

  There was only the kiss. And the fire. And the burning want and need.

  Max lifted his head a fraction of an inch, then slanted his mouth in the other direction, capturing Josie’s lips once more, delving with his tongue into the sweet moist darkness of her mouth.

  He drank of her taste, inhaled her aroma of fresh air and flowers, savored the feel of her delicate body encased in his arms.

  Josie returned the urgent, hungry kiss with a hunger of her own, inching her fingertips into Max’s thick hair, urging his mouth even harder onto hers. She didn’t think, she only felt, giving way to her passion.

  Max was so powerful, so strong, and his embrace made her feel feminine and protected. He smelled so good, like soap and man. His bare skin was taut and smooth, the play of muscles beneath her roving hands heightening her desire.

  At last she broke the kiss to speak close to Max’s lips.

  “Oh, Max, please,” she whispered. “I need you. I want you so very much.”

  Max didn’t speak. He got to his feet to shed his jeans, then threw back the blankets and drew Josie’s T-shirt up, tossing it onto the floor.

  He gazed at her naked form for a long, heart-stopping moment, the moonlight cascading over her.

  Moonlight angel, his hazy mind hammered. His moonlight angel. Josie was exquisite. She was the essence of what had been missing from his life. She filled a void to overflowing, an emptiness he hadn’t even known existed.

  But now she was here. Josie.

  He lifted her and moved her into the center of the bed, following her down, seeking, then finding her mouth again. He splayed one hand on her flat stomach, relishing the feel of her dewy skin beneath his callused palm.

  He shifted from her lips to one breast, drawing the sweet, sweet bounty into his mouth, laving the nipple to a taut bud with his tongue.

  Josie murmured in pure feminine pleasure.

  Max paid homage to her other breast as he rested his weight on his forearm, his free hand skimming along the gentle slope of Josie’s hip, then down her slender leg.

  Fire.

  It was too much to bear, had to be quelled before the licking flames devoured them, turning them into ashes to be scattered by the wind.

  “Max,” Josie said, her voice a near sob.

  He moved over her, then into her, thrusting deep, filling her. Then he stilled, drinking in the sight of her in the moonlight, memorizing all he saw.

  Josie smiled. It was a womanly smile, so soft, so gentle. It was a smile of wisdom, of acceptance, of joy that she was his counterpart.

  “Max.”

  That was all she said, just his name, in a voice hushed and reverent.

  A strange, aching sensation gripped Max’s throat as the sound of his own name flowed over him with a soothing warmth.

  He didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak. He began to move within Josie’s body, slowly at first, then increasing the tempo, his gaze never leaving hers.

  Harder. Faster. Thundering.

  Josie matched him beat for beat.

  They were one entity, meshed, perfect.

  They soared toward the summit of their exquisite journey, higher, reaching...reaching...needing...

  “Max!”

  He flung back his head as he found his release a second after Josie was hurled into oblivion. They clung to each other tightly, shuddering as wave after wave of ecstasy swept through them.

  Max collapsed against Josie, spent, sated. He rolled to his side, taking her with him, then leaving her body so very reluctantly. He pulled the sheet over their slick, cooling bodies, then nestled Josie’s head on his shoulder. Breathing quieted. Hearts returned to normal rhythms.

  “Max,” Josie said.

  “Shh,” he said. “Don’t.”

  Josie nodded her agreement not to speak, then her lashes drifted down and she sighed in contentment just before giving way to the somnolence that claimed her.

  Max stared into space as again and again he sifted his fingers through Josie’s silken hair. Stark reality returned like a painful, physical blow, and a knot tightened in his gut.

  Damn it, he thought furiously, he’d lost control, had succumbed to his burning desire for Josie, with no regard for the consequences.

  He’d had sex... Ah, hell, who was he kidding? He’d made love with a woman who didn’t even know who she was or what her values were. He’d taken advantage of her, taken all she’d offered him, not caring that it was wrong, so damn wrong.

  And the emotions that had consumed him while making love with her were unsettling, nearly terrifying. He’d felt so complete, so whole. He could remember thinking that so much had been missing from his life before that moment. Before Josie.

  No, damn it, it wasn’t true. He didn’t need Josie. He didn’t need anyone. He had his ranch, the life-style he wanted, and he was completely satisfied with his existence as it stood.

  Then why had he registered those emotions? Why had... No, forget it. Forget everything that had happened in this room, in this bed, he told himself.

  He shifted his weight, slid his arm carefully from beneath Josie’s head so as not to waken her, then eased off the bed. He grabbed his jeans from the floor and strode from the room, forcing himself not to look back to where Josie slept in the glow of the moonlight.

  Fingers of sunlight tiptoed across Josie’s face, nudging her awake. As the fogginess of sleep lifted, she was gratefully aware of the fact that she did not have a headache.

  She stretched like a lazy kitten, then stilled as she felt the slight soreness in her body that was accompanied by vivid, sensual images of making love with Max.

  Dear heaven, she thought, sitting bolt upward in the bed. What had she done?

  The sheet slid to her waist, revealing her bare breasts, and she grabbed the material, clutching it with both hands beneath her chin.

  Oh, where was the amnesia when she needed it? she thought frantically. She did not want to remember that she had been the aggressor, the seducer, the previous night.

  Max had wakened her, as per the doctor’s instructions, to make certain she was still lucid after her nasty bump on the head.

  Lucid? As in sane? Not hardly. She’d been dreaming about Max, then Max had been there, sitting on the edge of the
bed.

  Then she’d—

  “Oh-h-h,” she moaned, sinking back on the pillow.

  She’d flung herself at Max Carter, literally begged him to make love with her. He was a lusty, healthy man, who hadn’t stood a chance against her wanton behavior. She’d taken advantage of him, pure and simple.

  She was so mortified she wanted to die.

  She, Josie Whoever-she-was, should be mortified. She was truly ashamed of herself.

  Never mind that making love with Max had been so incredibly beautiful it defied description. She had no recollection of previous lovers, but instinct told her that what she’d shared with Max had been far more exquisite than anything she’d experienced before.

  It hadn’t been just sex. No, it had been making love, with precious emotions of caring, wishing to give pleasure to Max, feeling so protected, feminine, special, in his embrace. They had been perfect together, like two pieces of an intricate puzzle.

  Soul mates.

  “Oh, Josie, stop it,” she said aloud. “Slow down. Get a grip.”

  Max Carter was not her soul mate. He was not the man she’d been destined to meet, to marry, to spend her life with. Heavenly days, that was absurd. For all she knew, she had a string of lovers waiting for her wherever it was that she lived.

  If she wanted to marry and have a family, wouldn’t she have done so by now? She was attractive, intelligent, had a sense of humor. Had she chosen to remain single because she liked the social life, the jet-set scene, the bed-hopping?

  No. That didn’t feel right, didn’t fit, like a pair of shoes that weren’t hers. No. She wasn’t promiscuous.

  Then why, why, why had she been so determined to make love with Max? Why was a section of her beleaguered brain savoring the knowledge that she’d done exactly that? How could she explain to herself that a part of her wasn’t sorry about what had happened—was, in fact, glorying in the memory of every sensuous detail?

  Oh, she didn’t know. She was so confused, so muddled. It was difficult enough having no memory beyond waking up with a roaring headache on Max’s sofa. Now she’d complicated her life further by making love with a man she hardly knew.