With her tears and her sobs and her angry defiance, she’d twisted him around inside. She was manipulating him in a way he found impossible to fight. Because she didn’t fight fair. She used those feminine weapons that did a man in every time. But he couldn’t let her big tawny eyes stop him from doing his job.
She ran like the gusting wind and straight into the thundering storm, her lean legs eating up the distance with remarkable speed. It took longer than he’d have guessed to catch her. Then, after he’d almost caught up, she put on a burst of speed and dashed straight toward the water.
“Oh no you don’t.”
He’d had enough swimming thank you very much. Lunging, he tackled her and they both fell, rolling in the sand. He landed on his back with her on his chest, snuggled between his thighs. For a moment those soft curves pressed to his body kindled a primitive response.
And then her knee lifted, aiming for his groin.
“Lady, I swear if you kick me in the balls, I’ll deck you,” he threatened, knowing he wouldn’t and hoping she wouldn’t realize it. Due to an oversize workload, Clay had gotten less than ten hours of sleep in the last five nights. Twenty-three-hour days of nonstop pressure were starting to catch up with him, fraying his temper, increasing his irritability. This assignment had pulled him off an important job—one that could make a difference in setting U.S. diplomatic policy for a decade. His reactions and temper reflected a measure of his frustration. He twisted to the side, rolling them until he ended up on top, with her on her back beneath him, her black hair splayed across the sand like an exotic fan.
Before she could scratch the flesh off his face, kick him in the groin or chin, he pinned her wrists. She shook a stray lock of hair out of her way, her eyes burning coals of outrage. “Let me go, you biker bully.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
She rolled her eyes at the raining sky. “Oh, sure. Like I’m really going to believe you.”
Thunder roared overhead, pounding over them in flashing echoes. He paid no attention, focusing on the storm brewing beneath him. “Why shouldn’t you believe me? I saved your life, lady.”
“So you say.”
“You should be grateful.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said with saccharine sweetness and mockery. “Now that I’ve thanked you, you’ll let me go, right?”
He ignored her question. “Why did you run from me?”
She heaved a sigh of frustration and tried to shift him off by bucking her hips. He let her struggle, knowing she’d soon come to the conclusion that he was bigger and stronger, and she wasn’t escaping until he got his answer and freed her of his own accord.
“Look, mister biker-dude.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She arched a haughty eyebrow. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“I believe I did. It’s Clay. Clay Rogan.”
“Fine, Mr. Clay Rogan. I don’t know you. I have no memory of you before opening my eyes on this beach to find you standing over me. You say someone else forced my car into the water. But my car isn’t here. You say another car forced mine into the water, and guess what? That car isn’t here either. Then you said I told you my name—an outright lie. Don’t deny it, mister—you did lie.”
“Okay, I admit that was a mistake. If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Why should I?”
“Exactly my point. Why bother with a difficult truth when you obviously didn’t believe the easy stuff?” He paused to rein in his aggravation. “I assume, until you drove the car into the water, you had no idea you’ve been in danger?”
Her eyes widened, she struggled to free her wrists. He held her tighter.
She winced. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He loosened his grip slightly. “Will you get it through your stubborn head that the danger isn’t from me. Someone is after you.”
“So you say.”
“Look, this all started before I got here. You do remember leaving your house and driving to the beach?”
“Mister. Clay,” she amended, “you listen about as well as I remember.”
What had he missed? As he searched her eyes, he saw a turbulence of emotions, fear, anger and hesitation. “Tell me again.”
“I knew you’d lied about how you knew my name because I couldn’t have possibly given you that information.”
“Why not?”
All her sarcasm and sass evaporated, just as the rain poured down, soaking his back with slashing droplets of ice. “Because I haven’t just forgotten the accident. I don’t remember anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Not my name. Not my address. Not even what I do for a living.”
Chapter Two
She’d known the moment she opened her eyes on the beach that something was very, very wrong. Her heart pounded too hard, and her adrenaline had been sapped, her energy stolen as if she’d just run a marathon. Fear coiled through her body, leaving a sour taste in her mouth and twisting her gut into a hard knot, but she had no idea why she was so afraid.
She’d discerned her memory loss almost right away, and the realization knocked her for one doozy of a loop. While she gasped for air, her brain sucked in details of her surroundings; a wide beach pounded by rain and a devastatingly handsome, dangerous-looking man hovering over her, his grim expression as dark as the black leather clinging to his massive thighs.
Faced with the immediate threat of him, her memory loss shifted to a back burner. His eyes, green as the stormy sea and hard as the stone jetty, clued her in that he wasn’t the brotherly or husbandly type. While she might know him, she had the distinct impression from his sharp curiosity that they were complete strangers. She didn’t know his name, didn’t recognize his stony face, and was positive that if she’d met him before, she would remember something about him. He carried the distinctive scent of masculine leather on his skin. When he spoke, his breath carried an unusual cherry flavor that contrasted with his tough-guy image. His wide-set, sea-green eyes revealed anger and guilt, but she also glimpsed an inkling of concern that reached beyond her fear. His strong jaw, stubbled like a pirate’s, and his generous mouth, set with an arrogant firmness, suggested that this man was accustomed to others obeying his commands.
Not today she wouldn’t. She didn’t care if he had shoulders wider than the Gulf Stream or more muscles than Hulk Hogan, he’d fed her an inedible story that even a ten-year-old kid wouldn’t swallow.
The fact that she currently couldn’t remember her age, her address or her name didn’t mean she didn’t have a working brain. But it sure as hell was one gargantuan handicap. If she had to lose her memory, why couldn’t it have happened among friends? Or family? If she’d hit her head in a car accident—and the knot on her head and the aches in her muscles certainly felt as if she had—why couldn’t she have been rescued by the police, driven by paramedics to a hospital?
Instead she’d lost her memory and ended up with a menacing-looking hunk in black leather. She gazed at the muscular arms holding her down, finding it curious that he didn’t sport tattoos. He wore no earrings to accessorize, either. Maybe the man wasn’t as wild as he’d first appeared. He certainly didn’t seem to want to hurt her. He’d had ample opportunity, yet remained gentle.
He’d tackled her and landed so he’d taken the brunt of the fall. Even now, with her pinned beneath him, he spared her the crushing force of his full weight, while protecting her face from the teeming rain as he leaned over her and surveyed her with assessing eyes. Those eyes again. Caring eyes. Intelligent eyes.
He eased up on her wrists slightly. “When’s your birthday?”
“I don’t know.”
“How old are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Parlez-vous français?”
God! A multilingual biker. Did he have to sound so sexy when he spoke to her? “I don’t speak French.”
“But you understood the question.”
&nb
sp; “Don’t you know phrases in languages you don’t speak?” she countered, wondering how long this inquisition would go on, wondering what he intended to do with her when it was over. At the realization of his power over her and her helplessness to fight him, she shivered. He could take whatever he wanted from her, and this man seemed accustomed to taking.
Panic rose up her throat, and she reminded herself that he likely wouldn’t have told her his name if he intended to hurt her.
As if reading her racing fears, Clay let out a frustrated sigh. “This is one hell of a mess. Let’s hope your memory comes back real soon. Meanwhile, I’ll have to hide you.”
“Hide me?” She didn’t like the sound of that at all. She didn’t want to go anywhere with this man. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know herself enough to trust her judgment or believe the clear ring of tension in his voice.
“I need to keep you safe.”
“Then take me to the cops,” she suggested.
“You’ll be safer with me than the cops.” He rolled off her and tugged her to her feet, never releasing her wrist. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way back to my bike.”
The moment he released her, the ripping rain and slicing wind bombarded her like hail. She refused to miss the warmth of his arms. Instead, she told herself, she was glad he no longer pressed her back into the cold, wet sand. She didn’t want to go anywhere with Clay Rogan—especially to his bike where he could spirit her away to some isolated place where she’d never be seen again.
Why couldn’t she recall her family? Friends? Or maybe a wonderful husband who might be frantically searching for her even now? It finally occurred to her that if Melinda was her real name, as he claimed, then Clay could tell her more about herself.
“What’s my last name?” she asked as he tugged her along the beach where the waves rolled in, attacked the sand, then receded in a white froth of sucking sounds.
“Murphy.” The name evoked no emotions. Not even a sliver of recognition.
“Am I a student?”
“You’re a massage therapist.” She had no emotional reaction to that information either, but a fleeting tingle raced across her hands as if she could recall her fingers kneading muscles. Was the image a memory? Or something she’d envisioned when he mentioned her occupation? If he’d told her she was a teacher or a doctor, would she have had the same reaction and imagined chalk dust on her skin or a scalpel in her hands?
“Am I married?”
“No.”
She couldn’t decide whether his answer pleased her or not. While she could imagine how awful it would be to return to a loving husband or child and not recognize them, the idea of leaning on someone who loved her had its own merits.
The fact that Clay knew more about her than she knew about herself left an eerie hollowness in her that she wanted to fill with more facts. He could be making up the information, lying to her, and she’d never know, but why would he do that?
“Do I have family?”
“You were adopted, and your adoptive parents divorced when you were little.”
Lightning flashed, zigzagging over the water and brightening the sky in a blaze of white light followed by cold, damp darkness. They needed to get off the beach, but her thoughts distracted her. In her mind, she saw a woman’s face, just for a moment, and then it was gone. The woman was weeping, fat lonely tears. Another memory? Or her mind playing more tricks on her? Seconds later, thunder rolled across the beach with the razor-sharp wind, slicing the sand against them.
Clay pulled her into a run. “I’ll tell you everything once we get out of this weather. The most important thing you need to know is that I’m CIA and I was sent to protect you.”
Yeah, right. And she was Lois Lane. She dug her heels into the sand and tried to jerk him back. Only her action didn’t go quite the way she planned. Clay simply had too much bulk for her to yank him to a halt. He kept going, as if her resistance was futile. However, while he failed to stop, she ended up flying forward, smacking into him with a force that made her knees wobble. To steady her, he let go of her wrist, and his arms came around her, anchoring her.
“If you wanted me to carry you, you could have just said so,” he teased without the slightest smile, but the warmth in his tone calmed her a little.
She refused to lean into that warmth. “I suppose you can prove you’re with the CIA.”
He reached into his back pocket and took out very official-looking identification with his picture sealed beneath the plastic. In the picture his black hair was shorter, his jaw clean-shaven, but it was definitely him. But then, anyone could create fake documents with a computer and a good color printer.
“How come you didn’t identify yourself earlier?” she asked without bothering to hide her doubts.
“I’m not supposed to.” He frowned, as if breaking the rules was something he didn’t do lightly. “But with your amnesia, it now seems necessary.”
She glanced from the ID back to him, wishing she had her memory, wondering if she could be in some kind of trouble. Or maybe she was wrong. Despite how scared she’d felt earlier, she had no facts or memories to back up her conviction that she’d been fighting for her life. But whom had she been fighting? And why?
What could a massage therapist know that would be critical to her government? Had she had some important client who yakked in her ear while she rubbed the stress out of his shoulders?
And didn’t the FBI handle domestic problems and the CIA operate overseas? What would the CIA want with her, a massage therapist? She tapped his ID. “You have an office I can call to verify this?”
“I’m undercover. I’m only allowed to check in after the first part of my mission is accomplished.”
“How convenient.”
His eyes narrowed as he accepted her insult and tossed her words back in her face. “It’s not convenient at all. I’d prefer to have backup.”
“Then why don’t you have help?” she asked, wondering if she’d feel better or worse if he had an accomplice. An accomplice could verify his lie as well as the truth and then she’d have to outwit two of them to escape—not that she was doing so jamup terrific with just him.
His lips moved but thunder roared so loudly, she couldn’t hear his answer. When he dragged her against him, she instinctively yanked back. Found herself caught like a mosquito in a giant spiderweb.
Her stomach knotted so tightly, she had to fight to suck in air. He’d finally stopped trying to talk to her. She braced for a fist to her jaw or a jab to her churning stomach.
But he didn’t so much as slap her.
Instead, inexorably, his superior strength overwhelmed her struggles and forced her chest right up against his, her hips cradled to the hard quadriceps in his thighs. Even with wet clothing between them, she could feel heat radiating from him, feel the frustration he’d kept locked beneath rigid muscles and a stern scowl. He was so powerful, with his large traps and biceps, that she didn’t stand a chance of escape. At that realization, she gulped air and a little rain, choking on what could be her last breath.
When he dipped his head and spoke in her ear, she finally realized that he’d only pulled her close so she could hear him above the storm. “Do you know anything about guns?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” She swayed with the fear swelling up her throat as he took out a gun.
He pried open her fingers and placed the gun in her hand. The cold metal and unfamiliar feel of the grip set her hand to shaking. Stunned, confused, she tried to read the expression in his eyes, but the lightning refused to cooperate and flash. The wind kept roaring, blowing bits of sand that pinged against her exposed flesh and shredded her reasoning until she could barely read her own thoughts.
Again, he spoke into her ear. “Does holding this gun make you feel any safer?”
Why should it? She didn’t know how to use it. However, as the weight settled in her hand, she finally realized that he’d given her the gun in an attempt to alleviate her
fear. Her hand stopped shaking as some of her panic subsided.
When he leaned over this time to speak above the howling wind, she didn’t automatically jerk back. He pointed to a little switch on the gun. “The gun won’t fire unless you flick the safety to the off position.” He demonstrated, then flicked the switch back. “Once the safety is off, you only have to pull the trigger and the gun will shoot. If I let you keep the gun, will you ride with me on the bike? I need one hand for the clutch, one for the throttle.”
If she refused, what would he do? She really didn’t want to find out. Besides, while she knew he was trying to stem her fears, she didn’t want to seem like a pushover. But she didn’t want to tick him off by remaining so suspicious when he so obviously wanted her to believe him.
As her teeth chattered and her terror slowly subsided, she finally let him float his jacket over her shoulders and placed the gun in the pocket. The leather enclosed her in a cocoon of black warmth and quiet heat. She liked the scent of the leather mixed with his own spicy musk. “Where are we going?”
When they reached his bike, he said, “First, to find you a doctor.”
Melinda nodded in agreement. A doctor could keep her safe—call the police and verify Clay’s story.
He placed an extra helmet on her head and donned his own, revved the bike’s engine and then helped her sit behind him. He guided her feet to foot pegs, and then, uncertainly, she wrapped her arms around him. She couldn’t reach completely around his huge body, so she twisted her fingers through his heavy leather belt.
As soon as they started down the beach, she realized that, due to their speed, his body sheltered her from the worst of the elements. But wind whipped at their already wet clothing, making her extra grateful for the protection of his jacket.
If he intended her harm, he wouldn’t have given her his jacket, would he? Nor would he have insisted that she keep the gun.
Lovers in Hiding Page 3
