BAD BOYS ON BOARD

by Lori Foster, Donna Kauffman, Nancy Warren

  "My memory's coming back," Wes said.

  "How do you know?"

  "I know that every time we get together we argue but we get the job done." In fact, he knew no such thing but it was a safe bet that he and Harvey tweed-jacket didn't have the same MO.

  A reluctant grin dawned on his partner's face. "Yeah. And I always end up shot at."

  "Well, I haven't gotten you killed yet, have I?"

  Harvey pocketed the drawing and turned, already giving in. "Sometime I'll tell you about Mexico."

  * * *

  Wes chopped wood with a vengeance, venting his frustration on Gertie's wood pile. Since Doc had pronounced him physically healthy, and remained placidly convinced that his memory would return in its own good time, life continued day by day while Wes earned his bed and board by doing manual labor for Gertie, and tried to solve two puzzles.

  Where was that rickety old farmhouse?

  And why was Nell pretending to be his girlfriend?

  Wes loved women. Of that he was certain. But he didn't think he could ever have experienced anything quite like what he discovered every night in Nell's arms.

  They shared the kind of intimacy that made him want to reveal all his deepest secrets—if he could only remember what those were.

  She, on the other hand, seemed not at all interested in sharing the fact that they'd never known each other before he so spectacularly face-planted into the vegetable garden. And, although he'd bet one or two favorite body parts that she wasn't promiscuous, she had slept with him the day after she met him. If you could even call it meeting, when she'd been the one to introduce him to himself.

  Puzzles. Did he like puzzles? he wondered. This one merely frustrated him.

  What he hadn't bothered telling Harvey or Nell or even old Doc Greenfield, however, was that his memory was returning. He was having … not visions exactly, more like daydreams where people and things appeared in his mind. He had a feeling it was memory surfacing in snatches. As hard as he tried, he couldn't ever drag the whole works up. He had that frustrating feeling of a forgotten word at the tip of his tongue. Except in his case, it was his whole life, hovering there, teasing him, but so far eluding his grasp.

  Truth to tell, he wouldn't much care and would be only too happy to follow the Doc's prescription of rest, healthy food, fresh air and his own prescription: sex with Nell in large doses, taken several times daily, and allow his memory to return when it was ready.

  Except he had an urgent deadline. If he couldn't find the drugs by next week, the gang would kill him.

  As deadlines went, this wasn't one he wanted to screw around with. If it got close to the day he'd promised to deliver the goods and he hadn't yet found the cache or recovered his memory, he'd bail, taking Nell and Gertie with him. But he wanted those drug-dealing assholes busted and jailed. That was his job and he intended to do it.

  "Are you planning to keep Gertie in kindling all winter?" Nell's amused voice broke into his thoughts.

  Puzzled, he stared at the wood he'd just chopped and saw what she meant. He was turning a healthy wood pile into toothpicks. "Sorry, I guess I got carried away." He stopped to stretch out his back, then propped a foot on the stump he'd used as a chopping block and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  "What's up?"

  She ran her gaze down his sweaty body and her expression made the question redundant. In spite of the frequency and intensity of their lovemaking, she only had to look at him and he was rock hard and ready to go.

  He'd taken off his shirt a while back, so he wore only shorts, socks, boots and an elastic band holding his ridiculous hair off his face.

  "I've got something special in mind for tonight," she said.

  "So have I."

  Her eyes twinkled as they stared into his. "Another abandoned barn?" Since Harvey had produced a rough map based on some aerial reconnaissance, they'd visited barns night after night. He told her he'd gotten it from a neighbor who'd stopped to chat while he was mending the fence. She hadn't even raised her brows at the notion. Harleyville was that sort of town.

  In spite of her groan at his mention of yet another barn, he could see her nipples pebbling beneath her shirt.

  He understood the feeling. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look at a barn again without getting a hard-on.

  "I can't help it," he said to her, putting down his ax and stepping closer until their bodies almost touched. "There's something about you, naked on a hay bale that does it for me every time."

  "This barn better not have bats," she said primly, but she moved in closer as she said it. With a saucy grin, she leaned into his chest and surprised the hell out of him when she took his nipple between her teeth and bit down gently, but firmly.

  "Ow," he complained, but it was just for show. He wanted her teeth, her tongue, her whole mouth all over him. "I can't wait until after dinner. Can't we go now?"

  "That's my surprise. I packed us a picnic. You remember when you asked me if there were any lakes or a place to swim nearby?"

  He nodded. One of the old barns on Harvey's list was near a small body of water, so he'd casually asked Nell about swimming, telling her he hated swimming pools.

  "Gertie reminded me of a water hole I'd forgotten all about. I thought we might take a swim first…"

  "Nell, you are my kind of woman," he said, grabbing her hand and dragging her toward the pickup. If swimming was first, he had a very good idea what was second.

  Chapter Eight

  The truck bounced over the inevitable rutted road as Nell and Wes tried to follow Gertie's scribbled directions. The wide-open windows let in the hot air and blowing dust, but when they were closed the heat was even worse.

  Nell allowed herself a moment to miss the endless California beaches, then glanced sideways at her companion and knew she'd rather be here.

  She was beginning to squirm against the seat, and that wasn't because of the temperature outside. In almost two weeks of being with Wes, she hadn't nearly overcome her burning attraction to him. If anything, it grew each day.

  "Potholes are starting to make me horny," Wes said.

  "You must have read my mind." And she laughed, speeding up a little.

  "I think it's down this road," he said, staring at the map in his lap. "What do you think?"

  She slowed and squinted at Gertie's artwork. "Worth a try." She turned and they bounced down yet another lane. For several minutes they rode in silence. There was no sign of water ahead, just an old farm with a few big trees guarding its perimeter.

  "Do you think this is right?" she asked doubtfully, already searching for a place to turn around.

  "I think this is exactly right," he said in an odd voice.

  She stared at him, feeling the back of her neck prickle. "You're not even looking at the map."

  "The trees … the blue door…" He stared ahead as though in a trance.

  "Are you okay?" she asked him.

  "When you get to that T intersection turn left," he said in a voice of command, one she'd never heard from him before. She was so surprised she followed his instructions before realizing he couldn't be correct. "Left? Surely that will lead us away from the water."

  He appeared not to have even heard her. All his attention was on the farm. "That's it. That's got to be it," he muttered. "There'll be a lane, overgrown with grass leading round the side of the farm to an old barn. Take it."

  Even though they'd made love in countless barns over the last week, she could tell from his tone that he wasn't thinking about sex. He was like a different man, full of purpose and command.

  The lane came into view. He said, "Yes!" under his breath and, curious to see what he was up to, she kept her mouth shut and swung the old truck into the lane. Long grass scraped the undercarriage as they jounced toward yet another derelict barn.

  "I was looking forward to that swim," she complained. "And I'm not sharing my picnic with rats. Or bats."

  She might as well have kept her mouth shut for all
the notice he took of her. He was rubbing the back of his head and blinking his eyes as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Must be getting another one of his headaches.

  "Pull around behind so the truck's out of sight of the road."

  "Oh, like anybody's going to steal this old heap."

  "Do it."

  If he was trying to seduce her he was going about it all wrong, but her curiosity was fully engaged so she did as she was told.

  He was out of the truck before it stopped. She cut the engine and scrambled after him. He strode through the open doorway and she watched him. As though he were in some obstacle race, he skirted rusting equipment and a half-rotted wooden wheelbarrow. In a dark corner he dropped to his knees. She thought about scanning the rafters for bats, but she didn't want to know.

  What was Wes doing? Hoping whatever creatures called this old barn home were tucked up in bed, she crept forward and watched him lift a floorboard and then blow out a breath. "Found it."

  "Found what?"

  But he was already pulling out a cell phone. Cell phone? Where the hell had that come from? He hadn't had one on him when they found him.

  While he punched in a number she stepped forward to peek into the dark space under the loosened floorboard. A group of square, plastic-wrapped packages, each about the size of a small bag of sugar, were down there. Only she didn't think that was sugar. She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. She'd almost convinced herself he was nothing like the other bikers in town. Now, here he was with a cache of drugs.

  Nausea curdled her stomach. God help her. She'd gone and fallen in love with a drug pusher. She rose, knowing that whether she loved him or not, she was going to have to turn him over to the police.

  "Harvey," Wes spoke rapidly into the phone, "Wes Doman here. I found it."

  "Yeah. Better make it tonight. Right. Meet me at the usual place. Half an hour."

  Wes stomped the board back into place and rose. He stepped forward and noticed Nell cringing away from him looking like the next victim in a gruesome horror flick. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was working. "Who are you?" she asked in a rusty voice.

  And, for the first time in more than two weeks, he knew the full and complete answer to her question. It was as though the switch had turned back on in his brain, reconnecting all the circuits. Along with the relief, came the knowledge that he had to handle Nell carefully. Except he didn't have time.

  "Wes Doman, US Drug Enforcement Agency."

  Her mouth widened and he watched first relief, then anger flash in her eyes. "You're a cop?"

  "In a manner of speaking. Come on. I've got a job to finish. I have to help Gertie get rid of the bikers." He grabbed her arm but she shook him off.

  "When…" She licked her lips. "When did you get your memory back."

  "When I saw the road, it all started to fall into place. It was the same road I've been seeing in my dream. Same old farm, same trees outside, same barn. And now my memory's back." He dipped into his past and it was like opening a photo album or viewing random moments of film about a stranger's life.

  He could tell her he was definitely single, had parents still living, a sister and a couple of hellions for nephews. He had a criminology degree, friends, an apartment in Chicago. For some reason, he blurted out only one fact: "I was born in Maine."

  She dropped her gaze to the ground and even in the dim light of the barn he could see the color deep in her cheeks; hell he could almost feel the burn from her fiery blush. Not that he had a lot of sympathy for her. He'd given her plenty of opportunities to own up to the truth and she hadn't availed herself of a single one. "Then you know we're not … you know we didn't…"

  He could ease this moment for her but he didn't feel like it.

  "I've known that for more than a week. I was working with a partner. He told me."

  She made a gurgling sound in the back of her throat, almost as though she were choking on something. The unpalatable truth, likely. "I don't know what you must think—"

  "It's pretty obvious, isn't it? You're recently single, cut off from sex out here in the boonies and I was handy to scratch your itch." He was suddenly angry. It boiled up out of nowhere and he felt like he'd explode if he didn't spill some of it out.

  At his deliberately casual words, her head shot up and she stared at him, eyes widening. "If that's what you thought then why did you…" She flapped her hand helplessly.

  "Easy," he said, letting the scalding anger out. "I had an itch, too."

  Chapter Nine

  She would not cry. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Was that really all she'd been to him? All he thought he was to her? An itch to scratch?

  She recalled the sweet loving man who'd taken her to places she hadn't known existed, who'd helped her discover a new aspect of her own sexuality that she really, really liked.

  A glance at Wes's profile as they bumped back toward Gertie's place showed her not the man who'd made love with her the past couple of weeks, but a hard, impersonal stranger. She'd been so shaken by his words in the barn that when he'd headed for the driver's door of the truck she hadn't made a peep. Truth was, this new guy scared her a lot more than the old one.

  Swallowing a sob, she realized she wanted her Wes back. The one who didn't know his last name or what state he'd been born in. Or, oh, God. They'd both assumed he wasn't married, but the possibility had flickered from time to time like an incipient migraine. When he'd had no memory, it hadn't mattered. Now, unaccountably it did.

  "Are you married?" she asked, the words scratching her throat like the dust flying in the window.

  "No."

  Well. There was married and there was married. "Girlfriend?"

  "My girlfriend moved out six months ago."

  That was a relief. Although the irony wasn't lost on her that she was asking him these questions at the end of their affair rather than the beginning.

  Oh, God. The end of their affair. She blinked rapidly and turned her face to the window so the dry wind could dry her tears before they fell. Why hadn't she told him?

  She had all night to think about it.

  Once they were back at Gertie's, he didn't even stop the truck, merely said, "You and Gertie stay inside and lock the doors. You see or hear anything you don't like, call the cops."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "My job."

  She had the door open and was half out when she turned back. "Be careful."

  With a curt nod, he said, "I'll return the truck later." And with that she had to be satisfied. She stood beside the road and watched the dusty red truck disappear while cold fear settled in her stomach.

  * * *

  After spending the evening torn between worry about what Wes was doing and how much danger he was in, and feeling pangs of guilt at the way Nell had deceived him, she was exhausted when she went to bed.

  Of course, she didn't sleep. She lay there, recalling the times he'd crept into her room, and wondering if she'd ever see him again. As the minutes dragged slowly and painfully by, she accepted the truth. Somewhere in the last two weeks, she'd fallen in love with Wes.

  A man with no past, no memory, whom she'd assumed was a motorcycle gang member. It hadn't mattered. All he hadn't been able to tell her himself, his body had communicated.

  Now that it was too late, she wished she'd told him they were strangers as soon as they became intimate. It wouldn't have mattered then. What a fool she'd been.

  She heard the truck engine and stole to the window. He was alone, and there wasn't a second vehicle to whisk him away so he must plan to sleep at Gertie's.

  Excitement filled her. In spite of his cold words, she didn't believe he hadn't felt what she had. She refused to believe it when every touch, every glance they'd shared had dragged them deeper into intimacy.

  Heart pounding, she heard him creep past her door to the bathroom and then she heard the bath. A while later, she heard him go to his room.

  Then nothing.

&
nbsp; She waited for the familiar pad of his feet approaching her door, for the stealthy way he'd learned to avoid the squeaking board outside her room, but it didn't come. Sadness turned to frustration. She flipped over in bed and forced her eyes shut. Fine. He didn't want to talk to her? Fine.

  She flipped again, almost tossing herself out of bed onto the floor as anger built. Didn't she at least deserve to hear what had happened? She may have allowed him to continue in a misconception, but it was for his own mental health. And she had saved his miserable life, hadn't she?

  Flouncing out of bed, she decided she'd better have it out with him. And there was no time like the present.

  She happened to be wearing a short silk nightgown with crisscrossing straps that played peekaboo with her cleavage, but she couldn't help that. She certainly didn't have time to change before giving DEA Agent Wes Doman a piece of her mind.

  Barefoot, she slipped out of her room, stepped over the squeaky board and crept soundlessly to his room.

  Well, not soundlessly enough, apparently, for when she got there, he was raised on one elbow, staring at the doorway. And a black, deadly revolver was pointed right at her.

  She squeaked in alarm. "Where did you get that gun?"

  "It's for protection." Was it her imagination or was there a thread of humor in his tone.

  "Well, I don't need protecting, so you can put it away," she said with all her bravery pushed forward to shield the fact that he'd be scaring the pants off her if she were currently wearing any.

  "I think I might need protecting," he said, his eyes glowing in the moonlight that streamed in the open window. The heat of his gaze had her nipples tightening until they poked through the strappy gown like blueberries through a lattice piecrust.

  "I…" She cleared her throat and began again. "I wanted to know how it went tonight."

  His lips parted in a quick, satisfied grin. "Mission accomplished."

  He shifted to shove the gun under his pillow and she saw him wince. "You're hurt," she said, rushing forward, everything else she'd planned to say forgotten.