Out of Nowhere

by Rebecca York

He’d serve her that, along with a mozzarella, tomato and avocado salad he’d enjoyed on a London assignment.

  He was getting the meal ready when he heard someone walking along the dock.

  The footsteps stopped, and he looked through the window.

  Damn. Hap Henderson was out there, his belly pouching out the front of his knit shirt.

  Hap was in his late forties, Max judged. Because his hair was thinning on top, he almost always wore a captain’s hat.

  He lived on one of the other boats in the marina, a cabin cruiser that wasn’t quite as luxurious as The Wrong Stuff. But Max was pretty sure that Hap was involved in the drug smuggling that centered around Hermosa Harbor. Too bad there was no way to prove it yet.

  He suspected that one of Hap’s duties was to keep tabs on new arrivals in the community. Had he seen the owner of The Wrong Stuff bring aboard a visitor wrapped in a tarp?

  “Hey, buddy, want to have a beer?” Hap asked through the open window.

  “Not today.”

  “You got something better to do?”

  “Yeah. A heavy date.”

  Hap looked through the window. “Somebody I know?”

  “An old girlfriend from up north,” Max improvised. “She’s down in the head taking a shower.”

  “Oh. Okay. Maybe we can get together tomorrow.”

  “She may be staying with me for a couple of days.”

  Hap made a grunting sound. “Wouldn’t want to interfere with your love life, boy,” he said before turning and strolling back down the dock.

  Max watched him leave, thinking he should warn Annie about nosy old Hap. But then, if she was in trouble with the smugglers, she might already know the guy. Maybe she could impart some of the information Max was missing.

  “ANNIE,” SHE SAID as she stood with her hands clenching and unclenching. “Annie.”

  There was a mirror over the sink, but she averted her gaze as she tugged at the zipper of her jumpsuit, opening the front all the way and peeling down the fabric. Her chest was still red, but the salve Max Dakota had smeared on her skin had helped.

  The memory made her nerve endings prickle, and she fought to banish the sensation. Her brain must be soft if she had let him touch her like that.

  She was not here to enjoy herself with Max Dakota. She was here to…

  To what?

  The question clawed at her, making her double over at the waist and hug her arms around her middle. She had been trying to put off the moment of truth, but it had snuck up on her when she was not looking.

  The image of the dead bodies flashed back into her mind again. She was here to keep them from dying. At least she thought she was. But maybe that was a false memory someone had planted in her brain.

  A false memory. That was a drastic conclusion. Yet she must not discount it. She must not discount anything.

  “Carp!” she said, the harsh syllable helping to discharge some of her tension.

  Leaning over the sink, she turned on the water and looked at the clear stream. Was it safe to drink?

  Thirst made her reckless. Cupping her hands, she gulped down several swallows. It tasted wonderful. Clean and fresh.

  When she had her panic almost back under control, she straightened and finished unzipping the suit, then began to pull her hands out of the sleeves.

  Moments later, she stood naked in the bathroom—the head, she reminded herself. It was called the head.

  The word should not be a problem. She was a good language student. She was already thinking that Max Dakota spoke English differently from the way she did. And she should modify her own speech patterns. Her linguistic skills had been important for this job.

  Important for this job. Her hands clenched and unclenched as she fought to grab on to the sliver of memory and pull it into the center of her thoughts. But holding on to it was as impossible as wrestling an alligator.

  An alligator. Well, she knew what that was. A dangerous animal she had been cautioned to avoid. They lived in Florida. A place in the United States. She knew that much. So was she in Florida?

  When she could not come up with an answer, she turned to the full-length mirror on the wall and looked at herself for the first time. Her heart was pounding so hard she could actually see it making her chest move. But she stood very still, striving for objectivity.

  How would she evaluate this woman if she met her for the first time?

  Her body was trim, no extra fat. She looked as if she had been training rigorously for this assignment—whatever it was, she silently added.

  Trust no one. The warning echoed in her mind again—the only thing she was sure about in a world that was shifting dangerously under her feet. And not simply because she was in a boat.

  A small sound rose in her throat as she slapped her palm against her thigh, then winced at the sting of pain she had produced.

  She did not know who she was. There, she had admitted it. She did not know what she was doing here. But she knew that a lot of people were going to die if she could not figure it out.

  Would Max Dakota help her?

  Forget Max Dakota, she told herself firmly. But it was impossible to completely banish him from her mind.

  Swallowing hard, she looked back in the mirror, seeing the terror written on her features. With objectivity, she took in other details. Her hair was light. All over.

  She had shaved the hair under her arms and on her legs. It felt strange, but she would just have to get used to it.

  Again she stopped and tried to hold on to the significance of that thought. Was shaving something new to her?

  Pivoting away from the mirror, she turned on the shower and stepped under the spray.

  There was a bar of soap in a little rack on the shower wall, and she picked it up, lathering her hands. The ensuing aroma made her go very still. The soap smelled wonderful. Not just fresh and clean, but like something good to eat.

  She had no precise words to describe it. She only knew that it was rich and spicy and a shock to her senses. Lifting it to her face, she sniffed it, then tentatively stuck out her tongue and touched it to the bar.

  After the enticing scent, the taste was an unpleasant surprise. But, then, it was not supposed to be food. It was soap. And she did not need to eat it to enjoy it.

  Feeling as if she was wallowing in sinful luxury, she lathered her body.

  Her right hand stilled when she came to some kind of raised place on her skin under her left arm, toward her back. The area felt tender, and she twisted around, trying to see it. But the light in the shower was dim, and the thing was almost on her back where it was hard to get a good look at it.

  So she went on to washing her hair—another sensual experience. The shampoo was even richer and more tangy than the soap. And it made her hair feel so silky she wanted to run her fingers through the strands just for the pleasure of it.

  Finally, recalling Max Dakota’s warning not to use too much water, she forced herself to turn off the water and step out, then picked up the towel he had left on the sink and began to dry herself.

  Again, the experience was amazing. She wondered if she had ever felt anything so soft and absorbent against her skin. The towel was large enough to envelop her, and the fluffy fabric sucked the water away from her body, leaving her feeling wonderfully dry and clean.

  How astonishing that such simple things could feel so good, she thought. And even more astonishing not to remember any of them.

  She clenched her teeth and reached for the brightly patterned shirt—then remembered the place under her arm that had felt strange to her soapy fingers.

  Holding up her arm, she moved closer to the mirror, twisted around, and saw a small blue mark. Seeing it sent a shiver slithering down her spine, like a snake ready to wrap itself around her body and choke the life out of her.

  What, exactly, was she looking at?

  Chapter Four

  Twisting around farther, Annie tried to get a better look at the mark. The color was dark blue, a
nd as far as she could tell, it was some kind of symbol tattooed on her skin. A circle with an X through it.

  Experimentally, she touched the blue symbol with the fingers of her other hand. Confirming her impression from the shower, the area was slightly tender, as though the thing had been put on her fairly recently. She pressed, wondering if it was her imagination or if there was something below the surface of the skin under the tattoo.

  She pictured herself showing the blue mark to Max and asking him if he knew what it was. Almost as soon as the idea came to mind, she squeezed her hands into fists, fighting the needy feeling rising inside her. Her interaction with the man was warping her judgment. She had to remember that she was on her own.

  Probably it was better to get off his boat. But just contemplating that idea made her chest tighten. She felt safe here.

  Or was she? Quickly, she gave herself an excuse for staying: it was better to find out as much as she could before she took off on her own.

  Still feeling uncertain, she dressed as quickly as possible in the borrowed shorts and shirt. The sandals were not very comfortable, so she left them on the floor.

  She was about to leave the room, but at the last minute, she turned to the mirror and gave herself a critical inspection. The clothing she wore looked too big. The shirt hung down to her knees, almost hiding the shorts that played hide-and-seek at the bottom when she moved her legs.

  Hide-and-seek. A children’s game where one person is “it” and has to locate the others.

  The definition had popped into her head. Not because she had played the game, she was sure, but because she had been forced to memorize it.

  Why?

  Simply contemplating the question made her chest tighten again. Frantically she shoved the question out of her mind and went back to her inspection. Her hair was a mass of tangles. But using the hair dryer and brush Max had offered would fix it.

  Snatching up the little machine, she turned it over and over, enjoying the way the smooth plastic felt in her hand. It was like the soap—a foreign object.

  When she pushed the tiny prongs at the end of the cord into the receptacles in the wall, then toggled the switch, the thing came to life with a roar in her hand, and she almost dropped it. But when she directed the blast of warm air at her hair, it felt good. She began to work on the long, blond strands, untangling them with the brush.

  The simple process seemed to transform her appearance. Tentatively she brushed back the blond cloud, liking the effect of her hair flowing softly around her face.

  Would Max like it, too?

  With a grimace, she told herself it did not matter how he reacted to her appearance. Still, she thought, if he liked her—liked the way she looked—she might get him to cooperate.

  The idea of using her looks as a tactic made her mouth go dry. But she had to leave all options open she knew as she unlocked the door with a decisive click and stepped into the narrow hall.

  Greeted by a wonderful aroma, she heard her stomach growl in reaction, and she was glad she was alone at the moment.

  Following her nose, she climbed a flight of ladderlike steps and found herself in a room that was comfortably furnished with tailored sofas and chairs and a dark wooden table. She ran her hand over the back of a sofa, entranced by the feel of the fabric.

  Max was at the other end of the room in what must be the kitchen. She heard him making a low, contented noise and realized he was singing a song. Something about lovers and guns.

  His shoulders stiffened, and she knew he had been listening for her. He turned, a spoon in his hand. She saw his gaze travel over her, from her hair to the baggy clothing he had lent her to her bare feet, then up again.

  Suddenly she was conscious that she was naked under the light coverings. Swallowing, she said, “Thanks for the use of the shower…and the hair dryer.”

  “You’re welcome.” He gave her a grin. “You clean up pretty good,” he said.

  “So do you,” she answered, thinking that he looked very appealing but no less dangerous in his clean shirt and shorts.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Better.”

  The conversation came to a halt. Scrambling for something else to say, she asked, “Why were you singing?”

  He shrugged. “No reason, really. Well, it’s from Annie Get Your Gun. The Broadway musical that gave me the idea for your name.”

  “Oh,” she answered cautiously. Too bad the reference was totally mystifying. Unlike with hide-and-seek, nothing relevant popped into her head.

  She moved farther into the room, drawn as much by the food as by the man. “What smells so good?”

  “Fettuccine Alfredo.” His tone was casual, but she was pretty sure he was not quite as relaxed as he wanted her to think.

  “Umm,” she answered.

  He looked disappointed. “You don’t like it?”

  “Oh, I love it!” she lied, wondering what in the name of The Protectors it was.

  “Well, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

  A container of white strands was sitting in the sink, steam rising from the surface. He transferred the strands to a bowl, then added the contents of another pot before forking out portions onto two plates.

  “Let me help,” she offered, thinking that she had never seen a man perform this work, but wondering what she could do, since neither the food nor the equipment seemed familiar.

  “Carry those to the table,” he said as he brought more food.

  She recognized the tomatoes, but could not identify the white balls or green slices.

  “I’d offer you wine, but I suspect it would put you to sleep.”

  She nodded, not because she remembered having anything called wine, but because it was easier to agree with him at the moment. Easier to keep from focusing on the yawning blank spaces in her memory.

  “How about iced tea?”

  “Fine.”

  “With sugar?”

  “Fine,” she answered again.

  He filled two glasses with clear cubes, then reached into the refrigerator, took out a pitcher and poured amber liquid into each.

  As she carried the glasses to the table, they felt cold in her hand, and she set them down quickly. When he pulled out a chair and sat so did she. He looked at her, then took a sip of the tea. She did the same, feeling tension hum back and forth between them. Tension neither one of them was prepared to acknowledge.

  Seeking some other focus of her attention, she studied the plate of what he had called fettuccine Alfredo. She could see him winding the white strands onto a fork. It seemed like a strange kind of procedure, and it was a challenge to work neatly as she imitated the process, conscious that he was watching her. Quickly she lifted the utensil to her mouth and slurped. A burst of flavor made her gasp.

  He stirred his fork in his bowl. “You don’t like it?”

  “It…it is wonderful,” she managed, after she had chewed and swallowed, loving the contrast of the slightly firm strands with the rich, creamy sauce. Eagerly, she took another bite. Then another.

  He was watching her. “You look like you’re starving.”

  “This is so good.”

  “What kind of cuisine would you say it is?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “You’ve never had Italian food?” he pressed, ignoring her previous assurance that she loved the dish.

  “Pizza. Spaghetti,” she answered, caught off balance.

  He was staring at her oddly.

  “Is English a foreign language for you?” he asked in what sounded like an abrupt change of topic.

  She took another sip of the iced tea, wondering why anyone would deliberately make a drink cold. “I…do not—don’t know.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “What were you doing while I was getting dressed—thinking up questions to ask me?”

  “I was cooking dinner.”

  “And thinking of questions. Is that your interrogation technique? Feed the pris
oner, then pounce when you have her off guard?”

  He leaned back in his seat. “I wouldn’t call it an interrogation.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Maybe trying to understand why you tossed me in the water.”

  She looked down, twisting her fork in the food. This time, when she ate more of the fettuccine, she barely tasted it.

  He was watching her consideringly. Finally he said, “I guess you don’t know if you can trust me. And I’ve got the same problem with you.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, wondering if she had spoken loudly enough for him to hear her.

  “There’s something…bad going on in Hermosa Harbor,” he said. “You could be mixed up in it. If you tell me how you’re involved, I could help you.”

  She fiddled with the glass, running her fingers over the condensation on the smooth sides.

  “Okay, I understand you’re scared.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. “But I’ve figured out some things about you already. You don’t seem to know a lot about the culture. There are big blanks in your general knowledge. That could mean you’ve entered the country as an illegal alien. But you don’t seem to know much about yourself, either. Which makes me wonder if you have a memory problem. If so, I would imagine that would be terrifying.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Freud,” she answered, wondering where the reference had come from.

  He laughed. “Nice recovery. But you’ve got a ways to go.”

  When she pressed her lips together, he said, “I’m good at getting people out of trouble.”

  “Why?” she demanded, because it felt so tempting to accept his offer. But she knew deep down that she could easily jump the wrong way.

  He gave her a little smile. “Well, I’ve got enough money to live comfortably. But an idle life can be kind of boring. So I spice it up by doing favors for friends.”

  She thought the answer was evasive—as evasive as she had been in her answers to his questions.

  “I do not know much about you,” she pressed.

  “I’m a pretty ordinary guy.”