A Baby to Love

by Susan Kearney

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Copyright

  Chelsea couldn’t shake the feeling of disorientation

  “The statement is just normal police procedure,” the handsome doctor reassured her. “You’ll have to give them the usual. Name—”

  A total blankness enveloped her.

  “Age—”

  She should know this. It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to know when she was born.

  “Address—”

  She tried to picture home, and all she drew was emptiness. She couldn’t remember the basics! Seized with a terror so strong her entire body shook, she bit her tongue, and the coppery taste of blood flooded her mouth. Unshed tears gripped her throat and squeezed so tight she couldn’t draw breath.

  She didn’t know who she was. Or where she lived. Or what she did for a living. She couldn’t remember anything before the moment she woke in this bed.

  Dear Reader,

  Imagine waking up in a hospital with no memory and with a tiny infant in your arms—a baby you’ve never seen before!

  So begins A Baby To Love by Susan Kearney. It’s the third and final book in the LOST & FOUND trilogy, started by Dani Sinclair and Kelsey Roberts.

  We hope you’ve enjoyed all three LOST & FOUND books!

  Regards,

  Debra Matteucci

  Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator

  Harlequin Books

  300 East 42nd Street

  New York, NY 10017

  A Baby To Love

  Susan Kearney

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Chelsea Connors—An accident…or something more sinister had stolen her memories. So how could she explain the threats to her life?

  Jeffrey Kendall—Falling for Chelsea, the doctor risks his career, his neck, his heart.

  Alex Stern—An orphaned baby who becomes a prize in a dangerous game.

  Mary and Tom Carpenter—Alex’s closest relatives and not to be trusted.

  Walter Brund—An accountant who doesn’t add up.

  Sandy Ronald—A terrific secretary— professional, intelligent and…cold.

  Vanessa Wells—Did dangerous thoughts lurk behind the gaze that refused to meet Chelsea’s?

  Mark Lindstrom—A client with an agenda.

  Prologue

  Perfect. She’s falling right into my trap.

  From deep in the bushes, hands parted branches to reveal approaching prey. Chelsea Connors tossed dark hair over her shoulder, stepped out of her car and crossed the narrow street, the midday sun glinting off the clasp of her leather purse.

  That’s it, keep walking.

  Striding forward, her sensible two-inch heels tapping boundless self-confidence, she slipped through the gap in the fence and into the split-level house’s weed-choked yard. She proceeded without looking right or left, as if it would never occur to her that exposing her back left her vulnerable.

  Next door a dog, senses keen, yapped. Barking as if to warn her of imminent danger, the animal tore back and forth, rattling the chain that tethered it to a spike in the ground. She ignored the warning and advanced another two paces toward the porch stairs, seemingly oblivious to the stealth of footsteps behind her.

  The dog’s frenzy swelled to a howl. Chelsea turned, her foot on the second step.

  Spotting the baton swinging toward her head, her eyes flared in panic. “Don’t!”

  Belatedly she lifted a hand to protect herself.

  A futile gesture.

  The baton slammed into her skull, and she spun. With a whimpering cry, she crumpled down the steps onto the patchy lawn in a heap.

  The attacker snatched her purse from her shoulder, then raised the baton to finish her off.

  Perfect.

  Chapter One

  An incessant beeping tweaked her consciousness, and the acrid scent of antiseptic stung her nostrils. She fluttered her eyelids, then winced at the too-bright fluorescent lights that aggravated the throbbing in her head.

  “Welcome back.”

  Her perceptions sharpened at the resonant tone of the masculine voice. Without moving her aching head, she glanced sideways to spy the owner of that splendid voice hovering over her bed. He fingered his stethoscope while sexy eyes as blue as his rumpled scrubs appraised her with professional thoroughness. She’d never seen eyes that particular shade of teal before. At least, she didn’t think she had. With a frown that shot pain from her jaw to the back of her head, she realized she couldn’t remember.

  The doctor didn’t seem familiar. Although if she had to awaken groggy, dizzy and in pain, with her head pounding like a jackhammer, she couldn’t have asked for someone better to look at.

  He appeared about twenty-seven or -eight, just over six feet tall and slender. He wore his black hair cropped short. Even without a smile, his face was compellingly handsome. When he grinned, only a rugged jawline kept his high cheekbones, straight nose and full lips from model-prettiness.

  She dwelled on his patrician looks instead of occupying her thoughts with other issues—like what had happened to her and how she’d ended up here. For that matter, she didn’t know where here was. Her gaze darted about the hospital room. An IV was taped to her hand. Wires from the beeping heart monitor disappeared under her gown, attached to her chest with sticky pads.

  “Where am I?” Her voice was unrecognizable to her ears, no doubt due to her dry throat.

  “Maryland Memorial Hospital. I’m Dr. Jeffrey Kendall,” he introduced himself in that husky tone she couldn’t help liking. “You suffered a trauma to the head. We’ve already done a CAT scan of your brain.” Before she could ask, he explained. “It’s like an X ray. And the EEG recorded your brain waves to check for abnormalities.”

  How long had she been here? A glance at the clock radio beside the bed told her it was just after 3:00 p.m. But the time held no meaning for her. And why couldn’t she recall the examinations? Afraid to ask, she tensed her shoulders, which magnified the pounding in her head.

  Perhaps she’d still been asleep when they’d run the tests, and the results weren’t yet back. That must be it. She ran a shaking hand across a creased brow grown slick with nervous perspiration.

  “Relax, this won’t hurt a bit.” Dr. Kendall’s mouth quirked upward, his teasing a balm to her raw nerves. With the caring hands of a physician, the nails clipped close and immaculately clean, he plucked a penlight from his pocket and shined it into her pupils. “Look straight ahead, please.”

  A minute later, he ordered, “Now watch my finger.”

  As he traced the air, she followed his movements.

  “Very good.” He slipped the penlight back into his pocket, reached for the stethoscope around his neck and paused. “Hey, no need to look so worried. Except for the knot on your head, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with you.”

  She groaned and massaged her temples. “My head hurts.”

  “Sorry. Patients with head injuries aren’t allowed painkillers.” He listened to her heart, then checked her pulse.

  The doctor didn’t seem inclined to chat, but she needed answers. “How’d I get here?”

  Dr. Kendall consulted his chart, but she suspected it was more to avoid her gaze while revealing ba
d news than from his need to recall information. “EMS brought you in.”

  That explained how she’d arrived but not why. He was holding back; she knew it. “What’s wrong with my head?”

  His blue eyes radiated sympathy, and for a moment she feared he was going to deliver some horrible prognosis. “A small cut. Nothing to worry about. We were hoping you could tell us what happened.”

  His words took her by surprise. She didn’t remember a thing. A twinge of fear tightened her stomach. Don’t panic. There could be a rational explanation. Maybe she’d been in a car accident.

  “I promised to have a nurse call the cops when you woke to give a statement. Do you feel up to it?”

  “Why do the police need a statement?”

  “To complete their report. They were on the scene after you were found.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “That’s not unusual. EMS brought you in, and we did the tests. You woke up the first time about a half hour ago and you couldn’t tell us what happened.”

  “I couldn’t?” She sensed he was filtering information, weighing his words to avoid telling her something unpleasant. Every muscle in her body tensed. What didn’t he want to tell her?

  “The nurse called the cops then, and I believe an officer is waiting down the hall.”

  She couldn’t shake the disorientation akin to awakening from a sound sleep, but that was a feeling that didn’t last this long. It was as if the incidents he’d described had happened to someone else—not her. It seemed odd that she couldn’t recall one detail of the experience, and the knots in her stomach twisted.

  “The statement is just police procedure,” he reassured her. “You’ll have to give them the usual.”

  “The usual?”

  “Name…”

  A total blankness enveloped her.

  “Age…”

  She should know this. It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to know when she was born. She raised her hand and rubbed her pounding brow.

  “Address…”

  She tried to picture home, and all she drew was emptiness. Sweat beaded her lip.

  “Witnesses, if any. That sort of thing.”

  His piercing blue eyes seemed to register her confusion. Her mind was like pages in a book written with disappearing ink. She didn’t remember the trip to the hospital, her tests, waking up. Her memory bank was as desolate and empty as this cold hospital room. The fine hairs on her neck bristled. She couldn’t recall the accident that had sent her here.

  Her name? Her age? Her phone number? Oh, God! She couldn’t remember the basics. Seized with a terror so strong her entire body shook, she bit her tongue, and the coppery taste of blood flooded her mouth. Tears welled in a throat closed so tight she couldn’t draw breath.

  The heart monitor beeped erratically. Dr. Kendall looked at her, concern filling his eyes. He reached for her hand. “Take it easy. Memory loss is common after a bump on the head.”

  As if balanced precariously on the lip of a precipice, with only his fingers to prevent a fatal fall, she clutched his hand. Horror rose like bile in her throat.

  She didn’t know who she was. Or where she lived. Or what she did for a living. She couldn’t remember anything before the moment she’d woken in this bed.

  Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

  Had she completely lost her marbles? This didn’t look like a psycho ward, but then she’d never been in one before. At least, she didn’t think so. But then, for all she remembered, she might have lived here for years. And every day she woke up unable to recall the day before. She shuddered.

  No, that wasn’t right. Terror slammed into her, overwhelming her reasoning. She clenched his hand to calm blooming hysteria. When her head stopped hurting, she would remember.

  No need to panic. Be calm. Breathe.

  Taking a ragged breath, she caught sight of her frightened face in the polished metal surface of her bed tray. The green-eyed brunette staring back appeared comfortably familiar. She knew exactly how to twist her hair in a French braid to make the most of her high cheekbones. She could choose the lipstick color that would enhance her generous mouth. She recognized the tiny scar by her eyebrow, but how she’d obtained the injury, she couldn’t say.

  “I can’t remember my name.” To her relief, the words came out calmly, Like a pilot sending a last message to air-traffic control before going down in an inevitable crash.

  “Tell me what you can.” Dr. Kendall spoke slowly, as if she were a child, his thumb massaging her wnst in a comforting way. Or maybe he was monitoring her pulse. No matter his reason, she appreciated his gesture.

  “I remember the beep of the heart monitor, opening my eyes, seeing you.”

  “Nothing before that?”

  She shook her head, unable to answer. Fresh fear invaded her body, a frigid stream of icy fluid sluicing through her veins. “I don’t seem to have childhood memories, recollections of relatives or friends. Not so much as a memory of a family dog.”

  She shivered. She felt so alone, as if Dr. Kendall’s warm hand were her only link to humanity. And she didn’t want to fall apart in front of him.

  Concentrating on his face, she made a conscious effort to collect herself. Their gazes locked, and for a moment she took solace in his simple empathy and kindly tone.

  “There are two forms of amnesia,” he said. “One is psychological, the other physical.”

  She gingerly lifted her hand to the knot on her head, fingering the bandage. “Surely I’m not crazy?”

  “Most likely your injury caused the memory loss. Even if the amnesia is psychological, we wouldn’t consider you insane.”

  “Really? You don’t think it odd I can’t even remember my name, and yet I’m dying for my favorite rocky-road ice cream with gobs of hot fudge and four maraschino cherries?”

  “You remember that?”

  “Apparently my taste buds don’t have amnesia.”

  He chuckled at her sarcasm. “You seem to have a healthy sense of humor.”

  “Knowing what I do for a living might be more useful.”

  “There are two other possibilities here.”

  “What?”

  “You may simply have fallen and bumped your head.”

  “Or?”

  “We can’t discount the possibility that you saw something you couldn’t cope with, something your mind needed to escape from.”

  She couldn’t recall much about her life, but his ominous words jarred her to her core. Her brain might have shut down due to a menacing or terrifying experience—something so horrible that her mind refused to deal with it.

  “What happened to me?” she asked shakily.

  “A neighbor found you alone and fully dressed at the bottom of a front stoop.” He released her hand and stuck her chart under his arm. “Before we discuss this further, I think you should speak to the officer.” He leaned toward a small cabinet and picked up a scuffed leather purse. “The police found this in the bushes one block away. The cash and credit cards are gone, but I believe your driver’s license is intact.”

  She hesitated to take the unfamiliar purse from him, yet she couldn’t prevent hope from blossoming. Was it really hers? When he continued to offer it to her, she accepted the bag, then clutched it to her chest like a security blanket.

  She fingered the bag without opening it. “Why didn’t you tell me my name?”

  “We suspected you had amnesia the first time you awakened. You couldn’t remember your name then, either.” He spoke gently, compassion radiating from his eyes.

  “Tell me my name, please.”

  “Unless you remember by yourself, your name will mean nothing to you.”

  She closed her eyes in exhaustion. “I guess I could get used to Jane Doe.”

  “Your name is Chelsea. Chelsea Connors.”

  Her lids popped open. “Chelsea Connors,” she repeated, hoping the repetition would snake into her memory and unplug the hole into which her past had vani
shed. But the words were empty, echoing in her mind without meaning, merely vibrating in her thoughts before vanishing without a trace.

  Her name brought no emotions, no revelations, no sudden understanding. Exactly what he’d warned her to expect. So why was she so disappointed?

  “Don’t try to force the memories. They’ll return when you’re ready.”

  I’m ready now, she wanted to scream. Instead, she hugged her purse, her only solid link to her past. She should tear open the metal clasp and look inside.

  Dr. Kendall checked her IV and turned the volume of the heart monitor down. While he penned a few notations on her chart, she stared at the ceiling, her fingers tracing the pliable leather of her handbag.

  He’d mentioned identification inside the purse. But would the contents reveal what kind of person she was? Whether she was a wise or a foolish woman? Giving or demanding? Strong or weak?

  Although afraid of what she might find inside her bag, she refused to succumb to her fears. Working up her courage, she examined the supple leather, obviously expensive, the scratched but sturdy clasp and the broken shoulder strap. A purse like this wasn’t cheap. Had she splurged to buy it? Had the purse been a gift from her mother? Or a lover?

  The possibilities were endless. Recognizing her speculations as an excuse to stall, she fingered the clasp. Digging into a stranger’s purse seemed too personal, a violation of privacy, even if that stranger was herself.

  As if realizing she needed a moment to herself, Dr. Kendall clipped her chart to the foot of her bed and strode to the door. “I’ll bring back the police officer. He might be enjoying his flirtation with the day nurse, but he must have better things to do.”

  She nodded as he left the room, her thoughts focused on the purse. Open it. It wasn’t as if she had a lot to lose Ignoring the increased rate of beeps that registered her trepidation, she yanked open the bag, turned it upside down and spilled the contents onto the sheet covering her lap.