Aw, damn.
At her tears, Jordan felt the noose of responsibility tighten around his neck. He was beginning to care what happened to her. A very bad sign.
With reluctance counterbalancing pleasure, he drew her against his chest and smoothed her silky hair. “Go ahead and cry if it makes you feel better. Last night must have been a nightmare.”
She wept quietly, and her soft cheek and the track of her tears warmed the bare skin of his chest. He fought against the desire to shield her from unpleasantness. He’d had that protective feeling before, and it had led to a disaster he’d been helpless to prevent—a violent death.
The greatest kindness he could show this woman was to send her away, back to loved ones who could protect her as he couldn’t. He pulled away from her and yanked a handful of tissues from a box on the end table.
“Wipe your eyes.” The sharp sting of memories laced his voice with unintended harshness. “Then give me a phone number, and I’ll call someone to come for you.”
Her lips trembled at his suggestion, and her forehead wrinkled.
Sorry for the roughness of his command, he gripped her chin gently between thumb and forefinger, tilted her face upward and dabbed at her tears. Her skin had retained its smooth perfection, even when she cried, and he regretted not meeting her at another time and place, before his world had cracked apart.
She offered him a wavering smile and took the tissues. Gradually her trembling ceased, and she blew her nose with a daintiness that made him smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to weep buckets all over you.”
“The important thing is to get you home.”
Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “You don’t understand.”
Aw, hell, here it comes.
He was being sucked into a situation he should avoid like fifty miles of bad road, but he’d have to be a corpse not to feel sympathy for her. “Maybe if you explain—”
“I can’t remember.” Horror edged her voice.
He draped his arm around her and gave her quivering shoulder a consoling pat. “Last night was a bad experience. It’s best you don’t remember.”
Her gold-flecked brown eyes filled with panic, and she wriggled from his grip. “But I don’t remember anything.”
Jordan blinked. “Nothing?”
“Not even my own name.”
Biting back a curse, he shoved his fingers through his hair. Attractive and vulnerable as she was, his intention had been to unload this beautiful dilemma as soon as possible. Amnesia threw an unexpected kink into his plan.
She surveyed the lounge of his cabin cruiser in a desperate search. “Didn’t I have a purse, a wallet, something with identification?”
He recalled her graceful stride as she’d entered the bar, one hand at her side, the other tugging at her earring. “You weren’t carrying anything last night, unless you have something in your pockets.”
She patted the breast and side pockets of her suit jacket. Her eyes relayed her disappointment, but her chin jutted defiantly. “Nothing.”
He silently applauded her courage. He doubted most people would hold together as well if their memories had been obliterated. “Doc Martin said to call if there was any change. I’d say loss of memory is enough for him to want another look at you.”
She glanced at the clock above his television. “His office won’t open for hours.”
“He’s just a few minutes away.”
“A doctor who makes house calls?” She stared in disbelief.
“He’s retired. Lives on his yacht across the harbor.”
She struggled to her feet and balanced on wobbly legs. “I must have had a car. Or if I came in a taxi, maybe the driver will remember me. I can’t wait for the doctor.”
Common sense screamed to let her go, but his conscience wasn’t listening. He sat and tugged her onto the sofa beside him. Obviously still suffering from the blow to her head, she didn’t protect.
“You can’t go wandering into the street without ID and your clothes covered in blood. There’s no telling where you’d end up.”
She exhaled a sigh of defeat and leaned against the back of the sofa. Her hair cascaded over the twill fabric like a waterfall of sunshine.
“Okay,” she relented. “Call the doctor.”
He reached for his cell phone. “You can shower while I fix breakfast. I’ll lend you some clothes.”
HOT WATER STUNG her bruised scalp, but the pulsing stream rejuvenated her, and as she dried herself with the oversize, fluffy towel in the boat’s tiny head, she felt almost normal.
Except she hadn’t a clue who she was.
At first, the not knowing had petrified her, but now the terror had receded, and she floated in a peaceful limbo free of stress, fears and obligations, her mind a clean slate.
Avoiding the tender spot on her head, she toweled her hair, then wiped steam from the mirror. The face that stared back seemed familiar, but she couldn’t put a name to it.
Hoping the doctor could provide a speedy remedy, she stepped into stonewashed denim shorts borrowed from Jordan and cinched the leather belt to secure the too-big waist. She unfolded the soft and faded navy T-shirt, and Sunset Bay Police Department jumped out at her in three-inch, Day-Glo yellow letters.
Apprehension, activated by the word police, paralyzed her. Her chest tightened, her breath labored, and her palms turned wet. An illogical urge to bolt overcame her, and she would have fled—but she couldn’t move.
Without recollections, she had no explanation for her anxiety. She tried to convince herself she was lucky she’d wound up with a police officer instead of a serial killer, but some latent instinct, not scoured blank like her memories, sent her heart thumping with fear and shattered her earlier composure to smithereens.
Why was she afraid of the police?
Only criminals feared the police.
But she wasn’t a criminal.
Was she?
The nameless face in the mirror provided no answer. Shaking off her paralysis, she tugged on the shirt and stepped into the galley. The aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon greeted her.
Jordan placed a heaped plate on the table across from the minuscule galley. “If you feel like eating, Doc said breakfast would be the best thing for you. He’ll be here within the hour.”
She scooted onto the vinyl-covered bench. Through the wide window that contoured the cabin, she gazed past boats moored alongside and studied the unfamiliar bar across the street, built like a Seminole chickee with cypress poles and a roof of dried palm fronds. Her frustration swelled at recognizing a chickee but not knowing her own name.
To hide her tension, she sipped orange juice while Jordan filled his plate at the stove. “Why did you bring me here last night?”
“For Doc to take a look at you.”
“Why not take me to a hospital? Since when does a police officer take his work home?”
With his back to her, he ceased all movement. “I’m not a police officer.”
His sudden quietness and colorless tone disturbed her as much as her irrational surge of relief. “You just collect T-shirts?”
He crossed the galley and slid onto the bench across from her. The muscles of his face were impassive, but a turmoil of emotion filled eyes as dark as a moonless sky.
“I used to be a cop. Until I almost bought the farm,” he said in a voice as distant as his expression.
Her gaze flew to the puckered scar below his shoulder. A bullet wound. “Why didn’t you call the police last night?”
Sipping his coffee, he eyed her over the rim of his cup. “I work as a bouncer for Mary Tiger. When you came in last night, two thugs tried to haul you out against your will.”
“And you intervened?”
“That’s my job.”
“And these two—thugs?”
“They left.”
“Does your job description include bringing home strays?”
“Not exactly.”
Her anxiety resurfaced. Did he somehow know she was frightened of the police? “Why didn’t you call the cops?”
“Look, lady—”
“My name’s not lady.”
“Then what is it?” He arched an eyebrow.
She clenched her hands on the table. “I don’t know.”
He reached across and smoothed a callused palm over her fist. “I have to call you something.”
His touch was oddly reassuring, and at the compassion in his voice, tears prickled her eyes. “I’ve always detested Jane Doe, but how I can remember that and not my own name beats me.”
Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he leaned back and contemplated her with a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re definitely not a Jane. When I saw you enter the bar last night, dressed in white, long golden hair...” He grinned as an idea hit him. “I’ll call you Angel.”
She fidgeted and flushed under his scrutiny. “Doesn’t Angel sound a bit...poetic?”
“It fits.” He squeezed her hand and released it. “And it’s only temporary. Doc will have you fixed up in no time, and you’ll have your real name back.”
JORDAN HAD BEEN overly optimistic about Doc Martin’s abilities.
The old man had proclaimed Angel apparently physically fit, but suffering from amnesia induced by either the blow to her head or psychological trauma. He prescribed a visit to the emergency room for tests and a second opinion.
Angel refused.
“You should do what he says,” Jordan insisted after the doctor had left. “You could have a concussion.”
She shook her head, and fear flashed in her eyes. “Almost being kidnapped by the characters you described is enough to make anyone want to forget.”
He considered the possibility she was faking amnesia to gain his help and a hideout from the men who were after her. But remembering the depth of her terror when she’d tried to recall her name, he discarded the idea. Unless she was an incredible actress, she couldn’t have bluffed that well.
“Let me take you to the station for fingerprinting. With their new computers, the police can identify you in a matter of minutes.”
“No.” Her flat refusal reverberated loudly in the closed confines of the cabin. “No police.”
His suspicions sprang back to life. “Why not?”
Anguish and indecision marked her lovely face. “I don’t know. Instinct warns me to avoid them.”
Her expression, both puzzled and frightened, evoked a tenderness that was sure to steer him smack into disaster. He reined in his galloping emotions. The sooner he found out who she was, the sooner he could pass responsibility for her to someone else.
“Let me earn my keep.” She began to clear the breakfast table. “I’ll do dishes.”
While Angel ran water in the galley sink, he grabbed his napkin from the table, wrapped her empty juice glass in it and slipped the bundle into the pocket of his windbreaker on the bench beside him. Anticipating this move, he had wiped away his own prints before filling her glass.
“I’ll check the parking lot at Mary Tiger’s and the surrounding streets for a car ticketed from last night.”
She turned from the sink and pushed back her hair, leaving a puff of soapsuds across one cheek. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You’re not a cop.”
Her eyes widened with alarm. “Ex-cop.”
“Right.”
“And if you don’t find a ticketed car?”
“I’ll contact the cab and rental car companies— after I’ve taken a Polaroid shot of you for identification purposes.” He shrugged into his jacket.
Her smile was tentative. “If I had to lose my memory, it looks like I came to the right place.”
CONFLICTING EMOTIONS battled inside Jordan as he climbed into his ten-year-old Volvo and drove four short blocks to the Sunset Bay Police Department’s beach substation. Mingling with his urge to protect her came his reluctance to get involved for fear of screwing up.
Again.
Not to mention that he was doing exactly what she’d begged him not to.
When he reached the station, he discovered Hal Walden on desk duty. His old buddy greeted him with the same tired joke. “What a way to start the morning. First thing to walk in the door is Trouble.”
Jordan tugged the wrapped glass from his pocket. “Remember the time I saved your life and you claimed you’d always owe me?”
Hal folded long arms on the desk and bent his tall, lanky frame to meet him eye to eye. “And I meant it. What do you need?”
Jordan unwrapped the glass. “You’ll find a set of prints on this. I need to know the name of the woman who belongs to them.”
“Woman?” Hal sniffed the contents of the glass, and the contours of his narrow face lifted in a leering grin. “You had breakfast with a chick you don’t even know?”
“It’s a long story and not even close to what you’re thinking.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“I know you, Hal, and you’ve been a dirty old man since you were three.”
Hal grinned without denial. Then his expression sobered. “I have to log on to the computer to check these. What if I come up with a hit?”
“I doubt you’ll find she’s wanted for anything. All I need is her name.”
Hal wiggled bushy eyebrows and grinned wider. “And address?”
Jordan sighed and struggled for patience with the pal who was doing him a favor. “Yeah, and address.”
“I’ll call you when I have something.”
On his way back to the marina, Jordan toured the municipal parking lots and streets near the bar but spotted no parking tickets to indicate a vehicle had been left overnight. Except for Mary Tiger’s pickup in her reserved spot, the bar’s private lot was empty. He wanted to question the bar owner but decided to call her after checking on Angel.
An unaccustomed flutter of anticipation rippled through his gut as he strode down the weathered planks of the dock toward his boat. Lack of detachment was not a good sign. He needed to work fast to get the beguiling Angel out of his life.
When he vaulted onto the deck, she met him at the sliding glass door, looking even prettier than he remembered.
“Any luck?” she asked.
He shook his head, and the disappointment on her face hit him like a blow. She followed him inside, curled long, shapely legs beneath her and settled in the corner of the sofa.
Lust, hot and powerful, walloped him at the sight, and he toyed fleetingly with the idea of taking her to bed in his cabin. Hell, he was beginning to think like Hal. Not that Jordan was averse to one-night stands. He’d avoided any deeper involvement for the past year. But only a first-class jerk would take advantage of a woman with no memories, no matter how much of a knockout she was.
He cooled his jets and concentrated on business. “My inquiry hasn’t scratched the surface yet. Besides, according to Doc, your memory could return any minute, long before we’ve exhausted our search.”
“Or it could return in bits and pieces—” she drew in a sharp breath “—or not at all. Isn’t that what he said?”
He ignored a yearning to draw her into his arms. “The worst-case scenario seldom happens. I have something else to try before we tackle the cab and rental car companies.”
He opened a cabinet built into the bulkhead and retrieved his cell phone from its charger.
Angel jumped to her feet and grabbed his arm. “You’re not calling the police?”
His previous errand stung his conscience. “I’m calling Mary Tiger.”
“Why?” She released him, and his skin glowed warm where her hand had been.
“You spoke to her right before your ‘friends’ arrived. Maybe you told her your name.”
He punched in the number of the bar.
Mary Tiger picked up on the first ring. “How’s the girl?”
“Okay, except for a slight problem.”
“Don’t tell me she’s going to sue.”
; He quickly put that fear to rest and asked his questions. When he clicked off the phone, Angel confronted him, eagerness shining in her honey-brown eyes. “Well?”
“You didn’t tell her your name.”
“But I spoke to her?”
“You asked a question.”
He marched to the galley cabinet, withdrew the unopened bottle of Absolut and removed a clean glass from the dish drainer. With a shudder of selfcontrol, he placed bottle and glass on the counter and turned his back on them.
“Don’t make me drag it out of you.” Her throaty voice rose an octave. “What did I say to the woman?”
Abandoning the galley and the vodka, he sank into a chair and stared at Angel with a gut-wrenching sensation of inevitability.
“You asked her where to find me.”
Chapter Two
“I was looking for you?” Angel’s eyes grew round with surprise.
“That’s what Mary Tiger said.”
“That’s rich,” she said with an ironic laugh. “I was looking for Trouble. Well, I certainly found it.”
“The question is why, why me?”
She squinted suspiciously. “Are you sure you don’t know who I am?”
“I never laid eyes on you before last night.”
And believe me, a woman as gorgeous as you, I would have remembered.
She leaned back on the sofa and stretched out her legs. “If we can figure out why I was looking for you, maybe we can work backward and figure out who I am.”
Jordan pulled his gaze from her long, tanned legs, the perfection of her bare feet and the delicate shell-pink of her toenails. The sight had him struggling to remember his own name. “There’re only so many reasons a person goes looking for someone.”
“Maybe you owe me money?” she suggested.
He shook his head. “I know the people I owe. You’re not one of them.”
“I wanted to borrow money?”
“Wrong again. Anyone who knows me also knows I’m broke. And from the cut of the clothes you’re wearing, I’d say lack of money isn’t your problem.”
She frowned. “It is now. I don’t have a cent to my unknown name.”
He flashed a reassuring smile. “I’m not so broke I can’t afford a guest—for a while. We’ll worry about your finances later.”
A Woman of Mystery Page 2