“Maybe I’m a long-lost relative.”
“I hope not.” Not with the thoughts running through his head.
“You could do worse for relatives,” she said testily.
“But you couldn’t. I’m Trouble, remember?”
Her defensiveness vanished. “Maybe I wanted you to work for me.”
“As a bouncer? Sorry, but you don’t strike me as the type who owns a bar.”
She tunneled her fingers through her long blond hair and lifted it off her neck. “None of this makes sense. I’m scared of the police, but I walk into a strange—at least, I assume it’s strange—bar and ask, for an ex-cop. Why?”
He shrugged. “If you knew those two goons were on your trail, you could have been looking for help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Protection.”
Alarm glimmered in her eyes. “Oh.”
“You could know somebody who knows me, who figured I’d be happy to earn a few bucks—”
“Doing what?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“Security work, a bodyguard. You didn’t think I’d hire out as a hit man?”
She squirmed as if he’d read her thoughts. “I don’t remember much, but I know violence is against my nature. I would never hire a hit man.”
“This discussion is leading us nowhere. It’s time to check the taxi and rental car—”
The cell phone buzzed in his hand. When he answered, he could barely make out Hal Walden’s voice. “I can’t hear you. Speak up.”
“I can’t,” Hal said. “I’m taking a chance calling you from the station as it is.”
“What’s up?”
“Jeez, man, thanks to you and your favors, I’m neck-deep in manure.”
“Just for logging on the computer? Don’t give me that.”
“Will you listen!” Hal shouted. “I need some help here.” He dropped his voice and Jordan strained to hear. “I ran those prints through the Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”
“That’s good.” Jordan waved Angel a thumbs-up. “What’s her name?”
“It’s not good,” Hal said with a groan. “She wasn’t in AFIS, but when they find out who she is, there’ll be a warrant out for her arrest.”
Jordan bolted upright in his chair. “What?”
“For breaking and entering on Turtle Key before midnight last night.”
Angel, a cat burglar?
“Her prints,” Hal said, “match those the crime scene unit lifted from a jimmied front door and inside the house.”
Avoiding Angel’s puzzled look, Jordan stepped onto the deck at the stern of the boat and closed the sliding glass door behind him. “Anything stolen?”
“No.” Hal’s breath whistled through his teeth. “Man, my neck is on the block. The detectives will want to know where I got that print. How am I going to explain?”
“Let me think.”
Jordan paced for several long minutes while seagulls wheeled and screeched overhead.
“Okay, here’s what you do. Take the juice glass to the property room, tell them you found it and a copy of the prints beside the computer.”
“But what about my log-on code?”
“If anybody asks, say you assumed the detectives wanted an AFIS report. Otherwise, don’t mention it.”
“That might get me off the hook,” he said grudgingly, “but what are you going to do about the woman?”
Jordan’s thoughts raced. Turning Angel over to the cops would take her off his hands. He glanced into the cabin, where she watched him through the glass door with curiosity etched all over her unforgettable face. Not the face of a criminal. He’d bet his boat on that.
If he handed her over to the law, without her memories, she’d have no way to defend herself against any charges. The prospect of Angel behind bars prodded his conscience. He’d be a first-class jerk to desert her now.
“Trouble? You still there?”
“Yeah, and I’m not going to turn her in.”
“Man, are you crazy?” Hal breathed heavily into the phone, as if he’d run a foot race.
“Probably. So you don’t know her name?”
“No clue. And if you don’t bring her in, you could be charged with obstruction. Hell, I could be charged.”
“I know what I’m doing, Hal. She’s not a criminal, and like you said, nothing was stolen. I want to get to the bottom of this before I tell the police about her. Give me the name and address of the folks who had the break-in.”
“I’m already in enough hot water—”
“Give, or should I tell the chief it was you last year who accidentally blasted that hole in the new cruiser roof with the riot gun?”
“But I didn’t—”
“I can be very convincing.”
Hal hesitated, then mumbled the information. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Thanks, buddy. I owe you.” Jordan pocketed the phone and went back into the cabin.
“Was that call about me?” Angel asked.
“I have a lead on your identity, but to follow up, I’ll need you to trust me.”
Her expression turned wary. “Trust you how?”
“I’m going out for a while, and I want you to stay inside, out of sight, until I return.”
Fear replaced her guarded look. “That phone call—those men are back, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” he lied. She’d be more likely to consent to his plan if she believed her almost abductors had returned.
“Okay,” she agreed, white-faced.
What kind of a jerk are you? First you ask her to trust you, then you lie to her, right off the bat. If the woman had any sense, she’d start running and not stop until she reached the next state.
And if you had any sense, you’d let her.
He crossed the lounge, seized the vodka bottle and with superhuman effort stashed it out of sight again in the galley cabinet.
Unable to shake the cloud of predestined calamity that hovered over him, he brushed past her, leapt from the boat and sprinted down the dock toward his car.
FOR TWO HOURS, Angel paced the lounge, waiting for Jordan’s return. Fear of encountering the men he claimed had tried to kidnap her kept her inside, even when the confines of the forty-foot boat made her claustrophobic.
But more than fear held her there.
After piecing together the fragments Jordan had told her, she realized she was in some kind of danger, and she suspected she had sought out Jordan Trouble to protect her. Somehow, irrationally perhaps, she believed staying with him kept her safe.
To be honest, she had to admit she remained in Jordan’s company for more than safety. Right now, he was the only friend she had.
What she had first mistaken for attraction sizzling between them had to be gratitude for his rescue, even though Jordan’s rugged good looks and heart-melting smile would turn the head of any woman.
But a man was more than muscles and a handsome face. She had witnessed his contest with the vodka bottle, a battle he had won—this time. She wondered whether being wounded in the line of duty had launched his struggle with alcohol or if the stresses of police work had driven him to drink long before he’d been shot.
Examining her surroundings, she searched for clues to unlock the secrets of Jordan Trouble’s personality. Low shelves, crammed to overflowing with well-worn books, lined the lounge and formed a half wall between the living area and the galley. A scan of the titles revealed Jordan’s eclectic taste, from oceanography and history to Tom Clancy’s novels and several bestselling mysteries.
She pulled out a narrow, unidentifiable volume to check its title and discovered an official rule book for soccer. A color photograph and a greeting card slipped from its pages to the floor. She retrieved the items and examined the picture in which a group of happy-faced young boys in purple-and-black soccer uniforms gathered around a sign that read Sunset Bay Sizzlers, Police Athletic League. Coach Jordan Trouble.
Flashing his carefree
smile, Jordan stood at the far left of the back row, a soccer ball tucked on his cocked right hip, his left hand resting on the shoulder of the boy beside him. He looked cheerful, without his present shadow of despair.
She tucked the photograph back inside the rule book and glanced at the greeting card. More than a dozen children’s signatures with special notes to their wounded coach filled the inside. She recalled the saying, If kids and animals like you, you can’t be all bad. Judging from their messages, the kids had obviously loved Coach Trouble. She smiled and wondered if he’d ever owned a dog.
She continued her search but spotted no other photographs, none of Jordan’s family or his former police colleagues, no indication of how he spent his time when he wasn’t working in the bar across the street.
Besides his books, the only other clue to his interests was a harmonica, stashed in a handy cubbyhole beside the television. The instrument conjured up images of Jordan, a solitary figure, adrift on his boat in the endless gulf, his haunting melodies carried on the sea breeze. Unlike her, he had his memories, but he seemed more alone than she was.
A desire to ease his isolation gripped her, and she slumped onto the sofa and cradled her still-throbbing head in her hands. Her response to Jordan was irrelevant. For all she knew, even though she wore no rings, she could be married or engaged. A husband or lover could be searching frantically for her at this very minute.
A yawning emptiness, a yearning for someone gnawed inside her like an unhealed wound. Her arms ached to hold someone. But for whom was she longing?
Her gaze fell on the day’s edition of the Tribune lying on the coffee table. She could contact the newspapers and the television stations, explain her situation and ask them to run her picture. Surely somebody out there would recognize her and tell her who she was.
The two who tried to kidnap me know who I am.
But she couldn’t alert the police.
Why not?
In frustration, she pounded her fists against her thighs. If Jordan didn’t return soon, she would lose what little of her mind she had left.
She shoved to her feet, stomped to the sliding door and gazed toward the parking lot. At the sight of Jordan, sauntering down the dock with two large shopping bags in hand, she had to restrain herself from racing to meet him.
By the time he entered the cabin, she was seated on the sofa, outwardly calm, flipping idly through a magazine, while her pulse galloped at a hundred miles per hour.
Jordan dropped the bags on the floor. “I think I have everything you need.”
“Clothes?”
She eyed the packages with annoyance and aversion, but she couldn’t explain why Jordan’s buying her clothes affected her so negatively. After all, she had nothing to wear but a bloodstained suit, and she didn’t dare shop while kidnappers were after her.
“More than clothes,” Jordan said with a satisfied smile, evidently unaware of her irritation. “A disguise, so you can leave the boat without being recognized.”
Curiosity nudged aside her annoyance. She laid down the magazine to watch him drag out his purchases and arrange them on the coffee table.
When he’d emptied both bags, he selected several items and handed them to her. “Try these on. You can use my cabin. It has a full-length mirror.”
Minutes later, she stepped back into the lounge. The white jeans fit her like paint on wood. She’d had to lie flat on the double bed to pull them up and zip them. By contrast, the baggy navy-blue sweatshirt hung low on her thighs, and she shoved the sleeves off her hands. The only things that fit were the socks and running shoes.
Jordan’s face lighted with approval. “Perfect.”
“That’s easy for you to say. These jeans are so tight I can’t breathe.”
She yelped in surprise when he yanked up the sweatshirt, grabbed her hips and turned her full circle.
“They’ll be fine.” His strong, capable hands spanned her hips, and his face was too close to hers. “They’re denim. They’ll stretch.”
“Before or after I suffocate?” she demanded, unsure whether to blame her lack of air on the fit of her jeans or the warmth of his hands and the proximity of his lips.
His gaze locked with hers, and heat arced like lightning in the midnight-blue of his eyes before he freed her and turned his attention to the other purchases he’d piled on the table.
She experienced a curious sensation of abandonment and regret when he released her. That knock on the head had damaged more than her memory. It must have short-circuited her brain or she wouldn’t have reacted so intensely to a stranger’s casual touch.
“Now for the rest.” He lifted a straw hat with a four-inch brim and a blue band around the crown. A fall of straight black hair dangled from the inside band. “Try this.”
She bundled her hair atop her head, took the hat and eased it over her topknot.
He stepped closer, grasped her chin and turned her head from side to side. The warmth of his breath brushed her cheek, and the pleasing citrus scent of soap filled her nostrils. Again, she struggled to breathe.
“Is it on straight?” she asked, trying to appear unaffected.
With deft fingers, he tucked errant strands of blonde beneath the hat. His face hovered inches from hers, and she closed her eyes against the compelling sight.
“You okay?” He clasped her by the shoulders, and she could feel him staring at her.
Her eyes flew open, and she pulled away and sank onto the sofa. “Just a little dizzy.”
Worry wrinkled his brow and darkened his eyes, accentuating his attractiveness. “You had a nasty bump last night—and a bad scare. Maybe you should rest.”
“No!”
Her refusal exploded with more force than she’d intended. The best cure for her dizziness was escape from the intimate confines of the boat before she did something stupid, like showing gratitude for Jordan’s rescue by throwing herself into his strong, tanned arms.
His concerned expression turned puzzled.
“What I really need is fresh air and a chance to stretch my legs.”
“Are you sure?”
She bit back a curt response, blew a strand of nylon hair out of her eyes and nodded.
After another moment of intense scrutiny that made her face flush, he picked up the remaining items and handed them to her. “You’ll need the rest of your disguise.”
She removed a tube of lipstick from its packaging and frowned. “Reckless Red?”
“The color I thought least likely to suit the real you.”
The real me. Whoever that is.
She carried the lipstick to the tiny mirror in the bathroom and smoothed the fiery shade on her lips. Then she slipped on the large-framed dark glasses he’d purchased. A stranger with straight black hair that fell over her shoulders and a slash of brazen color on her mouth stared back at her.
A stranger named Angel.
After a futile attempt to slide the lipstick into the pocket of her too-tight jeans, she set the tube on the shelf above the miniature lavatory, squared her shoulders and returned to the now-empty lounge.
The door to Jordan’s cabin was closed, but in a few minutes he emerged, looking more handsome than ever in khaki Dockers, loafers and a dark blue chambray shirt that matched his eyes.
“Ready?” He handed her the clipboard and pen he carried.
“For what?” she asked suspiciously. He had yet to reveal their destination.
His cocky grin made her knees weak as he drew a knuckle gently across her cheek. “To see if we can’t jog that stubborn memory of yours.”
Tom between her desire to escape the intimacy of the boat and reluctance to expose herself to new dangers, she followed him onto the deck. He bounded to the dock and held but his hand. With his strong grasp steadying her, she leapt the narrow chasm between deck and pier.
As she teetered for balance, her gaze fell on the name of the boat, painted in flowing black script across the stern, and she laughed aloud at the irony.
> Jordan had christened his vessel Oblivion.
AFTER A FAST-FOOD LUNCH that Angel only picked at, Jordan turned his Volvo toward the causeway that connected Sunset Bay Beach to the mainland. Halfway across the three-mile span edged with towering palms and beds of tropical flowers, he turned left onto Turtle Key.
Back at the restaurant, Angel had sat huddled in a corner of the booth, obviously fearful of being recognized. Only after fifteen minutes without attracting attention in the crowded room had she relaxed enough for him to coax her to drink her chocolate shake.
Her anxiety had been evident, but it lacked the taint of guilt he had learned to associate with those who disregarded the law. If Angel had broken into that house, he doubted petty thievery had been her goal, not with the air of fresh and open honesty she exuded.
On the other hand, she was undeniably agitated. He suspected something horrible had happened to her—something more than a bump on the head—that had caused her to block her memories. The cop in him wanted to uncover that event.
The man in him wanted to understand how this woman had accomplished in a few hours what others had failed to do in months. By reviving his curiosity and his compassion, she’d brought him halfway back to life. He wasn’t sure he was grateful.
He’d been alive before, and it had proved too painful.
Driving across the narrow bridge that spanned the canal between Turtle Key and the causeway, he vowed silently to guard against feelings that had caused such agony in the past.
“I want to go back,” she announced suddenly.
“Back?”
“To the boat.”
Driving slowly and watching street signs for Turtle Way, he cast her a quick glance. She had wrapped her arms around her midriff as if her stomach ached, and her face had paled, a startling contrast to the garish red of her lipstick.
“Do you recognize this area?”
She shook her head. “But it’s giving me the willies.”
“Good. I—”
“Good! What are you, a sadist?”
He reached over and gently massaged the tensed muscles at the nape of her neck. “If this place disturbs you, it means you’ve been here before, and we might find clues here to who you are.”
A Woman of Mystery Page 3