Roan by Jennifer Blake Page B

that. Not yet.
    There was another possibility. She could explain, then throw herself on Roan Benedict’s mercy. But what if he had none?
    No, she had been right before. She needed time to get on her feet here in Turn-Coupe under the security that thesheriff provided. In a week or so, when she was more able to hold her own, she’d conveniently recover her memory. Surely she could put him off until then?
    â€œSo what’s it to be?” he asked with strained patience. “My way or the hard way?”
    She couldn’t believe he’d risk reopening her wound by using force, but it was impossible to be sure. In any case, she had never been fingerprinted so no record of her identity should show up on computer. Her reluctance was instinctive rather than reasoned, something to do with the connection between fingerprints and Harrell’s betrayal, she thought. It couldn’t hurt anything, not really.
    With a lift of her chin, she said, “Just get on with it.”
    He nodded, and moved his kit closer. At least he had the tact to keep his triumph to himself.
    When he reached for the wrist of her good hand, the heat of his touch startled her. She resisted for a second, then surrendered to his control as he covered the back of her hand with his own and isolated her forefinger.
    â€œThat’s it,” he said quietly. “Don’t try to help, just let me do it all.”
    It seemed a good plan. His grasp was sure, but gentle, and he avoided the plastic tubing of her IV solutions. She was aware of his palm pressed to the thin skin across the backs of her knuckles. Where their wrists came together, she thought she could feel the steady throb of his pulse and wondered if he could feel hers.
    He was so close as he tried for the proper angle to place her finger on the inking pad that his elbow brushed the curve of her breast under her hospital gown. She focused her gaze on the musculature of his arm with its crisp coating of golden hair, letting it slide across the shirt pulled taut across his back and up to where deep, sun-burnishedwaves sculpted the back of his head and curled above his shirt collar.
    She felt feverish, as if a flush were burning its way to her hairline. She shifted a little on the mattress, then dragged her gaze back down to where he was rolling her finger against the card that lay ready.
    He turned his head to send her a quick glance. “You all right?”
    â€œI…my head is beginning to hurt again.”
    â€œI’ll only be a minute.”
    She didn’t reply, but kept her gaze on what he was doing as he chose another finger and pressed it to the pad.
    â€œInteresting that you remember the names you gave those two bozos with you when you can’t think of your own,” he commented without emphasis.
    â€œThe brain is strange like that, I suppose.”
    â€œZits was one of them, wasn’t It? I suppose for obvious reasons?”
    She agreed. “The other had big ears like one of the little guys in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. He did the driving, so I mostly saw the back of his head.”
    It had been a protective measure, those names, she thought now, a way to make the pair seem less frightening. They’d been discussing what to do with her at the time, as though she wasn’t a person to them but only a thing. Big Ears had wanted to buy a chain saw and cut her up the way he’d seen in some gruesome TV show. Zits, the brains of the two, had appeared to have other plans. Or other instructions.
    â€œThey never called each other by name?” Roan Benedict spoke over his shoulder, his manner offhand.
    Tory hesitated. She didn’t like the idea of those two getting off scot-free, even if it did protect her agenda. Finally,she said, “I seem to remember Big Ears calling Zits ‘Chris’ once, but it’s all a little…”
    â€œFuzzy. I know,” he supplied with heavy irony. “Zits would be the one with the