Lovers In Hiding
Susan Kearney
HE WAS BIG AND STRONG AND SEXY…But he was a complete stranger! So why was she lying in his arms on a public beach? He said he'd rescued her when a blue sedan had forced her car into the ocean, but she couldn't remember anything….CIA analyst Clay Rogan was sent to find and decode the documents Melinda Murphy's brother had mailed to her. But first he had to keep her safe from the killers pursuing her. Harder still, he had to fight the desire that glittered between them. Clay was determined to win the battle with their deadly enemies–but with Melinda, all he could think of was surrender!
“I want you, Melinda.”
“You’ll get over it.”
Her words might have been flippant, but every muscle in her body tensed as if for war.
“There’s only one way I want to be over you. Naked. In a nice soft bed, with our clothes strewn across the floor.”
“Wish all you want. It’s not going to happen.”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked out the passenger window. Her body language couldn’t be clearer. She was going to ignore him.
But he had no intention of letting her do so, not after he’d glimpsed the simmering heat in her eyes.
“I’m taking you to a houseboat on the St. John’s River. It’ll be private and romantic. The boat is fully stocked with food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He lowered his voice. “You will be.”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want you.”
“You will,” he promised. “You will.”
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
Need some great stocking stuffers this holiday season for yourself and your family and friends? Harlequin Intrigue has four dynamite suggestions—starting with three exciting conclusions.
This month, veteran romantic suspense author Rebecca York wraps up her special 43 LIGHT STREET trilogy MINE TO KEEP with Lassiter’s Law, and Susan Kearney finishes her action-packed HIDE AND SEEK miniseries with Lovers in Hiding. Julie Miller, too, closes out the MONTANA CONFIDENTIAL quartet with her book Secret Agent Heiress. You won’t want to miss any of these thrilling titles.
For some Christmastime entertainment, B.J. Daniels takes you west on a trip into madness and mayhem with a beautiful amnesiac and a secret father in her book A Woman with a Mystery.
So make your list and check out Harlequin Intrigue for the best gift around…happily ever after.
Happy holidays from all of us at Harlequin Intrigue.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Lovers in Hiding
Susan Kearney
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Kearney used to set herself on fire four times a day; now she does something really hot—she writes romantic suspense. While she no longer performs her signature fire dive (she’s taken up figure skating), she never runs out of ideas for characters and plots. A business graduate from the University of Michigan, Susan now writes full-time. She resides in a small town outside Tampa, Florida, with her husband and children and a spoiled Boston terrier.
Books by Susan Kearney
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
340—TARA’S CHILD
378—A BABY TO LOVE
410—LULLABY DECEPTION
428—SWEET DECEPTION
456—DECEIVING DADDY
478—PRIORITY MALE
552—A NIGHT WITHOUT END
586—CRADLE WILL ROCK* (#litres_trial_promo)
590—LITTLE BOYS BLUE* (#litres_trial_promo)
594—LULLABY AND GOODNIGHT* (#litres_trial_promo)
636—THE HIDDEN YEARS† (#litres_trial_promo)
640—HIDDEN HEARTS† (#litres_trial_promo)
644—LOVERS IN HIDING† (#litres_trial_promo)
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Clay Rogan—Alias: Viper. Code breaker extraordinare, he’s the CIA’s top cryptanalyst. His job is to keep Melinda safe, but can he find the key to unlock her heart?
Melinda Murphy—One day she’s living a normal
life, the next day she’s in extreme danger from a past she can’t remember and a man she’ll never forget.
Jake Cochran—The brother Melinda doesn’t know.
Lionell Tower—The director of the CIA.
Sam Bronson—Is the message he left on Melinda’s answering machine a key to solving the mystery of who is after her?
Herbert Silverberg—A man on a thirty-year mission.
Barry Lee—Nobel Prizewinning reporter. He’s willing to risk his life to see justice done.
Aleksei Polozkova and Jon Khorkina—Agents for the CIA. But whose side are they on?
Contents
Prologue (#u52999a41-879f-556e-917e-12b84c65f78a)
Chapter One (#u51ff7875-af9d-5ed7-b834-dd2c831d994b)
Chapter Two (#u09315dd7-fc98-5826-8873-8b4fa4abcbce)
Chapter Three (#uc32fe884-793e-57d7-aef6-7ea4cd408f99)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Clay Rogan had never before been ordered into the director of operation’s office of the CIA. Although he worked daily at the imposing building in McLean, Virginia, the prospect of meeting the director had him curious and edgy. The legendary director was responsible for all covert operations—far from Clay’s normal turf in cryptanalysis.
After the D.O. had left an urgent message in the Hot Inbox file on Clay’s computer, he’d hoped he wasn’t about to be transferred to another division. Clay loved his work, took enjoyment in eighteen-hour days. He loved solving puzzles and breaking codes and, while his six-foot-six frame made him seem more suited for active pursuits, nothing provided him with as much pleasure as giving his brain a good workout. A ride on his motorcycle came in only a close second. Although Clay had trained at the renowned Farm in Camp Peary with other CIA recruits, he led a relatively normal life. He worked in an office, in front of a computer screen, scrutinizing bursts of satellite transmissions in an attempt to decode messages sent by foreign agents’ transmitters.
As a master in his field, Clay had worked his way up from rookie and whiz kid to head of the cryptanalysis division. Early on, his superiors had recognized his linguistic abilities and intuitive knack for breaking code by spotting patterns where others could not. He’d earned the nickname Viper when he’d broken a Chinese code that had been composed of snakelike curves that had mystified other experts for years.
But to Clay, going into the field was as far-fetched an idea as dogs barking in Morse code. Sure, he’d taken the same basic courses required of all operatives—in detecting explosives, carrying out surveillance and countersurveillance operations, mastering a variety of weapons, and running counterintelligence, counternarcotics and paramilitary operations—but those activities were far outside his primary area of expertise.
So he had no idea why he’d been ordered to the D.O.’s office. Under normal circumstances he’d hesitate to venture onto the super-secret fifteenth floor, but the message in his Hot file this morning had left him no alternative.
He was to report to the D.O. himself. And tell no one.
Highly unusual. Highly irregular. Orders normally came down through channels.
The moment Clay arrived, the D.O.’s secretary ushered him into the opulent office. Although he’d never met the head of one of the most important departments in the government, he’d seen the director on television many times, reporting to Congress and briefing the Senate.
Up close, Lionel Tower’s pit bull face looked even more tenacious than on the little screen. The man leaned aggressively forward, making Clay think his bark could be as bad as his bite. Yet, the moment Clay entered, the director graciously rose and came around his desk to shake hands, his spit-shined shoes squeaking.
“Thank you for coming so promptly.”
Clay saw no reason to respond to the rhetorical comment. Both men knew he hadn’t been given a choice. When the director commanded, his agents obeyed with an extra snap in their step. Obeyed not just because the director was in charge; the man was famous for turning more foreign spies into double agents than any other operative in the agency’s long and convoluted history. He had earned their respect.
The hand that grasped Clay’s had short, ragged nails, bit low on the fingertips. The palm was hard, cool and powerful. The director gestured for Clay to sit and then, surprisingly, pulled up a chair alongside him instead of returning behind his desk—a friendly action that made Clay even more wary.
“I’m sure you’re curious about why you’re here, so I’ll get right to the point.” Tower peered at Clay with a hopeful expression. “I’d like your help in a little matter.”
Little? The D.O. didn’t involve himself in little matters. He left that for underlings. But Clay kept his expression neutral. “Yes, sir?”
“Almost thirty years ago, a married couple worked for the agency. Both of them were operatives. The woman was killed and a short time later, her husband died in a mysterious car accident that we think was a hit. Their three children survived, and the agency hired a lawyer to find homes for the kids. Those children are now adults. I believe they’re in danger.”
“Sir?” Was the D.O. asking Clay to protect them? That was so far from his area of expertise, he had trouble believing that someone who had access to his file would have chosen him for the job.
“The name of the eldest, their only son, is Jake Cochran. Ever heard of him?”
“Should I have, sir?”
“Jake grew up in foster homes. When he graduated from high school, he tracked down the attorney we hired decades ago and tried to find his sisters.”
“The kids were split up? I thought Family Services tries to keep them together.”
“Together they would have been easier to track. Since we feared for their safety, it was decided the kids would be separated.” Tower paused, no doubt regrouping his thoughts. “The parents were damn fine operatives, the best, so it’s not surprising that Jake Cochran established one of the premier detective agencies in Florida. All the while, he kept searching for his sisters.”
“Did he find them, sir?”
“He only just located them.”
Clay frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”
He didn’t like the idea of children being separated. Families should stick together, and he sincerely hoped the D.O. didn’t want him to have anything to do with keeping the siblings apart.
“Jake found adoption records with his sisters’ new names and addresses. He mailed them each a letter with old photographs and copies of his mother’s papers. He also hired bodyguards to protect both his sisters.”
Clay put the pieces together quickly. “The siblings are in danger because of the mother’s documents?”
“You catch on fast. Jake and one sister have already gone underground. I want you to befriend the third sister, get her to trust you.”
“Am I permitted to know why?”
Tower chuckled. “Absolutely. I need you to decode the documents.”
Clay finally understood why he’d been chosen for this mission. He currently worked with the newest state-of-the-art codes, but his hobby was deciphering old codes like the one the special agent might have used almost thirty years ago. Information on his hobby was most assuredly right in his file along with his favorite flavor of chewing gum, cherry; his preferences in women, model-thin blondes with small, high breasts and cool intelligence; and his favorite leather jacket size—extra large.
Still he was reluctant to take on the full assignment. Although he itched to try his luck with the old codes, protection wasn’t his specialty and he didn’t want to get someone killed. “Sir, surely there are people much more qualified than me to protect the sister—”
“Melinda Murphy.”
“To protect Ms. Murphy—”
“You’re the best qualified cryptanalyst for the job.” The D.O. gave him a significant look. Clay didn’t have to know the man well to understand that he was expected to keep his mouth shut and commit the instructions for this assignment to memory. But why hadn’t the D.O. assigned another, more qualified agent to protect the woman and allowed Clay to do what he did best—decode? Was he missing something? Or was Clay just annoyed because he didn’t yet have all the puzzle’s pieces to analyze? After a taut silence, the D.O. finally added, “We don’t want to alert anyone else to the situation.”
We? So now it was a team effort. But it would be Clay’s ass on the line, and the girl’s too if he screwed up. “May I ask why we are keeping this operation to just us, sir?”
His expertise wouldn’t come into play until later, after he’d gained the woman’s trust, and Clay hoped he wouldn’t be asked to betray her to bring the code to the agency. Despite his credentials as a fully trained covert operative, he didn’t like lies.
“Because I suspect someone inside the CIA is running his own secret operation against these siblings.”
Clay swallowed hard, suddenly understanding the covert nature of this extremely dangerous assignment. No wonder the D.O. wanted him to work alone—less chance of a leak. And a leak could be critical since his job was to ferret out a traitor within the CIA.
“Do I—”
“No backup. No partners. Just you with a direct phone line to me.”
“And my current assignments?”
“I’ll handle those. Viper, you take care of the woman. Melinda Murphy lives in Daytona Beach, Florida.” The director handed him a file. “Just find her, decode the papers and bring the results back to me. Only to me.”
Chapter One
Time to play.
Melinda Murphy loaded her long board and new Aerotech sail and mast onto her car’s rack and headed for Ponce Inlet, a peninsula just south of Daytona Beach that permitted cars on the beach. Once she parked on Florida’s fabulous white sand, she wouldn’t have far to carry her gear to the surf.
She sniffed the tangy salt air and appreciated the May sunshine as the wind whipped her hair through her open car window. She might just sail in her shorty, a wet suit that left her arms and legs bare to the water, since the air was warm enough to keep her comfortable. Although she knew the water temperatures would still be cool this time of year, she longed for the wetness against her skin. Besides, she’d warm up quickly as she beat into the wind, sailing through the large rolling waves that swelled, then gathered force as they crested and crashed onto the beach.
Even allowing time to drive back for a shower and a change of clothes, Melinda figured she had several good hours of sailing time. She had four hours until her next appointment, with a demanding lady, but one who’d recommended her to some very influential potential clients. Clients who could afford to pay a hundred bucks for a two-hour massage. Clients who had stressful jobs. Clients who would be happy to shell out more cash for additional pampering when Melinda opened her full-service salon, which would include facials and manicures, in the fall.
Melinda almost had enough money saved. The financing had been arranged to allow her to make a down payment and renovate the cute little house with a prime commercial location that she wanted to buy. Soon, all she’d worked and planned for would become reality, and she’d have the stability of her own business.
But for the next few hours, Melinda intended to put work out of her mind and enjoy the sunshine kissing her skin, the breeze dancing in her hair, the hot sand slipping between her toes. The beach wouldn’t be crowded on a Thursday afternoon. She wouldn’t have to watch out for the surfers catching their next wave or kids swimming or body surfing or tossing Frisbees.
She expected only dolphins, sand crabs and seagulls for company. Sure enough, as she turned onto the beach, it was relatively empty. A lone fisherman cast his line at the end of the pier. Several boats headed into the harbor around the point, and a sea-plane flew northward up the coast.
Melinda sighed happily in expectation, turning her face up to the sun shining through her windshield, looking forward to a strenuous afternoon. A cottony cumulus cloud scudded over the sun, casting long shadows across the beach, and the shimmering waters darkened to a menacing gray. For a moment, Melinda shivered, memories of the disturbing package she’d received yesterday morning swimming through her thoughts like a shark circling prey.
She’d always known she had been adopted. But she’d been too busy struggling to survive to give her past much thought. After her adopted parents’ divorce, there’d been barely enough money to put food on the table, never mind send her to college. So she’d earned her massage therapy license at age eighteen and had been responsible for her own bills ever since. Now, at twenty-five, she rarely thought of the past, and focused only on her future and the business she would soon open.
But the package she’d received yesterday from her biological brother had changed her world and her place in it. Melinda had a brother and a sister. Two siblings. She didn’t find the facts particularly comforting. Large families meant more mouths to feed. More fights. More responsibilities.
As she turned her attention back to the present, she noticed a shiny blue sedan with two men in business suits following her vehicle down the beach. Wanting her privacy, she kept going, hoping they’d park far enough away that she wouldn’t have to hear their conversation. She’d come to relax.
But the old letters, diaries and pictures that once belonged to her biological mother kept worming their way into her mind. Would her brother, Jake Cochran, come calling soon? What did he want from her?
And what about the sister, older by two years, that she’d never met? Would they look alike? Would her sister have Melinda’s olive skin, tawny eyes and black hair? Her brother’s letter had told her almost nothing about himself, but after she’d read his note, she’d picked up the phone and called him.
Jake hadn’t answered, and she hadn’t left a message on his voice mail, although she wasn’t sure why. She’d told herself that with her hectic schedule, he wouldn’t be likely to catch her in. And if he’d called back during an appointment with a client, she couldn’t speak for long on her cell phone. It would simply be more convenient for her to call him back again later.
A glance in her rearview mirror revealed that the two men in the blue sedan hadn’t yet parked, but were still trailing her down the beach. While the traffic was often bumper to bumper, there was lots of room now, and she felt a minor edge of alarm when their car followed hers so closely.
They had the entire beach to themselves. Why tail-gate?
When they honked at her, she kept driving along the beach, obeying the ten-mile-per-hour speed limit, and ignored the men, hoping they just wanted to pick up a beach babe and would go away if she paid them no attention. Before, she’d welcomed the isolation. Now, she wished for the weekend crowd. But besides the fisherman who stood on the pier with his back to her, the only other person on the beach appeared to be a man on a motorcycle, maybe a half mile back, his silhouette black and razor sharp against the blowing sand.
At least she hadn’t stopped and turned off her engine. She could simply keep driving, circle to the main road and report the creeps to the cops. She might lose a half hour of sailing time, but she knew trouble when she saw it.
However, when she tried to head back toward the road, the sedan blocked her. Quickly, more annoyed than frightened, she whipped the steering wheel the other way and made a skidding U-turn, her wheels sinking into wet sand and lapping waves. She easily made the turn and glanced over her shoulder, figuring she’d lost the men in suits.
Then she again spied the blue sedan on her tail, speeding toward her. It looked ready to ram her, smash her to a bloody pulp. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal.
Her car skidded like oil on a hot skillet. Failed to accelerate quickly enough.
The sedan rocketed into her car’s trunk. Her car veered into the ocean and water rolled up to her tires, up to her bumper, onto the floorboards.
Soon it would be up to her neck, making her keep her head above water to avoid drowning. A huge wave lumbered over the hood like a runaway mule, kicked into her windows, tossed the car up and smashed it into another taller wall of dark water. She banged her head and fireworks shot off in a sea of darkness. Her airbag inflated.
And then her world turned black.
CLAY GUNNED HIS Harley down the beach, blasting a spray of sand behind him, skidding to a stop short of where Melinda Murphy’s car had just been forced into the water by the blue sedan. At the first sign of trouble, he’d kicked his bike into gear, wishing he’d had more power. She wasn’t going to die on his watch.
Running toward her, he flung his jacket behind him, stopping for only a few seconds to kick off his boots. His heart was hammering so hard he barely heard the roar of the waves pounding the rocks by the pier like a hammer. Barely noticed the cold water that numbed his extremities. Barely noticed how suddenly the sunshine was disappearing as thunder-clouds thronged dark and dangerous overhead.
He refused to lose her. Not after he’d stayed awake, driving all night to reach her.
Yesterday, after learning he couldn’t catch a commercial flight to Daytona’s tiny airport, he’d chosen to ride his bike from Virginia to Florida. Maybe he should have chartered a special flight. Or flown into Orlando or Jacksonville. Or hired protection for her until he’d arrived to take over himself.
Wishing he could sprout fins, his frantic dash into the water slowed as he was forced to wade through the waist-high waves. He forged right by the blue sedan that had been caught by a wave and spun upside down, trapping its occupants inside.
Clay’s clothes absorbed water, slowing his progress, but he lunged forward, straining every iota of energy out of his powerful thighs, breathing hard, balancing on each crest of water, praying he could make it to Melinda before she drowned.
His first assignment. He wouldn’t blow it before it began. He wouldn’t have a woman’s life weighing on his conscience, wouldn’t live with failure.
Fifteen minutes ago, at noon, when he’d reached Melinda’s rented house, he hadn’t been too alarmed that she wasn’t there, especially after a neighbor told him that she’d driven off with her windsailer strapped to her car’s rack. Clay had followed the helpful neighbor’s directions to the beach, and he’d obeyed the speed limit. Now he wished he hadn’t.
The tide was kidnapping her, holding her hostage in its fierce grip, the car bobbing and spinning and rolling like a sinking boat. The blue sedan fared no better. When the sand dropped from beneath his feet and the water reached his chest, he started swimming, his arms windmilling, his legs kicking.
Water was filling the inside of her car, each incoming wave pouring in with fierce surges. Fear of watching her sink before his eyes made his tired limbs fight through the water. If she disappeared completely before he reached her, he might not even find the vehicle. Right now he could only see her sailboard strapped to the roof, about to be washed under the surging water.
The blue sedan stayed afloat better than Melinda Murphy’s car, and its occupants were trying to climb out onto the roof of their vehicle.
Clay cursed the powerful waves and the fate that had led him here. Doing too little. Too late.
His body wasn’t made for swimming. He didn’t have the lean lines of a swimmer. Built like a wrestler with too many heavy muscles that didn’t want to float, he struggled, took in a mouthful of water. He choked, but kept going.
He had to reach her. Minutes counted. Seconds counted.
Finally he stroked alongside her car. Stretching his hand through the open window, he yanked open the door, reached inside and grabbed her. She wouldn’t come free.
Damn it.
She must be wearing a seat belt.
Taking a quick breath, he prepared to dive under, but a surging wave lifted the car, for a few moments helping instead of hampering his rescue efforts. He reached past the airbag, unsnapped her seat belt and pulled her into his arms.
She didn’t fight him. Didn’t move. Remained completely limp.
Please don’t be dead.
Eyes closed, unmoving, she floated in his arms like a mermaid that the sea had given up to him. Her color was pale, almost gray as death, but he didn’t have time for CPR or mouth-to-mouth. Even the Heimlich maneuver was impossible in the high surf. First, he had to swim her to shore.
Although she didn’t weigh much, the waves caught at her body, trying to tug her from him. Yet this time the wind and the rolling surges pushed them in the direction in which he wanted to go.
His lungs burned with effort as he struggled to carry her. Ignoring the pain in his chest and the cramps in his straining legs, he battled the surging waves, unable to use his hands to swim while he held her, trying to keep her head above water. He fought his way back and finally his feet touched sand. But he didn’t have time to feel relief.
Didn’t have time to consider how long it would take the men in the blue sedan to give up their fragile perch on the car’s roof and make a swim for the beach. Didn’t have time to consider how long it would take them to be within shooting range.
On the beach, he collapsed to his knees beside Melinda and leaned over to examine her. He had no idea whether she had a pulse, doubted he could find it with his wet and cold fingers. One quick glance at her gray skin told him she wasn’t breathing. How long had it been? Two minutes? Three? Four and she’d suffer brain damage.
Brain damage. The ugly words cut like a razor, sharp and painful. Tilting her head back, he cleared an airway, pinched her nostrils shut. Then he placed his mouth over hers and breathed.
“Come on, Melinda.” He spoke to her, each time blowing more air into her mouth.
“Breathe.”
“Breathe.”
Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the men in suits start their swim to shore, like sharks scenting prey. They’d drifted way out, giving him extra minutes to ensure her safety, which would do him no good if she didn’t regain consciousness.
“Damn it. I told you to breathe.”
Her eyelids fluttered. Maybe she responded to the urgency in his tone. Maybe her lungs needed time to fill with air, but whatever the reason, he couldn’t have been more relieved when she coughed. He turned her head to help her to spit out water. Even a teaspoonful in the lungs was enough to drown a person.
Her trembling hand rose to her head and she mumbled, “Hurts.”
Her eyes opened, and her pupils were very large, surrounded by the creamiest hue of caramel he’d ever seen. Dark hair covered her forehead, and when he smoothed back the wet strands, he discovered a lump the size of a golf ball there. Just looking at the knot starting to discolor made him wince. She needed ice to keep the swelling down. Unfortunately, he had none.
He held up two fingers. “How many?”
“Four?”
“Great, you’re seeing double.”
“That’s why there’s two of you,” she muttered then closed her eyes.
“Oh no you don’t. Melinda, you can’t go to sleep. You have a head injury. Maybe a concussion.”
“Hurts.”
Helpless, she lay in his arms, but at least her deadly gray pallor had been replaced by a much more healthy-looking olive tone. “You need a doctor.”
“I need—” Her eyes suddenly opened again, and she bolted into a sitting position, wincing at the pain the effort cost her. “Who are you?”
She sounded as suspicious as an operative on his first assignment, and he almost smiled. He supposed many women might be frightened by his appearance, black leather pants and a black T-shirt—all sopping wet. His size alone could intimidate most men, and he hadn’t bothered shaving this morning, so his jaw sported more than a five-o’clock shadow. For her to wake up in the arms of a stranger had to be unnerving, especially one as scruffy-looking as he probably was.
Of course, she wasn’t exactly ready for a beauty pageant either—not with that bump on her head that was starting to turn a wicked shade of purple. But with her tight tank top plastered to her breasts and short shorts that outlined her hips, she appeared to be a prime candidate for a wet T-shirt competition.
Thank God, a man like him would never be attracted to his charge. He didn’t go for petite, curvy brunettes with eyes like melted taffy. He preferred his women cool, blond and intellectual. Melinda Murphy, with her delicate jaw and suspicious glare looked precisely like the type of woman who was trouble with a capital T.
She’d nearly died, he reminded himself, and she wasn’t out of danger yet. Luckily the escalating wind and rising current were on their side, hindering her pursuers’ progress back to shore. Within moments, they would be swept around the point.
He didn’t want to scare her by mentioning the men after her, not while her hands trembled and her eyes reflected confusion. “I’m Clay Rogan.” He pointed to the choppy sea, noting that the blue sedan and the swimming men were now totally out of view and around the bend. “When I saw your car go under—”
Bewilderment filled her eyes, and she frowned, her full lips forming a lusty pout full of suspicion. “My car? Underwater?”
“I’m lucky I got you out. I’m afraid I couldn’t do much about the—”
Her head jerked back and forth in denial, her eyes wildly searched the churning waves as if she’d lost a dear friend. “I don’t suppose you nabbed my purse?”
“Sorry.”
Her bottom lip quivered. Oh, hell, she was going to cry.
“Don’t cry.”
He hated when women cried, because then he gave in to their demands and hated himself for it later. Only, this half-drowned mermaid wasn’t making demands. Yet she was so suspicious of him that he didn’t know whether to feel sorry for her.
Her eyes brimmed.
“Don’t,” he repeated softly but firmly, as he would to an injured child.
She paid absolutely no attention to his demand. Tears overflowed her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
He bit back a curse and gently lifted her into his lap, cradling her against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. Her entire body shook, a sob escaped and instead of offering her additional reassurances, his first thought was how holding her in his arms made him feel like keeping her there for a long time. She had a toned body, teasing curves and a bottom lip he wanted to taste.
What the hell was wrong with him? The woman was crying and all he could think about was her bottom lip? Forcing his thoughts back to practical matters wasn’t easy, although usually his focused mind stayed on the subjects he intended it to. But her combination of strength and defenselessness called to him on a level he couldn’t quite comprehend. He only knew he had to regain control of himself, before he did something stupid—like kiss her.
“Are you in pain? You need a doctor?”
“Not a doctor. I need a psychiatrist.”
A shrink? Was she crazy?
Actually he must be the insane one around here. She wanted a shrink. And he wanted to kiss her. What kind of a secret agent was he anyway?
A bad one.
Damn it! This mission would be hard enough with a reasonably sane woman. And Melinda Murphy seemed anything but reasonable. Or sane. In fact, she hadn’t made much sense since the moment she’d opened those soulful toffee-colored eyes and raised his protective armor.
Perhaps he needed to humor her. “Okay. Why do you need a psychiatrist?”
“Because I have no memory.”
“What do you mean you have no memory?”
“Which word don’t you understand?” she countered. But the tears still rolling over her cheeks took the sting out of her strong words.
He suspected she was trying to be brave, especially since he could feel her trembling. So he gentled his tone even more. “You don’t remember your accident?”
She shook her head and angrily wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. “Tell me what happened. Maybe it’ll come back to me.”
Finally, a good suggestion. But they needed to get out of here in case anyone else showed up. Before the men he’d seen swimming around the point made it to shore and headed back here for Melinda.
Still, Clay hesitated, knowing she was in a fragile emotional state. He couldn’t be so callous, wasn’t so pressed for time that he couldn’t make a few explanations.
Clay ignored the storm clouds darkening overhead. They were already soaked, their clothing sticking to them like a swimsuit. A little rain would only wash off the salt. “When I arrived on the beach, I saw a blue sedan force your car into the water.”
She straightened in his lap, pulling her head from under his chin. She looked up and down the beach, her spine stiff, her arms crossed over her chest defensively. “I don’t see another car.”
“The vehicle chased you into the ocean. And sank.”
“Really?”
She didn’t believe him. He could see it in her eyes, which glinted like ice glimmering through a fog, and in the stiff way she scooted off his lap and stood, looking uncertainly around her. But he could no longer point out the two swimming men, since they’d made it around the point. Or the tire tracks that the waves had washed away.
She spied his black leather jacket, his boots, then his motorcycle, and took several steps back, her eyes narrowed with the wariness of a cornered cat.
“You don’t remember the accident at all?”
“Must be the bump on my head.”
“Okay, let’s backtrack. Did you notice the blue sedan following you from your house?”
“I don’t remember.” Her bottom lip, slightly purple with cold, quivered again, but she fought back the tears with a valiant sigh.
“Hey, don’t let it upset you. You obviously got whacked upside the head. Maybe that made you forget. But even if the head injury didn’t cause your memory loss, unless they’re trained to notice, most citizens won’t pick up a tail.”
The information didn’t seem to reassure her. If anything, his words made her even more vigilant as she curled her fingers into fists. She shivered and looked at him as if he were a crab that had crawled out from beneath a rock.
“Citizen? What are you, some kind of military—”
“I work in an office on a computer,” he told her. If there was one thing Clay hated, it was lies. Yet the truth would frighten her and make her trust him less than she already did.
“Then how do you know about tails?”
He shrugged, slipped on his boots, picked up his jacket and walked toward her, holding the jacket extended as a peace offering, intending to wrap her in its dry warmth. “I watch TV like everybody else.”
Teeth chattering, she backed up, staying out of reach, even though she obviously needed his jacket. Her lips were definitely bluish purple and goose bumps rose on her flesh. “How do I know you weren’t the one who forced my car into the water?”
“On a motorcycle?”
Car tires had left imprints all over the beach but there was no way to prove which tracks belonged to which vehicles. Waves had washed away the critical ones that led directly to the water. “You’ll have to take my word, Melinda.”
As he said her name, she retreated again, her teeth chattering. “Just how do you know my name?”
Damn! He didn’t want to lie to her. It went against the grain. But if he told her he’d been sent by the CIA’s director of operations to protect her, he’d be breaking his orders not to reveal his cover. Yet he needed her to trust him. Enough to let him look at the documents her brother had sent her.
“You told me your name when I pulled you out of the car.”
“Liar!” She took another step back, spun on her heel and raced away from him as if her life depended on eluding him.
She’d called him a liar, and his jaw dropped in astonishment. How had she known he’d lied? She hadn’t been conscious and couldn’t know she hadn’t mumbled to him. Why was she looking at him as if he were a criminal with violence on his mind?
He let her run, knowing he could easily catch her on his bike. But then he realized chasing her down with his Harley would frighten her even more.
And while he stood there second-guessing himself, the woman had a damn good head start. With a muffled oath, he took off after her, wondering how one small brunette could cause so much trouble. He should have ridden the Harley. Maybe if he scared her enough, she’d be more cooperative.
He wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. As he pounded down the beach in his leather boots that weren’t made for running any more than they were made for swimming, he thought once again that the director had made a mistake in choosing him for this assignment. He simply didn’t have the experience to provide good protection. Didn’t have the kind of practice necessary to handle Ms. Melinda Murphy.
With her tears and her sobs and her angry defiance, she’d twisted him around inside. She was manipulating him in a way he found impossible to fight. Because she didn’t fight fair. She used those feminine weapons that did a man in every time. But he couldn’t let her big tawny eyes stop him from doing his job.
She ran like the gusting wind and straight into the thundering storm, her lean legs eating up the distance with remarkable speed. It took longer than he’d have guessed to catch her. Then, after he’d almost caught up, she put on a burst of speed and dashed straight toward the water.
“Oh no you don’t.”
He’d had enough swimming thank you very much. Lunging, he tackled her and they both fell, rolling in the sand. He landed on his back with her on his chest, snuggled between his thighs. For a moment those soft curves pressed to his body kindled a primitive response.
And then her knee lifted, aiming for his groin.
“Lady, I swear if you kick me in the balls, I’ll deck you,” he threatened, knowing he wouldn’t and hoping she wouldn’t realize it. Due to an oversize workload, Clay had gotten less than ten hours of sleep in the last five nights. Twenty-three-hour days of nonstop pressure were starting to catch up with him, fraying his temper, increasing his irritability. This assignment had pulled him off an important job—one that could make a difference in setting U.S. diplomatic policy for a decade. His reactions and temper reflected a measure of his frustration. He twisted to the side, rolling them until he ended up on top, with her on her back beneath him, her black hair splayed across the sand like an exotic fan.
Before she could scratch the flesh off his face, kick him in the groin or chin, he pinned her wrists. She shook a stray lock of hair out of her way, her eyes burning coals of outrage. “Let me go, you biker bully.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
She rolled her eyes at the raining sky. “Oh, sure. Like I’m really going to believe you.”
Thunder roared overhead, pounding over them in flashing echoes. He paid no attention, focusing on the storm brewing beneath him. “Why shouldn’t you believe me? I saved your life, lady.”
“So you say.”
“You should be grateful.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said with saccharine sweetness and mockery. “Now that I’ve thanked you, you’ll let me go, right?”
He ignored her question. “Why did you run from me?”
She heaved a sigh of frustration and tried to shift him off by bucking her hips. He let her struggle, knowing she’d soon come to the conclusion that he was bigger and stronger, and she wasn’t escaping until he got his answer and freed her of his own accord.
“Look, mister biker-dude.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She arched a haughty eyebrow. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“I believe I did. It’s Clay. Clay Rogan.”
“Fine, Mr. Clay Rogan. I don’t know you. I have no memory of you before opening my eyes on this beach to find you standing over me. You say someone else forced my car into the water. But my car isn’t here. You say another car forced mine into the water, and guess what? That car isn’t here either. Then you said I told you my name—an outright lie. Don’t deny it, mister—you did lie.”
“Okay, I admit that was a mistake. If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Why should I?”
“Exactly my point. Why bother with a difficult truth when you obviously didn’t believe the easy stuff?” He paused to rein in his aggravation. “I assume, until you drove the car into the water, you had no idea you’ve been in danger?”
Her eyes widened, she struggled to free her wrists. He held her tighter.
She winced. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He loosened his grip slightly. “Will you get it through your stubborn head that the danger isn’t from me. Someone is after you.”
“So you say.”
“Look, this all started before I got here. You do remember leaving your house and driving to the beach?”
“Mister. Clay,” she amended, “you listen about as well as I remember.”
What had he missed? As he searched her eyes, he saw a turbulence of emotions, fear, anger and hesitation. “Tell me again.”
“I knew you’d lied about how you knew my name because I couldn’t have possibly given you that information.”
“Why not?”
All her sarcasm and sass evaporated, just as the rain poured down, soaking his back with slashing droplets of ice. “Because I haven’t just forgotten the accident. I don’t remember anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Not my name. Not my address. Not even what I do for a living.”
Chapter Two
She’d known the moment she opened her eyes on the beach that something was very, very wrong. Her heart pounded too hard, and her adrenaline had been sapped, her energy stolen as if she’d just run a marathon. Fear coiled through her body, leaving a sour taste in her mouth and twisting her gut into a hard knot, but she had no idea why she was so afraid.
She’d discerned her memory loss almost right away, and the realization knocked her for one doozy of a loop. While she gasped for air, her brain sucked in details of her surroundings; a wide beach pounded by rain and a devastatingly handsome, dangerous-looking man hovering over her, his grim expression as dark as the black leather clinging to his massive thighs.
Faced with the immediate threat of him, her memory loss shifted to a back burner. His eyes, green as the stormy sea and hard as the stone jetty, clued her in that he wasn’t the brotherly or husbandly type. While she might know him, she had the distinct impression from his sharp curiosity that they were complete strangers. She didn’t know his name, didn’t recognize his stony face, and was positive that if she’d met him before, she would remember something about him. He carried the distinctive scent of masculine leather on his skin. When he spoke, his breath carried an unusual cherry flavor that contrasted with his tough-guy image. His wide-set, sea-green eyes revealed anger and guilt, but she also glimpsed an inkling of concern that reached beyond her fear. His strong jaw, stubbled like a pirate’s, and his generous mouth, set with an arrogant firmness, suggested that this man was accustomed to others obeying his commands.
Not today she wouldn’t. She didn’t care if he had shoulders wider than the Gulf Stream or more muscles than Hulk Hogan, he’d fed her an inedible story that even a ten-year-old kid wouldn’t swallow.
The fact that she currently couldn’t remember her age, her address or her name didn’t mean she didn’t have a working brain. But it sure as hell was one gargantuan handicap. If she had to lose her memory, why couldn’t it have happened among friends? Or family? If she’d hit her head in a car accident—and the knot on her head and the aches in her muscles certainly felt as if she had—why couldn’t she have been rescued by the police, driven by paramedics to a hospital?
Instead she’d lost her memory and ended up with a menacing-looking hunk in black leather. She gazed at the muscular arms holding her down, finding it curious that he didn’t sport tattoos. He wore no earrings to accessorize, either. Maybe the man wasn’t as wild as he’d first appeared. He certainly didn’t seem to want to hurt her. He’d had ample opportunity, yet remained gentle.
He’d tackled her and landed so he’d taken the brunt of the fall. Even now, with her pinned beneath him, he spared her the crushing force of his full weight, while protecting her face from the teeming rain as he leaned over her and surveyed her with assessing eyes. Those eyes again. Caring eyes. Intelligent eyes.
He eased up on her wrists slightly. “When’s your birthday?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Parlez-vous français?”
God! A multilingual biker. Did he have to sound so sexy when he spoke to her? “I don’t speak French.”
“But you understood the question.”
“Don’t you know phrases in languages you don’t speak?” she countered, wondering how long this inquisition would go on, wondering what he intended to do with her when it was over. At the realization of his power over her and her helplessness to fight him, she shivered. He could take whatever he wanted from her, and this man seemed accustomed to taking.
Panic rose up her throat, and she reminded herself that he likely wouldn’t have told her his name if he intended to hurt her.
As if reading her racing fears, Clay let out a frustrated sigh. “This is one hell of a mess. Let’s hope your memory comes back real soon. Meanwhile, I’ll have to hide you.”
“Hide me?” She didn’t like the sound of that at all. She didn’t want to go anywhere with this man. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know herself enough to trust her judgment or believe the clear ring of tension in his voice.
“I need to keep you safe.”
“Then take me to the cops,” she suggested.
“You’ll be safer with me than the cops.” He rolled off her and tugged her to her feet, never releasing her wrist. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way back to my bike.”
The moment he released her, the ripping rain and slicing wind bombarded her like hail. She refused to miss the warmth of his arms. Instead, she told herself, she was glad he no longer pressed her back into the cold, wet sand. She didn’t want to go anywhere with Clay Rogan—especially to his bike where he could spirit her away to some isolated place where she’d never be seen again.
Why couldn’t she recall her family? Friends? Or maybe a wonderful husband who might be frantically searching for her even now? It finally occurred to her that if Melinda was her real name, as he claimed, then Clay could tell her more about herself.
“What’s my last name?” she asked as he tugged her along the beach where the waves rolled in, attacked the sand, then receded in a white froth of sucking sounds.
“Murphy.” The name evoked no emotions. Not even a sliver of recognition.
“Am I a student?”
“You’re a massage therapist.” She had no emotional reaction to that information either, but a fleeting tingle raced across her hands as if she could recall her fingers kneading muscles. Was the image a memory? Or something she’d envisioned when he mentioned her occupation? If he’d told her she was a teacher or a doctor, would she have had the same reaction and imagined chalk dust on her skin or a scalpel in her hands?
“Am I married?”
“No.”
She couldn’t decide whether his answer pleased her or not. While she could imagine how awful it would be to return to a loving husband or child and not recognize them, the idea of leaning on someone who loved her had its own merits.
The fact that Clay knew more about her than she knew about herself left an eerie hollowness in her that she wanted to fill with more facts. He could be making up the information, lying to her, and she’d never know, but why would he do that?
“Do I have family?”
“You were adopted, and your adoptive parents divorced when you were little.”
Lightning flashed, zigzagging over the water and brightening the sky in a blaze of white light followed by cold, damp darkness. They needed to get off the beach, but her thoughts distracted her. In her mind, she saw a woman’s face, just for a moment, and then it was gone. The woman was weeping, fat lonely tears. Another memory? Or her mind playing more tricks on her? Seconds later, thunder rolled across the beach with the razor-sharp wind, slicing the sand against them.
Clay pulled her into a run. “I’ll tell you everything once we get out of this weather. The most important thing you need to know is that I’m CIA and I was sent to protect you.”
Yeah, right. And she was Lois Lane. She dug her heels into the sand and tried to jerk him back. Only her action didn’t go quite the way she planned. Clay simply had too much bulk for her to yank him to a halt. He kept going, as if her resistance was futile. However, while he failed to stop, she ended up flying forward, smacking into him with a force that made her knees wobble. To steady her, he let go of her wrist, and his arms came around her, anchoring her.
“If you wanted me to carry you, you could have just said so,” he teased without the slightest smile, but the warmth in his tone calmed her a little.
She refused to lean into that warmth. “I suppose you can prove you’re with the CIA.”
He reached into his back pocket and took out very official-looking identification with his picture sealed beneath the plastic. In the picture his black hair was shorter, his jaw clean-shaven, but it was definitely him. But then, anyone could create fake documents with a computer and a good color printer.
“How come you didn’t identify yourself earlier?” she asked without bothering to hide her doubts.
“I’m not supposed to.” He frowned, as if breaking the rules was something he didn’t do lightly. “But with your amnesia, it now seems necessary.”
She glanced from the ID back to him, wishing she had her memory, wondering if she could be in some kind of trouble. Or maybe she was wrong. Despite how scared she’d felt earlier, she had no facts or memories to back up her conviction that she’d been fighting for her life. But whom had she been fighting? And why?
What could a massage therapist know that would be critical to her government? Had she had some important client who yakked in her ear while she rubbed the stress out of his shoulders?
And didn’t the FBI handle domestic problems and the CIA operate overseas? What would the CIA want with her, a massage therapist? She tapped his ID. “You have an office I can call to verify this?”
“I’m undercover. I’m only allowed to check in after the first part of my mission is accomplished.”
“How convenient.”
His eyes narrowed as he accepted her insult and tossed her words back in her face. “It’s not convenient at all. I’d prefer to have backup.”
“Then why don’t you have help?” she asked, wondering if she’d feel better or worse if he had an accomplice. An accomplice could verify his lie as well as the truth and then she’d have to outwit two of them to escape—not that she was doing so jamup terrific with just him.
His lips moved but thunder roared so loudly, she couldn’t hear his answer. When he dragged her against him, she instinctively yanked back. Found herself caught like a mosquito in a giant spiderweb.
Her stomach knotted so tightly, she had to fight to suck in air. He’d finally stopped trying to talk to her. She braced for a fist to her jaw or a jab to her churning stomach.
But he didn’t so much as slap her.
Instead, inexorably, his superior strength overwhelmed her struggles and forced her chest right up against his, her hips cradled to the hard quadriceps in his thighs. Even with wet clothing between them, she could feel heat radiating from him, feel the frustration he’d kept locked beneath rigid muscles and a stern scowl. He was so powerful, with his large traps and biceps, that she didn’t stand a chance of escape. At that realization, she gulped air and a little rain, choking on what could be her last breath.
When he dipped his head and spoke in her ear, she finally realized that he’d only pulled her close so she could hear him above the storm. “Do you know anything about guns?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” She swayed with the fear swelling up her throat as he took out a gun.
He pried open her fingers and placed the gun in her hand. The cold metal and unfamiliar feel of the grip set her hand to shaking. Stunned, confused, she tried to read the expression in his eyes, but the lightning refused to cooperate and flash. The wind kept roaring, blowing bits of sand that pinged against her exposed flesh and shredded her reasoning until she could barely read her own thoughts.
Again, he spoke into her ear. “Does holding this gun make you feel any safer?”
Why should it? She didn’t know how to use it. However, as the weight settled in her hand, she finally realized that he’d given her the gun in an attempt to alleviate her fear. Her hand stopped shaking as some of her panic subsided.
When he leaned over this time to speak above the howling wind, she didn’t automatically jerk back. He pointed to a little switch on the gun. “The gun won’t fire unless you flick the safety to the off position.” He demonstrated, then flicked the switch back. “Once the safety is off, you only have to pull the trigger and the gun will shoot. If I let you keep the gun, will you ride with me on the bike? I need one hand for the clutch, one for the throttle.”
If she refused, what would he do? She really didn’t want to find out. Besides, while she knew he was trying to stem her fears, she didn’t want to seem like a pushover. But she didn’t want to tick him off by remaining so suspicious when he so obviously wanted her to believe him.
As her teeth chattered and her terror slowly subsided, she finally let him float his jacket over her shoulders and placed the gun in the pocket. The leather enclosed her in a cocoon of black warmth and quiet heat. She liked the scent of the leather mixed with his own spicy musk. “Where are we going?”
When they reached his bike, he said, “First, to find you a doctor.”
Melinda nodded in agreement. A doctor could keep her safe—call the police and verify Clay’s story.
He placed an extra helmet on her head and donned his own, revved the bike’s engine and then helped her sit behind him. He guided her feet to foot pegs, and then, uncertainly, she wrapped her arms around him. She couldn’t reach completely around his huge body, so she twisted her fingers through his heavy leather belt.
As soon as they started down the beach, she realized that, due to their speed, his body sheltered her from the worst of the elements. But wind whipped at their already wet clothing, making her extra grateful for the protection of his jacket.
If he intended her harm, he wouldn’t have given her his jacket, would he? Nor would he have insisted that she keep the gun.
Yet she couldn’t help wondering if he’d made the gesture just to win her cooperation, to woo her into a false sense of security. As he smoothly drove off the beach and onto the road up the coast, she considered whether she should try to flee at the first red light.
She couldn’t run faster than Clay on foot, never mind Clay on his bike. Deciding she had no choice but to stay with him for now, she vowed to focus on regaining her memory.
She studied the storefronts, hoping for a few more flashes, glimmers into her past that she believed had momentarily surfaced back on the beach. Nothing came to her until they passed a grocery store, the same chain where she shopped! She was sure of it, Just as she’d known when she’d run from Clay that if she could have made it to the water, she could swim. Somehow she knew she was an excellent swimmer, yet she had no concrete memory to pin her facts on.
She kept peering through the rain, wondering if she would recognize her house if she saw it. Her house? A picture of a tiny bungalow with a sagging roof and a cute mellow-yellow front porch with lots of hanging plants came to mind. She thought she lived there, maybe rented the house. She envisioned the cozy layout, two comfortable bedrooms divided by a bath, a small, friendly living room, a tidy but minuscule kitchen. She stored her windsailing equipment in the roomy shed out back and tried to think of a number on her mailbox or a street sign to help her figure out her address.
Nothing.
Frustrated, yet pleased that parts of her memory seemed to be returning, she tried to be patient. The man on the cycle in front of her caused another entirely new set of problems for her to consider as he repeatedly checked his rearview mirror as if expecting someone to follow them.
Did he watch so vigilantly for the police? Or the return of the two men he’d claimed had run her off the road?
Either scenario made her stomach churn with anxiety. If Clay feared the cops, then he was a bad guy. If he worried over the return of the two men, then someone had just tried to kill her.
As Melinda worried over whether or not to trust Clay Rogan, she felt the heavy gun weighing down her pocket and considered whether she could shoot someone and snuff out a life—for eternity. Without a lifetime of memories, she figured that her biggest handicap was that not only didn’t she know if she could trust Clay, she didn’t know if she could trust herself. She didn’t know her own values. She didn’t know if she voted Republican, Democratic or Independent. She didn’t know how she’d react to danger, didn’t know if she could aim the gun and pull the trigger—not even if her life depended on it.
CLAY SAW NO SIGN of pursuit. But no way could he relax or forget their pressing problems with Melinda pressed so tightly to him. Even through the leather jacket he’d given her to wear, he could feel her shivering on the seat behind him. So far he hadn’t done such a hot job of protecting her, but now that he’d found her, he was determined that would change.
With the sky dark from horizon to horizon, rain teeming down in giant buckets and lightning occasionally striking nearby, the huge thunderstorm showed no signs of abating. Without a direct sign of pursuit, he couldn’t justify fleeing with Melinda possibly still in shock and injured. She needed to be warm. Needed to see a doctor.
His first thought was taking off her wet clothes and heating her with his own body. But he shoved the inappropriate image aside almost immediately.
Instead he peered through the rain and spied a coffeehouse in one of those strip malls that included an ice-cream shop, a ladies boutique and a gift emporium. After parking the bike where it wouldn’t be easily spotted, he took her icy hand in his. Guilt stabbed him for not taking better care of his charge. First she almost drowned, then almost froze to death. “Come on.”
“Where’re we going?” She spoke slowly between chattering teeth.
“To get you dry and warm.”
He opened the boutique door and ushered her inside, hoping to be hit with a blast of warmth. But air-conditioning turned on cool made it seem as if they’d entered a refrigerator.
A middle-aged woman doing paperwork behind a desk took one look at his black leather jacket wrapped around a dripping-wet Melinda and frowned. “Can I help you?” she asked hesitantly, her soft Southern accent firm but polite.
Clay reached for his wallet and took out two hundred-dollar bills. “We got caught in the storm. The lady needs a towel and a new outfit to wear home.”
The saleslady glanced from the cash to Melinda and her face brightened. “I have just the thing. You poor dear.”
Ten minutes later, Clay had his soggy jacket back, and Melinda left the store wearing new navy stretch jeans and matching denim jacket over a red slinky top that showed an inch of skin at her flat stomach. Her teeth had finally stopped chattering, although her lips still held a tinge of blue. Clay noted the bulge in her jacket pocket and realized she’d transferred the gun to her new attire.
“I’ll pay you back when I—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Clay held her elbow and escorted her toward the coffee shop. “How about a bowl of hot soup and some coffee?”
“Hot anything sounds good.”
He knew she referred to the food, but his mind did a double take anyway. Such a sexually oriented thing—the male mind. He doubted she realized that while she’d changed clothes in the privacy of a cubicle and he’d stood guard, his mind had played all kinds of tricks on him. He’d imagined her peeling back her wet shirt and shorts to reveal very rounded curves. He’d wondered if she’d removed her wet underthings or kept them on. While it should have made no difference at all to him whether or not she still wore underwear, he couldn’t help wondering whether he would be able to tell once she warmed up and removed her jacket.
He’d unintentionally brushed against her breasts too many times today not to be curious. Yet…while he knew his thoughts to be distracting and totally unprofessional, he had too much male in him to resist indulging in the fantasy. He’d wondered why he was so fascinated with her—he liked slim blondes, didn’t he? But suddenly he realized that he’d been deceiving himself. Curvy brunettes had a lot to offer.
Idiot. She’s not offering you anything.
They had the coffee shop to themselves, and Clay commandeered a booth near the foggy front window where he could watch the parking lot while they ate and talked. After the waitress took the orders, he could practically see the questions reflected in Melinda’s topaz eyes.
“Why is the CIA interested in me?” she asked.
She might not have her memories, but her keen intelligence showed as she burned through the fog and fired to the heart of the matter. He drummed his fingers on the table. How much should he tell her? He was supposed to gain her trust before asking about the documents, and she certainly didn’t trust him yet. In fact, he considered himself lucky that she hadn’t tried to convince the saleslady or the waitress to call the cops.
“Since you’ve lost your memory, I’m going to have to explain some things to you before I answer your question.”
She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. She’d done something to her hair, pulling it back from her face, smoothing it into a semblance of order. But water kept trickling from it, one suggestive droplet running down her neck and onto the thin red shirt.
He had to force his eyes to remain on her face and not follow the enticing direction the water had taken. “You have a brother and a sister, but after your parents died, the siblings were split up. Your older brother, Jake Cochran, grew up in foster homes and started looking for you the day he graduated from high school. Until recently, he couldn’t find you. But then he uncovered copies of your birth certificates. The information led him to—”
Her eyes narrowed. “My own brother wants me dead?”
“On the contrary. Jake asked the government to protect you. So here I am.” Clay gave her the simplified version of his story. While Jake had never asked the government to protect his sister, he had hired bodyguards for both sisters. Before Melinda’s bodyguard could contact her, he’d been grievously wounded but had survived for several hours before he’d died. He’d used those hours to contact the director for help.
“And why does my brother think I need protection?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Why don’t we call and ask him?”
“We suspect he’s running for his own life right now.”
“And my sister?”
“She has already gone underground.”
The waitress returned and placed coffee cups and steaming bowls of chowder in front of them. Melinda tasted her coffee and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Clay asked.
“Apparently I don’t like coffee.”
The waitress gave her an odd look.
“Could I have a hot chocolate instead?”
“You like hot chocolate?” Clay asked as he sipped his own black coffee.
“I’m not sure. The request slipped out before I thought about it.”
“Have any of your memories returned?”
She shook her head, but he wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. “It’s horrible, you know? The worst is not trusting…my own reactions.” She looked at the soup in front of her as if it might bite her, then determinedly looked deep into her bowl. “I don’t even know if I like clam chowder.”
“There’s one way to find out.” Sensing her vulnerability, knowing she was hanging on to her dignity by just a few threads, he handed her the spoon.
She hesitated, then accepted the utensil. He figured she might take the tiniest taste, but she filled the spoon to the rim and took a full bite. “Mmm.” She swallowed and scooped up more of the thick chowder. “Delicious.”
“I know it must be frightening to have forgotten your past, but maybe you could look at it as an adventure—”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Think of all the fun things you can learn all over again.” Like kissing and making love and…Clay shut the thought down hard. He didn’t like his mind drifting while he tried to make a point. He didn’t need the distraction of thoughts about sex. He needed to keep his personal life separate from business, each segment neat and tidy in its own compartment to be taken out and savored at the right time. “Everything is a new experience for you. But maybe they’ll be good experiences.”
“Like when I rode a roller coaster for the first time. I was scared to death but it was a blast.”
“You remember?” he asked, hopeful. He needed her memory to return as soon as possible. It was critical to recovering the documents her brother had sent her.
“I remember the wind in my face. My stomach swooping in fear. It was exhilarating—not the sickening fear I felt back on the beach.”
If one memory had returned, maybe the others would follow. Clay told himself not to push her. He couldn’t afford to scare her again. He needed her trust.
AS MELINDA ATE, she wondered if Clay Rogan was playing her for a fool. But if he meant her harm, if he wasn’t with the CIA, would he have been so concerned about her health? Ignoring his own discomfort, Clay had given her his jacket, and she suddenly realized how cold he must have been, riding in front and taking the brunt of the rain. Imagining the chill factor alone made her shiver.
He noticed immediately, his stormy green eyes narrowing with concern. “Eat some more soup.”
“Yes, Mother,” she teased, thinking the way he looked at her was anything but motherly. He maintained this rock-solid glint at all times, but even so, she discerned a hint of speculative interest there.
Interest in her?
At the thought, she almost dropped her spoon, just barely raised the soup to her mouth without making a total klutz of herself. Realizing that she wanted to trust him, she considered whether she’d believed him too easily. Lots of sickos wanted their women warm and healthy.
Yet every time she glanced into those direct eyes of his, she had trouble thinking of him as a pervert. It was like trying to imagine Clint Eastwood or Harrison Ford as a bad guy. She simply couldn’t discern any evil in his hard, rugged features. On the other hand, she wasn’t so naive that she didn’t know looks could be deceiving.
Frustrated that she couldn’t make up her mind, she shifted uneasily in her seat. Again those all-seeing green eyes noticed. “Something wrong?”
“I have to use the ladies’ room.” She stood. “Be back in a minute.”
She left the table without asking his permission, wondering if he’d allow her to walk away. It took all her willpower not to look back over her shoulder at him, especially when she felt his stare drilling between her shoulder blades.
When she reached the ladies’ room, she turned to enter and barely restrained a gasp. Clay was right behind her. How the huge man had moved so silently, she had no idea. But he’d followed, never letting her move more than two steps away from him.
Frightened and angry that he trusted her so little while he asked her to trust him with her life, she whirled around to confront him. Again he’d anticipated her reaction and was already pointing to the back door. “If those men found my bike, they could barge in and grab you,” he explained.
“You aren’t coming inside?”
He opened the ladies’-room door, glanced at the empty cubicles and the tiny window. Holding the door open for her, he leaned against the hallway wall, a satisfied look in his eyes. “I’ll just wait here to make sure you make it back safely.”
Without another word, she pushed through the doorway, her pulse still skittering. Was he really so concerned for her safety? Or did he fear she’d try to escape out the back door?
Thinking hard, she entered a stall, slipped out of her jacket and hung it on the hook. She took care of business, flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and reached for her jacket. The gun he’d given her fell out of the pocket to the floor with a clatter, skidding toward the sink.
She didn’t think the gun could discharge like that. He’d told her it wouldn’t fire with the safety on. Still, she found herself tensed and holding her breath. Finally when nothing untoward occurred, she leaned over and gently picked up the weapon.
Her thumb pressed something and she heard a faint click. The clip inside the handle slid out.
She started to shove the clip back into the gun. Her body turned icy.
The gun he’d given her to protect herself from him…had…no…bullets.
Chapter Three
Melinda gasped and swore at the sight of the clip that was as empty as her head was of memories. Clay had tricked her, making her believe she had a reliable weapon when in reality, if she’d pulled the trigger, nothing would have happened.
She should have been scared, but anger simmered through her veins, heating her face in embarrassment at buying his deception. How dared he play with her? Before she could decide her next move, Clay opened the rest-room door. “I heard a noise. You okay?”
“Damn you. No. I’m not okay.” She held out the gun in one hand, the empty clip in the other, wishing she could throw it at his head without fear of retaliation. “You lied to me again.”
“I didn’t.” He reclaimed his weapon and reholstered it somewhere behind his back as casually as if they were discussing whether she preferred coffee or hot chocolate.
“You may never have said the gun was loaded but you implied it.”
He shrugged, male amusement glittering in his eyes. “I couldn’t in good conscience give a loaded gun to a woman who doesn’t know how to use it, now, could I?”
His amusement and logic irritated, like fingernails scratching a blackboard. “You don’t have a conscience.”
“And you are making accusations without all the facts.” He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a Palm Pilot. “Here, I’m breaking the agency rules again, but I think you should read your file.”
Like she knew how to use it! She wasn’t great with technical things. How did she know that? She refused to take the calculator-size gadget from him. “You could have typed anything in there. Why should I believe words on a screen any more than words from your mouth?”
He hesitated, his eyes searching hers and catching some of her frustration. “Why shouldn’t you believe me?”
Again, he’d made a good point, but this time she could talk through the heat of her anger. “Can I phone a CIA office to verify your story?”
“That would jeopardize the security of the operation. As I told you, I’m working undercover.”
“Why?”
A waitress pushed through the door of the ladies’ room and frowned at Clay. “Is there a problem here?”
“I thought she fell,” Clay explained with a rogue-like smile. “I just wanted to make sure she’s all right.”
That he could have heard anything from the hallway that made him think she’d fallen pushed the boundary of common sense. It was much more likely Clay had heard her gasp of surprise at the missing bullets, but the waitress bought his story, delivered with a sincerely apologetic but a virile I’m-a-man-and-must-protect-a-woman smile. Melinda made a mental note to remember he could lie and smile with charming candor at the same time.
Clay escorted her back to their table. While they finished their meal, he explained why she couldn’t call the CIA. “The director thinks someone at the agency may be behind the operation against you.”
She didn’t understand. “Doesn’t the director know? After all, he’s the head of operations.”
“It’s a very large agency with thousands of employees.”
“What are you saying? Exactly?”
“Sometimes factions occur in large organizations. Splits that lead to secret operations.”
“You’re talking about people with their own agendas within the CIA?”
“Their own illegal agendas.”
Like murdering innocent citizens? “And what would they want with me?” She mopped up the last of her clam chowder with a hunk of thick bread and wondered if this story was any more true than the last lie he’d fed her.
“You may have information they need.”
Sure she did.
She chuckled. She couldn’t help it. Soon a full-bellied laugh worked up her throat and out of her mouth. The thought of someone trying to kill her for information when she couldn’t even remember what she had for breakfast was insane.
Clay shook his head at her. “This is serious.”
“I know.” So why couldn’t she stop laughing? She must be hysterical, the logical part of her mind whispered. But the emotional part needed release from the tension. She’d almost drowned. Now she had killers after her. And no memory. To top off her ridiculous predicament, the only person standing between her and the killers was a dangerous-looking hunk in black leather who rode a motorcycle like a professional and had an unsettling way of making her believe in him when all the facts said otherwise. No wonder she was losing it, laughing so hard her eyes brimmed with more tears.
Watching as if he expected her to shake apart into a thousand pieces, Clay patted her on the back. “You aren’t going to start crying again, are you?”
She shook her head and clamped down hard on her laughter by holding her breath. A minute or so later, her laughter abated, but she couldn’t control her edgy nerves or the prickly ball of heat in her gut as Clay watched her with concern.
“I’m okay now,” she assured him, taking a sip of ice water and almost erupting into another spasm of laughter when she thought how ridiculous it was for her to be reassuring him. But she fought back the impulse.
“So your boss sent you to protect me?” she asked.
“That’s part of my job.”
“And the rest?”
“Will have to wait until your memory returns.” He paid their bill, left a healthy tip and walked her to the rear exit of the coffee shop where he’d parked his bike.
She didn’t like his refusing to say more. What was he keeping from her? And why? Deciding to trust him had been difficult enough, and now he had her second-guessing herself. Did he need time to think up more plausible excuses, or did he feel it futile to confide in her until her memory returned?
The worst of the thunderstorm had passed, although dark clouds still blocked the sun, and the air was laden with a muggy humidity that made her clothes stick to her. In the parking lot, stray raindrops rippled oil in black puddles that reminded her of the giant gaps in her memory, gaps that made her so vulnerable. The gusting wind hadn’t died down much, and she appreciated the luxury of dry, new clothes in the chilly air. Still, she was glad she’d left her damp underwear on beneath the clinging red blouse, especially since Clay’s sharp eyes never seemed to miss anything. So she buttoned the denim jacket as Clay looked at her in speculation.
She raised her chin. “What?”
“I should get you to a doctor.”
“Why do I hear a ‘but’ coming on?”
“Because I don’t want to take you to a hospital. Too many questions,” he explained before she could ask. “The more people who see us together, the easier it will be for your pursuers to find you.”
His businesslike tone and his casual mention of danger sent a shiver icing down her spine that had nothing to do with her damp underwear, the chilly wind or the storm clouds still overhead. “We could separate to avoid being seen together.”
Exasperation roughened his tone. “Is that what you want? You want me to abandon you to those guys who ran your car into the Atlantic?”
She looked into his stormy eyes and wondered if he was lying again. She suspected no matter what she said, no matter how much she protested, Clay had no intention of leaving her to face the danger alone. He would follow his own conscience and do what he thought best. He had too much honest determination in the set of his chin, too much stubbornness in his clever eyes, too much character in the slant of his cheekbones to abandon a woman in trouble.
She wondered if a man had ever before made her feel vulnerable, scared and yet oddly on-the-edge-of-her-seat wild at the same time. Maybe it was the direct look in his eyes or the way his eyebrows knitted together in concern, but she found herself believing his story. He wasn’t faking his concern. “This is for real, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Someone’s really trying to kill me?”
“My boss seems to think so.” From a compartment in his bike, he removed a chamois and dried water off the seat with clever hands that had long, strong fingers. He swiped the chrome with a few extra strokes, caressing each curve of the metal, stroking the hard edges and corners with a familiarity that told her he’d repeated this task many times. Finally, he wrung out the chamois and placed it back inside the compartment.
“You still want to hide me?”
“Yes.” He swung his leg over the cycle and handed her a helmet while he put on his own. “But first we need to take you to a doctor.”
She accepted the helmet, had trouble with the chin snap and let him tip up her chin so he could fasten it for her. Their gazes locked and she suddenly felt as if she was falling. “I thought you said—”
“No hospitals. A local doctor’s office would be best.”
“Without an appointment?” He had to be kidding. He obviously didn’t live around here, where a typical wait for a consultation took one to two hours—and that was just to get inside the examination room.
Leaving the details to him and wondering why she could remember trivia like the waiting time in a doctor’s office and not the important facts about her life, she swung onto the back of the bike. As at ease with her decision to go with Clay as she was with her position behind him on the black leather seat, she placed her feet on the footrests. Melinda might not have her memory, but she still had her instincts—instincts that told her this man with his hard edges and tempestuous eyes would make a good protector.
Melinda twisted her fingers through Clay’s belt and prayed she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life.
CLAY NEEDED TO DITCH his Harley. The men back on the beach would have called for backup and would be searching the area by now. On his bike, he and Melinda were simply too conspicuous. He hoped that after he’d parked behind the coffee shop no one had found his bike, disabled the alarm and hidden a bug that would transmit a signal for a tail to follow them. Without a thorough inspection, he couldn’t be sure they’d gotten away from any interested observers, but he refused to take additional time to search, not when Melinda had fought such a difficult battle deciding whether to trust him. He’d seen her eyes mirroring her indecision, and he felt relief that she’d decided to cooperate.
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