“It wasn’t her husband. We’ve already ruled him out and we’ve got no leads. So we’re dealing with somebody cool enough, collected enough, cold enough to kill a woman and then clean up and leave next to no evidence behind. There were a few fibers on her body, but they were cotton. There was no DNA, nothing to actually tie our killer to our vic. Cold. Smart.”
“Not her husband, that’s for damn sure,” Deatrick muttered. Roger Hardee had been a fucking mess ever since his wife’s death. Usually the husband—spouse—was the most likely suspect, but they hadn’t had to look at him long to know he wasn’t the man they were looking for, even aside from the alibi he’d provided.
“Roger can’t clean his own ass without help,” Gideon said, aggravation chewing at him. Again, he looked out the window, to the apartment he couldn’t see.
“You think our perp might be waiting to do that now—clean up again?”
Gideon lifted a shoulder. “I don’t want to take that chance.”
They both shared another quiet look.
* * *
People had come throughout the course of the day.
Most of them had since gone, although she’d had to all but throw a few of her visitors out the door.
It was down to two now, her cousin Griffin and Brannon. She could almost have forgotten Brannon. Okay, well maybe forgotten wasn’t the right word, but he wasn’t a harsh, abrasive rub against her senses the way everybody else was right now.
Including her cousin.
If Griffin didn’t leave soon, she thought she just might rip her hair out. Although she suspected she’d feel better if she ripped out his.
“I’m tired,” she announced to the room in general.
Neither of the men said much of anything.
She started to beat out a tattoo on the arm of her chair, staring at the screen of the television without really seeing anything. As the beat of her fingers got harder and louder, she could feel their attention shift her way, linger, then move away. Every few minutes, their gazes would return.
Finally, she shot a look at Griffin and tried again. “I am tired.”
“You can go to bed, honey.” He smiled at her.
That made her feel bad—and that pissed her off.
“I’ll lock up for you,” Griffin said. He shoved upright and gave Brannon a smile that would have looked more at home on a caged hyena—teeth all bared and his hackles raised.
Man, these two didn’t like each other.
“You have a good night now, Brannon.” Griffin made a show of being overly polite with the words. Southern women weren’t the only ones who knew how to kill with kindness.
“Brannon doesn’t have to go,” Hannah said, the words escaping her before she knew what she was going to say.
Griffin whipped his head around, staring at her.
Brannon was surprised, too, but she barely noticed that.
She stared at her cousin for a long moment and then looked down at her feet. Sometime earlier in the day, Brannon had painted her toenails. Brannon McKay had painted her toenails, all because she’d said she couldn’t remember if she’d liked pedicures and he’d told her he knew she did. Then he’d painted her toenails a bright, cherry red.
The sight of the cheerful color now made a knot settle in her throat and she looked at her cousin. “I need him to stay. We…” There was hurt in Griffin’s eyes. She hadn’t meant to do that. She didn’t want to hurt anybody, but most especially him. Although her memories were still vague, somehow she knew the two of them had been there for each other when nobody else had been.
“You two really did decide to try and work things out, didn’t you?” Griffin said. He looked over at Brannon.
Brannon jerked a shoulder in a shrug. “She’s stuck up in my head all the time. I couldn’t keep fighting it.”
His eyes strayed to Hannah’s and lingered and she felt her heart skip a few beats in that moment.
“Hell. That’s romantic,” Griffin said. Then he blew out a breath. His eyes narrowed on Brannon and he studied the other man for a long moment.
When he held out a hand, Hannah felt something in her chest knot up.
Watching the two men make some move toward friendship had her feeling all stupid and sappy and weepy.
She was going to claim pregnancy hormones.
She was right at one month.
She could do that, right?
It took just a few more minutes for them to be alone and Hannah found herself more self-conscious than she could ever remember feeling. Of course, there was still plenty she didn’t remember, so that wasn’t saying much. Still, as Brannon finished locking up the door, she busied herself in the kitchen with stupid little things that didn’t need doing—like washing her hands, again, and wiping down a counter that didn’t need to be wiped down.
Her head was a muzzy, hazy mess and her body ached with fatigue. She was worn out.
Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that she was still struggling to recover from the crash, the coma … coming to grips with the baby, the amnesia. All of the above.
The reality of it all crashed into her and she turned, leaning back against the counter. Covering her belly with her hands, she lifted her gaze to Brannon’s and just stared at him.
“I don’t even know what’s going on with my life right now,” she said bluntly. “My head is spinning so fast, I don’t know what to make of anything.”
He came to her.
She held still as he cupped her face in his long-fingered hands.
His touch made her want to shiver.
His touch made her want to sigh.
Then he brushed his lips across her forehead and she wanted to curl herself around him, cling tight and never, ever let him go.
“Six days ago, you were in a coma. A few weeks ago, you were in a wreck that could have killed you. I think you just need to tell your head to slow down so the rest of you can catch up.”
She laughed and the half-manic edge in it had her cringing. “You think that will work?”
Instead of answering, Brannon brought her in closer. “Just slow down,” he murmured against her brow. “Let yourself catch up.”
“I think…” She held onto his waist. “I’ll just stay right here.”
“That sounds good.”
* * *
Brannon closed his eyes and rested his head against the soft silk of her hair.
She relaxed against him and he was able to push the guilt away. She wanted him there. She’d said as much.
She seemed less … haunted.
Yeah.
That word fit.
She’d hidden it well, but during the day, as people came and went, she had been tense and on edge. But now, as the quiet wrapped around the two of them, that tension began to drain away. Smoothing a hand up and down her back, he closed his eyes and turned his face into the softness of her hair.
How had he thought he didn’t want this?
He must have been crazy. Or stupid. Both.
Her lips brushed against his neck as she sighed and it sent a rush of heat through him, but he shoved it down. He thought maybe he’d ask her if she wanted him to spend the night. On the couch, that was all. But she might feel better if he was there, right? Yeah, maybe—
Her lips brushed against his neck again and he couldn’t stop the low, unsteady breath that escaped him.
Hannah eased away, looking at him from under her lashes.
Her tongue slid out, wet her lips and he had to clench his jaw, remind himself of just how fragile she was right now—not just physically, either. He could still see fading bruises on her face, the fading pink marks on her hands from where she’d been cut when the car wrecked.
It got so much harder to remember that when she reached up and touched his mouth.
“I know we’ve kissed,” she said, her voice low and husky. “Sometimes, I almost think I remember it. But then it’s gone. And it’s driving me crazy.”
“Hannah…”
; Her gaze dropped to his mouth, lingered there a moment, and then she looked back at him.
Her eyes were huge and dark, a heat burning there that threatened to consume him—and damn if he’d mind.
“I want that memory back, Brannon. I want to know how you taste, how your mouth feels on mine. Will you kiss me?”
Well, hell. It would take a stronger man than him to walk away from that.
Cupping her face in his hands, he arched her head back. Their first kiss had been a mix of fury and frustrated passion. This one wouldn’t be like that. He’d kiss her the way he should have kissed her to begin with.
Slowly, he lowered his head, brushing his mouth against hers, once, twice.
Her lips parted on a sigh.
But he didn’t take that offering just yet.
Instead, he caught her lower lip between his and sucked lightly, listening as her breathing hitched. Her hands came up to grasp his waist and he moved in closer, letting his body rest against the powerhouse curves of hers.
She made a hungry noise in her throat and opened her mouth under his.
Still, he didn’t deepen the kiss—much.
He traced the line of her lips with his tongue, learning the curves as if this was the first time he’d ever had the chance. For her, it was. Maybe it was for him, too. They’d start over. Completely over. And he’d make sure that this time, she knew she mattered.
Hannah grew impatient and tried to take control, her tongue coming out to curl and stroke against his. He eased back, whispering against her lips, “You wanted me to kiss you, baby.”
“Then do it.” She bit his lower lip.
That demanding nip set his blood to boiling but he kept an iron grip on his control, teasing the entrance of her mouth with quick, light strokes. She caught his tongue and sucked on him and the blood began to drain southward, his cock thickening.
Just a kiss, he told himself. Just a kiss.
Her hands slid down to grab his hips, pulling him more firmly against her and he had to keep reminding himself that this was just a kiss. Nothing more.
Her breathing sped up.
His heart pounded harder, faster.
The taste of her flooded him as he sought out the hidden depths of her mouth, learning her in a way he’d never taken the time to do before.
She began to move against him, her hips circling impatiently. But he was still in control. He thought. Right up until she slid a hand between them. A shudder wracked him as she stroked him through his jeans.
Aw, fuck …
A fist pounded against the door.
They broke apart, panting and staring at each other.
There was another knock.
Hannah licked her lips and he moved to pull her back against him.
“Hannah? I know you’re probably worn out, but I’d like to talk to you.” There was a pause and then, “It’s Chief Gideon Marshall with the Treasure Police Department.”
“Damn,” Brannon muttered.
“Send him away.” Then she frowned. “No, it’s my home. I’ll send him away.”
“You can’t.” Brannon had a feeling he knew why the cop was here. “You probably need to talk to him, Hannah.”
He skimmed the back of his knuckles down her cheek.
Her skin was soft. Soft and warm, her cheeks flushed with more color than he’d seen on her in some time. “I’d rather go back to what we were doing.”
“Hannah!” Gideon’s voice was harder now, implacable.
“I’ll be right there, chief,” she said.
As she moved past him, Brannon braced his hands against the counter. The need that had twisted through him was already dying. All it had taken was hearing Gideon’s voice, realizing why the man was here.
Nobody had really explained just what all had happened the night of the wreck.
Dr. Briscoe had wanted to give her a few days, to see if she’d remember on her own. She hadn’t and they couldn’t wait any longer. Gideon had told them that once she was discharged, he’d be talking to her. There wasn’t much choice, he’d said. They had to make sure she was safe.
Over his shoulder, he slid a look at her as she opened the door.
She didn’t look as worn and tired as she had, but that was about to change.
She was getting ready to have a whole new set of problems dumped on her.
* * *
Hannah recognized him.
It wasn’t just because he’d been in to see her at the hospital several times, either.
She just … knew him.
It wasn’t the same familiarity she’d felt when she’d seen Brannon, but the chief was a man she’d known. And he was a man she trusted, even now.
Something about the competent set of his shoulders and the way he studied everything around him, even the grooves around his mouth that showed that he smiled a lot—all of that told her that back before her memory had turned into a black hole, she’d trusted him.
But her instincts told her he wasn’t here just for a Friday night chat.
She sank into a fat, round chair that felt more familiar to her than her own name and she drew her knees up, curling into the arm as she studied Gideon. Brannon shifted in the doorway that separated the small, eat-in kitchen from the living room, but all he did was turn and brace his shoulder against the arched entrance, his gaze flicking from her to Gideon and then back.
He said nothing.
Gideon just nodded at him, clearly not surprised by his presence.
“Why are you here, Chief?” she asked softly. “You frequently go around and check on patients who’ve been discharged from the hospital?”
“Part of the service, ma’am.” Gideon smiled at her. “And it’s Gideon, Hannah. We’re friends. If you don’t remember that, then we can just start over from scratch.”
“Okay.” She waited a beat. “Gideon, why don’t you spare me the bullshit and tell me why you’re here.”
He rubbed at his jaw and glanced over Brannon.
“I’d hoped you’d remember more. This is going to come as a shock, Hannah,” Gideon said softly.
“Yeah, well, I’m not remembering more,” she snapped. Kicking her legs off the seat, she surged upright and started to pace. “I can’t remember my middle name. Somebody had to tell me. I can only remember half the food I like. I don’t know what I like to eat when I go to the movies or if I even like to go to the movies or whether I hate my job or why I was speeding down the highway…”
“You remembered you were speeding.”
She stopped and looked at Gideon, her heart starting to pound.
Sweat pooled at the base of her spine and blood roared in her ears.
“Was I?” she asked.
Neither of them said anything.
Anger started to bleed through her and she spun away from Gideon, storming over to Brannon. Grabbing his arms, she half-shook him. “Is that why I had the wreck? Was I speeding? Hell, was I … was I drunk?” She spoke the final words in a whisper. “Did I hurt somebody? Oh … oh, shit…”
“No.” Brannon twisted, shifting around until he held her instead of the other way around. “You were on the road heading up from the boat dock. Down by where you keep your houseboat. Something…”
He hesitated.
She watched as his gaze moved over to Gideon.
“Tell me!” she half shouted. “What is it? What did I do, damn it?”
But still Brannon was silent.
There was a quiet, heavy sigh and then, from behind her, she heard Gideon say, “Go on, Brannon. Tell her.”
After Memory
CHAPTER EIGHT
TEN WEEKS LATER
“So … what’s new?”
“I’ll tell you something that isn’t—that question.” Hannah narrowed her eyes at her partner as she slid into the truck next to him. “As a matter of fact, that question is getting decidedly old.”
J.P. gave her an innocent smile. “Hey, I’m just asking how you’re doing.”
She made a face at him. “Sure you are.” But she relented and smiled. If it wasn’t for J.P. and some of her other friends, she might not be sitting here in the ambulance, finally cleared to go back to work.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she said, punching him lightly in the arm. “I’m just … fed up. I can’t go anywhere, do anything without people asking me if I’ve remembered anything yet.”
He nodded. “They don’t mean nothing by it, kid. You know that.”
“I know. I just…” She grimaced. “I feel like putting a notice in the paper. Hannah Parker promises to tell everybody as soon as she remembers anything useful.”
“Well, fat lot of good that would do ya.” J.P. started the truck. The radio was buzzing, the chatter a familiar background music that Hannah hadn’t realized she’d missed. “Ya see, people would actually have to pay attention to what you were telling them in order for it to do them any good.”
She rolled her eyes.
But he wasn’t kidding.
She’d been telling people just that for months.
Noooooo … she didn’t remember anything from the night she’d wrecked.
And no, as much as she hated it, she didn’t remember anything that might help find whoever had killed Shayla Hardee. Her mind was no longer the block of Swiss cheese it had been when she’d first woken up. Her life unfolded in bits and pieces, small ones at first, and then bigger ones.
But there was a week of time that was gone.
The last thing she remembered really well?
Brannon.
She’d been staring at him. Again.
She could remember how he’d looked, stripped naked, that body that defied description bared for all the world—or at least her—to see. The scowl that tightened his features when he met her gaze, as if he couldn’t understand why she was able to see him.
Because you don’t close your damn curtains, moron.
And then he had—he’d yanked them shut as if doing so would completely shut her out of his world.
She remembered that.
Beyond that? Nada.
The first real, solid memory she had after he shot her that dark, fulminating glare was when he’d barged into her hospital room. Even waking up, the bright lights that had all but blinded her, the overly loud voices of the nurses, the doctor talking to her, his voice hardly connecting in her brain—all of it had seemed surreal, more like a dream than anything else.
The Trouble with Temptation Page 9