by Rebecca York
She served herself a small portion and buttered a thick slice of dark, whole-grain bread to go with it
He took the same. They each set their food on the table and sat down, neither looking at the other. Probably he wished he’d get an emergency phone call so he could leave, she thought, covertly studying his abashed expression.
She took a few spoonfuls of the soup. It was thick and creamy, with a flavorful blend of cheese and green chilies. And the heat was tolerable. “It’s delicious.”
“I made sure we acquired a good cook.”
She spooned in more, watching him, wondering how he’d react to questions. “For your security force?” she finally asked.
Another voice answered the question—a voice that came from the doorway. “It’s not a good idea to go into details.”
Meg turned her head and froze, the spoon poised in midair several inches below her mouth. Standing and watching her with narrowed eyes was the blond man she’d seen outside—the man who’d scattered the little knot of guards with nothing more than a pointed look.
Chapter Five
Meg’s glance went from the newcomer to Bridgman as she lowered her spoon.
“I’d ask you to introduce me,” the man in the doorway said, his voice edged with flint. “But from the look on Ms. Wexler’s face, I’d say she already knows who I am.”
Meg shook her head. “I beg your pardon. We’ve never met.”
“Sweetie, your anxious expression says otherwise. You know exactly who I am. So you might as well come clean with me.”
“The only thing I know about you is what I saw through the window,” Meg answered in a low voice.
He gave a sharp laugh. “Nice try. But there are no windows in the rooms over here.”
“There are—in the bathrooms. At least, in my bathroom.”
He tipped his head to one side, studying her through glacier-like eyes.
“Right. You’ve got a tiny bathroom window eight feet from the floor. Not exactly accessible.”
“I climbed up to have a look outside.”
“Oh, you did. What exactly did you see?” he challenged.
“I saw wide green lawns dotted with rocks. I saw that this building is a gray castle. I saw men in khaki uniforms. Some of them were standing in a group under a tree and talking. One of them looked like he was keeping watch. When you came out of the building, he whispered a warning and the group broke up. You stood there staring at them with the same expression you’re using on me,” she finished, giving a pretty full account of her brief observations.
Though he kept his expression impassive, his color deepened. “Well, Glenn, it looks like our Ms. Wexler has mountain-goat genes.”
She gave a little shrug. “You have me at a disadvantage. You seem to know me. I don’t have a clue who you are.”
“Have it your way. I’m Blake Claymore, chief of security.”
Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem appropriate to say, Glad to meet you. The first thing this man had done was accuse her of lying. Slipping her hands below the surface of the table, she clasped them tightly in her lap.
Claymore turned to Bridgman, and a look of understanding passed between them. Bridgman might be running this place, but apparently he was ready to defer to his chief of security when the need arose.
Claymore studied her. “I guess if you can climb up to that window, you’re fit enough to answer some questions about your background. So are you in training for the Olympic gymnastics team? And how does Castle Phoenix fit into your schedule?” he asked, his voice edged with sarcasm.
She was still trying to come up with a suitable answer as he strode to the table, pulled out a chair and joined them. Up close, he was even more formidable, with piercing blue eyes and the roughened skin of a man who’d endured a bad case of adolescent acne. Probably that had helped cement the chip on his shoulder.
Probably he was a bad choice for an enemy—which was obviously the category he’d assigned to her.
Sitting up straighter, she tried to keep her fear from showing. “I can’t remember anything about myself,” she said. “It’s very frustrating—and unnerving. Maybe you can help.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “You need my help?”
She shrugged. “It seems that you and Dr. Bridgman are the only links I have to my past.”
“We’re not part of your past.”
Clenching her hands, she tried another tack. “But I was coming to this place. At least I was on the road here. Are you sure you can’t tell me why?”
His gaze went from her to Bridgman and back again. “I can tell you what we’ve found out since you arrived.”
“Thank you,” Meg whispered.
“Hold the thanks until you’ve heard the details,” Claymore told her. “You have a Maryland driver’s license issued in the name of Meg Wexler. But it’s a fake.”
She raised startled eyes to his face. “How do you know?”
“One of our associates was able to make that determination. So that’s one dead end we have. Then there’s the car you were driving. It was rented by someone named James Taylor.” He went on to tell her about the only credit card she was carrying. And about the real Meg Wexler who lived in Baltimore—who had slept in her own bed last night.
“The only conclusion I can draw from the above is that you didn’t want us to be able to trace you. What would you conclude?” he asked sharply.
Her mouth had gone too dry to answer. To put some distance between them, she paced to the kitchen area, then turned and leaned against the counter for support. “Did you take my fingerprints while I was unconscious?” she asked in a gritty voice, half serious, half mocking.
“Of course. Unfortunately, they’re not on file with the FBI. So I assume you don’t have a criminal record. In fact, there’s no record I can find of you. Every path I’ve checked leads to a dead end.”
“Maybe I’m part of an alien invasion force getting ready to take over the earth. And this is a test case to see how we do in a controlled environment.”
He gave a bark of a laugh. “Well, that’s one thing we know. You have a sense of humor.”
“Do you have any other hypotheses about me?”
“You won’t like my avenue of speculation.”
“Let’s drop it,” Bridgman interjected. “She’s been through a pretty rough time. She needs to rest.”
“No. I want to hear his theories,” Meg insisted.
Claymore gave her a dry smile. “I think it’s highly likely that someone thought very carefully about the kind of woman who would attract Dr. Bridgman, then sent her in here to get his cooperation—or hold his attention.”
Her gaze shot to the man in question, but his expression gave away nothing beyond a slight tightening of the jaw.
Claymore pressed on. “I think they decided to put her in danger so he would be sympathetic to her. Let’s assume it was our friend Mr. Johnson, since he’s the most likely candidate. He has a bad habit of disregarding the safety of his employees. This time he went too far, and his secret agent ended up without her memory. Or she could be a very good actress, pretending that her past is a blank.”
“No!” Realizing she was pressed painfully against the counter, Meg made an effort to straighten.
Claymore shrugged and continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “On the other hand, I could be wrong about the stealth attack. Maybe you’re not employed by Johnson. You could be working for a small company that knows about Dr. Bridgman’s research, and you wanted to make him an offer. But the outfit’s cautious, and they don’t want him to be able to research them until they’re ready to show their hand. If that’s the scenario, you’ve come to sell him something he doesn’t need, or you want to go into some kind of partnership.”
The recitation hung in the air between them.
“None of that is very flattering,” she managed. “At least I passed the folder-in-the-drawer test.” Her eyes locked with Claymore’s. “Was it his idea or yours?”
<
br /> “Mine.”
“Good,” she answered, then was sorry she’d given away her feelings.
Claymore continued to scrutinize her. “Too bad you find my assessment of your motives unflattering. I’m not paid to hand out bouquets. I’m paid to protect this place from a variety of threats—including an invasion by a beautiful spy.”
“Then maybe the best thing for all of us is for me to leave here.”
He tipped his head to one side. “If you’re telling the truth about your missing memory, where would you go?”
That simple question sent a wave of cold sweeping over her skin. She had no idea where she would go. Her driver’s license said she was from Maryland. If it was a fake, it didn’t prove anything.
Holding his gaze, she asked, “If I said I wanted transportation to the nearest city, would you give it to me?”
There was no hesitation in his response. “No. I have to keep you here as our guest—for the time being.”
Her eyes swung to Bridgman. “You agree?”
“Yes.”
“So he’s the one in charge?”
“No,” he corrected her, his expression so neutral and his voice so flat that it was hard to believe he was the same man who had kissed her passionately a few minutes ago.
“I’m in charge,” he continued, “but I hired Blake to do a vital job here. It makes sense to defer to his judgment where security is concerned. Besides, I don’t think leaving would be in your best interests.”
“Why not?”
“You made me responsible for you.”
“How?”
“By coming here. By getting caught in an accident on my property.”
“So now that your security chief has given you a fantasy account of my background, you want to protect me,” she retorted.
His gaze never wavered. “Think about it this way. There were some pretty serious boulders rolling off that cliff. If someone arranged for you to get injured in a rockslide, they were playing fast and loose with your welfare. A little bad luck, and you could have been killed. So I think it’s a good idea to keep you here—for your own protection.”
“You’re just guessing!” she objected, yet she could feel perspiration forming on her brow.
“Do you want to risk your life on betting that I’m wrong?”
“Are you saying I have no choice but to trust you?” Easing her hand behind her, she gripped the countertop.
“There are always choices,” Claymore said, breaking into the exchange.
“Like what?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice even. She needed to sit down, but if she let go of the counter, she was afraid she might fall over. So she stayed with her hand clamped to the hard surface.
The security chief continued to study her as if he didn’t believe a word she’d been saying. “You seem intelligent. I’m sure you can figure out what’s in your best interests.”
“How can I convince you I’m telling the truth?” she asked.
His answer was prompt. “You can start with a lie-detector test.”
She gulped. “I—”
Before she could finish, Bridgman jumped in. “No! As her doctor, I think that would be too much of an ordeal at this time.”
The two men locked gazes.
“We could go with sodium Pentothal.”
“Out of the question in her condition. She’s recovering from a concussion, remember?”
“Are you sure?”
“She didn’t fake unconsciousness.”
Meg fought the sudden ringing that had started in her ears. These two men were acting as if she had no say in what happened to her.
“There are more important considerations than her health,” Claymore growled, his voice coming to her as if from a great distance, like the roar of breakers crashing on a beach.
“No,” Bridgman countered.
Meg tried looking from one to the other, but she felt her vision going fuzzy, her knees turning to jelly as she slipped from consciousness.
TOMMY WOKE WITH A START, his body covered with sweat, his gaze darting around the room. He had fallen asleep in the easy chair in front of the TV, watching an old Godzilla episode. That must be where the nightmare had come from. It had been about his little sister, Meg. She’d been running through a forest with monsters chasing her.
Leaning over the side of the chair, he pulled the phone up off the floor, set it on his lap, and dialed her number.
He got the answering machine. He thought he’d gotten it before, but he wasn’t sure. She should be home from work by now. Unless by some chance she was out on a date. He hoped she was out with some guy, having fun. She hardly ever dated, and he knew it was partly because of him. When she was home from her trips, she was always over at his apartment, bringing him food and fussing over him. That didn’t leave too much time for relationships.
He’d told her to get a life. She’d put her hands on her hips and said she was old enough to make her own decisions. Fine! But one day she was going to wake up and discover she was too old to get a guy.
He knew she loved him. He also knew she was using him as an excuse, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Dad had been really strict with her, drumming it into her head that guys were out to take what they could get from a girl with a great body. She hadn’t bought it at first. Then she’d gone away to college and had a couple of bad encounters that had convinced her. good old Dad had been right. Like the time she’d been in the library stacks and heard a couple of guys discussing her body. Or the night a drunken fraternity brother had cornered her in the music room and started pawing her.
Too bad stuff like that had made her supercautious, because she deserved to settle down with some nice guy who would love her and give her the kids she longed to have. But so far, he didn’t see it happening.
Maybe when he was dead. That wouldn’t be too far in the future. Some days he imagined hurrying the process along. His eyes flicked toward the drawer where he kept his service pistol. The image of his lifeless body on the floor was followed by a picture of the stricken look on Meg’s face, and he knew he couldn’t do that to her.
FROM SOMEWHERE FAR AWAY, Meg heard Bridgman’s voice as he steadied her, shifted her in his arms so that her head slumped against his shoulder. “Meg, are you all right? Meg, answer me!”
“I…think so,” she managed, pulling herself back to consciousness.
“And I think we’re finished with the interrogation,” he growled, the comment obviously addressed to Claymore.
“Convenient!” the security chief retorted. “I think she’s faking so I’ll stop pressing her.”
Meg couldn’t focus on the rest of the exchange, only the sound of their angry voices, and the feel of Bridgman’s hands holding her up. She pressed her face into his shoulder, trying to block out everything but the physical contact.
When he swung her up off the floor and cradled her against his chest, she gave a little sigh. Striding out of the lounge, he carried her down the hall to a small examination room where he laid her on a narrow padded table.
When he switched on an overhead light, she closed her eyes against the glare.
“What…happened to me?”
“You fainted.” He picked up her wrist and pressed his finger against her pulse. Through slitted eyes, she watched him check his watch.
“I felt dizzy…then…fuzzy. Then…you were holding me.”
“Does your head hurt?”
“No. The stuff you gave me worked.”
“Good.”
He was already busy fitting a blood-pressure cuff around her arm. She tried to relax while he took the reading.
“What is it?”
“One-twenty over sixty.”
She kept her eyes away from his face as he found the hem of her knit top and rolled the fabric out of the way, exposing her skin to cool air before he pressed the stethoscope against her chest.
“Take a deep breath.”
She complied. He was just a doctor giving h
er a quick exam, she told herself; he wasn’t a man looking at the way her breasts filled the cups of her lacy bra. But she knew that after the way he’d kissed her, it was impossible for either of them to be completely impersonal.
“Normal,” he said, his voice a little thick as he pulled the shirt back into place.
“I’m not the kind of woman who likes being weak and dependent,” she whispered, unable to raise her eyes to his.
“How do you know, if you can’t remember who you are?” he challenged.
She managed a tiny laugh. “There’s the window. How many women would have scaled the bathroom wall?”
“Not many,” he admitted. “But it wasn’t such a smart move. What if you’d blacked out then?”
“I didn’t.”
“Look at me, Meg.”
She did, staring up at him questioningly. “I’m going to check your pupils,” he said, as he switched on a small flashlight and shone it into her right eye, then her left. Afterward he had her follow the movement of his finger.
“Normal,” he reported again. “I think you were just reacting to stress.”
She managed a small laugh. “You mean Mr. Claymore’s interrogation? Or the disturbing fact that my past is a blank?”
“Not knowing who you are would be frightening.”
“Then you believe me?” She reached for his hand and folded her fingers around his, holding on tight.
“I…want to.”
“But you don’t trust me,” she clarified, letting her hand drop back to her side.
“This isn’t simply about you and me. A lot is at stake here.”
“Yes. Your research. It’s important to you.”
“It’s not just a personal whim. A group of sick men is depending on me.”
She gave a little nod, closed her eyes and struggled for calm. She wanted to hide from him—from herself. But there was nowhere to disappear in this little room. “You really think it’s not safe for me to leave here?”
“Not until you remember why you came.”
“Now who’s putting on the pressure?”
“Sorry.”
She looked into his gray-blue eyes, wanting more than the compassion she saw in their depths. Once again, she found it impossible to censor her thoughts. “Was he telling the truth about the kind of woman who would attract you?”
