by Wendy Rosnau
"No. But my excuse is money. What's yours?"
Jackson flicked his cigarette to the step, then ground it beneath his shoe. "The chief just told me Ry is six months away from a promotion. If he takes the desk job, I'll be looking for a new partner."
Ry had been the only partner Jackson had been able to keep in the three years he'd worked for the NOPD. It wouldn't be easy to find another, maybe impossible. Blu was sympathetic, and still had his head on another matter. He looked out the door and saw Jackson's aging green pickup sitting on the street. He checked to make sure no one else was hanging around, then took a step back to let his brother-in-law's partner inside.
Jackson stepped through the door and glanced around the old foyer. "This place looks like the last gang hideout I busted."
Blu eyed the peeling wallpaper climbing the wall along the stairway. "She looks tough," he agreed. "But she's solid brick on the outside, worth the investment once I fix her up."
The two men stood side by side. Both tall and dark, they could have easily been mistaken for brothers, except for the fact that Jackson had cat-green eyes and a Chicago accent. But they were perfectly matched at six feet, three inches, both quick thinkers with rebellious natures, and enough nerve and grit to carry through on anything they felt was worth the trouble.
"So you're serious about moving in here?"
"Eventually. Margo says I've been portable long enough."
Jackson leaned against the doorjamb and shoved his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. "A permanent home wouldn't be so bad if you had someone to share it with."
"Still looking for a wife?" Blu chuckled.
"Or a dog," Jackson joked, "that might be easier to live with. I talked to Ry after you left the precinct this morning. Ran those names for you."
"And?"
"And nothing. Want me to keep digging?"
It was clear his little nun was on the run—the look on her face when Blu had mentioned Jackson was a cop had confirmed that much. Questioning his next move, he gestured to the cut on his temple. "I woke up with a headache this morning. Before I cooled down, I went to see Ry. The more I think about it, the fille must have mistaken me for someone else."
"You think?"
"Yeah, I think. No sense you wasting your time on a dead end."
Blu opened the door and followed Jackson outside. Over the hood of the pickup, Jackson hollered, "Let me know when you want to start cleaning this place up. I'll give you a hand. I used to work construction for a few years back in Chicago before I turned stupid and decided to be a cop."
Once Jackson had driven off, Blu headed back inside. He'd barely gotten the door closed when he came face-to-face with his little nun. "You went to the police about me? Why?"
"Why? You pulled a gun on me yesterday," Blu pointed out. "Damn near put my boot through my skull. My brother-in-law's a cop. I asked him to run those two names you gave me through the computer to see what he could find out. But as I'm sure you heard, they weren't able to get anything on either name."
"Why didn't you turn me in? As you said, I pulled a gun on you yesterday."
"Want me to call Jackson back?"
"No!"
"Then start talking," Blu demanded, leaning against the wall and blocking the only exit available to her. "I think being up all night with a headache entitles me to an explanation."
"I'm sorry," she repented. "I—I'm Kristen Harris… That is, I think I'm Kristen Harris."
"You think?" Blu frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"
She jutted her chin out stubbornly. "It means that I think it's my name, but I'm not sure. I've lost track of some time."
"Just how much time are we talking?"
Blu watched as she sat down on the stairs. She ran her hands through her endless hair, then settled them in her lap. "Everything up until three years ago. I'd like to go home, but…" She looked up, her brown eyes searching his face. "I was hoping you could tell me where that might be. Only it looks like that's not going to happen."
"Why me?"
"I found the photo, and I— This is going to sound weird, but I knew just by looking at you that you were a fisherman." She paused. "And … and I knew it was a hydraulic winch."
"What?"
"In the picture you're repairing a hydraulic winch. I don't know how I know that, I just do. I thought it could be a clue to who I was."
She was right—it sounded crazy to know something but not why or how she knew it. But there might be something to it. A hydraulic winch wasn't the kind of thing a woman would pay much attention to. "You think you belong here? Belong here with … me?"
The question caused her cheeks to turn pink. She lowered her head again and stared at her hands. "You don't recognize me. No, I no longer think you and I have a connection, but I still think there is a strong possibility that you know Salva, even though you say no. Why else would he have your picture on his wall?" She sighed again, then stood. Brushing her hair away from her small face, she locked gazes with him once more. "I'm sorry for cracking you in the head yesterday, and for causing you more trouble today. I just wanted a clue so badly that I— Well, I'm sorry."
When she started past him, Blu reached out and locked his hand around her tiny wrist. "Not so fast."
"What now? I said I'm sorry. What more can I say?"
Blu jerked her arm up in the air. "You can explain these."
Her face paled and she tried to pull away. "Let go."
"These bruises are recent," Blu insisted. "Don't pretend you don't remember who gave them to you or why. Is Salvador Maland your boyfriend? Did he rough you up? Are you on the run? Will he follow, or is he already close behind? Is he dangerous, or just a jealous hothead?"
"Stop it!" Suddenly she wedged her hand between them and pulled the derringer from Blu's waistband. Jabbing it into his belly, she said, "Back off. I've had enough of big men thinking they have the right to man-handle me."
Blu released her, but he didn't move back. "Now what, Angel?"
"He's not my boyfriend. He's…" Her hand started to shake. "Please, just turn your back for a second. I'll be gone and I won't come back. I promise."
Blu didn't doubt the minute he did what she asked, she'd slip through the door and he'd never see her again. That fact didn't sit well, and because it didn't, with lightning speed, he knocked the gun from her hand and sent it spinning across the floor. A second later she was in his arms, pressed so close to him that he could feel her heart trying to jump out of her chest.
She started to fight him. When that didn't work, she began to cry. "Why couldn't you just let me go? I would never have come back. I—"
Blu set her away from him, shook her a little. Knees bent, he looked straight into her eyes. "It sounds like instinct brought you here. Well, dammit, let instinct keep you here. You'll never learn who you are or where you come from if you give up before you get started."
When he released her, she took a giant step back. "But you said you don't know Salva or…" Suddenly she backhanded the tears from her cheeks. "You know something, don't you? Please, if—"
"No, I don't. But I can nose around and see if I can find out who might." Blu waited for her to agree, hoping he wouldn't have to throw her over his shoulder and lock her up to keep her with him. But if she didn't see reason, he was prepared to do just that—though he didn't plan on analyzing why keeping her close had suddenly become so important to him.
"And what do you get out of this?" she asked.
Blu retrieved the gun from the floor, emptied it, then buried it in his pocket. Facing her once more, he said, "I get to find out why a man I don't know likes me so much he wants to look at me every day." When she didn't say anything, he added, "What do you say I grab a T-shirt and we take a boat ride? We'll clear our heads and see if we can figure out where we go from here."
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
She didn't know he owned the Nightwing. The curious look she'd given Blu after he'd led her a
board the cruiser said it all. If she'd been spying on him—and she'd all but admitted she had—it was clear she hadn't been at it too long.
A year ago the Nightwing had gotten as much publicity as Blu had after the cruiser had successfully run down Taber Denoux's yacht as he and his cohorts had tried to escape New Orleans with Margo as hostage.
Yes, the sleek cruiser had been part of the heroic team that night, and she'd gotten her picture in the paper alongside Blu's. Naturally, the news media had jumped on the story of a poor fisherman's son who had scrimped and saved to own the boat of his dreams—the boat that had ultimately saved his sister from her evil kidnapper. It had made great copy and elevated Blu's unwanted hero status another notch. But the story was a fabrication of the truth. The real story was that Blu's selfish need to own the Nightwing had overextended him financially. His father's fleet had been nearly lost until he paid Patch Pollaro a visit and had become the loanshark's hired muscle.
Blu steered the Nightwing away from the dock. Angel hadn't spoken since they'd left the apartment building, and he hadn't said much, either.
"I could change my mind."
Blu had just started the engine. He glanced over his shoulder to find her standing close to the railing, gauging the distance to the pier. "Meaning?"
"I could jump right now. I'm a good swimmer."
"So am I," Blu promised.
Her chin rose. "When you asked me on this boat ride, you made it sound like I had a choice. I really didn't, did I?"
"Sure you did. You had the choice of walking or being carried." That said, he settled behind the wheel, pulled back on the throttle, and the high-powered engine sent them forward. In a matter of minutes they were through the Outlet Canal, heading for open water. When she joined him at the helm, Blu glanced right to see her standing beside him as seaworthy as any seasoned fisherman. Her head was tilted to catch the day's warm air, her long blond hair lifting in the warm breeze. She looked like a ship's figurehead poised there—a desperate, beautiful maiden in search of her identity.
Mesmerized, Blu found it hard to keep from staring. He hadn't planned to take her very far, just far enough to give them both a chance to clear their heads. But the tranquil look on her face changed his mind and he followed the coastline south.
The next time he glanced at her, she had closed her eyes and the rise and fall of her chest had slowed. She no longer looked scared and ready to bolt, but relaxed for the first time since he'd laid eyes on her. It was the water, Blu decided, that had calmed her, and it made sense. He'd grown up on the water, and though he should be used to it, if not bored by the sameness, he never dismissed the power it had to soothe him.
An hour passed before Blu finally cut the engine and set them adrift. Something had changed between them since they'd left the Dump. They were no longer adversaries, but it was too soon to call them allies.
Facing her, Blu said, "Feel better?"
She had stepped to the rail again, and after a long minute she turned to face him. She'd wrapped her arms around herself, but she couldn't be cold—there was no wind to speak of, and the tropical heat was over eighty degrees. "I can't explain it, but the water relaxes me," she confessed. "I've noticed it before, but I don't know why."
"Since I was a kid, I couldn't get enough of the water," Blu admitted. "Ma says I was born with salt water running through my veins."
"You have a mother?"
He was about to say, "Doesn't everybody?" but she'd said she didn't know who she was. That meant her parents were as much a mystery to her as her own name. "She runs the fish market on Front Street," Blu told her. "Has for thirty years. Her name's Rose. My father, Carl, died seven years ago."
"How old were you when he died?"
"I was eighteen."
"I don't think you realize how awful it is not to be able to put names to the people who are responsible for giving you life." She tapped herself on the head. "Three years ago I woke up without a single childhood memory, and none of it has come back to me. Not any of it."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And he couldn't promise that I would ever remember."
"But he didn't say you wouldn't?"
"No, he never said I wouldn't."
Blu came to his feet. "Maybe you should see another doctor. I'm not much on going myself, but—"
"No. I don't want to see another doctor."
For a long time the only sound that could be heard was the lapping of the water against the side of the Nightwing. Blu finally asked, "Do you know how it happened, Angel? How you lost your memory?"
"Yes. Salva said it was during a boating accident. Why do you keep calling me 'Angel'? I told you, I think my name's Kristen."
"Between yesterday's nun outfit, and—" Blu motioned to her waist-length hair "—I'll stick with 'Angel.' It suits you."
"Like Blu Devil suits you?"
"The name was my father's before it was mine—the devil part, that is. But I've been told it fits me better than it ever did him."
"Sister Marian said that—"
"Sister Marian? That's twice you've mentioned her. Is that whose nun outfit you were wearing yesterday?"
"Yes."
Blu moved to the stern where a leather bench wrapped the back of the boat. He patted the seat beside him, then watched as Angel cautiously curled up on the bench a safe distance out of his reach.
"Tell me about the past three years," Blu encouraged. "Then I'll…" Then he'd what? Get involved as he had last year? What was he turning into, the Red Cross? "Jackson, the detective that was at my place might—"
"I can't go to the police."
"Why? You shoot someone?" He'd meant it as a joke, but when her face paled, Blu kicked himself for being an idiot.
"I didn't shoot anyone. At least not in the past three years." She jumped up and headed for the railing. "I wouldn't have shot you in the alley yesterday. I hate guns."
Blu stood. She looked over her shoulder, saw him advancing, then glanced over the side of the boat as if she were contemplating jumping. On instinct, he reached out and snared her around the waist and hauled her back against him. "That would be suicide," he growled in her ear.
She tried to wiggle free, her backside making contact with his groin more than once as she fought. Blu tightened his hold on her and waited until the fight went out of her. Waited and suffered both at the same time.
When she finally gave up, she panted, "Suicide is getting the police involved before I know who I am. Please let me go!"
Her obvious fear of him was beginning to annoy him. Blu spun her around and cemented her to him so that he could see her face. "I didn't give you those bruises, so stop acting like I'm the scum who did. I haven't given you one damn reason to be afraid of me, have I?"
"You don't understand," she cried. "Salva's big like you, and he likes to … he likes—" She broke off.
Blu released her and backed off quickly. "Do I look like him?"
"No."
"Do I talk like him?"
"No."
"Smell like him? Dress like him?" His voice had turned angry.
"No!"
Blu had never questioned his ability to intimidate, other than to consider it an asset when he'd worked for Patch. Within a matter of weeks the rumor that came from the Quarter was that the Crescent City had its own home-grown devil, just like they had their own voodoo queen in Marie Laveau.
Only now, suddenly, that foreboding side to his character was getting in Blu's way, and he didn't know what to do about it.
"Take it easy," he heard himself say in a soft voice he hardly recognized. "I don't have a reason to hurt you. Most men don't get a charge out of manhandling women. There are a few, but I'm not one of them. I've never hit a woman in my life," he heard himself say. But I've beaten the hell out of a hundred-plus men, he thought.
"You're just so big. And—"
"Trying to swim for shore would be crazy. The deal is, I'll keep my
distance so long as you keep your head."
When she continued to cling to the railing, Blu still wasn't so sure she didn't intend to jump. But if she did, he'd go in after her. Like it or not, it looked as though he was once again in the salvage business—the human salvage business, that is. Last year six dirty-faced kids had gotten under his skin, and now, in less than twenty-four hours, a frightened fille with fairy-tale hair had penetrated his thick skin.
Maybe the rumor that had been circulating since he'd left Patch Pollaro's employment was the truth. Maybe he had lost his edge and grown soft.
"I wasn't going to jump."
Her comment jarred Blu out of his musing. He studied her. She was so damn small standing there in her skinny little jeans. Her arms and hands were frail, and those big brown eyes… They just wouldn't let him go. Oui, the rumors were right—he was losing it—the Enforcer was dead, replaced by some idiot who, pretty soon, would be growing a damn conscience if he wasn't careful.
She looked away, unable to hold his gaze. "You keep staring. I wish you wouldn't."
"You can't be twenty-four," Blu stated. "Hell, you can't be twenty."
"Salva told me I was twenty-four."
"He's a liar," Blu said flatly, hating the man already and he hadn't even met him yet.
"You're still staring."
"The deal is, I get to stare and you get to be … cautious or afraid, or whatever it is you are of me. Maybe, after a while, we'll get used to each other's little quirks. Deal?" When she didn't say anything, Blu added, "There isn't anything you can tell me that would surprise me." When she still said nothing, he tried once more. "I can help you. I know that's a bold statement to make, and for now I don't plan on getting into why I can make that guarantee. You're just going to have to believe in those instincts of yours and put yourself in the hands of the devil. Think you can do that, Angel?"
* * *
Kristen turned to look at Blu for the first time since she'd taken his advice and confessed her desperate situation. It had been a long five minutes since she'd finished telling him her story, at least a portion of the story—she'd left out the part about being the mother of a two-and-a-half-year-old and the wife of Salvador Maland. She also hadn't mentioned the island that had been her prison for the past three years. But she had painted a picture—young girl awakens in a beautiful house with a stranger who says they are a couple. The stranger is rich and possessive. Powerful and abusive when angered. And since she can't remember anything, she stays.
