She opened her eyes and saw two worried faces leaning over her.
“How do you feel?” Becky asked.
Natalie lifted her head only to feel a fresh explosion of pain that made her put her head back down on the hard ground behind her.
“Easy,” the sheriff said, putting his hand on her arm. “You hit your head pretty hard on the pavement when you fainted. You’ve been out of it for a couple minutes. I was about to call an ambulance.”
Natalie winced as she reached around behind her head and felt the bump, which confirmed what he’d said. Fainted? Suddenly the memory came back to her in a hot rush. For one incredible, horrible moment she thought she’d seen the man she’d loved. Incredible because he was dead, and horrible because even in death she knew how much he must hate her.
Her chest squeezed with a fresh wave of pain. For the hundredth time, she wished she could go back and change things.
But what would she change? Meeting him at that bar and going to bed with him? Having Mick find out about him before she could get Scott away from her? Or falling in love with him when she was supposed to be spying on him? If she needed any more proof of her self-imposed Worst Spy Ever title—which she didn’t—that was it. What kind of “honey” falls in love with her trap? A foolish one who was courting heartbreak and misery. Most of all she wished she could change the message that hadn’t reached him in time to save his life.
“I fainted?” she repeated, and then frowned. “I never faint.”
Becky smiled. “Well, you gave a good impression. One minute you were standing there, the next you were white as a sheet and flat on the ground.”
Feeling silly, Natalie started to sit up. But the world started to swim so horribly she had to stop for a minute so she didn’t throw up.
“Not so fast,” the sheriff said. “Maybe I should call that ambulance.”
“No ambulance, please,” Natalie said. “I’m fine.”
But clearly neither the sheriff nor Becky believed her.
“Okay,” the sheriff said. “But we’re taking you to urgent care. It’s just down the block.”
Natalie was feeling bad enough not to argue—even if she thought it would have done her any good. They helped her up and started to lead her down the block, supporting her on each side.
“You said a name,” the sheriff said, eyeing her sideways. “It sounded like ‘Scott.’”
Natalie hoped he would attribute the sudden loss of blood in her face to her injury. She shook her head—which was a mistake as she would have stumbled if they hadn’t been holding her.
When she found her equilibrium again, she was ready with an explanation. She hadn’t seen him, and she wasn’t going to say anything to make them curious. Scott was dead. Mick had been only so happy to tell her that her attempt to call off the mission hadn’t worked. The entire platoon had been killed in the missile blast.
“I said ‘shoot.’ I didn’t eat much today and low blood sugar must have caught up with me when I tried to move too fast.” She smiled at Becky. “Next time I’ll have some of that sandwich you offered me.”
“Or she could let you take a break for lunch,” the sheriff said with a reproachful glance at Becky. “All some people think about are their jobs.”
The diminutive brunette seemed to grow a few inches taller in outrage. She obviously didn’t appreciate the implication. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
Natalie rushed to Becky’s defense, even if she didn’t need it, as it looked as if an argument was brewing. “Becky tried to get me to take a lunch break, but I was in the middle of something and didn’t want to stop. I guess I learned my lesson.”
Fortunately, the conversation didn’t go any further as they arrived at the urgent care facility and Natalie spent the next hour in a number of medical rooms being poked, prodded, and scanned.
The sheriff and Becky were checking on her while she waited for the doctor in the final room where they’d wheeled her in after the scan. Dr. Peters, as he introduced himself, was probably in his mid-fifties, slightly paunchy, with thick wavy gray hair that was long enough to suggest he took pride in it, and a kind face.
He stood right beside the bed, looking down at her. “How are you feeling?”
Natalie’s mouth curved in a wry grin. “A little silly to have caused all this trouble. I didn’t have much to eat all day, and I guess it caught up with me.”
He didn’t argue with her explanation, but began a few tests with her vision, hearing, reflexes, and memory.
When he was done, he looked pleased. “You have a nasty bump on the head, but it seems you were lucky—or have a hard head.”
She laughed. “Probably the latter.”
“Well, in this case that is good. The CT scan didn’t pick up anything, either.”
“Does that mean I can go home?” Natalie asked hopefully.
“I’d like you to stay overnight for observation.”
She heard the operative word: “like.” “But I don’t have to.”
He frowned but admitted, “No. I can’t hold you if you don’t want to stay here. Do you have someone who can stay with you?”
Guessing what Becky and the sheriff were going to say, she nodded and lied, “I can call someone.”
“Good,” the doctor said. “But you shouldn’t drive.”
“That’s okay,” the sheriff said. “I’ll drive her home. I have to head out that way to pick up Sammie from hockey practice later anyway.” Before she could object, he added to her, “You can call me in the next day or two when you need a ride back into town to pick up your car.”
“Or me,” Becky offered.
“That’s fine,” the doctor said. “I have some paperwork for Ms. Wilson to fill out, but if you two wouldn’t mind waiting outside there is something I would like to discuss with her in private.”
Both Brock and Becky looked curious but did as Dr. Peters asked.
Natalie gripped the sheets in her fists, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt like a cornered animal about to be asked a question she didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone answer.
She suspected what the doctor was going to say. From the bandage on the inside of her arm, she figured that along with the head scan they’d taken her blood.
“Are you aware, Ms. Wilson, that you are . . . ?” He paused uncomfortably.
“Pregnant,” Natalie finished for him. “Yes.”
He looked relieved to not be the one breaking the news to her.
Her pregnancy was the reason she was alive and Jen was dead. Natalie had been violently ill and Jen had gone to the drugstore for her. Jen had come down from New York on the train for a long weekend visit so she’d taken Natalie’s car. The men who’d killed Jen thought it was Natalie who’d crashed into that freeway underpass.
As had everyone else. There had been no reason to think otherwise. It had been her car, her keys, and her wallet had any of it remained after the fire that had burned almost everything beyond recognition. Including Jennifer. Ironically, Natalie had insisted Jennifer take her wallet to pay for what she bought at the drugstore. She never dreamed that less than an hour later that insistence would enable her to take over Jennifer’s identity.
A wave of sadness hit her. The horror of her friend’s death was never far from her mind.
Even Natalie’s mother hadn’t realized who it was. She’d been the one to identify the body as it was too difficult on her father to travel. She didn’t want to think about what her death had done to him. To any of them: her dad, her mom, or her sister. The sister who needed her. She never could have cut herself off from Lana—Svetlana—if she wasn’t convinced it was the only way.
Identification mistakes in accidents weren’t unheard of. There was that big case a number of years back involving two Indiana college students in a car crash. One of the girls had been killed and the other so horribly
injured no one—not even the parents—realized their IDs had been mixed up by an officer on the scene until the surviving girl woke from her coma five weeks later and wrote her name.
They, too, had looked close enough to pass for sisters.
In college Natalie and Jennifer used to joke about their resemblance. Jennifer had even used Natalie’s driver’s license as a fake ID for the couple of months before she turned twenty-one.
But now her friend was dead because Natalie had been too sick to drive herself to the store. Natalie had thought her sickness was from the news of Scott’s death, but Jennifer had guessed the truth: she was pregnant with the child of the man who she never should have fallen in love with.
She didn’t know what to think about it so she didn’t think about it. It was called denial. Big-time denial.
Instinctively—almost protectively—her hands went to her stomach. She hadn’t wanted a baby, didn’t know if she was ready to be a mother, and had no idea what she was going to do when the baby came in about twenty-three weeks. But she’d never thought about not having it.
This baby was all she had left of Scott, and she could never give that up—no matter what the difficulty.
“Have you seen a doctor?” Dr. Peters asked.
She nodded. “A couple months ago.” Anticipating the lecture, she added, “I’ve been moving around a lot the past few months. But I’m taking my vitamins.”
“You should make an appointment with one of my colleagues.” He wrote down a name and handed her a card.
Natalie promised to do so in the next few days, and he left, telling her he’d be back to check on her again before she was discharged.
The doctor wasn’t kidding about paperwork. It took her an hour to fill out all the insurance forms—along with identity theft she was now committing insurance fraud—but about two hours later after instructions from Dr. Peters, she was discharged into the sheriff’s care.
Becky walked with them back to his squad car before giving Natalie a hug good-bye and telling her not to come in on Thursday if she didn’t feel well.
The sheriff didn’t attempt to make much small talk during the short drive, which she was grateful for. Being forced to confront the child she was carrying had left her in a contemplative mood. She had to start making plans. She couldn’t pretend this was going to go away. She would be showing soon. Already, she could feel a small bump in her stomach. She needed a story . . . a father.
For about the hundredth time, she said a silent prayer to Scott, begging for his forgiveness.
But she knew he wouldn’t give it to her. She’d betrayed and deceived him. She knew he’d thought he cared for her. But the woman he’d fallen for was an illusion—a fabrication and fantasy. Natalie had been pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Someone confident and savvy and worldly. Someone who weighed fifteen pounds less, whose hair was the perfect shade of California blond, and who loved wearing four-inch stilettos and tight suits.
But that wasn’t her. It was the glossy mask Mick had insisted upon. The real her was much more boring and not at all glamorous. She wore jeans and T-shirts and sneakers and liked her hair in a ponytail. She also liked dessert.
Brock pulled up to the farmhouse a short while later. It was after eight, but thanks to being so far north, it wasn’t completely dark yet.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said to the sheriff as she got out of the car.
He nodded. “You sure you have someone you can call to come stay with you this late?”
“I’m sure.” It was hard enough as it was keeping track of her lies. She’d learned not to offer information unless someone asked. It was a valuable tool.
Fortunately, he didn’t ask, although she could tell he wanted to.
The sheriff waited until she went inside to turn the lights on. She waved from the doorway as he drove off. Only when the taillights had disappeared from the highway did she heave a heavy sigh and close the door.
The sigh didn’t last.
A scream tore from her throat when someone grabbed her from behind, but a swift hand over her mouth snuffed out the sound. Not that it would have done much good. There was no one to hear. Suddenly she was brutally aware of how alone she was out here. The quiet and privacy she’d been seeking could turn out to be her doom.
Instinct took over. She stomped on his foot and heard the welcome groan. Taking advantage of his surprise, she slammed her elbow straight back into his gut and whipped around ready to use the flat of her palm to shove his nose up to his brains.
But his moment of shock was gone. He easily blocked her blow, caught her wrist, and twisted her arm around—hard—to bring her tight against him. She’d been well taught, but he was in a different league. He made her efforts seem like child’s play. It took only an instant for her to realize why.
The contact and the heat of his body stunned her. Confused her. It was almost . . .
Muscle memory.
The instinct to fight died. She knew even before she looked up and saw his face. The man in the car hadn’t been a ghost. Scott wasn’t dead.
Euphoria rose up inside her. “You’re alive!” she burst out, the tears not far behind. “Thank God, you’re alive!”
“Save it,” he said sharply, pricking her happiness as if it were a balloon. Pop. Clearly, he wasn’t feeling the same happiness and relief at seeing her aboveground and not six feet under. His face was an icy mask of rage. Even his eyes—normally deep blue—had turned as wintry as slate.
He looked so different from the man she’d come to know that she was surprised she’d recognized him at all. Scott was the quintessential naval officer. Though most SEALs adopted the “relaxed grooming standards” of secret special operations units, Scott wasn’t the relaxing type—about anything. He was by-the-book regulation, and rarely had she ever seen him not shaved and impeccably groomed.
Now was one of those times. His face hadn’t seen a razor in at least a week and his hair was both darker (she suspected dyed) and longer than she’d ever seen it. Maybe even a little past his ears. And wavy.
She’d had no idea.
Even the clothes he was wearing were standard, off-the-rack cargo shorts and a long-sleeve T-shirt. The very first night they’d met she’d been struck by his well-put-together appearance. Later she learned why. Scott had been raised with incredible wealth—that old East Coast family kind of wealth—and his clothes reflected that. Not that he was flashy. It was actually the opposite. Everything was just nice: the fit, the fabric, and very understated. She’d never met anyone who had bespoke suits from London—she’d actually never even heard that word before she’d questioned him about why his suits looked as if they’d been made for him. They had.
Only the flexed jaw and small white lines around his mouth were vaguely familiar. But this wasn’t the unyielding, tough-as-nails, but always controlled SEAL commander that she’d seen once or twice in a meeting. This was the dangerous special ops commando who looked as if he could take down anything in his way. His fierce expression and scruffy appearance coupled with eyes that were bloodshot from lack of sleep gave him a feral, menacing edge that she’d never seen before.
“You work fast, Natalya. I see you found another poor sucker to get information out of. What state secrets does the county sheriff have?”
She barely heard the last two sentences. She was too stuck on the first. Natalya. Dread fell through her like a rock. He’d used her birth name.
He knew.
Five
Colt Wesson stood outside his ex-wife’s front door and experienced a rare moment of indecision. He probably should turn around, get back in his car, and head straight to the airport like he’d originally planned. But he’d been driving by her exit and decided impulsively to make a detour.
He’d stayed away from Kate for ten days. After having the rug pulled out from under him twice on the same day—not
only learning that some of the guys that he’d thought were dead for months, guys who were like brothers to him, were alive, but also that his now ex-wife hadn’t had an affair with one of his best friends when they were married, they were actually brother and sister—he hadn’t trusted himself to talk to her. How could she have kept that kind of information from him? How could she have let him think the worst?
But after returning Scott’s message last night—two days after it had been left—and agreeing to go to Alaska to track down Travis Hart, Colt had broached the subject with his former friend, teammate, and unknown ex-brother-in-law.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he’d asked Taylor before they’d hung up.
There had been a long moment of silence on the other end. Colt didn’t need to explain. Taylor knew what he was asking: if Colt had known Kate and Taylor were related, he never would have . . .
Shit. Colt wasn’t sure he wanted to go down that path. Everything would have been different. His marriage. His job. His stomach knifed. The miscarriage and baby he’d thought wasn’t his. A baby he hadn’t wanted then but now couldn’t stop thinking about. He’d had a daughter.
Why the fuck hadn’t they told him the truth?
“If you have questions, you should ask Kate.” Scott paused before adding, “Better yet, you should have done that three years ago.”
Colt didn’t miss the censure in Taylor’s voice and it pissed him off. Colt had tried, damn it. But what the hell was he supposed to think? He and Kate had been having problems in their four-year-long marriage. Big problems. He knew he’d been pushing her away. But he’d never expected her to turn to Taylor.
It seemed as if every time Colt turned around, his wife was talking to his friend. There were texts. E-mails. Obviously private conversations that Colt felt as if he was interrupting when she came to see him in Honolulu. Taylor sat on Colt’s living room couch more than he did. At first he’d attributed it to rich people bonding. Their parents had known one another, which didn’t surprise him in the close-knit circles of the East Coast elite. But when he discovered that Taylor had been in DC for weeks where Kate lived and worked while Colt had been training with the team in Arizona, he’d finally confronted her.
Out of Time Page 7