by Julie Miller
“I think you’ve got eighteen to twenty-four hours. After that, you better be on your game.”
Was she on her game? Not hardly. Something flashed in her head. She shook it, trying to clear it.
“What?” he prodded, maybe thinking that she wasn’t taking the threat seriously.
“You said I needed to be on my game. And all I can think of is Leon Durham.”
“The baseball player?” he asked, as if he really couldn’t believe it.
“Yeah. He played first base. Talented player but unfortunately, there was the time he let a ball roll through his legs.”
“In 1984. Cubs versus Padres,” he said. “Padres went on to win.” He paused. “How the hell do you know these things?”
She had no idea. It was just there.
It was horribly frightening. She had men chasing after her and all she had a grasp on was useless baseball facts. “Well, Mr. Hollister, it appears that I continue to be in your debt.” She looked toward the door, to give him the hint.
“You can start paying up right now,” he said.
What? He couldn’t be suggesting...that, could he? “It’s time for you to leave,” she said more sternly.
“Nope.” He lay back on the pillow, stretched his long legs out and kicked off his boots. He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.
“You can’t stay here,” she said, louder and with more of a shrill than she expected.
He opened one eye. “I’m tired. I’ve lost the better part of the evening helping you. Now, I don’t care if you want to sit in that chair all night or if you decide to stretch out next to me, but I’m getting some sleep. I suggest you do the same.”
“But...”
“Your virtue is safe with me. I don’t date married women and I certainly don’t sleep with them. And,” he said, “don’t get any ideas of rubbing that shampoo you’ve got cupped in your hands in my eyes. That would just piss me off.”
She had never been so furious. Or so grateful. It was preposterous that he was bulldozing his way into her room but there was something about him that, quite frankly, made her feel safe.
She needed sleep and she didn’t intend to do it in this chair. She got up, went into the bathroom to wash her hands and came back. “You don’t happen to have a nail file, do you?”
He lowered his chin. “Do I look like I file my nails?” he asked, his tone low.
“Not really. I thought you were the Abominable Snowman earlier,” she added. “And I guess he probably doesn’t file his nails either,” she finished weakly.
He laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him do that. It was nice.
He got off the bed, rummaged in the duffel bag that he’d tossed on the floor and came out with a small plastic box. He opened it and tossed a pair of clippers her direction. “Will these work?”
“Yes.” She was so grateful to be able to fix her poor nails that she quickly started clipping. She put the discarded nails in a pile and, when she was finished, dumped them in the wastebasket in the corner of the room, on top of the horrible dress.
“You really messed up your hands,” he said. “How did you do that?”
She was ready for the question. Had anticipated it while she was clipping. Felt good that she was functioning at a level where her brain was working again. “Bridal shower,” she said. “Nasty boxes with too much tape.”
“Uh-huh.”
She pulled back the covers on her side and crawled in, ignoring the fact that six feet of handsome muscle was on the other side of the bed.
He reached up and turned off the light. The room was not totally dark, however, because she’d left the bathroom light on and the door halfway open.
She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing deep. In her head, she counted. By the time she got to two hundred, he was breathing deep and she assumed he was asleep.
She thought about trying to sneak out. He’d tossed his keys on top of the chest of drawers. All she would need to do was grab them and get out without him hearing her.
She was good at that kind of thing.
Didn’t know how she knew that but felt it.
But where would she go?
That was the truly terrifying part—to have no idea where her safe place was located. Where her family might be.
She didn’t trust Cal Hollister but she trusted the outside world even less.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cal felt the candy bars and chips roll into him as she slid in under the covers. She smelled good. Very feminine. He had the craziest urge to reach out, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.
But he kept his arms folded, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. She was scared. Of him. But more so of the men that he’d described. So for now, she’d filed him under the category of lesser evil, which was just fine with him.
When he’d seen the second Mercedes idling in the lot, hidden to the casual observer, he’d realized that she was in the middle of something big. There was some serious muscle trying to find her.
He’d considered his options. He could forget what he’d overheard and seen and be on his way. He could go to the cops. Or he could barge his way into this room and try to protect this woman.
Who was lying to him. Of that, he was confident.
But he was also pretty sure that she was scared. Really scared. And he couldn’t forget those marks on her wrists.
When he’d walked in and seen her pile of clothes at the end of the bed, he’d known there was a good likelihood that she might walk out of the bathroom naked. And if he’d been a gentleman, he’d have knocked on the bathroom door, announced his presence and given her a chance to collect herself.
He’d considered that plan for about half a minute before he’d settled down on the bed, determined to let the cards fall where they may. She’d come out in her towel, which for some twisted reason was even more sexy than full nakedness. She had a compact little body. No taller than a couple inches past five feet, she had gentle curves and one set of really gorgeous legs.
When she’d walked past him, he’d seen immediately that she was holding something in her hands. But he had to admit, she was good. She’d seemed relaxed and her stride even, unhurried. Confident.
Perhaps too confident. An operative? It was possible. Since he’d heard the men’s foreign accents, the thought had been nagging at him. Was she part of a foreign terrorist group intent on screwing the United States? If so, even more reason to stick close to her. Was she an innocent, caught up with the wrong people? Then she needed his help.
He listened to her breathe, knew the exact moment that she let loose and fell asleep. He waited another five minutes, then carefully propped himself up on one elbow. Examined her.
She slept daintily, with her mouth closed. Yet, she wasn’t totally relaxed. Her jaw was set as if she might have her teeth together. And one hand grabbed the corner of the sheet, fingers clenched tight.
He was still worried about the lump on her head but she certainly wasn’t showing any signs of concussion. Her speech was clear, her pupils the same. Still, she should probably be checked in the night.
It was still blowing outside. That would slow the Mercedes Men down. But they would be back. He wasn’t concerned for his own safety. One against four were reasonable odds for a SEAL. But his attention would be diverted by her. And that could prove fatal.
When she woke up, he was going to force her to come clean. Once he had the story, he’d know what to do.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, remembering that mango was one of his favorite fruits. A little tart. Juicy. Delicious.
Damn.
Two hours later, he gently rolled over and bumped into her, his knee to her hip. She shifted but didn’t wake up. He reached up and turned on the light.
“Hey,” she said. She turned to look at him. “What’s going on?” she asked, her tone sleepy, yet coherent.
“Just had to use the head,” he lied. He looked at her eyes. Pupils still looked good. Her color was fine. “Go back to sleep,” he said, turning off the light.
She was quiet for several minutes but he could tell by her breathing that she was agitated. He wasn’t surprised when she suddenly sat up in bed.
“You did not have to use the bathroom.”
“I didn’t?” he asked with deliberate surprise. “That’s rather personal, isn’t it?”
“You woke me up on purpose.”
“Why would I do that? So I could have this lovely conversation?” He rolled over and gave her his back.
She waited a full minute before she shoved his shoulder. “You were worried about the bump on my head.” She paused. “That was nice of you,” she added somewhat grudgingly.
He smiled. “Good night, Stormy.”
* * *
SHE LAY IN BED, covers up to her neck, relaxed for the first time. She knew it was because she’d finally let down her guard. Cal had had multiple opportunities to harm her and he’d taken none of them. Instead, he’d disturbed his own sleep to wake her up and make sure that she didn’t have a concussion.
He was smart, cocky, a little brash. Sexy in his blue jeans and forest-green Henley shirt.
He reminded her a little of a lounging tiger. Relaxed yet ready to pounce. He moved with quiet confidence.
She envied that. She didn’t have any confidence right now.
But maybe by morning. She closed her eyes and let the sleep come.
The next thing she knew, strong hands gripped her shoulders. Half-asleep, old instincts kicked in. She wrenched her body sideways, attempting to fight.
But she couldn’t budge her attacker.
She opened her eyes, saw Cal on his knees, straddling her.
It was several more terror-filled seconds before she processed what was going on. She forced herself to breathe, to clear her head. He was holding her, not hurting her, simply trying to avoid getting hurt himself. She looked at the bedcovers. They were in a tangled heap, wrapped around her legs.
“What day is it?” she demanded.
That surprised him. “It’s Wednesday. Why?”
She let out a breath. “I needed to know if it was Saturday.”
“Because?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But she saw the determined look on his face, knew that he wanted answers. “I had a bad dream,” she said.
“You think?” he asked, his tone tense. His big body hovered over her, his weight off her but his presence immense.
While bedcovers and layers of clothes separated them, their closeness was suddenly intensely intimate. And disconcerting as hell to go from something horrible, like her dream, to something that offered a promise of being good, very good.
Breathe, she told herself.
“I think you scared ten years off my life,” he said, his tone a little easier now.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
He moved fast, swinging one leg over so that he was kneeling beside her. His hazel eyes looked troubled. “Want to talk about it?”
Could she? Could she go back to that dark place? Could she pretend that it had just been an oddly disturbing dream?
Could she trust this man who had barged into her room and taken up more than his share of the bed?
He’d saved her life.
Had doubled back to let her know about the men looking for her. She looked at him closer. He had a red mark on his face. He hadn’t had it the night before. “What happened there?” she asked, already suspecting the truth.
“You’ve got a strong right hook,” he said nonchalantly. “Unfortunately, you popped me one at about the same time you started screaming. It was a bit disconcerting for a minute.”
Someone with less control might have killed her by mistake in response.
“I was lying on a bed,” she said. “It was narrow, more like a cot.”
He nodded.
“I wanted to get up, knew I needed to get away. But my wrists were tied to the bed frame. I pulled and pulled but it was no use.”
“Who tied you there?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It...it looked like a ghost. All white.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I know, crazy, right?” she said.
“Nope. Did the ghost talk to you?”
She thought for a minute. He had. She knew that. Couldn’t remember what he’d said. “I’m not sure.”
“What else do you remember?”
She pointed to the garbage can in the corner. “That was hanging in the corner of the room.”
“The wedding dress?” he asked.
“Yes.” She’d been scared of the dress but she could hardly admit that. There was something else and she tried desperately to recall it but it was out of her reach.
“Do you remember anything else?”
“I was sick. The ghost made me so sick.”
He seemed to consider that. “You were screaming when you woke up. Why?”
“The ghost had come in and something bad was going to happen.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But it was bad. I started screaming. And then...I guess I woke up.”
He seemed to consider his words. “You have marks on your wrists,” he said. “Like you’ve been restrained.”
He was pointing out the obvious. She could ignore it, dismiss it. Or she could take the risk, leave herself absolutely exposed. If she didn’t, she’d be all alone. “So you’re saying that maybe it wasn’t just a dream?”
“You tell me,” he said, his voice intense.
She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Maybe at the beginning.”
Wouldn’t that be nice? “Well, that was sometime before I met you. How long before, I’m not quite sure.”
“That’s a little confusing,” he said.
She sat up in bed and pushed a hand through her tangled hair. “I’m in trouble. I don’t know why but I am. The problem is, I don’t think I can get myself out of it.”
“Because?”
“Because I don’t know what went wrong. I don’t know who else is involved. I don’t know how big this is but something tells me it’s big. Really big. And that terrifies me. I don’t know who the bad guys are. I don’t know what they want.” She took a breath.
“Okay. Anything else you don’t know?”
She nodded. This was the hardest part. “When I looked in the mirror yesterday, I didn’t recognize myself. Not because my hair was different or anything dumb like that. I didn’t know who the woman in the mirror was.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t even know who I am.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“I knew Mary Smith was bogus,” he said.
Her dark eyes got big. “That’s it? That’s it?” she repeated, her voice rising. “I tell you that I don’t know who I am and all you can say is ‘I knew Mary Smith was bogus.’ Of course it was bogus. I. Don’t. Know. My. Name.”
“And you’re pretty freaked out about it,” he said.
Now she gave him a look that would have made most people run for the door. It made him want to smile but he resisted. If he didn’t watch out, she’d land another punch.
“A little,” she said sarcastically.
“I get that,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s helpful for both of us to be freaked out. And I’ve been around a few people who have had short-term memory loss. It comes back.”
She didn’t say anything for a long minute. “But what if it doesn’t?”
And
that simple question, asked in a small voice, pulled at his gut more than any full-blown tantrum could.
“You can’t worry about that. Right now, you need to focus on staying safe.” He meant that. While he was trying really hard to be calm, listening to her talk about some ghost that scared her and tied her to a bed had made him sick.
“You woke up asking the day of the week. Saturday seemed important. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said, frustration in her tone. “In my dream, I knew that something very bad was going to happen on Saturday. That I had to stop it.”
“Something bad to you?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “This is going to sound crazy but even now that I’m awake, just saying the word Saturday makes my heart rate kick up in my chest.”
“Okay. It’s just Wednesday. If something bad is going to happen on Saturday, we’ve got a couple days. I think our best bet now is to get the hell out of Dodge,” he said.
“We? Our?” she repeated. “This isn’t your problem.”
No, it wasn’t. But he’d made his decision on that the minute he’d circled back to warn her about the Mercedes Men. “I’m between jobs right now so I’ve got some time on my hands.”
She stared at him. He could read the questions in her eyes. She wanted to trust him but with no memory to guide her, she probably felt that any value judgment she might make was suspect. “What was your job?” she said finally.
“Navy SEAL for eight years. Got my discharge papers six months ago.”
“So you haven’t worked since then?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I signed on for more of the same with a private contractor. The money was really good but—” he paused “—I’m just ready for something else.” There was no need to tell her that he’d come home to have a conversation with his brother, a conversation that was probably going to be difficult for both of them.
“What brought you to Missouri?” she asked.
“Family. I was raised about a hundred miles from here in a small town. Ravesville. Ever heard of it?”
“No.” Her cheeks got pink. “At least I don’t think I have.”
He shrugged. “No worries. Don’t try to force it.”