have amnesia? I know exactly who I am.
She was Roz Spring, Londoner, daughter of Peter Spring, who was currently on remand awaiting trial for computer fraud. She was twenty seven years old, an expert at parkour, good at hustling people and able to Domme any man she met. And oh fuck – she winced as she remembered and her head throbbed painfully to punish her – she had witnessed a murder in Paris and now Interpol and a private security form were after her, trying to bring her in as a witness.
Not happening in this life. Roz Spring did not do Witness Protection.
What she couldn’t remember was why she was in Zermatt.
Two hours later, she had been examined and prodded and MRI’d until she was exhausted. The young Swiss doctor confirmed that she had a head injury, but assured her that she was young and healthy. With rest and patience, she would recover her memory. He gave her painkillers and left her to rest.
Roz lay in a small private room, listening to the television more than she watched it. She flicked channels and discovered that she understood French better than German, but could pick out enough words to hear that a famous Van Gogh painting had been stolen from the Zermatterhof hotel the evening before.
That triggered a memory of a small painting of bright red flowers in a plain frame.
Poppies. She knew its name.
“The painting of poppies had been stolen before,” the announcer said before he went on to discuss the history of the painting.
Panic seized her. She knew the painting before the news reader announced it. How was that possible?
There was one way. Her heart dropped like a stone. Could she have stolen it? She had no memory of taking it or where she might have put it but the name resonated with her.
Roz struggled to a sitting position, waiting for more about the theft, but the newsreader was solemnly announcing details of the avalanche which had killed two skiers and injured two others. Her avalanche, she realized with a chill. She had no idea how close she had come to dying.
The heavy snowfall had triggered another avalanche which had closed the train line to Täsch. Zermatt was now cut off from the rest of Switzerland. Well, that might give her a respite in which to find the painting and get away.
She flopped back onto the bed, battling the blanks in her memory. How could she not remember stealing something like that?
“Where is she?” The voice was masculine, forceful and carried a sexy Irish burr. “Where is Roz?”
Her door opened and a man entered, bringing with him the cold air of outside. He was still covered with snow, but his dark eyes were vivid and determined.
“Roz! Thank god.”
She would have known him anywhere. Andy McTavish. So what if she’d only met him a couple of times before? The former Irish Ranger wasn’t someone a girl would ever forget.
She barely had time to register his name when he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
Oh God! His cold lips were urgent on hers, possessive and insistent. They slanted against hers, demanding a response. His arms crushed her against his muscular chest, so tightly it was difficult to breathe.
Who cared about breathing? Roz had spent many an empty night dreaming about Andy McTavish, wondering if she would ever see him again, wondering if her memory could have played her false.
She had no idea why he was in her room, kissing her as if she was his hope of heaven, but decided she didn’t care.
After coming so close to dying, she wasn’t going to pass up a chance like this. Roz put her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
Andy’s kiss gentled, became warm and tender. “Roz,” he whispered, and returned to her mouth, his tongue sweeping in with absolute certainty.
She licked at it, sucking eagerly on it, hungry for more. His heart thudded heavily against her breasts and she pressed up against him. She slid her hand into his hair, which was as black and silky as she had imagined.
He kissed his way along her jaw,
She was Roz Spring, Londoner, daughter of Peter Spring, who was currently on remand awaiting trial for computer fraud. She was twenty seven years old, an expert at parkour, good at hustling people and able to Domme any man she met. And oh fuck – she winced as she remembered and her head throbbed painfully to punish her – she had witnessed a murder in Paris and now Interpol and a private security form were after her, trying to bring her in as a witness.
Not happening in this life. Roz Spring did not do Witness Protection.
What she couldn’t remember was why she was in Zermatt.
Two hours later, she had been examined and prodded and MRI’d until she was exhausted. The young Swiss doctor confirmed that she had a head injury, but assured her that she was young and healthy. With rest and patience, she would recover her memory. He gave her painkillers and left her to rest.
Roz lay in a small private room, listening to the television more than she watched it. She flicked channels and discovered that she understood French better than German, but could pick out enough words to hear that a famous Van Gogh painting had been stolen from the Zermatterhof hotel the evening before.
That triggered a memory of a small painting of bright red flowers in a plain frame.
Poppies. She knew its name.
“The painting of poppies had been stolen before,” the announcer said before he went on to discuss the history of the painting.
Panic seized her. She knew the painting before the news reader announced it. How was that possible?
There was one way. Her heart dropped like a stone. Could she have stolen it? She had no memory of taking it or where she might have put it but the name resonated with her.
Roz struggled to a sitting position, waiting for more about the theft, but the newsreader was solemnly announcing details of the avalanche which had killed two skiers and injured two others. Her avalanche, she realized with a chill. She had no idea how close she had come to dying.
The heavy snowfall had triggered another avalanche which had closed the train line to Täsch. Zermatt was now cut off from the rest of Switzerland. Well, that might give her a respite in which to find the painting and get away.
She flopped back onto the bed, battling the blanks in her memory. How could she not remember stealing something like that?
“Where is she?” The voice was masculine, forceful and carried a sexy Irish burr. “Where is Roz?”
Her door opened and a man entered, bringing with him the cold air of outside. He was still covered with snow, but his dark eyes were vivid and determined.
“Roz! Thank god.”
She would have known him anywhere. Andy McTavish. So what if she’d only met him a couple of times before? The former Irish Ranger wasn’t someone a girl would ever forget.
She barely had time to register his name when he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
Oh God! His cold lips were urgent on hers, possessive and insistent. They slanted against hers, demanding a response. His arms crushed her against his muscular chest, so tightly it was difficult to breathe.
Who cared about breathing? Roz had spent many an empty night dreaming about Andy McTavish, wondering if she would ever see him again, wondering if her memory could have played her false.
She had no idea why he was in her room, kissing her as if she was his hope of heaven, but decided she didn’t care.
After coming so close to dying, she wasn’t going to pass up a chance like this. Roz put her arms around his neck and kissed him back.
Andy’s kiss gentled, became warm and tender. “Roz,” he whispered, and returned to her mouth, his tongue sweeping in with absolute certainty.
She licked at it, sucking eagerly on it, hungry for more. His heart thudded heavily against her breasts and she pressed up against him. She slid her hand into his hair, which was as black and silky as she had imagined.
He kissed his way along her jaw,
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