by Dana Volney
“What happened?” She reached for his hand and intertwined their fingers.
“You took down two guys. The problem was the third.” He placed a kiss on her temple.
“I don’t remember that.” Her brows pulled together and she quickly released them. No facial movement today. Check. Headaches were the worst. “I need a greasy breakfast.”
His easy smile touched his eyes. The rich, caramel tone of his face was framed beautifully with his manicured scruff. She squeezed his hand tighter. When selling a lie it was best to go all in and concentrate not on the lie but about the truth you wanted your mark to believe.
She pulled him closer, placing their joined hand on her breast and pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s all for the cause.
He pulled back. “What are you doing?” He dropped her hand on the bed.
“Since when are you opposed to PDA? We had sex in the bathroom at L’Alchimiste last night, for God’s sake.” France was the best. The art. The marks. The French were full of possibilities. They’d had a great time there, and it was the perfect place to pick up from for what she had planned. Catching him off guard, keeping him guessing, was going to work to her advantage. She’d just have to suck up the whole pretending to be in love with him part. She’d done worse for less before.
“You’re not being funny.” His thick black brows knitted together as he searched her gaze and his one dimple appeared.
“I’m not joking.” She was dead serious about helping Grace and anyone else being harmed at Club Alegria.
“This is not the time for one of your cons.” He crossed his arms, his thumbs in the crook of his shoulder. “You’ve been in a coma for almost half a day.”
“I’m in the hospital. It’s not a time for you to joke with me, either.” Well, shit. Coma? Not cool.
“What year do you think it is?”
“I’ve never understood your sense of humor.” She pushed herself up and winced at the pain but kept going. She wasn’t going to be at the disadvantage of lying down, given where this conversation was going. She glanced around the small room, confusion causing her face to slack.
Samson put his hand on her back and helped steady her. “Claire, what year is it?”
“What kind of question is that?”
His touch drifted away. “Holy shit, did you say L’Alchimiste? Like the bar we used to go to in France?”
“Used to go? We were there last night.”
Samson was no fool, but she was going all in. It was now or never with her crazy plan.
A woman in a white coat entered. She sported a gentle smile that Claire wanted to knock off her face. Hospitals were the worst.
“Good timing, Doc. She thinks it’s two years ago.” Samson waved a hand in the air.
“This one,” Claire pointed at Samson, “needs his head examined while you’re at it. Or a funny bone implanted.”
“Claire, it’s nice to see that you’re awake. I’m Dr. Caffey. I want to check your optics.” She walked to the other side of the bed and took out a light. The brightness triggered intense pain behind her eyes and Claire pulled back. Between the pain and having to con Samson so he’d do the right thing, her mood was going downhill fast.
“You sustained quite the trauma to your head.” The doctor jotted down a note in her folder.
“I don’t remember.” Claire glanced to Samson, who was staring at her … or more like through her with a frown.
The door to her room hit the wall and Sabene bounded in, followed by Rife.
“Claire. Oh my God, I was so worried.” Sabene brushed by Samson and wrapped her arms around Claire’s neck. “Someone,” she shot a glare at Samson, who didn’t seem to register the pissed look, “waited to call and tell us what was going on.”
Sabene backed up between the two men. Claire’s gaze drifted left to Rife, who was the tall end of the Sabene sandwich. “What are you two doing in France? Together?”
“Are you for real?” Rife stood at the foot of her bed and glanced at Samson. “We’re in Arlington. Virginia, Claire.” He eyed Samson. “How hard did she hit her head?”
“Fucking hard, man,” Samson said without moving a muscle.
“Would someone please tell me what in the fuck is going on?” The effort to raise her voice stung. Claire braced her forehead in her hand and took a deep breath, staying as still as she could. “Please.”
“You and I left France a little over two years ago.” Samson took a step toward her. “Separately. At least I think you left France. I never knew exactly where you went.”
She’d left alone all right. For a good fucking reason.
“Claire, what are your parents’ names?” the doctor asked.
She hesitated. “Michael and Elizabeth.” She preferred not to ever think about her dead parents.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Around,” she snapped. There was absolutely no reason for her to unleash her life story in a room full of professional assassins and thieves.
“What is the last thing you remember?” the doctor persisted.
She took a deep breath and forced herself into an easy smile. “Drinks at our favorite bar.” Her gaze skipped to Samson at the same moment he looked to the floor.
“That was a little more than two years ago.” He met her eyes, and a sadness crept over his features. “The month before we broke up.”
His words were a direct punch to her gut. Still. “What? That’s not possible.” She shook her head and the pain flared again. She cupped the sides of her face with both hands and applied careful pressure. Tears pinched at the edge of her eyes. “How?” She gazed straight into his chocolate stare.
“That’s a story for another time.”
She was almost looking forward to hearing their break-up story from his point of view. Almost. Drudging up the past, their past, was merely a means to an end. Getting back together with Samson wasn’t her goal—it wasn’t even twelfth on the list. Saving Grace was number one.
“I believe you have traumatic amnesia,” the doctor broke in. “You sustained a concussion last night, which led to a coma and, it appears, memory loss.”
“When will they come back?” That was an earnest question. She’d never faked amnesia before and had no idea what the rules of the infliction were. She might have to do a little Googling later.
“It’s hard to say.” The doctor shook her head. “Sometimes hours, days, or never.” The sorrow in Samson’s eyes snaked through her chest and was as unbearable as her headache.
She probably should’ve put more thought into this. It wasn’t fair to Samson and she knew that. But she did have to keep up appearances. He was starting to buy her lie. She wasn’t good at grifting because it was easy. She was good because she committed to the role wholeheartedly.
Chapter Three
Samson left to chase down the doctor as Sabene sat on the edge of Claire’s bed, offering condolences at her memory loss.
“Doctor Caffey.”
She swirled around, sticking her pen into her breast pocket. “Yes?”
“There has to be more we can do.”
“With cases like Claire’s, it’s often helpful to place them in recognizable surroundings, common tasks, and their normal routine. All of that could help spark her memory. You should be aware that her memory may never fully or even partially return. Familiarity should, at the very least, help ease the agitation most head trauma patients experience.”
“There’s something for all of us to look forward to.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Claire was troubled all right. She’d just found out she’d lost years of her life. The way she’d looked at him like she cared … what a cruel blast of the past.
“Patients with memory loss can exhibit altered behavior, become upset more easily due to the frustration. She hasn’t forgotten basics, which is lucky.”
“Only time.”
“It appears so.”
“Why two years?” Such an odd thing that she’d forget the entire time
they’d been apart.
“The mind can be a mystery.” The pager attached to her waist emitted a series of beeps. “You’ll need to contact her primary care physician for check-ups to monitor her progress. We’ll keep her here for another twenty-four hours for observation,” she said before rushing down the hall.
He’d lay money on Claire wanting to sneak out before the doctor’s official discharge.
“Then we all decided to stay together as a team,” Sabene was saying as he entered the hospital room.
Shit. Besides Claire being hurt, this was his second-worst nightmare. It had taken him a helluva long time to get over her. There was no way he was going to put himself in a situation where she could mess with his sanity again. And Lord knew she could. She knew it, too. As awful as it sounded, he wanted to believe that she wasn’t faking amnesia, that she really didn’t remember the past two years. But there’d been a shadow of something when she’d first woken up. Of what he couldn’t put his finger on just yet. He’d have to watch her closely.
Holy fuck, this was going to get messy before it got better.
“We work in a family now?” Claire directed her question to him. They didn’t do anything, they were just a part of the same team for the time being. Independent of each other. He hadn’t stuck around because she had—he’d merely liked the new set-up and wanted to stay in the States for a while.
“Going on a couple of months.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“We get shit done for people,” Rife chimed in.
Claire laughed. “I never in a million years thought you’d be happy to work with others again.”
“You and me both.” Rife winked then turned to Samson. “I’m going to head out. Sabene has a couple of people she wanted eyes on.”
Sabene grimaced and glanced at Claire apologetically. “You’ll never guess who owns Club Alegria.”
“This isn’t the time or place. We’re off the case,” Samson said. This so-called case had already injured one. He wasn’t letting that trend continue. They were in no shape to take on anyone. They could eventually look into the SL-40s—when they had a full, healthy team. Gangs were ruthless, and the team would need to be at their best.
“Case?” Claire met his stare. Fuck, there were no hard edges to the way she looked at him. Admiration was there. Like the old days.
“What you two were working on last night on your stakeout? A missing girl?” Sabene waggled her brows, and it was his turn to let out a disapproving sigh.
“She’s an adult. And more than likely just fine.” He glared at Sabene. “Obviously, Claire needs a break.”
“No, no. Let’s hear this.” Claire crossed her legs on the bed.
“You’re in pain. This can wait.” Her winces at the light, her squinting, and loud voices physically making her head move back hadn’t gone unnoticed. He grabbed the curtain and closed it to stop the sun rays from streaming in.
“Work is always a good distraction, lover.”
The word stung the back of his throat. Lover. He hadn’t heard that in a long while. Not with her sass and coy smile.
“The Salvadorian gang, the SL-40, who just moved into our beloved Arlington is running Club Alegria, and that’s not all. They’re running a sex ring for sure, like big time, and I’d put some money on drugs, too, but only as a secondary business. There’s chatter that they’re strong-arming some locals out of the way to take over the area.”
“That’s probably what your girl got into.”
Samson whipped his head around—Rife hadn’t left after all. Samson took the opportunity to glare at him as well. Glares for everyone until they shut up.
“My girl?” Claire asked.
“You met her parents yesterday at the police station when you were doing a favor for me.” Sabene lowered her voice like she was going to inform Claire of a conspiracy. “It concerned a certain evidence bag that needed to be returned without raising alarms. Anyway,” she perked back up, “as you were leaving, you heard this couple trying to file a missing person’s report for their daughter, Grace Kaye, and the cops wouldn’t help them so you decided it was shady enough that they needed us. And then you talked Samson into a stakeout and here we are.”
“Yes, here we are.” Samson scratched the back of his head. “The doctor wants to keep you for another day for observation.”
“Not happening. I’m fine.” She dismissed him, and the way she held her shoulders perked up the hairs on the back of his neck. Something was off.
There was no use in arguing—she’d win and he’d be pissed that he even tried. He grabbed the sack that held her clothes from last night from the chair. “Here. Put these on.”
“We need to find this girl and help the others.” Claire’s tone was resolute. Just like it had been last night when she’d pitched the idea of the stakeout to him. “And then take care of the assholes responsible.”
There’s the Claire he worked with—if you couldn’t schmooze ’em, you killed ’em. He wasn’t opposed to the killing part, but he and Rife could take care of that. She didn’t need to tag along.
“I mean it, Samson.” She whipped her legs over the side of the bed.
This case struck a nerve with her now just as it had yesterday. He knew why. She knew why. No one else knew why. And it was going to stay that way.
“We’ll talk about it.” He shoved the pile of clothes toward her and she huffed when she took them.
“Apparently, I don’t need to run it by you. Since we’re not together.” Her words held a bite, but the grief that passed through her eyes made his entire chest want to swallow itself.
Fuck, this sucked. He barely liked her these days and yet watching her beautiful green eyes look at him with any emotion besides hatred was making him think twice about what they used to have. He didn’t want to go there. And after less than thirty minutes of being awake, she was already in his head, making him second-guess history he had no business giving any thoughts to. There’d been a big miscommunication that caused them to call it quits in the first place; one neither of them could be bothered to clear up. She’d not trusted him. She didn’t deserve his trust now.
She clenched the open ends of her hospital gown to cover her firm ass and made her way to the bathroom.
“I’ll get her situated.” He glanced around the room—nothing else to grab. “We’ll start fresh in the morning. I don’t think Claire should jump right back into anything, but fuck if I’m going to be able to stop her.” He gave his orders then softened his tone. “Do what you need to today, but be careful and check in with each other. I’m a phone call away.” The last thing any of them wanted was someone else on the team getting hurt. With a new gang in town, this wasn’t over, but the team had to go about it with fresh eyes and not out of anger. Because, make no mistake, anger simmered below the surface of all of them. You didn’t mess with one of their own and expect to get away with it. They were a team, called a family in their world, and that was sacred. If he let the others go off half-cocked because of the attack on Claire and something more happened, he’d never hear the end of it from Able either. God knew he didn’t need his big brother holding another thing over his head.
Rife and Sabene left without saying a word. They’d all figure this out in the morning. Today he had to figure out what exactly to do with Claire.
She came out of the bathroom in her turtleneck, tight jeans, red jacket, and boots with a heel from last night. She was a chameleon who could fit into any situation. Her personal style was more easy-going and classy.
“What did I do to my hair?” She pulled at the blonde curls that stopped just above her shoulder.
He chuckled. God help him.
“That’s changing, pronto.” She started for the door.
She was pretty no matter what she did with her hair, but he did love her curls auburn.
“I need a shower and different clothes. Let’s go.”
He drove them to her home in silence. He had no idea what else to say
. They hadn’t had a real conversation in way too long. He didn’t even know how to have one with her anymore.
* * *
Claire stepped through her front door and said a quick prayer that she’d cleaned the dirty clothes off her floor yesterday. She stopped in the short entry way and rubbed her temple as she took in the expansive room with bright white walls and impossibly high ceilings. Yep, she’d tidied up. The painting she’d picked up in Athens, the red velvet antique chaise she’d fallen in love with in Milan, and the sophisticated smell of salty sea air and blonde wood all welcomed her home.
Her gaze skipped to him as he moved into her living room. She’d not put it together before now, maybe because he’d never been to her apartment before, but the scent that filled her home was reminiscent of the turquoise waters of Anguilla where she and Samson had snuck off to for an entire month to celebrate their second anniversary. His muscled arms were clear even through his brown jacket, he kept his curly, black hair short and his facial hair deliberately manicured to a perfect five o’clock shadow that sometimes she got the urge to run her fingers over.
His stare locked with hers and she smiled. She wasn’t sure what else to do. Or how long she could pull this off. Her usual cons didn’t last more than a week—she might have to keep this one up for forever. He’d kept to himself since the hospital. Even now there was implied distance in his gaze.
She dropped her purse on the floor then followed the hallway to the right. Her room was the one on the end, but she had to keep up appearances. She opened the first door on her left. Not her bedroom. It was, however, a beautiful painting space. An easel that faced a wall of windows was set up in the middle of the room. The walls were stark white, but her brightly colored paintings, most forgeries, were hung and her supplies littered the shelving. A smile touched her eyes and tightened her chest. She had made a life in Arlington.
She closed the door, skipped the next one, and headed straight for the door at the end of the hall. Her master bedroom was light and airy. A four-poster frame held a king-size bed to her right, and to her left was an open space with a reading nook and floor-to-ceiling windows with a great view of the river and city. A prevailing sense of uncertainty chilled her arms as she veered into the bathroom area and opened a door into the biggest closet she’d ever owned. It was lined with hanging clothes of every shape and color, drawers that held more, and shoes racked all along the bottom.
