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Besides, she probably would want it back when her fiancé found her, when her memory returned.
Maybe.
Though wanting the vile thing on her finger seemed an impossibility right now.
He gave her the cash then took out a business card and a pen. “Here’s my home and office numbers in case you leave before I get back to you. The home number’s unlisted.”
She took the card and read it, memorizing both numbers. Just in case.
He studied the ring again then slid it into his pocket. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”
She nodded.
“Good night and good luck, uh—”
She held her breath. Was he going to call her Jane Doe the way the nurses had, let her know that he didn’t consider her a real person either?
“Mary Jackson.” His lips quirked upward in a semblance of a smile. “Good thing you’re not a rock-music fan. You might have called yourself something really off the wall.”
She tried to return his smile. “Sure. Things could always be worse. Right?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out for you. Good night, Mary. Call me if you need anything.”
He spun on his heel and left, taking his aura of sadness and desolation with him, but instead of feeling lighter, the air seemed heavier and more oppressive than before he’d gone, darker, even though the light still blazed from the ceiling.
Chapter Three
For the next two days and nights Cole saw her haunted, frightened, alluring face on the six o’clock news broadcasts, in the local papers and in his dreams.
Despite all the publicity, however, her groom had not appeared to claim his bride. No one had come in to identify her, to take her home. Every afternoon Cole checked with Pete, and every afternoon the word was the same. Nothing.
She remained a woman with no past, adrift in a world she couldn’t remember. And no matter that she genuinely didn’t seem to blame him for it…he blamed himself. The accident had been unavoidable, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d been the one driving the car, the one who’d caused her problems and, ironically, the only one she’d trusted to help her. He couldn’t help her. He knew that.
Yet the memory of the way she’d lifted her chin and lied so bravely about remembering her name and address to keep from going to the hospital, the startled, pleased way she’d looked when he told her she was beautiful…the memory of her…stayed in the forefront of his mind and made him wish he could help her.
Pete had told him that she’d insisted on leaving the hospital the next day. Using the money he’d loaned her on her engagement ring, she’d rented a hotel room as close as she could get to the scene of the accident, hoping she’d recognize something familiar. He knew the place she’d chosen. It wasn’t luxurious nor was it seedy. It was mediocre. Institutional. Not a place where he could imagine Mary, with her air of fragility and dignity, being comfortable.
Cole tried to get the image of her in that hotel out of his mind as he pulled off the street and into his winding, tree-lined driveway a little after midnight. It was a dark, moonless night and, without the reflective strip on his mailbox, he might have missed the turn.
That driveway had been one of the things Angela had liked about the place, that the casual passerby wouldn’t be able to find them. On the outskirts of Dallas, the heavily wooded lots were large and had offered the requisite city residence for his job on the police force as well as seclusion and safety for Angela.
Which only proved that nobody could ever really be safe.
Not Angela and Billy in their secluded house and not Mary Jackson in her rented room in a mediocre hotel. But he couldn’t do one thing to change that, so why was he even stewing about it?
He pulled into the garage and got out of his car—not the beloved T-bird he’d been driving when he ran into Mary, but a dark blue, midsize sedan, the one he drove when he didn’t want to stand out, didn’t want to be noticed, when his job called for him to blend into the crowd, as he’d done tonight, infiltrating a society party dressed as a waiter.
He left the garage, closing the door behind him, and crossed his yard. The porch light had burned out a couple of years ago and he’d never replaced it. He liked the darkness.
A cricket chirped, his song loud in the quiet. Something scurried through the underbrush…a raccoon or ’possum, maybe. Too small for a deer. All sorts of wildlife shared the acres of dense woods that surrounded and separated the half-dozen houses in the development.
He strode onto the porch, unlocked the front door and went inside, crossing the entryway and climbing the wide wooden stairs without turning on a light. There was no need. He knew where every piece of furniture was located. He hadn’t moved anything in the last three years.
The only thing he’d changed was the room he and Angela had planned to use for a nursery, though the need had never arisen. He’d bought bedroom furniture and that was where he slept. He never entered the room he’d shared with Angela or the one that still held Billy’s twin bed surrounded by his stuffed animals and football posters.
The red light on his answering machine blinked in the darkness as he entered. He flipped on the light and pressed the button to retrieve his messages.
“This is…the woman who ran in front of your car two days ago.” Her hesitant voice emerged from the plastic machine like a soft spring breeze, and he could almost smell the white flowers with satin petals.
“I thought you might have tried to call me. Someone did—a man, the operator said. But when I answered, no one was there and whoever it was never called back. I thought perhaps it was you since you’re the only person besides the police who knows where I am. Although I don’t suppose you know, do you? I’m staying in room 428 at the Newton Arms.”
She recited the hotel’s number then hesitated as if debating whether to say more. He couldn’t tell if she hung up or if her silence triggered the answering machine’s automatic disconnect. In any event, the computerized voice announced that the call had come in at 9:23.
Cole played the message again, listening closely to what she wasn’t saying.
The tight sounds of fear were woven through her precise speech patterns and carefully modulated tones, and every word, every nuance sent guilt shooting through him.
Someone had called her…a wrong number, a reporter, a crank, a nobody…but she was illogically frightened. He’d seen Angela go through that torment a hundred times. Every hang-up call was a potential murderer or kidnapper checking to see if she was home alone.
Not only was he powerless when it came to helping people like Angela and Mary, but he seemed to have a talent for dragging them under, putting them in a position where fears that usually lurked in the background could grab them by the throat.
It was too late to return the call now. Tomorrow morning would have to be soon enough.
He peeled off his clothes and tossed all of them, even the uncomfortable, rented waiter’s uniform, into a pile in one corner then went down the hall to shower.
The cool water felt good sluicing down his body, washing off the stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol and cloying perfume.
Tonight he’d served drinks and hors d’oeuvres at the party while observing and surreptitiously taking pictures of a woman wearing the jewelry she’d reported to her insurance company as stolen. He’d been successful. His employer would be pleased.
But he didn’t feel successful. He felt useless, unfocused, as though he was just stumbling along down the road of life with no purpose and no goal.
Actually, that wasn’t completely true. His mind had consistently focused on one thing tonight…the wrong thing. Tonight’s job—like many of his assignments—was a no-brainer. He’d had nothing to distract him from thoughts of Mary Jackson.
As he’d offered fresh drinks, taken away dirty glasses and emptied ashtrays, her face had kept intruding, a small, pale image that loomed larger and larger, her eyes begging him for help he couldn’t give no matter how much he wanted to.
Then someone would speak to him or bump into him and he’d realize he’d been thinking only of Mary, had lost even the little attention he needed to perform his job. When that happened, he’d forcibly banish her from his thoughts, at least for a few minutes.
Now, after hearing her voice again, he found he couldn’t get her out of his head even for a few minutes. And it was more than guilt, more than a futile desire to help her and salve his conscience.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her smooth, porcelain skin…her long, graceful legs when she’d slid out of bed wearing that short hospital gown…the scents of harsh hospital soap that almost but not quite overpowered her white floral fragrance…the hungry way his body had responded to her nearness…and the brief flash of desire he’d seen in her eyes when they’d met his in the mirror.
He twisted the faucets angrily, shutting off the flow of water the way he wished he could shut off such troublesome thoughts, then, with a muttered curse, dried his body that had responded much too eagerly just to the thought of her.
He returned to his bedroom, flopped onto the unmade bed and switched out the light.
Okay, she was a woman, he was a man, and he lusted for her. So?
So that didn’t make any sense. He knew better than to lust after women with haunted, frightened eyes who needed a champion, a knight in shining armor. He lusted after women with knowing eyes, strong women who needed only what he had to give. And lust was all he had to give.
In spite of the fact that he was exhausted, sleep was elusive. When it finally came, he slept hard and long, waking shortly after nine.
Immediately, even before he made coffee, he called the Newton Arms, but Mary Jackson had already checked out.
He tried to call Pete, at home first since it was Saturday, but got the answering machine. He wasn’t at work, either, so Cole left a message at both places then went downstairs, made a pot of coffee, drank it and had ample time to wonder why he wasn’t pleased that someone—her fiancé?—must have come to claim Mary.
Because he sensed that her fears were of much longer standing than the normal disorientation that amnesia would cause anyone? Because the situation brought back the awful sense of helplessness he’d gone through with Angela?
Because the additional element of sexual attraction had, against all reason and common sense, insinuated itself into the equation?
When the phone finally rang, he snatched it up, half expecting, half hoping it would be her calling to tell him where she was.
“What’s up, buddy?” Pete asked.
Cole was both disappointed and relieved. “The woman I hit—”
“Mary,” Pete interjected. “She asked us to call her Mary Jackson. Sounds better than Jane Doe since that’s what we call all the unidentified female bodies that come through here.”
Cole flinched at the image of Mary on a slab in the morgue. She’d come awfully close to that. If he’d been going a little faster—
“I’ve still got her ring, you know, and when I called her hotel, she’d checked out.”
“Yeah, I just got back from taking her to the Gramercy shelter for a few days. She freaked this morning when I called to tell her that we got the lab results back, and the blood on her dress is definitely human. She started babbling about how she had to get out of that hotel because he knew she was there. Of course, when I asked who he was, she didn’t know and admitted she wasn’t being logical. Seems somebody called her and hung up and she’s positive it wasn’t a wrong number or a bad connection. Pretty paranoid, but maybe that comes with the amnesia.”
“No accident victims in the local hospitals that might belong to that blood?”
“None that admit it. I told her if we got any unidentified bodies, we’d like her to come down and take a look.”
“I’m sure that thrilled her.”
“About as much as when I told her about Sam Maynard coming in yesterday and trying to claim her—”
“Sam the Sleaze?” Cole flinched at the thought of the disgusting pervert coming into contact with Mary’s confusion and vulnerability. “Is he out of jail again? When are you going to put that creep away for good?”
“When he does something we can get him on. He’s a sicko, but he’s smart enough to ride the line between annoying women enough to get his wrists slapped and annoying them enough to get himself a prison term.”
“You think he’d go after her? You think he called her?”
“Sam? Nah. That’s not his style. Too much trouble. He can find plenty of women to accost right on the city streets.”
“If he was hanging around the station, he might have heard somebody mention where she was staying.”
“Could be, but I doubt it. Anyway, when Sam reaches out to touch somebody, he likes it to be in person.”
“Pete, you’re about as funny as a bad case of the flu.”
“I’ll tell you what’s funny, this whole case. I thought it would be open and shut. If you got a bride, the groom can’t be far behind, right? Whole thing’s damn odd.”
“Yeah, it is. Well, I’m glad you got her installed at Gramercy. She ought to feel safe there.”
Cole knew the small shelter Pete was talking about. Next door to a church and staffed by the members, it catered to families and people temporarily down on their luck. A good choice, as shelters went. Nevertheless he had a hard time picturing her there. “I’m going to see her, take her ring back. I’ll reassure her that Sam’s harmless.”
“Good deal. We’re doing what we can on this end, but with no evidence that a crime’s been committed, we can’t dedicate a lot of manpower to it. Well, I got another call. Check you later, buddy.”
After talking to Pete, Cole went into the small room downstairs that he used for a home office. Other than sleeping in his bedroom and storing beer in the kitchen, this was the only room in the house that he used. He had an official office in a nearby business area, a place to meet clients, but this was where he kept his files and did most of his work. This was the room that justified his holding on to a house he didn’t like or want, a house that reminded him every day of his failure.
He opened the top drawer of the desk and took Mary’s ring from its hiding place at the back. In the palm of his hand, the gold shone and the diamond sparkled. It was a beautiful ring, and Mary hated it.
Kind of like the way he felt about this house.
In his own way, he was as helpless as she. He couldn’t rescue her, couldn’t locate her relatives or bring back her memory or even save her from her own fears. Any gallant impulses he had in that direction were pointless.
But he did know someone who would give her a fair appraisal of the ring and loan her money on it. He could contribute that much to easing the trauma of the situation he’d put her in, that much and nothing more.
No matter how much his libido might want him to get more involved.
MARY SAT on the curb in front of the Gramercy Home and tried to push down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to think, to figure out what to do next, and next after that, what to do with the rest of her life in case nobody showed up to tell her who she was, in case she never remembered.
The church that sponsored the shelter owned the entire block as well as the parsonage across the street. The surrounding neighborhood was quiet, an area of older homes, some well kept, some neglected. Overhead, the sun shone cheerfully from a cloudless blue sky and the smell of honeysuckle was sweet on the summer air. She could not have been in less threatening surroundings. Yet the nameless, faceless fear she’d known since the accident refused to leave her.
In her small hotel room on the fourth floor of the Newton Arms, she’d felt isolated, trapped and claustrophobic yet unable to force herself to venture outside. Though she’d let the doctor at the hospital convince her to find a room close to the place where she’d appeared in the hope that familiar surroundings would bring back memories, she was terrified of the area, terrified to leave the hotel.
The hang-up phone call she’d received last night had increased her anxiety. Moving to another area of town, to this shelter recommended by Officer Townley, should have solved those problems. But it hadn’t. Now she felt exposed and vulnerable.
It had nothing to do with the dozen or so other inhabitants of the small shelter. They were basically in the same circumstances as she…homeless, unemployed, no friends or loved ones to care for them. Though actually they were better off than she was. They had memories of homes and loved ones. They knew their own names.
Nor was her feeling of vulnerability directly related to Sam Maynard, the strange man whom Officer Townley said had claimed to be her fiancé. True, the panic had wrapped around her with suffocating intensity at that news and hadn’t completely dissipated with Townley’s assurances that the man was essentially harmless and had no way of knowing where she was staying. The hang-up call the previous evening could have been from him.
But her fear went beyond such specifics. It was free-floating, attached to nothing and everything, all-consuming and illogical.
After completely breaking down that morning when Officer Townley had hit her with the double blow of the pervert who’d wanted to take her home and then told her the blood on her dress was human, she’d resolved to take control, to refuse her fear the power it demanded. Even if she never regained her memory, if no one ever came to take her back to her home and family, she would conquer this unreasoning terror.
A nondescript dark blue sedan pulled over to the curb and her determination vanished as a black dread encompassed her. Her heart began to pound irregularly, perspiration beaded on her forehead and the muscles in her stomach knotted almost painfully. As she got to her feet, her movements seemed to be the slow motion of a nightmare.
Someone coming to the church, she told herself. Someone coming to offer a job to one of the people in the shelter. Someone harmless!
She clenched her fists even as her body involuntarily turned to run back to the shelter.
“Mary!”
She choked down a sob as she recognized the voice, one of the few she could recognize, the only one that didn’t frighten her. Cole Grayson.
He got out of the car and came around to where she stood. Both his blue jeans and the beer logo on his T-shirt were faded and comfortable-looking. He’d shaved but his hair was still shaggy. The sight of him was marvelously, wondrously familiar.
He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a sunburst pattern, a reflection of the sunburst that had spread through her breast at his appearance.
“You sure look different in those jeans than you did in that wedding dress,” he said.
The mention of the dress dimmed that sunburst and shot a painful spasm of unfocused dread through her.
