Colton's Amnesia Target (The Coltons of Kansas)

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

  “Quite by accident, I assure you,” Jordana answered, shaking Jeana’s hand. “But I’m happy to help. We’re going to find who made the attempt on Mr. Broderick’s life.”

  Jordana was playing it cool, keeping the professional lines drawn, but Clint didn’t want to keep his affection for Jordana secret. To Jeana, he said, “She’s my girl. Anything you can tell me, you can tell her, too. I trust her implicitly.”

  Jordana flashed him an aggrieved look but didn’t say anything to the contrary.

  Jeana, to her credit, didn’t blink an eye. “Very good.” She gestured for Jordana to have a seat while Clint settled in the high-back leather chair behind the modern executive stainless-steel desk. The desktop gleamed without a single fingerprint or smudge, the room smelling faintly of polish. A memory flashed: selecting this desk. He remembered thinking it looked impressive and intimidating, appropriate for someone of his position. Jeana handed him a folder. “I compiled some pertinent information you might need. Basic background of the company, current projects, challenges and obstacles, as well as some personal information, as I know it.”

  Jordana shot Clint a look as if wondering exactly how close he and Jeana had been. He wanted to reassure Jordana that there was nothing between him and his assistant; he wasn’t that much of a cliché. He actually knew this to be true. Slivers of interactions with Jeana started coming back as if pushing water through a rusty bucket full of holes.

  He snapped his fingers, excited. “I bought you a Hermès scarf last year for your birthday!”

  Jeana broke into a pleased smile. “Indeed you did. Such an extravagant gift but much appreciated.”

  He was nearly giddy. “I’m remembering things. Not all at once but they’re starting to fall into place, one by one.” Clint jumped from his chair to peruse the library lining the wall. He picked up a leather-bound book, a first edition of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, published in 1876. “I bought this at auction. I narrowly beat out my competition by ten thousand dollars.” He grinned at Jordana, adding, “I paid a hundred grand for this book.”

  Jordana’s gaze widened. “Are you kidding me? You paid how much for an old book?”

  “What can I say, I’m a huge Mark Twain fan. Reminds me of my childhood. Remember, I was an only child. Kinda lonely. Books made it bearable. This book was the start of my love for reading.”

  Still, Jordana murmured, “Seems a lot for a book. Just saying.”

  He chuckled, returning to his chair, feeling much better, more hopeful than before. Clint rubbed his hands together. “All right, let’s get started. Jeana, tell me what I need to know.”

  They spent the next hour going over the tidy file Jeana provided, and by the end, he’d gained more memory just by going over the information. There were still gaps but they were getting smaller by the minute. He’d known familiarity would help jog his memory. All he’d needed was to immerse himself in his previous life and it would all come tumbling back.

  “Jeana, I need to take my girl out and celebrate. Would you make us a reservation at Boka? I want to show her a good time.”

  “Clint—”

  But Clint’s mood couldn’t be dampened. “Wait until you experience the culinary mastery of Chef Pierre, you’ll think you died and went to heaven.”

  Jeana nodded and left them alone. Judging by the frown on Jordana’s face, she wasn’t on board to be wowed by Chef Pierre.

  “Do you really think it’s wise to be out and about when your memory is still compromised?”

  “That’s the thing, it’s coming back. I remember things. I remember more and more with each interaction. I think it would be beneficial to go to places I’m used to going, and I remember Boka being one of my favorite restaurants.”

  It was solid logic, but honestly, his reasons had more to do with treating Jordana than triggering more memories. He wanted to show her a good time. He also didn’t want to give her a reason to regret coming with him. He was willing to take out all the stops to impress Jordana. Maybe if he did a good enough job, she might want to relocate to Chicago...permanently.

  Chapter 18

  Jordana stared at the black floor-length, formfitting dress Clint purchased for her to wear to dinner. Was she going to prom? Who went to dinner dressed so fancy? And it was itchy. She preferred burgers and beers where jeans and a T-shirt were appropriate but she permitted herself a wistful sigh at the sheer beauty of the designer gown. Okay, twist my arm, it’s gorgeous, but was it her? She wobbled a little in the heels, wincing at the subtle pinch on her toes. Whoever created high heels was a sadist.

  She gave a final critical perusal and came to the inevitable conclusion that, even though it wasn’t her style or comfort zone, Clint had excellent taste. It was hard not to feel like Pretty Woman wrapped in such finery. She didn’t want to even know how much this dressed had cost him but she imagined it was worth a small fortune. She could almost hear her frugal-minded mother’s voice chiding, “No dress needs to cost that much when there are children going without food in the world.”

  But when in Rome, right? What was done, was done. Maybe she could donate the dress to charity tomorrow to ease her guilt. Tonight, she was going to wear it with a smile because her date was the hottest man on the planet.

  Especially now.

  Clint appeared, dressed in a sharp tailored suit, black with a midnight blue tie, dress shoes polished to a shine. He was almost beautiful, too pretty—definitely the most handsome man she’d ever seen—and he took her breath away.

  But she wasn’t the only one affected.

  Clint walked up behind her, his breath on the nape of her neck as he murmured in awe, “You, in that dress, should be a crime. Incredible.”

  She turned with a shy smile. “It’s very pretty, isn’t it? You have very good taste.”

  “To be honest, I think you could wear a potato sack and still turn me on but I’m happy to let the rest of the world be envious of what I have.” He offered his arm, “Shall we?”

  Jordana drew a deep breath to steady her nerves, and accepted his chivalrous invitation. “You’re very charming when you want to be,” she told him.

  “With you, I always want to be. You make me want to be better.”

  “What makes you think you’re not a good man to begin with?” she asked, faintly amused. “Amnesia doesn’t change who you are, just blots out your memory.”

  “Yes, but memory is an essential part of who we are. We are shaped by our experiences. Without them, how are we supposed to know how to react to a situation?”

  Jordana stilled. He made a good point. Clint noticed her sudden disquiet and pressed a lingering kiss on her bare shoulder. “Don’t worry, I don’t think I was a bad person but I’m beginning to realize I was a workaholic. Now, all I can think about is spending time with you.”

  She glanced at him, faintly troubled. How did this end happily for either of them? Clint seemed so well-suited to this environment, whereas she felt distinctly out of place. There was no way she could ever picture calling Chicago home, just as asking Clint to adjust to the slower pace of a small town seemed ludicrous.

  Clint sensed her disquiet. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  Answering to stave off the inevitable, she said, “Just a little nervous about walking in heels.” She wasn’t going to ruin the night with an argument she knew they couldn’t solve. Tonight was about enjoying each other’s company. Maybe it was foolish to ignore the elephant in the room but she couldn’t help herself.

  “If you trip, I’ll catch you,” Clint promised, and her traitorous heart fluttered a little faster. How could she not fall for a man who knew exactly how to charm the socks from her feet? With Clint, it seemed she was destined to ignore every red flag flashing before her eyes because her usual rules didn’t apply.

  “You are a ridiculously sweet talker,” she teased. “But I’ll hold you to it. It w
ould be my luck to be dressed this fancy only to land on my behind.”

  “And such a fine behind it is.” Clint dragged a knuckle lightly down her arm, admitting, “All I know is that you matter to me in a way that shouldn’t make sense but feels right.” She shivered, angling to receive the most tender brush of his lips against hers. Clint smiled, murmuring, “We should go if we’re going to make our reservation.”

  Right, dinner. She scooped up her clutch, ready to go, but not before reminding him that as fun as it was to get dressed up, it might not be wise. “You look amazing and I’m proud to be on your arm but I want to go on record to say that I don’t know if going to dinner is a good idea. We don’t know if it’s safe yet.”

  He chuckled. “Turn off that detective brain of yours and just enjoy a lovely evening with your favorite person,” he said, winking.

  Turn off her detective brain? Not possible but she’d let that go for now. She dazzled him with a bright smile, determined to enjoy the moment. “Wow me, Mr. Broderick. I’m ready to be amazed.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said, causing her to warm all over. They walked arm in arm as if they were a couple used to such outings together, but in the back of her head, Jordana was still struggling with how different his life was compared to hers back in Braxville. How could he ever find Braxville interesting when he was accustomed to this level of opulence?

  She supposed the reality was that their time together would end sooner than she would be ready but that was life. Nothing lasted forever.

  But as much as Clint wanted her to shut down the investigator in her, that wasn’t something she could do. It was just a part of who she was, even when she was wearing an evening gown.

  * * *

  Clint couldn’t imagine a more beautiful woman sitting across from him. Jordana had swept her dark hair up into a messy bun with curling tendrils that drifted to frame her face, exposing that long, graceful neck he wanted to spend the evening kissing.

  The fact that he had to convince her to leave her gun back at the apartment only made him want her more. She was the perfect contradiction—exquisite lady on his arm, deadly if needed.

  The urge to be greedy, to keep her all to himself, was a struggle to keep at bay.

  Pride puffed his chest when he caught envious glances as they walked into Boka. That’s right, she’s all mine. Keep staring because you can’t have her.

  But he immediately tempered that thought process because he knew Jordana wouldn’t appreciate being thought of as a possession to be coveted.

  She slid into her seat with grace but her gaze remained sharp and on point, as if scanning the crowd, ever watchful for threats.

  “No one is going to gun me down before the entree,” he assured her with a playful smile. “You can take the night off, sweetheart.”

  “Force of habit,” she murmured with an embarrassed smile. “Of course, you’re probably right. This is a very nice place. Do you remember coming here often?”

  “I do,” he answered, happy to be able to recall that information. “I know it sounds silly but I’m almost giddy that I can remember such a small detail.”

  Jordana smiled more broadly. “Don’t apologize. There’s nothing silly about being excited to recover your memory. I think you’ve handled your situation with more grace than I ever could’ve. Frankly, the fact that you haven’t run screaming into the streets is a miracle.”

  “Don’t let my cool facade fool you. There were some private panic attacks in the bathroom. I just didn’t want you to see me break down. I wanted to preserve my manly image.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous. If your penchant for slippers didn’t ruin your man card, nothing will.”

  He pretended to be affronted. “There’s nothing wrong with slippers. Cold toes are irritating. Especially when a certain someone wants to warm said toes against someone’s back when they go to bed,” he replied, arching his brow pointedly at her. She giggled, knowing she was guilty. “I know what you’re getting for Christmas, Miss Frosty Toes.”

  “Slippers make your toes sweat. My toes have to be free.”

  To be honest, he’d endure her cold toes any day but he didn’t want to admit too fast that he was crazy about her. Jordana wasn’t like any woman he’d ever met. She wasn’t impressed with his wealth or stature, which he found refreshing.

  Now that his memory was returning, he recalled why his last relationship ended. Iris, a stunning woman with culture and class, had been more in love with his bank account than him as a person. She delighted in extravagant gifts and the glitzy social scene when he’d been more interested in staying home, curled up on the sofa watching a movie or, as in the case with Jordana, spending the day sweating on a climbing wall.

  At the end of the day, they’d simply been incompatible.

  He privately chuckled at the very idea of Iris breaking a sweat doing anything beyond her yoga class. Her body had been practically perfect—sculpted and pristine without a single blemish—and yet Jordana’s body, crisscrossed with nicks and battle scars, strong with hard-earned muscle, made him shake with arousal.

  “You have a look on your face that doesn’t seem appropriate for a fancy restaurant,” Jordana warned, her gaze lighting with conspiratorial understanding. Oh, yeah, baby, you know what I’m thinking. But she was right. Damn if his thoughts weren’t running like a ticker-tape parade across his forehead. “You’re going to set the table on fire if you don’t stop.”

  “Not my fault you look like a smoke show in that dress,” he countered, reaching for his wineglass, needing something to put out the fire smoldering between them. “Remind me who’s idea it was to leave the apartment when we could’ve ordered takeout and spent the rest of the time naked?”

  She lifted her glass in salute, her expression saying, That’s on you, sucker, and he wished she were beneath him, naked. It took a minute to calm the hunger clawing his groin but he managed to reach a respectable mind-set by the time their food arrived. His taste buds rejoiced as the memory of Chef Pierre’s signature culinary style exploded in his brain. Taste, touch, smell, all-powerful catalysts for memory, as Dr. Cervantes had told him.

  Jordana groaned as she sampled the couscous. “That might be the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.” At Clint’s raised brow, she blushed. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Only with you,” he said.

  “Oh, my goodness, laying it on a little thick, aren’t you, Broderick?” She laughed, her eyes twinkling with wit. “One might think you’re trying to butter me up for a little after-dinner action.”

  “Am I that transparent?” he said, pretending to be shocked until his grin gave him away. “Okay, caught. I want you naked in my bed for all time. There, I said it. And I don’t apologize for it, either.”

  “I hate to be a wet blanket but my captain might have a problem with that,” she returned with a wink.

  He waved away the unwelcome dose of reality. “No wet blankets allowed.” He didn’t like to think about Jordana leaving. Maybe he could convince her that Chicago wasn’t so bad, after all. But that was a problem for another night.

  Clint was riding a high until they went to leave. Climbing into the town car idling at the curb, a plume of exhaust curling into the chilly night air, something caught Jordana’s eye, causing her to do a double take.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “You ever get that feeling that you’re being watched? Well, I just got that feeling.”

  He relaxed. “Of course you’re being watched—you’re the most beautiful woman within everyone’s direct line of sight. Let them stare, you’re all mine,” he said, kissing her cheek as he helped her into the car.

  But Jordana was still troubled. She twisted to peer out the back of the town car window. “My instincts have kept me alive. Something feels off.”

  “Honey, I love how diligent you are but
I think we’re okay,” he assured her.

  Jordana settled in the seat, dragging her gaze away from the rear. “Maybe it was too soon to be out and about,” she said, worrying her bottom lip.

  Clint chuckled. “My little detective. I told you, tonight we were taking the night off from intrigue and drama. We are celebrating.” He pulled her into his lap to kiss her. She gentled in his arms as his tongue swept her mouth. “There’s my girl,” he murmured with approval. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep my hands to myself throughout dinner? I think I deserve a medal.”

  She laughed, the sound like happiness in his soul. “We didn’t even stay for dessert. I had my eye on that tiramisu. I feel cheated.”

  “I’ll have it delivered,” he promised, going to nuzzle her neck. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

  Jordana dropped her head back with a throaty giggle, giving him better access to the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. She moaned as his lips traveled the soft skin, his nostrils flaring at the intoxicating tease of her unique scent beneath the artfully applied dab of perfume at her pulse points. He groaned, his hand sliding up her thigh, baring the toned skin beneath the thin sheath that whispered across her flesh.

  But as his fingers climbed farther beneath her dress, inching their way toward the apex of her thighs, Clint was thrown forward as something impacted them from behind. He held on to Jordana to keep her from falling but she was already twisting free from his grasp to peer behind them.

  “Goddamn Chicago drivers!” the driver shouted as he righted the wheel. “I’m sorry, Mr. Broderick. Everyone all right back there?”

  “What happened?” he demanded, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “I knew something felt off,” Jordana said. “Did you notice if the car was trailing us before it hit?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “It was probably just a bad driver,” Clint said, trying to calm the storm behind Jordana’s eyes. “Driving in Chicago is like driving downtown New York—you take your chances.”