Mystic Memories by Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz Page B

knowledge whatsoever of yourself?”
    “Were you hurt in a fall? Head injuries can cause amnesia.”
    “Blast it, woman!” He slammed his utensils onto the table, upsetting his glass of wine. A wash of red stain spread across the linen cloth, but he ignored it. “My life is none of your concern.”
    Cara reached across with her napkin and attempted to blot the spill, but he waved her off. She settled back into her seat, letting the napkin drop to her lap while she watched him clean up the mess.
    As the ship rolled on another wave, the cabin tilted farther than before. The serving platter slid into her plate, which knocked the stem of her glass. As it toppled, she grabbed to save it. A fraction of a second too late. Instead of spilling onto the table, the red wine sloshed over the lip of the glass, arced through the air, and splattered across the surprised face of the captain.
    He let loose a string of curses and mopped his face with his napkin. Then he stopped abruptly, as if remembering his manners in the presence of a woman. The glare in his blue eyes leveled on her.
    She bit her lip. “I am so sorry. I tried to stop it, but I wasn’t fast enough.” Even though she wanted to chuckle at the absurd comedy of errors, she knew the wisest thing to do at the moment would be to respect his seriousness of the situation. After all, he was her host.
    Cara didn’t need extrasensory perception to know the man was livid. From the way his narrowed, accusing gaze pinned her, he obviously suspected the wine had been deliberately thrown in his face.
    She held up her palm in testimony. “I swear I did not do it on purpose, Captain . . . sir.” His angry stare remained unchanged. “Honest! The boat tipped and—”
    He pushed his chair back and stood, then raked his stained napkin down the front of his jacket in an attempt to clean it. The effort didn’t do much good. The wine had soaked into the navy-blue wool. Turning away from the table, he shed the coat and tossed it on the bed. Standing in profile, he acted as if she weren’t there and stripped off his damp shirt as well.
    Growing up on sunny Southern California beaches should have made her a little more blasé about the tantalizing view of muscled biceps and pecs, not to mention the flat, tight abs on Blake Masters.
    But the sudden thud of her pulse and the erotic images that flashed in her mind were anything but blasé.
    Lord, he had an incredible body. Coming to her senses, she reined in her unexpected reaction.
    His upper right arm was tattooed with a wide band of geometric shapes. Wrapping around his thick biceps, the symbols looked like something from the South Sea Islands. She watched him step to the bureau, presenting his back to her.
    Covering her mouth, she held back a gasp at the faded scars between his shoulder blades. The crisscross of pale lines was a shade lighter than his deeply tanned skin. Neither reddened nor puckered, the scars didn’t appear to be recently acquired. Still, the thought of him enduring physical torture, however long ago, sent a shiver down her spine. Unable to look at the ugly marks without wincing, she dropped her gaze to the tattoos of black triangles and other marks that circled his waist.
    Cara wondered what kind of man could be beaten so severely as to leave scars, then willingly tolerate the pain of having his skin pierced and dyed with native symbols.
    Her curious thoughts evaporated as Masters lingered in front of the open drawer. From her earlier look around, Cara realized he was staring into an empty space. Apparently he had forgotten that he’d lent her his last shirt. Just as with the dishes, she couldn’t say anything without revealing that she’d peeked into his private things.
    “I need a shirt,” he growled more to himself than to her.
    “That you do.” Before I go crazy . She imagined she could shock him with her modern-day boldness.
    He glanced around sharply. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it is not polite to