“Keep away,” she warned.
“Let me help you,” he said, helpless to do otherwise. “Please.”
She shook her head and started limping backward, one hand on the gun. Lannes did not move. He felt like he was walking on broken glass, some hulking beast towering over a lost maiden in the woods. Fairy tales, magic. He did not know what he was doing.
Not that it mattered. The woman, still moving backward, faltered. Swaying. Blinking hard. She touched her brow, sucking in her breath with a hiss…and quite suddenly collapsed. Dropped like a stone onto the road. Lannes was too surprised, too far away to catch her, but the woman was conscious when she hit the concrete—enough to brace herself—and was still awake, barely, when Lannes crouched at her side. Her eyes refused to focus on his face, and her breathing was shallow. Sweat glistened on her brow. Blood dotted her chin and the corner of her mouth. Her terror made him sick to his stomach.
They were in the middle of the street. No cars, no one on the sidewalk. A sleeping city, secrets in the shadows. Lannes had a cell phone. He considered calling the police, washing his hands of the whole mess. It was what anyone else would do. What he should do. The alternative made no sense. He had secrets to keep and no way of knowing what kind of threat this woman posed.
But after very little thought and with a great deal of instinct, Lannes scooped the woman up into his arms. He held his breath, afraid of his own strength, of hurting her. He had never held a human woman. She was tall but slender. Hardly a burden. And she was finally, thankfully, unconscious.
Lannes—feeling more than a little helpless and very much as though he were about to throw himself upon the mercy of some hoary, horrific beast of fate—turned and carried her away.
Chapter Three
The first thing the woman noticed, before opening her eyes, was that she was in bed again. A soft bed, heavy with downy comforters that smelled fresh and clean. Music played in the background. A flute. Mozart. She knew it, could taste the name on her tongue.
But not her own name. Not that.
A bad dream, she told herself, willing it to be true. Just a dream. She knew her name. She must; it was there, waiting. The woman fought to remember, to push past the dark wall inside her mind. It felt like a battle, a war. But she had no weapons, no clue. Nothing.
Hands touched her feet. Her eyes flew open. A dazzle of light momentarily blinded her. All she could see was color—gold and brown and red—rich as some treasure of rubies and doubloons, sparkling softly. She blinked hard, her vision clearing, and found herself in a room full of shadows, rich with wood paneling and creamy walls hidden behind antiques carved and heavy with dark twining bodies lost in flowers and vines. A silk comforter covered her, threads coarse and red, embroidered with glints of gold. A single lamp burned.
And at the bottom of the bed, still as stone, sat a man.
She remembered him from the street, and she rode a hot flash of fear—rode upon it like a bird, soaring low—allowing adrenaline to run its course while she lay quiet and unmoving, staring into his face without making a sound. Her heart thundered. She was glad to be lying down.
The man was handsome. The woman had no frame of reference with which to judge attractiveness, but she had a feeling he might be the best-looking individual she had ever encountered. He was like some throwback to an earlier age—effortlessly masculine, his face tanned and craggy as though he had spent a life on the remote frontier, on a mountain braving sun and wind. Wild. Elegant. Dark hair curled loosely around his face. His blue eyes were piercing, sharp with intelligence. Eyes that missed nothing. Eyes she could not look away from.
It was a disconcerting effect. She was here, in a bed—in his bed, maybe—and while she might not have her memories, she had an excellent grasp of all the awful things that could happen to a person in her position.
“Hello,” said the man quietly, his voice deep, slightly hoarse.
The woman did not move. “Where am I?”
“The home of a friend. Near where I found you.” He glanced down, and she saw her feet sticking out from under the covers. A tube of antibacterial ointment lay on top of the bed, along with a plastic bowl filled with bloodstained rags. “You had glass in your feet. I’m almost done, if you don’t mind keeping still a while longer.”
Her soles throbbed, the pain radiating up her ankles and into her calves. The woman remembered her misstep—crossing over a park, of all places. She had pulled out the largest pieces and tried to ignore the rest. Which had been agony. “Did you call the police?”
“No.” He searched her eyes. “Are you going to give me a reason to?”
“Besides trying to steal your car? Pulling a gun on you?” She tensed and shoved her hand beneath her back, searching. The weapon was gone. At least she had her clothes on.
The man still studied her. “You can’t be surprised I took it from you.”
She forced herself to breathe. “No. And I don’t suppose you’ll give it back.”
“I doubt it matters. You have no bullets.”
She wondered briefly whether she could kick him in the face hard enough to get away. “What are you going to do with me?”
“Do?”
“Why am I here?”
He blinked. “You passed out.”
“And you didn’t call an ambulance?”
“I had the sense you’d be unenthused about the idea.”
“I pulled a gun on you.”
“Yes…we’ve established that.”
“You’re an idiot,” she said. “Or a pervert.”
“Oh, well. You’ve found me out,” he said dryly. “I’ve brought you here for nefarious purposes. Nothing better than a mysterious woman with glass in her feet, trailing blood all over the floors.”
She stared. His gaze faltered, and for a moment she saw profound uncertainty in his eyes, which was more comforting than his kindness. He glanced down—at his hands or the floor, she could not tell—but his jaw flexed and his massive shoulders slumped, and it was as though a great weight bore down on him that was so palpable, so real, she could almost see it.
“Despite…what you did,” he said quietly, “you looked like you needed help. That’s all. Allow a man one stupid moment in his life.”
One stupid moment. She wondered if it could be that simple, and thought about the dead men in the hotel room. Had that been a stupid moment? Someone had killed them. Maybe her. Maybe? Probably. If she could do it once, she could do it again, no matter how abhorrent the idea currently seemed.
You’re not safe to be around. You need to run.
Run. Or turn herself in. But when she began to tell the man to call the police, her dry throat caught up with her and she started coughing.
The man stood. He was big, larger than life, broad and muscular beneath his long-sleeved navy crew and jeans. His hands were the size of baseball mitts, but he did not lumber when he moved. He was graceful, careful, as though he was aware of his size and strength, the damage he could do.
He moved up the bed and she turned her head, saw a bottle of water on the nightstand. She struggled to sit up, and he held out his hand. He kept his distance, but she felt the strength of that gesture and froze.
“Keep your feet still,” he said, looking almost embarrassed. “Let me.”
He handed her the water bottle, which was new and sealed. The woman would not have taken it otherwise. She unscrewed the lid, leaned back against the pillows and drank. Her throat was dry, painful. The water tasted so good she wanted to cry. She drained it. The man had another waiting for her when she finished, and she took it from him gingerly.
He did not try to touch her. He seemed to go out of his way not to, holding the bottle at the very top with just two of his fingers.
She drank a little, then stopped as the man moved back down to the end of the bed. He sat, staring at her feet, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. Behind him, at the door, there was a shuffling sound.
The door opened. An old man peered in
to the room. He had a clear blue gaze and trim features. A dark red robe covered his slender frame, and a knit cap of the same color perched upon his head. Dapper, elegant. His eyes traveled from the man at the foot of the bed and found her face. He looked worried, but he gave her a small smile and the woman relaxed a little, in spite of herself.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“For the last few minutes,” added the first man, not meeting her gaze. “I think I woke her.”
“Where am I?” she asked, again.
“Astor Street,” replied the old man promptly. “Gold Coast district…”
“Chicago,” she finished, realizing just in that moment how selective amnesia could be. Bits and tendrils of information streamed into her mind. Chicago. Gold Coast. The second richest neighborhood in the United States.
The woman would rather have remembered her name.
“I am Frederick,” said the old man formally, his hands beginning to tremble. “The gentleman working on your feet is Lannes.”
Lannes did not look at her. He held tweezers, and in one swift move put them against the bottom of her right toe. She felt a sharp pain, flinched, and he leaned back, a small piece of glass held glistening and red. He dropped it and the tweezers into the bowl. Reached back to rub his neck.
“That’s it,” he said with a sigh. “I got it all.”
“Thank you,” she told him, still afraid but unsure what to do about it.
The man—Lannes—made no reply. He reached down, out of sight, and came back with a pair of thick white socks that were so massive she felt certain they could only belong to him. He began to put one on her, hesitated just short of wrapping his hand around her foot, and glanced back at Frederick.
The old man blinked, and the woman saw surprise, then understanding pass over his face. Tremors still wracked his hands, but he took the sock from Lannes. The woman sat up, pushing away the covers. The sudden movement made her dizzy, but she fought past the sensation. “Let me do it.”
“You’re hurt,” said Frederick.
“Just my feet,” she replied. “I can dress myself.”
A faint blush rode up the old man’s cheeks, and he passed the bit of clothing to Lannes, who in turn reached across the bed to place both socks in her hand. She met his eyes briefly and felt a hot thrill race through her: fear, uncertainty, confusion. Everything. She could hardly judge what rested in his own gaze, but it felt like a mirror, as though he was just as unsettled by her presence.
The woman pushed aside the covers even more so that she could reach her feet. She stopped, though, when she saw the knees of her jeans. Bloodstains covered them. Brown, thick, crusty. Nausea crawled up her throat, and she swallowed hard. Unable to look away.
“Frederick,” Lannes said quietly.
“Yes, of course,” replied the old man, and left the room. The woman sucked in a deep breath—once, twice, until she felt heady with oxygen—and then slowly, carefully, leaned over the stains in her jeans and reached for her throbbing feet. Her hands shook slightly. She felt the man staring.
“What happened to you?” he whispered.
The woman almost told him. Part of her begged to say the words. He would call her crazy, a liar, and maybe she was. Hard to tell. Hard to know anything true about who she was—except that she lived, breathed, and had nothing to claim but blood, a gun and memories of the dead.
But Frederick came back, pushed open the door with his arms full of clothing, and Lannes stood to help him. He towered over the old man, and she watched his care, his gentleness. She judged it, just as she judged everything else about him…and did not find it wanting.
“My wife,” Frederick said breathlessly, “was not a tall woman, but she liked her things comfortable. There should be something in here that you can use.”
His wife. It was not his use of the past tense that told the tale of her death, but rather his voice, the look in his eyes, as though he still suffered from the old burn, so deep in his heart that it was part of his blood, his dreams. The woman stared, helpless. She did not deserve to use his wife’s belongings. She had not earned the right, nor was she worthy of such kindness, she was sure of it.
She was also quite certain she would not be around long enough to repay him. And while stealing a car seemed a forgivable offense, walking off with the clothes of this man’s dead wife felt like a crime without hope of absolution.
“I can’t,” she protested. “They’re special to you.”
“My wife was special,” he said firmly. “Not her clothes.”
The woman squeezed the socks, unable to respond. Lannes spread the clothes on the bed beside her, then stood back, touching Frederick’s elbow. He guided the old man toward the bedroom door and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers. “Call if you need anything.”
She nodded, but it was a lie. The less said, the less they interacted, the better. She had to get away. She had to take what kindness had been offered, then run like hell. It did not matter where. Just that she move. Better that than put these two men at risk—from her, from someone else.
Lannes held her gaze a moment longer than was comfortable, almost as if he could read her thoughts. She did not look away from him.
He ducked out into the hall and shut the door behind him. The woman listened to his footsteps recede, and let out her breath. This was hell.
She examined her feet before she rolled on the socks. Cuts covered her soles, but the bleeding had stopped, and Band-Aids hid the worst injuries. The man had washed her feet and slathered them in antibacterial ointment. His kindness was disconcerting. There was no good reason for it. She did not trust compassion.
The socks felt lush and warm on her feet, which she dangled over the side of the bed as she rummaged through the clothes. She tugged free long silk skirts that flowed and shimmered in lovely shades of dark green. They tangled gracefully with oversized cashmere sweaters that were as creamy as dark vanilla and sported wide shawl collars draped against long bell sleeves. The woman felt like a trespasser handling these clothes, but she forced herself to change. When she stood, her feet hurt. They ached so badly she was hardly certain she would be able to walk out of the place.
She looked for a mirror but found nothing. She still did not know what her face looked like. The skin around her knees was stained with blood, but she had no place, no time, to wash herself. The skirt came down to her calves. The woman touched her chin and felt smooth clean skin. The blood was gone. She hoped.
The woman found a garbage bin by the bed. Empty, except for a plastic bag. She stuffed her old clothes inside and tied the loops tight, swung it between her fingers and hobbled to the door. The hall outside was quiet, empty, elegantly decorated in neutral tones and antiques. She held her breath and started walking, each step pure agony. The floor did not creak. At the top of the stairs, she heard faint voices, dishes rattling.
“Well, I can see you’re not a lost cause,” said Frederick, sounding exasperated. “You go to such trouble to avoid others, and in the same night, you bring home a strange woman?”
“She needed help,” replied Lannes, his voice low, practically a growl. “Did you expect me to leave her in the road?”
“Of course not. But—oh, damn my hands. Give me that towel, will you?”
“I’ll clean it up. Here, just…just sit. Rest. I’m sorry I got you up.”
“I would have been furious if you hadn’t.”
“I didn’t know what to do. She collapsed.”
“It could have been a ruse.”
“You don’t believe that, not after meeting her.”
“No,” said the old man quietly. “But some crime has been committed. The blood on her clothing, the gun…”
“Unloaded. And even if it hadn’t been, she couldn’t have hurt me.”
“You’re too sure of yourself.”
“Better than the alternative,” said Lannes grimly, and for a moment the woman wanted to go to him. She wanted to find those two men and ask
for their help. Maybe they would turn her in, maybe they would hurt her, but the risk seemed small compared to the possibility of getting what she needed.
What did she need? A kind word. Some sense, even for a short time, that she was safe. Not alone. Protected from a solitude so gaping, so terrible, she could hardly stand it. Her entire history, all her memories, fit within the last three hours. She did not know who she was.
But you know what you feel. Count on that if nothing else. Rely on nothing else.
Her only other option was to give up. Not to the police, but on life. Find a nice bridge somewhere and jump. But the idea filled her with such skin-crawling revulsion—such anger at herself—that she abandoned it in less than a heartbeat.
She was not going to take the easy way out. She refused. An awful thing had happened—she might have done an awful thing—and it was up to her to find out what and why. Somehow. Even if she had no idea where to begin.
You won’t find out who you are here. Alone is better. No one else will get hurt.
Maybe. The woman sidled down the stairs, feet throbbing. It was incredibly difficult to walk. Directly ahead was the front door. Dishes still rattled—behind her, down another hall—and she held her breath, moving as fast as she could. The socks were so large on her feet the toes flopped, but at least they were silent. She kept expecting to hear footsteps behind her, a shout, but nothing happened. Not even when she unbolted the door and turned the knob.
Cold air rushed over her face. She stepped over the threshold. Behind her, she heard, “Wait.”
The woman did not wait. She slipped into the night, slamming the door behind her, and took off, hobbling as fast as she could past the gate to the sidewalk. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breathing rasped. Her feet felt like they were on fire. She heard nothing behind her, not a single sound of pursuit…but before she had gone half a block, heat washed down her back and she glanced over her shoulder in time to see Lannes bearing down on her, massive and silent.
The Wild Road Page 3