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.
His smile changed to a scowl. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out or something.” He took her arm, supporting her. The dependency she felt on him, the reassurance and comfort his touch brought her were totally at odds with her resolution to be strong and conquer her fears.
“I’m fine.”
Concern blended with the desolation in his gaze and told her that he knew she was lying, and she hated that.
She didn’t want anyone’s concern or pity.
Especially not Cole Grayson’s.
With a sinking feeling, she admitted to herself that this need came from more than her pride. She wanted this man to view her as a woman, not a victim. She wanted to see that momentary flare in his eyes that she’d seen or imagined when he’d stood behind her at the mirror in the hospital.
“I got your message last night,” he said, “but it was too late to call.”
“That’s okay.” Even as she’d dialed his number, she’d known deep inside that he hadn’t been her hang-up caller, and she wasn’t sure why she’d called him. It had taken seeing him in person, feeling his hand on her bare arm, for her to realize why. She’d wanted an excuse to talk to him, to see him again, to feel his touch.
She turned and walked a few feet away, removing her arm from his hand, her body from the vicinity of his, even though such action didn’t remove the growing attraction she felt for him.
He didn’t follow but stood watching her, squinting into the sun. “It was probably a reporter trying to get an interview.”
“Why would a reporter hang up?”
“I don’t know. Lost his nerve. Got another call. Could be anything.”
“How could he find me? The police said they wouldn’t tell anybody where I was staying.”
He gave an unamused bark of laughter. “Pete—Officer Townley wouldn’t. But there are some others who would. Don’t underestimate the power of the media. Anyway, maybe it wasn’t a reporter. Maybe it was a wrong number.”
She shook her head. “I asked the operator. She said the person asked for Mary Jackson.”
“Then it had to be somebody who got their info from the cops. Heck, it could have been one of the officers calling to check on you, and he got another call just before you answered. It happens all the time.”
“There was a man who came to the police station claiming to be my fiancé.”
Cole’s lips thinned and his eyebrows drew together in an expression of anger. “Sam Maynard. Pete told me. Yeah, it could have been Sam calling, though that’s not what he usually does. Anyway, he’s harmless.”
He’s harmless! He’s harmless! The words reverberated round and round in the empty caverns once occupied by memories of her life, bringing a wintry chill incongruous with the summer day.
“No, he’s not.” The sound of a woman’s voice startled Mary, and she almost looked around for the stranger until she realized it was she who had spoken the words. She wasn’t sure where they’d come from or who he was or why she knew he w
asn’t harmless.
Cole’s eyebrows drew even closer together and he studied her intently. “I guess it depends on how you define harmless,” he admitted, obviously assuming she’d been talking about Sam Maynard. “Sam likes to touch women, their hands, their hair, their shoulders…or whatever he can reach. He’s a sleazy pervert. I just meant he’s never physically harmed anybody. He doesn’t go out of his way to pursue his victims, either, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about from him.”
He was being logical and making perfect sense, but none of it in any way lightened the terrible sense of dread that phone call had left her with.
She nodded, knowing she had no legitimate reason to disagree with him and trying to make herself believe he was right.
“Can we go inside?” he asked. “Somewhere private? We need to talk about this diamond ring of yours.”
Her mouth went dry at the mention of the object.
He lifted his hands as if to ward off what he knew she was going to say. “I understand that you don’t want it back right now, but I don’t feel good about keeping it. I can take you to a guy I know who deals in jewelry and precious metals. Kind of an upscale pawnshop. He’ll lend you some money, probably one heck of a lot more than what I gave you.”
She looked back toward the shelter, reluctant to have him see her in such needy circumstances, to reinforce his concern and sympathy. “There’s nowhere private in there. One woman has a baby who cries a lot and someone else has a couple of young kids. Even the sleeping cubicles are open.” And she had no idea how she was going to sleep at night, exposed and vulnerable like that.
He jammed his hands into his pockets and uttered a soft oath.
“It’s not so bad,” she said hastily, contradicting her own thoughts. “And I won’t be here long. I’m going to see about getting a job at a fast-food place. I can’t just sit around while I’m waiting to remember who I am.” She had tossed out the plan without thinking, merely something to reassure Cole that she was all right, that she didn’t need his pity, but as she spoke, she knew that was exactly what she wanted to do…get a job, focus on something other than her problems. Then maybe she could forget to be afraid.
Private Vows Page 4