by Laura Taylor
Brett rolled off of her, his body starving, as it had for six endless years, for her gentle touch and fiery passion. He consciously forced himself to forget the desire enflaming his senses and flooding his sex.
Drawing in a steadying breath, he eased Leah off the car’s hood, draped his jacket over her shoulders, and then quickly carried her the remaining distance to the Jeep he’d rented. He jerked open the passenger door, ignoring the shouted questions coming from the people clustered at the front doors of the clinic. All he cared about was getting Leah to a safe place.
"I don’t understand… you actually seem… to care about me," she managed to gasp as she slipped her arms around his waist and rested her spinning head against his chest.
Brett flinched. He fought a silent but fierce battle to keep his emotions in check as he freed himself from her grasp, tucked her into the car, and leaned down to hurriedly secure her seatbelt. "Of course, I care," he ground out, although not surprised that Leah would question both his actions and his motives.
He felt her shock the instant she caught sight of his gun. She went utterly still. Her baffled expression prompted her to stare first at his weapon. Then, she lifted her gaze to study his face.
He reached out and covered her hand with his. Despite the chill night air, her skin reminded him of sun–warmed silk. "Leah…" he began.
She shook her head, as though to clear her thoughts. He fell silent, his dark eyes reflecting his concern for her.
"Understand. Just… doing your… job, aren’t you?"
Brett exhaled, the harsh sound bursting free of his body to disturb the sudden stillness of the parking lot. He knew what she thought—he was just being kind to her.
There would be time later for the truth. For now, her safety dominated all else. Fighting the urge to confess that he’d lied all those years ago when he’d told her that he hadn’t loved her enough to marry her, he released her hand, shut the Jeep’s passenger side door, and raced around to the opposite side of the vehicle.
He didn’t blame Leah for believing that she was just another task to be dealt with and resolved. Six years ago he’d put his career in Naval Intelligence ahead of a life with her. No matter the motive for his decision, he’d wounded her and the scar remained. She obviously hadn’t forgiven him, and he didn’t blame her. He sure as hell hadn’t ever managed to forgive himself.
Brett also knew that their tumultuous personal history, not just his absence from her life when she’d needed him most, would fail to inspire trust, let alone anything remotely close to confidence in his ability to protect her.
She sank back against the seat, Brett’s leather jacket dwarfing her body as she huddled beneath it. While he started the Jeep and drove out of the parking lot, she waged a short, futile war against the lethargy that swept over her like a consuming fog.
Leah failed to register the wail of police sirens in the distance. Neither did she notice the diminishing streetlights that signaled their departure from Monterey. Slumping sideways, she descended into a fuzzy world of twilight sleep filled with unanswered questions that darted around in her mind like annoying insects.
"Why are you so worried about me?"
"Are we friends?"
"Are you taking me home?"
"Where do I live?"
"Why can’t I remember my name?"
2
As he drove from Monterey to San Francisco, Brett kept a close eye on Leah while she dozed. He also watched for any hint that they were being followed. After two and a half hours on the road, he concluded that the men in pursuit of Leah had decided to keep their distance. They would temporarily back off, and he would remain in a heightened state of alertness that came naturally to a man with his background.
He selected a well–known San Francisco hotel as their destination. He reasoned that the best way to blend into a crowded city was to go to a highly visible location and bide their time. Brett decided that they would play the role of vacationers in need of a heavy dose of R and R.
Leah deserved and needed time to recuperate before he explained their situation. He wanted her strong, even if it meant earning her anger. He needed her, once she understood the crisis they faced, to work with him, not against him. That, he knew, would be the tricky part, because Leah would need to trust his judgment and his instincts, something she would likely be reluctant to do.
Brett pulled up in front of the hotel, a towering glass and stone structure situated at the edge of San Francisco’s financial district and less than a block from the fabled bay. He’d already used his satellite phone to reserve a suite. Cabs lined one side of the driveway despite the late hour, the drivers either resting, chatting, or reading as they awaited their next fares.
Brett noted a well–dressed couple returning from an evening out, a police cruiser that had paused at a red light at the next intersection, and two hotel bellmen positioned near the double–door entrance to the registration area of the hotel.
Since nothing appeared out of the ordinary, he raised his hand and signaled one of the bellmen. The young man jogged over, and Brett hit the control button to release the door and trunk locks.
Turning to Leah, who had huddled against him, he looped an arm around her and gathered her even closer. Although still asleep, she slipped her arms around his waist and tucked her face into the curve of his neck. Brett sighed raggedly, as hungry for her as he’d been the first time he’d set eyes on her. Still gnawing at him was his certainty that her trust would soon evaporate.
He felt self–indulgent as he stole a few quiet moments with her in his arms. He inhaled the seductive scent of white ginger, his body responding to the memories he attached to the fragrance. Surprised that she still wore it, he recalled giving the perfume to her as a gift following a covert assignment in Asia.
Pressing his lips against her temple, Brett took care not to venture too close to the head wound she’d sustained during the attempted kidnapping. He felt her burrow closer before she went very still in his arms. Easing back, he looked down to find her staring up at him, an expression of confusion on her face.
"We’re here," he explained as he struggled to keep his emotions and growing arousal under control. "Do you think you can walk on your own, or shall I carry you?"
Reaching up, she used her fingertips to smooth away the frown lines that marred his forehead and made deep grooves on either side of his mouth. "What’s wrong?"
Surprised that she would touch him once more with such gentleness, he couldn’t conceal the shock that flashed in his eyes. "Nothing."
Leah looked even more confused. "Aren’t I supposed to touch you?" she asked sleepily.
That she would feel the need to ask such a question made his heart plummet. It also reminded him of his cruel denial of his love for her six years ago. He covered her hand with his own, brought her fingertips to his mouth, and pressed his lips against them.
She smiled, a tentative little smile that made his soul ache. The bewilderment that lingered in the blue–green depths of her eyes worried him, but he didn’t know how to make it go away.
"It’s late," he remarked, even though he didn’t want the moment or their closeness to end. "We need to go inside."
Leah nodded.
Brett climbed out of the Jeep and circled around the front of it, his eyes narrowed as he inspected the long driveway for anything or anyone capable of posing a threat to Leah. He pulled open the passenger door, collected her shoulder bag from the floor behind the passenger seat, and gave it to her.
Although he noticed her curiosity when she took a moment to study it, he didn’t question her behavior. Instead, he continued to scan the front entrance to the hotel as he waited for her to scoot across the seat and out of the car.
Brett cautioned himself not to read anything into Leah’s willingness to accept his extended hand or her inclination to remain close to his side as they entered the hotel. They paused to sign the registration form and collect their key cards at the front desk before they
boarded the penthouse elevator. He felt certain that she would be her old feisty self again by morning, so he chalked up her behavior to fatigue, the emotional confusion brought on by a head injury, and her lingering headache.
He watched her lean back against the mirrored elevator wall. Her quiet sigh served to emphasize her exhaustion, as did the shadows beneath her large eyes and the paleness of her already fair skin. His gaze grew openly possessive and hungry when she closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. He looked away, the reminder that she’d been hurt because of him unnecessary. Still, he couldn’t escape their mirrored reflections.
He saw their images everywhere he looked, so he stopped trying to ignore the contrast between her pale skin and golden hair and his dark features and collar–length black hair. Although he considered Leah petite and fragile, she often reminded him of a brilliant sunburst on a cloudless day. In truth, they were as different as night and day.
Brett knew that his large body and less–than–refined physical attributes, courtesy of his father’s Mediterranean heritage, made it possible for him to slip into the deadlier enclaves of both European and Middle Eastern terrorist factions. A woman he’d encountered a few years earlier had once called him Satan’s spawn when he’d rejected her attentions. He couldn’t help thinking now that the woman had been right on target with her observation, because he physically fit the image of a man who would always be at home in a dark world composed of treachery, violence, and death.
The elevator stopped abruptly, jarring him from his thoughts. Brett stepped in front of Leah in order to exit the elevator first. After glancing up and down the empty hallway, he drew her forward and kept his arm around her as he guided her down the long corridor.
He noticed that the bellman, per his instructions, had deposited their luggage in the sitting room of their suite. Brett locked and bolted the door. Pocketing his key card, he turned to Leah.
"How about something to eat before we call it a night?"
Leah paused near the stack of suitcases in the center of the elegantly furnished room. "Please, but nothing heavy. Perhaps some soup or a salad."
Leaning down, she studied the nametags on two of the bags. Leah Holbrook. She vaguely remembered someone calling her Leah at the clinic. She also noticed that the third piece of luggage, a battered black leather carry–on, was untagged. She straightened, her eyes repeatedly straying to Brett as she wandered around the spacious sitting room.
She watched and listened as he picked up the phone and asked the operator to ring room service. After giving their order, he re–cradled the receiver.
"Stay put. I’ll be right back," he promised.
He disappeared without another word, swiftly checking the layout and potential security problems of the suite’s bedrooms and bathrooms. Along the way, he discovered a window that needed to be secured. He stepped back into the sitting room a few minutes later.
Leah, seated on the sofa, shrugged out of his leather jacket just as he re–entered the room. Her expression intent, she inspected the contents of the purse he’d handed to her earlier. She considered the wallet the most logical place to start as she tried to cope with her mounting anxiety.
Who am I? she wondered as she unsnapped the wallet and flipped it open. Damn it, who am I?
"Leah?" he said, as though in response to her silent question.
Startled by the sound of his voice, she glanced up at him. She gripped the wallet with both hands until her knuckles turned white, and she smothered the apprehension threatening to overwhelm her by the sheer force of her will. "Yes?"
"Need anything?" he asked.
She shivered and thought, just an encapsulated version of my life. "Not at the moment," she lied, determined not to reveal her escalating inner panic. All she really wanted to do was crawl into his arms and be held until her fear retreated and she recalled the life attached to the name Leah Holbrook.
Brett crossed the room and paused in front of the French doors that led out onto the suite’s balcony. She used the time to study him as he tested the sturdiness of the locks. Broad–shouldered, narrow–hipped, long–legged, and tall, he reminded her of professional athletes who trained regularly.
Her gaze dipped. She saw that his gun was still wedged into the back waistband of his jeans. He seemed unaware of it, and Leah concluded that carrying a weapon must be a part of his everyday life. She also decided that it suited his manner, which was that of a man who insisted on total control of his environment, not just the people in it.
Although she suspected that he was a cop, she thought his hair seemed a bit long for someone in law enforcement. She wondered then if he worked undercover. An unexpected thought entered her mind. Had she broken the law? She immediately rejected the notion, because she knew on some instinctive level that she wasn’t a criminal.
She met his intense expression when he turned to look at her. And, once again, Leah took in the strong lines of his hard–featured face and the almost fathomless darkness of his eyes.
The structure of his face provoked a vague memory of a painting she must have seen at some point in her life. The artist had captured her subject with boldly aggressive strokes. Leah sensed that this man was bold and aggressive, but he also reassured her in an odd, indefinable way. Yes, he made her feel safe, but he also made her insides melt like heated honey atop a flame every time he looked at her.
Had she correctly read a hint of sensual knowledge in the sweep of his gaze? Were they lovers? she wondered suddenly. He’d touched her like a lover. She imagined for a moment what intimacy between them might be like, and the erotic images that filled her mind stunned her. Heat flooded her veins as she stared back at him in the silence of the sitting room.
Leah forced her attention back to the wallet, which contained a California driver’s license, several credit cards, and a few photographs. Even though her head still hurt and her senses remained in an uproar, she now felt stronger and more coherent than she’d felt for several hours. But with her clarity of thought came unpleasant truths she knew she couldn’t avoid—she didn’t know this man, she had no idea what had happened to her, and she wanted to believe the wallet gripped in her hand really did belong to her.
Brett flicked a glance at his watch as he sank into the chair positioned opposite the sofa. "Room service should be here soon."
Leah tried to smile, but she simply succeeded in looking strained.
"How do you feel?"
"Tired," she admitted.
"The doctor…"
"…was right. My head still hurts, but it’s not as bad now."
"Something’s on your mind, Luv. Talk to me, why don’t you? You can trust me."
Luv? She rolled the word around in her mind, trying it on for size and subsequently discovering that it didn’t sound totally foreign to her. Still, she didn’t like the generic quality of it.
Leah abruptly abandoned her perch on the edge of the sofa cushion and wandered in the direction of the French doors. She paused before the closed beveled–glass panes framed in dense oak. Her blurred image stared back at her. She didn’t acknowledge Brett, even though he followed her and closed the drapes. Nor did she resist when he put his arm around her and led her away from the French doors.
Leah felt a sudden stab of annoyance that he was being so solicitous, but she didn’t understand why. Slipping free of him halfway across the room, she turned to face him. "Can I really trust you?"
"With your life."
Leah blinked in surprised, because he sounded as though he’d just taken a vow. She saw sincerity in the depths of his dark eyes, in the determined expression etched into his hard face, and in the rigidity of his large body. She extended her hand, the license resting in her upturned palm.
Brett accepted her offering, his confusion evident as he glanced first at the driver’s license and then back at her. "What’s wrong?"
She cleared her throat. "As you can see, it says my name is Leah Holbrook. It also gives my address. W
hy are we in a San Francisco hotel if I live in Monterey? Why didn’t you just take me home?"
Leah searched his face for some telltale emotion. She thought she saw a flash of shock, but he quickly concealed his reaction to her question behind an enigmatic expression that worried her. Maybe she had done something illegal.
"Luv…"
Leah flinched. "Don’t call me that, please."
Brett returned the driver’s license to her and then shoved his fingers through his dense black hair. A heavy strand drifted back across his forehead almost immediately. "You always did hate it."
"I guess I still do."
"Leah…"
She edged away from him until the backs of her knees bumped against the sofa. She sank down onto the center cushion. "Until I saw the luggage tags and the driver’s license, I didn’t know my name… that’s assuming Leah Holbrook is my real name."
Brett winced. "It is your name. Don’t forget, the doctor said your memory might be a little spotty for a day or two, but that once you’ve had a chance to rest, whatever memory gaps you’re experiencing are sure to recede."
"Gaps?" She laughed, the short sound filled with incredulity. "You’re not listening to me. I definitely have gaps. Thirty years worth of gaps, according to the date of birth on this driver’s license. We are not just talking spotty. We’re talking amnesia, or some form of it, because I can’t remember anything," she insisted, her tone as brittle as the temper she didn’t even know she had flared to life.
"I thought you meant you didn’t remember the trip, but you’re…" His voice trailed off.
"I’m talking about my life, not a trip. What if I never remember who I am?" Fear underscored each word.
"You will."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I just am. I’ve seen this kind of thing before."
"Am I under arrest?"