STOLEN MEMORY

by Virginia Kantra

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She didn't mind being blunt. Hell, she took pride in it. But that had been a cheap shot, designed to shock. It was unworthy of her. Simon's kiss had rattled her more than she wanted to admit.

  "I'm sorry," Simon said calmly.

  "Don't be. The relationship was on life support even before Tommy died."

  "What happened?"

  Simon's voice was quiet, unthreatening, like a doctor's or a priest's. Laura was trained in interview techniques. She knew better than to fall for that nonjudgmental tone. But she responded to it anyway.

  "Tom Baker was a seaman at the Great Lakes Naval Training Facility. I was a teenage girl in Chicago with more attitude than smarts. I got pregnant, we got married, he got killed two months later in some freak training accident. End of story."

  "Not quite," Simon said.

  "You mean the baby?" Her throat clogged with tears. Her fault. Her stupid fault, for letting a moment of sexual excitement crash her usually strong barriers. Damn, damn, damn.

  "There was no baby," she said harshly. "I lost it a couple weeks later."

  If he had reached out to touch her, she would have bolted. But he sat, unmoving—unmoved?—against his flat, polished desk, his light eyes focused on her face.

  "You were very young," he observed.

  "I was stupid."

  His lips parted, as if he were about to say something, and then he stopped.

  Not so comfortable when it isn't all about numbers, are you? Laura thought, not without sympathy.

  But he surprised her.

  "That must have been hard," he said.

  "I…" She cleared her throat. "I got over it. I am over it."

  "Good. Go out with me."

  Her heart bumped, which annoyed her. "Haven't you heard a word I've said?"

  "Yes," he answered promptly. "You're not my employee, you're not investigating my case, and you're not grieving for your late husband. So I see no barriers to our becoming involved."

  None. Except her father had worked for the company contracted to provide his security, and the old man was missing now along with a cache of cultured rubies valued at half a million dollars. And this afternoon at the end of her shift, Laura was going to have to report that theft to her boss.

  "Except I'm not interested," she said.

  Simon didn't point out that her kiss had definitely been interested. Either he was actually a nice guy, or he was experienced enough to know better.

  "Let me know if you change your mind," he said.

  She shook her head, unreasonably tempted. "It would never work."

  "Why not?"

  "I'm not your type."

  "How do you know?"

  "Look at me," she said, her voice rising with frustration. "Look at us. You're Millionaire Inventor Guy, and I'm—"

  "—an incredibly attractive woman with practical knowledge and principles."

  A pleased flush swept over her. "Thanks."

  But she knew who and what she was: a small-town cop with a troubling connection to his case. And those principles he was talking about wouldn't let her gloss over the differences between them.

  She squared her shoulders. "But the answer's still no. Detective Palmer is handling the investigation from here on in. After today, there's no reason for us to ever see each other again."

  He blew it.

  Simon didn't know how or why, but he couldn't shake the feeling of connections missed, of opportunities lost. It was like calculating a complex equation. His formula was correct, but his data was wrong. Or he was missing a variable completely.

  He watched the police boat's choppy progress across the lake, aware of Laura Baker's slim, straight figure at the controls. She'd taken off her hat, making her neatly constrained hair gleam like tarnished metal in the sun.

  He inhaled sharply. He wanted her. Still. The taste of her lingered in his mouth like honey. The itch for her buzzed in his blood.

  She wanted him, too. He might not remember whatever women had occupied his bed or his mind before, but he recognized a woman's desire.

  But it didn't take a genius to see that this woman was equally determined not to have anything further to do with him.

  Why not?

  Considering the problem logically, there was nothing obviously wrong with him. Well, except for the void where his memory should be. And while the detective was smart enough to suspect the worst, she couldn't know the full extent of his loss.

  No one could know the full extent of his loss.

  Expelling his breath, Simon turned back to his desk. Laura Baker was a puzzle and a challenge. But however much he might enjoy fitting the pieces together, he had bigger problems to solve.

  "I didn't mean to screw things up with the meter maid," Dylan volunteered over lunch. "But she's not your usual type, is she?"

  Simon lowered his fork to stare at his brother, seated nine feet away at the opposite end of the long, polished table. All of the furniture in the house was over-sized and shiny, as if it had been designed for very neat giants. The colors were all neutrals, cream and beige and gray. Simon wondered if he'd chosen them or even liked them. He didn't like them now. Would he when he got his memory back?

  "Detective," he corrected his brother. "And why isn't she my type?"

  "Because she's difficult. And you've always liked your women easy."

  Simon raised his eyebrows. "Easy?"

  "No work," Dylan explained. "No hassles. The Stepford Girlfriends—beautiful, intelligent, perfect, polite. Like you could shut them off and put them away in the lab when you were done playing with them."

  Simon was amused. Appalled. "I don't have a lot of time to invest in relationships," he said. Now, where had that come from?

  Dylan snorted. "You're telling me. If you didn't have so much money, no woman would put up with you."

  Could he ask about the portrait of the schoolgirl upstairs? Simon wondered. No, not yet.

  "What about you?" he asked.

  "Are you offering me a raise, big brother?"

  "No." Should he? What did his brother earn?

  "That's okay. I don't need more money." Dylan grabbed a roll from the basket in the center of the table and buttered it lavishly. "I have charm."

  Quinn Brown stomped into the dining room. He glared at Dylan and shoved a phone handset at Simon.

  No charm there, Simon thought.

  "Call for you," Quinn said. "Vince Macon."

  "Damn," Dylan said.

  Who the hell was Vince Macon?

  Simon had spent some time yesterday studying his company's organization chart, trying to grasp its structure, hoping to strike a name that would spark a memory. In the process, he'd learned that Lumen Corp employed over a hundred researchers and support staff at its Chicago headquarters and that his brother Dylan—surprise, surprise—was a vice president of marketing. But he didn't recognize the name "Macon" at all.

  He had to say something. Do something.

  "You take the call," he said to Dylan.

  His brother's face froze. If Simon had been in the mood for a laugh, it would have been funny.

  "You're kidding," Dylan said.

  "No. Why?"

  "Because he's one of your biggest investors and he hates me?"

  An investor. Relief eased Simon's shoulders. "Good enough," he said and accepted the phone. "Hey, Vince. Simon here."

  "Simon!" The voice was hearty, warm … and completely unfamiliar. Simon squelched his disappointment. "You're a hard man to reach. What are you doing on the island?"

  "Research," Simon said.

  "Ha. Good one." Vince Macon lowered his voice. "I heard Dylan was up there with you."

  Simon looked down the table. His brother had settled back in his chair and was watching him. "Yes."

  "Do you think that's a good idea?"

  "I don't know," Simon said honestly, meeting Dylan's eyes. "But he's here."

  "You mean, in the room? Listening?"


  "Yes."

  "You're not having any … trouble up there, are you?"

  A prickle of disquiet raised the hair on the back of Simon's neck. Trouble? Yeah. He had a bump on his head, a missing cache of cultured gemstones and great big gaps in his memory. But why would Macon ask? How would he know?

  "No," Simon said finally. "No trouble."

  "Good. I'll talk to you later then. When are you coming back to Chicago?"

  Frustration bubbled inside him. He was stumbling around in a fog, trying to avoid dangers he could not see. His blindness was bad enough here, where the only people he bumped into were his brother and Quinn Brown. Who knew what problems would trip him up outside? Better perhaps, safer perhaps, if he stayed in safe isolation on the island until his memory returned.

  But his mind remained a stubborn blank. Sometimes he had a flash, a moment's hope. Last night he'd reached for his nail clippers, and his pleasure at finding them in the drawer he'd opened so automatically had been embarrassingly acute.

  He couldn't count on such moments. They were frustratingly rare in any case. His business, his life, even his own character were like a puzzle he had to assemble without all the pieces or any real idea of what the finished picture was supposed to look like.

  And yet his business and his life might depend on his ability to fit it all together.

  Every day that slipped away took with it another chance to compile the pieces and make sense of the puzzle. Who had attacked him? Who had betrayed him? Who could he trust?

  "Simon? You still there?"

  Simon collected himself. "Yes. I'll be back in the office soon. A day or two. I'm close to something here."

  He wasn't close to anything, he thought bleakly.

  Or anyone, apparently. The only person he felt a connection with had just told him flat out there was no reason for them to ever see each other again.

  At least Laura had been honest with him.

  "Great," Vince said. "I'll see you then."

  They said a few more words and disconnected. Simon set the phone beside his plate.

  Dylan leaned forward, stabbing his lettuce with a fork. "So what did the old bastard want?"

  "What do you think he wanted?" Simon countered.

  Dylan swallowed a mouthful of salad. "He probably told you to kick me out before I talked you into funding my foolish, evil schemes."

  "I can't kick you out. You're my brother. And a vice president of the company," Simon added.

  Dylan grimaced. "That's always been an afterthought for you, hasn't it?"

  Had it? Simon wished again, desperately, he could ask for an explanation. He went fishing for one instead.

  "You're still my brother."

  "Half brother," Dylan said.

  It was another puzzle piece. Simon seized on it. "We still grew up together."

  Dylan gave him an odd look. "If that's the way you want to remember it."

  Simon didn't remember his childhood at all. He had a sudden image of wedging himself on the floor between his bed and the wall to read, and a shelf full of books. But no house. No yard. No memory of friends. Not even an impression of his mother's face.

  Why were there no pictures of his mother in the house? No family at all, except the girl upstairs.

  He wanted to ask, but he was afraid to show any weakness.

  Laura would have asked. No one would have counted it a weakness. No one would be suspicious if she was around asking questions. It was a function of her job, a component of her character.

  Simon needed answers.

  He wanted an ally.

  He needed Laura.

  He wanted Laura.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  The apartment door jerked open a crack, and Laura Baker scowled past the security chain at Simon.

  He was so glad to see a familiar face—even half of a familiar face—he decided to overlook the scowl. The walk through town had been a nightmare. He kept imagining people were looking at him, that they knew him or at least knew of him, and he hadn't recognized a soul. Not the straw-haired waitress smoking in front of the diner or the man in the checkered shirt cleaning the windows of the hardware store or the redheaded woman waving through the window of the camera shop. It had been a relief to turn onto Laura's tree-lined, residential street and into the quiet courtyard of her brownstone apartment building.

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  "I want to talk to you. Please," he added, because she didn't seem nearly as happy to see him as he was to see her, and he needed her help.

  The door didn't budge. "How did you get here?"

  "Quinn brought me. In the boat."

  He could tell from Quinn's reaction that that had been a mistake. But by the time Simon realized he knew how to pilot the boat, it had been too late.

  "Well, I didn't think you walked on water." Laura's smile erased the sting from her words. The security chain rattled. "How did you know where I live? I'm not listed in the phone book."

  He shrugged. "My computer's working."

  She didn't cite antihacking statutes at him or protest his invasion of her privacy. Instead she swung open the door. "As long as you're here, you might as well come in."

  Relieved, he stepped inside the cramped and airless apartment. "Nice place," he said, even though it wasn't. The stingy light from overhead barely illuminated the scarred woodwork and worn carpet.

  Laura shrugged. "It's a dump. But it's convenient. I wanted to be close to the station. And it's got good bones."

  He looked at her, her narrow face and straight shoulders, the way she stood with her fingers tucked into her back pockets, and the knots that had been twisting tighter and tighter in his gut relaxed. "Yes."

  Did she color faintly in the dim light?

  "You want something to drink?" she asked, walking away from him into the living room.

  Throws and bright pillows failed to disguise the shabby furniture. The plant hanging by the window needed water. An empty glass decorated the coffee table, and a pair of sneakers lay kicked off by the couch. But Laura's home was still warmer, or at least more personal, than his luxury mausoleum.

  "No drink. Thanks," he said.

  She pivoted, her hands still in her pockets. The angle of her arms thrust her breasts forward. "Why are you here?"

  He looked her carefully in the eyes. "I need a favor."

  Her expression shuttered. What would it take, how would it feel, to have her look at him with openness? With warmth? "Yeah, I figured," she said.

  "You said you wouldn't work for me," he reminded her.

  "That's right."

  "And you don't want us to be involved—romantically involved," he clarified.

  The tilt of her chin was a challenge. "So?"

  He wanted her. He wanted her mind and her mouth and her attitude. Simon had rehearsed his reasons on the way over and decided to his satisfaction that they were rational, viable and persuasive. But faced with that chin, he stumbled.

  "I told you I couldn't remember anything from the time of the attack."

  She nodded. "Short-term retrograde amnesia." He must have revealed his surprise, because she smiled. "I can look things up on the Internet, too. You want to sit down?"

  "Thank you." He waited politely for her to drop into a chair and then folded himself on her couch, trying not to feel like a psychiatric patient.

  "You know, if your memory's coming back, you should talk to Detective Palmer," Laura said.

  "My memory's not coming back."

  "No?"

  "No. In fact…" Could he afford to tell her? Could he afford not to? "There's a lot I don't remember."

  "Define 'a lot.'"

  He drew a deep breath. "Quite a lot."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Was there a reason you decided to track me down at my apartment on my day off? Or do you just like yanking my chain?"

  "Are you always this direct?"

  "Yes."

  He smiled.
"Good."

  She didn't smile back. "Are you always this evasive?"

  "I don't know," Simon said. His heart jackhammered in his chest. "Or maybe I should say … I don't remember."

  Her eyes jerked to his. She held his gaze for a long, slow moment.

  Her breath hissed in. "You don't. You don't remember … anything?" She believed him.

  Simon's mouth went dry with relief. Or terror. "I know enough to function," he said stiffly. "I think in time—"

  "What about people?" she interrupted. He was grateful she didn't take out her notebook. He would have felt even more like a psychiatric patient. "What about your brother? You introduced him."

  "Did I?"

  Her eyes widened. "Quinn announced him. And then he introduced himself."

  Simon nodded. "God knows what I would have done if he'd walked in without warning."

  "Wow." She slumped back. "I bet you're having a hard time."

  She understood. For a second, he didn't feel quite so alone. "Yes," he admitted. "That's why I need your help."

  She shook her head. "No, you don't. I'm sorry, but you don't. You need a professional." They'd been over this before.

  "You mean a doctor," he said flatly.

  A shrink.

  "A doctor would be good," she agreed. "But actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a private investigator. Somebody attacked you. Not only can't you identify whoever it was, you can't identify the people around you who might have a motive. You need someone who can make inquiries within your company and investigate your personal life."

  He was pleased she understood his requirements so precisely. "That's why I need you."

  "You need a security firm that specializes in executive protection or industrial espionage or something. Not me."

  "I have a security firm that specializes in all those things. And they failed to do their job."

  "But if you confided in them… If you explained…"

  He stood. "E.C.I.P. has over three hundred employees working for almost twenty corporations. How long do you think I could keep my memory loss a secret if I confided in them?"

  "They're not amateurs. Nobody's going to send out a company memo saying you've lost your mind. Memory," she corrected, blushing.

  Trust Laura to put his worst fear into words.