Virgin Without A Memory

Chapter 1

Keep running, or you’re dead.

The words echoed in Eric Randall’s mind the way the thunder of the spring storm moving in overhead echoed off the walls of the Utah mountains surrounding him. Only, the echo in Eric’s head didn’t fade with each reverberation; he wouldn’t let it. Plunging headlong down the rugged slope, his only thought to escape the men in black masks behind him, he held on to the phrase like a mantra—for strength, for stamina. For survival.

His lungs were on fire. His head was pounding like a hammer on an anvil. How long before his aching legs gave out altogether?

Mike had warned him that corporate life would make him soft. It looked like his little brother had been right.

Thinking of his brother sent a fresh spear of pain lancing through Eric. It ripped at his gut like a serrated poker, redhot and angry. He’d never again give Mike a hard time for teasing him about the hazards of easy living, he swore, if only he could find his little brother.

Eric stopped, counting each precious second that ticked away as he leaned against a scraggly pine, the rough bark abrading his already-raw palm.

Mike couldn’t be dead, no matter what the sheriff had said. Eric closed his eyes, trying to block out the memory. But it wouldn’t be blocked. He’d been angry when his assistant put the call through, he remembered, because he’d specifically asked not to be interrupted.

I’m very sorry to inform you... a stiff voice had droned. After that the conversation blurred into nonsense. Something about an accident. A motorcycle plunged into the rocky bank of a river from the cliffs above. A body swept away in swollen currents.

And then the short flight east from California.

Eric had never had motion sickness in his life. The idea of it was absurd. But he’d nearly had to pull the little white bag out of the seat pocket in front of him before the plane’s wheels had touched down in southwestern Utah yesterday.

The way his stomach was churning now, he wished he’d brought the damn bag with him. Of course, his nausea today probably had more to do with the beating he’d taken than an intolerance for motion. He was pretty sure he was at least mildly concussed and had cracked a few ribs. A dozen or more kicks from steel-toed boots would do that. The men in black had surprised him.

Turning his head, he searched again for the sound of engines. Sure enough, they were gaining on him. Motorcycles—250 cc Suzukis they sounded like—flanked him on each side. Another light engine, one he couldn’t quite identify, drove him from behind. They were close now.

Too close.

Eric cursed at his own foolishness. He’d never get away on foot. He’d had his chance when he’d managed to break away from their beating long enough to get to his own motorcycle. He’d almost lost them.

Then he’d gotten cocky. He’d plunged down a near vertical rock face like he was the professional motocross racer in the family, not Mike. He should have known better. It had been years since he’d pushed a machine—or himself—like that. And still he might have made it, if the rock face hadn’t turned out to be mostly loose gravel. As it was, he ended up flipping head over heels and landing in a painful heap at the bottom.

He was lucky to still be in one piece. The bike hadn’t been so lucky. Bent and broken, his one chance of escape was useless to him now. The masked men were closing in on him.

He didn’t have much time.

Clamping his forearm against his ribs as if he could smother the flames there, he pressed forward, slashing through trees and underbrush as he descended.

He left little trail, but knew they would track him, anyway. They were the wolves, he their prey. But he wouldn’t be easy prey.

He adjusted the pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans, reassured by the weight and the feel of cold steel against his belly. He didn’t know what had made him bring the gun when he’d taken Mike’s spare bike out for a ride. He hadn’t had a destination or a purpose in mind, but he’d found the revolver in Mike’s things, and he’d been angry.

How many times had he warned Mike that traveling with a loaded gun wasn’t a smart idea? But Mikey never listened to Eric about anything else, why should this have been different? Racing took his little brother to a different city nearly every weekend. Sometimes the tracks were nice, respectable. Sometimes they weren’t. Packing the gun had become as routine for Mike as packing his toothbrush. For once, Eric was glad his hard-headed brother hadn’t listened.

With the pistol stashed in the bag on the back of the bike, Eric had set out to ride the trails Mike had ridden, to see the world through his bother’s eyes and to understand what drew him to this place, with its treacherous, rocky slopes and rugged trails.

He rode until the wind burned the tears out of his eyes and the vibration of the bike settled as an ache in his bones, and then he’d stopped to rest, finally admitting he didn’t understand. Never would.

No matter how he tried, he found nothing magical in challenging a mountain with a motorcycle. Win or lose, one was still a mountain, the other still a machine. The contest wasn’t worth dying for.

Mike is not dead. They didn’t find a body, just his bike.

More determined than ever to find Mike, Eric pushed on, down the mountain.

Somewhere out there, someone knew what had happened to his brother, and Eric intended to find her.

Another timpani of thunder rolled down the mountainside. The storm was nearly on him. Maybe the rain would cover his tracks. He prayed it would come soon and thought he’d gotten his wish when a cold drop splattered on his cheek. Wiping it into his mouth with his tongue, he stopped again, tilting his head to the sky for more, but no more fell.

God, he was thirsty.

Scrambling down a short ledge, he rested on a rock outcropping above a ribbon of dirt that looked like a trail. Was he that close to civilization?

More thunder. No, this rumble was earthbound, growing in intensity, steady in rhythm as it approached. Hooves. Galloping.

He peered over the rim of the boulder beside him. He had to be hallucinating. A gigantic black horse, ears flattened, teeth bared against the bit, raced down the trail toward him like an emissary from hell. A little spit of a woman crouched low over the beast’s neck, her dark chestnut hair flagged behind her on the rush of the wind.

Her expression captivated him: potent, provocative, free.

He needed her, intensely and immediately; she was his ticket out of there.

Mariah Morgan urged her stallion on faster, feeling the storm closing in behind her and her worries closing in around her. Usually a hard ride cleared her mind, but today her anxiety kept an even pace.

Even Jet couldn’t outrun a nightmare.

And what weighed on Mariah’s mind was the worst kind of specter. Not the dream type, with images that could be identified and rationalized—that wouldn’t have been so bad. But two days ago, Mariah had careered, clammy-skinned and heart pounding, from sleep into wakefulness with no idea what had frightened her. Just that it had been evil.

The last she remembered before waking, she’d been riding up the mountain. She’d planned on meeting Mike to take a few more pictures, trying for the perfect shot. The next thing she knew, she’d woken in her own bed, after dark, with no memory of how she’d gotten there or what had happened over the last ten hours. Even before the newspaper had arrived the next morning and she’d read what had happened to Mike, she’d known that the black void within her, a simmering cauldron of dread, was a dark portent of something terrible, just as it had been twelve years ago.

The onslaught of the wind burned her eyes raw, and still Mariah squeezed Jet’s barrel with her calves, asking for more speed. Good boy, she murmured as he gathered his haunches and stretched from a hard gallop into an all-out run. The breakneck pace would scare most people, but not Mariah. She loved the surge of power beneath her, between her legs.

The rain that had been threatening finally began to fall. Oblivious to the weather, she asked Jet for all the speed he had.

Her memories. Gone. Only a day this time, not a full week, like twelve years ago, but a slice of her life nonetheless. Once again the darkness had risen up and stolen a piece of her existence—a piece of her soul—and left only the dreams in its wake.

Focused on the void inside her, instead of the trail ahead, Mariah hardly noticed as she pounded around a blind bend much too fast. Until Jet pulled up short, nearly launching her over his big, black head. The stallion reared, pawing at the air.

What...? Mariah struggled to control the anxious animal.

Lightning scored the afternoon sky, garishly illuminating a figure in the trail like something from the late-night creature feature. It was a man, as dark and foreboding as the mountain at midnight. Except for a flash of silver in the buckle of his belt, he was dressed all in black.

His ebony hair was straight, and so dark it shimmered with the bluish cast of a crow’s wings. A single untamed lock fell in a vee down his forehead. Honey-brown skin and heavy brows gave him an exotic look. Even his eyes were dark, irises and pupils merging into daunting black disks. Damning eyes, she thought.

For a moment those eyes ensnared her, setting off a vibration in her core, deep and discordant. In that instant she took him to be an avenging angel, sent to wreak retribution upon her. But for what sin?

And then the lightning played out. A man in a muddy black leather jacket, black T-shirt and jeans looked up at her, a mere mortal once again.

Jet’s hooves flayed above his head.

The lunatic, didn’t he have the sense to get out of the way of an outraged stallion?

The black horse cried out, a territorial shriek that Eric felt in his fillings. The sound galvanized him into action. Sucking as much air as he could under his battered ribs, he dove through the thrashing hooves. He heard a thud and realized one of them had hit him in the shoulder, but he felt no pain. What was one more blow on top of those he’d already taken? Crouching in close to the horse’s neck, too close for those lethal hooves to make solid contact, he wheezed in another shallow breath and caught the reins.

Let him go, the rider called, her voice edgy.

He lifted his gaze to her. She really was a little spit of a thing. If they stood toe to toe, the top of her head would hardly reach his chin, he guessed. Her features were fine and pale, like carefully crafted china. He only hoped she wasn’t as fragile. He didn’t want her hurt in this.

Get off the horse, he said, his chest burning with the effort. The big horse danced impatiently as if he sensed his rider’s unrest.

No. Despite the defiant tilt of her chin, her voice trembled on the single syllable.

Still holding the reins, Eric stepped along the animal’s side until her calf brushed his chest. I need the horse.

You’re insane. You can’t have Jet!

She nudged the animal forward with her heels, until Eric yanked on the reins, turning the horse back. Letting loose a distressed whinny, Jet pranced sideways.

Easy, boy. The woman calmed him with her voice and hands. The beast trembled beneath her, his skin twitching as if sensitized to her every touch. Let him go, she said. You’re hurting him.

He looked up at her again, and then wished he hadn’t, as the delicate line of her jaw, the tiny cleft at the tip of her chin struck a blow to his resolve. He gritted his teeth, telling himself he had no choice.

I’m sorry. I’ve got to have your horse. He pushed her foot out of the stirrup and pulled on the waist of her jeans.

Quick as the lightning flashing overhead, she kicked out. The sole of her boot connected with his shoulder. The impact blasted through every bruised cell in his body. Driven to his knees by the pain, he focused on keeping his hold on the reins.

Regardless of her size, he’d been wrong in thinking of this woman as a little spit. Spitfire suited her more. Even though it was causing him a great deal of pain at the moment, he was glad. She might need that strength soon.

On his knees, Eric cocked his head. The faint sound of engines reached out to him through the trees, over the wind. He’d know that sound anywhere, over any background, the way a mother knows her baby’s cry. He had to get out of here. Now they both did, whether she knew it or not.

He lurched to his feet, staying well out of range of her boots, and eased the pistol from his jeans. Carefully, so that she could see, he pulled back the hammer. Are you going to cooperate?

The lightning over her shoulder flashed no more brilliantly than the light in her wide eyes. Such radiant eyes, as riveting as he’d ever seen. Smoky violet, the same color as the storm clouds over the mountains, and just as turbulent.

Are you going to shoot me? Her blustery gaze tossed him around like a kite in a cyclone, shattering what little resolve he had left.

No, he growled, cursing himself even as he admitted it. He couldn’t afford to show this kind of weakness. If she put up a struggle, it could get them both killed.

When he saw her shoulders release the first margin of tension, he put on his best bland expression—a poker player’s bluff. Do you believe me?

Of course.

Are you sure?

He admired her spirit, but he couldn’t have her feeling that safe around him. Not when both their lives depended on her cooperating quickly, and without questions.

Why do you ask?

Because if you don’t do as I say, you’re betting your life that I’m not a liar.

She paled.

Now are you going to cooperate?

She nodded.

Good. He slipped the gun back into his jeans. Grabbing the saddle horn, he slid his foot into the vacant stirrup, heaved himself onto the horse’s back and settled in behind her. Holding her, he realized again how wrong he’d been to think of her as fragile. Her slim body was taut as tensile steel, yet she still managed to have curves in all the right places.

Bunching his fingers in the soft heather-plaid flannel at her waist, he snugged his body up against the back of the saddle. The denim of their jeans rasped together where their thighs touched.

He grimaced as she squirmed. Under other circumstances, he might enjoy holding her like this, but in his current condition, having her tight body rocking against him in the saddle was definitely going to be a pleasure-pain kind of thing.

Only a minute ago, Mariah would have sworn he didn’t have the strength to lift a kitten, much less heft his oversize body five feet off the ground so quickly. And a very solid body it was, too. He cocooned her, his broad chest covering her back, his hips and thighs cradling hers. As his arms snaked around her waist, his biceps brushed her breasts and she shivered.

The lunatic actually meant to kidnap her.

His warm breath rushed in her ear. Ready? he asked.

More than ready. Ready to be rid of him.

Leaning low on Jet’s neck, she picked up the reins close to the bit and punched the stallion in the sides with her heels. Jet lunged forward, reaching a full gallop within three strides. Instead of slowing him, Mariah urged him on. The rain poured down in earnest, pelting her, blinding her, and still she pushed her horse faster.

Behind her, the stranger’s breath hitched unevenly. Good. In the saddle, she had the upper hand. Let him be the one afraid now.

Steering Jet toward a fallen tree about three-and-a-half feet high, Mariah knew the very second the man holding her understood her intentions. Surprisingly, he didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he let go of the grip he had on her shirt and wrapped his heavy forearms around her waist. When he squeezed, his embrace nearly cut her in two. His chin bruised her back where he ground it between her shoulder blades.

Then Jet surged over the old tree, arcing through the air like an electrical current between two conductors. Despite her fear, and the rain, and the man wrapped around her, Mariah smiled. She was flying.

Jet hit the ground hard. The man behind her listed to the left, but corrected himself with the natural balance of an athlete. Which, she realized belatedly, was a good thing. With the grip he had on her, if the jump had unseated him as she’d planned, he would have pulled her to the ground with him.

Her smile faltered as she reined Jet to a halt.

Holy— the stranger wheezed next to her ear.

Mariah risked a glance over her shoulder. His stark white features twisted with pain. Every movement Jet made seemed to exacerbate his agony. It wasn’t fear that had made his breath hitch, she realized. Something was really wrong with him. But he never loosened his grip on her.

She squirmed in the saddle, desperate to get away. He tightened his hold. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought harder, alternately pounding on his shoulders with her fists and trying to push him off the horse’s back. Let me go. Let me go!

He grabbed her wrists and held her punches at bay. Stop it, he commanded. Stop.

The calm in his dark eyes mocked her hysteria. The rain continued to pour down on them, matting her hair over her eyes and running down her cheeks like icy tears.

Are you through? he asked.

Her chest shuddered as she drew a fortifying breath, letting anger thaw the chill that fear had set in her bones. She wouldn’t plead; she had more pride than that.

I’m not going to hurt you.

Then let me go.

The stranger looked to the west, ignoring her demand. Mariah heard the sound of engines again, their shrill whine barely detectable over the whistling storm. For some reason, the sound made her shudder.

It’s too late for that, he said flatly.

Picking up the reins she’d forgotten in the struggle, he gave Jet his head and shouted, Hyahh! Get up! The man’s palm smacked Jet’s flank and the horse was off like the rocket he was named for.

Mariah went numb. She thought they would never stop running. All she could do was hold on and pray.

The violence of the storm passed in time, and the rain settled into cold drizzle. At last they pulled up when they came to a rocky slope. Thank goodness her tormentor had the sense to realize the loose footing would be tricky for the horse.

Jet snorted and blew, his girth heaving from the long run. White lather foamed on his neck despite the chill in the air.

Can your horse handle this? her captor asked.

Not with both of us on his back. She held her breath, waiting to see if he believed her lie.

He hesitated. She could almost feel him considering.

You’ll have to do better than that, he said after a moment, nudging Jet down the incline.

She loathed helping this stranger, but if Jet fell, the big horse wouldn’t be particular which one of them he fell on. Go slow, and stay horizontal to the slope in the steepest spots. Sort of zigzag down.

He grunted an acknowledgement, and Jet stepped forward slowly. Mariah hardly breathed as they slipped and slid down the hill. At the bottom, the stranger turned the stallion down a muddy trail and gathered up the reins.

Jet tossed his head in complaint.

"Please don’t run him anymore. The footing is bad and he’s had