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curve of her shoulders as she shook her head. There had been nothing. Absolutely nothing!
    Her visitor was still dubious. “Are you sure? I must know. Was there anything—anything—on my person … ?”
    â€œWait just a minute!” Her head shot up in sudden indignation. “Are you accusing me of filching something of yours?” She was on her feet in an instant, the legs of the chair scraping back across the floor. “Look, whoever you are, I went out in that hurricane yesterday morning and dragged you back here, into my home. Then I took care of you”—the gold flecks in her eyes flared angrily—“and saw to it that you were dry and warm. Are you really accusing me of stealing something that belonged to you?”
A harsh laugh, sign of her frustration, grated through the tense air. “I’m not quite sure whether that’s ludicrous first and ungrateful second, or the other way around.” Storming to the sink, she leaned against its stainless steel rim for support. “You might have died if I hadn’t seen you!”
    Her blunt words hung in the air. Even the dark stranger could sense the truth in them. So embroiled was she in curbing her temper that she was unaware of his approach until long fingers circled her arms. His touch was gentle, apologetic.
    â€œI might have at that,” he murmured softly, “and I’m eternally grateful that you did find me. I’m sorry if I sounded—” His sincerity struck a guilty chord in her.
    â€œNo, I’m sorry,” she interrupted, hanging her head, uncomfortably aware of the hands that continued their comforting hold. “I must be tired. Yesterday was exhausting. I didn’t get much sleep. And now … with this …”
    His long fingers stroked her arms with tender innocence before withdrawing. When she turned around, it was to confront his broad back. The down-tilt of his head suggested his discouragement. “A wallet, jewelry might have been a clue. We’ve got to begin somewhere.”
    At that instant, April’s heart went out to him and his unfathomable dilemma. Wanting to return the comfort he’d offered her moments before, she reached out, raising her hand to the high crest of his sturdy shoulder.
    â€œThere has to be some way of determining your identity. Amnesia is a totally unpredictable ailment. It can be very short-lived; you could regain your memory at any time.”
    â€œAre you a doctor?” He turned slowly, reading authority into her attempt at encouragement, catching her falling hand and holding it for an instant before releasing it.
    Her lips curved gently. “Not that kind, I’m afraid. I’ve a Ph.D. in counseling,” she explained, relieved that the
more volatile issue had been temporarily abandoned. “Look,” she suggested, “why don’t we have more coffee.” Without awaiting a response, she lifted the pot and refilled both their cups. The man had resumed his seat by the time she returned.
    â€œYou look awfully young to be any kind of doctor.” He eyed her speculatively, giving her the chance to answer.
    April had grown quite accustomed to comments about her youthful appearance. Given the ivory-smooth sheen of her skin and the rich luster of her hair, not to mention a figure that was as petite as it was slender, she had had to defend her age often. Her standard response was that she would turn thirty at her next birthday. For a reason she did not pause to evaluate, she answered this stranger differently. “I’m just twenty-nine.”
    A nod of appreciation preceded his voice. “And … your name?” he asked calmly, his eyes dark yet warm on her suddenly flushed face. As he looked at her directly and with quiet intensity, she felt completely female and uncharacteristically shy, doctoral degree notwithstanding.
    â€œApril. April Wilde.”
    â€œDoctor April Wilde,” he