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“Murphy.” The name evoked no emotions. Not even a sliver of recognition.
“Am I a student?”
“You’re a massage therapist.” She had no emotional reaction to that information either, but a fleeting tingle raced across her hands as if she could recall her fingers kneading muscles. Was the image a memory? Or something she’d envisioned when he mentioned her occupation? If he’d told her she was a teacher or a doctor, would she have had the same reaction and imagined chalk dust on her skin or a scalpel in her hands?
“Am I married?”
“No.”
She couldn’t decide whether his answer pleased her or not. While she could imagine how awful it would be to return to a loving husband or child and not recognize them, the idea of leaning on someone who loved her had its own merits.
The fact that Clay knew more about her than she knew about herself left an eerie hollowness in her that she wanted to fill with more facts. He could be making up the information, lying to her, and she’d never know, but why would he do that?
“Do I have family?”
“You were adopted, and your adoptive parents divorced when you were little.”
Lightning flashed, zigzagging over the water and brightening the sky in a blaze of white light followed by cold, damp darkness. They needed to get off the beach, but her thoughts distracted her. In her mind, she saw a woman’s face, just for a moment, and then it was gone. The woman was weeping, fat lonely tears. Another memory? Or her mind playing more tricks on her? Seconds later, thunder rolled across the beach with the razor-sharp wind, slicing the sand against them.
Clay pulled her into a run. “I’ll tell you everything once we get out of this weather. The most important thing you need to know is that I’m CIA and I was sent to protect you.”
Yeah, right. And she was Lois Lane. She dug her heels into the sand and tried to jerk him back. Only her action didn’t go quite the way she planned. Clay simply had too much bulk for her to yank him to a halt. He kept going, as if her resistance was futile. However, while he failed to stop, she ended up flying forward, smacking into him with a force that made her knees wobble. To steady her, he let go of her wrist, and his arms came around her, anchoring her.
“If you wanted me to carry you, you could have just said so,” he teased without the slightest smile, but the warmth in his tone calmed her a little.
She refused to lean into that warmth. “I suppose you can prove you’re with the CIA.”
He reached into his back pocket and took out very official-looking identification with his picture sealed beneath the plastic. In the picture his black hair was shorter, his jaw clean-shaven, but it was definitely him. But then, anyone could create fake documents with a computer and a good color printer.
“How come you didn’t identify yourself earlier?” she asked without bothering to hide her doubts.
“I’m not supposed to.” He frowned, as if breaking the rules was something he didn’t do lightly. “But with your amnesia, it now seems necessary.”
She glanced from the ID back to him, wishing she had her memory, wondering if she could be in some kind of trouble. Or maybe she was wrong. Despite how scared she’d felt earlier, she had no facts or memories to back up her conviction that she’d been fighting for her life. But whom had she been fighting? And why?
What could a massage therapist know that would be critical to her government? Had she had some important client who yakked in her ear while she rubbed the stress out of his shoulders?
And didn’t the FBI handle domestic problems and the CIA operate overseas? What would the CIA want with her, a massage therapist? She tapped his ID. “You have an office I can call to verify this?”
“I’m undercover. I’m only allowed to check in after the first part of my mission is accomplished.”
“How convenient.”
His eyes narrowed as he accepted her insult and tossed her words back in her face. “It’s not convenient at all. I’d prefer to have backup.”
“Then why don’t you have help?” she asked, wondering if she’d feel better or worse if he had an accomplice. An accomplice could verify his lie as well as the truth and then she’d have to outwit two of them to escape—not that she was doing so jamup terrific with just him.
His lips moved but thunder roared so loudly, she couldn’t hear his answer. When he dragged her against him, she instinctively yanked back. Found herself caught like a mosquito in a giant spiderweb.
Her stomach knotted so tightly, she had to fight to suck in air. He’d finally stopped trying to talk to her. She braced for a fist to her jaw or a jab to her churning stomach.
But he didn’t so much as slap her.
Instead, inexorably, his superior strength overwhelmed her struggles and forced her chest right up against his, her hips cradled to the hard quadriceps in his thighs. Even with wet clothing between them, she could feel heat radiating from him, feel the frustration he’d kept locked beneath rigid muscles and a stern scowl. He was so powerful, with his large traps and biceps, that she didn’t stand a chance of escape. At that realization, she gulped air and a little rain, choking on what could be her last breath.
When he dipped his head and spoke in her ear, she finally realized that he’d only pulled her close so she could hear him above the storm. “Do you know anything about guns?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” She swayed with the fear swelling up her throat as he took out a gun.
He pried open her fingers and placed the gun in her hand. The cold metal and unfamiliar feel of the grip set her hand to shaking. Stunned, confused, she tried to read the expression in his eyes, but the lightning refused to cooperate and flash. The wind kept roaring, blowing bits of sand that pinged against her exposed flesh and shredded her reasoning until she could barely read her own thoughts.
Again, he spoke into her ear. “Does holding this gun make you feel any safer?”
Why should it? She didn’t know how to use it. However, as the weight settled in her hand, she finally realized that he’d given her the gun in an attempt to alleviate her fear. Her hand stopped shaking as some of her panic subsided.
When he leaned over this time to speak above the howling wind, she didn’t automatically jerk back. He pointed to a little switch on the gun. “The gun won’t fire unless you flick the safety to the off position.” He demonstrated, then flicked the switch back. “Once the safety is off, you only have to pull the trigger and the gun will shoot. If I let you keep the gun, will you ride with me on the bike? I need one hand for the clutch, one for the throttle.”
If she refused, what would he do? She really didn’t want to find out. Besides, while she knew he was trying to stem her fears, she didn’t want to seem like a pushover. But she didn’t want to tick him off by remaining so suspicious when he so obviously wanted her to believe him.
As her teeth chattered and her terror slowly subsided, she finally let him float his jacket over her shoulders and placed the gun in the pocket. The leather enclosed her in a cocoon of black warmth and quiet heat. She liked the scent of the leather mixed with his own spicy musk. “Where are we going?”
When they reached his bike, he said, “First, to find you a doctor.”
Melinda nodded in agreement. A doctor could keep her safe—call the police and verify Clay’s story.
He placed an extra helmet on her head and donned his own, revved the bike’s engine and then helped her sit behind him. He guided her feet to foot pegs, and then, uncertainly, she wrapped her arms around him. She couldn’t reach completely around his huge body, so she twisted her fingers through his heavy leather belt.
As soon as they started down the beach, she realized that, due to their speed, his body sheltered her from the worst of the elements. But wind whipped at their already wet clothing, making her extra grateful for the protection of his jacket.
If he intended her harm, he wouldn’t have given her his jacket, would he? Nor would he have insisted that she keep the gun.
Yet she couldn’t help wondering if he’d made the gesture just to win her cooperation, to woo her into a false sense of security. As he smoothly drove off the beach and onto the road up the coast, she considered whether she should try to flee at the first red light.
She couldn’t run faster than Clay on foot, never mind Clay on his bike. Deciding she had no choice but to stay with him for now, she vowed to focus on regaining her memory.
She studied the storefronts, hoping for a few more flashes, glimmers into her past that she believed had momentarily surfaced back on the beach. Nothing came to her until they passed a grocery store, the same chain where she shopped! She was sure of it, Just as she’d known when she’d run from Clay that if she could have made it to the water, she could swim. Somehow she knew she was an excellent swimmer, yet she had no concrete memory to pin her facts on.
She kept peering through the rain, wondering if she would recognize her house if she saw it. Her house? A picture of a tiny bungalow with a sagging roof and a cute mellow-yellow front porch with lots of hanging plants came to mind. She thought she lived there, maybe rented the house. She envisioned the cozy layout, two comfortable bedrooms divided by a bath, a small, friendly living room, a tidy but minuscule kitchen. She stored her windsailing equipment in the roomy shed out back and tried to think of a number on her mailbox or a street sign to help her figure out her address.
Nothing.
Frustrated, yet pleased that parts of her memory seemed to be returning, she tried to be patient. The man on the cycle in front of her caused another entirely new set of problems for her to consider as he repeatedly checked his rearview mirror as if expecting someone to follow them.
Did he watch so vigilantly for the police? Or the return of the two men he’d claimed had run her off the road?
Either scenario made her stomach churn with anxiety. If Clay feared the cops, then he was a bad guy. If he worried over the return of the two men, then someone had just tried to kill her.
As Melinda worried over whether or not to trust Clay Rogan, she felt the heavy gun weighing down her pocket and considered whether she could shoot someone and snuff out a life—for eternity. Without a lifetime of memories, she figured that her biggest handicap was that not only didn’t she know if she could trust Clay, she didn’t know if she could trust herself. She didn’t know her own values. She didn’t know if she voted Republican, Democratic or Independent. She didn’t know how she’d react to danger, didn’t know if she could aim the gun and pull the trigger—not even if her life depended on it.
CLAY SAW NO SIGN of pursuit. But no way could he relax or forget their pressing problems with Melinda pressed so tightly to him. Even through the leather jacket he’d given her to wear, he could feel her shivering on the seat behind him. So far he hadn’t done such a hot job of protecting her, but now that he’d found her, he was determined that would change.
With the sky dark from horizon to horizon, rain teeming down in giant buckets and lightning occasionally striking nearby, the huge thunderstorm showed no signs of abating. Without a direct sign of pursuit, he couldn’t justify fleeing with Melinda possibly still in shock and injured. She needed to be warm. Needed to see a doctor.
His first thought was taking off her wet clothes and heating her with his own body. But he shoved the inappropriate image aside almost immediately.
Instead he peered through the rain and spied a coffeehouse in one of those strip malls that included an ice-cream shop, a ladies boutique and a gift emporium. After parking the bike where it wouldn’t be easily spotted, he took her icy hand in his. Guilt stabbed him for not taking better care of his charge. First she almost drowned, then almost froze to death. “Come on.”
“Where’re we going?” She spoke slowly between chattering teeth.
“To get you dry and warm.”
He opened the boutique door and ushered her inside, hoping to be hit with a blast of warmth. But air-conditioning turned on cool made it seem as if they’d entered a refrigerator.
A middle-aged woman doing paperwork behind a desk took one look at his black leather jacket wrapped around a dripping-wet Melinda and frowned. “Can I help you?” she asked hesitantly, her soft Southern accent firm but polite.
Clay reached for his wallet and took out two hundred-dollar bills. “We got caught in the storm. The lady needs a towel and a new outfit to wear home.”
The saleslady glanced from the cash to Melinda and her face brightened. “I have just the thing. You poor dear.”
Ten minutes later, Clay had his soggy jacket back, and Melinda left the store wearing new navy stretch jeans and matching denim jacket over a red slinky top that showed an inch of skin at her flat stomach. Her teeth had finally stopped chattering, although her lips still held a tinge of blue. Clay noted the bulge in her jacket pocket and realized she’d transferred the gun to her new attire.
“I’ll pay you back when I—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Clay held her elbow and escorted her toward the coffee shop. “How about a bowl of hot soup and some coffee?”
“Hot anything sounds good.”
He knew she referred to the food, but his mind did a double take anyway. Such a sexually oriented thing—the male mind. He doubted she realized that while she’d changed clothes in the privacy of a cubicle and he’d stood guard, his mind had played all kinds of tricks on him. He’d imagined her peeling back her wet shirt and shorts to reveal very rounded curves. He’d wondered if she’d removed her wet underthings or kept them on. While it should have made no difference at all to him whether or not she still wore underwear, he couldn’t help wondering whether he would be able to tell once she warmed up and removed her jacket.
He’d unintentionally brushed against her breasts too many times today not to be curious. Yet…while he knew his thoughts to be distracting and totally unprofessional, he had too much male in him to resist indulging in the fantasy. He’d wondered why he was so fascinated with her—he liked slim blondes, didn’t he? But suddenly he realized that he’d been deceiving himself. Curvy brunettes had a lot to offer.
Idiot. She’s not offering you anything.
They had the coffee shop to themselves, and Clay commandeered a booth near the foggy front window where he could watch the parking lot while they ate and talked. After the waitress took the orders, he could practically see the questions reflected in Melinda’s topaz eyes.
“Why is the CIA interested in me?” she asked.
She might not have her memories, but her keen intelligence showed as she burned through the fog and fired to the heart of the matter. He drummed his fingers on the table. How much should he tell her? He was supposed to gain her trust before asking about the documents, and she certainly didn’t trust him yet. In fact, he considered himself lucky that she hadn’t tried to convince the saleslady or the waitress to call the cops.
“Since you’ve lost your memory, I’m going to have to explain some things to you before I answer your question.”
She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. She’d done something to her hair, pulling it back from her face, smoothing it into a semblance of order. But water kept trickling from it, one suggestive droplet running down her neck and onto the thin red shirt.
He had to force his eyes to remain on her face and not follow the enticing direction the water had taken. “You have a brother and a sister, but after your parents died, the siblings were split up. Your older brother, Jake Cochran, grew up in foster homes and started looking for you the day he graduated from high school. Until recently, he couldn’t find you. But then he uncovered copies of your birth certificates. The information led him to—”
Her eyes narrowed. “My own brother wants me dead?”
“On the contrary. Jake asked the government to protect you. So here I am.” Clay gave her the simplified version of his story. While Jake had never asked the government to protect his sister, he had hired bodyguards for both sisters. Before Melinda’s bodyguard could contact her, he’d been grievously wounded but had survived for several hours before he’d died. He’d used those hours to contact the director for help.
“And why does my brother think I need protection?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Why don’t we call and ask him?”
“We suspect he’s running for his own life right now.”
“And my sister?”
“She has already gone underground.”
The waitress returned and placed coffee cups and steaming bowls of chowder in front of them. Melinda tasted her coffee and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Clay asked.
“Apparently I don’t like coffee.”
The waitress gave her an odd look.
“Could I have a hot chocolate instead?”
“You like hot chocolate?” Clay asked as he sipped his own black coffee.
“I’m not sure. The request slipped out before I thought about it.”
“Have any of your memories returned?”
She shook her head, but he wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. “It’s horrible, you know? The worst is not trusting…my own reactions.” She looked at the soup in front of her as if it might bite her, then determinedly looked deep into her bowl. “I don’t even know if I like clam chowder.”
“There’s one way to find out.” Sensing her vulnerability, knowing she was hanging on to her dignity by just a few threads, he handed her the spoon.
She hesitated, then accepted the utensil. He figured she might take the tiniest taste, but she filled the spoon to the rim and took a full bite. “Mmm.” She swallowed and scooped up more of the thick chowder. “Delicious.”
“I know it must be frightening to have forgotten your past, but maybe you could look at it as an adventure—”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Think of all the fun things you can learn all over again.” Like kissing and making love and…Clay shut the thought down hard. He didn’t like his mind drifting while he tried to make a point. He didn’t need the distraction of thoughts about sex. He needed to keep his personal life separate from business, each segment neat and tidy in its own compartment to be taken out and savored at the right time. “Everything is a new experience for you. But maybe they’ll be good experiences.”
“Like when I rode a roller coaster for the first time. I was scared to death but it was a blast.”
“You remember?” he asked, hopeful. He needed her memory to return as soon as possible. It was critical to recovering the documents her brother had sent her.
“I remember the wind in my face. My stomach swooping in fear. It was exhilarating—not the sickening fear I felt back on the beach.”
If one memory had returned, maybe the others would follow. Clay told himself not to push her. He couldn’t afford to scare her again. He needed her trust.
AS MELINDA ATE, she wondered if Clay Rogan was playing her for a fool. But if he meant her harm, if he wasn’t with the CIA, would he have been so concerned about her health? Ignoring his own discomfort, Clay had given her his jacket, and she suddenly realized how cold he must have been, riding in front and taking the brunt of the rain. Imagining the chill factor alone made her shiver.
