Unforgettable Read Free Page B

she had noticed earlier, a canteen and a flashlight.
    Her head hurt so much, her heart was racing so fast that she couldn’t concentrate, yet she knew he didn’t like her. Dozens of thoughts whirled through her mind like dervishes. Who was he? Why didn’t he like her?
    He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, lifting the midnight black hair that rippled across his brow. “How are you feeling?”
    The voice was rich and deep, yet totally devoid of emotion, scarier somehow than if he’d shouted. She managed to croak out a few words between parched li ps. “ Fine. A little headache, that’s all.”
    “You sure?” he asked.
    A subliminal flash of intuition told her that he’d been prepared for something terrible. What had he expected her to do? He controlled his expression, remaining very still, as if unaccustomed to sharing his thoughts with anyone. But his hands gave him away. They were splayed across his bent knees, the fingers digging into his skin even though both kneecaps were scraped raw. His legs had multiple cuts and livid bruises. What on earth had he been doing?
    “I’m fine. Honest.” It was all she could do not to bolt up the rocky hillside, but she didn’t move. Where should she go? Which way would she find help?
    Without another word, he extended his arm, offering her a cup of coffee. She moved closer, walking stiffly like an old lady with crippling arthritis. She accepted the cup and took a sip, conscious of him studying her intently. The warm liquid ran down her throat and hit her stomach. Instantly, the caffeine shot through her veins, giving her a much needed boost.
    She ran her tongue over her dry lips and said, “Thanks.”
    He lowered his hand to pat the dog crouching in the shadows beside him. Until that second she hadn’t noticed the animal, but the coffee seemed to have cleared her head a little. Well, how bad could this man really be? He had a dog and he’d made no move to hurt her. Maybe if they talked a bit, she would remember who he was.
    “Your dog’s a greyhound, isn’t he?”
    “Yeah.”
    Sheesh. He was some conversationalist. She drank more coffee, hoping to rid her brain of the incessant buzz and remember what on earth she was doing here. “If he’s a greyhound, why is he tan?”
    “They come in all colors.”
    “Do you race him?” This was an inane conversation, but she didn’t know what else to say. It seemed idiotic to confess she’d forgotten who he was. Talking—or the coffee—had calmed her nerves a bit. Any second she’d remember what she was doing out here.
    “Nope. Dodger’s a hunter.”
    There was something about the way he shifted on the rock, folding his bare arms across his chest and flexing the muscles visible beneath the tank top that frightened her. Or maybe it was the word hunter. There was something lethally quiet about him that seemed unnatural. “What does Dodger hunt?”
    “He’s a search and rescue dog.”
    “Really?” That explained the man’s hiking clothes, as well as the knife and other gadgets hanging from his belt. He must be part of some rescue team. “Someone’s lost?”
    “Nope.” He was studying her as if her brain was the size of a pea. “You were in an accident. How’s your head?”
    “Accident?” She reached back and touched the base of her skull through hair like a bramble bush. Ooow. The huge lump had a small cut on it. No wonder she had the mother of all headaches.
    “Don’t you remember the accident?”
    “No,” she conceded. “What happened?”
    He tilted his head toward the stony outcropping of rock nearby. “You drove off the road.”
    “I did?” she asked as he rose and walked toward her. She resisted the urge to back up, reminding herself that he didn’t mean her any harm.
    “Keep your eye on my finger,” he said.
    Greg moved his index finger toward the tip of her nose. She concentrated on his finger, realizing that his arms were as cut and as bruised as his legs. Had that happened when he