“Hey.” His voice is soft and breathy.
Still choking, I can’t get a word out.
“You all right?” Genuine concern fills his eyes.
Catching my breath, I nod and give him a little smile.
He smiles back with a sigh of relief. “Jeez, Zo. You almost drowned.”
The memory of my near-death experience rears up like an angry sea serpent. Brandon’s fiancée, Katrina, yanked me into the pool. On purpose. I’m almost sure of it. And she just watched me flounder even though I was crying out desperate for help. My eyes dart around the circumference of the patio. Katrina is nowhere to be found. I shiver. In part, because I’m so wet and cold; in part, because of the harrowing experience, and in part, because Brandon is holding me.
Rage and revenge rising, I debate about telling him what happened, but in the end, I simply don’t have the strength. Or desire. Besides, I can’t prove the evil bitch’s actions were deliberate. It could easily end up being a nasty my word against hers shouting match with my ass getting fired.
“I guess I’d better be going.” My voice is hoarse, and my throat burns from all the salt water I’ve swallowed.
Slowly, I lift myself to sit up, but before I can get into an upright position, Brandon scoops me into his strong arms as if I’m a mere waif. An incredible lightness of being sweeps over me as he carries me to safety. Depleted of energy, I wrap my arms around his neck and lean my head against his wet, chiseled chest. His heart beats into my ear like a psalm. Now, I’m in heaven.
Brandon
Zoey clings to me like I’m a lifesaver. In reality, that’s what I am. If I hadn’t jump into the pool as fast as I did, she might have been a goner. The thought rattles me in my steps.
She feels so light in my arms. Wet and delicious. I could carry her for miles, but arrive at her guesthouse at the end of my property in no time. I kick open the front door and transport her straight to her bathroom. I set her gently down on the tiled counter. It’s impeccably neat and organized. A reflection of her personality.
The question—how did she end up in the pool?—is hot on my mind, but right now my assistant needs attention. Dripping wet, she’s shivering like crazy, her teeth chattering madly. I rake my fingers through her soaked straggly hair, brushing errant strands out of her eyes. I meet her waterlogged gaze. “You need to take a hot bath.”
“I prefer a shower.” She smiles at me, her bluish lips quivering from the chill. “You need one too.”
She reminds me that I’m as drenched as she is, and I admit I’m a little chilled too. With a shudder of my own, the thought of taking a shower with her enters my mind. While her soaked oversized sweatshirt and baggie sweats leave a lot to the imagination, in my mind’s eye, I picture her luscious curves, scrumptious ass, and her bountiful tits. What would it be like to shower with her…wash every ounce of her…part her long chestnut hair and plant a kiss on the nape of her neck…trail my mouth down her spine to her ass… and spread those sweet cheeks and…
What’s wrong with me? I keep fantasizing about my assistant. Maybe this hit and run accident messed with my head in more ways than one. Is it possible that my inexplicable attraction to her is related to my amnesia? Her soft raspy voice cuts into my mental ramblings.
“Brandon, you’d better get going. The last thing you need is to get sick before your first day back on the set.”
She’s right. After being out of commission from my accident for almost a month, I don’t need to get sick. And I sure as hell don’t need to get carried away with her, especially when she’s so vulnerable. I should say goodnight, but I don’t want to leave her quite yet. “Are you sure you don’t need anything? I can make you some tea.”
Her eyes light up with silent laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
She grins. “The thought of the macho man who plays vigilante Kurt Kussler making and drinking tea. It’s so… contradictory.”
A sudden electrical current zaps my brain and I blink several times. A mixture of pain and pleasure consumes me. It’s like a memory is trying to poke through my thick skull. Tea. There’s something special about tea. I like it and drank it with someone before. But who?
“Are you okay?” asks Zoey, responding to the pinched look on my face. I can see my reflection in the mirror above the bathroom counter. There’s a deep crease between my brows and an equally deep frown line that slices across my forehead.
“Yeah. I was just remembering something. Nothing important.”
Her eyes search mine, and then she struggles to pull off her sopping wet sweatshirt. Her arms flailing, it’s quite amusing. And sexy.
“Here, let me help you,” I say, moving my hands toward her. “Keep your arms up.”
She obliges. With ease, I lift the top over her head and toss it onto the nearby hamper. Beneath it, she’s wearing a cotton T-shirt. She’s braless. The thin, wet fabric molds to her ample tits. They’re nothing like Katrina’s all too perfect man-made ones. They’re supple, rounded mounds that complement her curvy body. The inviting kind you want to hold in your palms. I can see the outline of her puckered pink nipples, the bullet-like crowns straining against the sheer fabric. They’re so enticing. I fight back the impulse to tweak them between my fingers and then nip them between my teeth. Instead, I grab a bath towel off the nearby rack and wrap it around her to warm her. The truth is I’d rather be wrapping my arms around her and blanketing her body with mine.
“Well, I’d better get going.” My voice is unsteady. Unconvincing.
“Yeah.” Her shaky voice mirrors mine.
“Sleep tight. And stay out of trouble.”
Another small, smile plays on her face. “Yeah, you too.”
Her voice is suggestive. Has she been reading my mind? Leaving her on the counter, I turn on my heel. One foot out the door, her voice sounds once more in my ears.
“By the way, Brandon, thanks for rescuing me.”
I keep moving without looking back so she can’t see the proud, triumphant smile on my lips. Move over Kurt Kussler. Brandon Taylor is a real-life action hero.
And she doesn’t see it fall off like a scab when the reality of Katrina sets in.
Where the hell is she? My eyes circle the pool area. My fiancée is nowhere in sight. My rage mounting, I storm back to my house, taking angry giants steps. I need answers. Now!
“What the hell happened out there?” I yell as I tear into the living room. Katrina, freshly showered and now in a jade silk robe, is curled up on the couch, her long legs tucked beneath her and a magazine in her hands.
“Oh, darling! There’s a wonderful article about us in The Enquirer,” she responds, not once looking up from the tabloid. “With such a great photo. Don’t you love the way everyone’s now calling us Bratrina?”
I don’t give a rat’s ass. And I hate that name Bratrina. I stomp up to her and rip the magazine out of her grip. I toss it across the room, thankful I don’t break anything in its path.
Katrina straightens. Fury washes over her face. “Why the hell did you do that?” she hisses, examining one of her long crimson nails. “You almost broke one of my nails.”
“Right now, I don’t give a shit about your nails or some stupid ass magazine.” My voice grows louder by an octave and my gaze fierce. “I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”
Katrina huffs. “Doesn’t someone need a chill pill.”