LITMIR.BIZ

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face, guileless smile, and calm green eyes. He noticed a small scar, pale and almost invisible, cutting through one brow. “You’re a psychic? I thought all that stuff was a scam.”

      Her eyes widened.

      Damn, he’d probably blown it. The woman had rescued him, taken him into her home, and he’d insulted her. “I’m sorry.”

      She held up a hand. “It’s okay. I’m used to skeptics. We all are.”

      “‘We’?”.

      “Are you familiar with Lost Creek? This town is a vortex site.”

      “A vor—what?”

      “A vortex site.” Lori—no, Serenity, he reminded himself—grew animated, waving her hands in the air. “See, the Native Americans used to gather here. You can see their ancient trails in the arroyos. This place is full of mystical energy.” She leaned toward him over the table, her gaze intense. “Can’t you feel it?”

      Only to humor her, he closed his eyes and tried. His headache throbbed as though a road repair crew with twenty jackhammers had moved into his skull.

      He sensed the dampness of condensation on the sides of the cool glass of iced tea in his hand. He opened his eyes and took a swallow. Cold and tasty, the tea had a flavor he couldn’t define. “Hey, this is great. What’s in it?”

      “It’s a blend of my own. Sage is a general tonic. I also put in chamomile, to ease your pain, and valerian to promote healing and rest. It’s very healthful, much better for you than that nasty caffeinated stuff.”

      “Well, thanks, Serenity.” He sipped some more, then set the glass on the table. “I’d love to stay here and shoot the breeze, but I s’pose I should be on my way. Do you know where the police department or the sheriff’s office is in this town?”

      “Oh, uh, er, it’s the weekend.” Serenity ran a hand through her short red hair, tousling it into untidy spikes. “Nobody’s there right now.”

      “No one? No one’s in authority here?”

      “Lost Creek is a very small town. There are fewer than three hundred permanent residents. We don’t have full-time law enforcement,” she explained. “There’s no crime.”

      “It sounds as though I’ve landed in Paradise.” With effort, he stood, managing to smile at her. “But I can’t take advantage of your hospitality any longer, ma’am.”

      “Of course you can.”

      “What?” Already he’d discovered that Serenity made the most surprising statements. Heck, he wanted to stay just to hear her talk about the vortex thing. He’d bet that every crystal in the living room had its own story.

      “I mean, I’m the only link you have with your past, huh? I’d feel bad if you were to leave with no money, nowhere to go and no idea of who you are, with that bump on your head and—and all.”

      He sat, relieved. Dog-tired, hungry, and dirty, he really hadn’t wanted to go anywhere. Despite the healing tea, his head hurt so much that he couldn’t move or speak without waves of pain reverberating through his brain.

      She’d offered, and he found that he wouldn’t mind imposing on pretty Serenity Clare for a while longer. “Maybe you’re right.”

      “If you left, where would you go?” Serenity asked.

      “I don’t know.” He touched the bump on his head. It seemed to have gone down a tad, but not much. Still hurt like the dickens.

      “You’d better stay here.” She sounded definite. “I’ll call a friend of mine. Mairen is an expert at psycho-spiritual integration. And that’s got to be the solution.”

      “What?” This woman said the damnedest things. Maybe he was a reporter, or a scout for one of them TV talk shows, and he’d been sent to interview Serenity Clare.

      “The blow to your head caused a psycho-spiritual rift. That’s why you can’t remember anything. Heal the rift and your memory returns.” She patted his hand.

      The slight touch of Serenity’s delicate fingers made his flesh ripple and heat. He squelched his desire along with his growing interest in her, hoping her talents of tarot reading and crystal ball gazing didn’t extend to clairvoyance. Otherwise, she’d throw him out of her house.

      He wanted to stay. This sexy, screwball little sorceress was the only link to his identity.

      “How long has it been since you ate?” Standing, she went to the refrigerator.

      “I don’t know.”

      “I have some nice tofu lasagna from last night, if you don’t mind leftovers.” She took a rectangular pan from the fridge and put it on the tiled counter.

      “I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me.” He realized he wasn’t merely hungry, but famished. He’d never heard of tofu lasagna, but he wasn’t in a position to be picky. The clock above her microwave indicated four-thirty. He guessed he hadn’t eaten since the day before, possibly longer.

      Serenity cut two chunks of food from the pan, her knife scraping on the metal bottom. She placed each portion on a plate. After covering them with waxed paper, she put them in the microwave and punched some buttons.

      The machine hummed. “So you have some modern conveniences,” he said.

      She smiled. “Did you suppose I used kerosene lamps and cooked food over an open fire?”

      “I can’t see a TV or a radio.”

      “I live simply, not stupidly. With electricity, I have the modern conveniences I choose. I don’t want mass media.” She refilled his glass with tea. “The outside world is…disturbing to my meditations.”

      “What do you mean?”

      Serenity shrugged. “The news seems to consist of foreign wars and local crime. TV and movies are full of car crashes and shootings. Why distress myself with such violence?” Forks and napkins in hand, Serenity set the table.

      “Do you get a newspaper?” The enticing aromas of oregano and garlic began to fill the kitchen. His mouth watered.

      Amnesia sure was crazy. He remembered that he liked lasagna but didn’t know his own name. Crazy.

      “Not a daily. There’s a weekly paper that covers local matters. That’s enough for me.” The microwave buzzed. She took out the food. “Lost Creek is my little world.” She removed the wrap from the plates, releasing a fragrant, steamy cloud.

      He sniffed appreciatively. “Most people have broader interests, don’t they?”

      Serenity handed him his meal, then sat opposite him. “Do they?” Her eyes held a quizzical gleam.

      He dug into the tofu lasagna. The piping-hot square of pasta, oozing spicy-smelling red sauce, didn’t look unusual. But how would he know? He blew on his bite before hesitantly placing it on his tongue. It tasted as good as it smelled, maybe better. He chewed and swallowed, then said, “Lordy, but this is good. Whatever else you might be, you’re one heck of a good cook.”

      “Thank you.”

      Why did Serenity go all red? “You act as though nobody ever complimented your cooking.”

      Her gaze dropped to her plate. “I’m surprised you appreciate natural food. Few men do.” Serenity toyed with her fork before eating a bite.

      “What’s so natural about it?”

      “The pasta is whole wheat and the sauce is made from organic tomatoes and herbs. Instead of meat, I used crumbled tofu.”

      “Tastes like normal lasagna, maybe a little better than most.” He took another hearty, yummy mouthful.

      “That’s what’s great about tofu.” Serenity’s eyes sparkled. She waved her

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