You Must Remember This
A kiss is still a kiss….MAN WITHOUT A PASTSarah James knew the stranger who had staggered out of the rainswept night and fallen into her arms was bad news. And yet she couldn't turn him away, this man who knew nothing about himself–not even his own name….Night after night she cared for his wounds, fighting her growing desire for him–and her rising fear. For as fragments of his shattered memory returned, it was becoming clear that he could be a fugitive from justice–or something far worse….Yet night after night she was falling more and more deeply in love with a man who was a complete stranger to her–and even to himself….
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As a devastating summer storm hits Grand Springs, Colorado, the next thirty-six hours will change the town and its residents foreverâ¦
How did Mayor Olivia Stuart really die? And how is Martin Smith connected to her death?
The night of the storm, a stranger walked into Grand Springs's hospital. âMartin Smithâ canât remember his name or where he was going when he lost control of his car and crashed.
Months later heâs still searching for his identity. His intuition tells him the mayorâs murder holds the key, and heâs determined to stay in Grand Springs until he finds the truth.
Computer guru Juliet Crandall is the perfect person to help. She has the know-how and computer access to research the past of anyone in town. Helping the gorgeous and intriguing Martin is a breath of fresh air in her solitary life. But who is he really? Martinâs scars hint at a violent pastâcould he be dangerous?
Find out in the dramatic conclusion of the 36 Hours series.
Contents
Prologue
Friday, June 6
The emergency room was bustling, with every cubicle occupied, every chair in the waiting room taken. Some patients waited quietly. Others were vocal about their discomfortâand their displeasure.
The man walked past all the waiting patients to the broad hallway, where a harried clerk stopped him. âCan I help you?â
He looked blankly at her. Did he need help? He wasnât in any pain except for the headache, and it would go away soon enough. The crack to his head had left him a little dazed, but that would go away, too.
âSir? Are you hurt? Do you need to see a doctor?â
The bright lights in the hall made the ache in his head throb. When he closed his eyes to block the glare, he swayed unsteadily, and the woman took hold of his arm. âSit down over here, and the doctor will see you as soon as possible. Did you hit your head?â
He sank into the chair against the wall and realized how good it felt to sit. It had been a long walk from the banged-up car on the highway to the well-lit hospital.
âSir?â
Lifting one hand, he touched the knot raised when his head came in contact with some part of the car. âYes, Iâ¦â
She crouched in front of him, pen poised over clipboard. âWhatâs your name?â
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing. In a flash, the muscles in his stomach knotted and panic surged through him. It was a simple question, the simplest question in the whole world. What was his name? It wasâ¦
Still nothing.
âSir, I need your name for our records.â
When he reached out, his hand trembled. When his fingers made contact with the clerkâs hand, they wrapped tightly around it. She tried to pull free, but he didnât let go. Instead, he leaned closer, staring fearfully, desperately, into her face. âI donât know⦠I donâtâ¦â
Oh, God, he couldnât remember.
* * *
âShould I list him as John Doe?â
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, only half listening to the medical staff around him. He had been examined, poked and prodded, X-rayed and interrogated and, finally, medicated. His clothes had been searched for identification, but none was found. His walletâif heâd had oneâwas gone. His driverâs license was gone. His identity was gone.
On the up side, so was his headache.
âHe doesnât look like a John to me. Can we pick another name?â
âHow about Chris?â
âNoâ¦heâs not the Chris Hemsworth type.â The answer was dry and mocking and made him wonder for the first time what he looked like. Did he have blond hair and blue eyes, like the actor? If he saw a photograph of himself, would he recognize it? If he walked over to the mirror above the sink, would he find himself facing a stranger?
He didnât have the nerve yet to find out.
âHey, I know what we can call him. Martinââ
The other female voice joined in. âSmith. Yes, of course. Perfect.â
âWho is Martin Smith?â That was the doctor, sounding disinterested as he made notes in the chart.
âHeâs a character on the soap we watch. Heâs tall, blond, blue-eyedââ
One of the women gave him a furtive glance that he caught from the corner of his eye, then lowered her voice. âA hunk.â
That was good, wasnât it? It meant he didnât look half as bad as he feltâand even without the headache, he felt pretty damn bad. He was scared.
Ever since heâd been brought back to the examination room, heâd been talked at, around and about. Finally, the doctor spoke to him. âYou want to be Martin Smith?â
No. He wanted to beâ He wanted to be whoever the hell he really was, not some soap opera pretty boy. He didnât say that, though. Instead he simply nodded. He could be someone he wasnât. He knew how to do that. Then, sooner or later, he would find out who he was.
Wouldnât he?
âAll right, Mr. Smith. You can get up now. Weâre just about finished.â
