Even as she scrambled for something to say, Ari stopped, his body going rigid for a long moment as he studied her face.
“I’ve frightened you,” he said abruptly. “I’m sorry.”
Fran stopped herself from immediately crying out “no!” though that was her first impulse. The truth was Ari had been about to overstep, to push pass some invisible line in the sand, and until she figured out exactly what she was dealing with in this man she couldn’t afford to let that happen.
He wasn’t her patient, no. But he was someone’s patient. He was hurt, vulnerable. And she needed to respect that. Not give into her own pathetic impulses because an incredibly gorgeous man had stared at her with such an overpowering yearning that her knees went weak.
Oh-kay. Deep breaths.
She realized Ari was waiting for her to speak, and she gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. I’m feeling a little marooned here and I’ve been on the island barely one afternoon. It must be much more difficult for you, with so many questions left unanswered.” She scanned the protected grove curiously. “How is it the wind is so much calmer here?”
“The trees help. And this grotto is set into the rocks.”
As soon as he spoke the words Ari winced and took a step back, his hand going once more to his temple. Fran could have kicked herself as she moved quickly toward him. She wasn’t trying to make him recall facts of his former life, she was asking questions. The same way any tourist would ask questions of a native.
But this native had lost a good portion of his memory, and the strands of his past were tangled up so thickly there was no telling which led to an easily-recalled piece of information, and which to an area riddled with pain.
Clearly, she’d touched on the latter.
“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t ask so many questions. It’s a terrible habit of mine, one I’ve always had...” Her words dropped into a soothing patter as she helped Ari to the bench beneath the trees, the space warmed by the sun and protected from the worst of the wind which, as Ari had said, was deflected by a thick stone wall she now saw. He grimaced, both hands pressed to his head, but he let her sit him down and take his hands in hers.
They shook, she realized. Not violently, but with a tremor that didn’t stop even when she clasped them tight.
“Ryker, are you in pain?” She peered into his face, which he’d tucked in tight to his chest, his muscled shoulders now shaking as well. “I can—I can go get help.”
“No,” Ari gritted out, and his head came up then, his eyes almost wild until they found hers. His hands shifted and she firmed her grip on them, the fury of their trembling not subsiding. But his gaze was steadier as she met it, and she willed every ounce of strength she had into him as she waited for him to continue.
“No,” he said again, more slowly this time. “Please, don’t call for help, or ask for a doctor, or tell anyone about this if you don’t mind. It’ll stop—soon.” His eyelids drooped and his brow knotted as he appeared to focus intently. “It always does.”
Fran longed to reach out to Ari’s forehead, to wipe away the trickle of sweat that creased over his brow, but she said nothing—did nothing but hold his hands tightly and regulate her own breathing, drawing in air slowly and steadily, pushing it out in a calming cadence. Eventually, by plan or chance, the rhythm of Ari’s breathing found and matched her own. She saw the tension loosen first in his shoulders, then his brow…then, finally, his hands.
His eyes flickered open and he spoke a word in Garronois, then seemed to recall himself. “Sorry,” he said, blinking at her. “I didn’t mean for that to go on so long.”
“Don’t apologize.” She continued to hold Ari’s hands but they’d finally stopped trembling, loose and relaxed in her grasp but not limp or clammy. They were the hands of a man who worked, she realized suddenly, the finger pads rough and calloused, the palms thick with old scars. Not the hands of a prince, but of a prisoner condemned without trial to a work camp. Who knew what other scars Ari bore, either on his skin or far beneath it, scars he’d received without knowing anything more than a fictitious name and a made-up occupation? “The doctors don’t know any of this?”
He shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure they know some of it. When the week began, I was still having the nightmares.”
Fran’s heart shimmied as Ari sighed wearily and said, “Those were quite a show, from what I understand.”
“You’ve been through a great deal.”
“I suppose I have.” But Ari’s voice sounded almost mocking, and he focused on her with a sudden intensity that put her once more on her guard. “My captors held me in a cage. Did Nicki tell you that?”
At her mute headshake, he swung his gaze away, staring at the far ocean. “A cage like you’d put a big dog in, except we were men, not dogs. We didn’t quite fit. Mine wasn’t so bad—I could move, almost stretch out. Did stretch out, different muscles at different hours every night, like clockwork. Some of the other men…” He shook his head. “They didn’t know the value of doing that. And I couldn’t tell them. Their language was different enough that I couldn’t make myself clear—or they were in no mood to get advice from an outsider.”
Fran squeezed his hands, afraid to speak—and more afraid to let go. Ari didn’t seem to notice, for all that his gaze dropped and he appeared to be staring at their clasped fingers. “All that time in the cage, and I couldn’t remember what I’d done to get there. I’d figured I’d done something—no one imprisons a man for a whole year for no reason, right? I don’t care where you are.”
He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, and Fran chose her words carefully. “It sounds like you weren’t imprisoned by actual law enforcement,” she said. “They didn’t need a reason.”
“But they needed an opportunity,” Ari met her gaze again, and his eyes were clear. Lucid. “I’m not saying what they did was right, for me or those other men. But we had to dosomethingto put ourselves in harm’s way. We had to do something to catch their attention. If I can figure out what that was, if I understood a little more of what had led to my capture…I think it would help.”
Fran watched him critically. He was talking of memories here, without question. His brow was once more furrowed, his expression intent. And yet, there was no indication that he was in pain. He wasn’t flinching away from her, and his words remained even, untroubled. How could he probe these recent memories so easily, yet the most innocuous mention—a flower, a rock formation—literally drove him to his knees? That made no sense to her, but it had to be significant.
“How far back do you remember?” she asked.
He blinked, considering the question. “The crash happened at night,” he said, and his voice held a slight tremor, but she didn’t look away. His hands had started trembling again. “I know that because it was morning when I washed ashore, and I was—clinging to something. That’s the kind of memory I have. Broken up.” He shrugged again. “Iwasn’t broken up, though. I remember being proud of that. That I’d managed to come out of the water more or less in one piece. Nothing too badly damaged.”
He shivered though it wasn’t cool. The afternoon sun was warm on Fran’s back. His gaze fixed on a new point over her shoulder, and didn’t waver. “I traded some junk from the airplane for a boat—a terrible boat but I didn’t care. I had to get to the mainland, had to hide.”
