Free The Witness by Sandra Brown

flirting. I could have handled it. But no, you had to barge in and give them something to remember!"
     
"You're angry?"
     
"Yes, I'm angry. Why did you butt in? Why didn't you just mind your own business?"
     
"When my wife's being sexually harassed by three men, it is my business. Isn't it?" Her combative flare fizzled. She now looked flustered and annoyed with herself for losing her temper. "You didn't want a scene, right? Because you didn't want us to be remembered if anyone should come asking. Guess it's a goo d thing I didn't throw these away." He held up the OR scrubs he had been wearing. "They won't leave a trail."
     
She didn't take the bait. Her eyes remained on the road, but she sighed and pushed back her hair. "I'm sorry. Thank you for rushing to my defense. Do the clothes fit okay?"
     
"Yeah," he said, glancing down at his new shorts and T shirt. It occurred to him then that she really had known his sizes.
     
They were traveling a narrow state highway that cut through dense forests. As they passed flooded fields and crossed bridges spanning swollen creeks, he was reminded of their accident.
     
His amnesia was her most valuable asset, because it kept him in the dark. Her word was his sole source of information.
     
She could tell him anything, and he had no choice but to accept it because he couldn't disprove it. He had no way of finding out what the real picture was.
     
"You forgot to buy me a newspaper," he remarked. "Was that an oversight?"
     
"No, but there weren't any. I checked several dispensers.
     
They'd sold out."
     
For once, she might be telling the truth, he thought. The dispensers at the gas station had been empty, too. He had made a point to check. He had hoped that a headline or even a small filler item would spark his memory.
     
On the other hand, he dreaded reading about a notorious character and realizing it was himself. Before the accident, had he been involved in some criminal activity?
     
Instinct told him that his authority was being challenged.
     
But what authority? Professional? Marital? That couldn't be it because he didn't believe for a second that they were a married couple. He would know somehow he would know if he had slept with her.
     
No man alive could forget those breasts, shapely and sexy in spite of their nurturing function. The shape of her ass hadn't escaped his notice, either. She had arresting eyes and morning after hair that seemed to have a will of its own.
     
She wasn't classically pretty, but even from his hospital bed he had noticed her voluptuous mouth. It was full and provocative, the kind you'd gladly pay a thousand dollars to spend the night with.
     
When he had watched her licking buttery biscuit crumbs from her fingers earlier, he had been convinced that his self diagnosis was correct. He wasn't that sick.
     
His reactions to her were distinctly masculine, conditioned reflexes. He had responded the way any heterosexual man would to that stimuli. He would bet his life that his response was not founded on recognition and familiarity.
     
Made restless by the track his thoughts had taken, he switched on the radio, hoping to catch a newscast. "It's broken," she told him.
     
"Convenient for you," he said. "How much farther do we have to go? And where in hell are we going anyway? And don't you dare say Tennessee."
     
She didn't. She said, "We're going to Grandmother's house."
     
"Grandmother's house," he repeated caustically.
     
"That's right."
     
"Your grandmother or mine? Do I have a grandmother?"
     
He envisioned a stereotype gray hair captured in a neat bun, a benign smile, admonitions to keep your jacket buttoned even when it was seventy-five degrees outside, someone who smelled of lavender soap and kitchen spices. He grasped the concept, but he couldn't imagine himself being coddled by such an individual. Or coddled by anyone, for that matter.
     
"It's my grandmother," she said.
     
"Have you notified her that we're coming?"
     
"She won't