He raised one brow. “So you would have wanted to kiss any man. I just happened to be handy.”
“Yes. No.” She covered her flushed face with her hands.
“I don’t know. I don’t know how else to explain it. I’m not usually that way.”
The truth of that statement settled inside her. She dropped her hands. “I’m not. I don’t know why I—”
“You didn’t. You’ve got it backward,” he said again, then rose. “I’m late for my eleven-o’clock call.”
As he started around the end of the sofa, his gaze fell on the stack of magazines on the table. He picked up the newspaper with the crossword puzzle.
“Sorry, I’ve nearly finished it,” Mia told him.
“No problem.” He turned the newspaper sideways and studied the eyes she’d drawn all around the margin of the page. “You drew these?” At her nod, he dropped the newspaper and strode from the room.
Not to his office as she expected, but down the hall to his bedroom. A few minutes later, he returned with a large art pad and plastic case.
He set them down beside her on the sofa. “I tried this after Elizabeth was…after she died.” He gave her a self-deprecating laugh. “Art therapy. Unfortunately, I can’t draw a straight line. Maybe you can get some use out of it.”
He turned away, making a side trip to the window seat for the headset. A moment later he’d closed himself in his office.
The eyes she’d doodled on the newspaper stared up at her, as enigmatic as her sudden fear this morning. She’d assumed they’d meant nothing, had just been idle scribbling while she tried to answer twenty-two down or eighteen across. But maybe there was more of a message in the seemingly random drawings.
Flipping to a fresh page on the pad, she opened the black plastic case and chose a pencil.
Through sheer force of will Jack got through the rest of his workday. He didn’t stop for lunch, grabbing a slapped-together sandwich around two, then wolfing down the dinner Mia prepared. He thanked her for cooking, ordered her out of the kitchen so he could clean up on his own, then returned to his office for another few hours.
His only prayer for keeping Mia out of his mind was to fill it with something else. He’d used that trick often enough over the years to battle his grief, to hold at bay the horror film loop of Elizabeth’s bloody body lying in the kitchen at the apartment. With the days moving inexorably toward the anniversary, he’d have a double whammy to contend with. But he’d have to find a way to handle the emotional overload, to keep his annual implosion private. He had no other choice.
When he went out to shut off the pellet stove, a part of him longed to find her there again, sleeping. The sofa was empty. She must have taken the drawing pad with her to her room; it and the pencil case were gone. He hoped it did her more good than it had done him.
He’d lied to her. Although he wasn’t much of an artist, he could draw more than a straight line. But the images he’d sketched had sickened him, full of violence and cruelty. His crude drawings depicted all the things he’d like to do to Elizabeth’s murderer, opened a side of him that had frightened him. Even Elizabeth’s former colleague, who had recommended the art therapy, agreed it was doing him more harm than good. So he’d burned the drawings and hadn’t picked up pad or pencil since.
He fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow, woke abruptly before the alarm went off. Directed himself through another day of grueling work, aching for the sight of Mia, for one touch of her hand. Stared out the window at the endless fall of snow as it piled up, drifts nearly to the bottom of the window.
If the sudden cold front that had brought the snow lingered even after precipitation ceased, that blanket of white could be around a long time. It was likely complicating the removal of rock and mud on Highway 50, slowing down the process. That didn’t bode well for getting his own road cleared.
He caught glimpses of Mia when he emerged from his office for more coffee or for a bathroom break. She’d be in the window seat with the art pad or curled up on the sofa with a book. That night when he finally marched himself to bed, so exhausted he staggered, he nearly collided with her in the hallway. He didn’t touch her, made a point of stepping well clear of her. But her nearness kicked his body into high gear again, slapping aside his tiredness. It took him two restless hours to fall asleep.
The next morning he woke at 6:00 a.m. with a sense of inexplicable doom. As he stared at the date on the digital clock—Wednesday, December 17—his body started shaking. The seventeenth had been a Wednesday five years ago. He’d kissed Elizabeth goodbye that morning, had driven to SFO to catch a nine-o’clock flight to Seattle. When he returned seven days later, he found her dead on the kitchen floor.
Get a grip, he told himself, dragging himself out of bed. It was just that he was running on fumes, fighting his libido at the same time he dealt with the anniversary. He’d indulged himself for too long, taking advantage of his usual isolation to let go of his self-control.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee as he paced down the hall told him he wouldn’t be the first one in the kitchen. The spicy muffins he saw cooling on a rack meant Mia had gotten up long before him. She sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, cup of black coffee in her hands, a few muffin crumbs on the plate beside her. The art pad sat closed on the dining-room table.
Her cheeks had filled out some even in the few days she’d been there. Her skin, still pale, had bloomed with faint color. The bruises on her face, after purpling a day after he’d rescued her, had started to fade. From her pushed-up sleeves, he could see she’d removed the dressing on her left arm and the scratch was healing nicely.
He wanted to sit beside her, to wrap an arm around her, nestle her head in the crook of his neck. Breathe in the scent of her hair, feel its silk on her cheek. Hook his fingers in hers, feel her pulse against his thumb.
He just wanted her close, and it had nothing to do with sex.
He turned his back on her, pulling down a mug. “Good morning.”
She glanced up at him, then fiddled with the crumbs on her plate, swiping them up with a finger. When she licked them off, he felt the surge low in his body and welcomed the sexual response. Better that than the longing that made him feel so vulnerable.
But then he saw the haunted look in her eyes, the trace of fear. He tugged a stool around opposite her, then sat with his coffee and muffin. “What’s wrong?”
Hands wrapped around her steaming cup, she took a sip. “Dreams.”
“Nightmares?”
She swallowed convulsively. “Some of them. But nothing I could describe. Nothing that makes sense.”
“And the rest of them?”
“I see myself. As a child. At a park with my mother and father. At least, I’m guessing that’s who they are.” She shook her head. “None of it’s clear enough to understand.”
“What do they look like?”
“Nothing like me,” she said, frustration clear in her tone.
“The mother in my dream is blond. My father has light brown hair. Both of them are short and plump. For all I know, they’re just figments of my imagination.”
“Maybe you’re adopted.”
Something flickered in her eyes, a light of recognition.
“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully. “But how does that help me? They’re just two faces from my dreams. No names, nothing to place them.”
She looked so lost, it took everything in him not to reach across the counter and take her hand. Instead he picked up the muffin and bit into it. It was sweet and warm, with chunks of apples and a hint of cinnamon. Cinnamon-sugar crusted the top.
“Whatever else you are, you’re a hell of a baker.”
“Butcher, baker, candlestick maker,” she recited. “Which one am I?”
He had no answer for her. “Any luck with the drawing?”
“You tell me.” Swiveling on her stool, she grabbed the pad from the table. He shifted aside her coffee cup and plate so she could set the pad on the
granite countertop.
She opened it to the first page. The accuracy of the pencil drawing startled him. She’d sketched the line of redwoods visible out the front window, capturing the rough texture of the bark, the complexity of the graceful, needled branches. She’d even drawn in the rocks and deadfall beneath the trees.
“You’re an artist.” He flipped to the next sketch, a snow scene with afternoon shadows of cedars criss-crossing, blue gray on the blanket of white.
“You would think so.” She turned to a third page, a study of his mantel with the pellet stove bright with flame. “It was almost as if it wasn’t my hand doing the drawing.” She spread her fingers over the paper. “But it doesn’t seem right. I have talent, but I’m not an artist. I think this is just something I do.”
“Have you tried to draw something that isn’t right in front of you? Like those eyes?”
She shuddered. “I was going to try that today. But I’m afraid.”
She shut the pad, then carried her cup and plate to the sink. She seemed to almost be sleepwalking as she left the kitchen.
The day passed as the previous one had, with Jack driving himself as hard as he could, to forget about Mia. At the same time he struggled to push from his conscious mind the minute-by-minute memories from five years ago.
When he joined Mia for a late dinner, he didn’t like the pinched look around her mouth, the way she avoided meeting his gaze. It was as if she was fragmenting, and fighting to keep herself in one piece.
He didn’t trust the urgency to pull her into his arms. Would it be to comfort her, to help her hold it together? Or was it just an excuse to feel her close to him? As off-kilter as his life was, did he really have anything to give her?
She went to bed shortly after dinner, letting him clean up without complaint. He interrupted his work twice to check on her, the sight of her sound asleep easing his worry.
He’d just turned off the lights in his office, looking forward to climbing into bed when he heard her moan. He took off running, reaching her room just as she screamed.
“No! Stop it, no! Don’t—”
He touched her arm, the lightest pressure, and her eyes snapped open. She wrenched herself away from him, scrambling to the other side of the bed. “Leave me alone!”
Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath. The pale light from the hallway showed him the terror in her eyes. He was nothing but a dark shadow to her in the dim room.
He clicked on the bedside lamp. “It’s just me, Mia.”
Her fingers curled tightly in the comforter. The terror melted from her face as she recognized him. Tears filled her eyes and she reached across the bed. “Please,” she whispered.
Only a monster would have refused her. He sat beside her on the bed and pulled her into his arms.
Chapter Eight
Even lying on top of the blankets fully dressed, Jack responded to the woman curved tightly against him. Images flooded his mind: stripping off his clothes, slipping under the covers with her, peeling away the too-large pajamas. Feeling her, skin to skin, a sensory overload his body craved.
He just let the fantasies play out as he stayed right where he was, Mia in his arms. One small hand held tight to his waist, the other curled at his shoulder. He could dip his head down, press a kiss into her palm, rest his cheek against her fingers.
He heard only her steady breathing and he thought she’d drifted off to sleep again. But then she stirred against him. Eyes still closed, she murmured, “How do I make it stop?”
“You can’t.” He stroked her arm. “You shouldn’t. You have to remember.”
“There’s something in the way. I mean…” Her eyes squeezed shut more tightly. “Something I have to pass through before I can get to the memories. Something…horrible.”
“An accident?” he asked. “I really think your car is wrecked somewhere on my road. Somewhere farther down, past the slide.”
“Maybe.” She scrunched her face. “Can you turn off the light?”
He pressed the switch. The near darkness felt far too intimate. But he was here for Mia, not to satisfy his body’s urgings.
“The thing is,” she continued, “I have no memory of a crash. The little I can recall of recent events, I was walking across the mountainside, not up it. I stumbled upon the road not far from where you found me. On this side of the rockslide.”
“It’s still possible you blanked that part—the accident, climbing the hill.”
“But why?” she asked. She looked up at him, her gray eyes dark in the semilight. “It’s not as if I had a traumatic brain injury. I was unconscious a few minutes, not in a coma. Why would my mind have wiped it out if it was something as simple as a car accident?”
“I don’t know.” He fitted his arm more snugly around her.
“You should get under the covers.”
“No. I shouldn’t.”
“I’ll be fine.” She sighed. “Go to bed.”
“After you fall asleep.”
“Won’t help.” She slurred her words, tiredness overcoming her. “They’re waiting.”
Minutes later she was asleep, her breathing steady, her body lax in his arms. He wanted so damn much to stay here with her. It was far too easy to tell himself it would be for her benefit, not his. But with her asleep, the only one comforted by his being in her bed was him.
He pulled free of her, made sure she didn’t wake. Then he padded softly from her room to his own.
Hoping an arcane engineering publication would put him to sleep, he read until his eyes burned, then turned off the light. As he lay there, too restless to sleep, he heard Mia moan twice, cry out once. Not a scream, just a soft plea. Then she quieted and he finally drifted off to sleep himself.
The next morning a soft rap on his office door drew Jack’s attention from his conference call. Swinging open the door, he gestured Mia inside, his voice faltering only briefly as he spoke to Dawson and the design team. If anyone noticed, they would likely put it down to the extended hours he’d been working.
He pointed to the extra chair, then turned his back on Mia. Her fragrance was like an irresistible mist. After last night, the temptation to reach for her, pull her close had increased tenfold. He’d have to fight to keep his mind on his work.
Five minutes later, everyone but Dawson had signed off. After discussing a few last details on an in-progress request for proposal, Dawson switched gears. “How are you holding up?”
Jack could have pretended his friend was referring to the weather or the mudslide blocking his road. But Dawson knew the significance of late December.
“Well as could be expected,” he told his friend.
“You’ll call me…”
“I will. If I need to.”
With that promise extracted, Dawson said his goodbyes. Still focusing on his computer, Jack told Mia, “Give me a minute,” then typed in the last few notes from the meeting.
Had anyone else asked him how he was, Jack would have glad-handed them. But Dawson was the only one who’d stuck by him every moment, through Jack’s arrest and the trial. He’d been the one to sit with Jack as he got quietly drunk that first anniversary. Dawson been the only one to believe in him.
Except for Joanna Sanchez, or rather, the woman Joanna pretended to be. For those few short weeks before Dawson uncovered Joanna’s duplicity, Jack had clung to her, desperate for her kindness, her promise of love. If not for Dawson, who’d outted the woman after seeing her byline and photo on the Web, Jack would have spilled his guts to her, and consequently seen every detail of his life with Elizabeth exposed in the press.
Which only made it all the more imperative that he keep straight in his head who Mia was. She seemed nice, she seemed kind. She might not have an agenda like Joanna did, but if and when she figured out who he was, her attitude toward him would change. Like everyone else in his life—Dawson excepted—she wouldn’t be able to put aside that suspicion.
He finally turned to her. She was gazing out the wi
ndow, a look of pure enchantment on her face. “The sun is out.”
He pushed his chair around to get a better view. The pristine snow sparkled, icy jewels scattered across its surface by a generous hand. Even though he’d seen this view before, had soaked in its beauty, seeing the joy reflected in her soft gray eyes turned wonderment to miracle.
She smiled at him. “It would be a shame to go out there and sully all that gorgeous white. But it’s so tempting. I still haven’t made a snow angel.”
He wanted to play like a child with her, have a snowball fight, make a fort, a snowman. All the things he and Elizabeth had talked about doing when they first bought the property. He could do them all with Mia.
He shook his head to dispel the notion. “What did you want?”
“I’d like to research memory loss. Do some searches on amnesia. Could I get some time on your computer?”
“I have a hell of a lot of proprietary information on my hard drive.” Although it was all password protected. He could set up a separate account for her that wouldn’t have access to his sensitive data.
Her gaze fixed on a black computer bag beside his desk. “Is there a laptop in there?”
He’d forgotten about his old notebook computer. “It’s ancient. The processor’s slow.”
“I don’t mind.” She tipped her chin up in challenge.
He groped for further justification to dissuade her from using the laptop. “The wireless card went out and I never replaced it.”
“I wouldn’t be able to get online?”
He considered telling her no, she wouldn’t. But the lie didn’t sit right. “I could set you up with a CAT-5 cable. But you’d only be able to access the Internet here in my office.”
Which meant she’d be surfing the Web only a few feet from him. If it had been difficult keeping his mind focused on work with Mia in the next room, how would he manage it with her beside him?
He had to move several towering stacks of paper from a side table to make room for the laptop. Once he got the power cord and the blue cable plugged into the back of the laptop, he pressed the on button. “Haven’t used it in months. Might not even boot.”
Her Miracle Man Page 8