by Cynthia Eden
His gaze was fixed on her.
“We have a name. That’s something to work with. We can use the computer in the den. I mean, come on, it’s the social media age. There has to be a picture out there. We can look at the picture and compare it to you. John Smith, in Miami.” Okay, sure, John Smith was way too common of a name, but it was a starting point. She squeezed his arm. “You were in the military. A Ranger. You were one of the good guys.”
“Are you sure I’m good?”
She forced herself to smile at him. “You’d better be. Or else I’m in some serious trouble.”
He didn’t smile back at her. Instead, he turned his body toward her, and the hand that had been gripping the back of the chair rose. His knuckles trailed over her cheek. “I can remember everything about you,” he rasped. “Except…”
“Except what?”
His gaze fell to her mouth. “I don’t remember how you taste.”
Her stomach clenched. “That’s because we’ve never kissed.” They’d never met. Right?
“I know what you look like when you’re barely dressed. When you’re walking on a beach wearing a blue bikini and driving me insane.”
Over the spring and summer, she’d worn her blue bikini plenty of times in Miami. Perhaps he’d seen her. Maybe they’d even met on the beach. Chatted in one of those quick, hello talks that people had. Could it be as simple as that? No, no, that wouldn’t explain how he knew about her coffee or her—
“I’d like to taste you, Shelly.”
OhmyGod. “John, no.” But somewhere inside of her, a little voice whispered, Yes, please.
She saw his pupils expand and she knew he’d just read her mind. “I told you to stay out.” The words burst from her.
He gave a jerky nod. “Breakfast is getting cold.”
He backed away from her. Her knees had locked. He pulled out the chair, holding it for her. She was still not moving. And she was still thinking about the fact that, dammit, yes, she did want to know what he tasted like, too. Because there was an awareness between them, a stark desire that she’d never felt before. Primitive. Basic.
So hot that her skin felt singed.
Shelly sat down. He pushed her chair forward and his fingers lingered on her shoulder. “When you’re ready for my mouth, tell me.” He walked around the table. Sat across from her. Stared at Shelly with glittering eyes. “Because, baby, I’ve been ready for you a very, very long time.”
She didn’t speak. Mostly because Shelly didn’t know what to say. She grabbed the bacon. She grabbed the eggs. She used her mouth to eat. And she tried not to think about just all the things that John Smith would be able to do to her…with his mouth.
***
He had a name. John Smith.
John.
“That’s you.” Shelly’s fingertips were poised over the keyboard. They were in the den, with its tall, sweeping ceiling and the walls made of gleaming wood. She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze worried as it landed on him. “That’s definitely you in the picture.”
They’d pulled up an obituary for John Smith of Miami. A short and simple piece that stated the thirty-three-year-old former Army Ranger had been killed in an unsolved attack. The picture of him—well, the picture appeared to be a few years old, but Shelly was right.
It sure as hell was him.
“Your parents are dead.” Her voice was soft. “And you don’t have any siblings or other relatives listed. I’m…I’m sorry.”
His temples were pounding. His gut was twisting, and he had more fucking questions than ever before. “How does a dead man in Miami…how does he end up in some government lab?”
She bit her lip. Then she started typing on the computer again. “Lazarus, right? That’s what you said?”
“Yes. Project Lazarus.” He’d heard the whispers.
She searched and searched online, but Shelly didn’t turn up anything. He could practically feel her frustration. It matched his own. “We need more help,” she finally said. “I’ll call Blane. Tell him about you. He’s the sheriff, so he’ll have pull that we can use.”
John stiffened at the mention of the other man’s name. “I don’t think so.”
But she jumped to her feet and whirled to face him. “Why the hell not? Look, we can’t just leave a search party looking for you endlessly. We’ll go to Blane, we’ll tell him—”
“That I’m a dead man walking? That I’ve got super speed, super hearing, that I’m some kind of super freak?” John demanded. John. The name still felt odd but it was better than not being anyone at all. “He’ll call in his contacts, all right, and the same government assholes who locked me up before will swoop in again. I won’t go back to that hell. I can’t.” He couldn’t be locked up again. “They killed me, Shelly. Killed me so that they could bring me back, and I can’t go through that again.” Not and keep his sanity.
She held his stare. Nodded. “I understand.” There was sympathy on her face. She felt sorry for him. Dammit, he didn’t want her pity. He wanted her. He’d wanted her for months. A ghost in his head. An obsession that was now right in front of him. He wanted to reach out and take her.
“I won’t let them take you, I promise, John.”
Her words were sweet, but she had no idea what they were up against. He’d never forget the explosions that had rocked the lab. The attack that had come from nowhere. Another test subject had been there—one that he’d never been allowed to see, but he’d heard the docs talking about her.
Willow.
She’d escaped the wreckage of that lab, too. Only he didn’t know what had happened to her. At the time, he’d been jealous of her—Willow got a name.
He got a freaking number. Twelve. John cleared his throat. “Someone else was being held there. A woman named Willow. Heard the doctors talking about her. Always wondered…hell, did she experience the same nightmare I did?”
Shelly’s hand closed around his arm. He was still just wearing his jeans, and the flesh to flesh contact with her seemed to burn right through him. Did she have any idea how much he craved her touch? He’d been isolated in that lab. Treated like an animal. He barely remembered what it was like to be human, but he was trying. Fucking hell, he was trying…for her.
“We won’t tell Blane everything. Just enough that he’ll help us.” She bit her lower lip. He didn’t want her doing that. When she did cute shit like that with her mouth, she made him want to bite, too. “Let’s go to town. We need to get you some clothes and supplies, and we can stop by the sheriff’s station.”
He’d come to her with only the clothes on his back. Humiliation burned through him. “I know I wasn’t always like this.”
She didn’t speak.
“I was normal. Maybe I can be normal again.”
Her smile lit her face. Made her dark eyes shine. Made his heart ache. “I’ve always found normal to be highly over-rated.”
His lips parted. He leaned toward her, wanting nothing more than to pull her close, to feel the warmth of her against him. She was laughter and light, and she was what he’d dreamed of when he’d been in that lab. When he’d been empty inside, a dead man locked away from the world. She was life. She was everything, and she was right the hell there.
But then her smile disappeared. “John? What’s wrong?”
He’d scared her. He’d let his mask slip again. The desperation he felt must have shone on his face. The old guy at the bar had seen his desperation, too. John knew he had. And that was why the man had demanded that John get the hell away from Shelly.
I can’t leave her now.
He tried to think. Tried to figure out what to say that would make her forget the stark hunger that must have been on his face. A craving for her. “It’s Christmas,” he blurted.
Her eyes widened. Then she nodded. “Almost Christmas. We have a few more days.”
“But you don’t have a tree. No decorations. Nothing here.”
Shadows swept over her face. “No, no, I don’t.” She dr
opped her hand. “I…um, I haven’t had the best year, I guess you could say. My father died. My…my brother, too.” Her lower lip trembled. “My mom died when I was just a kid, and they were all I had left. I didn’t exactly plan to celebrate this year. I came here to get away from everything back in Miami. This place—it was always my retreat. You know what I mean, right? Everyone needs a safe place and—” She stopped. “Oh, God, I sound like such a bitch. No, you don’t know what I mean. I’m sorry, I—”
“I’m sorry about your family.” Tension had thickened his body and his temples were pounding. Again, he had that instinctive feeling of danger. The feeling that something was very, very wrong.
“And I’m sorry for everything that’s happened to you.” She swiped away a tear that had trickled onto her cheek. He didn’t like that she was crying. “Christmas was always so happy for me. Putting up the tree without them just didn’t seem right.”
He nodded. He wanted to pull her close. To hold her. Was that okay? Was that wrong?
Her breath sighed out as her gaze searched his. “But you don’t know that, either, do you? You don’t remember holidays, good or bad.”
“I remember…” His voice was a rasp. “I remember what a holiday is. I know Christmas is trees with twinkling lights. Families exchanging presents. I know that just like I know Halloween is when kids dress up and get candy. I know facts—I don’t know my own memories. It’s like they were just wiped away.”
Another tear slipped down her cheek. He realized that she was crying for him. Before she could brush away the tear, his finger slipped across her cheek, catching the drop. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Baby, please, don’t ever cry for me.”
She was right there. Standing in front of him. He was touching her. His dream. His fantasy. He’d lost so much, but she was there. And she meant something to him—hell, she meant everything. If he could just figure out the puzzle pieces.
“You can make new memories,” she told him. “You can get your life back.”
Could he?
“We’ll get Blane to help us. You’ll see. He’s one of the good guys, too. We can figure this all out.”
He wasn’t as convinced as she was. His hand lingered against the silk of her cheek. Her scent filled his lungs. He wanted nothing more than to put his mouth on hers but…
Her choice. Always.
He stepped back.
“I-I have an SUV in the garage. Four wheel drive. My brother kept it here and after he passed, I just…” She gave a hard shake of her head. “I know your shirt has a bullet hole in it, but if you can wear it to town, I swear, we’ll get more clothes for you once we’re there.”
Like he cared about a hole in his shirt. What mattered more—her. “The shooter could be in town.”
“It…it was a hunter…” Yet Shelly didn’t even sound as if she believed those words.
John shook his head. “Someone is targeting you. If we go to town, you stay with me, every second, you understand?”
“What are you? My bodyguard?”
His heart seemed to jerk.
She laughed. “I was just kidding. Though someone with your super skills would make for one killer bodyguard.”
You’re a killer…
The whisper slid through his head.
“Come on. We should get going before Blane and his crew waste more time searching for a dead man.” She hurried toward the door.
But his gaze fell back on the computer. She’d found no hits with Project Lazarus, but they had found an obituary for John Smith.
And John Smith…he could read between the lines of the obituary. He’d been a loner, a trained hunter, military through and through.
Someone who knew how to fight. Someone who knew how to kill.
Someone who was very, very dangerous.
And whatever they did to me in that lab, they just made me even more of a weapon.
Chapter Four
“Holy shit,” the sheriff breathed as he surged to his feet. He stood behind his desk, his hand sliding toward the gun holstered on his hip. “You’re a dead man.”
John moved forward, instantly positioning his body between the sheriff’s twitchy trigger finger and Shelly.
“I got men looking for you! And you’re right here, in my damn station?”
“Blane, calm down.” Shelly slid to John’s side. She had her arms crossed over her chest. “He was injured yesterday. He was hurt. He was confused. He found his way to my cabin, and I patched him up.”
Blane’s eyes doubled. “Patched him up? The man was freaking shot in the back! He should have died—” He hurried toward John. “Instead, he looks totally fine.”
John was fine. Better than fine.
“What the actual fuck?” Blane snarled. He glared at John. His green gaze was hard with fury. “How did you get to her cabin? That’s over an hour’s drive from the scene where you leapt from the ambulance—”
“I’m really fast,” John cut in. “I ran there.”
“Bullshit. No one is that fast. And no way could you travel that far, on foot, in the cold. You couldn’t—”
“Don’t be too sure,” Shelly muttered.
Blane parted his lips to respond, but Shelly put her hand on his chest.
A growl instantly vibrated in John’s throat.
She looked up at him. “What?”
He didn’t like her touching the other guy. And something dark and twisting inside of him was flaring to life.
“Buddy, your ass is under arrest,” Blane snarled. He yanked up a pair of cuffs and took an aggressive step toward John.
“What? No!” Shelly’s voice rose. “He saved my life yesterday! He was confused, so he wandered away from the scene.” She shook her head. “He’s still confused. I-I think he hit his head. He doesn’t even remember his name.”
“Does he remember that he stole a truck?” Blane demanded. The guy’s face was sharp with his anger.
John didn’t like the sheriff. Not one bit. “I could smell her brake fluid in the parking lot of that bar. I took the truck because she needed help. Did you want me to let her die?”
Blane’s slightly pointed chin jutted into the air.
“I’ll pay for damages to the truck. I’ll talk to the owner, I’ll smooth things over,” Shelly retorted quickly. “But don’t arrest him. John needs our help.”
Now suspicion was plain to see on the sheriff’s face. “I thought you said he didn’t remember his name.”
Shelly glanced back at John. A quick, nervous glance before she focused on the sheriff once more. “He…you’re the one who told us his name was John. John Smith. You got that from the fingerprints left in the truck. After I talked with you on the phone, we pulled up John Smith’s picture at my place, and the guy’s obituary photo was a match.”
“Shelly,” Blane snapped out her name.
And John really didn’t appreciate the guy’s tone.
“We need to talk,” Blane continued curtly. “Alone. Right the hell now.” He pointed to the door. “Outside, got it, buddy? Stand outside my door.” Then he marched toward the door, obviously expecting John to follow him.
He didn’t. Instead, his fingers swept down Shelly’s arm. He leaned close to her. “Want me to knock out the sheriff?” One good punch would do it.
“No!” Her eyes had gone so wide. “Just go outside. I’ll handle this.”
He didn’t move.
“Please,” she whispered.
“I don’t like the way he talks to you.” And he said that part loud enough for the asshat sheriff to overhear.
Blane gaped at him. “What?”
“Don’t snap at her. Watch your ass around her.”
“Are you threatening me?”
No, he was just giving a warning that the guy should accept.
“Wait outside, John,” Shelly urged. “You’ll just be a few feet away from me.”
Fine. For her. He took his time walking out of the little office. Blane barked for a fresh-faced, redhea
ded deputy to watch John. What the hell ever. Then the sheriff slammed the door.
Was that supposed to do anything? A closed door? John propped his shoulders against the wall and got ready to listen to Sheriff Blane’s “talk” with Shelly. And if that jerk didn’t heed John’s warning…
I’ll be going in there.
***
“Are you insane?” Blane demanded as he paced around his office. He always paced when he was stressed, she remembered that old habit. “I get that your year has been shit, but, seriously, Shelly, you let that bastard stay at your place last night?”
She cringed, knowing John would be overhearing every word. “He saved my life—”
“He stole a truck! And I did some checking. Sammy told me that he made you nervous at the bar, that you were scared of him when you first saw the fellow last night.”
Aw, crap. She risked a fast glance over her shoulder. “I wasn’t afraid of him.” That was a wee lie. “I just didn’t understand who he was.”
Blane stopped pacing and threw his hands into the air. “How do you know who he is now? You said—”
“The fingerprints are right. I think he’s John Smith, Army Ranger, formerly of Miami, and I think—”
“John Smith is dead.”
She stared at him. “And you thought the guy who saved me was dead last night. Maybe someone else made that mistake with him before. Make a call for me, okay? Contact the authorities down in Miami—see what you can learn about John.”
He blinked at her. “What the hell did you just do?”
She didn’t understand.
He pointed at her. “Your voice went soft when you said his name. Jesus, Shelly! Do not do this to me.”
She could only shake her head. She wasn’t following him.
“You did it when we were kids all the time. You’d find some stray—some hurt animal—and you’d take it in! You fell for any sob story that anyone sang to you. Your heart was always too soft, and you were too damn trusting.”
She stiffened but didn’t deny his accusations. Was it really so wrong to help hurt animals? And people who’d been a bit down on their luck?
“This guy isn’t some lost dog! He’s not some broke tourist. He’s trouble.”