Colton's Amnesia Target (The Coltons of Kansas)

by Kimberly van Meter - A Sinclair Homecoming (The Sinclairs of Alaska)

  Yeah, as in completely aroused when she was around, but he was trying to keep himself in check. She’d been pretty clear: nothing romantic was offered or appreciated.

  He wasn’t going to ruin her trust in him but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fantasizing about her lips on his behind closed doors.

  Keep things on solid ground.

  “So, tell me what you can about the Crane case—that’s the one you were investigating, right? The one with my relative?”

  She seemed relieved to switch gears. Detective Colton was back in the room. “Well, it’s an active investigation so I can’t share too many details. I can tell you what I initially told you when we spoke on the phone.”

  “It’s all new to me so go for it,” he said, winking. “Every time is like the first time right now.”

  Jordana chuckled but quickly sobered, saying, “It feels disrespectful to joke about the circumstances. I mean, Fenton Crane was your relative.”

  “Yeah, but even if I did remember him, from what you told me, we weren’t very close. I mean, it sounds like I never really knew the guy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s terrible that he ended up in a wall—that sounds like a bad way to die for anyone—but I don’t feel any grief or loss.”

  Jordana accepted his explanation. “Yes, it seems Mr. Crane was an uncle but that in itself is really sad.” She leaned against her elbow to regard him with curiosity. “What’s it like to be such a lone wolf? I can’t imagine not having brothers and sisters or extended family all around me. Actually, it might be nice at first but after a while... I would imagine that it would get lonely.”

  His childhood had been lonely. His parents, decent folk, if not a little absent, had figured out early on that having a clutch of kids wasn’t in their wheelhouse. It was probably a blessing that he’d grown up an only child. He didn’t like playing the lonely kid card, though. “It was fine. Being an only child gave me certain advantages. I never had to share my toys,” he said with a playful smile.

  “How many siblings do you have?”

  “Ready yourself.”

  His brow arched. “Go on.”

  “I am one of six Colton kids,” she admitted. “And there’s a set of triplets in that number.”

  “Triplets? Holy crap. What a handful for your parents that must’ve been.”

  “Yeah, I think it made my mom neurotic. My dad was a workaholic so he wasn’t around much for the child-rearing part. I can’t remember my dad ever changing a diaper. Not his generation, I guess. My mom shouldered the load. It made me want to never have kids, that’s for sure.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Well, maybe that’s too harsh. I’m just not cut out for that life. I prefer chasing criminals to toddlers.”

  He laughed. “Is it sexist that I assumed all women at some point want to get married and have kids?”

  “It is and you know it,” she said, calling him out. “I can tell by the way that dimple pops out on your right cheek that you’re full of shit and you know that, too.”

  He laughed. “Okay, guilty. I guess sometimes I’m a sexist asshole,” he confessed, shrugging his shoulders with mock apology.

  “Well, you had to have some kind of flaw,” she said, rising as she gathered their plates. “Because a man who can cook like this and looks like you...is some woman’s dream.”

  Some woman? But not yours? Ah, Jordana, you kill me.

  But he liked it.

  Chapter 7

  Jordana returned to the house at lunch with good news. She found Clint reading the local newspaper with an expression of amusement. “There’s a section in the local paper called ‘Cop’s Corner’ that lists select calls to Dispatch. Listen to this one—‘11:25 p.m. Report of petty theft on Georgia Lane. Reporting party saw neighbor take lawn ornament.’ This is hilarious! Is this for real? Or is this someone’s column full of made-up stuff?”

  She sighed. “It’s real. Some people are very invested in what goes around. A lot of nosy neighbors calling in their grievances, honestly.”

  “Oh! Here’s another one—‘2:30 p.m. Report of suspicious circumstances on Mockingbird Lane. Reporting party wants to report an unknown person parking in front of his house. Wants officer to tow unknown vehicle.’” Clint looked to Jordana with eyes brimming with laughter. “This is what constitutes crime around here?”

  “Aside from the two bodies that were found walled up in an old building owned by my family? Yeah, it’s pretty quiet around here.”

  Clint sobered. “Ah, right. Something tells me that discovery wasn’t printed in Cop’s Corner.”

  “No, we asked the editor if she would respectfully keep that entry in the dispatch log, out of the media.”

  “Only in a small town would that work,” he said. “If you tried that in Chicago, you’d get laughed out of town.”

  “Privileges and perks,” Jordana said, adding, “And I know exactly what that Mockingbird Lane call was about. You’ll find this funny. So there’s this old man who thinks he owns the street in front of his house. He calls every time someone parks there. We’ve tried explaining that the street is owned by the city and anyone can park there but he’s stubbornly refused to listen. So we get a call each time. It’s a pain in the ass. He needs a friggin’ hobby. We actually draw straws to determine whose turn it is to talk to old man Bryce.”

  “That’s his name? Bryce?”

  “Yep. Bryce Riggens. You don’t need a neighborhood watch with old man Bryce peeking through his blinds at all times.” She chuckled. “Not sure how many people will show up to his funeral when he finally goes. He’s pissed off quite a few people.”

  “Sounds like an unhappy man,” Clint said. “Ah, well, too late to change that leopard’s spots. So, what was your good news?”

  Jordana smiled, happy to share something positive. “Seems you did have someone waiting and worrying at home—your assistant. Reese tracked down some names and numbers and came across your personal secretary, Jeana—does that ring a bell? Jeana Erickson?”

  His brow furrowed as he searched his memory. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but when I push harder for details, the information slips away,” he said, his tone laced with frustration. “So, did she realize I was missing? Why didn’t she file a missing-persons report?”

  “She wanted to but, according to her, she was afraid you might not approve, especially if it turned out to be nothing. Apparently, you don’t like untoward attention.”

  Clint digested that information before saying, “Well, that makes sense. I own a big company. I probably have investors, and investors need to feel safe and secure in order to keep the flow of money going. I think she did the right thing not filing. Besides, I’m clearly not missing, just my memory is.”

  “That’s circular logic but okay,” she said derisively. “Anyway, I have her contact information for you.” Jordana handed Clint the paper in her hand. “Feel free to contact her. You can share what happened to you, but if you could keep details to a minimum, that would be helpful.”

  “Right,” he agreed, staring at the name and number on the sheet. “It’s weird to stare at something you should know but have no recollection of its importance. I feel bad for my assistant.”

  “A suggestion if you wouldn’t mind,” she said, waiting for his nod to continue. “I wouldn’t mention the amnesia. I don’t know anything about your business but knowing the boss has lost his memory might affect your company. I’d just keep that intel on a need-to-know basis until you recover.”

  “Solid advice,” he said. “Makes sense. Thanks.”

  Jordana nodded and headed for the kitchen to find a deli sandwich on sourdough waiting for her. “What is this?” she asked.

  “Unless that’s a trick question, it’s clearly a sandwich,” he answered, joining her. “I’ve got nothing but time on my hands when you’re at the station and I li
ke to tinker in the kitchen. It’s the only thing that makes me feel a little normal.”

  “But you shouldn’t feel you have to make me dinner or lunch every time I turn around,” she said, biting her lip. “Although that looks pretty good and I’m starved. I was going to pop a burrito in the microwave but now that doesn’t seem very appealing.”

  “Please, eat.” He gestured to the barstool. “It’s the least I can do to help out, okay?”

  She understood the need to feel useful but she was wary of the tickle in her stomach when he did things like this. It was hard to keep lines drawn when they kept inching closer and closer past the point of no return.

  And what exactly did that look like?

  Well, if it looked like the dream she had last night, then it looked like two naked people twisted around each other like there was no tomorrow.

  Her breath hitched in her throat at the memory. That does it, no more chocolate before bed. She slid onto the barstool and pulled the cellophane free. “How do you manage to make a roast beef sandwich look like art? Are you sure you’re a tech guy?”

  He chuckled. “Well, maybe I made my money in tech but secretly yearned to be the next culinary sensation.”

  Jordana smiled with amusement before taking a bite. She nodded with appreciation, “Okay, yeah, this is pretty good, damn it,” she said around her bite. “If you keep this up, I might not want you to ever get your memory back.”

  Clint laughed at her joke but a part of her—the part she kept under lock and key—realized she was a little serious.

  She liked having Clint around.

  More than she wanted to admit.

  * * *

  He liked feeding Jordana. There was something primal and caveman-ish about his enjoyment of “providing sustenance” to the woman he found attractive, but he kept his feelings in check with a simple reminder: she’d stated her boundaries and they excluded anything romantic.

  So, he’d have to satisfy his growing feelings by stuffing her face as often as possible.

  And he wasn’t lying when he said it made him feel useful. He might not remember his life but he knew that he didn’t like being idle.

  “Any movement on the case?” he asked, biting into his own sandwich.

  “No, not really. It’s a challenge when the victim doesn’t remember anything,” she answered with a teasing smile that tested his ability to keep his lips to himself. “We’ve got some feelers out, to see if anyone saw anything on Range Road where you were found, but these things take time. People have a tendency to keep to themselves, especially when dealing with something like this.”

  “What happened to the small-town stereotype of neighbors helping neighbors?” he asked.

  “If you were local, that stereotype would apply, but there’s nothing more cliquish than a small town,” she said.

  “That’s discouraging,” he admitted. “What are the odds you’ll be able to catch who did this?”

  She winced a little. “Not very good.”

  He accepted her answer, appreciating her honesty. Now it was his turn to be forthright. “Can I be frank with you?” At her nod, he continued. “I’m not really expecting anyone to come forward with information, which means at some point I’m going to have to admit that my case might go unsolved and I have to get back to my life in Chicago.”

  “That’s a healthy expectation but I’m not ready to give up just yet. Someone might still come forward.”

  He wanted her to want him to stay for reasons that had nothing to do with the case. Ugh. Pathetic, much? Was he a stage-four clinger in his normal life? Was that why he didn’t have a wife or a girlfriend? The paranoia was hard to shut down when you knew next to nothing about yourself.

  “I appreciate the effort,” he said, switching focus. “Maybe if you told me more about Fenton Crane, it might help jog my memory.”

  “What we do know about Fenton isn’t all that flattering. Are you sure you want to know that kind of detail about your family member?”

  He assured her with a smile he could take it. “I didn’t know the guy, remember? Just because we shared DNA didn’t mean he was coming over for Thanksgiving dinner. Go ahead, hit me.”

  “Okay, from what we know, Fenton was a bit of a sleaze. Definitely no moral boundaries. He was motivated entirely by money. He’d take any job for the right amount of cash.”

  “Just playing devil’s advocate here, aren’t we all motivated by money?”

  “Fenton was a private investigator who set the bar pretty low if the money was good enough,” Jordana said.

  “Yeah, but the PI business...not exactly a cash cow. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to survive.”

  She cast a wary look his way. “You sound pretty defensive for a guy who claims he didn’t know the victim.”

  He held his hands up, laughing. “I swear, I didn’t know him. I’m just saying, passing judgment on the poor guy for trying to make a living seems a little harsh.”

  “Some of us have higher moral and ethical standards, I guess,” she said a bit stiffly.

  Was this their first disagreement? Was he weird for enjoying that flash of spirit in her eyes? The thing about Jordana that he was starting to realize was that she kept a lot under lock and key. He sensed a passionate woman hiding behind that buckled-down exterior.

  It wasn’t his place to try and jimmy that lock but couldn’t fault a man for trying, right?

  “Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to offend you,” he promised. “Just trying to offer perspective.”

  Jordana’s expression lost some of the tension but he could tell the energy between them had changed. “I appreciate your help,” she said, rising to clear her spot. “And lunch was great but I have to get back to the station.”

  He didn’t want to leave things ruffled between them. Clint reached out to gently grasp her hand. “I shouldn’t have stepped on your toes. It’s your investigation and I don’t know what I’m doing so take my opinion with a grain of salt.”

  Her smile seemed strained around the edges as she slowly eased her hand free. “It’s fine. You did nothing wrong. Maybe talking to your assistant will jog some memory loose. I’ll see you tonight.”

  And then she was out the door.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have pressed those buttons. He didn’t want to ruin the trust they were building but something inside him urged him to push a little.

  Was he a jerk in his pre-memory-loss life? According to Jordana, he’d built a large, successful company. Success came at a cost. Sometimes you had to be aggressive. Maybe that’s why someone had tried to kill him. Maybe he’d pushed the wrong person too far.

  Not a far-fetched theory. People have turned violent for lesser reasons. But he was grabbing blindly at anything in the dark and it didn’t feel good.

  He grabbed the paper. Time to see if a voice from his past triggered some recovery.

  Chapter 8

  Jordana liked to think of herself as calm and rational, definitely not prone to theatrics or melodrama. As the second oldest in a family of six, there simply wasn’t room for a personality that sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

  But there was something about Clint that made her feel irrational. It definitely made her want to act in a way that was out of character.

  When he grasped her hand, she nearly froze. Her heartbeat practically shattered her rib cage. His hand, smooth and warm yet big and commanding, felt perfect against her skin. It was all she could do to calmly and reasonably withdraw without looking like a crazy person.

  Her knee-jerk reaction was to yank her hand free as if scalded. But not because his touch repulsed her. No, quite the opposite.

  You need to encourage him to return to Chicago, her inside voice reasoned.

  That was the last thing she wanted. She liked having him around.

  Aside from his awesome kitch
en skills, she liked coming home knowing he was there. The smile that found her lips the minute she pulled into the driveway was hard to smother.

  You’re losing objectivity, that damned voice chided her, time for him to go.

  All good advice, and yet, she kept finding new justifications to keep him there.

  But not every justification was personal, she wanted to protest. She currently had two unsolved crimes on her desk: the warehouse murders and Clint’s attack. What if they were related? It was foolhardy to send him packing because she was harboring some misplaced attraction that would surely fade with a little distance.

  All she needed to do was to stay the course, keep her head on straight, avoid doing anything that would blur the lines and everything would work out.

  She didn’t dare confess her concerns to Reese. He’d tell her to pull the plug, pronto, on their living situation because he hadn’t been a fan from the start.

  Jordana hated being wrong and Reese loved being right.

  That’s what we call an impasse.

  She’d have to buckle down and figure things out on her own.

  When in doubt, focus on work.

  Jordana strode into the station, heading for her desk, when the brand-new captain pulled her into his office. After her previous boss left the position, longtime lawman Michael Placer was put in charge.

  Captain Placer, a man with a stern Wilford Brimley look about him, left his officers to their jobs and rarely micromanaged, but she could tell by his expression he’d heard that Clint was living in her spare bedroom.

  Damn that small-town gossip.

  “What can I do for you, Captain?” she asked, standing at attention, her naval training demanding nothing less when speaking to a commander.

  “At ease, Detective,” he said, going straight to the point. “Is that amnesia guy, Clint Broderick, living in your house?”

  No sense in lying. “Yes, sir. I thought it prudent to keep him close given the circumstances of his assault.”