by Joyce Lamb
When Roz returned with Sam’s water, Mac said, “I can go ahead and order for us.”
Roz took out her pad and pen. “Ready when you are, hon.” Her drawl was low and gravelly.
“I’ll have the shrimp and grits with side orders of hush puppies and mac and cheese. My friend will have the double bacon cheeseburger with everything, French fries, onion rings and the biggest chocolate shake you can make.”
Roz smirked. “I heard her say she wants a salad.”
Mac leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “But she needs a cheeseburger. Don’t you think she’s too skinny?”
“Honey, every white woman on God’s green earth would kill for that girl’s body.”
“Well, I happen to like a little junk in the trunk.”
Roz threw her head back and laughed, sending her breasts into a vibrating jig. Her dark brown eyes twinkled. “Then we’ll get your sweetie fattened up in no time.”
She continued to chuckle as she made her way back to the kitchen with a relaxed sway of her rounded hips.
Sam returned from the restroom, her appearance a sharp contrast to Roz’s healthy glow. Her skin stretched taut over her cheekbones, dark circles highlighting the pallor of her complexion. She’d pulled her dark hair into a tidy ponytail, which emphasized the sharpness of her collarbones and the honed angles of her jawline. She appeared so much more thin now, as though the drug that had stripped her of her memories had also stripped her of needed pounds.
Her sharp eyes scrutinized the other patrons again while her fingers began to pick apart the paper napkin holding her flatware.
“You can relax,” Mac said after a full minute. “No one knows where we are.”
Her steel blue eyes shifted to meet his, and he saw that her senses were jacked up as if she’d downed a double shot of sugar-laden espresso from Starbucks. Jesus, he thought, from sleep drunk to wired in the space of half an hour.
“How do we know each other?” she asked.
The question, blunt and out of nowhere, made him sit back. He had to resist the urge to squirm under her unflinching gaze. She must be one hell of an interrogator in her spy life.
“And don’t lie this time,” she added.
He picked up his coffee and took a slow sip, the whole time cognizant of her hyperalertness to his every move. Such riveted attention from such a strikingly beautiful woman unnerved him. He imagined she could undress him with just her shrewd gaze. And, for an unguarded moment, he wished she would. He wouldn’t complain for one nanosecond about getting into bed naked with this woman . . . or getting up against a wall or on the floor or . . .
“Please stop trying to figure out how to answer and just tell me the truth.”
He couldn’t suppress a small smile. Wasn’t thinking about the answer. Was thinking about sex. Hot, naked, sweaty sex with a spy.
He shifted to allow more room in the tightening crotch of his jeans. What the hell was that about? He wasn’t some randy teenager drooling over his first Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. No, Sam Trudeau was way hotter than any over-tanned, over-siliconed babe in a bikini.
Before he could summon the brainpower to respond, Roz returned with several plates of food.
Sam frowned at the burger and fries but said nothing. Her eyes widened as Roz set the chocolate shake in front of her. It was served in a Big Gulp–sized frosted glass with whipped cream and a cherry on top.
“Y’all need anything else for now?” Roz asked, her smile wide and sweet.
Mac waited for Sam to protest and insist on a piddly salad. Instead, she muttered, “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”
Roz shot Mac an exaggerated wink before waddling away.
Sam thumped her foot against Mac’s shin under the table, and he yelped. “Ow, hey! What’d you do that for?”
“Don’t flirt with her.”
He grinned, enjoying the fire in her eyes. “Why? Jealous?”
“No, you idiot. She’ll remember you.”
He opened his mouth to tell her that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard but then said nothing. Maybe she was right. She was the one with the spy skills, after all.
Sam nudged the shake toward him. “This must be yours.”
He slid it back toward her. “Nope. Drink up. Eat up. You need fuel. You haven’t eaten all day.”
She glared down at the huge burger dripping with cheese, strips of bacon drooping over the sides under the crowning bun. “You heard me say I wanted a salad, right?”
“Heard you loud and clear.” He dug into his shrimp and grits and tried not to roll his eyes at how amazing they tasted. Creamy, salty goodness.
She picked up a French fry and sat back to nibble at it, leaving the burger untouched.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He snagged a crispy onion ring off her plate. “Aren’t you about to gnaw off a paw?”
“I’m used to going without when I’m on a mission.”
“How do you know that? Do you remember starving on a specific mission?”
Her frown deepened, bringing out the three vertical lines above the bridge of her nose, but she said nothing.
Mac sampled a fry next. As it crunched between his teeth, he gave in. “If you really want a salad, I’ll go ask Roz to bring you one.” The last thing he wanted was to deprive the woman of at least some calories.
“You’ve already done enough to make certain she’ll never forget us.”
He shrugged as he drew the heaping bowl of baked mac and cheese closer to his plate. “I can’t help it. I’m unforgettable.”
She winced at that. The exact opposite reaction from the indulgent smile he’d been angling for. Damn, he hadn’t meant to needle her about her amnesia. Time to change the subject. He could at least give her something she wanted. Answers.
“You asked how we know each other. I work with your sisters. Charlie and Alex. At the Lake Avalon Gazette. Does any of that ring a bell?”
The way she gazed back at him, unblinking, gave him her answer. Not one tiny ding.
“Your dad owns the paper. Or owned it, actually. Billionaire came in last year and bought him out of the newspaper. Relaunched the Gazette with a beefed-up staff and reduced space for advertising as a sort of test to see if the community would buy a newspaper not beholden to advertisers. So far, it’s working.” He paused when she reached for an onion ring. That looked promising. “Your dad’s living for golf these days, and appears to love it.”
“What do Charlie and Alex do at the paper?” Her features softened as she asked, as though she somehow remembered shared affection with them.
“Charlie’s a reporter. Damn good one, too. Alex is a photographer. Also kicks ass. They’re the ones who talked me into going to your family’s cabin for some R&R. That’s actually where you and I met.”
“So . . . no hiking accident.” Her lips quirked at the memory of his lame cover story.
“I was trying to keep you from freaking out. You have to admit that the stuff you told me before you lost your memory was pretty unbelievable.”
“But you believe it now, don’t you?”
“I believe you’re in trouble and that you need my help.”
She nodded, as though she could accept his answer even if she didn’t like it. “So what about my mother? You mentioned my dad and my sisters but nothing about my mom. Is she dead?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Not at all.” But he hesitated, unsure what to say. He barely knew Elise Trudeau. What he did know was that Charlie didn’t talk about her mother. Alex didn’t, either. He’d thought that was because they worked with their dad at the family paper, and so did Mac, so it was natural that their relationships would include their dad but not their mother. He suspected, though, that the issue went far deeper than that.
“Well?” Sam prodded.
“She’s active in the community. Fund-raising, charity events, ladies who lunch, stuff like that.”
Sam’s expression turned shrewd.
“You don’t like her.”
“I don’t know her.”
“What you do know, you don’t like.”
“I sense that she and Charlie don’t have the best relationship. I suppose I feel protective.”
“What about Alex? Does she get along with our mother?”
Mac thought about that for a moment. “I really don’t know. Charlie never mentioned any issues between Alex and their mother.”
“’So you’re . . . close to Charlie.”
The way she said it, and the dawning understanding on her face, had him setting down his fork and scrambling to explain. “Whoa, wait. Don’t go there. It’s not like that.”
“Yes, it is. I can tell by the way you say her name.”
“Like hell you can tell.”
“Your lips quirk. And your eyes . . . darken. Are you in love with her?”
“No.”
She didn’t respond. She just watched him, head slightly cocked.
“No,” he said more firmly. Then, as she continued to pierce him with an I’m-taking-apart-your-soul-and-looking-inside stare, he sighed and pushed away his plate. “Yeah, fine. I was. But it was a year ago, and I’m over it. Besides, she’s got the man of her dreams now, so even if I did have a thing for her, it’s a moot point.”
“Why do you feel so guilty about it? I’d understand regret or disappointment or even anger. But why guilt?”
A cold shaft of alarm caught him off guard. “What are you doing? Reading my mind? Because that’s really uncool.”
Her eyebrows arched in surprise. “No, of course not. I can’t—”
“You’re a psychic spy. Of course you can.”
“I’m not that kind of psychic. I can sense your emotions. And I can read your face, your expressions.”
“You’re a human lie detector.”
“I’m a trained government spy.”
They both sat back when Roz approached with the coffeepot to top off Mac’s cup. “You folks about ready for dessert? We’ve got some delicious pecan pie, and the banana pudding’s to die—” Noticing Sam’s nearly untouched food, she cast a worried glance at Mac. “Might should I bring her a salad after all?”
“No,” Sam said, and used both hands to pick up the huge sandwich. “I just haven’t had a chance to dig in yet because we’ve been talking.” She flashed an all-teeth smile and obediently took a large bite of burger.
Mac watched as she chewed, swallowed and went in for another big bite. Maybe it was weird, but the flexing of her jaw muscles, the way her throat worked as she swallowed, were just about the sexiest things he’d ever seen.
“It’s really good,” Sam told the waitress, her mouth adorably full.
Also sexy, Mac thought.
“All righty then.” Roz threw a little wave over her shoulder as she walked away. “You folks enjoy.”
Mac couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “Oh, she’s going to remember you, whether you want her to or not.”
She ignored his amusement and continued to eat.
He decided that even if she consumed only half the cheeseburger, he’d consider that a major win. Already, color was returning to her pale cheeks. He had to work to suppress a satisfied smile when she adjusted the straw in the chocolate shake then sucked her cheeks hollow getting her first taste of the thick ice cream. Jesus, was he horny or what? Because that was definitely the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
To get a grip, he spent some quality time stirring his fork through his bowl of mac and cheese. What the hell was wrong with him? Yeah, okay, he was tired. Tired and whipped and freaked out. And of course the spy was distracting. How could she not be? She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met, let alone any woman he’d ever met. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever wondered idly how a particular woman would look in black leather. He imagined hip-hugging leather pants and a laced-up bustier that pushed the goods together and up, just waiting for a—
The thought stalled when he realized Sam had stopped eating, her attention riveted on the TV in the corner.
Mac twisted in the booth to take a look. The reality show had ended, yielding to an eleven o’clock newscast. At the moment, a publicity shot of a silver-haired, craggy-faced man with bushy eyebrows flashed on the screen.
“Who is that?” Sam asked.
Mac faced her. She’d abandoned her burger and shake, and he weighed the idea of trading information for every extra bite she took. He decided against it when her gaze, cold and intense, met his. Earlier, he’d considered her every gesture sexy as hell. This look, however, was just plain lethal.
“That’s Arthur Baldwin,” he said. “Ponzi scheme extraordinaire. Why?”
“I know him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I really think this is a bad idea,” Mac said as he followed Sam back to the stolen Camry. The woman could book when focused on a mission. “We don’t know how you know him. What if he’s got Flinn Ford on speed dial?”
“This man can tell me more about who I am. He can help.”
“You don’t know that. I mean, this guy isn’t your stereotypical Southern gentleman. He’s kind of a rat bastard, if you ask me.”
She paused in the process of opening the passenger-side door. “Why?” she asked over the top of the car. “What do you know about him?”
“While he was governor of South Carolina, he engineered a pyramid scheme that cost thousands of people their life savings. It blew up on him when the stock market tanked. He pinned the collapsed scam on his two sons, who were partners in his investment firm and supposedly running it while he was in office. They’re sitting in prison now while he’s drinking pina coladas on Kiawah Island.” He paused. “Does any of this sound familiar?”
She shook her head without speaking, then opened the car door and got in. Mac did the same but didn’t put the key in the ignition right away.
“I think we should continue on to Lake Avalon,” he said.
“Isn’t Kiawah Island near Charleston? How far is that?”
“A couple of hours, but—”
“Then we should check it out. I need more answers, Mac. Just knowing I’m an empathic spy for the FBI isn’t enough.”
His brain stalled. She’d called him “Mac.” She hadn’t called him by name since he’d met her. He wasn’t sure why that seemed significant, but it did.
“What?” she asked, impatience lacing the word.
He blinked, realizing he’d stared for too long. “I guess I’m just thinking that chasing after this guy seems a bit impulsive. I mean, if you want information about who you are, we should go to the source. Someone several levels above Flinn Ford at the FBI, for instance.”
“That’d be an excellent plan if my instincts weren’t telling me not to trust anyone at the FBI or any other feds. I need to gather as much information as I can before I approach any type of law enforcement. Which means I need answers from people who know me—and possibly know Flinn. Arthur Baldwin knows me. I’m sure of it. At the very least, maybe he can tell me something that gives me a direction. Right now, I’m just a fish flopping around on the bank with no idea how to get back into the water.”
Unconvinced, Mac jammed the key into the ignition, but instead of twisting it to start the car, he sat back. “Your sisters know you, too,” he said quietly. “Maybe you should focus on figuring out more about who you are from them.”
When she didn’t respond, he added, “If this Arthur Baldwin guy is the kind of people you hang out with in your spy life, then maybe . . .” He trailed off with a shrug, reluctant to be too blunt.
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe you’re better off not knowing the gritty details about who you are.”
Sam turned her head to look out the windshield, the muscles in her jaw clenched against the unwanted surge of panic at Mac’s words. Suddenly, she didn’t want to know more about who she was. She had a feeling she wouldn’t like it, judging by the personality of the man pursuing them. What if she were jus
t as calculated and—
“Look,” Mac said, cutting into the thought. “I didn’t say that to hurt you.”
She glanced at him, careful to keep her expression neutral, determined to not let him see that his words had hurt her. What he thought of her didn’t matter, she reminded herself. Surviving mattered. Somehow, she knew that that’s all that ever mattered. “You didn’t hurt me. You can’t if you don’t know me, right? We aren’t friends.”
He winced as though she’d struck a nerve. “I don’t know about that. I mean, we did just share some French fries and onion rings.”
Leave it to this man to boil the meaning of friendship down to the absolute minimum. “Is that all it takes in your world to be friends?”
“I shot that huge Italian guy to keep him from hurting you. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”
She actually wished she could buy into his perception. A friend in such a hostile world would be nice. Leaning her head back, she sighed. “Maybe.”
God, she was tired. And while she’d enjoyed the few bites of cheeseburger she’d managed, the food now sat in her stomach with the weight of a bowling ball.
As Mac steered the car onto the road beside the diner, Sam checked the name of the highway and direction: 301, east. Good. That was toward Charleston.
“Why don’t you try to get some more sleep?” Mac said. “You’re still exhausted.”
He reached over and patted the back of her hand. She didn’t hear what he said next, because the interior of the car shifted away.
“Jenn, look, I’m sorry, but this is how it’s got to be. You can’t handle it here anymore. You’re getting into trouble every time I turn around.”
“Philadelphia is our home, Mac. It always has been.”
“Not anymore. Not without Mom and Dad—”
“It’s all we have left of them!”
“Jenn, damn it, we’re going to lose everything.” I don’t know how to make her understand. “I can’t afford to support us both and pay the mortgage and the taxes on the house. I just don’t make enough at the paper, even with the substitute teaching.”
Mom and Dad mortgaged our childhood home to the hilt. It’ll never be worth what’s owed on the loan. It’s called under water, and I’m most definitely drowning.
