The Heart of a Stranger Read Online Free Page A

dream.
    It seemed romantic somehow. Like a transposed fairy tale, where the princess awakens the handsome stranger with a warm, sensual kiss.
    â€œWhy am I so confused?” He pushed the oatmeal away. “I don’t like being bumble-brained.”
    â€œCáco says it will pass. It’s part of the concussion. Your head injury,” she clarified.
    He went after the peaches again, ignoring the oatmeal he’d discarded. He ate carefully, inserting the spoon in the side of his mouth that wasn’t swollen. “Your name is Lourdes, and you’re not from France.”
    â€œThat’s right. What’s your name?” she asked, wondering why she hadn’t inquired before now.
    He gave her a panicked stare.
    Dear God, she thought. Dear, sweet God. He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. “It’s okay.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t.” He dropped his spoon, and it bounced against the tray, making a metallic hum. “I don’t know who the hell I am. Not my name. Where I live. Where I’m from.”
    â€œIt’ll come back to you.”
    â€œWhen?”
    A few days? A few weeks? She had no idea. “I’ll ask Cáco. She understands more about head injuries than I do.”
    â€œWhere’s my driver’s license?”
    â€œWe think it was stolen. With your wallet.”
    â€œI don’t have a name. What kind of person doesn’t have a name?”
    She reached for his hand to stop the quaking. She would be afraid if she’d lost her identity, too. “I’ll give you one.”
    His chest rose and fell. He was a handsome stranger, she thought. A disoriented John Doe.
    John?
    No, that was too obvious. “Juan,” she said.
    â€œJuan,” he repeated, accepting her choice. “Juan what? I need a last name. People have last names.”
    A handsome stranger.
    â€œGuapo,” Lourdes decided.
    He merely blinked.
    â€œIs that all right?” she asked.
    Was it? he wondered. He knew what Guapo meant. Handsome in Spanish.
    Had she chosen that name purposely? Did she like the way he looked?
    How could she? He’d caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He’d seen the swelling and the bruising, the gash across his mouth.
    What was ugly in Spanish?
    Feo.
    Maybe she should have called him Juan Feo instead.
    â€œIs the name I gave you all right?” she asked again.
    A little embarrassed, he nodded. If the pretty woman in his dream thought he was handsome, what could he do?
    He cocked his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. This wasn’t a dream. She kept telling him that. This was real.
    But how was that possible? She seemed like an angel, with the honey-colored streaks in her hair and the gilded light in her chocolate-brown eyes.
    Angels only existed in dreams.
    A French angel who spoke Spanish. Surely, he was confused.
    He didn’t stop to think of why he spoke Spanish, too. He just knew that he did. Or that he understood enough of the language to get by.
    â€œI’m not very hungry anymore,” he said. His head hurt from all the confusion, and his eyelids had grown heavy.
    She took the tray away and placed it on top of a simple oak dresser. “You look sleepy.”
    â€œI am.” He wanted to ask her to lie down with him, but decided that wouldn’t be a very gentlemanly thing to do. Then he remembered that he’d already asked her, and she’d refused. Of course, she’d refused. They were strangers. And she had children with another man.
    â€œWhere’s your husband, Lourdes?”
    She turned and fussed with the collar on her shirt. She was dressed like a cowgirl, with varying shades of denim hugging her curvaceous body. “I don’t have a husband. He died before I could divorce him.”
    He thought that was an odd thing for her to say, but he was glad she wasn’t married. He didn’t want her cuddling up to someone else at night.
    He had a right to covet his