by Rebecca York
“Meg. Talk to me.”
She looked confused and worried as she gazed into his face. “Head hurts.”
“Yes. You were in an automobile accident,” he said. “A rockslide hit your car.”
“And you saved me,” she answered, the words carrying absolute conviction.
“I was with the rescue team.”
Her hand fluttered. “You don’t have to be ashamed of being kind and compassionate.”
He made a low sound, trying to read her expression. “Are you putting me on by any chance?”
Her eyes clouded. “No…” She seemed to be thinking it over. “Why would I do that?”
He was instantly sorry he had challenged her. She had just survived a very nasty accident. She was in his care. Of course she’d want him to be someone she could trust.
When she started to raise her hand toward the sutures in her head, he grabbed her fingers.
She clung to him, staring into his eyes, asking for something he wasn’t prepared to give. “Your hands are strong,” she murmured, her thumb stroking over his flesh.
“What are you trying to do?” he asked gruffly.
“Get closer to you.”
“Why? Is that your assignment?” he retorted, reminding himself that he should be using her vulnerability to pry loose some information.
A jolt of mixed satisfaction and regret went through him when panic filled her eyes.
“Do…do I have an assignment?” she quavered.
“Do you?” he countered, his question rough and quick, as he tried to keep her off-balance.
Her expression clouded. “You’d be happier if you trusted…people.”
The advice was too dangerous to take. Especially from her. “Trust you?” he pressed.
She gave the barest of shrugs. “I don’t know. Is that why you didn’t tell me your name?”
“It’s Glenn.”
“Glenn,” she repeated. “I like it. Like the forest. Peaceful. Strong. Enduring.”
His laugh was meant to hide the sudden twisting in his gut. “What are you, some kind of poet?”
“I don’t know.” Once again, panic filled her features. “I don’t know,” she repeated, trying to sit up, her eyes wild as they darted around the room.
He pressed gently against her slender shoulder, holding her in place. “It’s okay,” he reassured her.
She fought him with surprising strength until the burst of energy faded as quickly as it had come. With a sigh, she sank back onto the hospital sheet.
“It’s okay,” he repeated.
Relief swept across her face like a strong wind blowing away thunderclouds. “If you say so.” Her lashes fluttered. “I’m tired.”
“I know. But don’t go to sleep. I have to—”
“Watch over me. My guardian angel,” she finished for him, her voice carrying deep conviction as her lids fluttered closed.
“Meg?”
She stirred. “Stay with me,” she breathed. “I need your…protection.”
“From what?”
“From all the bad things that hide in the dark,” she murmured, the words fading as she drifted off.
Her features smoothed, like a trusting child’s, and he found himself promising, “I’ll stay as long as I can.”
A smile flickered on her lips. Moments later, she was sleeping deeply, and he studied her face, seeing only innocence. Maybe that was what he wanted to see.
Annoyed by his reaction, Glenn turned and left the room. Pausing in the bathroom, he leaned his elbows on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror, trying to figure out what she’d seen in his features. He’d never thought of himself as easy to read, and particularly not by a woman waking up after a concussion.
With a grimace, he splashed cold water on his cheeks and dried off with a paper towel. Heading for the lounge, he poured a cup of coffee and gulped it down hot and black, jolting his system with caffeine. Feeling a little more in control, he cleaned up the E.R., before returning to the patient.
“What am I going to do with you?” he asked in a gritty voice as he checked her blood pressure again.
She didn’t answer, and he leaned closer, studying her face, his gaze lingering on each peaceful feature. When he found himself reaching to adjust the blanket across her breasts, he pulled his hand back. They’d had five minutes of disjointed conversation during which he’d learned nothing about her. Either she was damn good, or he was going soft in the head. Was she good enough to have faked her half of the conversation?
He was saved from further speculation by the phone. This time it was an exasperated-sounding Blake.
“More problems?” Glenn asked, his fingers tightening around the receiver.
“The road’s blocked by the mother of all boulders. I have to clear it out of the way before I can get the car back there—or the men. I can’t give you an estimated time of arrival.”
“I understand.”
“Is our uninvited guest awake?”
“Negative.”
“The element of surprise could be crucial. If she wakes up, try to get something out of her. She’ll be disoriented and vulnerable. Use that.”
Too late.
Before Blake could issue any more pointed instructions, Glenn hung up and turned back to the sleeping woman.
After studying her face and sexy little figure with as much detachment as he could muster, he asked sardonically, “So, are you a gorgeous spy? Or are you just a gorgeous door-to-door magazine salesperson sent to practice your persuasive techniques on the reclusive Dr. Bridgman? Come on, answer me so I can give Blake some information.”
The only answer was the sound of her gentle breathing.
After hesitating for several seconds, he settled down in the easy chair a few feet from her bed, telling himself that he was simply following sound medical procedure by hovering close to her. If she didn’t come around again in the next few hours, they’d have to do more tests.
A cup of strong coffee might be sloshing around in his system, but as soon as he’d kicked off his shoes and leaned back into the cushions, exhaustion claimed him. As if weighted down, his lids refused to stay open, and he gave in to the luxury of closing his eyes.
The next thing he knew, he was jerked awake by a strangled sound. Springing out of the chair, he bent over the narrow bed. “Meg?”
His heart leaped when he saw that those startlingly green eyes were open again. This time the soft focus was gone. This time her expression was full of nameless dread—until she saw him leaning over her.
The change was like a light going on in a dark room. She breathed out a little sigh.
“It’s okay,” he said.
When she tried to sit up, he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Everything’s fine,” he said. Of its own accord, his hand began to stroke her reassuringly.
“Is it?” She watched him as if the answer might determine the course of planets moving through the solar system.
“Yes.”
Her features relaxed, and she closed her eyes, drifting.
“Don’t go to sleep,” he said quickly. “Stay with me. I need to talk to you.”
“Anything you want,” she replied in a dreamy voice.
God, what did he want? he wondered.
She gazed up at him and waited a beat before asking, “What…happened?”
“A rockslide hit your car.”
“I…” Her voice trailed off, and her features contorted.
“What?”
She shook her head, and grimaced. “I can’t remember.”
He wasn’t surprised. Most people with a head injury experienced a loss of memory surrounding the event—and the condition could last for several hours. He’d treated accident victims who required numerous repetitions of the same information before it finally sank in.
“You’re going to be all right Don’t be afraid,” he said, because he sensed how much she needed reassurance.
Then he realized he was doing it again—forg
etting she could well be the enemy.
“What were you doing on the road to Castle Phoenix?” he asked.
Her mind seemed to be turning over the question. After several seconds she answered slowly, “I…don’t know. What’s Castle Phoenix?”
“My house.”
“You live in a castle? Are you a king?”
He laughed. “Hardly.”
She was looking into his eyes as if she were probing for long-buried secrets. Every instinct urged him to turn away before it was too late, but the intensity of her gaze held him. Then she lifted her hand and touched his face so softly that her fingers might have been the flutter of a bird’s wings against his skin. She brushed the stubble of his day’s growth of beard, sending a shiver through him. When her fingers touched his lips, he worked to block any further reaction. He wanted to tell her to stop. That would mean moving his lips. So he only stood there, waiting for her to set him free.
Eons passed before her hand dropped away. When she spoke, her voice was low. “Who are you? Are you my friend?”
The question brought a sharp stab. No, they weren’t friends. They could never be friends.
“I—” She stopped short, a look of confusion crossing her face.
“What?”
“I don’t know. Someone told me—” She gave a frantic little shrug. “I was going to say something. Then…it wasn’t in my mind anymore. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember?”
She sounded sincere, yet she could be faking the vapid response, faking the intimacy of her touch.
“A certain amount of memory loss is routine after a head injury.”
Her face told him she had snatched at the information like a drowning sailor grasping a lifeline.
“Why are you so sad?” she asked, her voice wistful as she turned the conversation back to him again.
He blinked, swallowed hard, didn’t reply. “I’m not sad.”
“Well, you look like you…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Like you have a lot to worry about.”
Mercifully, another phone call saved him from having to dredge up an answer. This time it was his portable ringing, which meant that the business was urgent rather than routine. Snatching the instrument from his pocket, he flipped it open as he stepped into the doorway.
“Bridgman.”
“Better get up here,” Blake advised. “To the parking area outside the garage.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Maybe you’ll have an opinion.”
“Okay. Give me five minutes.”
“I’d hurry if I were you.”
Before he could ask for details, the line went dead, and he shoved the phone into his pocket, wondering what had gone wrong now.
“Meg, I have to—”
He broke off when he saw that her eyes had closed again and her breathing had become slow and even.
Quickly he went through the procedure of checking her vital signs once more. Normal. He sighed, pleased, then wondered why he was investing so much emotional energy in this woman who had no business on the access road to his estate—or at least, no authorized business.
Before he left the medical wing, he dialed the security office and arranged for a guard. No one was available immediately, but he supposed a fifteen-minute delay wouldn’t hurt anything. She wasn’t going anywhere.
When he stepped outside, the darkness had faded to gray, and a chorus of birds chirped unseen in the trees. Following. the driveway to the garage area, he saw Blake and several security officers standing around the Volvo. The trunk was open, and someone was peering inside. Several men were huddled in a little group talking in low-pitched voices, and another man was sitting on the damp ground, his back against a tree and his head lolling to one side. His body was trembling violently. Dylan was crouched beside him.
It was Tim Lipscomb, one of the men who had signed on six months ago.
“What happened?” Glenn asked as he trotted up. Blake put a restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t get too close.”
Glenn whirled toward him. “Why not?”
“He went crazy. Decked a couple of guys.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He and Peterson were supposed to be guarding the car. Peterson had to take a leak. When he came back, Lipscomb leaped at him screaming obscenities. It took four guys to take him down.”
Glenn stared at the young man on the ground, hardly able to believe the assessment. He’d checked out Lipscomb himself before signing him on. He was a rock-solid kind of guy. Stable. Reliable.
Dylan stood and joined them.
“Drugs?” Glenn questioned.
His colleague shrugged. “His heart rate and blood pressure are high. He claims he was standing beside the car. The next thing he knew he was sitting on the ground.”
“He doesn’t remember attacking anyone?”
“No.”.
Behind them, Blake cursed. “I don’t like it. If he’s on something, I want him out of here.”
Dylan nodded. “We’ll do a thorough physical and a complete blood workup.”
Behind them, a low hum of conversation came from the knot of watching men. Then a voice pitched itself above the rest. “He was on his damn feet all night. Maybe he just got so tired, he wigged out.”
Blake whirled, his gaze scanning the group of spectators. “Who said that?”
Nobody answered.
When he started forward, Glenn put a hand on his arm. “It’s been a long night. Let it go.”
There was a tense moment of silence; then the security chief nodded his agreement
Dylan returned to the man on the ground. “How do you feel?”
He gave the doctor a pleading look. “I don’t know what happened to me. Honest.”
Glenn shook off Blake’s restraining hand as he crossed the driveway and knelt beside the kid. Maybe he’d been out of control, but the spell had passed. Now he looked young and scared and unhappy to be the center of attention.
Touching his shoulder, Glenn asked, “Can you tell us what happened?”
“I was doing my job,” he replied in a tight voice. “I don’t take drugs. I swear.”
“I guess you had a pretty frightening experience,” Glenn said reassuringly. “What’s the last specific thing you remember?”
The young man relaxed a little. Closing his eyes, he thought for a moment, then began a rambling recitation. “We were beating the bushes out by the accident. It was raining, and I was getting wet. Then we came back here, and I was pissed ’cause I drew guard duty.” He glanced up at Glenn, squinting. “Then I was sitting down over here. With a splitting headache. That’s it. If I hurt somebody, I didn’t mean it. I don’t even remember doing it.”
Glenn patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll figure out what happened.”
The kid looked grateful—a point in his favor. If he were on something, he’d want to avoid detection.
Standing, Glenn turned back to Blake, and their gazes met. The security chief gave a little nod, then motioned Glenn several steps away. “What about our other mystery? Did Mata Hari wake up?” he asked in a low voice.
“Briefly.”
“What did you get out of her?”
“Not much. At the moment, she’s woozy.”
“You questioned her?” Blake prompted.
“She’s not admitting anything,” he answered evasively, glad the conversation had been private. “She has some memory loss.”
“Or she’s faking it.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, offering his professional opinion.
“That’s just great. Maybe we’re having an epidemic of amnesia flu. Did she get violent, too?” the security chief demanded.
“No. And what she’s got isn’t catching,” Glenn replied, watching a stretcher team arrive and bend over Lipscomb.
“I can walk!” he insisted.
“I know,” Dylan soothed. “But let’s check you out first.”
When there was no further protest, Gle
nn turned back to Blake. “What about the guy with the broken leg?”
“He’s in the van. Sedated. We were getting ready to bring him up when Lipscomb went berserk. The rest of the injuries were minor.”
Glenn nodded and went on to another topic. “Did you check out the car?”
“The trunk had some kind of special lock. We had to use a crowbar to get it open.”
“Anything valuable inside?”
Blake hesitated for a moment. “She was carrying a load of plants.”
“Oh yeah?” Turning, Glenn hurried toward the back of the sedan, noting the nasty gouges in the metal. It looked as if someone had attacked the rear of the vehicle with malice.
The edge of the trunk lid was bent out of shape, but the inside was unharmed. A quick inspection told him the cargo area had been wrapped in an extra layer of latex foam. A well at one side held a plastic tray filled with neatly planted specimens that he couldn’t immediately identify. “Take them to the lab,” he said. Had Meg Wexler come to the castle to bring exotic flora specimens that she thought would interest him? That could explain her unannounced arrival. She’d come without calling first because she’d known it would be harder for him to say no to her in person than over the phone.
MEG’S EYES BLINKED and drifted closed. With an effort she forced them to stay open. Uncertainly, she took in her surroundings. Plain green walls. Stark wood furniture. A metal bed with side railings.
She was in a hospital room. The same room as before? Or had that been a dream? Lying very still, she listened for sounds. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard voices. Maybe that was only her imagination. Or maybe they were coming for her.
Who?
She didn’t know where she was, or who was out there—except for the man with the face full of sadness. He’d said his name was…
All at once, recalling his name became the most important thing in the world. But it wouldn’t come to her, and panic rose in her throat.
Then the sound of his voice wafted through her memory. He had said…He had said he was Glenn, she remembered, relief flooding into every cell of her body.
She was safe. Glenn had told her she was safe, yet she felt her heart begin to pound. Somewhere at the edge of her consciousness, she knew there was an important fact she needed to remember. But it was too hard to think about it. Maybe later.
