by Lisa Jackson
“Did you know she met the silver-haired one?” el Perro asked, sliding a glance in Trent’s direction. “The man with the cane.”
Trent’s composure slipped. His muscles tightened and he held his bottle of beer in a death grip. “Crowley?” he whispered, his throat raw. “She met Crowley?”
“Sí.” El Perro was obviously enjoying himself, but Trent wanted to rip his throat out.
“And?”
“And nothing. She did not recognize him.”
That didn’t solve the problem. “What about him?”
“He looked long at her, but said nothing.” The Dog leaned across the table. “The silver-haired one, I do not trust him, amigo. His eyes, they are dead.”
Amen. Trent’s fists clenched. “Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
Trent pulled out a thin envelope and threw it across the table. “You were sloppy,” he said. “She saw you on the veranda.”
The swarthy man’s brows drew together. He shifted his cigarette to one side of his mouth and counted the bills. “Sloppy. Not el Perro.” Satisfied that the money was all there, he squinted through the trailing smoke of his cigarette. “I was never on your veranda, amigo.”
* * *
Nikki checked her watch. Trent had been gone nearly forty-five minutes. He’d told her he was going down to the lobby to talk to the manager about tighter security, and she’d expected him by now.
The storm had blown itself out during the night, and the day was bright and clear, the afternoon sun once again streaming through the windows.
She glanced at the bed and felt her neck burn scarlet. How many times last night had they made love? Three times? Four? She couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered, she supposed, but their lovemaking had been so wild… so…desperate, as if they both knew it would suddenly end. Stupid woman with silly-girl dreams.
Trent had promised her they could stop in the town to do some last-minute shopping before they left, and she was anxious to pick up the film. She would have to find a way to ditch him again, for only a few minutes, but that shouldn’t be difficult.
She heard his key in the lock and smiled when he entered. “I thought I’d lost you,” she said, but noticed the air of urgency in his step, the grim line of his mouth.
“Not so lucky,” he said, but never smiled. “Are you packed?” He noticed the bags near the door and nodded. “Good. There’s a chance we can catch an earlier flight, but we’ve got to get to the airport in twenty minutes.”
Her heart dropped to the floor. “Wait a minute,” she argued as he picked up her suitcase and garment bag. “I thought we were going into town—”
“No time.”
“But you promised,” she said, desperation gripping her heart in a stranglehold. “I told you I wanted to go shopping and—”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not leaving until—”
“You’re leaving and you’re leaving now. With me,” he said, his voice brooking no argument.
“In case you haven’t heard, this isn’t the Dark Ages, McKenzie! You can’t just order me around like you’re some lord and I’m your sorry little servant girl—Oh!”
He grabbed with hands tight as manacles circling her forearms. “It’s not safe here anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man on the deck. I think you were right. He wasn’t a burglar.”
“Who was he?” she asked, trying to keep the fear from her voice.
“I don’t know, but we’re not sticking around to find out.” He dropped her arms at a knock on the door and allowed the bellboy in to help with their bags.
Nikki was beginning to feel desperate. “It would only take a minute.”
The phone rang loudly and Trent reached for the receiver. “Hello?”
The conversation was one-sided as he listened, and his eyes narrowed upon Nikki, his lips compressing.
“Gracias, I’ll tell her,” Trent said before slowly replacing the receiver.
Nikki’s insides froze.
“That was Nurse Sánchez from the hospital. She says Mrs. Martínez’s friend was a girl named Rosa Picano. She works at a hotel on the south end of the bay. Want to tell me about her?”
Leveling her gaze straight at him, she said, “I’ve wanted to tell you about her for a long time. She saw me in the hospital. She knew me. Called me Señorita Carrothers. Not Señora McKenzie.”
One of Trent’s eyebrows lifted. “And that surprises you?”
“Yes. Why would she call me—”
“Because there was a mix-up when we got here. At the first hotel. You signed us in while I took care of the baggage, and all of your credit cards, all of your identification, even your passport, is in your maiden name. It was easier to go by Carrothers.”
“The girl didn’t remember a husband.”
“That’s because I dealt with the manager directly because the plumbing in our first room didn’t work.”
She wanted to trust him, to believe in him and yet she couldn’t. There were too many things left unexplained. “You’re telling me the truth?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what I can do to convince you,” he said in irritation. “Come on. We’ve got a plane to catch.” He propelled her to the elevator and through the lobby to the front of the hotel where a taxi was waiting in the circular drive. A copper-skinned cabbie shoved their bags into the trunk. “You can’t do this,” she hissed as Trent forced her into the back of the cab, climbed in beside her and ordered the driver in Spanish to get them to the airport.
“Watch me.”
“I’ll scream,” she warned.
“Go right ahead. We’re married, and as I told you before—on this island a husband’s rights are rarely questioned. If I say something is good for you, whether you like it or not, that’s the way it is.”
“That’s barbaric!”
His eyes glittered in anger. “Absolutely. That’s why it works.”
“But—” She wanted to argue, to scream, to pummel him with her fists as the cab driver turned onto the concrete slab of a road that drove them straight to the airport, avoiding the city of Santa María altogether. Her spirits sank as low as they had been since she’d woken up in the hospital all those days ago. At that moment she hated Trent!
“I want a divorce,” she blurted out angrily.
His answer was a slow, sexy smile.“That’s not what you were begging for last night.”
Without thinking, she drew her hand back and started to slap him, but he caught her wrist in mid-arc and clucked his tongue. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
“If you were me, you’d probably shoot me with that damned gun you’ve got a permit for!”
“Probably,” he allowed, his smile returning as the palm trees gave way to the airport, which was hardly more than a few low-slung buildings and a couple of cracked runways. Nikki had no choice but to follow him into the terminal. She couldn’t scream that she was being kidnapped, because he was only taking her home, and truth to tell, she did believe that there was some sort of danger on the island. Why else his case of nerves?
But there was something else here on Salvaje, something that had drawn her to this little speck in the Caribbean, some reason she had wanted to come here in the first place, and whatever that reason was, she knew in her gut that she hadn’t found it.
She was still fuming as they boarded the small plane. She sat near the window, strapped her seat belt over her lap and listened to the flight attendant go over the safety procedures. She knew that Trent was watching her, but as they took off, she stared out the window, to the wild island where she’d lost her memory, the paradise she’d come to visit for her honeymoon, the place where she’d lost her heart to a man she alternately hated and loved. Oh, what a horrid mess!
The plane circled, and high above Salvaje, Nikki Carrothers McKenzie looked down to see the crumbling mission visible through the fronds of ancient palms. Her heart jerked painfully as she remembered her nightmare and the first day s
he’d woken up in the hospital and found herself married to a man she couldn’t remember. Her throat grew tight as the island disappeared from sight.
They flew in silence until they reached Miami, where they went through customs, transferred planes and headed west. Nikki watched the movie, a romantic comedy she’d seen before, rather than have to make small talk with Trent. She dozed, ate, and after one final transfer, was on her way to Seattle.
Seattle. The largest city on Puget Sound. Sprawling around Lake Union and Lake Washington, with a series of freeways that could barely handle the traffic that had grown in recent years. She remembered the downtown area as incredibly hilly—she’d long ago given up a manualshift car—and the waterfront as cool and windy.
She’d worked for the Observer for…five or six years. Leaning back against the headrest, she thought about her job and couldn’t remember particular incidents, but knew that she had a deep dissatisfaction with her work and a burning need to prove that she was as good as most of the men on the staff. Slowly a memory surfaced.
“You know what they say. ‘You can’t fight city hall,”’ Peggy had announced, slapping a file on Nikki’s cluttered desk. Peggy, five foot two in three-inch heels was a petite redhead with big eyes, glasses that slid to the end of her nose and a temper that matched her coloring. “I tried, Nikki.”
“I didn’t get the story.”
“‘Racketeering,’ and I’m quoting here, ‘is better handled by men. They’ll give the story the hard edge it needs.’ End of quote.” Peggy had reached in her purse, looking for a pack of cigarettes though she’d given up smoking eight months earlier. “Damn,” she’d muttered under her breath. “It’s enough to make me want to burn my bra all over again, and I gave that up in seventy-two.”
Nikki, though furious, had managed a laugh. “We can’t let them beat us.”
“They think they’re doing us a favor.”
“Oh, so now taking the good stories is chivalrous.” Nikki seethed inside. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to prove them wrong.”
“Nikki—” Peggy’s voice held a warning note.
“I think it’s Pulitzer Prize time.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Peggy said, then wrinkled her nose. “Well, actually I do, but I’m supposed to go along with the decisions of the chief editor. That’s my official stance.”
Nikki had lifted a shoulder but knew what she had to do. The next big story that came along, wasn’t going to pass her by. In fact, she’d been gathering information on a couple of stories, one of which was starting to look like it might be worthwhile—the one involving Senator James T. Crowley. “And your unofficial stance?”
Peggy pushed her glasses back to the bridge of her nose and her tiny chin was set in determination. “Go for it.”
Now, circling above Seattle, Nikki’s heart began to pound. So that’s how she became interested in the senator, but she couldn’t remember why. He was involved in something dirty, that much she’d determined, and somehow her trip to Salvaje—her honeymoon—was connected with the story. But how?
The plane began its approach, and Nikki glanced out the window. As they dropped through the clouds, a million lights, set in connecting grids, came into view. She tightened her seat belt. Soon she’d be home. Surely then her memory would return. She cast a glance at Trent. The mystery around him would be answered.
Her stomach twisted like a fraying rope. What if she found out they weren’t married, that for whatever reason, now that she was back in Seattle, he had no further use for her? True, she believed that he cared for her, if just a little, but never once had he claimed to love her. Her heart tore a little and she told herself she was being a ninny. For the past ten days or so this man had been the very bane of her existence. So what if she melted when he kissed her, so what if she couldn’t help staring at the way his hair fell over his forehead, so what if she tingled each time he took her hand in his?
Romantic fantasies! That’s all. She’d been alone with him on a tropical island, sensing danger and adventure. Of course she’d become infatuated with him.
But it was over. She was home. He slid her a glance that echoed her own feelings and her heart turned to ice. Frowning slightly, Trent reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, withdrawing an envelope.
“I thought you’d want to see these,” he said cryptically as he dropped the envelope into her lap. Her heart nearly stopped beating as she recognized the package containing photographs from the film she’d left at José’s camera shop. “Go ahead, Nikki,” he said with measured calm. “Open it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nikki felt cold inside, as if a ghost had stepped across her soul. Only seven pictures had developed and those photographs were taken in a city near water, but a modern, busy city that she should recognize, a town that was far from the rustic Caribbean town of Santa María. She flipped through the few shots. Not one snapshot of Salvaje or Trent.
“Looks like Victoria,” he said, when she just stared at the photographs and felt the hot stain of embarrassment climb up the back of her neck. “British Columbia.”
She rolled her lips over her teeth. Victoria. She’d been there. Probably on her last vacation, the last time she’d used the camera.
“All that trouble for nothing,” Trent remarked as she slid the snapshots into the envelope.
Clearing her throat, she slid him a suspicious glance. “Were you spying on me?”
“I was just trying to take care of you.” His face was set in defiance, as if he dared her to argue with him. “But you never believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” she admitted. The plane touched down with a jolt and the chirp of tires on the runway. Nikki stuffed the pictures into her purse. Some investigative reporter she’d turned out to be. No wonder her stories had included covering the state fair, a Boy Scout jamboree and the governor’s daughter’s wedding. Hot stuff.
Now she was no closer to knowing if she was married to Trent than she had been before.
Once in the terminal, they picked up their bags and took a shuttle to the parking lot, where Trent’s Jeep was parked. With more than its share of dents and a paint job that needed serious attention, the Jeep brought back no memories. She slid into the passenger seat that creaked beneath her weight, waited for Trent and was certain she’d never been in the Jeep before in her life.
Yet, here she was. With her “husband.” Lord, when would she ever remember?
Tires humming on the pavement, the Jeep picked up speed, melding with the thick traffic that streamed northward into the heart of Seattle. A thick Washington mist drizzled from the sky and the wipers slapped rain off the windshield as Nikki peered desperately through the glass. Certainly here, in her hometown, she would remember. She waited, crossing her fingers and silently praying that with a rush of adrenaline and the familiar sights and sounds of Seattle, she would be instantly cured and her life would be complete—a past, a present and a future.
The rain-washed streets were familiar. The bustle, noise and bright lights of the city brought a familiar ache in her heart. Wispy fingers of fog rose from the asphalt. The chill wind of October blew eastward, crossing the dark waters of the Sound and rattling up the narrow, steep streets surrounding Elliott Bay.
Yes, this city was home. She’d lived here all her life and remembered driving downtown with her mother and sister, taking the monorail into the shopping district where they would wander through stores and meet their father for lunch. Those happy trips hadn’t happened often and they were long ago, before the rift between Eloise and Ted Carrothers had become so deep it could never be repaired. Nikki, the youngest, had been oblivious to the undercurrents of tension between her parents in the early years, but as she grew older and approached adolescence, she’d begun to realize that her mother was deeply unhappy. Being married to a man who expected his dinner on the table at six-thirty without fail, his shirts washed, starched and ironed, and the house and children kept in spotless condit
ion in case he brought a big client home for dinner had finally taken its toll.
The glass of wine her mother had consumed before dinner soon had stretched to two and eventually three. Sometimes Eloise had drunk an entire bottle before the meal, and as soon as the dishes had been stacked in the dishwasher, she had retired upstairs with a “headache.”
Eventually she had barely been able to stay awake through the meal, and the fights that had erupted between Nikki’s parents had rocked the timbers of their Cape Codstyle house in the Queen Anne district.
Nikki remembered lying on her bed, her quilt tucked over her head, trying to block out the sounds of anger that radiated throughout the old house. Even now, more than fifteen years later, the pain cut through her heart. She blinked back tears and told herself everything had turned out for the best—her mother was happy in Southern California, remarried to a real-estate man and living not far from the ocean, and her father, still single, seemed to enjoy his bachelorhood.
Trent wheeled the Jeep into the drive of an old English Tudor home that had been converted to apartments. The rig bounced over a couple of speed bumps before landing in a parking space beneath an oak tree with spreading branches and brittle, dead leaves.
Nikki stared at the building as she slammed the door of the Jeep shut. Home. Seeing the old house should bring back wave after wave of memories. Nervously, she scanned the house, trying to see past the windows which glowed brightly, though the drapes had been drawn against the night. Who were these people who lived so close to her? An old white pickup and a new Ford wagon were parked near the Jeep, but try as she might, she couldn’t conjure up faces for the people who drove the vehicles and shared the same plumbing and roof with her.
Disappointed, she followed Trent as he carried her bags up the exterior stairs to the third-floor landing. Each step was covered with strips of rubber for traction and the rail was well used. Once on her small porch, Nikki fumbled with the keys and, hunching her shoulders against the steady drizzle, unlocked the door.
She dropped her suitcase and purse on the faded Oriental rug and breathed deeply of the musty, stale air. As if from habit, she kicked off her shoes and padded in stocking feet through the long, narrow attic that served as her living room and bedroom. Her hands trailed along the backs of chairs and across the dusty surface of the table, and a sense of belonging wove its way into her heart.
