It had hurt.
“You have me confused with someone else.” His voice was low and rumbling and rough, and it made the fine hairs on the nape of her neck rise.
“I don’t think that I do.” She risked another step closer. She was so close now that Whitney could reach out and touch him. Her fingers wanted to touch him so badly that she clenched them at her sides. “You’re Ramsey Hyde, and you know me.”
His gaze slid over her body. “I know lots of people.”
“You came to the hospital. You came to see me.” That had been weeks ago. And he hadn’t come back.
“You’re a celebrity.” He shrugged. “Lots of people want to see the woman who cheated death. Not every day that someone comes back from a watery grave.”
Whitney flinched. He didn’t know it, but his words had immediately summoned a nightmare memory for her. The damn flashes would hit at the weirdest times. And right then, she had a sudden flash of her hands clawing through water. Of her lungs burning, and the heavy water trying to pull her down…
“Hey.” His hand was on her cheek.
And his touch…familiar.
“You okay?” Gruff. As if the question had been torn from him.
Whitney was one hundred and ten percent not okay. She blinked away tears and shook her head. “If I was okay, I wouldn’t be here.” But desperate times had led to some desperate measures.
His fingers smoothed over her cheek. Was it her imagination, or did his fierce expression soften just the faintest bit?
“I’m an asshole,” he told her bluntly. “A selfish, diabolical bastard who has no business being near you, much less touching you.” His hand dropped. “This bar isn’t the right place for you. The bouncer shouldn’t have let you past the door. Jimmy knows better.”
Now why did those words hurt? She didn’t know for sure, but they just did. Time for her to bluff and see what happened. “I’ve been here plenty of times before, and you didn’t mind then.”
Now his expression definitely changed. Shock flashed across his features.
“In fact,” she continued because his response had just given her more courage, “you were more than happy with our arrangement.”
“You…remember?”
If only. Immediately after her attack, Whitney had lost all of her memories, but as the swelling in her brain had decreased and she had slowly recovered, the memories had returned…Except for the six months before her attack. Before she’d been left for dead in the Gulf of Mexico. Those memories still eluded her. Her dark time. It was frustrating and maddening. She could remember growing up. Going to college. Teaching at the university.
But those six months had been erased.
She didn’t know if she would ever get those memories back.
“Whitney.” He stood. Towered over her because he was at least six-foot-three and all solid muscle. “Do you remember me?”
She wanted to say yes. But even as she opened her mouth—
“No.” Ramsey shook his head. “No, you don’t remember a damn thing.” He turned his back on her. “This place isn’t for you. You need to get the hell out of here.”
All of the air left her like she was some kind of deflated balloon. First, she felt shock, then…anger. No, no, he would not do this to her. Whitney grabbed his shoulder and swung him around to face her. “You know me.”
One brow rose.
“I found notes. I wrote about us.”
A muscle jerked along his jaw. “What?”
“We worked together here. Now you’re acting like I’m a stranger. I want to know why. I want to know why you left me in that hospital. Why you didn’t come back. Why you—”
“First, lower your voice.” His own voice was barely a rasp. “You don’t know who is listening. And this crowd isn’t the sort I’d trust with anything valuable.”
Her lips clamped together.
“Second, you’re far too damn pale. Why the hell are you so pale?” He curled his hands around her hips and Whitney gave a startled gasp but—
He just lifted her onto the barstool and immediately released her, as if touching her had nearly burned his fingertips.
She hunched forward, and the loose tunic top she wore slid over her thighs.
“You want a drink? Hell, I could use about four more shots.” He tapped his fingers on the bar.
Her gaze darted to his tattoos. There were lots of different tats on his hands and sliding up his wrists, and when he opened up his right hand—
A rose.
There was a rose tattoo on the inside of his palm. A black rose.
“I’ve heard that palm tattoos can be one of the most painful tats to get.” Her voice was low. A little stilted. “Your palm is supposed to be more sensitive, I think something like four times more sensitive than other places to get tats on your body—”
His hand fisted. “I don’t mind pain.”
“Oh.” Whitney wasn’t exactly sure how to respond to that statement. “Well, um, good for you?”
His brow furrowed.
The bartender sidled up toward them.
“Tequila,” Ramsey snapped.
The bartender glanced at Whitney. She should order something. Check. “Could I have a water, please?”
He squinted at her. “You don’t want your lemon drop?”
Her what? Then Whitney’s eyes widened. The bartender knows me. I’ve come in here so often that he remembers the drink I like.
Ramsey growled, “We don’t serve those drinks anymore, remember? It’s beers or hard alcohol. Not a freaking thing else.”
“Water,” Whitney said again. “I’ll just have water, and thank you.”
The bartender swung away.
Whitney’s gaze darted back to Ramsey. She found him staring at her. And his expression was so stark and savage and…hungry. No, maybe hungry wasn’t the right word. But it sure as heck looked as if he wanted to eat her alive.
The bartender was already heading back to them—
“Fuck it,” Ramsey suddenly snarled. “You’re coming with me.” He locked his hand around her wrist and hauled her off the stool. Then he was tugging her through the crowd. Everyone seemed to jump out of their path, and in moments, Ramsey shoved open some door in the back. He ushered her over the threshold. Slammed the door behind them. Then threw the lock.
Her breathing heaved in and out. Whitney found herself backing up until her shoulders brushed against the nearby wall. Ramsey stalked toward her. His arms rose to cage her as his hands pressed into the wall on either side of her head. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You know me.”
“You should stay the hell away from my bar. Away from me. You don’t belong here.”
Why did his words hurt?
“And why the fuck,” Ramsey rumbled, “are you so pale?”
He’d asked her that question before. The man seemed obsessed.
“Are you sick?” What could have been worry slid into his voice. “I thought you’d recovered. I thought—”
“You know me.” This was said with more confidence because he’d just given himself away. He’d been following her progress—somehow. Maybe keeping tabs on her through the media. Maybe even talking to someone who was in her life. But Ramsey wouldn’t do that if they didn’t have some sort of relationship, right? He wouldn’t bother if they weren’t connected.