by J. R. Ward
Ooooooh, romantic.
Eventually, he took cover across the street at the bus stop, parking it on the hard plastic bench and breathing in the secondhand smoke from people impatient for their public trans to arrive. The waiting didn't bother him. It was as if he were used to lurking, and to pass the time he played a game, memorizing the faces of the people who came and went out of the CCJ offices.
He was extremely good at it. One look was all it took, and he had the person in his database.
At least his short-term memory was working--
The double doors pushed wide, and there she was.
Matthias sat up straighter as the sunlight hit her hair and all kinds of copper showed. Mels Carmichael, associate reporter, was with a heavyset guy who had to hitch his khakis up higher around his hips before they hit the steps. The two appeared to be arguing back and forth about something in the way friends did, and when Mels smiled, it appeared as if she had won whatever debate--
Like she knew he was watching, she glanced across the street, and stopped dead. Touching her buddy on the sleeve, she said something, and then parted ways with the man, cutting through the traffic, coming over.
Matthias plugged his cane into the pavement, and tugged his rags into place as he stood. He had no idea why he wanted to look better for her, but he did--then again, hard to look worse. His clothes weren't his, his cologne was Eau d'Hospital Soap, and he'd washed his hair with the antibacterial stuff, because that was all he'd had.
Naturally, his bad eye, that ugly, ruined thing, was what she looked at first. How could she not?
"Hi," she said.
Man, she looked great in her normal everyday clothes, those slacks and that wool jacket and the cream scarf she wore loose around her neck looking runway fine, as far as he was concerned.
Still no wedding ring.
Good, he thought for no apparent reason.
Shifting his gaze to the right, so maybe his defect wouldn't be so obvious, he returned the "Hi."
Well, shit, now what. "I'm not stalking you, I swear." Liar. "And I would have called, but I've got no phone."
"It's okay. Do you need something? The police called me this morning with a follow-up, and I think they were still planning on speaking with you?"
"Yeah." He let that one stand where it was. "Listen, I..."
The fact that he was leaving a sentence hanging seemed very unnatural, but his brain just wasn't producing.
"Let's sit down," she said, gesturing to the seat. "I can't believe they let you out."
At that moment, a bus showed up, rumbling to a halt and blocking the sun, its hot diesel breath making him cough. As the pair of them settled on the bench, they kept quiet while the kibitzers filed on their ride.
When the bus kept going, the sunlight reappeared, bathing her in a yellow light.
For some stupid reason, his eyes started blinking hard.
"What can I do for you?" she asked softly. "Are you in pain?"
Yes. But it wasn't physical. And it got worse whenever he looked at her. "How do you know I need help?"
"I'm guessing your memory didn't magically come back."
"No, it hasn't. But that's not your fault."
"Well, I hit you. So I owe you."
He made a motion to his lower body. "I was like this before."
"Can you remember anything? Prior to the accident, I mean." As he shook his head, she murmured, "A lot of servicemen have come back in your condition."
Ah...as in Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, he thought. And part of that fit. The government...yes, he'd had something to do with the Department of Defense, or national security...or...
But he wasn't a Wounded Warrior. Because he hadn't been a hero.
"They found my wallet," he blurted.
"Oh, that's great."
For some reason he gave it to her.
As she opened the thing and looked at the driver's license, she nodded. "That's you."
Focusing on the Caldwell Courier Journal emblem that hung over the door she'd walked out of, he said, "Look, all this is off the record, okay?"
"Absolutely."
"And I wish I had another option. I wish...I don't want to get you in trouble."
"You haven't asked me to do anything yet." She stared at him. "What do you have in mind?"
"Can you find out who that is?" He pointed to the driver's license. "Because it's not me."
In the silence that followed, all Mels could think about was the fact that she'd been so sure she'd never see the man again.
Guess fate had other plans.
Sitting beside her, he was dressed in black, a big, super-lean male who gave off a tough-to-the-core vibe with his narrowed eyes and his strong jaw...and yet nonetheless appeared ashamed of his scars and his handicap.
Looking back down at the driver's license, she frowned. The picture seemed legit, the holograms where they should be, height, weight, and DOB okay, the address right here in Caldwell--not far from her mother's house, as a matter of fact.
He'd probably been on his way home when she'd hit him. Just like her.
Refocusing on the man, as opposed to the image, she had the sense that he was swallowing his pride big-time by coming to her. This was not someone who liked to rely on others, but clearly his life had put him in a place where he had no other choice.
No memory. Few resources.
And with his haunted stare and patched-up body, he had to be a serviceman, back from the war only physically, not in spirit or mind or emotion.
Naturally, the reporter in her liked nothing better than a good mystery--and the fact that she had some culpability in this amnesia he had going on was another reason to jump in feetfirst. But she wasn't stupid. She didn't want to get sucked up into some kind of drama, especially if he was delusional or paranoid.
The picture was him, no doubt.
"I hate putting you in this position." His long, sure hands stroked the cane that he balanced on his thigh. "But I don't have anyone else, and the house at that address? It's not mine. I can't tell you where I do live, but I'm damn certain it's not there. And I checked the mail when I went over." He leaned to the side, grimacing while he took out a rolled-up magazine. "I found this. Name's right, except I'm not over fifty-five. Why would this be in my mailbox, addressed to me?"
She unfolded the thing, the AARP logo looming over a picture of a gracefully aging model in athletic gear. The name on the address was Matthias Hault, and the number and street were the same as what was on the license...except he could have lived with his father and shared the same name.
Although wouldn't dads have been glad to see his son show up on the front doorstep?
"I could go to a private investigator," he said, "but that costs money, and right now, I've got two hundred dollars to my name--well, one eighty after I paid the cabdriver."
"Are you sure there isn't someone looking for you?" When he remained quiet, she assumed he was searching that void of memory she'd saddled him with. "What did the doctors say? Again, to be honest, I'm shocked you're up and around."
"So will you help me?" he countered.
That firm line in the sand was something to respect. But she walked over it. "If I do, you're going to have to talk to me. What do the doctors think?"
His good eye traveled around, as if he were looking for an out. "I left AMA."
"What? Why?"
"It didn't feel safe. And I can't give you any more than that. It's all I have."
PTSD, she thought. Had to be.
Maybe if she confirmed his identity, it would set his mind to rest, and help with the recovery.
"Okay, I'll do what I can," she said.
He hung his head, like turning to someone else was a kind of defeat. "Thank you. And all I need is a search on this name. A starting place."
"I can go back inside and do this at my desk right now." She nodded off to the right. "There's a diner down by the river, about two blocks away. You can get yourself something to eat and I'll me
et you there ASAP. Ah...assuming you can--"
"I can make it," he gritted out.
Or he'd die trying, she thought, measuring the straight angle of his jaw.
Which happened to be very Jon Hamm, as a matter of fact.
The man shoved himself off the bench with the help of his cane. "I'll see you when you get there--and don't worry about rushing."
As he looked down the street, the light got in his eyes, both the one that he could obviously see out of and the one he couldn't.
"Would you like my sunglasses?" she asked. "They're Ray-Bans, about as unisex as you can get. No prescription, either."
She didn't wait for him to tough-guy it and tell her no. She took the case out of her purse and put it forward.
Matthias Hault stared at what she offered for the longest time, as if the simple gesture was a foreign language to him.
"Take them," she said softly.
His hand shook a little as he accepted the case, and he didn't look her in the eye again. "I won't scratch them. And I'll give them back at the diner."
"No hurry."
When he put the shades on, they transformed his face into something...undeniably dangerous.
And unrelentingly sexual.
A shaft went through the center of Mels's body, hitting her in a place that hadn't been alive for the longest time.
"Better?" he said roughly.
"I think so."
He was still refusing to look at her, his shoulders and spine set straight, the lines of his mouth tight. Such a proud man, trapped in a position of weakness...
She was always going to remember this moment, she thought for no apparent reason. Yes, this moment now, as the sunshine fell upon his harsh, handsome face.
This was a rabbit hole, she realized. This seemingly random intersection between the two of them was going to change things forever.
"There's something I've wanted to ask you," he said.
"What," she whispered, caught up in a moment she did not understand.
"Where did the accident happen?"
Shaking herself, she pulled her brain back to reality. "It was, ah, just outside of the Pine Grove Cemetery. Close to where I live--not far from the neighborhood your house is in."
"A cemetery."
"That's right."
As he nodded and started walking in the direction of the restaurant, she could have sworn he said, "Now, why is that not a surprise."
As dives went, the Riverside Diner was right out of central casting. Naugahyde booths, gingham curtains, waitresses with aprons and attitudes. Food was greasy but in a glorious way, and as Matthias cut into his yellow scrambled eggs with a stainless fork, his stomach grumbled like it had been years since he'd had solid food.
It was late for breakfast, but nothing went better with coffee than eggs and bacon.
As he consumed his meal, the sunglasses his reporter had given him were a godsend, allowing him to keep track of the people coming and going, and the waitresses moving around, and who went into the bathrooms and how long they stayed.
Except surveillance hadn't been why Mels had given them to him.
Damn it. What was it about that woman that made him want to be whole again?
"More coffee?" the waitress asked at his elbow.
"Yeah, please." He pushed his cup over and she poured from the pot, steam curling up. "And another round of everything else, too."
She smiled like she was calculating a bigger tip. "You're a good eater."
When you don't know the when/where of your next meal, you better be, he answered in his head.
His reporter came in just after he'd finished breakfast number two. She looked left and then right; when she saw him sitting all the way down by the emergency exit, she started the long trek past a number of empty booths.
As she sat across from him, her cheeks were red, like she'd rushed. "It must have been crowded when you came in."
"It was." Bullshit--he'd wanted to be near the back in case he needed to get out in a hurry.
The waitress came over with the pot again. "Good to see ya--coffee?"
"Yes, please." Mels shrugged off her coat. "And my usual."
"Lunch or breakfast?"
"Lunch."
"Comin' up."
"You eat here a lot?" he said, wondering why he cared.
"Two, three times a week since I started at the paper."
"And how long ago was that?"
"A million years."
"Funny, you don't look like a dinosaur."
Smiling a little, she took a pull off her coffee cup and got ready for business, her mouth thinning, her lids lowering.
Man...she looked hot like that. The intensity. The focus. In this moment, she reminded him of himself--
And wasn't that a miracle, given that he had about as much information on the both of them--and she was a stranger.
"Tell me," he demanded.
"You're dead."
"And here I just thought I felt that way."
During the pause that followed, he could sense her trying to read him. "You're not surprised," she said.
He looked into his half-empty cup and shook his head. "I knew there was something wrong at that house."
"The man who had that name for real was eighty-seven and died of congestive heart failure five weeks ago."
"As false identities go, it's not a very good one, is it."
"You talk like you know about them firsthand." When he didn't comment, she leaned in. "Is there any chance you're in the federal witness protection program?"
No, he was on the other side of the law...whatever that meant.
"If that's the case," he said, "they're not taking very good care of me."
"I have an idea. Let's go back to the cemetery--right where the accident occurred. See if it brings anything to your mind."
"I can't ask you to do that."
"You didn't. I offered--" She stopped. Frowned. Rubbed at her eyebrow. "God, I hope I'm not turning into my mother."
"Does she like cemeteries?"
"No, long story. Anyway, I borrowed my friend's car--I can drive you over there after we're done eating."
"No. Thanks, though."
"Why'd you bother to ask about your name if you're not going to keep digging?"
"I can take a cab, is what I mean."
"Oh."
The waitress showed up with "the usual," which turned out to be a chicken salad on wheat with what appeared to be extra tomatoes, and fries instead of chips.
"I think I should take you," she said, reaching for the ketchup.
Matthias watched as two cops came in through the front door and sat at the counter. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Please."
He dipped his chin and stared at her over the tops of the Ray-Bans. "I don't want you to be alone with me. It's too dangerous."
She paused with a French fry halfway to her mouth. "No offense. But considering your physical condition, I could break both your legs and have you unconscious in a New York minute." As his brows shot sky-high, she nodded. "I'm a black belt, licensed to carry a concealed hand gun, and I never go anywhere without a good knife or my heat."
She gave a quick smile, picked up her chicken salad, and bit into her usual. "So, what do you say?"
Fortunately, this wasn't a date, Mels thought as things went quiet. Because telling a man you could wipe the floor with him was not a good beginning, middle, or end to a meal.
This was business--yeah, sure, this man's story, whatever it was, wasn't likely to end up in the pages of a newspaper, but it was something to solve, and God knew she never passed that kind of opportunity up.
"Quite a resume," he said after a long moment.
"My father made sure I could defend myself. He was a cop, one of the real old-school types."
"What's that mean?"
She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, took another hit of her coffee, and wished she'd ordered a Coke. "Put it this way...Now, in the days of video came
ras in squad cars, and internal affairs boards, and binders full of procedurals, he wouldn't have lasted a month before he got suspended. But back in the day, he got the job done, and people were safer in this town because of him. He took care of things."
"Rough guy?"
"Fair guy."
"And you approve of his methods?"
She shrugged. "I approved of him. His way of operating, on the other hand...let's just say it was for a different era. Before DNA and the Internet."
"Sounds like my kind of man."
Mels had to smile at that. Except then sadness at her father's loss made her look out at the river, and the seagulls which coasted over the sluggish current. "He was never out of control or mean. But sometimes, the criminal element only responds when things are explained in their language."
"You have any brothers or sisters?"
"Just me. And Dad didn't care that I was a girl. He treated me as he would have a son, trained me, taught me self-defense, insisted I learn about firearms." She laughed. "My mother nearly had a heart attack. Still does."
"He retired now?"
"Dead." She went back to the sandwich. "Killed in the line of duty."
There was a pause. And then Matthias said softly, "I'm sorry."
She didn't dare look up, because she'd said too much, and with those sunglasses on, she didn't know where his eyes were--though it didn't take a genius to know they were on her.
"Thanks. Enough about me, though--and enough with that I'm-too-dangerous-for-you crap. I've been taking care of myself for a long time now, and I'm good at it. I wouldn't have made the offer if I didn't think I could handle you."
He laughed in a short burst. "You're awfully sure of yourself."
"I know what my limits are."
"But you don't know me. Neither of us does."
"Which is what we want to fix, right?"
The man sat back. "Yeah."
When she was finished with the sandwich--she skipped the rest of her fries--she paid the bill and got to her feet. "So let's do this."
As he looked up at her, that shaft went through her again, that sizzle of attraction which made no sense heating her up.
"Promise me something," he said quietly.
"Depends on what it is."
"You won't take any chances with yourself."
"Done."
With a nod, he gathered his cane, slid his legs around and then waited for a moment, like he was bracing his body for an onslaught. Her first instinct was to hitch an arm under his to help, but she knew he wouldn't have appreciated that. And staring at him in his frailty wasn't respectful, either, so she did a half turn and pretended to be checking out the backlit menu mounted on the wall over the counter.