by JoAnn Ross
He appeared to have a definite destination, which didn’t surprise Daria. After all, he certainly seemed like a man who would always know exactly where he was going. When he stopped in front of a nondescript brown sedan, she was vaguely disappointed.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No. It’s just not the car I’d picture you owning.”
“That’s probably because it’s not mine.” He opened the passenger door. “Hop in.”
It could, of course, belong to someone he knew. But Daria didn’t think so. “Are we stealing this car?”
“I wouldn’t think a woman who’d just been shot in the head would be worried about petty crime.”
Good point. “Still—”
“You know,” he said mildly, “if you keep arguing, those cops are going to figure out you’ve skipped out on them and come looking for us. And although I like to think I can hold my own in a fair fight, I don’t feel like taking on two armed policemen right now.”
Daria stared up at him. “How did you—”
“You froze like a deer in the headlights when they drove up. Plus, you told me in the ambulance that the cops were trying to kill you.”
“I said that?” As she did as instructed and climbed into the passenger seat, something stirred, like a ghostly image hidden in a veil of cold fog.
“Yeah.” When he reached across to buckle her seat belt, his chest brushed against her breasts in a way that caused his mind to take an unwelcome detour.
He backed out of the car, shut her door, managing not to slam it, walked around the front of the car, opened the driver’s door and threw himself into the driver’s seat.
“Do you have a key?”
“We’re going to have to improvise.” He pulled the screwdriver he’d swiped from a maintenance man’s. toolbox out of his pocket.
“I don’t think I want to know how you learned how to do that,” she murmured, watching the way he used the screwdriver to punch the ignition.
“A guy tends to pick things up over time.” The motor came to life. Although it wasn’t the throaty lion’s purr of his Porsche, it signaled good old American predictability. Which was exactly what he’d been looking for when he’d checked out the parking lot earlier. “You know the old Boy Scout motto: Be Prepared.”
“And this is so much handier than lighting campfires or setting up tents.”
He drove out of the parking place toward LaSalle. “I’ve got to say this for you, sweetheart, you’ve got guts.”
“I can’t imagine you’d marry a woman who didn’t.”
Her earlier fear seemed to have been replaced by a cocky, never-say-die attitude he’d once felt himself. Once again Roarke thought that if she brought that same spunky tenacity to her work, it was no wonder someone was out to kill her. The surprising thing was that she was still alive.
“I assume you have a plan?” The traffic was lighter in this part of town, the tourists all seeming to have congregated in the Quarter.
“Never leave home without one.”
His droll tone suddenly stirred a memory. A memory of this man in her living room. But he wasn’t there in person, she realized. But on television.
“You’re Roarke O’Malley.”
“I already told you that.”
“You told me your name. You didn’t tell me what you did for a living.”
“Most wives know what their husbands do,” he countered mildly.
She’d watched him for years reporting from all the world’s hot spots. Daria couldn’t imagine forgetting being married to one of the country’s most famous television journalists.
She was about to question that when he pulled into a long-term parking garage. “Don’t tell me we’re going to steal another car,” she groaned.
“Don’t have to.” He drove up to the second level and pulled the stolen sedan into an empty slot. “I thought we’d pick up mine. I leave it here when I’m out of town.”
It had been a year since he’d been back to New Orleans. Roarke could only hope the parking-garage attendant had kept the battery charged as he’d been paid extra to do.
“Won’t the police be looking for it? After all, I doubt if there are many people in the ER who didn’t notice you with me, and you did tell them all you were my husband, so why couldn’t they simply run your name through their computers and—”
“You’ve been watching too much television,” he interrupted brusquely. “We’ll be okay.”
Even as he reassured her, Roarke secretly admitted she had a point. If they could just get to the house, where she could rest and get her memory back, things would turn out okay. Which would be a nice change from Moscow.
Daria followed him to the elevator, which they took up to the sixth level. He walked halfway down an aisle, then stopped in front of a black Porsche.
“Being a world-famous journalist must pay very well,” she murmured, thinking the low-slung car fit his personality. It was dark and dangerous.
“I do okay.” They went through the car-door-opening procedure again. Daria’s surprise at this gallantry made her think she wasn’t used to having men open doors for her. When he looked inclined to fasten her seat belt again, she quickly forestalled him.
“I can do it.”
He was already leaning into the car; their faces were just a few inches apart. All he would have to do is lean down just the least little bit and...
Damn! What was he doing, thinking of kissing a woman when half the bad guys in town were undoubtedly looking for them? There was something about Daria Shea, something that had caused a gut-stirring, red-hot arousal at the very time he needed to keep his cool. Angry at his lack of control and reminding himself that he must keep his head, he backed away. From the lady and from the potentially deadly attraction.
“Suit yourself.”
He was furious. As she cast a cautious sideways glance toward him, Daria wondered what she’d done to make him angry. She certainly hadn’t asked him to get involved with her life. Well, she admitted on second thought, if his story could be believed, perhaps she had.
Although it still didn’t seem right to her that they were really married—yet why would he lie about that?—she had the feeling that he wasn’t lying about her coming up to him in the bar and kissing him. Because, although she couldn’t remember a single solitary thing prior to when she’d awakened in that noisy, blindingly bright emergency room, she had that hazy but blood-warming recollection of the taste of his lips.
“You know, you didn’t have to leave the hospital with me,” she said quietly.
“Yes, I did.”
“But not because we’re married.”
He glanced over at her, took in her serious face and sighed. “No.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Not because we’re married.”
“I didn’t think so.” Daria couldn’t decide if she was glad about that or not. It was difficult to know what you felt when you didn’t know who you were. “Why did you lie about us?”
“I figured it was the best way to make certain I could stick close to you until I got a handle on what was happening.” He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Daria thought about that. “It was nice of you to care.”
“Don’t romanticize things. I’m a reporter. I smelled, a story.” There was no softness in his tone. None of the kindness that she would expect from a man who’d gone to such trouble to rescue her. “Since I’m not working on anything at the moment, I figured I might as well follow it and find out where it led.”
“I see.” She didn’t. Not really. But she did get his warning, loud and clear. There had been nothing personal in his behavior. And if she was foolish enough to think—or wish—otherwise, she would be disappointed.
Roarke made the tight left turn onto the third level, then cursed.
“What’s wrong?” An instant later she saw the patrol car headed toward them and discovered that the old cliché about blood turning to ice was no cliché at all. “Oh, no
.”
“There should be a pen and a pad in the glove compartment,” he told her. “See if you can find it.”
Without asking questions, she leaned forward and did as instructed. “I’ve got it. Now what?”
“Hold on tight. And if you get a look at the number on that car, write it down.”
He slammed his foot onto the accelerator, causing the Porsche to leap forward. For the next few seconds—although it seemed like an eternity—the squeal of tires reverberated from every concrete wall of the parking garage, adding a strident accompaniment to the runaway beat of Daria’s pounding heart. Blue smoke and the smell of burning rubber filled her nostrils as the driver chasing them kept having to brake; the ancient domestic sedan not nearly as maneuverable as the sports car.
Roarke rocketed out of the garage, crashed through the black-and-white wooden barricade—to the obvious consternation of the openmouthed parking attendant—onto Lafayette, then jumped the divider and made another tight, tire-squealing turn on to Carondelet.
Although the police car followed, Roarke noted with interest that they had not hit their lights or siren—something that would be routine procedure under the circumstances.
Unless, of course, they were not acting as police officers, but as assassins.
There was a sound like a firecracker. Then the back window shattered. Roarke cursed, Daria screamed.
“Was that what I thought it was?” she asked shakily.
He gave her credit for being able to talk at all. “They’re shooting at us,” he confirmed. He felt the wetness on his face and suspected it was not caused by the rain that had begun to fall again.
When he wiped it away with the back of his hand, Daria leaned toward him. “You’ve been shot!”
“Naw. It’s probably just glass.”
“From a window the police shot out. Because they were aiming at me.”
She couldn’t believe it. What on earth had she done to deserve this? You would think she was some sort of deranged serial killer or something. She wanted to ask Roarke what, exactly, he knew about their situation, but decided this was definitely not the time. She only hoped she would live long enough to learn the answer.
The wide tires on the Porsche held the slick road, giving them an advantage over their pursuers. When a red Cadillac tried to pull out onto Carondelet from Saint Joseph Street, Roarke twisted the wheel and swerved, managing to miss hitting the passenger door. Unfortunately, the Cadillac driver’s luck did not hold.
Looking back through the blown-out rear window, Daria watched in horror as the patrol car slammed into it, causing both cars to go skidding sideways over the center median.
“Too bad we can’t stop and thank that guy,” Roarke said about the Caddy driver as he continued on, around Lee Circle, headed toward the Garden District.
“You would have made it even without his interference.”
Although he knew it was dangerous to like anything about this woman, Roarke decided he rather enjoyed the unwavering belief he heard in her tone.
“That goes without saying,” he said with a shrug. But inside he was smiling.
“Oh, I got it,” Daria said.
“Got what?”
“The number of the patrol car.” She waved the piece of paper like a victory flag. “It spun around after it hit the other car and I saw the number painted on the rear, above the license plate.”
A reluctant smile touched Roarke’s lips. “Good girl.”
She smiled back. And decided not to ruin the exhilarating mood by pointing out that his term was horribly chauvinistic.
Unlike the French-style houses in the Quarter, set flush to the sidewalk but boasting hidden courtyards in back, the magnificent mansions in the Garden District had been built back from the street in true American style, their lush green and flower-bedded front yards bordered by hedges, walls and fences.
Roarke stopped in front of a lacy cast-iron gate on tree-lined Prytania Street. The driver’s-side window lowered with a faint whir. Daria watched as he leaned out the open window and punched a series of numbers into the box embedded in a brick pillar. A moment later the gate obediently slid open.
“Is this your house?” She stared in awe at the palatial house built in the eclectic blend of Greek Revival and Italianate styles that had been so popular in the booming South before the Civil War.
“Hardly. I may make more than your average news scribe. But even I couldn’t afford this place.”
“Then who...”
“It belongs to the government,” he said as he paused between another set of pillars set on either side of the cobblestone driveway a long distance from the street. The electronic eyes scanned the car, then opened the overhead door to a garage that Daria figured could probably have housed the average new-car dealership showroom.
“The government?” The adrenaline rush from the car chase was beginning to wear off and her headache had intensified. “What does the government need with a mansion in New Orleans?”
Roarke pulled into the garage; the door closed behind him. “It’s a safe house.”
“Like in the spy novels?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“I thought you were a reporter.”
“I am.” He got out of the car, shut his door and came around to open hers. “It’s my brother who’s the spook.”
This conversation was doing nothing for her headache. “Michael’s a spy?”
She never would have guessed that calm and friendly man had such a dangerous occupation. Then again, she considered on afterthought, if a spy actually looked the part, he probably wouldn’t ever be able to gather secret information.
“Not Mike.” Seeing the pain in her eyes, he took her arm and helped her out of the bucket seat. “Shayne. He’s the youngest O’Malley brother.”
“You have a brother who works for the CIA?” The idea was incredible. How on earth had she gotten herself mixed up with spies and roving journalists and cops who wanted to kill her?
“Something like that.” Roarke shrugged as he punched another code on the box beside the door leading from the garage into the house. “He’s always been a little vague about what exactly he does. Which I guess makes sense, given his occupation.”
“I suppose so.” The door opened onto a wide double parlor, resplendent with soaring ceilings that appeared to be at least fifteen feet high and exquisitely carved moldings. A mural depicting life in the antebellum South had been painted on wallpaper that ran around the entire length of the room above the chair rail.
Daria drew in a quick appreciative gasp.
“Welcome to the house that cotton built,” Roarke murmured.
“It’s amazing.” And also, save for the White House, undoubtedly the most expensive public housing in America. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see Scarlett O’Hara dancing in Rhett’s arms.”
“Wrong state.” In spite of himself, Roarke was impressed as well. “But right era. No wonder the government’s running a deficit.”
“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want all those former communist spies and drug-dealing informants to be uncomfortable while they’re being debriefed.”
Her dry tone almost made him smile. Roarke decided it said something about Daria that she could try to make a joke at a time like this, after all she’d been through.
“Let’s find the bedrooms,” he said. “You look beat.”
“I am.”
Beat didn’t even begin to cover it. Exhaustion didn’t come close, either. What she was, Daria considered, was dead on her feet. She followed him across the gleaming mahogany floor, through the arched doorway festooned with plaster detailing, to a marble-floored foyer.
Daria almost groaned when she viewed the magnificent, curved double stairway. She guessed there must be at least thirty steps to the second floor.
Once again seeming to possess the ability to read her mind, Roarke scooped her into his arms and began carrying her up the stairs.
Feeling ridiculously li
ke Scarlett O’Hara, Daria decided that she was a woman accustomed to standing on her own two feet. “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”
Like hell, he thought. “Shut up,” he said instead.
“Excuse me?”
Icicles dripped from the words, giving him another glimpse of the woman Michael had accused of giving men frostbite.
“Look, so far tonight you could well have witnessed a murder, the bruises on your arms suggest that you’ve been attacked yourself, and you’ve been shot. I wouldn’t think you’d be all that wild about ending the evening by falling down a flight of stairs and breaking your neck.”
He had a point. But still, she didn’t enjoy ceding control. Why, if she displayed half this weakness in court...
Court. The word rang an instantaneous bell. “Roarke!”
“What?”
“I think I’m a lawyer.”
“Yeah. You are.” He resumed walking up the stairs.
“Yeah?” She drew her head back to stare at him. “You knew?”
“You’ve got an ID card in your wallet that claims you’re a deputy prosecutor for the parish.”
“You’ve known that all along? And didn’t tell me?”
Her accusing tone rankled. “Look, it isn’t as if we’ve had a lot of time or opportunity for a long discussion. I figured we could talk about all this tomorrow. When you were rested and your head didn’t feel as if some maniac was playing the anvil chorus behind your eyes.”
“You should have told me,” she muttered. “What else do you know about me?”
“What else?” He’d reached the landing. The carpeting was a rich plush burgundy, cream and navy Persian with such elaborate detailing Roarke figured an entire village must have gone blind tying all those intricate knots. “Let me think. I know your age from your driver’s license—twenty-seven—and your weight—”
“That’s not necessary,” she murmured, leaning her head against his chest. She was so very tired.
“You don’t wear corrective lenses, you live in the Irish Channel neighborhood—”
“I bought the house six months ago,” she recalled. “It’s a Victorian cottage. It reminded me of a little doll-house, but...”