You Must Remember This

by Marilyn Pappano

  He still said nothing. He simply stared at her.

  “Did I give you the impression that I was expecting anything from you? Did you think I believed the things you said last night?”

  I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to ever since the first time I saw you. Because you’re a beautiful woman and you’re sweet and you have a voice to make a man ache. I did it because I wanted to. Because I wanted you.

  Her smile was tremulous. “Frankly, I thought you were crazy. I thought you’d been alone too long. I thought you felt more comfortable with someone not too demanding and easy to please, which, of course, describes me perfectly. I didn’t think it meant anything spec—”

  “You are so damned naive.”

  She blinked and closed her mouth.

  “I meant every word I said last night—and, darlin’, if you thought that kiss was nothing special, then you’re even more innocent than I thought.”

  For a long moment, she stared at him, obviously confused. Finally, carefully, she said, “Maybe I am, because I don’t have a clue what’s going on here. But I still want to help you. I can keep things strictly business between us—”

  “But I can’t.”

  She stared a moment longer, then shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said in a small voice. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  “What’s wrong is that I want you more than you can even begin to imagine. What’s wrong is that you’re sweet, naive and innocent, and I’m not. What’s wrong is me in your life.”

  She made an obvious effort to steady her voice. It trembled, anyway. “What did you remember, Martin?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “But important enough for all this. What is it?”

  He let himself touch her then, just the simple brush of his palm across her hair. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.” He sure as hell didn’t.

  “I do trust you, and I do want to know.”

  She sounded so sure, but he knew she wasn’t. Once he told her, once she knew the truth, it would change the way she looked at him. It would definitely change the way she felt about him.

  “Please, Martin.”

  He looked away, folded his arms across his chest, then met her gaze evenly and blurted his confession. “I killed a man. Maybe I regretted it later, I don’t know, but at the time, I was glad. I killed him, Juliet, and I was glad.”

  Juliet wanted to look away to hide the shock that she knew must be on her face, but he expected that of her. Instead, she looked straight into his eyes, never wavering or flinching. Details. Before she reacted to this news, she needed details. “How did you figure this out?”

  “I’ve suspected it for a long time. After last night, I’m sure.”

  “And what happened last night? Another dream?”

  His only response was a shrug. With his arms folded, he looked both chagrined and incredibly stubborn.

  “It was a dream, Martin. Dreams are generally not real.”

  “This one was.”

  She rested one hand on his forearm, her fingers curving over taut muscle. “I had a very vivid dream once that took place in colonial Massachusetts. In it, I was an American spy in the Revolutionary War. It didn’t mean that two hundred years ago I was a spy in the war. All it meant was that the dozens of Revolutionary War novels I’d been reading had had a really strong impact on me.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t been reading any murder mysteries lately. This wasn’t just a dream, Juliet. I killed a man. I know it.”

  She wanted to argue, but she respected him too much. If he truly believed this dream was a replay of an actual event, it might well be true. “But you don’t know who this man was, or when or where it happened, or under what circumstances.”

  He shook his head.

  “Then it could have been self-defense.”

  “And it could have been cold-blooded murder.”

  She studied him for a long moment. She didn’t doubt that he was capable of killing. She believed everyone was, with the right threat. But cold-blooded murder? Not Martin, with his charming grins, his sizzling kisses and his empathy for mistreated kids and abandoned puppies.

  But he had been Martin only since last June. The man he’d been before that could have been capable of anything.

  It wasn’t a comforting thought.

  “We know you weren’t arrested for it, or you would have been fingerprinted. Maybe the man’s death was ruled self-defense and no charges were brought against you.”

  “Or maybe they never caught me and his murder is still unsolved.”

  He really believed this. He was convinced that he was a killer. How did she feel about that?

  Juliet believed anyone who had died at Martin’s hand had deserved his fate. She believed he would never hurt anyone unless that person was threatening harm to someone else. She believed that if he had killed some unknown man, he had paid ever since with guilt and remorse. She believed that he was a better man than he believed himself to be.

  Didn’t she? Or was she kidding herself because he was handsome, because his grin was charming and his kisses were sizzling, because he empathized with others less fortunate than him? Because she was falling for him?

  No. If she were rationalizing, somewhere deep inside she would still be the slightest bit afraid of him, and she wasn’t. She’d known from the first night he’d shown up at her door that he’d been no stranger to violence, but she wasn’t afraid. He would never hurt her, unless he broke her heart or tried, as he just had in the library, to protect her from himself.

  “You can’t make judgments about yourself based on bits of a dream, Martin. Until you know who the man was, how he died and why he died, you can’t blame yourself for his death. You could have been protecting yourself or others from a madman. You could have saved the life of an innocent woman or a helpless child. You could have been a hero.”

  “A hero,” he repeated, his voice edged with scorn. “Don’t think that, Juliet. I’m not hero material.”

  She smiled gently. He could be her hero. “The fact that you worry so much about the kind of man you used to be suggests to me that you couldn’t have been the kind of man you fear. That knock on the head didn’t give you morals and ethics, Martin. You already had them.”

  “So what am I hiding from? If there isn’t something awful in my past, why can’t I remember?”

  “I’m no expert on amnesia,” she said, though she had waded through countless sites on the subject, “but I know the workings of the mind aren’t that simple. You’ll recover your memory eventually, and I’ll bet you dinner at Randolphs that there’s not going to be anything awful in it.”

  Mention of the most expensive restaurant in town brought him a faint smile. It wasn’t the sort of place either of them could afford on even a semiregular basis, but the return of his memory would be an event to celebrate.

  It could also be goodbye.

  At last he uncrossed his arms and slid one around her waist. “I hope you win.”

  So did she—not just the bet, but a chance, a wish, a future. Everything.

  His expression grew more serious. “I’m sorry.”

  Finally she was able to look away, lowering her gaze to his chest. “It’s okay.”

  “No.” His fingers gently forced her chin up. “I thought—I still think you would be better off away from me. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “No one ever really knows that, do they? Everything’s a gamble.”

  “But you can improve the odds in your favor by getting involved with the right kind of man.”

  “And what’s the right kind?”

  “Someone normal, average, who knows who he is, what he’s done, where he’s going. Someone whose life isn’t full of questions and fresh out of answers. Someone you can trust.”

  She moved a few feet away and rested one hand on a branch just above her head. A slight breeze blew past her, rustling the leaves, brushing her skirt against her legs, bringing with
it the lovely scent of flowers. “You just described the last guy I dated. He was an account rep with the company I worked for. He was an up-and-coming executive, bright, ambitious, with a desire to get ahead and make a name for himself. In the business world, he was perfectly normal and average.”

  A strand of hair fell across her face, and she brushed it back, catching it behind her ear. “We went out a half-dozen times. He spent a lot of money on me, said all the right words, made all the right moves. We seemed well suited, and the sex was incredible. I imagined myself well on the way to falling in love with him.” She hadn’t been, of course. She hadn’t dated since the illness that had led to her mother’s death, and she’d been lonely, hungry for companionship, affection and sex, and he had been so very charming. She’d been more in love with the whole relationship than with him.

  “One evening, when he came over, he said he had something to ask me. I actually thought it might be a marriage proposal. I was a little giddy and excited and frightened and trying to decide what my answer would be when finally I heard what he was really asking. He wanted me to hack into the computer of his rival in the company. They were competing for a new account, and he needed the inside track to be sure he got it. That was why he’d gone out with me, why he’d gone to bed with me.” She smiled and realized that it wasn’t forced or embarrassed at all, but rather relieved. Neither the story nor the man responsible for it still held the power to hurt her. “By your standards, he’s exactly the right sort of man for me. By mine, he doesn’t come close. I’d much rather take my chances on someone with questions and no answers.”

  Martin came to stand in front of her, his hand resting on the branch next to hers. “I knew the first time I saw you that the men in Texas were blind or fools or both.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then, his expression fading into bleakness, he returned to his earlier subject. “I don’t want to hurt you, Juliet. I don’t want to disappoint you. I sure as hell don’t want to frighten you.”

  “Hurt and disappointment are a risk in any relationship.”

  “But they’re a bigger risk in ours.”

  “So maybe the payoff is bigger, too.” And maybe the heartache would be bigger. Maybe the emptiness would be emptier, the loneliness lonelier.

  Moments rustled past on the breeze as they stared at each other. Finally he blinked, gave a little shake of his head and almost smiled. “Do something for me, would you? Expect something from me. Believe everything I said last night and today about wanting you.”

  She had to swallow before she could answer. “All right. And you do something for me. The next time you have one of those dreams, come to me. No matter how late or early. We’ll talk.”

  After a moment, he solemnly nodded. It was the only answer he offered.

  “I have to get back inside. I haven’t gotten much work done this morning.”

  “Let me take you to lunch.”

  She hesitated, wanting very much to say yes. “I’d better work through lunch, or I’ll feel guilty. You’re coming over this evening?”

  He nodded.

  She started to leave but stopped with her hand on his. “Everything will be all right, Martin. Whatever you remember, whatever we find out, it’ll be okay.”

  “I hope you’re right, darlin’.”

  She was a dozen yards away when he called. “Hey, how’s Hunter?”

  “He’s stubborn and smelly and manipulative as hell.” Then she grinned. “He’s all right.” So was Martin. And so was she.

  * * *

  Martin stopped inside the door of the deli and gave the room a quick survey. It was lunchtime, and most of the tables were occupied, with only a few empties here and there. Eating alone was one thing he’d never minded, not from the start, even when he’d been treated like an oddity on display by everyone around. He figured he’d spent most of his life doing things alone. It just came too naturally to him.

  He intended to spend as much of the near future as possible with Juliet, even though he shouldn’t. Even though she claimed she understood the risks. Even though he did believe she was better off without him. If she had let him walk away from the library without an argument this morning, maybe he would have been able to manage, but when she’d come after him… Well, a man could be strong for only so long. Maybe he could stay away from her if she cooperated, but if she was willing to take a chance on him, wasn’t taking his own chances the least he could do?

  He was heading toward a table near the television mounted on one wall when a table across the room caught his attention. Hal Stuart sat there, the remains of a sandwich in front of him, and across from him was none other than Maxwell Brown. On impulse, Martin turned in their direction, taking the nearest empty table.

  The idea of Hal and Maxwell as friends was a difficult one for Martin to get his mind around. The two men knew each other socially, of course. They were both prominent in town. They were just different. Maxwell’s interests seemed focused entirely on his business—even in the middle of the night—while Hal’s biggest interest was himself.

  Maybe their lunch was business and not social. Hal was a lawyer. Maxwell could be one of his clients. Or perhaps Maxwell had some business with the city council and hoped to win Hal to his side. Whatever the purpose, Hal didn’t seem in a particularly good mood, and nothing Maxwell said changed that. In fact, there were a few times when, judging from his body language, Hal’s responses to Maxwell were definitely hostile and, once, bordering on threatening.

  Interesting. Something was definitely going on with Hal. Whether it was in any way connected to his mother’s murder was another question entirely, but something was wrong. After lunch and before work at the church, he would stop by the courthouse, Martin decided, and find out what he could about Hal. Maybe there was nothing to learn…but maybe there was.

  Before Martin finished his sandwich, Maxwell Brown left, greeting other diners on his way out. He was well known in town, not only from his diversified business interests but also from his generosity. There was a clinic over at the hospital with his name on it. His various companies supported more than a dozen of Grand Springs’s Little League teams. He was a major contributor to the Grand Springs Historical Society and one of the top-level supporters of Olivia Stuart’s own favored charities. No fund-raising effort was complete without Maxwell Brown.

  Back at the table, Hal was scowling at everything and nothing. When his gaze settled on Martin, his face darkened and his expression turned contemptuous. He tossed a stingy tip on the table, then came to Martin’s, sliding in across from him. “I had a talk with Chief Sanderson about you and that woman.”

  “You did.”

  “If you two don’t stay out of police business, he’s going to lock you—”

  “That’s not what the chief told you, now, is it? It’s no crime to ask questions about a murder, you know. If it was, why, the chief would have to lock up everybody in town.” Martin watched Hal’s face turn red and finished quietly, “I had a talk with Chief Sanderson, too.”

  “This case is none of your business. You’re interfering with the real investigation and making it more difficult to find the man who ordered my mother’s murder.”

  “We’re not interfering with anything.” Except possibly Hal’s peace of mind. Why was that? “You know, if my mother had been murdered, I think I would appreciate all the help that was offered in solving the case, no matter where it came from.”

  Stuart got to his feet and gave Martin one of those arrogant, straight-down-his-nose looks that Juliet had gotten the other day. “You expect me to be grateful for the ‘help’ of a part-time handyman who doesn’t even know his own name and a mousy little computer clerk who’s afraid of her own shadow. Get a grip on reality, Smith. Go back to your little painting-and-hammering job, and leave the police work to the police.”

  He should have been put firmly in his place, Martin acknowledged as he watched the other man walk away, but Hal’s insults didn’t bother him—at least
, not the ones directed at him. He was too curious about Hal’s overall response to take offense. Why was he so dead set against anyone but the police—who’d made zero progress in the last six months—looking into Olivia’s death?

  It was a question he puzzled over through the afternoon and finally asked aloud of Juliet as they sat on her back steps after dinner. It was a warm evening, the dinner dishes were done, Hunter was enjoying the freedom of the backyard, and Martin was enjoying Juliet, almost too much to bring up business. When he did, she seemed almost as reluctant to answer.

  After a long silence, she glanced at him. “Maybe he’s afraid that we’ll mess up everything—that something we do could jeopardize the police investigation.”

  “What investigation? For all practical purposes, the case is closed. Until something happens, it’s sitting in the files with all their other unsolved cases. They have no leads, no clues, no theories. Entire weeks go by that they don’t put in even a minute’s work on that case.”

  “Maybe he has more faith in them than we do. Maybe he’s kidding himself that they’re making progress.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want a new perspective on the case.”

  She looked at him, waiting for more.

  “The first rule in a murder investigation is to look at who profits. Find out if there’s a life insurance policy, how big it is and who the beneficiaries are. Look at the will and see who’s inheriting. Find out who stands to gain from the victim’s death and investigate those people first.”

  “And you learned this…?”

  He shrugged. It was easier than saying, I don’t know. “Hal was never a suspect, even though he profited from Olivia’s death. No one ever looked at him. Everyone in the department knows him. Half the officers grew up with him. He’s an attorney, the ex-mayor’s son, a council member. Hell, he’s the city council’s liaison to the police department. He helps them get their money, goes to bat for them whenever they need anything. It’s damn hard to suspect someone you like and respect in a murder.”