Tell Me Your Secrets...

The good news was I was still wearing the jeans, plain T-shirt and sneakers that I’d worn for my ride out to the McKenzie estate. The bad news was that I was soaked to the bone by the time I’d taken three steps and my new “Cameron” hairdo was destroyed. Pushing the sodden mess out of my eyes, I stretched my hands out in front of me like a sleepwalker. The car was too far away to seek shelter there, so I stumbled toward the darker shape of what had to be one of the boulders I’d skirted earlier. Once I reached it, I moved around to the far side and let it block the wind and at least some of the rain. Then I hunkered down to wait out the storm.

I wasn’t sure how long I squatted at the side of the boulder—probably not longer than five or ten minutes. The storm ended as quickly as it had begun. The rain stopped first, and gradually the sun began to peek through clouds that were quickly blowing away. As I rose to my feet, I could still hear thunder grumbling in the distance. I’d made my way around the boulder and back onto the path before it finally registered in my mind that the rhythmic pounding I was listening to wasn’t just thunder. It was also hoofbeats.

Realization came at the same instant that horse and rider shot around a curve in the path less than fifty yards from where I was standing. My heart lodged in my throat, my body froze, and my imagination took flight. Burned into my mind was the image of horse and man, all muscle and speed, moving in perfect unity—the mythic centaur in the flesh. In that instant, I wasn’t sure which animal was more magnificent—man or beast.

Luckily, the man had quick reflexes. He reined the horse in sharply. The animal reared, protesting loudly. It might have been the sound of the horse’s distress or perhaps it was the sight of those powerful hooves that jolted me free of the trance I’d been in, but I finally leaped toward the side of the path. I landed hard on the uneven ground, felt my ankle twist and give out just before I crashed into the boulder.

Behind me I heard the struggle between horse and rider, the horse neighing, a deep male voice talking in a soothing tone. Turning, I saw the horse rear again, but the man’s hands remained steady on the rope, and he continued to talk in a firm tone.

“Easy, Saturn. Easy, boy.”

I suddenly realized that this must be the same man I’d seen take the horse out of the trailer and ride him bareback across the fields. Not only had he kept control of the stallion and saved me from injury, he’d also remained seated. Admiration streamed through me. I had some idea of the skill it was taking to calm the frightened horse.

I was sitting in the shade of the boulder, but the horse and the man were bathed now in sunlight and I was able to take in more details. The man had slid from the horse and stood with his back toward me, talking to the horse and keeping a firm grip on the tether. He and the animal had a lot in common. Both were large and dark and strong—perfectly matched in the struggle that was going on. The man’s hair curled around the nape of his neck. He was broad in the shoulders, lean in the hips, and long in the legs. With his jeans and chambray shirt plastered to him like a second skin, I could see the movement of each sculpted muscle as he quieted the horse with patient skill. The horse, still frightened, reared again and pawed the air. The stallion was larger, stronger. But the battle wouldn’t be decided on size alone. It would come down to who had the stronger will.

The man let out the rope, then drew it in again, each time getting closer to the horse. The closer he drew, the calmer the horse became. It was like watching a slow, steady dance of seduction. Admiration and something else I was much less familiar with moved through me and settled in a hot little pool in my center. I had the strangest sensation that I was melting. Then his hands were on the horse, moving gently and firmly over those muscles, while he continued to talk, to croon almost. I had no idea how long I sat there in the shadow of the boulder watching man and horse.

And imagining what it would feel like to have those hands on me.

“Are you all right?” His focus was still on the horse, and since he asked the question in the same tone he’d been using to quiet the animal, it took me a moment to realize that he was speaking to me.

“Yes.” My voice was so breathless I didn’t recognize it. “I’m fine.” To prove it, I dug my fingers into a crevice in the boulder and pulled myself to my feet. I’d totally forgotten about my ankle, and when I put my full weight on it, I sat right back down with a little squeal.

He turned toward me then. “You’re hurt. Did one of his hooves…” His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. “Cameron? I didn’t recognize you at first.”

Of course he hadn’t. I could understand that. I hadn’t recognized him, either. He’d been intent on calming the horse, and I’d been equally intent on him. It was only now as he quickly tethered the horse and strode toward me that I realized this was Sloan Campbell, my sister Cameron’s fiancé.

“You could have been killed.”

The anger in his voice was clear—even though it was tightly leashed. And the simple truth of his statement had a chill moving up my spine. He was no less intimidating than when he’d been thundering toward me on the top of the horse. There he’d looked mythical. Now he looked tough, arrogant and furious. He’d evidently spent all of his patience on Saturn.

Why had it taken me so long to realize who he was? I’d certainly spent enough time studying his photos. Perhaps it was because the magnetism I’d sensed in the pictures was even more potent in real life.

“How badly are you hurt?” His tone was sharp with accusation.

“I’m not hurt. The horse didn’t touch me. I just twisted my ankle. I—”

He dropped to his knees and focused his attention on my ankle.

“It’s swollen,” he said. His fingers were as gentle as they’d been on the horse as they moved the wet jeans up my legs. While he probed my ankle, I found myself staring at his hands—the long fingers, the wide palms—and I tried to ignore the warmth that was unfurling in little ribbons up my leg. Other men had touched me, some casually, others intimately, but I’d never felt this kind of intensity before.

Adrenaline. I’d nearly been run down by the horse. That’s why I was reacting this way.

“I don’t think it’s broken.” I heard relief in his tone. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He glanced up at me then.

“No. You handled the horse beautifully. I’m—” Every other word I intended to say slipped out of my mind as I met his penetrating gaze. His eyes…they were dark gray, the color of the kind of fog that could swallow you up and make you lose all sense of direction. I suddenly felt as though I were losing mine.

Then as if he’d satisfied himself that I was all right, he grabbed my shoulders and gave me a quick shake. “Where the hell have you been for the past five weeks?”

SLOAN TOOK A DEEP BREATH and clamped down hard on the all-too-familiar emotions swirling through him. Anger, annoyance, relief. Those were the standard feelings that Cameron had been able to pull out of him ever since they’d been kids and his job had frequently been to get her out of scrapes.

But not this time. Five weeks ago when she’d first run off, he’d understood her need to get away and think. The truth was, he’d needed some time himself. But as the weeks had rolled by, understanding had turned into annoyance and finally into anger.

“Five weeks is a long time. Couldn’t you have at least called your father to let him know you were safe?”

“I couldn’t. I—”

“Couldn’t? Or maybe you expected me to come running after you and drag you back here so that you could save face?”

“Save face?”

He barely kept himself from shaking her again. In spite of the fact that James McKenzie had claimed he was confident that Cameron would return when she’d had time to think everything through, the old man had been worried. Hell, he’d begun to worry himself—and now she’d returned, looking so damned innocent. It had been years since Cameron had tried to use that innocent look on him.

That realization was what had him narrowing his eyes and studying her more carefully. There was something about her…something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Her eyes were that same brilliant shade of green, but they seemed different. Darker. And there was something in them right now. Something that he’d never seen before. Arousal?

The sudden response in his gut was also new. He tightened his grip on her arms. “What the hell kind of game are you playing?”

4

HE THOUGHT I was playing a game? I struggled to get my mind around what he’d just said. But as long as I was looking into Sloan Campbell’s eyes, my brain felt numb. My body, on the other hand, was far from numb. My senses were operating at full power. Sloan was only touching my shoulders, yet I could feel the pressure of each one of his fingers—hot like a brand on my skin. He was so close that I could catch the scent of rain and horse, so close that I could feel his breath on my lips. So close that if I leaned forward just a bit, I could taste him.

Don’t move, I told myself. Don’t move. But I was shocked at how hard it was not to.

“Well?” He prodded me with another little shake, and it helped.

“I’m sorry.” My voice and my mouth were finally working. Now it was up to my brain. And he was right. I was playing a game, so I’d better make my first move. “I don’t remember being Cameron. I am. I must be, but I just don’t remember.”

“Come again.” He dropped his hands then, but I could feel those eyes boring into me while I told him my story—the mugging, the fact that my purse had never been recovered so there’d been no way for the police to identify me. When I told him about waking up in the hospital and not having any idea who I was, I had the distinct impression that he could see right into me, that he knew what I was thinking. A little tendril of fear worked its way up my spine. Sloan Campbell might have a gentle side, but I sensed that this was a man who could be hard when he wanted to be.

“You’re saying that you don’t remember anything before you were mugged?”

His tone was skeptical, but I’d expected that. I could handle it. After all, how many people encountered a person who’d lost their memory in real life? Mostly, it occurred as a plot device in movies, romance novels, or soap operas. “My doctor assures me it’s temporary.”

“If you don’t remember who you are, how did you get here?”

That explanation I had down pat. I told him how I’d hired Rossi Investigations to find out who I was. “It took them a while because no one ever filed a missing persons report.”

“We assumed you’d come back after you’d sorted things out.” His tone was neutral. I couldn’t tell if he was buying the memory loss or not. I wasn’t an actress. I just wrote story lines for professionals who could bring them to life.

Then he was quiet for so long that nerves knotted in my stomach. To fill the void, I said, “I drove one of the SUV’s up here to see if getting a bird’s-eye view of the ranch would stir up some memories.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

“Do I look familiar to you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t remember you, but I recognize you from the newspaper clippings the P.I.’s gave me. You’re Sloan Campbell, Cameron’s—my fiancé.”