Yet she couldn’t help wondering if he’d made the gesture just to win her cooperation, to woo her into a false sense of security. As he smoothly drove off the beach and onto the road up the coast, she considered whether she should try to flee at the first red light.
She couldn’t run faster than Clay on foot, never mind Clay on his bike. Deciding she had no choice but to stay with him for now, she vowed to focus on regaining her memory.
She studied the storefronts, hoping for a few more flashes, glimmers into her past that she believed had momentarily surfaced back on the beach. Nothing came to her until they passed a grocery store, the same chain where she shopped! She was sure of it, Just as she’d known when she’d run from Clay that if she could have made it to the water, she could swim. Somehow she knew she was an excellent swimmer, yet she had no concrete memory to pin her facts on.
She kept peering through the rain, wondering if she would recognize her house if she saw it. Her house? A picture of a tiny bungalow with a sagging roof and a cute mellow-yellow front porch with lots of hanging plants came to mind. She thought she lived there, maybe rented the house. She envisioned the cozy layout, two comfortable bedrooms divided by a bath, a small, friendly living room, a tidy but minuscule kitchen. She stored her windsailing equipment in the roomy shed out back and tried to think of a number on her mailbox or a street sign to help her figure out her address.
Nothing.
Frustrated, yet pleased that parts of her memory seemed to be returning, she tried to be patient. The man on the cycle in front of her caused another entirely new set of problems for her to consider as he repeatedly checked his rearview mirror as if expecting someone to follow them.
Did he watch so vigilantly for the police? Or the return of the two men he’d claimed had run her off the road?
Either scenario made her stomach churn with anxiety. If Clay feared the cops, then he was a bad guy. If he worried over the return of the two men, then someone had just tried to kill her.
As Melinda worried over whether or not to trust Clay Rogan, she felt the heavy gun weighing down her pocket and considered whether she could shoot someone and snuff out a life—for eternity. Without a lifetime of memories, she figured that her biggest handicap was that not only didn’t she know if she could trust Clay, she didn’t know if she could trust herself. She didn’t know her own values. She didn’t know if she voted Republican, Democratic or Independent. She didn’t know how she’d react to danger, didn’t know if she could aim the gun and pull the trigger—not even if her life depended on it.
CLAY SAW NO SIGN of pursuit. But no way could he relax or forget their pressing problems with Melinda pressed so tightly to him. Even through the leather jacket he’d given her to wear, he could feel her shivering on the seat behind him. So far he hadn’t done such a hot job of protecting her, but now that he’d found her, he was determined that would change.
With the sky dark from horizon to horizon, rain teeming down in giant buckets and lightning occasionally striking nearby, the huge thunderstorm showed no signs of abating. Without a direct sign of pursuit, he couldn’t justify fleeing with Melinda possibly still in shock and injured. She needed to be warm. Needed to see a doctor.
His first thought was taking off her wet clothes and heating her with his own body. But he shoved the inappropriate image aside almost immediately.
Instead he peered through the rain and spied a coffeehouse in one of those strip malls that included an ice-cream shop, a ladies boutique and a gift emporium. After parking the bike where it wouldn’t be easily spotted, he took her icy hand in his. Guilt stabbed him for not taking better care of his charge. First she almost drowned, then almost froze to death. “Come on.”
“Where’re we going?” She spoke slowly between chattering teeth.
“To get you dry and warm.”
He opened the boutique door and ushered her inside, hoping to be hit with a blast of warmth. But air-conditioning turned on cool made it seem as if they’d entered a refrigerator.
A middle-aged woman doing paperwork behind a desk took one look at his black leather jacket wrapped around a dripping-wet Melinda and frowned. “Can I help you?” she asked hesitantly, her soft Southern accent firm but polite.
Clay reached for his wallet and took out two hundred-dollar bills. “We got caught in the storm. The lady needs a towel and a new outfit to wear home.”
The saleslady glanced from the cash to Melinda and her face brightened. “I have just the thing. You poor dear.”
Ten minutes later, Clay had his soggy jacket back, and Melinda left the store wearing new navy stretch jeans and matching denim jacket over a red slinky top that showed an inch of skin at her flat stomach. Her teeth had finally stopped chattering, although her lips still held a tinge of blue. Clay noted the bulge in her jacket pocket and realized she’d transferred the gun to her new attire.
“I’ll pay you back when I—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Clay held her elbow and escorted her toward the coffee shop. “How about a bowl of hot soup and some coffee?”
“Hot anything sounds good.”
He knew she referred to the food, but his mind did a double take anyway. Such a sexually oriented thing—the male mind. He doubted she realized that while she’d changed clothes in the privacy of a cubicle and he’d stood guard, his mind had played all kinds of tricks on him. He’d imagined her peeling back her wet shirt and shorts to reveal very rounded curves. He’d wondered if she’d removed her wet underthings or kept them on. While it should have made no difference at all to him whether or not she still wore underwear, he couldn’t help wondering whether he would be able to tell once she warmed up and removed her jacket.
He’d unintentionally brushed against her breasts too many times today not to be curious. Yet…while he knew his thoughts to be distracting and totally unprofessional, he had too much male in him to resist indulging in the fantasy. He’d wondered why he was so fascinated with her—he liked slim blondes, didn’t he? But suddenly he realized that he’d been deceiving himself. Curvy brunettes had a lot to offer.
Idiot. She’s not offering you anything.
They had the coffee shop to themselves, and Clay commandeered a booth near the foggy front window where he could watch the parking lot while they ate and talked. After the waitress took the orders, he could practically see the questions reflected in Melinda’s topaz eyes.
“Why is the CIA interested in me?” she asked.
She might not have her memories, but her keen intelligence showed as she burned through the fog and fired to the heart of the matter. He drummed his fingers on the table. How much should he tell her? He was supposed to gain her trust before asking about the documents, and she certainly didn’t trust him yet. In fact, he considered himself lucky that she hadn’t tried to convince the saleslady or the waitress to call the cops.
“Since you’ve lost your memory, I’m going to have to explain some things to you before I answer your question.”
She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. She’d done something to her hair, pulling it back from her face, smoothing it into a semblance of order. But water kept trickling from it, one suggestive droplet running down her neck and onto the thin red shirt.
He had to force his eyes to remain on her face and not follow the enticing direction the water had taken. “You have a brother and a sister, but after your parents died, the siblings were split up. Your older brother, Jake Cochran, grew up in foster homes and started looking for you the day he graduated from high school. Until recently, he couldn’t find you. But then he uncovered copies of your birth certificates. The information led him to—”
Her eyes narrowed. “My own brother wants me dead?”
“On the contrary. Jake asked the government to protect you. So here I am.” Clay gave her the simplified version of his story. While Jake had never asked the government to protect his sister, he had hired bodyguards for both sisters. Before Melinda’s bodyguard could contact
her, he’d been grievously wounded but had survived for several hours before he’d died. He’d used those hours to contact the director for help.
“And why does my brother think I need protection?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Why don’t we call and ask him?”
“We suspect he’s running for his own life right now.”
“And my sister?”
“She has already gone underground.”
The waitress returned and placed coffee cups and steaming bowls of chowder in front of them. Melinda tasted her coffee and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Clay asked.
“Apparently I don’t like coffee.”
The waitress gave her an odd look.
“Could I have a hot chocolate instead?”
“You like hot chocolate?” Clay asked as he sipped his own black coffee.
“I’m not sure. The request slipped out before I thought about it.”
“Have any of your memories returned?”
She shook her head, but he wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. “It’s horrible, you know? The worst is not trusting…my own reactions.” She looked at the soup in front of her as if it might bite her, then determinedly looked deep into her bowl. “I don’t even know if I like clam chowder.”
“There’s one way to find out.” Sensing her vulnerability, knowing she was hanging on to her dignity by just a few threads, he handed her the spoon.
She hesitated, then accepted the utensil. He figured she might take the tiniest taste, but she filled the spoon to the rim and took a full bite. “Mmm.” She swallowed and scooped up more of the thick chowder. “Delicious.”
“I know it must be frightening to have forgotten your past, but maybe you could look at it as an adventure—”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Think of all the fun things you can learn all over again.” Like kissing and making love and…Clay shut the thought down hard. He didn’t like his mind drifting while he tried to make a point. He didn’t need the distraction of thoughts about sex. He needed to keep his personal life separate from business, each segment neat and tidy in its own compartment to be taken out and savored at the right time. “Everything is a new experience for you. But maybe they’ll be good experiences.”
“Like when I rode a roller coaster for the first time. I was scared to death but it was a blast.”
“You remember?” he asked, hopeful. He needed her memory to return as soon as possible. It was critical to recovering the documents her brother had sent her.
“I remember the wind in my face. My stomach swooping in fear. It was exhilarating—not the sickening fear I felt back on the beach.”
If one memory had returned, maybe the others would follow. Clay told himself not to push her. He couldn’t afford to scare her again. He needed her trust.
AS MELINDA ATE, she wondered if Clay Rogan was playing her for a fool. But if he meant her harm, if he wasn’t with the CIA, would he have been so concerned about her health? Ignoring his own discomfort, Clay had given her his jacket, and she suddenly realized how cold he must have been, riding in front and taking the brunt of the rain. Imagining the chill factor alone made her shiver.
He noticed immediately, his stormy green eyes narrowing with concern. “Eat some more soup.”
“Yes, Mother,” she teased, thinking the way he looked at her was anything but motherly. He maintained this rock-solid glint at all times, but even so, she discerned a hint of speculative interest there.
Interest in her?
At the thought, she almost dropped her spoon, just barely raised the soup to her mouth without making a total klutz of herself. Realizing that she wanted to trust him, she considered whether she’d believed him too easily. Lots of sickos wanted their women warm and healthy.
Yet every time she glanced into those direct eyes of his, she had trouble thinking of him as a pervert. It was like trying to imagine Clint Eastwood or Harrison Ford as a bad guy. She simply couldn’t discern any evil in his hard, rugged features. On the other hand, she wasn’t so naive that she didn’t know looks could be deceiving.
Frustrated that she couldn’t make up her mind, she shifted uneasily in her seat. Again those all-seeing green eyes noticed. “Something wrong?”
“I have to use the ladies’ room.” She stood. “Be back in a minute.”
She left the table without asking his permission, wondering if he’d allow her to walk away. It took all her willpower not to look back over her shoulder at him, especially when she felt his stare drilling between her shoulder blades.
When she reached the ladies’ room, she turned to enter and barely restrained a gasp. Clay was right behind her. How the huge man had moved so silently, she had no idea. But he’d followed, never letting her move more than two steps away from him.
Frightened and angry that he trusted her so little while he asked her to trust him with her life, she whirled around to confront him. Again he’d anticipated her reaction and was already pointing to the back door. “If those men found my bike, they could barge in and grab you,” he explained.
“You aren’t coming inside?”
He opened the ladies’-room door, glanced at the empty cubicles and the tiny window. Holding the door open for her, he leaned against the hallway wall, a satisfied look in his eyes. “I’ll just wait here to make sure you make it back safely.”
Without another word, she pushed through the doorway, her pulse still skittering. Was he really so concerned for her safety? Or did he fear she’d try to escape out the back door?
Thinking hard, she entered a stall, slipped out of her jacket and hung it on the hook. She took care of business, flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and reached for her jacket. The gun he’d given her fell out of the pocket to the floor with a clatter, skidding toward the sink.
She didn’t think the gun could discharge like that. He’d told her it wouldn’t fire with the safety on. Still, she found herself tensed and holding her breath. Finally when nothing untoward occurred, she leaned over and gently picked up the weapon.
Her thumb pressed something and she heard a faint click. The clip inside the handle slid out.
She started to shove the clip back into the gun. Her body turned icy.
The gun he’d given her to protect herself from him…had…no…bullets.
Chapter Three
Melinda gasped and swore at the sight of the clip that was as empty as her head was of memories. Clay had tricked her, making her believe she had a reliable weapon when in reality, if she’d pulled the trigger, nothing would have happened.
She should have been scared, but anger simmered through her veins, heating her face in embarrassment at buying his deception. How dared he play with her? Before she could decide her next move, Clay opened the rest-room door. “I heard a noise. You okay?”
“Damn you. No. I’m not okay.” She held out the gun in one hand, the empty clip in the other, wishing she could throw it at his head without fear of retaliation. “You lied to me again.”
“I didn’t.” He reclaimed his weapon and reholstered it somewhere behind his back as casually as if they were discussing whether she preferred coffee or hot chocolate.
“You may never have said the gun was loaded but you implied it.”
He shrugged, male amusement glittering in his eyes. “I couldn’t in good conscience give a loaded gun to a woman who doesn’t know how to use it, now, could I?”
His amusement and logic irritated, like fingernails scratching a blackboard. “You don’t have a conscience.”
“And you are making accusations without all the facts.” He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a Palm Pilot. “Here, I’m breaking the agency rules again, but I think you should read your file.”
Like she knew how to use it! She wasn’t great with technical things. How did she know that? She refused to take the calculator-size gadget from him. “You could have typed anything in there. Why should I believe words o
n a screen any more than words from your mouth?”
He hesitated, his eyes searching hers and catching some of her frustration. “Why shouldn’t you believe me?”
Again, he’d made a good point, but this time she could talk through the heat of her anger. “Can I phone a CIA office to verify your story?”
“That would jeopardize the security of the operation. As I told you, I’m working undercover.”
“Why?”
A waitress pushed through the door of the ladies’ room and frowned at Clay. “Is there a problem here?”
“I thought she fell,” Clay explained with a rogue-like smile. “I just wanted to make sure she’s all right.”
That he could have heard anything from the hallway that made him think she’d fallen pushed the boundary of common sense. It was much more likely Clay had heard her gasp of surprise at the missing bullets, but the waitress bought his story, delivered with a sincerely apologetic but a virile I’m-a-man-and-must-protect-a-woman smile. Melinda made a mental note to remember he could lie and smile with charming candor at the same time.
Clay escorted her back to their table. While they finished their meal, he explained why she couldn’t call the CIA. “The director thinks someone at the agency may be behind the operation against you.”
She didn’t understand. “Doesn’t the director know? After all, he’s the head of operations.”
“It’s a very large agency with thousands of employees.”
“What are you saying? Exactly?”
“Sometimes factions occur in large organizations. Splits that lead to secret operations.”
“You’re talking about people with their own agendas within the CIA?”
“Their own illegal agendas.”
Like murdering innocent citizens? “And what would they want with me?” She mopped up the last of her clam chowder with a hunk of thick bread and wondered if this story was any more true than the last lie he’d fed her.
“You may have information they need.”
Sure she did.
Lovers in Hiding Page 4
