Triggered Response

by Patricia Rosemoor

  Normally she didn’t believe in guilt, she simply hadn’t been raised to worry about what she told people. But for once in her life, Claire was shaken enough to feel real guilt that she’d gone further than she should have to fool Bray into believing they were a couple.

  Worse, she was supposed to be figuring out what happened to her best friend, not sleeping with someone who could be the enemy.

  Bray’s hand moving on her breast and his fingers playing with her nipple distracted her from that thought.

  “What, you’re not asleep?” she asked.

  “Is that what I usually do?”

  A rhetorical question.

  He didn’t wait for an answer, hooked a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her head to his for a deep, arousing kiss that momentarily superceded doubt.

  HE’D SWEAR he’d never had sex with this woman before.

  Surely he would remember if he had. That thought entered Bray’s mind the moment he awoke. Claire was curled up against him, all warm and soft. She made little noises in her sleep. Noises that set him off, made him want to wake her and have sex with her a fourth time. He hadn’t been able to get enough of her. Nor she of him, apparently.

  Instead he slid out of bed. He needed a phone. Entering the galley, he waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the minimal light coming through the boat’s windows, then went straight for the jacket she’d dumped on the dinette seat. Sure enough, a search of her pockets produced a cell phone. He headed up top so the fresh air could clear his head first.

  The night’s fall chill pebbled his flesh, but he was running hot, both body and thoughts, and his body adjusted. With no one around to see him he stood naked on the flybridge, staring out over the quiet marina. The walkways were lit, but the building and the boats themselves remained dark. Not a sound to indicate anyone else was within earshot.

  He knew Claire Fanshaw, of that he was certain. Snatches of memories—mostly of them arguing—told him so. He simply wasn’t convinced that she was his wife. Her not acting wifely to start could have been situational, he supposed. But not remembering the curves of her body, the throaty noises she made, the way her mouth felt around him—that was what bothered him. It all felt new, like uncharted territory.

  Forcing his mind back, he tried to conjure images of making love to a woman. He came up with vague impressions of his enjoying a woman’s body, but the woman was smaller, and a blonde rather than a redhead. Who the hell was she? He was caught for a moment, thinking the blonde must have been someone important to him, but he couldn’t take the thought to the next step.

  And what reason would Claire have to lie? If he was potentially some villain, why would she have done her damnedest to be alone with him? Could they have been married without having sex?

  Or maybe he was expecting too much of himself and looking for shadows where there were none. It was a bit much thinking he should remember the texture of this woman’s skin when he didn’t remember much of anything else.

  Trying to get Claire out of his head, Bray flipped open the cell and was relieved when he got a strong signal. He checked the time—11:08—and contacted directory assistance.

  “City and state, please,” came an impersonal voice.

  “Maryland. St. Stephens. Echo Sloane.”

  Thankfully his sister was listed. Bray repeated the number to himself as the call went through. Tension tightened his muscles as the phone rang.

  Once…twice…three times…

  Finally the connection was made.

  But when a man’s voice said, “Sloane residence,” Bray’s grip on the phone tightened. He almost asked for Echo, but something told him not to say a word.

  Gut instinct made him flip the phone closed and turn it off instead.

  He didn’t remember whether or not his sister had a boyfriend. The man who’d answered had sounded terse. Official. Of course the authorities would be involved because of the kidnapping.

  Not that he even knew what he’d meant to say to Echo if he’d been able to talk to her.

  A stab in the dark—that was all it had been.

  That was all he was doing. Stabbing in the dark. Trying to figure out who the hell he really was. He knew his name now and what he was supposed to do for a living. But beyond that, he was a blank.

  As was Claire Fanshaw.

  HE RIDES HER as though he can outrun his memories.

  “Yeah, baby, that’s it,” the blonde says in a breathy voice. “I’m almost home.”

  He holds her hands over her head and looks into her face, concentrating on the tilted blue eyes and full lips. If anyone can make him forget, she can. With a cry, she comes in a sexual explosion….

  The kid explodes like a child’s piñata, body bursting into bits of flesh and bone.

  He loses it, screams like a banshee and runs to the Humvee. His gorge in his throat, he throws himself into the passenger seat, his driver buddy’s tortured-sounding curses ringing in his ears.

  An explosion inside his head takes away his breath.

  His brain is on fire.

  Burning. Melting.

  He forces back the flames only to have a second flash of sound open his eyes.

  A wall of heat engulfs him. Amid rubble and smoke, a white lab-coated body lies there at his feet. Not the kid. A different explosion, a different victim…

  “YOU’RE OKAY. Bray, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  With a gasp, he sat straight up and looked into worried eyes. “Claire.”

  “You were making terrible-sounding noises.” She reached out and touched his face with a gentle hand.

  His sleeping with her had brought back another memory. The woman in the dream had been the blonde rather than her. What did the blonde have to do with the explosions?

  “Can I get you something?” she asked, looking lovely as a hint of moonlight from the window dappled her nude body. “Tea? Water? Tequila?”

  “You.”

  He reached for her and she rolled into his arms as though she belonged there, and for the next half hour, he forgot that he questioned whether or not she was really his wife.

  Chapter Five

  Early the next morning, Claire showered, then dressed for work in a rust bouclé suit, a sparkly amber pin in the lapel, matching earrings in her lobes. She’d already written a note for Bray, telling him to stay put, rest and eat, that she would try to get off work early.

  She still couldn’t believe she’d slept with him. More accurately, had sex with him throughout half the night. What was wrong with her? How could she have let herself get sucked into this?

  It had all started with a lie.

  Not that it was all that different from other kinds of lies that people told every day—lies meant to spare feelings and to smooth things over as she’d had to do so many times growing up. Her mother had been an alcoholic, and her father hadn’t even been a factor in her life. He’d gone missing before she’d been born. Maybe he didn’t even know about her. She and her sister and brother all had different fathers, none of whom had stuck around long enough to marry their mother.

  Starting at the age of three, Claire remembered being taught to cover for Mom’s drinking. The small lies had led to bigger ones. By high school, she’d invented an entire fantasy life for herself that she’d fed to her teachers and friends, because she hadn’t wanted anyone feeling sorry for her. If they’d seen through her self-protective storytelling, they’d been kind enough not to let on.

  Sometimes Claire thought her whole life had been a lie, but that was the only way she’d been able to survive a dreadful home life.

  And maybe now, too.

  The question was, how was she going to get out of any further intimacy with Bray?

  She couldn’t keep having sex with him. Couldn’t look Bray straight in the face in daylight without his knowing. Couldn’t allow herself any more weakness. She had to keep her mission in mind.

  Had to remember she was in this for Mac.

  No
t to mention Bray, who might truly be a victim in all this. What was she doing to him? Why did she care? Claire wondered. She wasn’t hurting him physically. Her pretending to be his wife might even keep him from being behind bars for a while longer.

  So why was she feeling guilty about lying to him?

  Contemplating that maybe she hadn’t chosen the best path in convincing Bray that she was his wife, Claire put the finishing touches to her makeup. There. Now she was ready to leave for Cranesbrook. She was just retrieving her cell phone when she heard footfalls reverberate on the wood planks outside the boat.

  Who in the heck was that? No one else had been around this early in the morning. Had someone come looking for her? If anyone came inside, it would be evident that she was hiding what the police had deemed to be a person of interest.

  Not good.

  Taking a quick peek at Bray, she saw he was still asleep, a sheet twisted through his legs, leaving one hip nude.

  Ignoring the bubbly feeling seeing him like that gave her, she grabbed her briefcase and popped out of the cabin and up to the deck.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Fanshaw.”

  “Can I—” She focused on the man on the dock dressed in a navy suit brightened by a red tie. Her stomach lurched. “Detective McClellan.”

  “Echo and I stopped by to see what you called about last night.”

  Called? About to protest she hadn’t made any such call, she chewed on her lower lip, then adopted a practiced smile for Rand. No doubt she had Bray to thank for this visit. He must have gotten to her cell phone while she slept.

  “I just wanted to know how the investigation was going.”

  “Why not call my cell phone, then? You called Echo.”

  “I mislaid your card.” Thankfully she was quick-witted and these small untruths came easily to her. “But I knew with Echo’s baby missing, she’d probably be able to get in touch with you for me.” The smile dropped from her lips and she focused on Bray’s sister, a pretty woman with streaked brown hair, wearing a gauzy top and hip-hugger jeans. Claire really did feel genuine sympathy for Echo’s plight. “Besides, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am to hear what you’re going through.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It still seems strange to me that you would call Echo for an update on the case,” Rand said. “Especially since the two of you haven’t met.”

  Worrying that Bray might wake up at any time and wander up to the deck, Claire checked the steps leading to the boat’s cabin. “That’s what telephone directories are for.”

  But Rand still didn’t seem to be buying her excuse. “I think you found out something,” he said. “Something you’re not eager to share with the police.”

  She glanced down at her watch and noted it was an hour earlier than normal. “Um, I’m going to be late for work.”

  “You’re going to be even later if you have to make a stop at the State Police Barracks.”

  “All I did was make a phone call.”

  “And hang up when I answered.”

  “I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know who it was.”

  “If you were trying to reach me through Echo, why would hearing my voice surprise you?”

  “I thought I would just talk to her, tell her how sorry I was and everything. Besides, I’ve been tense.”

  “About what?”

  Claire looked around again, saying, “If you don’t mind, I don’t really want my neighbors to know my business.”

  A good enough excuse. Believable. How would he know there were no neighbors this late in the season?

  Echo stepped up next to Rand and touched Claire’s forearm. “If you know something, anything, please…”

  “I really have to get to work.” Claire glanced back at the boat. “Walk with me to my car.”

  She needed to get them away from the dock, away from the possibility of discovering Bray, so she started for the parking lot. They fell in, one on either side of her.

  Waiting until they’d cleared the dock and were crossing the blacktopped parking lot, she said in a low voice, “I don’t have any proof.”

  “Of what?” Rand prodded.

  Oh, boy, she hoped she didn’t blow it. She was going to give Rand what she knew for certain. “I saw a money transfer. It was put through the day of the accident in Lab 7.”

  “A money transfer? From Cranesbrook?”

  She nodded. “To Dr. Morton at the Beech Grove Clinic. Isn’t that where that murder happened?”

  Rand nodded. “What was the dollar amount on the transfer?”

  “Two mil.”

  “Two million dollars?” Echo asked, her voice filled with shock.

  “Cranesbrook deals in large transactions all the time, but most of them aren’t to medical facilities. I’m not sure why it went to a doctor rather than to the clinic itself.”

  “So why didn’t you mention this earlier?” Rand asked.

  “Just because a transfer like that isn’t common doesn’t mean it’s not on the up-and-up. Besides, I shouldn’t be sharing Cranesbrook financial records.”

  “So why are you sharing this information now?” Echo asked.

  Claire paused, then said, “Because I noticed it, um, disappeared.”

  “The record of the transfer disappeared?” Rand looked disbelieving. “When?”

  “Yesterday. Normally, I wouldn’t have thought much of it since I work with the computers, not accounting.” She wasn’t going to admit she’d been prying through records trying to find answers to the puzzle of Project Cypress. “But with that murder at the clinic, the whole thing struck me as strange.”

  Excitement beamed from Echo’s gray eyes. “They say you can’t fully erase files off a hard drive.”

  Claire shook her head. “You can’t.”

  “Can you get a warrant for those computers?” Echo asked Rand. “Prove they paid big bucks to the clinic to hold those men against their will?”

  Exactly the conclusion she’d come to, Claire thought.

  “I’m afraid Cranesbrook is off limits,” Rand said.

  “Off limits?” Claire frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “The federal government. As a detective with the state police, my hands are tied.”

  HIS BRAIN felt like it was burning.

  He’d had a bitch of a headache since waking up on the lab floor at daybreak. At first, he’d been disoriented, feeling as if he were trying to see through a thick, wavering fog. Unsteady when he got to his feet, he’d reached for the lab table to hold himself upright, and his hand had trembled uncontrollably. The worst had been his stomach; he now had a new understanding of projectile vomiting.

  That had been a while ago. He’d sat and waited for the effects to go away. Other than the headache, he felt better now. At least he could see where he was going and could walk a straight line. Thankfully there was nothing left in his stomach to reject.

  How long had he been out?

  He pulled the cell phone from his pocket. Checking the date and time gave him a sense of relief. It had a been a matter of hours—a little more than seven—rather than days. Adjusting the formula downward had lessened the negative effects as he’d hoped it would. His only hesitation had been the thought of spending time in some loony bin the way Darnell and Vanderhoven had.

  Vanderhoven. The lab tech had been lording it over him, acting like the power to amplify emotion made the little prick a god. Vanderhoven had been threatening, had declared himself a full partner. Outrageous. That wasn’t going to wash. And the unexpected human reactions to the agent opened up a new world of possibilities. Rather than killing people, he could control.

  That had done it for him. He’d been unable to resist trying out the formula on himself.

  Suddenly he realized early bird employees could show up at any time. And even though he’d sequestered himself in the lab farthest down the corridor, one not currently in use because it was scheduled for upgrading, there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances. Wouldn’t do to lea
ve the vials and equipment out where someone could question him. He’d had enough of that problem.

  He stared at the vial holder and willed it to rise on its own. But nothing on the table so much as trembled. Gage Darnell could do it, right? The security chief could lift anything, make anything work with his mind. Even a couple of the damn monkeys could do it.

  Then why not him?

  He tried again…and again…and yet again to no avail.

  Vanderhoven hadn’t been gifted with telekinesis, either. Instead the lab tech could make people feel things, bring up their emotional levels. He’d thought it had been a blip in the experiment, but maybe the chemicals worked differently on different minds. That had been difficult to tell when they’d done the experiment on the lab rats.

  Did the differences in result have something to do with the differences in their brain function? In their DNA? How soon would he know if the experiment worked on him in any way?

  What if he’d used too little of the cocktail?

  Angry at his failure to see a change in himself, he gathered together the evidence by hand and put everything away.

  What the hell good was Project Cypress if he couldn’t count on the results? It hadn’t seemed to work on all the monkeys in the same way, either. Maybe he needed to increase the amount taken. Then again, his head was still throbbing viciously. More might have done permanent damage.

  Damn, he was disappointed. He’d been counting on the experiment working the way he’d envisioned it. Results equaled monetary rewards. Not that he was greedy, but what they’d come up with was far more valuable than what they’d been paid to produce.

  That was why they’d had a change of plans.

  Exiting the storeroom, he nearly stepped in his own vomit. He’d forgotten about the floor. He shouldn’t have to clean that mess up himself. That was what janitors were for. Opening the door to the hall, he spotted an elderly Serbian worker in a gray jumpsuit mopping the floor at the other end.

  “You. Artur. Over here. And bring your bucket and mop.”