BAD BOYS ON BOARD Read online

  Gingerly she placed her hand beneath the man's neck.

  Taking a deep breath, she slowly tilted his head back. Not hearing any gross crunching bone noises gave her the courage to pinch his nostrils shut and put her lips over his.

  His lips were warm, too. She forced her own breath into him, trying not to think about how different it was blowing into a man's mouth than practicing on a plastic dummy.

  She pulled back, breaking the warm connection, and watched his chest begin to deflate. That was good.

  She placed her palm in the middle of his chest, fisted the other hand on top of it and started pushing, counting to five.

  Back to his mouth. She breathed out, forcing her breath into his body.

  Back to his chest.

  "Come on!" she wailed as he continued to lie there.

  His mouth, his chest, again, and again. How much time had lapsed? Would he be brain damaged? Was she even doing this right?

  She shoved harder against his ribs, trying to get through all that muscle and bone to massage his stubborn heart.

  "Beat, you bastard!" She yelled, scuffling on her knees in the dirt as she bent forward to force more air into his lungs.

  A fly hovered over his face and she brushed it away. Her hands were trembling from her efforts and from fear. He was probably brain dead anyway from all the drugs and booze. "If you'd worn a helmet maybe this wouldn't have happened," she told him sternly, then clapped her lips against his once more.

  She pushed her breath out and it caught on an obstacle. A big, wet obstacle. With a strangled shriek, she tried to pull back.

  The corpse had stuck his tongue in her mouth.

  But, as she moved back, she felt his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her in closer while his tongue made a slow but very deliberate tour of her mouth.

  She should be glad he was alive, but mostly she wanted him dead again.

  She squirmed, trying to get away, but he misread her intentions and yanked her flush on top of him where she discovered another part of his body was also alive and well and functioning just fine. Trust a man to come back from the grave horny.

  At last the pressure eased on the back of her neck and she was able to yank her head out of tongue range and stare down into hazel eyes that gleamed with carnal intentions, the corners crinkled against the sun.

  She felt the surprising pull of answering arousal deep in her belly before common sense returned. Her breath was coming hard and fast. After first breathing for two people, then having the breath kissed out of her, she felt lightheaded.

  "Hey baby," he said in a deep, gravelly voice. "You were great. Fuckin' A!" He rocked his pelvis against hers and winked.

  "Thanks," she replied. "You should see me splint a fracture."

  He glanced around, puzzled. "Why'd we do it in the bushes?" Then his eyes roved slowly over her face and dropped to her heaving chest. "What the hell. Let's do it again."

  Oh, oh. It looked like she was too late to prevent brain damage. She tried to figure out what to say to him, wondering how his eyes could look so intelligent when his brain was obviously nonfunctional. Then his lids closed and he was gone.

  "Whew," she let out her breath on a shudder.

  "Thought you said he was dead," said Gertie.

  She glanced up to see the old woman tugging a bean plant from under the man's booted foot. She always had bits of twine in her pocket, and she tied the plant up against a still-standing stake with fingers gnarled by age and hard work.

  "He was dead. I brought him back to life," she said not without pride

  "Hmm. What are you going to do with him?"

  Harleyville didn't have an emergency room. Not even a hospital. Its three thousand souls were still serviced by one country doctor. The closest hospital was fifty miles away.

  "There must be some kind of ambulance."

  "He got medical insurance?"

  "I don't know." She had to tug and pull at his hip to get to his back pocket, where she assumed his wallet would be, but the way he groaned when she moved him had her dropping him back in place. "I'm not sure how badly he's hurt."

  "I'll call Dr. Greenfield," said Gertie, rising and dusting off her hands. "He'll know what to do."

  Nell stayed where she was, moving her body so the sun didn't beat in the injured man's face, and watched his large chest rise and fall. She'd retrieved his sunglasses, amazingly unbroken, but didn't slip them back on. If he opened his eyes again, she wanted to know about it.

  * * *

  Shit. What had he been doing? Everything hurt. His head ached, his leg burned. He tried to move his hand to rub the leg and a sharp pain shot through his wrist.

  He opened his eyes and frowned. Three faces loomed over him. An old crone who looked like Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies grimaced at him, making him feel like a kid who'd peed on her rosebushes. An old guy in a suit was taking something off his arm, and, finally, he saw a face he recognized.

  His vision was blurry and her image shimmered for a minute. He squinted harder, trying to bring her face into focus. She was a stunner with gold-blond hair, big sexy green eyes and a mouth that looked as if it could do things that would make a grown man cry.

  She had a jaw with attitude, he noted hazily. Looked the kind of woman who'd enjoy making a man beg. A challenge. His favorite kind of woman. He winked at her.

  "Well, he's awake."

  Her voice was flat Midwest with a hint of California. She made him think of prairies and surfing. "Corn and sushi," he mumbled, his voice emerging hoarse and unfamiliar. "Hard wheat and soft scallops."

  "See what I mean? I think he was deprived of oxygen too long," the hottie said to the suit, who nodded gravely.

  Her voice was as intriguing as the rest of her. Like thick luscious honey over something hard. Which brought on an image so intense that he instantly had something hard for her to pour honey on.

  He quickly shifted his gaze to the old crone, which solved his temporary problem. But not the bigger problem of where he was and why they were staring down at him. "What's going on?"

  "You were in an accident," the old guy said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Can you tell me what day it is?"

  He rolled his eyes. "It's…" He frowned. Turned his gaze back to the babe, as though her familiarity might remind him what infernal day it was. "It's…" He was a big believer in bluffing his way out of sticky situations. "It's Tuesday," he said firmly.

  Those beautiful green eyes fluttered in distress. Damn. "I mean, Wednesday." Another flutter. Hell, he couldn't play Russian roulette with the calendar. "I can't remember," he finally admitted with a scowl.

  The old guy nodded.

  He was tired of staring up at these people. He'd managed to figure out he was in a bed. A single brass bed with a crisp cotton bedspread covered in faded roses that couldn't possibly be his.

  "What's your name?"

  He beat back panic as he tried to focus. What the hell was his name? "What's yours?"

  "I'm Dr. Greenfield."

  There was a pause while he breathed slowly, noting this room smelled musty, like nobody'd been in it for a while.

  "And this is Gertrude Hopkins and her great-niece, Nell Tennant."

  "Hey, babe," he said to Nell. Did he call her Nell? He doubted it. He probably had a pet name for her, but his aching head couldn't dredge it up.

  By gritting his teeth hard he made it to one elbow. He panted with the effort and felt sweat break out on his forehead.

  "What's your name?" His sexy angel asked him, dropping to her haunches so her eyes were level with his.

  "Hell if I know," he admitted.

  This time, distress didn't flicker in her eyes, it darkened them and a worried frown puckered the creamy skin of her forehead. "Can you remember anything?"

  He smiled at her. "I remember how you taste," he said softly, hoping only she could hear. "And the way you feel against me." He let his gaze roam her body. He might not know his own name or what day of the week it was, but at
least he had great taste in women.

  Her cheeks pinkened at his low words, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the worry disappear as her gaze heated beneath his.

  "Are you my wife?" he asked her, a momentary shaft of alarm poking him at the thought. He didn't feel married.

  Her eyes widened and in them he read an answering panic. "No. I'm not your wife."

  He was feeling better by the minute. All that sexy sweetness and no shackles. He nodded sleepily. "Girlfriend."

  Much better. Her lips opened and he wondered if she was thinking about kissing his hurts better, hoped she was, and then darkness claimed him.

  Chapter Two

  "I am not your girlfriend!" Nell snapped in a voice much too loud for a sick room, but it was clear she could bellow into his ear and she wouldn't get a response. The injured gang member had passed out again.

  "What are we going to do with him?" she asked the doctor whose somber expression didn't bode well.

  "I could send for an ambulance to transport him to the hospital, but he's got no identification on him. You'd be responsible."

  The sick feeling in her stomach came from knowing they were completely responsible for him lying here in the first place. They couldn't afford costly medical treatments, but on the other hand, she couldn't let him remain here if he was seriously hurt.

  "He doesn't look like he's carrying Blue Cross, but we'd better make certain." Between the three of them, they managed to get the man's jeans unzipped and carefully removed them.

  He had muscular legs, tawny skin and dark hair that thickened as it approached his groin. The fact that he was wearing underpants was an unexpected bonus. They were plain white briefs and even though she tried not to peek, she noticed that he filled them nicely.

  She hated to touch the filthy jeans, but forced herself to search the pockets while Gertie and the doctor watched.

  "No wallet," she said as she pulled out a money clip, in the shape of a dollar sign, untidily stuffed with bills. She counted quickly. "Around three hundred dollars."

  "Not even enough for one night in the hospital," Doc Greenfield said as she dug through the rest of his pockets.

  The final pocket yielded a crumpled piece of paper. She opened it, glancing at the unconscious man. Wes, the note said, Market day, Thursday. In place of a signature was a single scrawled initial. It looked like a D or maybe a P. Not much to go on.

  Gertie and the doctor were staring at her curiously. She shook her head. "His name's probably Wes, but he doesn't have a single piece of identification on him."

  "I can tell you where he belongs. Down at that noisy clubhouse with all the other hooligans, destroying our peace, leaving their beer cans all over. Causing trouble," Gertie glared at the comatose man.

  "He won't be causing anyone trouble for a while yet," soothed the doctor. "Come on downstairs and we'll work out what to do with him."

  With no better ideas, and happy to escape the disturbing presence in the spare bedroom, Nell followed the other two into the hallway and downstairs.

  As she was leaving she heard the man mutter, "girlfriend." She turned back in surprise and, even though his eyes remained closed, she could have sworn his lips twitched.

  * * *

  "In my opinion, he's better off here than in a hospital," Dr. Greenfield said over coffee in the big old kitchen.

  Gertie harrumphed but didn't argue. Maybe they weren't begging for Dr. Greenfield's services at the Mayo Clinic, but here in Harleyville he was well respected. He'd attended more births than deaths, since most of his patients recovered from the various ailments and accidents he treated them for. Nell supposed that counted for something. And besides, Gertie thought the doctor was infallible. Nell, however, had to seriously question his latest plan.

  "Stay here?" she all but shrieked.

  The old doctor shrugged and sipped his coffee. "He's got no broken bones, just some bumps and bruises. His … forgetfulness will likely pass in a day or two."

  She tapped her fingernails against the pale green Formica table top. "Have you ever had an amnesia patient?"

  "Oh, sure," the doctor replied with a casualness that had her widening her eyes. "I had a few after the war. Then there was old George Hayden," he chuckled. "Remember him, Gertie?"

  She nodded her head and chuckled right along with the doc.

  "He fell head first out of a tractor and woke up thinking he was a bronco rider. But he got his memory back after a few weeks. Most of them do."

  "But not all?"

  "Don't fuss, honey." Dr. Greenfield patted her hand. "Time is the best healer. Time, bed rest, good food, and fresh air. He can't do better than stay right here."

  "But he's part of that motorcycle gang. Shouldn't they be looking after him?"

  "Are you going to waltz on down there and return him? Explain how he fell on the straight road outside your property and now he doesn't know who he is?" The doctor's faded blue eyes shifted from her to Gertie and back again. He hadn't asked for the particulars of the accident, but it was obvious he had some suspicions.

  Nell chewed her lip, knowing she couldn't send the injured man to a bunch of bikers for TLC. Not when she knew how he'd been hurt. She shook her head.

  "My guess is, he'll be up and around in a few days and anxious to be on his way."

  There was one item that rankled. "But he thinks I'm his girlfriend."

  The old man nodded, a twinkle lurking. "Best to let him go on thinking it. Like we did with old George and the rodeo. For some reason, you're familiar to him. It's something for his mind to hang on to while it's healing."

  "But … but…" She was familiar to the biker because he'd woken with the assumption they were getting their rocks off out among the string beans when all she'd been doing was saving his miserable life.

  "You don't have to worry about somebody else getting jealous do you?"

  "That's not the point." But it was. In fact, that was why she was here in the first place. After breaking up with Peter, she'd pulled the plug on her old lifestyle, quitting her job and getting right out of Los Angeles. She'd run home to Gertie to lick her wounds and plan her future. She needed a calm, quiet routine. A chance to think about her life and what she wanted to do next. Having an amnesiac criminal in the house didn't seem all that conducive to peace and quiet.

  She sighed and sipped coffee. But what, really, were her options? She and Gertie couldn't afford hospital treatment and the doctor was right. They couldn't simply dump the guy back in the arms of his gang members without an explanation.

  A dull headache throbbed behind her eyeballs. "All right," she said. "But if he starts pawing me he'll be dead again, real quick."

  * * *

  He woke with a groan, certain the jackhammer in his head had hauled him from sleep. Instinctively, he tried to put a hand to his head and then winced again at the pain in his arm. What the hell?

  Slowly it came back to him. Not that there was a lot of it to come back. He recalled this room, the green-eyed hottie, and that he'd been tormented by nightmares, none of which made a damn bit of sense. The part that he hadn't dreamt was the fact that he didn't know who, what, or where he was, which frustrated him as much as his pounding head and aching body.

  Then his sexy angel entered the room carrying a tray of things that smelled good and his day perked up. At least she was real, a connection to the identity and past that eluded him.

  "Good morning," she said with a searching look.

  He answered the unspoken question at once. "I can't even remember my own name."

  She smiled lightly, but the furrow didn't disappear from between her eyes. "It's Wes."

  "Wes." He digested that, rolled it around and decided it felt right. "And you're…?"

  For some reason she looked as though she didn't want to tell him. Since his only memories were of the feel of her body pressed intimately against his and the taste of her on his tongue, he found her hesitation amusing. "Did we have a fight or something?"

 
"No. We didn't fight. My name's Nell. I was hoping you'd have your memory back this morning."

  "You and me both." He couldn't rid himself of the notion that there was something important he needed to do. Something urgent, but what it was, he hadn't a clue.

  He hauled himself up to sitting, trying not to cry like a baby as aches and pains stabbed him, and she settled the fragrant tray over his lap. Steaming coffee, a pitcher of cream, a sugar pot, a glass of orange juice so pulpy it had to be fresh squeezed, and a bowl of oatmeal.

  Oatmeal? Beside that was a small plate with a couple of white pills. He took a life-restoring slug of coffee and picked up the pills, raising his brows as he did so. "Painkillers. Doc left them for you."

  With a silent thanks to the doc he popped them in his mouth and washed them down with hot coffee. Then he glanced at the rest of the tray and back at her. "What are you trying to pull?"

  "Me?" She started and looked guilty as hell.

  "I may not know my name, but I know for damn sure that I hate oatmeal."

  "Eat it. It's good for you," she said and started backing out of the room.

  "I'll eat it on one condition."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. "What?"

  "Stay and talk to me."

  She didn't move for a second, then eyed the tray. "You have to drink the orange juice, too."

  "Every drop," he promised. She headed for the wicker chair in the corner but he wasn't having that. "Uh-uh. Sit on the bed."

  It seemed she struggled with herself, then came and perched down by the foot rail. They must have had a humdinger of a fight, he decided. "Did I drive off mad at you? Is that how I got in the accident?"

  She blushed and wouldn't meet his eye. "Not exactly. You were driving too fast, that's all."

  "I looked out the window. That road's straighter than the path to hell. Doesn't look like it's rained or snowed recently either," he said, thinking that was the only possible way he could have lost control unless he'd been driving stupid because he'd had a fight with his girl.

  Still, she didn't say a word, simply plucked at the bedspread with delicate, manicured fingers.

  Time ticked by and he felt as though he'd gone back in time watching her, so prim in the old-fashioned surroundings. "I'm sorry," he said gruffly.