Unforgettable

by Cassie Miles

  “Please cooperate.”

  “Are you asking because you care or because you’re a reporter?”

  “I’ll admit that you’re a damn good story. And I suppose I could say that I care about you.” With her thumb and index finger she measured an inch. “Maybe this much.”

  “Not much incentive.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a giant pain in the butt?”

  “I’d like to answer that question but, damn…” He shot her a grin. “I just don’t remember.”

  “Tell me about the place where you lived in Chicago,” she repeated.

  He tore his gaze away from her and paced as though moving around would jog his memory. “It was a one-bedroom apartment in an older building with an ancient elevator. I was on the third floor.” A picture took shape in his mind. “Brown sofa. Television. Wood table full of clutter. I had a king-size bed. I like big beds.”

  “Did you have a girlfriend to share that bed?”

  In his mind, he saw a woman with long hair and too much eye makeup. “A blonde. That’s my type. Blondes with long legs. Kind of like you.”

  “Lucky me,” she said. “Keep talking.”

  “The woman in Chicago wasn’t anything special. We dated.” And she had spent a few hours in his king-size bed. “She was no big deal.”

  “Where did you live before that?”

  In the corner of the room, he stared at the surveillance screens that surrounded the house. In infrared view, the trunks of pine trees were ghostly shadows. “There isn’t time for us to work backward through my rental history. What do you really want to know?”

  “I’ve never interviewed someone with amnesia. I’m trying to find the key that makes you remember.”

  “Tony Perez. I grew up in southern California.” His biography flashed before him as clearly and neatly as though it had been written out on a sheet of paper. He filled in details about growing up in foster care and never knowing his parents. He’d gotten in trouble as a kid for stealing cars and shoplifting. “I lived in Arizona for a while. How am I doing?”

  “Considering that you started from zero, I’m surprised. You remember a lot.”

  He had details. He could visualize his driver’s license and recite his Social Security number. But none of it seemed real. His identity as Tony Perez seemed like something he’d seen in a movie, but he wasn’t making it up. “Remembering isn’t the kind of relief I thought it would be.”

  “How did you make a living?”

  He recited a string of menial jobs. “Then I hooked up with Santoro. I collected his debts.”

  “An enforcer,” she said. “That makes sense. I’ve seen you in action, and you can be very intimidating.”

  “I’m not a thug.” He didn’t want her to think of him that way. “Getting people to do what you want is more about attitude than actual violence. I developed a reputation. People were scared of me. That threat was enough.”

  “There had to be a reason why they were afraid. What was your reputation based on?”

  “Word of mouth and a couple of well-placed lies.”

  He went to the bed, propped the dark blue pillows against the headboard and took off his boots so he wouldn’t get the patchwork quilt dirty. Then he leaned back against the pillows with his legs stretched out straight in front of him. For the first time today, he allowed himself to relax. God, he was tired.

  Caitlyn perched on the edge of the bed beside his legs, positioning herself so she wasn’t touching him. “I’m interested in how you set yourself up as a dangerous person.”

  “First you’ve got to build a reputation. Other people have to say you’re tough. In Chicago, I used a snitch and a couple of cops. The stories they told made me sound like a cold-blooded sadist.”

  “Cops? How did you get them to lie for you?”

  “Give them something they want. A bribe. A promise. A gift. Just like Rojas got Patterson to work for him.”

  “Then what?” she asked.

  “You need to prove yourself. I picked the biggest, toughest guy in the gang and took him down. I didn’t kill him or do any permanent damage, but I hurt him enough that he knew I could have killed him. In a way, he owed me his life.”

  “Keep your enemies close.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “This is beginning to sound like Sun Tzu, The Art of War.”

  “All warfare is deception,” he quoted.

  “Your life as Tony Perez sounds complicated. Why would you go through such an elaborate setup?”

  A good question. “I was in a new town. I needed to get close to power. That’s what I do.” He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids.

  “Okay, you established your reputation and you proved yourself,” she said. “What next?”

  “I needed an ally. Somebody who had my back. That was Mark Santoro. When I first met him, I was using him. But he became a friend.”

  Santoro wasn’t a saint. Pretty much the opposite. He was a head man in a drug-running crime family, but he was loyal to his crew and strong-willed. He had a family—twin girls who would grow up without their father.

  “You still grieve for him,” she said.

  “His death was unnecessary and pointless,” he said. “I should have seen the attack coming, should have known what Rojas was planning.”

  “How could you know?”

  “It was my job.”

  “Protecting your boss?” she asked.

  Though he nodded, he knew there was something more. Only a few hours ago, Greg Rojas looked him in the eye and called him Nick Racine. Jack had been so startled that he lost his chance to shoot in spite of his need for revenge. He wanted Rojas to suffer for the part he’d played in the death of Mark Santoro and for… There was another name, another person.

  An intense rage exploded behind his eyelids in a blinding fireball. Someone else had been murdered. He had to remember. Until he knew that name, his soul was empty. His life had no meaning.

  There was a reason he had played this complicated charade with Mark Santoro.

  “Jack?” He heard Caitlyn calling him back to reality. “Jack, are you all right?”

  He had to find the answers, and he knew where to start. “We need more information on Nick Racine.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Near midnight, Jack lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling above the bed. His body floated in a sea of exhaustion, but his mind wouldn’t succumb to sleep. The surveillance screens in the corner cast an eerie, gray light across the flat surface. His memories took shape.

  He saw the number eight on the scuffed beige door of the motel room. The night was heavy, dark and cold. The red-haired man unlocked door number eight and walked inside carrying a black gym bag.

  Jack blinked. He knew what came next, knew he should close his eyes, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring as the scene played out. He watched himself.

  He parked a block away and crept toward a clump of leafless shrubs at the edge of the motel parking lot. There, he waited impatiently with his Beretta M9 automatic. This wasn’t murder; it was an execution for a man who lived outside the law. His name was Eric Deaver. He’d done unspeakable things.

  The curtains in room number eight didn’t close all the way. Through the gap, he saw the flicker from a television screen. Was Eric Deaver lying on the bed? Laughing at lame jokes from late-night talk-show hosts?

  The door flung open. Red-haired Deaver was silhouetted in the frame. He gripped guns with both hands. He bellowed, “I know you’re here.”

  One shot. One bullet. In the center of his forehead. It was over. Justice was served.

  Still caught up in his memory, Jack heard the knob on his bedroom door click. He bolted from the bed, ready to fight to the death.

  CAITLYN PAUSED WITH her hand on the doorknob. Entering Jack’s bedroom might be a really foolish move. She shifted her weight, and the floorboards creaked. Maybe she should trot back to her bedroom and
put on more clothes. Not that the oversize T-shirt and terry-cloth bathrobe she’d borrowed from Woodley counted as a seductive negligee, but she didn’t want Jack to get the wrong idea.

  I’m not going to have sex with him. She’d known Jack for only a day. From the little he’d told her about his past, he was a scary guy. And there was absolutely no chance of any future relationship. She didn’t want him to think that appearing at his bedroom door was some kind of booty call. There would be no lovemaking. She did, however, intend to sleep in the same room as him.

  If she left him alone, she was certain that he wouldn’t be here in the morning. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want to work with a partner because of the unknown, the intensity, the danger, blah, blah, blah. She wasn’t going to be shuffled aside. If he was going to run, she’d be at his side. He was her story, and she intended to follow him to the conclusion.

  Twisting the knob, she opened the door and poked her head inside. Before she had a chance to whisper his name, he’d grabbed her around the throat. His arm was steel. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, felt herself losing consciousness.

  When he suddenly released his grip, she fell to the floor, gasping.

  “Never,” he said, “never sneak up on me like that.”

  She coughed. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Knock.”

  Though he was right and she really didn’t expect an apology, he could have at least helped her to her feet. Instead, he went to the security corner and stared at the screens. Unspeaking, he kept his back toward her. Hostility rolled off from his wide, muscular shoulders in waves.

  She stood, turned on the overhead light and padded to his bed where she sat on the edge. She adjusted her bathrobe to cover her breasts. As extra protection, she was still wearing her sports bra. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find anything about Nick Racine on the internet.”

  “Not your fault,” he muttered.

  She’d tried. As a journalist, she’d learned how to use the computer to track down leads, and she’d employed every bit of her skill to locate information on Nick Racine. She’d hopscotched through databases, scanned websites and probed blogs. Though she’d found plenty of people named Nick Racine, none fit his description. “The identity should have showed up somewhere. In a credit file or bank record or work history. It’s almost like Nick Racine was erased.”

  “It’s possible,” he said without turning around.

  Glaring at his backside, she got distracted by the snug fit of his black jersey boxer shorts. His legs were long, muscular and masculine, with just the right amount of black hair. His bare feet and long toes looked oddly vulnerable.

  She tucked her own feet—in sensible white cotton socks—up under her. “We need to make plans for tomorrow. I’m sure Mr. Woodley won’t kick us out, but the marshals are going to be canvassing the area.”

  “I’ll be gone before first light.”

  She noticed that he hadn’t included her in his plans. “I’m coming with you.”

  He pivoted and came toward her. The fact that he wasn’t wearing a lot of clothing made him seem bigger and more intimidating. Stubble outlined his jaw. His black eyebrows pulled down in an angry scowl. “There’s no reason for you to be in danger.”

  “I was embedded with the troops. I can handle it.”

  “This is different,” he said. “Use Woodley’s contact at the FBI. Put yourself in his protection until Rojas is under lock and key.”

  An hour ago, Woodley had gotten an update on the police activity. The safe house had been secured and four men arrested after a shoot-out. Rojas and two of his men had escaped. “What if he isn’t caught?”

  “That means he’s out of the country, and you’ll never see him again.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  His chin lifted. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  She wasn’t ready to let go. There were too many unanswered questions. “I’ll decide what’s best for me.”

  There was something different about him, but she couldn’t exactly put her finger on it. A heaviness? A dark, brooding anger? He said, “This isn’t your fight.”

  “Earlier, you asked if I was interested in you because you’re a good story. Well, you’re right. You’re on the run, a witness in a gangland murder and a victim of unscrupulous federal officers. And let’s not forget the amnesia angle. Jack, if I can get inside your head and write your story, I could be looking at a Pulitzer.”

  “You want inside my head?”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “You’re not going to like what you find.” He lowered himself into the desk chair and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The focus in his green eyes was painfully sharp. “I killed a man.”

  A murder confession? That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She held herself tightly under control, refusing to flinch. “Are you sure? What did you remember?”

  “I saw the bullet pierce his skull, saw the light go out in his eyes. And I was glad to execute the bastard. I felt no guilt, no regret.”

  This memory wasn’t consistent with what she’d seen of Jack. In dealing with the men at the safe house, he hadn’t opened fire and gunned them down. His behavior was logical and precise; he didn’t act like a killer. “Who was he?”

  “I know his name,” he said, “but I don’t know why I needed to end his life. I believe the reason is tied to Rojas.”

  “Why?”

  Though he was looking right at her, his gaze was distant. “I keep replaying that moment when I had the drop on Rojas and didn’t shoot. It wasn’t an ethical concern that kept me from pulling the trigger. I could have winged him without killing him.”

  From what she’d seen, he was a good marksman and his reflexes were lightning fast. No doubt he could have disabled Rojas and Kelso with surgical precision. “Why didn’t you shoot?”

  “He yelled out the name Nick Racine, as though he recognized me. And something clicked inside my head. Everything was clear. The confusion and sorrow and rage I’d been carrying around for years vanished in a puff of smoke. I knew. Knew the answer.”

  His voice had fallen to a hush. If she hadn’t already been intrigued by him, this moment would have captured her interest. What had become clear to him? What truth had he learned? She dared not speak and break the profound silence.

  “Gregorio Rojas is the answer,” he said, “but I don’t know the question. I need to figure it out.”

  “You seem to be remembering more pieces of your past all the time. If you’re patient, it’ll come to you.”

  He shook his head. “I was on this quest long before I lost my memory. It’s the reason I went to work for Santoro, the reason I agreed to testify. Somehow, all of what’s happened ties together.”

  She had to get to the bottom of this. Never in her career had she been issued such a clear challenge. “Where should we start?”

  He rose from the chair, took her hand and pulled her to her feet. With gallantry unbefitting a man dressed only in jockey shorts and a T-shirt, he escorted her to the door. “Go back to bed. We both need our sleep.”

  “Promise you won’t leave without me.”

  “I won’t lie to you.” For a moment, the hint of a smile touched his mouth and she thought he was going to kiss her, but he turned and went to his bed. As he stretched out on the sheets, he said, “Good night, Caitlyn.”

  Trying to get rid of me? It’s not that easy, Jack. She went to the bed and leaned over him, close enough to kiss but not touching. “I’m glad you won’t lie to me.”

  “I owe you that much.”

  “Actually, quite a bit more.” She reached into the pocket of her bathrobe and took out the handcuffs. In one swift click, she fastened one around his right wrist and the other around her left. “You won’t be going anywhere without me.”

  His gaze went to the steel cuffs, then to her face. His sexy grin spread slowly. “If you wanted to sleep with me, all you had to do was ask.”


  “We’re only going to sleep.” It took an effort to hold on to that resolution while she was this close to him, but she was determined.

  “I don’t believe you.” His voice was warm, intimate, seductive. “If you wanted to keep me here, you could have handcuffed me to this fancy brass bed frame.”

  “As if you couldn’t pick the lock? No way. Hooking us together is the only way I can be sure where you are.”

  She showed him the key to the cuffs. Then she stuck her hand inside her bathrobe and T-shirt, tucking the key safely into her sports bra.

  “Do you really think that’s going to stop me?”

  “I know you won’t hurt me.”

  “You’re right, babe.” He caught hold of her right arm and pulled her down on top on him. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  The bathrobe tangled around her legs as she struggled to get away from him, and she was reminded of how their bodies bounced against each other during that crazy ride in the trunk of the Ford Fairlane. There was no way to avoid touching him. She knew this would happen. How could she not know? What had she been thinking?

  The answer was obvious. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to escape. Maybe she’d come to him hoping that he’d make love to her. The magnetism between them was undeniable. Why shouldn’t she relent?

  “No,” she said, speaking as much to herself as to him.

  “This is what you want.”

  He undid the tie on the bathrobe and pushed it out of the way. He was on top of her. Through the thin fabric of her T-shirt, she felt his body heat, and the warmth tempted her. She felt herself melting.

  His face was inches away from hers. If she kissed him, she knew this battle would be over. She wouldn’t be able to stop herself.

  She twisted her head on the pillow so she was looking away from him, staring at the wall beside the bed. Through clenched teeth, she said, “Stop it. I mean now.”

  He rolled off her. They were lying beside each other with their cuffed wrists in the middle.

  “Can’t blame me for getting the wrong idea,” he said. “When a woman comes into your bedroom in the middle of the night with a set of handcuffs—”