LITMIR.BIZ

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woman was moving around the room. She wore a loose white dress, the gauzy fabric fluttering around her bare legs. She paused at the small square window, her brow creasing as she gazed out. Her hair was long and straight, falling almost to her waist.

      For a moment he wondered if she was an angel. For a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. Not that he deserved to go to heaven. Strange thought, but true. He struggled to rise but immediately felt nauseous.

      Biting back a curse, he slowly sank back against the pillow, realizing he wasn’t dead—or at least, he wasn’t in heaven. He couldn’t be, not if he hurt this much.

      His muffled groan must have reached the angel girl, as she turned in her white dress, the delicate fabric floating behind her as she moved toward him, so young, so beautiful he was certain she wasn’t real.

      Perhaps he was feverish. Perhaps he was hallucinating, because as she knelt next to him, the sun’s rays seemed to narrow and cast a glow around her, highlighting her long golden-brown hair, her smooth brow, and the high, elegant cheekbones above her full lips.

      Maybe hell was filled with angelic beauties.

      * * *

      He was finally coming to. Josephine moved forward, crouching at his side. “Hello,” she said in English, before it struck her that it was unlikely English was his native language. Most of the conversation she’d heard on the beach had been French, while others had spoken Italian. “How are you?” she asked in French.

      He blinked and struggled to focus, his eyes a brilliant blue, contrasting with his long, dense black lashes.

      She tried Italian next. “How do you feel?”

      His brow tightened. He grimaced, responding in Italian. “Tu chei sei?” Who are you?

      “Josephine,” she answered, as he slowly reached up to touch his head, where a crust had formed on his cut. “Careful,” she added in Italian. “You’ve been injured. It’s finally stopped bleeding.”

      “What happened?”

      “You went over the side of your yacht.”

      “A yacht?” he repeated in Italian.

      “Yes. You were with friends.”

      “Dove sono?” he murmured, his voice a deep rasp. Where am I?

      “Khronos. A small island off Anafi,” she answered.

      “I don’t know it.”

      “Anafi is very small. No one knows Anafi, and Khronos is even smaller. It’s privately held, a research site for the International Volcanic Research Foundation—” She broke off as she realized he wasn’t listening, or at least, he wasn’t processing what she was saying, his features tight with pain. “Do you hurt right now?”

      He nodded once. “My head,” he gritted.

      She reached out to place a palm against his brow. He was cooler now, thank goodness. “You were running a fever last night, but I think it’s gone now.” She drew her hand back, studying him. “I’d like to see if you can manage some water, and if you can, then we’ll try some soup—”

      “I’m not hungry. I just want something for the pain.”

      “I have tablets that should help with the headache, but I think you should eat first. Otherwise I’m worried it’ll upset your stomach.”

      He looked at her as if he didn’t understand, or perhaps he didn’t believe her, because his blue eyes were narrowing and his mouth firmed, emphasizing his strong jaw, now shadowed with a dark stubble.

      He’d been striking from afar, but up close he was absolutely devastating, his black hair and brows such a contrast to his startlingly blue eyes. His features were mature and chiseled. Faint creases fanned from his eyes.

      As his gaze met hers and held, her pulse jumped. “It’s been almost a full day since I pulled you out of the sea—”

      “How?” he interrupted.

      “How?” she repeated.

      “How did I get here?”

      “Your boat. Your yacht—”

      “I don’t understand this yacht.” The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. He struggled into a sitting position, wincing and cursing under his breath. His hand lifted to his temple, where the wound was beginning to bleed again. “When was I on one?”

      “The past few days. Probably the past week or more.” She sat back on her haunches, studying him. “Do you not remember?”

      He shook his head.

      “What do you remember?”

      He thought for a moment, and then his broad, sun-bronzed shoulders shifted irritably, impatiently. “Nothing.” His voice was hard, his diction crisp. Authority and tension crackled around him.

      Her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “You don’t remember who you are? Your name? Your age?”

      “No. But I do know I need to find a bathroom. Can you show me the way?”

      * * *

      He had questions for her later, many questions, and Josephine fought to hide her anxiety over his complete loss of memory. She prepared them a simple dinner, talking to him as she plated the grilled vegetables and lemon-garlic chicken. “I think you must be Italian,” she said, carrying the plates to the small rustic table in the center of the room. The table divided the room, creating the illusion of two spaces, the sitting area and then the kitchen. “It was the first language you responded to.”

      “I don’t feel Italian.” He grimaced. “Although I’m not sure what that even means. Can a person feel their nationality?”

      “I don’t know,” she answered, sitting down across from him. “But I suppose if I woke up somewhere else I’d be puzzled by the different cultural norms.”

      “Tell me about the people I was with.”

      “They were all about your age. Although some of the girls seemed younger. They all looked...polished. Affluent.” She hesitated. “Privileged.”

      He said nothing.

      “Everyone seemed to be having a good time,” she added. “Except for you.”

      He glanced at her swiftly, gaze narrowing.

      “I don’t know if you were bored, or troubled by something,” she added, “but you tended to be off on your own more than the others. And they gave you your space, which made me think you were perhaps the leader.”

      “The leader?” he repeated mockingly. “The leader of what? A band of thieves? Pirates? Schoolboys on holiday?”

      “You don’t need to be rude,” she said slowly, starting to rise, wanting to move away, but he reached out and caught her, his fingers circling her narrow wrist, holding her in place.

      “Don’t go.”

      She looked down to where his hand wrapped her wrist, his skin so very warm against hers. She suppressed a shudder, feeling undone. She was exhausted from watching over him, exhausted from worrying. It had been a long night and day, and now it was night again and she felt stretched to the breaking point. “I’m just trying to help you,” she said quietly, tugging free.

      He released her. “I’m sorry.” His deep voice dropped. “Please sit. Stay.”

      His words were kind, but his tone was commanding. Clearly he was accustomed to being obeyed.

      Her brow furrowed. She didn’t want to create friction, and so she slowly sat back down and picked up her fork, but she felt too fatigued to actually eat.

      Silence stretched. She could feel him watching her. His scrutiny wasn’t making things easier, and she knew

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