What’s wrong with me? I keep fantasizing about my assistant. Maybe this hit and run accident messed with my head in more ways than one. Is it possible that my inexplicable attraction to her is related to my amnesia? Her soft raspy voice cuts into my mental ramblings.

“Brandon, you’d better get going. The last thing you need is to get sick before your first day back on the set.”

She’s right. After being out of commission from my accident for almost a month, I don’t need to get sick. And I sure as hell don’t need to get carried away with her, especially when she’s so vulnerable. I should say goodnight, but I don’t want to leave her quite yet. “Are you sure you don’t need anything? I can make you some tea.”

Her eyes light up with silent laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

She grins. “The thought of the macho man who plays vigilante Kurt Kussler making and drinking tea. It’s so… contradictory.”

A sudden electrical current zaps my brain and I blink several times. A mixture of pain and pleasure consumes me. It’s like a memory is trying to poke through my thick skull. Tea. There’s something special about tea. I like it and drank it with someone before. But who?

“Are you okay?” asks Zoey, responding to the pinched look on my face. I can see my reflection in the mirror above the bathroom counter. There’s a deep crease between my brows and an equally deep frown line that slices across my forehead.

“Yeah. I was just remembering something. Nothing important.”

Her eyes search mine, and then she struggles to pull off her sopping wet sweatshirt. Her arms flailing, it’s quite amusing. And sexy.

“Here, let me help you,” I say, moving my hands toward her. “Keep your arms up.”

She obliges. With ease, I lift the top over her head and toss it onto the nearby hamper. Beneath it, she’s wearing a cotton T-shirt. She’s braless. The thin, wet fabric molds to her ample tits. They’re nothing like Katrina’s all too perfect man-made ones. They’re supple, rounded mounds that complement her curvy body. The inviting kind you want to hold in your palms. I can see the outline of her puckered pink nipples, the bullet-like crowns straining against the sheer fabric. They’re so enticing. I fight back the impulse to tweak them between my fingers and then nip them between my teeth. Instead, I grab a bath towel off the nearby rack and wrap it around her to warm her. The truth is I’d rather be wrapping my arms around her and blanketing her body with mine.

“Well, I’d better get going.” My voice is unsteady. Unconvincing.

“Yeah.” Her shaky voice mirrors mine.

“Sleep tight. And stay out of trouble.”

Another small, smile plays on her face. “Yeah, you too.”

Her voice is suggestive. Has she been reading my mind? Leaving her on the counter, I turn on my heel. One foot out the door, her voice sounds once more in my ears.

“By the way, Brandon, thanks for rescuing me.”

I keep moving without looking back so she can’t see the proud, triumphant smile on my lips. Move over Kurt Kussler. Brandon Taylor is a real-life action hero.

And she doesn’t see it fall off like a scab when the reality of Katrina sets in.

Where the hell is she? My eyes circle the pool area. My fiancée is nowhere in sight. My rage mounting, I storm back to my house, taking angry giants steps. I need answers. Now!

“What the hell happened out there?” I yell as I tear into the living room. Katrina, freshly showered and now in a jade silk robe, is curled up on the couch, her long legs tucked beneath her and a magazine in her hands.

“Oh, darling! There’s a wonderful article about us in The Enquirer,” she responds, not once looking up from the tabloid. “With such a great photo. Don’t you love the way everyone’s now calling us Bratrina?”

I don’t give a rat’s ass. And I hate that name Bratrina. I stomp up to her and rip the magazine out of her grip. I toss it across the room, thankful I don’t break anything in its path.

Katrina straightens. Fury washes over her face. “Why the hell did you do that?” she hisses, examining one of her long crimson nails. “You almost broke one of my nails.”

“Right now, I don’t give a shit about your nails or some stupid ass magazine.” My voice grows louder by an octave and my gaze fierce. “I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”

Katrina huffs. “Doesn’t someone need a chill pill.”

Her response enrages me further. Trust me, nothing can calm me down. Not even the world’s best Scotch. I almost lost my trusted assistant and want to get to the bottom of this.

Katrina is totally non-plussed. She rises, taking a graceful step toward her precious magazine. Impulsively, I shove her back onto the couch. She gasps.

“Jesus, Brandon. Is this anyway to treat your fiancée?”

“Just tell me what happened out there.” My voice is fiery.

She flings her head back and runs her fingers through her long wet platinum hair. “If you really want to know, I was just protecting you. That ungainly assistant of yours was insistent on seeing you at this ungodly hour, and I told her it wasn’t a wise idea. I tried to hold her back, but she tripped on the slippery deck and fell into the pool. A total accident.”

Leaving her insults aside and the fact that I did text Zoey to help me with my lines, I ask my fiancée why she didn’t help her when she saw she was obviously drowning. Katrina’s a strong swimmer.

“Darling, a combination of factors, but mostly, I thought that conniving little twit was just faking it. Just a clever maneuver to have me jump back into the pool so she could get me all wet again.”

“She almost drowned.” The frightening, unforgettable image of her unconscious body floating in the water flashes into my head.

“Actually, with her weight, I’m surprised she didn’t sink.”

I clench my fists by my sides so tightly I can feel my nails dig into my palms. It takes all my willpower not to slap her or fling her across the room. I may have a history with so-called bad girls, but Katrina keeps testing my limits. The rage I feel toward her disquiets me. Almost frightens me.

Breathing through my nose with my lips pressed tight, I try to control my temper. Silence. Tense silence. And then Katrina looks up at me. Her eyes flutter. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean that. I just really don’t like that girl. She’s everything I’m not.”

Unpretentious. Funny. Sassy. Caring. And she has an inviting body with soft, luscious curves that I find more attractive than Katrina’s razor-sharp edges and plastic enhancements. After several deep breaths, I calm down enough to retrieve Katrina’s tabloid. She snatches it from me and immediately goes back to scanning the pages.

“I’m going to call it a night,” I say stiffly, eager to get away from her and out of my wet clothes.

She looks up from the magazine and smiles. “No problem, darling. I have an early call in the morning. I’m going to head home shortly.”

Great. I need to sleep alone tonight or at least not with her. We still haven’t spent a night together since my hospital release.

Still seething, I head for my bedroom. I strip off my soaked clothes and then lope to the adjacent bathroom where I turn on a hot shower. The cascading water immediately warms me. But it does nothing to undo my stress. I’m wound up as tight as a spring. I beat myself off to release the tension that’s been rising in me like a fever. My rage toward my infuriating fiancée fuels my libido and my undeniable attraction to my indispensable assistant sets me off. I come powerfully and quickly. My first orgasm since my accident. It’s like my cock is saying: “Now what?” I don’t know. Stepping out of the shower, I gaze out the bathroom window, which offers me a perfect view of the guesthouse. The lights are out. At least I know Zoey is safely asleep.