Unsanctioned Memories

by Julie Miller

  Jess studied the dregs of her coffee and didn’t immediately answer. “The Chicago police know I was attacked.”

  But there was no physical description of her attacker on file. No details of the event on record. No damn way to track the man until she decided to identify him or, if that wasn’t possible, share everything she did know and let a pro like him piece together the clues.

  Sam watched her studiously withdraw back into herself. Patience didn’t come naturally to his Irish temperament. But he was going to have to find it somewhere. Jess had been brave enough to open up about the attack. She hardly knew him well enough to risk sharing anything more. Tonight, at any rate. He’d bide his time. But he wasn’t about to give up.

  “So you believe that e-mail was from him?” he asked.

  She nodded, slowly raising her gaze to his. “I just wanted you to understand. And I wanted to thank you for trying to protect me.”

  “My sister—” No, he couldn’t admit to that, the similarity of the crimes would be a dead giveaway to a smart woman like Jess. He covered the glitch. “I wish I could have protected Kerry better. I wish I could have been there when she needed me.”

  “You weren’t there when she died?” Her sympathetic tone eased his frustration and had him thinking about her as a woman instead of a witness again.

  “No, I was on another—” Case. Dammit, he’d almost slipped up. Forget digging up facts. He needed to end this conversation before he really blew his cover. He pushed to his feet and crossed to the fringes of the light, standing half in and out of the shadows. He propped his fists against the mantel and tipped his head back to stare into the cold, lifeless gaze of the buffalo trophy. “I was in another city. Working.”

  That sounded vague enough. It was the truth. If he’d been in Boston with her at the time, maybe he could have saved her. He should have nailed the guy before any other woman got hurt. His senses flooded with anger and grief. Could have. Should have.

  A tall, lithe shadow materialized in his peripheral vision the instant before a strong, warm hand folded over his where it rested on the mantel. Sam dropped his gaze and stared in awe at Jess’s long, artistic fingers twining with his. It was a tender, totally unexpected touch of comfort, of connection.

  It pulled him from the past and centered him squarely in this moment with her. “Guilt’s a terrible thing to live with, isn’t it?”

  The husky croon of her voice was a balm to his shattered heart and weary soul. “Yeah.”

  He turned his hand and caught hers up in his larger grasp, palm to palm, absorbing her peace and strength when he had no right to. It would be the most natural thing in the world to lean down and kiss her. To hold something good and strong and sweet in his arms and ease the aching emptiness inside him.

  But Virgil had been right in his warning. There were limits to what Sam’s conscience could withstand. He settled for the generous gift she’d offered and simply lifted her knuckles to his lips to press a grateful kiss there. Her skin was velvet to the touch, and the delicate spice of her soap or lotion teased his nose.

  She’d watched the movement with curious, cautious eyes, so that clear-blue gaze was right there when he smiled at her.

  “What do you have to be guilty about?”

  A startled look washed the drowsy fascination from her expression and she pulled her hand away. She crossed to the coffee table and gathered their things onto the tray. Her long legs carried her swiftly and purposefully into the kitchen. “I should have been smarter. I’ve been trained in self-defense by some of Kansas City’s finest. I should never have let that man hurt me.”

  “What?” He hurried after her. Now he had plenty of reason to get riled up. “You didn’t let him do anything. Rape is a violent crime. I know damn well you fought back. No one ever asks for it or deserves it.”

  Good God, is that why she hadn’t told her family? Because she thought she somehow deserved to be raped? He rounded the corner of the cabinet bar that blocked off her kitchen. Though she didn’t yell, “Get out!”, her frantic gasp and instant retreat warned him that he’d unintentionally trapped her in the tiny area.

  Sam put up his hands to placate her, cursed his impulses and backed out far enough that that damn dog could squeeze in between them. The same hand that had reached out to him, automatically reached for the dog’s fur. He shook his head in frustration. It was always a half step forward and three steps back with this woman. But she had to understand.

  “You were the victim, not the instigator,” he insisted, quoting the research he’d done after Kerry’s death. “No matter how you were dressed. No matter where you were or what you were doing. If you said no, if you protested in any way, you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

  There was a long pause after his vehement spiel when he thought she’d either sic the dog on him or burst into tears. But Jessica Taylor had more backbone than he gave her credit for. Instead of lecturing him, she made a wry smile and teased, “So, how do you really feel about it?”

  Sam lowered his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get on my soapbox.”

  “It’s okay. My head knows all that’s true. But logic doesn’t dictate our emotions. It’s nice to hear it from somebody besides my therapist, though.” Sam retreated as she stepped around the dog and gestured toward the dining room. “It’s late. We’d better get some rest. There’s an auction I want to get to early tomorrow morning. I need you to come along and be my muscle. Hopefully, I can find a cabinet or pie-safe to fill an order. Then we’ll have to get back and open up for our own customers after lunch.”

  Sam stopped at the outside door and turned. After spooking her in the kitchen, he was compelled to ask. “Do I remind you of him in any way? Do I frighten you?”

  Bold lady that she was, she tipped her chin to look him straight in the eye. “No. And yes. But not because you remind me of him.” With that enigmatic statement she touched his arm and nudged him toward the door. “I’ll try not to wake you again. See you in the morning.”

  He stepped out onto the porch. He wasn’t ready to leave her, but she had already latched the screen and was closing the door. Smart woman. He turned to face her through the screen. “Good night, Jess.”

  She paused. “Good night, Sam.”

  He waited until he heard the dead bolt slip into place before he turned and headed back to his apartment. The garage wasn’t that far, and yet he felt as if it were miles away.

  Sam breathed a heavy sigh that blended with the still night air and admitted it wasn’t just the answers she could provide that he was reluctant to leave behind.

  BY 8:56 A.M. Saturday morning the weather was already unnaturally warm. A dewy layer of perspiration made the blue-striped material of Jessica’s cotton blouse stick to the small of her back. But the autumn heat wave hadn’t stopped an eager crowd from gathering at the Stuyvesant Farm, just off Highway 50, a few miles east of Lone Jack.

  Rebecca Stuyvesant was a ninety-four-year-old widow who had moved into a nursing facility and put the family farm up for sale. At her request, her children had packed up the family heirlooms they wished to keep and were auctioning off the rest of her belongings to help with her expenses. Jessica had arrived early and quickly scanned the tables and displays set up in the front yard that held nearly a century’s worth of true collectibles and accumulated junk.

  She’d already made note of the items she wanted to bid on—for her own shop and for clients—and had picked up her buyer’s card from the cashier. There was a palpable energy in the air as the auctioneer team tested the sound system. Anticipation thrummed along her nerve endings as she greeted a few acquaintances and other dealers. She enjoyed the competition of an auction almost as much as she loved finding a wonderful treasure a less-observant or less-experienced eye might overlook.

  Of course, the nervous tension that made her heart skip a little faster might not have anything to do with the temperature or the auction. She suspected at least some part of her anxiety stemmed from
the tall, raven-haired Irishman who followed her through the rows of tables, pointing out items of interest and asking questions about others.

  Dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged the broad expanse of his shoulders and chest, Sam O’Rourke didn’t look like any of the other attendees. Wearing dark glasses that shaded his watchful eyes, he looked dangerous. Sexy. Mysterious.

  He was an anomaly who turned heads and set curious tongues wagging. In the time before her attack, a day like this would have been a perfect date. Chatting with an intelligent man, admiring the way he looked and smiled and carried himself. Sharing secrets.

  The trouble was, the man who’d rescued her from her fears in the dark shadows of the night was the same man she hesitated to trust in the bright light of day. Last night she’d been drawn to his strength. She’d felt a soul mate, steeped in emotions that were sometimes too powerful to bear. This morning that virile strength and aching heart terrified her.

  She wasn’t in any emotional shape to trust her judgment, to handle a relationship, to love another man. But Sam O’Rourke seemed to find a way around all her barriers and common sense. He wasn’t a part of her safe, secluded world, but he was bulldozing his way into it. And the more time she spent in his company, the more they talked, the more feminine and confident she felt. She felt stronger when she butted heads with him. She felt normal. He tempted her to think more like the woman she once was than the woman she’d become.

  Terrifying, indeed.

  “Did you see this?” he asked, stopping in front of a locked glass case full of small trinkets and jewelry.

  Jessica moved beside him and peered through the glass. “There are some pretty pieces in there.” Mrs. Stuyvesant must have been a fan of silver jewelry. All of the items had a dull, pewterlike finish from years of disuse, and a few rings and a pendant were missing some of the semiprecious stones and crystals that decorated them. “If they sell the lot together, you could probably recoup your investment by selling a couple of pieces. Everything else would be pure profit.”

  “I don’t know about that part, but,” Sam pulled off his black-framed sunglasses and leaned in closer, “there’s a Celtic-designed ring and necklace that remind me of my mother.”

  The elegant symmetry of the cross and knot motif wasn’t half as interesting as the faraway look that relaxed Sam’s ever-alert features for a moment. Jessica tried not to stare. “She was born in Ireland, right?”

  Putting his sunglasses back on, Sam straightened. His mouth creased into a wry grimace as if sharing something personal made him uncomfortable. Maybe the light of day made him feel more vulnerable, too. “Yes,” he finally answered. “Born and raised in Belfast.”

  “Do you miss her?” He’d once mentioned that he and his sister had been the last of their family.

  He nodded. “For a lot of years, it was just Da and Kerry and me. But Da talked about her almost every day. Ma sold all of the jewelry that had been handed down through her family for generations to pay their way to come over here. They were determined that their children be born and raised in a country in which they didn’t have to fight a war every day.”

  “They sound like wonderful, caring parents.”

  “They were. Cancer took her. Da was a policeman. I think he always thought he’d be the one to die young. He never did understand why she had to go first.”

  Ah, the son of a cop. Maybe that’s why she recognized such an air of duty and authority about Sam. His expression was hidden behind the mask of his glasses, but she could hear the wistful note in his voice. Jessica curled her fingers into a fist, resisting the urge to reach out to comfort him as she had last night. He seemed so alone. Bereft of family, crossing the country without a friend to share the road. Maybe that’s why she felt so drawn to him. She and Sam both understood what it meant to be alone, to interact with people without letting any one of them close to their hearts.

  She didn’t dwell too much on the notion that while having Sam around was often a scary prospect, since he’d walked up her road to her cabin, she hadn’t felt quite so alone.

  Turning her focus back to the silver items in the case, she tried to think of something inconsequential to say that would turn the conversation away from such intense personal matters. “Maybe you should bid on this lot. The jewelry looks authentic, and I know Mrs. Stuyvesant traveled to Europe after her husband…” Her train of thought stuttered as her gaze focused on the multiple strands of a silver wire necklace inside the display case. She tried to continue, but her mind was already playing tricks on her. “It might remind you…”

  Silver wire.

  Thick, pliable strands.

  An unwanted gift. Delicate. Twisting.

  Jessica’s blank mind tried to pull out a memory.

  She inhaled deeply, then caught her breath as she traveled back to a bright, moonlit night. Shining in through the window, the only light in the room.

  Her fingers flew to her neck, and she coughed.

  Beautiful silver around her neck. So tight. Too tight.

  She splayed her fingers across her throat. She could see it there. She could feel it. Her body jerked as the decorative noose tightened.

  Her eyes squeezed shut and she could see it. Feel it. Remember it. She curled her fingers into a knot, pulling with all her might as the wire sliced through her skin.

  She breathed in hard, but her lungs wouldn’t expand. And there was pain, such pain. In her mind’s eye she could see the gloved hands at her throat. She forced herself to look. Along the corded muscles straining in his bare forearms. Up farther, over his taut shoulders, across his naked chest.

  She couldn’t breathe. But she would fight. She would see. She would know. She looked up to see the face above her.

  “Jess?” She jerked at the very real touch of Sam’s hand on her arm. The air whooshed from her lungs.

  The image vanished before it ever came into focus. “No,” she protested, trying to snatch it back. She smoothed her fingers across her undamaged neck. “I was so close.”

  Sam shook her slightly and demanded her attention. “Are you all right?”

  Jessica tipped her head back. He’d pulled off his glasses and his cool gray eyes blazed with concern. She reached up and touched her fingertips to the jut of his chin. His skin was warm, the bone solid, the muscle trembling underneath.

  He was real.

  It wasn’t the face she’d expected to see; it wasn’t the one she needed to recognize. But Sam’s roughly chiseled features brought her firmly back to the here and now. She was safe. She could breathe. She wasn’t dying in some dusty, moonlit room.

  Heat that had nothing to do with the muggy temperature flooded her cheeks. Self-consciously she pulled her hand back to her chest. “Did I say anything?” she whispered. She glanced to either side to see if she had an audience. “I didn’t cry out, did I?”

  “No. But you went about a million miles away. You mumbled something and then you couldn’t catch your breath.”

  Oh, God. She felt each one of his fingers and thumb wrapped in a velvety vise around her upper arm. Her knees felt weak, but his grip kept her standing. “Does this have something to do with what you talked about last night? You have flashbacks, don’t you? Do you know what triggered it?”

  Too many questions. “I was—” Her gaze dropped to the center of his chest. How could she explain what she couldn’t remember? I know I was hurt. But I can’t tell you how. Or who. Or why.

  The auctioneer’s speedy, articulate whine registered, giving Jessica the excuse she needed to file away those random images and pull free from Sam’s grasp. She straightened the collar of her blouse and planted herself squarely over her own two feet, dismissing his concern. “The auction’s starting. I want to bid on the third lot.”

  She turned to go. Anywhere away from that intense scrutiny that seemed to pry her secrets free, away from those strong arms that made her want to share. “Jess, don’t—”

  “Jessica? Is that you?”
>
  Her attention tuned to a smoothly politic voice, the essence of genteel charm, calling from the opposite direction. She scanned the crowd until she spotted a familiar face. Now that they’d made eye contact, he separated himself from the gathering of bidders and was striding toward her. “Jessica Taylor. You’re pretty as a picture. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  She smiled. “Charles.”

  Though only a few years older than she, Charles Kensington Kent had gone prematurely gray. But the silver crown added to his air of impeccable style and wealth. Even on a Saturday he wore a lightweight navy blazer and khaki dress slacks. The fact he’d skipped a tie with his button-down shirt was the only indication that this was his casual look.

  “Jessica.” He bent the few inches that separated them in height and kissed her cheek. It was a polite, comfortable gesture claiming more than mere acquaintance, though stopping shy of public affection. He cupped her elbows in his palms and leaned back, studying her with a close-lipped smile. “It’s good to see you. You’re looking well.”

  Jessica grinned, more grateful than she should be to deal with the familiarity of friendly chitchat rather than Sam’s probing questions. Hopefully, he’d attribute her flushed skin and uneven breathing to the heat. “I can say the same for you. Looks as if the real estate business is thriving.”

  He nodded. “Between that and managing Mother’s affairs, I’m staying busy.” He thumbed over his shoulder toward the house. “I didn’t realize you were a friend of the Stuyvesants.”

  “More of a business associate. I’ve sold some of her furniture on consignment. I’m looking for things to resell now. Hopefully, one of her Queen Anne or Chippendale pieces.”

  “It’s a shame her children don’t have the wherewithal to keep…” He paused, his blue eyes narrowing as he looked beyond her shoulder. That would be Sam who’d earned Charles’s curious scowl. Did he think the man towering a little too closely behind her was eavesdropping? “Jessica?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” She stepped to one side, more to put some distance between her and Sam than to be polite. “Charles, this is Sam O’Rourke. He’s working for me at the cabin now.” She finished the introductions. “If you ignore the four miles of farmland between us, this is my neighbor, Charles Kent.”