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  Her brow creased as she glanced out toward the sea, the mouth of the cove empty, the moonlight reflecting brightly on the water, the only sign of the yacht a distant glow of yellow light on the horizon.

  How did no one notice that he’d gone overboard? How could they go without him?

  Gently, she stroked his hair back from his brow, only then noting the blood matting the thick hair at his temple. He was injured, and from the nasty gash on his forehead, he’d been injured before he’d fallen—or been pushed—overboard.

  She’d heard raised voices. She’d heard a fight. It was what had drawn her attention—that and the hum of the yacht engine. From the mark on his brow it looked as if someone had struck him. Why?

  * * *

  He blinked, trying to focus. His head hurt. Pain radiated through him. He struggled to sit but the world tilted and swam around him. He blinked again, not understanding why everything was so blurry. It was almost as if he was underwater and yet, through the haze, he saw a woman leaning over him, her face above his, her expression worried.

  He struggled to place her. How did he know her? Did he know her?

  The effort to think was too much. He gave up trying to focus and closed his eyes, sinking back into oblivion.

  Pain woke him again.

  A heavy, brutal pounding in his head made him stir, his eyes slowly, carefully opening, trying to minimize the ache in his head.

  It was day, either early or late he didn’t know because the light was soft, diffused.

  A woman was moving around the room. She wore a loose white dress, the gauzy fabric fluttering around her bare legs. She paused at the small square window, her brow creasing as she gazed out. Her hair was long and straight, falling almost to her waist.

  For a moment he wondered if she was an angel. For a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. Not that he deserved to go to heaven. Strange thought, but true. He struggled to rise but immediately felt nauseous.

  Biting back a curse, he slowly sank back against the pillow, realizing he wasn’t dead—or at least, he wasn’t in heaven. He couldn’t be, not if he hurt this much.

  His muffled groan must have reached the angel girl, as she turned in her white dress, the delicate fabric floating behind her as she moved toward him, so young, so beautiful he was certain she wasn’t real.

  Perhaps he was feverish. Perhaps he was hallucinating, because as she knelt next to him, the sun’s rays seemed to narrow and cast a glow around her, highlighting her long golden-brown hair, her smooth brow, and the high, elegant cheekbones above her full lips.

  Maybe hell was filled with angelic beauties.

  * * *

  He was finally coming to. Josephine moved forward, crouching at his side. “Hello,” she said in English, before it struck her that it was unlikely English was his native language. Most of the conversation she’d heard on the beach had been French, while others had spoken Italian. “How are you?” she asked in French.

  He blinked and struggled to focus, his eyes a brilliant blue, contrasting with his long, dense black lashes.

  She tried Italian next. “How do you feel?”

  His brow tightened. He grimaced, responding in Italian. “Tu chei sei?” Who are you?

  “Josephine,” she answered, as he slowly reached up to touch his head, where a crust had formed on his cut. “Careful,” she added in Italian. “You’ve been injured. It’s finally stopped bleeding.”

  “What happened?”

  “You went over the side of your yacht.”

  “A yacht?” he repeated in Italian.

  “Yes. You were with friends.”

  “Dove sono?” he murmured, his voice a deep rasp. Where am I?

  “Khronos. A small island off Anafi,” she answered.

  “I don’t know it.”

  “Anafi is very small. No one knows Anafi, and Khronos is even smaller. It’s privately held, a research site for the International Volcanic Research Foundation—” She broke off as she realized he wasn’t listening, or at least, he wasn’t processing what she was saying, his features tight with pain. “Do you hurt right now?”

  He nodded once. “My head,” he gritted.

  She reached out to place a palm against his brow. He was cooler now, thank goodness. “You were running a fever last night, but I think it’s gone now.” She drew her hand back, studying him. “I’d like to see if you can manage some water, and if you can, then we’ll try some soup—”

  “I’m not hungry. I just want something for the pain.”

  “I have tablets that should help with the headache, but I think you should eat first. Otherwise I’m worried it’ll upset your stomach.”

  He looked at her as if he didn’t understand, or perhaps he didn’t believe her, because his blue eyes were narrowing and his mouth firmed, emphasizing his strong jaw, now shadowed with a dark stubble.

  He’d been striking from afar, but up close he was absolutely devastating, his black hair and brows such a contrast to his startlingly blue eyes. His features were mature and chiseled. Faint creases fanned from his eyes.

  As his gaze met hers and held, her pulse jumped. “It’s been almost a full day since I pulled you out of the sea—”

  “How?” he interrupted.

  “How?” she repeated.

  “How did I get here?”

  “Your boat. Your yacht—”

  “I don’t understand this yacht.” The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. He struggled into a sitting position, wincing and cursing under his breath. His hand lifted to his temple, where the wound was beginning to bleed again. “When was I on one?”

  “The past few days. Probably the past week or more.” She sat back on her haunches, studying him. “Do you not remember?”

  He shook his head.

  “What do you remember?”

  He thought for a moment, and then his broad, sun-bronzed shoulders shifted irritably, impatiently. “Nothing.” His voice was hard, his diction crisp. Authority and tension crackled around him.

  Her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “You don’t remember who you are? Your name? Your age?”

  “No. But I do know I need to find a bathroom. Can you show me the way?”

  * * *

  He had questions for her later, many questions, and Josephine fought to hide her anxiety over his complete loss of memory. She prepared them a simple dinner, talking to him as she plated the grilled vegetables and lemon-garlic chicken. “I think you must be Italian,” she said, carrying the plates to the small rustic table in the center of the room. The table divided the room, creating the illusion of two spaces, the sitting area and then the kitchen. “It was the first language you responded to.”

  “I don’t feel Italian.” He grimaced. “Although I’m not sure what that even means. Can a person feel their nationality?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, sitting down across from him. “But I suppose if I woke up somewhere else I’d be puzzled by the different cultural norms.”

  “Tell me about the people I was with.”

  “They were all about your age. Although some of the girls seemed younger. They all looked...polished. Affluent.” She hesitated. “Privileged.”

  He said nothing.

  “Everyone seemed to be having a good time,” she added. “Except for you.”

  He glanced at her swiftly, gaze narrowing.

  “I don’t know if you were bored, or troubled by something,” she added, “but you tended to be off on your own more than the others. And they gave you your space, which made me think you were perhaps the leader.”

  “The leader?” he repeated mockingly. “The leader of what? A band of thieves? Pirates? Schoolboys on holiday?”

  “You don’t need to be rude,” she said slowly, starting to rise, wanting to move away, but he reached out and caught her, his fing
ers circling her narrow wrist, holding her in place.

  “Don’t go.”

  She looked down to where his hand wrapped her wrist, his skin so very warm against hers. She suppressed a shudder, feeling undone. She was exhausted from watching over him, exhausted from worrying. It had been a long night and day, and now it was night again and she felt stretched to the breaking point. “I’m just trying to help you,” she said quietly, tugging free.

  He released her. “I’m sorry.” His deep voice dropped. “Please sit. Stay.”

  His words were kind, but his tone was commanding. Clearly he was accustomed to being obeyed.

  Her brow furrowed. She didn’t want to create friction, and so she slowly sat back down and picked up her fork, but she felt too fatigued to actually eat.

  Silence stretched. She could feel him watching her. His scrutiny wasn’t making things easier, and she knew his eye color now. Blue, light, bright aquamarine blue. Blue like her sea. Reluctantly, she looked up, her stomach in knots. “I thought you were hungry,” she said, aware that he hadn’t yet taken a bite, either.

  “I’m waiting for you.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “The company you’re keeping?”

  She cracked a small smile. “The company’s fine. I think I’m unusually tired tonight.”

  “I suspect you were up all night worrying about me.”

  It was true. She hadn’t been sure he’d survive. There were complications for those who’d nearly drowned. “But you made it through, and here you are.”

  “Without a memory, or a name.”

  “I suppose we should call you something.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, but it was clear from his tone that he didn’t agree and wasn’t enthusiastic about being called by a name that was probably not his.

  “We could try names out, see if anything resonates.”

  He gave her a long, hard look that made her stomach do a funny little flip. “I’ll say names and you tell me if anything feels right,” she pressed on.

  “Fine.”

  “Matthew. Mark. Luke. John.”

  “I’m fairly certain I’m not an apostle.”

  Her lips twitched. “You know your Bible stories, then.”

  “Yes, but I don’t like this approach. I want my own name, or no name.” He stabbed his fork into his dinner but made no attempt to eat. “Tell me about you,” he said, turning the tables. “Why are you here on what appears to be a deserted island?”

  “Well, it’s not deserted—it’s an island that serves a scientific purpose, housing one of the five research stations for the International Volcano Foundation. My father is a professor, a volcanologist. We were supposed to be here for a year but it’s been almost eight.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Hawaii.” She saw his expression and added, “He is a professor at the University of Hawaii. He juggles the teaching and the fieldwork. Right now he’s back in Honolulu, lecturing, but he’ll return end of the month, which is now just nine days away.”

  “And he has left you alone here?”

  She hesitated. “Does it seem strange to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Her shoulders shifted. “It’s actually normal for me, and I don’t mind. I like the solitude. I’m not much of a people person. And the quiet allows me a chance to do my own work, because when Papa is here, it’s always about him.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She died just before I turned five.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged again, uncomfortable with the sympathy. “I don’t remember her.”

  “Would she approve of your lifestyle here?”

  “She was a volcanologist like my father. They worked together for ten years, doing exactly what he’s doing now, but in Hawaii, so yes, I think she’d approve. Perhaps her only disappointment would be that I haven’t gone off to college or earned all the degrees that she did. I’ve been homeschooled my entire life, even with the university courses. My father says I’m more advanced than even his graduate students, but it’s not the same. I’ve never had to be in the real world or compete with others for work. I just work.”

  “What is your field of study?”

  “I’m a volcanologist, too, although personally I prefer the point where archaeology intersects with volcanology.”

  “Vesuvius?”

  She nodded. “Exactly. I’ve been lucky to work with my father on the volcanology of the southwestern sector of Vesuvius, where archaeological and historical data have allowed scientists to map the lava emitted in the last several thousand years. I’m fascinated by not just the lost civilizations, but the power of these volcanoes to reshape the landscape and rewrite the history of man.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if you’ve missed anything by being homeschooled.”

  She smiled faintly. “I haven’t been properly socialized—my father said as much. I’m not comfortable in cities and crowds. But fortunately, we don’t have that problem here.”

  “Your mother was American, too?”

  “French-Canadian, from Quebec. That’s how I ended up Josephine.” Her smile faded as she saw how his expression changed, his jaw tightening and lips compressing. “You will remember your name,” she said quietly. “It’s just going to be a matter of time.”

  “You spoke to me in French, didn’t you?”

  “I tried a number of languages. You responded in Italian, so I’ve stuck with Italian. Est-ce que tu parles français?”

  “Oui.”

  “And English?” she asked, switching languages again. “Do you understand me?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “How fluent are you?” she asked, continuing in English, testing him. “Is it difficult to follow me?”

  “No. It doesn’t seem any different from Italian.”

  He had almost no accent, his English was easy, his diction relaxed, making him sound American, not British. She suspected he’d been educated at one point in the United States. “Would you mind speaking English then?”

  “No.”

  “But should it give you a headache, or if it creates any stress—”

  “No need to fuss over me. I’m fine.”

  She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. He was a man used to having the final word. So who was he? And why did he, even now, ooze power?

  “Tell me again about the people I was with on the yacht,” he said. “Tell me everything you know.”

  “I will after you eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “That’s strange, because my memory seems to be fading, as well.”

  He gave her a hard look. “I’m not amused.”

  “Neither am I. You’ve been through a great deal, and we need to get you strong. And as I am your primary caregiver here—”

  “I don’t like being coddled.”

  “And I’m not known to coddle, so eat, and I’ll tell you everything. Don’t eat, and you can fret by yourself because I have things to do besides argue with you.”

  His eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened, making a small muscle in his jaw pop. For a long moment he just looked at her, clearly not happy with the situation, but then he reached for the plate of chicken and took a bite, and then another, and did a pretty impressive job of devouring the rest. He lifted his head at one point and met her gaze. “This is good, by the way. Very good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You made this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I have a freezer, and I use the kiln outside for roasting the potatoes and baking. The rest I prepare on the stove.”

  “A kiln?”

  “It makes excellen
t flatbreads, and pizzas, too. I learned how to cook in a kiln when we lived in Peru. That was before here. I loved Peru. My father loved the stratovolcano.” She smiled faintly, remembering his excitement and obsession as Sabancaya roared to life, spewing ash and rumbling the mountain. If it weren’t for the village women, Josephine would have been forgotten. Instead they took her and her father in and helped teach Josephine to cook, and as a thank-you, Josephine would look after the children, giving the hardworking mothers a break.

  “Where else have you lived?”

  “Washington State, Hawaii, Peru, and Italy, but that was brief, before here. We’ve been here the longest.”

  “Was every place this isolated?”

  “No, this is definitely the most remote, but I’m truly happy here.”

  “Is that why you just watched us on the beach and didn’t come introduce yourself?”

  She laughed as she reached for his plate. “I think we come from different worlds. I am quite sure I’d be an oddity in your world.”

  His brow creased. “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. I wouldn’t know how to drape myself over and around handsome men.” Her lips twitched. “I can’t for the life of me just lie on a beach. I need to be active, and instead of sunbathing I’d be catching fish, and examining the water table, and trying to figure out the volcanic history of the exposed rocks—” she broke off. “Not your kind of girl at all.”

  “What is my kind?”

  “The kind that looks like a swimsuit model. The kind that doesn’t lift anything, not even her own swim bag. The kind that pouts when you don’t feel like talking.”

  “Interesting,” he drawled, blue eyes glinting.

  “How so?”

  “You didn’t like my friends. You never said that earlier. This is new information.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not factual and not important—”

  “But revealing about you.”

  “Exactly. There is no reason to share my feelings on anything. I should be focused on assisting you. Who I am and what I feel isn’t relevant in any way.”