you have no family?"
"None." Their eyes met, then parted. Birds chittered from somewhere in the shade-dappled yard, and the heady scent of nasturtiums drifted in. He thought he never wanted to leave, and wondered if she might be feeling the nesting urge as strongly as he.
The black-haired, clean-shaven man became aware of the smells around him this time much as he'd become aware of the heat once before. With his eyes still closed, he caught the scent of something sweet, like flowers. There was, too, the starchy, agreeable smell of laundry soap in fresh linens. Now and then came the tantalizing aroma of chicken cooking. He opened his eyes and his lashes brushed against some fancy, knotted stitchery on a pillow slip. So… this wasn't a dream. The sweet smell came from a bouquet of orange things over there on a low table near a bay window. The window seat had yellow-flowered cushions that matched the curtains.
He shut his eyes, trying to recall whose bedroom it was. Obviously a woman's, for there were more yellow flowers over the papered walls and a dressing table with hinged mirrors.
He had not moved—nothing more than the opening and closing of his eyelids. His left hand was tingling, it prickled as if no blood ran through it. When he flexed the fingers they closed around a cylinder of metal, and he realized with a shock that he was tied onto a bed.
So that hag was no nightmare! Who else could have tied him up? He was no stranger to caution.
Stealthily he tested the bindings to see if he could break them. But they were tight on both hand and foot.
He lifted his lids to a brown skirt, smack in front of him, standing beside the bed. He assessed it warily, wondering if he should use his right hand to knock her off her feet with one surprise punch in the gut. He let his eyelids droop shut again, pretending to go back under so he could get a look at her face through a veil of near-closed lashes.
But he couldn't tell much. She had both hands clasped over her face, forming a steeple above her nose as if she was in joy, distress, or praying. From what he could tell, he'd never laid eyes on her before. There wasn't much to her, and from the stark hairdo she wore he knew she was no saloon girl. Her long sleeves and high collar were no dance hall getup either. At last, surmising he was safe from her, he opened his eyes fully.
Immediately she withdrew her hands and leaned close to lay one—ah, so cool—along his cheek.
She didn't smell like a saloon girl either.
"Your name… tell me your name," she said with a note of intense appeal.
He wondered why the hell she wouldn't know his name if she was supposed to, so he didn't say a thing.
"Please," she implored again. "Please, just tell me your name."
But suddenly he writhed, twisted at his bindings, and looked frantically around the room in search of something.
"My camera!" he tried to croak, but his voice was a pathetic, grating thing, and pain assailed him everywhere. At his wild thrashing, she became big-eyed and jumped back a step, her eyes riveted on his lips as he mouthed again, "My camera." The attempt to utter his first words shot a searing pain through his throat. He tried again, but all that came of it was a thick rasp. But she read his lips and that was all she needed to make her suddenly vibrant.
"Cameron," she whispered in disbelief.
He wanted to correct her but couldn't.
"Mike Cameron," she said louder, as if the words were some kind of miracle. "Cameron… just imagine that!" Then she beamed and clasped her hands joyfully before her, saying, "Thank God, Mr. Cameron. I knew you could do it!"
Was she zany or what? She resembled the witch he'd imagined in the bed beside him, only she was neat and clean and easy on the eye. Still, she acted as if she didn't exactly have all her marbles, and he thought maybe he should have punched her one broadside when he'd had the chance, to bring her out of a spell.
She whirled now, facing the bay window, and from behind
"None." Their eyes met, then parted. Birds chittered from somewhere in the shade-dappled yard, and the heady scent of nasturtiums drifted in. He thought he never wanted to leave, and wondered if she might be feeling the nesting urge as strongly as he.
The black-haired, clean-shaven man became aware of the smells around him this time much as he'd become aware of the heat once before. With his eyes still closed, he caught the scent of something sweet, like flowers. There was, too, the starchy, agreeable smell of laundry soap in fresh linens. Now and then came the tantalizing aroma of chicken cooking. He opened his eyes and his lashes brushed against some fancy, knotted stitchery on a pillow slip. So… this wasn't a dream. The sweet smell came from a bouquet of orange things over there on a low table near a bay window. The window seat had yellow-flowered cushions that matched the curtains.
He shut his eyes, trying to recall whose bedroom it was. Obviously a woman's, for there were more yellow flowers over the papered walls and a dressing table with hinged mirrors.
He had not moved—nothing more than the opening and closing of his eyelids. His left hand was tingling, it prickled as if no blood ran through it. When he flexed the fingers they closed around a cylinder of metal, and he realized with a shock that he was tied onto a bed.
So that hag was no nightmare! Who else could have tied him up? He was no stranger to caution.
Stealthily he tested the bindings to see if he could break them. But they were tight on both hand and foot.
He lifted his lids to a brown skirt, smack in front of him, standing beside the bed. He assessed it warily, wondering if he should use his right hand to knock her off her feet with one surprise punch in the gut. He let his eyelids droop shut again, pretending to go back under so he could get a look at her face through a veil of near-closed lashes.
But he couldn't tell much. She had both hands clasped over her face, forming a steeple above her nose as if she was in joy, distress, or praying. From what he could tell, he'd never laid eyes on her before. There wasn't much to her, and from the stark hairdo she wore he knew she was no saloon girl. Her long sleeves and high collar were no dance hall getup either. At last, surmising he was safe from her, he opened his eyes fully.
Immediately she withdrew her hands and leaned close to lay one—ah, so cool—along his cheek.
She didn't smell like a saloon girl either.
"Your name… tell me your name," she said with a note of intense appeal.
He wondered why the hell she wouldn't know his name if she was supposed to, so he didn't say a thing.
"Please," she implored again. "Please, just tell me your name."
But suddenly he writhed, twisted at his bindings, and looked frantically around the room in search of something.
"My camera!" he tried to croak, but his voice was a pathetic, grating thing, and pain assailed him everywhere. At his wild thrashing, she became big-eyed and jumped back a step, her eyes riveted on his lips as he mouthed again, "My camera." The attempt to utter his first words shot a searing pain through his throat. He tried again, but all that came of it was a thick rasp. But she read his lips and that was all she needed to make her suddenly vibrant.
"Cameron," she whispered in disbelief.
He wanted to correct her but couldn't.
"Mike Cameron," she said louder, as if the words were some kind of miracle. "Cameron… just imagine that!" Then she beamed and clasped her hands joyfully before her, saying, "Thank God, Mr. Cameron. I knew you could do it!"
Was she zany or what? She resembled the witch he'd imagined in the bed beside him, only she was neat and clean and easy on the eye. Still, she acted as if she didn't exactly have all her marbles, and he thought maybe he should have punched her one broadside when he'd had the chance, to bring her out of a spell.
She whirled now, facing the bay window, and from behind
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