Page 80 of Modern Romance Collection May 2024 Books 1-4

The words were said plainly, factually. It didn’t mask the hurt lingering in her voice, the shade of embarrassment.

Before he could ask for details, she spoke.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Waking up in my hotel room yesterday afternoon.”

“Blunt force trauma to the base of your skull.” She walked around him and looked in his eyes. “Pupils appear normal. Any vomiting, dizziness?”

“No. Some nausea when I first awoke, but it disappeared quick enough.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“Doctor?”

Her eyes widened before narrowing to tiny slits as she planted her fists on her hips. The gesture made her look like an adorably pissed-off fairy.

“You did go to a hospital, didn’t you?”

An ache started to build in his temples as he straightened to his full height. Instead of stepping back or showing any sign of hesitancy, she merely lifted her chin and met his gaze head-on.

Oh, yes. He liked this woman very much.

“A hospital would have taken time. I was given your name and address and came straight here?”

She frowned. “Got my name from who?”

He held up his hand.

“Before I answer any more questions, tell me...”

He paused. Physically steeled himself for whatever response he was about to receive.

“Who am I?”

One hand came up, her fingers rubbing at her forehead. She muttered under her breath in a language he knew—Portuguese—and then looked up at him.

“Sit down. Please,” she added huffily when he arched a brow at her command. “I’ll be right back.”

He moved to the table and chairs set at the far end of the porch that ran the length of the cottage. The chair let out a protesting groan as he sat. Given the hints of rust poorly disguised by a thin layer of white paint, it was a miracle the chair had lasted as long as it had.

Esme appeared a moment later, clad in the wet shirt that clung to her body and a pair of shorts, two steaming mugs in her hands. She set one in front of him as she sat in the chair across from him.

“Spiced coffee.”

Cinnamon and a touch of sweetness swirled on his tongue as he took a long drink. The hot liquid warmed his throat, gave himself something tangible to focus on.

“Thank you.” He set his cup down. “John Adamos isn’t my real name, is it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It doesn’t feel like my name. There’s no recognition, no connection.”

“No. It’s not your real name.” Her gaze flicked down to her own cup, then back up to his. A veil had dropped over her eyes. The woman in front of him was even more of a stranger than the one he had happened on down on the beach. Cool, collected.

Withdrawn.

“Your name is Julius Carvalho.”

---