by Jill Monroe
He gave her a wink. “All part of the job,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, you’re a first responder. So am I. Well, I will be when I finish med school.”
“Ahh,” he said, leaning against the back of the park bench. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“The God complex.”
Stella cleared her throat. “You do realize the immediate crisis is over? You don’t have to try to keep getting a rise out of me. And you’re a first responder to the ladies, I bet. ‘Let me help you while I look deeply into your eyes.’ Does this hot-fireman routine get you a lot of play? Let’s focus on our next plan. Maybe one that doesn’t involve scrambling over balconies.”
“You think I’m hot?”
She shook her head, and then looked over his shoulder to watch the sunlight play along the fall colors of the leaves. “I spoke a whole lot of words right there. Sentences that became a paragraph, even, and all you got out of it was that I may, or may not, find you hot?”
But Owen just smiled. “I’m just going where your words, sentences and paragraph lead. Besides, a man’s gotta take what he can.”
She rolled her eyes at that. “Somehow I don’t think you’re doing too badly in that area.” Exhibit one—they were handcuffed together. Exhibit two—they’d been naked. Exhibit three—handcuffed together naked in a bathtub. “Okay, so who are you and what did you do that would put me in danger?”
His brows lifted. “Me? Why does it have to be me that put us in danger?”
Stella made a snorting sound. “I’m in med school, and as I have no radioactive spiders in the lab, it has to be you.”
“I’m a firefighter. I don’t even live in Dallas. It’s not me.”
Panic began to bubble, and her stomach clenched. She was due a freak-out, really. Honestly, she’d never experienced one, never needed to until now, but if waking up with no memory, naked and handcuffed to a stranger, didn’t earn her one, she didn’t know what would.
Instead Stella took a deep breath and began to follow the routine she’d developed in her sophomore year of college when she’d committed to following her parents into the medical field.
Don’t react—detach. She shoved away all the panic and nervousness and fear until she felt nothing at all.
Replace emotions with knowledge. They had a lot of different facts, but not a lot of story.
Break it down—each step is one shift closer to your goal. Work the problem methodically.
“I picture two scenarios.”
He lifted his arm and the chain dangled between them. “If you can figure this out, you should go into writing mysteries.”
“Or maybe forensics.” She shook her head. No, Stella craved the pace of the emergency room. “All right—scenario one. We’ve been mistaken for other people, and those people are tangled up in something really dangerous. Maybe they gave us their room last night to throw the bad guys off the scent. That explains the handcuffs. And why we were naked—a lot more difficult for us to run.”
“What about the memory loss?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Yeah, that’s where this pass-off-to-the-bad-guy scenario goes off the rails.”
“You had another idea?” he prompted.
“We were drugged. It’s not too far out of the realm of possibility. We could stop off at the hospital to draw blood and have it tested. The news is full of lowlifes drugging other people’s drinks. Or someone wanted us loopy to rob us—my purse. It’s not here.”
“Maybe we stuffed it in the duffel.” Owen rooted around inside his bag, but eventually he shook his head. “Nothing.”
Stella rubbed at her temples in a weak attempt to stave off a pounding headache. She would have thought whatever illegal narcotic they’d been given would have caused a headache, but no. It was her own ridiculous emotions.
Don’t react—detach.
“I think the notes have to do with me. Sort of,” Owen said.
She rounded toward him. “I knew it.”
He shook his head. “I’m, uh...”
“What?”
“I’m kind of...”
“What?”
The delectable skin she must have caressed with her lips and tongue last night reddened. “I’m kind of writing a book.”
So the firefighter had a dream. That was kind of sweet. Nope. No, Stella wouldn’t like anything about him. Don’t make this special. Don’t romanticize him. He doesn’t even live in Texas.
She hadn’t even begun the most demanding and challenging part of her path to becoming a doctor. She’d worked too hard to see everything derailed right now. And this sexy man beside her would definitely be a derailer.
“Why would you be embarrassed by that?”
He shrugged.
“Now look who’s prickly.” He only flashed her a crooked half smile. “Not even going to argue with me about it?”
“That’s the thing. Nonprickly people can handle being called prickly.” Then his smile faded. “Those note cards could have been some plot points and—”
“And me, being me, would have offered my own suggestions. So that explains the notes. What about the cuffs?”
He angled his head toward her.
“And the bathtub?”
He angled his head again, and Stella sighed. “Lust.”
“That would be my guess. Of course the cuffs could also be part of my own self-preservation. I am attached to you,” he said.
Something inside her stirred. This was the kind of man who put the safety of others first. A person who charged headfirst into a fire when other people ran off screaming.
Don’t make him into a hero, Stella. Okay, the guy could be a hero, just not her hero. Thoughts like that were dangerous. Her ideal partner was someone like her dad, stable and supportive to both wife and daughter. Not an adrenaline-loving firefighter who would probably end up on a gurney in her hospital.
“Maybe that’s what we should focus on first. Getting unattached. I’m sure there’s any number of videos on the internet that could demonstrate how to get out of handcuffs. I’ll just, oh, grrrr...”
“What is it?” he asked, his body alert, his eyes searching.
“I don’t have my phone, either. I must have left it in my purse. Along with my car keys. The trifecta: no purse, no phone and no keys.”
He shifted and dug his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “Good thing I, uh...”
“What?”
He showed her a dead screen. “No battery left.”
“I have a charger in my car, not that it would help much. Something keeps bothering me about that last note.”
“The one about Larissa?”
“Exactly. If those were plots for a book, how does she fit in?”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Maybe scrambling over that balcony wasn’t the best idea. Now I’m wondering what would have happened if we’d calmly talked to her. After all, we’re trusting ourselves—the same people who got us handcuffed.”
And naked. And in a bathtub. He scored points for not mentioning that. He also scored points for making a pretty damn insightful observation. “Did we just run away from the one person who could have given us information?”
“I think we should go back,” she said. “If those notes are real, whoever is chasing us is probably long gone by now. If those cards are nothing more than notes for a book, then we can go back and get my stuff from the room. We either completely overreacted or should cautiously approach.”
“I’m going with cautiously overreacted,” he said, and she giggled.
When was the last time she’d giggled? When she was twelve? Thirteen?
Owen reached for his wallet and opened the leather flaps. “I don’t see the room key. Wait...” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small leather case. Owen flipped it open and a plastic tab with a magnetic strip slipped out.
“Woo-hoo. That must be the key,” she said. “Finally, something good.”
“Waking u
p with a beautiful woman in my arms is always good.”
She held out her hand. “See that? Completely steady. I could perform surgery. You don’t have to try to get a rise out of me with flattery.”
“I wasn’t.”
Stella hadn’t meant to meet the pull of his gaze, but she did. Her mouth dried and she swallowed. Hard. Something tingly fluttered to life inside her. The rugged firefighter with a secret yearning to write drew her. A powerful and compelling temptation.
“Ready?” he asked.
Actually, she was.
Oh, wait, he meant returning to the hotel to retrieve her things. “It’s going to be pretty interesting walking through that high-class hotel handcuffed together.”
He shook his head. “Not sure the good people of the Market Gardens are ready for that.”
“I have an idea. Can you bear holding my hand again?”
“I think I can manage that,” he said, not hiding a grin.
He twined his fingers through hers.
“Maybe people will just think we’re holding hands and won’t even notice the cuffs and chain.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was going for,” he told her, his voice dry.
They walked together along the winding path that twisted through the park—no more running. No one seemed to pay them much attention except a city worker minding the parking meters. The poor lady actually did a double take, then rolled her eyes and returned to work with a heavy sigh.
Stella didn’t remember being in the Market Gardens, other than waking up in a guest bathroom and climbing over a balcony. Although she’d walked through this lobby last night, this morning the grand entrance was a brand-new experience, and it was stunning—everything an art-deco interior should display. Gorgeous wallpaper printed with chevrons, funky hardwood floors in geometric patterns and stunning bay windows. All the furniture and frames along the wall were vibrant and of nontraditional materials. “Wow. Just wow,” she said, running her fingers through the water of the lobby fountain.
“I know how to treat a lady,” he said with a wink.
“Does that charm usually work?”
He gave her the side eye. “Worked with you last night.”
Stella swallowed a cough, and he pressed the Up button for the elevator.
A tiny tremor of apprehension snaked through her stomach when the ding announced their arrival on the second floor.
What were the chances they were in true danger? They’d found a reasonable explanation for almost every question they’d awoken to.
The warning notes were probably the book project Owen wanted to write—the one snag was Larissa.
More than likely, Larissa was someone they’d met the night before and they’d simply woven her into the story. They could even have mentioned where they were staying to her the night before, and she’d decided to pop in for coffee. Their memory loss could be explained by a truly heinous person drugging their drinks for his or her own sinister reasons.
Or they’d simply found easy explanations that didn’t actually apply, and they were about to face a person with a knife or a gun or—
The hallway was empty.
She squeezed Owen’s fingers. “All good.”
“Were you worried?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
His soft chuckle told her he didn’t quite believe her. He faced her. “You don’t have to do this, Stella.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can go right back to the lobby. Ask for someone to get your purse. There are a few tricks to release the lock on the cuffs I can try and then...”
“Then?” she asked, her heartbeat quickening.
“We go. Forget this ever happened.”
“Is that what you want?”
5
“DO I WANT to forget this ever happened?” His hazel eyes met hers. For one beat. Two. Then he focused somewhere above her shoulder. “You. This. It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Well, it’s good one of us was responsible and planned to wake up handcuffed to a complete stranger in a bathtub.”
He chuckled, and the sound of it rolled down her back like a sensual caress. His gaze connected with hers again. His breath came out in a heavy sigh. “No. I’m not ready to let you go.”
His words wrapped around and warmed her. “Let’s check out the room, then.”
They walked to their suite from the night before. With a swipe, the lock released and they were inside.
Owen smiled down at her. “We’ll have to search the room for anything that might clue us in to where we were last night. Even the trash can.” Then he swung the door wide.
They were in the suite, but the housekeeper had been there first—and not just to check on their well-being at Larissa’s insistence. The bed had been made and the trash emptied, and the piney scent of cleaner filled the air.
“Do you see my purse?” she asked, scanning the delightfully opulent suite.
Owen shook his head, and they marched across the sitting area to check out the bedroom and the bathroom. “Looks like it’s ready for the next occupant.”
“And that would mean housekeeping would have my stuff.”
With a nod, he faced the door.
“Wait.” She angled her head toward the bathroom. “Quick stop there first.”
Five minutes later and after one last scan around the beautiful suite she couldn’t remember enjoying the night before and didn’t have time to admire now, they raced into the hallway to try to spot the person who’d cleaned their room. But no housekeeping cart blocked their path in either direction.
“We’ll have to go down to the lobby and talk to someone,” Owen said.
Luckily they had to wait behind only one other couple at the front desk, but that didn’t stop a few passersby from flashing an odd look at the couple joined together by handcuffs. The attendant was helpful and friendly, but the housekeeper who’d cleaned their room had taken the rest of the morning off for an emergency at home and wouldn’t be back for several hours. The desk clerk assured them that when the purse was found, it would be stored in the safe for them.
Owen and Stella left the hotel through the grand entrance, the sliding doors swishing closed behind them. They stood silently watching cars and taxis drop off hotel guests in the circular drop-off.
“Okay, new plan,” Owen said. “My grandpa was a huge woodworker back in the day. He had a shed in the backyard with a ton of tools my grandmother hasn’t been able to part with. With his old setup, we can at least break the chain. Then work on the cuff later.”
“Done,” she said, and they took off for the parking lot.
“There’s my truck.” Owen pointed to a beat-up pickup, which at one time might have been navy blue but now was a dull gray. The prime of its life had passed at least a decade ago. Maybe two.
She kind of liked the dented and rusted wrecker. Made her think of long drives on dusty country roads in the summer with the windows down. Being a city girl through and through, Stella had never indulged in something so rustic, but it did seem a shame to have missed such a simple pleasure with the wide-open spaces practically in her backyard. Or maybe it was the hunk of temptation trapped beside her that forced her to daydream of things like tire swings over lakes and sunsets on rutted roads.
Owen the Tempter headed for the driver’s side, while she aimed for the passenger’s. They cut each other off, and she slammed into his side, her hand bracing on the hard contour of his ass. Stella dropped her hand in a rush. Touching him made her fingers tingle.
“That’s not going to work,” he said as they returned to their original factory settings—her on the left and him on the right.
She lifted her cuffed hand, and the chain jingled. “This will make driving awkward, too. Your arm will have to cross the steering wheel, and I’ll have to sit at an odd angle. I could drive.”
He shook his head.
“You’re not one of those people who gets weird about others driving your truck?”
She raised a brow.
“She only starts in Neutral.”
Of course his truck was a woman. Probably ran like a dream for the man.
“The speedometer is a liar. Don’t trust it. Ever. Oh, and you can’t turn on the blower when she’s accelerating. Or the windshield wipers. Or probably the radio.”
She held up her hands and laughed. “Okay, I get it. You drive. I’ll just hold my arm weirdly across my chest. I’ll think of it as a kind of Pilates.”
“What?”
She shook her head. “Never mind. Driver’s side it is.”
He unlocked the door and she hopped into the cab, not trusting the rusting running board. She scooted across the quilt-covered seat, and Owen followed her inside. His truck smelled like him, woodsy and enticing man, but she resisted the urge to breathe in too deeply. A pair of rugged hiking boots rested on the floor of the passenger side, and she imagined Owen didn’t care much about the appearance of his vehicle because he spent so much time outdoors.
“What’s your car look like?” he asked after the truck roared to life in, yes, Neutral.
Stella made a big show of fastening her seat belt. “Um, maybe you could just drive around in the parking lot, and if I see it, I’ll point it out.”
He angled his head toward her. “Don’t you think it would be faster if we were both looking for it?”
She shook her head.
“What’s the big deal?”
Stella sighed. “Okay, it’s a red minivan.”
“A what?”
“You heard me. Take your average mom-mobile, dial it up a few soccer balls and cups of ground-in cereal on the floor mat, and you have my car. I’m talking roof rack, sliding doors and a partially peeled off I’m Proud of My Honor Student bumper sticker. That adhesive is strong.”
