Big Shot

by Joanna Wayne

  Too late. Too late. Too late.

  The words echoed all around her until they drowned out the sounds of the wind and her feet slapping against the pavement. She turned a corner. Now there were no houses. No shelter. No place where she would be safe.

  Her legs ached. Her lungs burned. Her fate was sealed. She would never get home again. Her knees gave way and she crumbled to the dry, hard earth.

  The ground beneath her began to rumble, and the sound of pounding hooves grew so loud it threatened to split her skull into jagged fragments.

  A herd of wild horses stampeded toward her, all riderless except for one. The faceless rider reached out his hand as he went flying by. Their fingers brushed, but she couldn’t catch hold. The horse and rider galloped away, leaving her alone in the dark.

  Except that she wasn’t alone. Someone was nearby, lurking in the shadows. She could hear his breathing and smell the sickly sweet fragrance of his aftershave.

  There were no trees now. No houses. No horse.

  She put her hand on her chest. Her gown was wet with cold sweat. Slowly, the room came into focus. She was in the hospital.

  Thunder rolled in the distance and rain splattered the window panes. It was storming outside. No wonder the room was so much darker than usual. The only illumination was the rectangle of light that crept in from beneath the door.

  Slowly, her pupils adjusted enough that she could see that Durk’s chair was empty. He’d gone home. The nightmare had vanished, but she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that someone was standing nearby.

  “Durk. Durk, are you in here?”

  No one answered. Yet she was sure now that she could hear breathing. “Who’s there?” She reached over to push the call button for the nurse. A hand closed over hers.

  “Don’t be afraid, Meghan. I’m only here to help.”

  Panic struck like lightning. She shoved the man backward, then skirted the rail on the opposite side of the bed and hit the floor feetfirst.

  The door to her room flew open before she could escape and she saw the man rush through it, the white of his clothes catching the light.

  Oh, no. Had she been so entangled in the nightmare that she’d just attacked a nurse or maybe even a doctor?

  She reached over, flicked on the lamp over her bed and then leaned against the wall. Her breath came in hard, fast gasps, and even now she wasn’t sure if she was awake or still trapped in the nightmare.

  The door opened again, but this time it was Durk who stepped inside. She’d never been happier to see anyone in her life.

  “Meghan, what’s wrong? You’re white as a ghost.”

  “I had a nightmare.”

  He rushed to her, dropped the duffel he was carrying to the chair and took both her hands in his. “You’re shaking and your gown is soaking wet. Let me help you back into bed.”

  “Not yet.” She fought to shake off the hangover-like confusion that clouded her reasoning.

  “Did you dream about the attack?” Durk asked.

  “No. That would have been good. At least I might have gained some insight from that. The nightmare was just a terrifying mishmash like my life’s become.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  But she did because she was still having difficulty differentiating between subconscious images and reality. “I thought I had woken up. I was back in the hospital, but there was a man lurking in the dark shadows inside my room.”

  He put his arms around her and held her close. His touch was familiar and strange at the same time. Part of her wanted to pull away. But the urge to cling to him was too strong to resist.

  “It was just a nightmare,” Durk said. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  The door creaked open again. Meghan stepped out of Durk’s embrace as Angela walked over and turned off the call button. Her eyes went from Meghan to the bed.

  “It looks like you tangled with a herd of mad bedbugs,” Angela said.

  Meghan stared at the mussed linens. One corner of the fitted sheet had pulled completely loose and the blanket was in a wad. One pillow was on the floor a few feet from the bed as if she’d hurled it at the departing intruder who she still wasn’t sure was real or phantom.

  “She had a nightmare,” Durk answered when Meghan didn’t.

  Angela poured some cool water from the bedside pitcher and handed the glass to Meghan. “Must be all those repressed memories fighting their way out,” Angela said. “Don’t quote me on that. That was purely layman’s conjecture.”

  A streak of lightning lit the room followed by a booming crash of thunder and a sudden dimming of the lights.

  “The storm’s intensifying,” Angela said. “But don’t worry, we have generator backup for all essential needs in case of a power outage.”

  Wind whistled around the building, adding a ghostly wail to the thunder and the sound of rain pelting against the glass. Perfect sound effects for a horrifying nightmare.

  Now, with the lights on and Angela and Durk nearby, Meghan was beginning to doubt that the man in her room had been any more real than the one on the galloping horse. But just to be on the safe side…

  “Was there a male staff member in my room a few minutes ago?” Meghan asked, trying to clarify the mystery.

  “Not that I know of,” Angela said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Either I dreamed there was a man in my room or there actually was one in here.”

  “There are two male nurses on duty tonight. We tend to look in on each other’s patients when it’s storming. Or one of them might have heard you call out during the nightmare and looked in to make sure you were all right.”

  “If there was one in here, apologize to him for my shoving him away. I was still in the throes of the nightmare.”

  Angela frowned. “In that case you must have been dreaming. Neither Cary nor Jim would have been scared off by you. And if they’d thought they’d upset you, they would have come and told me.”

  “Then chalk it up to the nightmare.”

  The man had seemed real. But then so had the man on the horse and she knew a horse hadn’t galloped through her room. Meghan finished her water, set the glass on the tray and began to straighten her bed.

  “Don’t bother with that. I’ll send someone in to change your sheets and bring you a fresh gown,” Angela said. “Gucci or Prada?” she teased, no doubt trying to provide some much-needed leverage to the moment.

  “Go with Gucci,” Meghan said, playing along. “Black silk, with lace at the bosom. And a seam up the back would be nice.”

  Angela winked and smiled flirtatiously at Durk. “A gown like that, and you’d have your male sitter needing artificial respiration.”

  “And I’m sure Nurse Angela would be only too happy to provide that service,” Meghan teased once the nurse had left them alone.

  “It’s her duty,” Durk said.

  Meghan turned to Durk, actually taking a good look at him for the first time since he’d rushed to her nightmare rescue. He’d apparently gone home and showered and changed while she’d slept. He looked terrific. She, on the other hand, looked like a drowned, Hospital Barbie rip-off.

  “I was definitely glad to see you walk through that door,” Meghan said. “But you shouldn’t have come back here tonight. You need some sleep. You probably have cows to take care of tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll doze in the chair. I can fall asleep anywhere, though I’m sure the cows are missing me.”

  But he couldn’t keep spending all his days and nights with her. The real mystery was why he’d want to when she was only a woman he’d dated a few times two years ago.

  The answer had to lie somewhere in her forgotten past.

  In the meantime, she had to be careful not to fall for him. He hadn’t found any reason to hang around two years ago. There was no reason to think he’d be any more interested now.

  * * *

  THE SHEETS WERE CRISP and unwrinkled. Meghan’s gown was fresh and clean, th
ough it was still a faded blue with an immodest opening in the back.

  Durk was dozing in the more comfortable of the two chairs in the room, his head on the pillow, his stockinged feet propped on her bed.

  Meghan was wide awake.

  She thought of turning on the TV for late-night reruns of sitcoms taped before she was born, but she didn’t want to disturb Durk.

  Durk Lambert, her cowboy protector whom she knew almost nothing about. He was one more mystery in a world of the unknown. She had no reason to doubt him—or any real reason to trust him, except that he watched over her like a grizzly guarding a mischievous cub.

  She reached for a fashion magazine that Durk had picked up for her in the hospital gift shop that afternoon. She thumbed through it quickly, barely glancing at the designer creations that graced every page.

  The clothing in the publication didn’t tempt her. She was far more interested in what hung in her closet. Was she as casual as Durk with his jeans and supersoft knit pullovers? Or did she go for the more chic fashion?

  Did she sleep in worn tees and run out for the morning paper in a ratty robe or did she go for slinky negligees? And most important of all, had she actually put herself out there as bait and lured a killer into her world?

  Why would a P.I. with a reputation for being smart make such a tragic mistake?

  There was little she could do tonight, but she was leaving the hospital in the morning with or without an official release. She still had a dull headache off and on, but she was no longer dizzy or nauseous and she was certain she’d aced the last half-dozen routine neuro checks—except for the memory tasks.

  The memory would surely return soon. In the meantime, she could investigate herself and her actions over the last few days and weeks. She wasn’t quite sure how she’d go about it, but she had no trouble using the television remote, operating the hospital bed or reading the hospital’s menu of unappetizing meal options. So why not assume that her investigative skills would also come back to her as needed?

  She got out of bed, went to the bathroom and then stopped to drape her extra blanket across Durk. She bent to straighten his boots and noticed an iPad jutting from his worn leather duffel.

  He hadn’t had it with him before so he’d obviously picked it up on his last trip home. She practically salivated in anticipation as she lifted the digital tablet from the duffel.

  Endless, forgotten facts at her fingertips—unless Durk had the machine password protected so that she couldn’t get onto the internet. That would be legitimate grounds for waking him from a sound sleep.

  She flicked on the monitor as she climbed back into the bed. The screen lit up and rows of icons appeared. Once she was connected, she typed “Durk Lambert” in the search box and clicked.

  Her efforts were instantly rewarded. She’d hit pay dirt.

  She scanned the first dozen entries.

  Durk Lambert addresses international oil executives.

  Durk Lambert, a formidable CEO in the oil industry.

  Durk Lambert to head national committee.

  Durk Lambert attends meeting with congressional leaders.

  Durk Lambert named the wealthiest and most eligible bachelor in Texas.

  And in case there was any doubt they were talking about the Durk Lambert now sleeping with his stockinged feet propped on the foot of her bed, the last heading included pictures.

  She clicked on a random article and began to read. The information boggled what was left of her memory-deficient mind. Her simple cowboy was anything but.

  Not that he’d ever told her he was a cowboy, but when she’d called him one, he hadn’t denied it and certainly hadn’t seemed offended by it. How could she have guessed he was the CEO of a corporation worth billions?

  She’d been completely unaware of his status, but she was certain no one else was. Certainly not Detective Smart or the nurses and techs who seemed to look for reasons to come into her room and check him out.

  Dr. Levy must know, as well. Durk Lambert was as well-known in Dallas as the Cowboys or the grassy knoll.

  Pulling her feet up Indian-style, she clicked on a collection of Durk Lambert photos. In most of them, he was not in jeans or boots, but in designer suits.

  He was pictured with past and current presidents, dignitaries from around the world and with a large group of wounded servicemen who had apparently been hired by Lambert Inc. or its subsidiaries.

  Last year he’d received the Texas Man of the Year Award. Last February the Bent Pine Ranch had bid and paid over half a million dollars for a grand champion steer raised by a fifteen-year-old physically handicapped boy.

  Rich. Powerful. Influential. Magnanimous. Socially prominent. Incredibly handsome. That in a nutshell captured the essence of CEO Durk Lambert.

  Strangely, it didn’t begin to capture the essence of the protective and sensual man in his jeans and boots that she’d come to know over the last twenty-four hours. She set down the iPad and studied his profile in the soft, golden glow of her night-light.

  He was snoring lightly, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, his shirt bunched under his chin, his chin dotted with dark whiskers. His family had billions and yet he was as natural as rain. No pretense. No affectation. No pompous demands.

  He was the kind of man any woman would be thrilled to have park his boots under her bed. So why in the world had Meghan let him get away?

  It seemed now that Meghan Sinclair was the real mystery. She changed the search to Meghan Sinclair, Dallas P.I.

  It didn’t talk long to figure out why Detective Smart didn’t trust her. It took even less time to realize that dozens of people had reason to want her dead.

  She kept reading until her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep with Durk’s iPad still in her hands.

  * * *

  MEGHAN SAT ON the edge of the bed, trying to portray as much dignity and authority as she could while wearing a shapeless hospital gown and sporting a partially shaved, bandaged head.

  “I appreciate your concern, Dr. Levy, but I’m not moving to a new room at Grantland Hospital.”

  “I know it’s an inconvenience,” he said. “But our telemetry beds are limited and you don’t actually need one now. Other than the amnesia, you’re making excellent progress.”

  “I know, which is why I’m leaving the hospital. As long as I don’t participate in any strenuous activities, I should be fine. Many patients with concussions are released after twenty-four hours.”

  “Every patient is different, Meghan.”

  “I realize that, but I’m having fewer and fewer dizzy spells. I’m not nauseous. I ate and kept down a substantial meal last night and this morning. My headache is almost gone. And I’m sure that I’ve passed all the recent miniscreenings the nurses and techs have been conducting—well, except for the ones requiring memory functions.”

  “That’s true,” Dr. Levy agreed, his tone and manner suggesting he wasn’t looking for a fight. “But you had a serious concussion and you’re still feeling the effects of it. Your body must have time to recover. That means rest and avoiding stress for at least two weeks. If you don’t get that, the symptoms may persist and cause long-lasting complications.”

  “I’ll see that I get plenty of rest.”

  “If you don’t, you could prolong the recovery process by weeks and that includes the amnesia.”

  “I certainly don’t need that.”

  “No, you don’t. My professional opinion is that under the circumstances you need more hospital recovery time.”

  “What if she has someone with her at all times?” Durk asked.

  “Like a babysitter? No, thanks.” Meghan yanked the stupid droopy neckline of her disgusting gown back into place. “I don’t need to be spoon-fed. I just need a quiet place to stay until I’ve fully regained my strength and memory.”

  “That won’t be your condo,” Durk said. “It’s still off-limits by police order.”

  “Another bit of overkill,” she said. “No one
was murdered in my condo and physical attacks without life-threatening injuries don’t necessarily warrant the crime scene being barricaded by the police.”

  Dr. Levy scribbled something on her chart. “You’re a veritable wealth of information this morning, Meghan. Are you certain you haven’t regained some of your memory?”

  “She got hold of my iPad last night,” Durk said. “I think she spent most of the night doing research.”

  “I can understand that,” Dr. Levy said. “If I didn’t remember who I was, I’d be trying to find out as much as I could, too. But if you were up half the night, you need to get some sleep today. I suggest we discuss your release again when I make afternoon rounds.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not staying another night. The hospital gives me nightmares.”

  “I suspect it’s the situation that gives you nightmares,” the doctor said.

  But Meghan wasn’t giving in. “I know my rights. Either you release me or I walk. All I need are the clothes I was wearing when I came in.”

  “Actually, the police took them as evidence. But I doubt you want them back. They were bloody and soiled with vomit.”

  She gagged a bit at the image. “I’ll call Neiman’s and have one of the clerks courier me over a new outfit.”

  Dr. Levy hugged the chart to his chest. “Why Neiman’s?”

  “I have an account there and—” She stopped mid-sentence. “I do have an account with them. At least I think I do. I wouldn’t know that unless I was starting to get my memory back, would I?”

  “Not likely.”

  Meghan’s optimism soared. “This changes everything,” she said. “Even you have to admit that there’s no reason for me to spend another day in the hospital now.”

  “Actually, it doesn’t change my mind, but I’ll consider releasing you today if you convince me that you have somewhere nonstressful to go and someone to keep an eye on you.”

  “I have a three-bedroom condo in downtown Dallas,” Durk said.

  “I’m not moving in with you, Durk Lambert.”

  “It was just a suggestion.”

  The answer was no for too many reasons to count, including the fact that she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him for any length of time. She already found him attractive and that was with a trauma-weakened libido.