“Would you like a cup?” she asked grudgingly.
He grinned. “Why, don’t mind if I do.” He walked over to the table and folded his lanky frame into a chair. Immediately the kitchen seemed smaller, as if his overwhelming maleness had somehow compressed the available space.
Colette poured him a cup of coffee, then went to the refrigerator and added a dollop of milk to the beverage. She placed it in front of him, then gasped as his fingers encircled her wrist. The easy smile that had creased his features was gone, usurped by a somber, intense expression that screamed of danger. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
Colette frowned. “Do what?”
“Why did you add milk to my coffee?”
Colette stared at his coffee cup in confusion. Why had she done it? It had been automatic. She hadn’t even given it any thought. She drank her coffee black. Why would she add milk to his? Because she knew with a certainty he drank his coffee light. And it was knowledge she had no way of knowing unless he’d been a part of her life before her amnesia.
She wrenched her wrist from his grip and stepped back from him, fear racing through her as she faced him. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
