She turned and he touched her shoulder. “Thanks, Lola.”
For some absurd reason, tears pricked the back of her eyes and she jerked her head around so he wouldn’t see. Jack Coburn was not a man who wanted pity. “Yeah, sure. I just hope a little sleep jogs memories about Gabe.”
She skipped downstairs and paused at the bottom, her foot hanging off the last step until she heard the door snap shut.
Sliding into the chair Jack had vacated, she grabbed her cell phone. Although officially off duty, she wanted to check on a few of her patients. While talking, she entered Prospero into a search engine and scrolled through a few businesses and several references to the play. Jack had been right—nothing rang any bells. Why had Emilio whispered that word?
When the nurse came back on the line, Lola stopped typing. “So how is Eddie?”
“He’s scheduled to start his physical therapy tomorrow.”
“I’m coming in. I promised him I’d be there on his first day of PT.”
The nurse clicked her tongue. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“I’m right here in Miami and not in the Bahamas, so what does it matter?”
“You’re going to come in, anyway, but you really do need a vacation.”
Now more than ever. Lola ended the call and rolled her shoulders. For the heck of it, she entered Jack Coburn on the computer. Jack was right about that, too—a fairly common name that belonged to a legion of people, all looking for some recognition on the internet. But no news stories about missing hostage negotiators.
Lola searched for stories referencing the CIA and came up blank there, too. CIA. She’d had contact with a CIA agent a while back regarding a victim of a kidnapping case she’d treated. Maybe Jack felt hinky about contacting the CIA, but why should she?
She’d lugged her briefcase to the house along with her other bags and crossed the room to retrieve it. She fumbled for the zipper on a compartment inside the briefcase and wrapped her fingers around a bundle of business cards.
She pulled them out and thumbed through them, blowing out a breath when she located the card belonging to Nate Schriever, the CIA agent on the kidnapping case.
With shaky fingers, she punched in his number and then slumped back in her chair when she got his voice mail. She left her name and number, reminding him of their past association.
Lola stiffened when the front door swung open. Her muscles tense, she jumped from the chair and took a step toward the door.
“Miss Lola!”
“Rosa.” Relief coursed through Lola’s veins, and she felt light-headed. Of course, nobody without a code for the front gate and a key to the front door could waltz in here.
“I didn’t know you were coming.” Rosa waved her arms in big circles. “I would have cleaned up.”
“The house is spotless, Rosa.”
“Mr. Gabriel said you were going to stay here while he was gone, but you never came.” She’d crossed her arms over her ample bosom and was tapping her toe, as if she’d been waiting for Lola for the past six months.
“I prefer to stay at my own place.” Lola jerked a thumb at the ceiling. “I brought a guest with me. H-he needs a place to stay right now.”
Rosa raised her dark brows. “A man? A special man?”
He was a special man, but not in the way matchmaking Rosa meant. Lola rolled her eyes. “A friend, Rosa.”
Flapping her hands, Rosa frowned. “You have too many friends, Miss Lola. You need un novio, un hombre guapo.”
Lola grinned and shook her head. Jack was a very handsome man…hot, sexy and dangerous, but he was not boyfriend material. She’d have to disappoint Rosa.
“Speaking of hombres guapos, where’s Roberto?”
“He’s in the other house. I came by to check on the groceries.”
“We need two of everything. The fridge is pretty bare.” Lola’s cell phone buzzed, and she held up her index finger to Rosa while glancing at the display. It was Nate.
“Hello?”
“Lola? It’s Nate Schriever returning your call. How have you been?”
“Good, Nate. And you?” Her blood hummed with impatience to get through the pleasantries.
They exchanged a few more inquiries and then, as if sensing her impatience, Nate asked, “What can I do for you?”
Lola walked toward the front door and stepped out onto the porch away from Rosa’s inquisitive ears. “I have a favor to ask, Nate. I’m looking for some information about a man, a hostage negotiator, who may have had some ties to the CIA.”
Nate sucked in an audible breath. “Can I ask why you’re interested in a hostage negotiator?”
“Not really. I have my reasons. That’s why I’m asking you as a friend and not contacting the CIA in any official capacity. I—I’m inquiring on behalf of a friend.” Well, that was true, wasn’t it? Wasn’t Jack a friend?
“I’ll try to help, Lola. God knows, we couldn’t have done without you on the Madrona case. You saved that little girl’s life. What’s the name of this hostage negotiator?”
Lola inhaled deeply and then exhaled his name on a sigh. “Jack Coburn.”
A quick intake of breath and then silence on the other end of the line.
“Nate? Are you still there?”
“Jack Coburn is a traitor.”
Chapter Six
Jack jerked awake and grabbed the edge of the bed. He’d been falling off a cliff.
Blinking his eyes, he hunched up on one elbow. As soon as he’d hit the mattress, he’d fallen into a deep sleep. Maybe the comfortable bed with the luxurious sheets had been responsible for his relaxation. Maybe the house with all the security bells and whistles in the upscale neighborhood had taken the edge off.
Or maybe it was Lola.
Having someone to mull things over with was a lot better than struggling through the scant clues on his own. He could bounce ideas and theories off her, and she had a vested interest in the situation because she wanted her brother back.
He collapsed on the fluffy pillows and groaned. He sure could pile on the BS. He liked having Lola around, all right, but not for her contributions to the mystery surrounding his truncated life. He wanted her. And it would be easy to get her in his bed.
She had that tough exterior—tossing back shots of tequila, staring down anyone who mentioned her father, ditching the comfortable family digs and ties for independence. But she had marshmallow cream for insides. Whenever he mentioned some sad, pathetic angle of his current situation, her big eyes would get soft and her luscious bottom lip would tremble with sympathy.
Yeah, he could bed her in a flash.
But he had no intention of playing the pity card to satisfy his lust. Not knowing his own status, he had no right to drag Lola into his shadow life.
He threw off the covers and poked his head into the attached bathroom. No towels. Lola had mentioned something about towels in the hallway cupboard. He pulled on his boxers and crept into the hallway. He yanked open one cupboard door and then another, spying a stack of fluffy towels.
He lifted the top towel and then spun around as someone cleared her throat behind him. A short, middle-aged Latina, hands on her hips, was raking him up and down with her dark gaze.
Raising his brows, he said, “And you are…?”
“Rosa. I keep house for Mr. Gabriel. You must be Miss Lola’s…”
“Friend. Jack.”
“Hello, Jack.” She gestured toward the open bedroom door. “Do you want me to make up your room while you take a shower?” She wiggled her dark eyebrows up and down.
Jack grinned. “That’s okay, Rosa. If you see Lola, let her know I’m awake and I’ll be down in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll tell her.” She winked and then disappeared through another doorway.
Stepping under the warm spray of the shower, Jack closed his eyes. He massaged a puddle of shampoo into his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp to assuage the dull pain at the base of his skull. He faced
the shower head, running a hand through his wet hair as the pain crept across his head.
Maybe he hadn’t slept as well as he thought. He staggered backward. The back of his knees hit the edge of the granite bench that lined one wall of the shower and he sank onto the smooth surface.
The pain suffused his skull and he dropped his head between his knees as the water beat on the back of his neck. Prospero. The name meant…magic.
We’ll call our unit Prospero—you know, like the wizard in Shakespeare’s play. Because we’ll perform magic.
Shakespeare?
Leave it to Jack to come up with a literary name for an undercover ops unit.
I don’t think I read that play.
I don’t think you’ve read any plays, Riley.
That’s because we’re busy saving lives in the sea, air and land, Buzz, not falling asleep in the cockpit.
As the voices and memories tumbled through Jack’s mind, the pain seared through his brain. He clutched his hair, doubling over and moaning. Willing the agony to go away. Willing the memories to keep coming.
“Jack, Jack.” Soft hands gripped his forearms.
Jack’s our fearless leader. I vote we go with Prospero.
All for one and one for all.
That’s Dumas, not Shakespeare, Riley.
Whatever, dude.
“Jack. Can you hear me?” Fingers beneath his chin forced his head up.
Wide, hazel eyes fringed with long dark lashes blinked inches from his face. His gaze tracked past Lola, soaking wet, to Rosa, hovering at the shower door, her mouth hanging open.
Lola cupped his face with her hands, beautiful, silky smooth, capable hands. “Are you all right? Rosa, hand me the towel.”
Lola twisted away from him and then thrust a towel in his lap. She slipped an arm through his. “Can you get up? Is it your head again?”
He massaged his left temple with two fingers. “Yeah, my head, but it’s better, getting better.” But now he’d lost the voices, the voices that would lead him to his identity.
“Do you need help getting up?” Lola tugged at his arm, and he planted his feet on the tile and pushed up from the bench. The white towel in his lap slid to the shower floor.
Lola ducked down and with pink cheeks shoved the towel at his midsection.
The fog began to clear. He was standing stark naked in front of two gawking women. He unfurled the towel and clutched it to his belly with one hand, the other bracing against the tiled wall.
Rosa stepped back as Lola led him out of the shower. “Should I call 911, Miss Lola?”
“No. Jack gets these debilitating migraines sometimes. Could you please get some ibuprofen and something to drink from the kitchen? Maybe make some hot tea?”
The pain floated away like wisps of smoke after a raging fire. Jack careened into the bedroom with Lola behind him, and he tucked the towel around his waist, even though Lola had already gotten a clear view of all his assets.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Wow, that was a trip.”
Lola crouched beside the bed, her hand resting on his bare knee. “Rosa was cleaning upstairs and heard you moaning in the shower. She thought maybe you’d fallen and hurt yourself. She ran down to get me.”
“What was I doing when you got there?”
“You were sitting on the bench, bending forward. You were clutching your head and moaning, so I figured it was one of those headaches, but worse this time.”
“If you hadn’t interrupted me, I could’ve remembered more.”
Lola’s eyes sparkled like bits of green glass and a rose flush suffused her cheeks again, but this time excitement caused the color, not embarrassment. “What did you remember?”
“I brought juice and the ibuprofen.” Rosa halted at the door, narrowed eyes shifting from Jack to Lola.
Jack held out his hand. “Thanks, Rosa. Hope my nakedness in there didn’t shock you.”
Rosa snorted and stalked across the room. Dropping the pills into Jack’s palm, she said, “I’ve seen it all before, except maybe not so—”
“Rosa!” Lola cut her off, her cheeks flaming this time.
Jack grinned and returned Rosa’s wink from before. After putting the glass of juice on the nightstand, Rosa backed out of the room with a smile splitting her face.
“Don’t encourage her.” Lola reached over for the glass and handed it to Jack. “Does your head still hurt?”
“Not really. It’s weird. The pain brings the memories and then it all goes away.” He popped the meds in his mouth and washed them down with the juice, anyway.
Lola wrapped her arms around her legs, still sitting on the floor. “Can you tell me what you remembered?”
Was she afraid to sit next to him on the bed? He patted the tousled sheets beside him. “Come off the floor. I promise I’ll keep the towel on.”
She rolled her eyes and landed on the bed…a foot away from him. “So what did you recall?”
“Prospero is the name of a covert ops team. I was the leader of that team and came up with the name.”
“Did you remember actual scenes, see faces, places?”
“I heard voices. Voices and names—Riley and Buzz.”
“This is great.” She bounced on the mattress, which brought her a little closer to him. “Anything else?”
“Not much. Sounds like Riley was a Navy SEAL and Buzz flies airplanes. There was another voice, but I didn’t hear the third name.”
“That’s it. I’m taking you to see my friend the psychiatrist. You can’t sit around waiting for some beastly headache to overcome you to recover your memories. Will you go?”
“As long as he’s discreet. I don’t know what any of this means yet, Lola. Don’t forget, the U.S. government has labeled me persona non grata. I want to know why before I step into the light.”
Lola’s smile wilted and she clasped her hands between her knees. “I need to tell you something, Jack. I wasn’t sure if I should tell you. I wasn’t sure of you, until I saw you in the shower.”
His brows shot up. “You weren’t sure of me? You didn’t trust me?”
“I found out something while you were sleeping.”
“Something about me?”
Lola nodded and Jack’s gut coiled into a knot. Did he have a wife and ten kids stashed away somewhere?
The knuckles of her clenched hands turned white. “I called a friend in the CIA.”
Hot blood pounded in his veins and propelled him to his feet. She didn’t trust him? Looked like he was the one who should’ve been more careful. “You ratted me out? How much time do I have?”
“Oh, no, no.” Her hands fluttered and her face became as white as her knuckles. “I didn’t report you or anything like that. I’d met an agent on a kidnapping case. I called him directly and he gave me his word he wouldn’t tell anyone I was asking about you.”
“And you believed him?” Jack fisted his hands. Would he have to worry about the CIA coming after him now?
“I do believe him, Jack. Besides, anyone in the know would realize I’m the sister of the man you were sent to rescue. It would make sense for me to call about you, but I really don’t think Nate’s going make a stink.”
Jack prowled to the window and hunched over as he wedged his hand on the sill. “What did this friend tell you?”
“He said you’re a traitor.”
THE MUSCLES ALONG JACK’S BACK tensed and hardened. He didn’t turn, and Lola couldn’t see his face, which his long, black hair obscured.
He hated her—hated her for the betrayal and the mistrust. That mistrust had evaporated when she’d found him debilitated in the shower. Nobody could fake that agony.
“I don’t believe it, Jack.”
He turned slowly and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms across his sculpted chest. His dark eyes turned black…and cold. “But you did believe it until you saw me in the shower.”
She rose from the bed, trailing her
hand along the bedspread as she approached him at the window. “I—I wasn’t sure. After all, what do I really know about you? You broke into my car and held me at gunpoint.”
Jack dug his fingers into his damp hair, clutching his head on either side. The towel around his waist slipped lower on his narrow hips.
That had been a low blow, but she wanted to appeal to his common sense, make him see her position.
“When I witnessed your torment in the shower, I knew you’d been telling the truth. But even before that, I knew in my gut you were no traitor.” She thumped her chest with a clenched hand. “I knew here, Jack.”
He dropped his hands, shaking his head. The ends of his hair skimmed his broad shoulders, flinging drops of water onto his chest. “You’re right to be wary, Lola. God knows what I am or who I am.”
“I know, Jack. You’re an honorable man trapped in a nightmare.” She stretched a slightly trembling hand out to him. “And I’m going to do everything in my power to help you.”
His warm fingers closed around hers, and he pulled her into his arms. The bare skin of his chest beneath her fingertips felt smooth and hard, like velvet encasing steel. He buried his face in her hair, his hot breath tickling her ear.
She couldn’t believe how right it felt to be pinned against his body. Winding her arms around his waist, she laid her cheek against the thud of his heart and closed her eyes.
She felt his arousal through the towel and froze. A hot coil burned in her belly and she wanted to press against him, stoke this heat that sizzled between them.
He dragged his lips across her hair and whispered. “Sorry.”
He shifted away from her, adjusting the towel more tightly around his waist.
The cool air slapped her in the face. Was he sorry for stumbling into her life? For taking her in his arms? For his male response to her?
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry I got on your case for believing your friend, for calling him in the first place. You have every right to be suspicious. What else did he say?”
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