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A blur of white moved in his peripheral vision—someone trying to step over him in the narrow space. On autopilot, after months of running on his survival instinct he reached out, grasping bare flesh. The skin was butter-soft, his brain registered, and his thoughts were confused between defence and attack. He tightened his grip but did not pull, straining his eyes upwards in the darkness.
His hesitation was all his opponent needed to turn the tables.
Within seconds he found himself pinned to the floor, with something cold and metal pressed tight against his sternum. A familiar lavender scent drifted to his nostrils and his eyes finally adjusted enough for him to make out a cloud of familiar red curls.
‘Nora...’ he breathed, shocked to feel his body instantly react to the sight of the wide-open split of the white nightgown she wore. ‘It’s okay. I’m—’
‘I’ve got a high-voltage electronic Taser here, so I wouldn’t try to move.’ She cut him off, pressing her knee down harder onto his shoulder to prove her point. ‘I’ve already pressed the panic button, so don’t try anything.’
‘Listen, I’m not—’
‘How did he find out I was here?’ she gritted out, and there was a slight tremor in her voice even as she kept her aim firmly at the base of his throat.
Duarte froze, taking in the confidence in her pose, the steel in her voice. He had to admit he was both impressed by such obvious skill and worried about where she’d honed it. Why it might have been a necessity.
Suddenly, her hurry to leave the hospital took on a much darker tone...
‘I don’t know who he is.’ He spoke slowly, trying not to wince at the pressure of her knee on his injured shoulder. ‘I’m here because I own this house.’
She froze, easing up on her pressure with a single jerky movement. Her voice was a shocked whisper. ‘Duarte...?’
‘In the flesh.’
She scrambled to her feet and Duarte tried but failed to avert his gaze from another tantalising glimpse of those long bare legs. The lights were turned on suddenly, momentarily blinding him as he pulled himself up to a seated position. His left arm hung limply at his side, and a familiar burning pain was travelling from his neck to the top of his shoulder blade before disappearing into numbness.
Partially dislocated, he’d bet. After months of gruelling physiotherapy sessions, he recognised the symptoms of his recurring injury.
‘I’m so sorry... I thought you were someone else.’ She stood on the opposite side of the kitchen, arms folded across her chest. ‘A burglar.’
‘Do you routinely confront dangerous intruders and pin them down for questioning?’ he drawled, moving to stand up.
The pain in his shoulder intensified, taking his breath for a moment and putting stars in his vision. He sat back against the glass door with a growl.
‘You’re covered in blood!’ She moved towards him, her face a mask of shock and concern. ‘What on earth...?’
‘Not from you.’ He breathed deeply against the lancing pain. ‘I was in a fight.’
His first instinct was to brush off her concerns—male pride winning out over his need for assistance. His shoulder was the last stubborn remnant of his injuries, along with the memory loss. There was an angry, bitter part of him that would rather languish in agony than admit any further weakness. But then Nora leaned down, gently placing one hand on his arm, and his mind seemed to go blank.
‘But this is from me.’ She spoke softly, the flash of her silver eyes briefly meeting his own. ‘Is it your shoulder or your arm?’
‘Shoulder. It wasn’t entirely your fault.’
He felt the warmth of her skin through the material of his shirt as she lifted the sleeve. The scent of lavender grew stronger.
Duarte closed his eyes, clearing his throat. ‘It’s fine. It’s an old injury.’
She snatched her hand back as though burned and he tried not to mourn the loss of contact.
With a deep inward breath, he pinned his arm to his chest as he slowly moved to stand up. ‘Besides, I was lucky you were far too busy threatening me and asking questions to do any real damage.’
The slim black device in her hand caught his eye; he could now see it was not a Taser at all but a digital monitor. The small screen showed an image of a sleeping infant. A hollow laugh escaped his lips.
Nora frowned, realising he’d noticed her deception. ‘I... I had to think on my feet.’
‘You’re quite practised in that, it would seem.’
Her posture changed at his comment, her shoulders straightening and her lips pressing into
