Roarke: The Adventurer

by JoAnn Ross

  “I sure hope you do.” He linked their fingers together, forced his expression into a concerned smile and lifted their joined hands to his lips to brush a light kiss against her knuckles. “I’m your husband.”

  “Husband?” She stared up at him uncomprehendingly, as if the word was unfamiliar to her. As if, perhaps, he’d suddenly begun speaking a foreign language. “We’re married?”

  “For better or worse.” He managed a rough laugh. “And I have to say, sweetheart, let’s hope that getting shot on your honeymoon is as bad as it gets.”

  “Honeymoon?”

  “Mr. O’Malley?” An attractive Hispanic doctor came up to them.

  “That’s me.” He took the hand she extended. “Roarke O’Malley.”

  “I know.” The doctor’s grin was quick and appealing. “I watch you all the time. I’m a fan.... I was just telling your wife that she’s a very lucky woman.”

  “Far be it from me to argue, but I wouldn’t call getting shot lucky, Doctor.”

  “Well, luck is relative, I suppose.” She shrugged her white-jacketed shoulders, reminding Roarke that her working milieu provided, in its own way, as much violence as his own. “If that bullet had hit just a few centimeters either way, she could have been killed.”

  “Killed?” Daria’s pain-laced eyes widened.

  “It was an accident, darling,” Roarke said quickly. Too quickly, he realized as he noticed his brother’s all-seeing eyes narrowing. “Some Mardi Gras fun that backfired.”

  Appearing confused, she turned toward the doctor. “I can’t remember anything.”

  “That’s not unusual in a case like this, Mrs. O’Malley,” the doctor assured her. “Although the wound isn’t deep, memory loss is normal in the case of a head injury. Most everything should come back to you, in time.” She smiled: “The trick is not to push it.”

  “Most everything?”

  “There may be a few gaps. These things are always unpredictable.” A flurry of activity across the room captured her attention. Glancing that way, Roarke saw a gurney being wheeled in through the emergency-vehicle entrance. A paramedic sat astride a man’s supine body, pounding on his chest. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said, “but I’m afraid I have to run.” That said, she was gone.

  “Well.” Roarke looked after her. “Now what?”

  “Your wife’s going to be admitted,” a nurse who suddenly appeared at his side answered. “For observation.”

  “I have to stay here?” Daria asked, clearly not pleased by the idea.

  Roarke knew he was not imagining the fear that suddenly filled her eyes. Even if she really did not remember what had happened to get her shot, she knew she’d been in danger.

  “It’s just one night” Personally, he wasn’t wild about the idea himself. “I promise to stay with you.”

  “There, you see?” the nurse said briskly. “We’ll get you into bed and by tomorrow morning, you’ll be as good as new.” She began wheeling the gurney away.

  “We need to talk,” Mike said as Roarke began to follow.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No.”

  The tone didn’t invite argument and Roarke was irritated by the way his brother was throwing his old cop attitude around. He forced a smile as he bent down and brushed his lips against a cheek that was as pale as paper. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute, sweetheart.”

  Her only response was a faint nod.

  “What’s so important it can’t wait until morning?” Roarke asked, turning to his brother.

  Mike glanced around the crowded waiting room. “Let’s go outside where we can have some privacy.”

  Frustrated, but undeniably curious, Roarke obliged.

  “You’re not married.” Mike said when they were standing outside the building beneath the flashing ER sign.

  “What gives you that idea?”

  “The only ring your wife is wearing is an engagement ring.”

  “Maybe she lost the wedding band.”

  This latest round of questioning reminded Roarke of the time when he was ten and on a dare from Johnny Druen, had filched a Batman comic book from the Saint Charles Avenue Newberry’s. When he’d discovered the petty crime, Mike had marched his brother back to the store, where he not only forced him to apologize and pay for the magazine, but also to agree to wash the windows and sweep the floors every day for a month.

  “Maybe she didn’t ever have one,” Mike said grimly. “But that doesn’t really matter. What does matter is the fact that you may have gotten yourself mixed up with a murderer, and I want to know what’s up.”

  “A murderer?” Roarke found this statement impossible to believe. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re staying at the Whitfield, right?”

  “Yeah.” Roarke folded his arms. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you found that out.”

  “I am a detective,” Mike reminded him. “With enough of a pipeline to the cop shop to know that they found a body in a room at the Whitfield Palace Hotel tonight.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” Roarke managed in a mild tone.

  Once again he thought back to what she’d said about the cops wanting to kill her and wondered what his brother would say if he suggested such a possibility. Most of the New Orleans cops were guys like his brother, good guys trying to maintain balance in an increasingly dangerous world. But the police department also had its share of bad apples.

  “But I sure as hell didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You may have your faults, but even you wouldn’t off some investigator from the Justice Department.”

  “The Justice Department?” Every nerve in Roarke’s body went on red alert. Combine that information with Daria’s deputy prosecutor’s badge and they could be talking serious stuff.

  “Yeah. Interesting thing, the guy wasn’t registered as a guest there.”

  “He could have been using an alias. Or perhaps he was visiting someone.” Roarke didn’t need a crystal ball to know what was coming next.

  “Turns out he was. A woman. A woman who just happens to fit your bride’s description.”

  Hell. It was happening all over again. Roarke wondered what unlucky star he’d been born under that destined him to keep getting mixed up with gorgeous, deadly females.

  “Are you accusing her of killing a federal attorney?”

  “If it turns out the dead guy was found in her room, she’s going to have a lot of questions to answer.”

  Beginning with what she needed a hotel room for when her driver’s license had revealed that she lived in town, Roarke thought.

  “Maybe whoever killed the fed was after her.”

  “There’s always that possibility,” Mike allowed. “Particularly since she got herself shot. But with her claiming amnesia, it puts an interesting twist on the case.”

  “Now you’re talking like a cop.”

  “And you’re acting like a man with something to hide.” Mike rubbed his square jaw. “Why don’t you just come clean and tell me what you know?”

  Roarke was relieved to finally be able to tell the truth. “Less than you. Hell, I didn’t even know about the dead guy.”

  He went on to explain how they’d met. And how he’d lost her in the crowd, only to find her lying shot minutes later. And, more importantly, what she’d said about the cops wanting her dead.

  “That’s a serious accusation.” Michael’s expression was grim and cop-hard.

  “I know. And she could be lying to cover her own ass. But she was nearly unconscious when she told me that. I don’t think she was alert enough to lie.”

  “Lying’s second nature to some people.”

  “Got me there,” Roarke agreed glumly, thinking of Natasha.

  The first thing he had to do, he decided, was to get Daria Shea out of the hospital before the cops showed up, just in case she had been telling the truth back in the ambulance.

  And then, amnesia or not, he was going to find out what kind
of potentially fatal mess his mystery woman had gotten him into.

  3

  DARIA LAY IN BED, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, frustrated by the blank slate her mind had become. She tried to recall something—anything—about her life before she’d awakened in the emergency room, but all she could remember was noise and crowds and feeling afraid.

  Of what?

  Her hands were on top of the starched white sheet; she lifted the left one up, watching the way the diamond sparkled in the overhead light. He must have given her this, she mused. The man in the ER. The man who claimed to be her husband. The almostoverwhelmingly-large man with the thick shock of black hair and eyes the color of midnight over the bayou.

  Ah. Her mind quickly latched on to that thought. She knew what the bayou looked like at midnight. Her mind conjured up another image of still water and trees draped in fog and Spanish moss.

  “I wonder if I live there? With him?”

  She pictured him again, his nose that looked as if it might have been broken more than once, and the lips that brought to mind a Celtic poet. Lips she almost could taste, making her believe that he might, indeed, be her husband. But when she tried to imagine them together in any family situation, her mutinous mind refused to cooperate and she drew another blank.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands, “what am I going to do?”

  Roarke stood in the open doorway looking at the pale despondent figure in the bed. He reined in his instinctive need to comfort, reminding himself sternly that getting involved with a gorgeous, mysterious woman had already nearly gotten him killed. He might not be the brightest guy ever plunked down on the planet, but he was damn well smart enough to learn from his mistakes.

  He stiffened his resolve and walked into the room, closing the door behind him. “Was that the truth?” His need to remain absolutely uninvolved emotionally made the question come out harsher than he’d intended.

  He watched her shoulders tense. She slowly lowered her hands and met his shuttered gaze with a wary one of her own. “Was what the truth?”

  “That you can’t remember anything.”

  His tone was thick with disbelief. Daria lifted her chin. “Why would I lie?”

  Why indeed? Roarke thought. “How about the little matter of a dead man in your hotel room?”

  “What?” Her eyes widened and although he would have thought it impossible, she became even paler. So pale, Roarke felt as if he could have put his hand through her face.

  “The police found a dead federal attorney in a room at the Whitfield Palace. In a room reserved by a woman who is reported to be a dead ringer for you.”

  “I don’t remember any hotel room,” she insisted. “And I definitely don’t remember any man. Especially a dead one.”

  “That’s what you say.”

  “Why would I lie about that?”

  “Perhaps you killed him.”

  “Not on a bet. I’d never shoot anyone.” That much she was sure of.

  “Interesting that you know he was shot.”

  “Didn’t you just say that?”

  “Nope. I merely said a federal attorney was found dead. Period. No elaboration. No details.”

  Daria let out a long breath as she considered that damning statement. “How could that be? How could I know that a man was shot? And not remember?”

  Good question. And one he intended to come up with some answers for. He crossed the room and stood beside the bed. “Let’s start with your name. Do you remember that?”

  Her brow furrowed. “The doctor called me Mrs. O’Malley.” That hadn’t felt right at the time and it still didn’t

  Roarke decided to stick with his story until he got a handle on what she did or didn’t remember. “That’s right. You’re my wife. Daria Shea O’Malley.”

  He waited for her to protest the name. Or to show some glimmer of recognition at the first part. But her expression revealed not a single sign that the name meant anything to her.

  Daria repeated the name to herself, but it didn’t stir any memories. She could have wept with frustration. “What’s your first name?” she asked.

  “Roarke.”

  “Roarke.” The name didn’t feel the faintest bit familiar on her tongue. Or to her ear. “Is that what I call you?”

  “Most of the time.” He shrugged. “Other times sweetheart or darling. And whenever I forget to pick the towels up off the bathroom floor, you’re a bit more graphic.”

  His words and his expression were intended to make her smile, but Daria couldn’t find anything humorous about her situation.

  He’d just given her a hint of a domestic life. She tried yet again to picture them living together in conjugal bliss. Once again she came up blank.

  “How long have we been married?”

  “Not long.” Another shrug.

  “Well, that’s certainly a help. Have we known each other long?”

  Surely not. Daria couldn’t imagine she could have forgotten such a forceful man. Forceful in a quiet sort of way. The kind of man one wouldn’t want to cross. The kind of man who could protect a woman.

  Where did that thought come from? Had she needed protecting?

  “It was a whirlwind courtship. In fact, we decided to keep it a secret until I could get back to New Orleans and we could break the news to our families.”

  “Until you could get back... Does that mean I live here? And if it was a secret wedding, is that why I’m not wearing a wedding ring?”

  “Yes to both questions, Mrs. O’Malley.” If Daria was faking her amnesia, it was a damn convincing act, Roarke thought.

  “But if I live here, why would I have a hotel room?” Her voice was a troubled whisper.

  “I don’t know, darlin’,” Roarke answered quietly. “That’s something we have to find out.”

  We. Daria wasn’t sure why the word was so reassuring. She remembered nothing about this man...or a wedding.

  She looked up at Roarke for a long, silent time. “You’d think I’d remember something as important as getting married.”

  “Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you?” He leaned down, a wicked gleam in his eyes, his face inches from hers. “I’ve got to tell you, sweetheart, that one kind of hurts. You forgetting the honeymoon is turning out to be a real prick to my ego.”

  His smiling lips were nearly touching hers. All she needed to do was to lift her head off the pillow the slightest bit.

  “I’ve kissed you.” The startling realization that she knew exactly what those firm lips tasted like had her whispering the words out loud instead of keeping them safely in her head.

  “That’s a start.” He wondered if kissing her again might stimulate her memory, and assuring himself that that was the only reason he was going to allow himself another taste of those satin-smooth lips, he lowered his head, dosing the gap between them as she lifted her mouth to his....

  “Sorry.”

  When the deep voice shattered the expectant silence, Daria pulled away, her eyes darting toward the door.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got rotten timing?” Roarke growled, not taking his eyes from her.

  “I just thought it might be good manners to welcome my new sister-in-law into the family,” Mike said easily. “Before I leave.”

  Giving up for now, Roarke turned toward his brother. “Got a hot date?”

  “Actually, I’m going to work. The owner of one of the riverboat casinos thinks his manager’s skimming. I’ve been dealing blackjack all week.” He held up his palms and smiled past Roarke to Daria. “You’re looking at the fastest hands in the parish.”

  Feeling herself relax in the presence of this friendly man who looked so much like his brother, Daria returned his smile. “I don’t know anything about gambling, but I think most women prefer a man with slow hands.”

  He laughed at that, a rich bold sound she knew had undoubtedly set innumerable feminine hearts fluttering. But as attractive and friendly as he seemed, as much a
s it warmed and relaxed her, it didn’t affect her as much as a single look from the silent man standing by, watching them with more than a little interest.

  “I’m Michael Patrick, the oldest and handsomest O’Malley brother. Welcome to the family.” He came over to stand beside the bed, bent his head and brushed his lips against her bruised cheek. “Something tells me you’re going to fit right in.”

  After the brief, brotherly kiss, he turned toward Roarke. “We need to talk again.”

  Fearing another interrogation, Roarke was about to refuse until he viewed the implacable determination in his brother’s gaze. Although he’d been accused of being stubborn, there was not a man alive on the planet more tenacious than Michael Patrick O’Malley.

  What had made him a great cop also tended to make him a royal pain as a big brother, but Roarke realized he wasn’t going to be able to dodge this lecture.

  He turned back to his alleged bride. “Mike and I have some family business to attend to, then I’ll be right back.” He trailed a finger down Daria’s cheek in what was meant to be a husbandly caress and experienced an unwelcome sense of satisfaction as he watched the color bloom in her too-pale complexion.

  “Fine.” For some reason she couldn’t comprehend, Daria didn’t want him to leave her alone. But not wanting to appear to be some clinging helpless female—even though she felt like one at the moment—she managed a faint smile. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Not trusting her for a minute and determined that she not slip away from him again, Roarke went no farther than the hallway outside her door.

  “Let me have it”

  “What?”

  “The latest big-brother lecture.”

  “Actually, I gave up trying to pull your fat out of the fire when you decided to defend Lila Comeaux’s less-than-sterling reputation and took on the entire defensive line of the Sacred Heart High School football team.”

  “If I’d known she was giving it out to nearly every guy in school, I wouldn’t have been so chivalrous,” Roarke muttered, remembering how stupid he’d felt when Lila had bawled him out for beating up Billy Jones, the team fullback who, it turned out, had gotten her pregnant beneath the bleachers after the homecoming game.