by Rebecca York
The Outlaw held her head in his large hand, tipping her face up to his, and she was swallowed by the dark pools of his eyes. “Darlin’, you’re not making sense.”
She knew he was right. She wasn’t making sense. Not on any kind of rational level. But there was no way she was going to bare her feelings to him.
She didn’t know what he saw in her eyes at that moment. Determination? Fear? Hostility? Whatever it was, he dropped his hands away from her and took a step back.
“That cut needs attention,” he said. “I’d vote for stitches. But I can try a butterfly bandage. The scar will be bigger, but I guess it won’t matter much under that gorgeous hair.”
Somewhere in her mind the personal comment registered. But she was too relieved by his acquiescence to call him on it. Instead, she answered, “Okay,” hating the feeling of relief that swept over her.
He wheeled, strode down the hall again and returned almost at once with adhesive tape and scissors.
“You seem to know your way around my apartment pretty well,” she muttered as he tore off a strip of tape and started cutting it into a butterfly shape.
“Because you’re as organized as an old-lady librarian. Everything’s in its logical place.”
She wasn’t sure she liked that image. Since childhood, orderliness had been her defense against the uncertainties of the world around her. But before she had time to think about it, he turned her mind to other things—like his formidable physical presence. Moving in close again, he tipped her head down and pressed the towel against the wound.
“Sorry, I’ve got to cut a little patch of your hair,” he said.
She nodded, conscious of her face resting against his taut middle. She dragged in a breath and drew in his scent—a combination of no-nonsense soap and masculinity.
Although she couldn’t see what he was doing, Hannah sensed he was working with speed and economy. Deftly he snipped away some of her hair, then applied the butterfly strip of adhesive, and taped a gauze pad over top.
“Where did you learn all that first-aid stuff?” she asked as he stepped back and began gathering up the materials he’d left on the table beside the chair.
His hands stopped. “Around,” he said in a slow, countrified voice that made her wonder if he’d picked up his doctoring abilities in a farmyard. Before she could evaluate his reaction, he swept everything into the towel and whirled away.
She raised her hand to the small bandage on the back of her head, gingerly feeling the knot beneath the gauze as she watched his broad shoulders disappear into the bathroom, heard him replacing supplies on the shelves of the medicine cabinet.
It was time to take charge of the situation, she thought, slipping her right hand down to the holster at her hip.
When her uninvited guest came back down the hall, he had a flashlight in his hand. “I’m going to check your pupils,” he said in response to her questioning look.
She nodded, winced, then winced again as he directed the beam at her face. “Well?” she managed to say.
He took a step back. “They’re contracting okay. But are you sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?”
“Absolutely sure,” she retorted. “I’m fine.”
“Are you? You let somebody get the drop on you tonight. Now you’re giving a perfect stranger the run of your apartment.”
“Not exactly.” The hand that she’d hidden between her hip and the side of the chair emerged, holding her Sig Sauer. She concentrated on keeping the gun steady—and keeping her features firm. No point in letting him know that she hadn’t used a gun anywhere but a firing range since she’d left the department.
LUKE’S EYES zeroed in on the gun, and he made a split-second decision. He’d known as soon as he helped her up that she was armed. And he’d been sure that he could take the weapon away from her with very little effort. But if it made her more comfortable to think she’d gotten the drop on him, fine.
Slowly he raised his hands to shoulder level and tried to convey a sense of calm compliance. “I’m going to take a couple steps back and sit on the sofa. Is that okay?”
When she nodded, he backed up and sat down carefully. No sudden moves.
“You don’t have to keep that thing pointed at me. If I wanted to wallop you, I’d have done it already,” he pointed out.
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Still, she lowered the weapon as she studied him.
He returned the scrutiny with a level gaze, silently reaffirming his judgment that he’d picked the right woman for the job he had in mind. She was tough. Cautious. And, despite tonight’s nasty little incident, capable of defending herself.
She interrupted his thoughts with a pointed question. “Okay, you said you saw a guy follow me out of the bar. How come you got involved?”
“I’m the white-knight type.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, you look like a guy on the run.”
His shoulder lifted in a small shrug.
“I want some straight answers from you,” she said. “You’ve been scoping me out for a couple of nights now. Then you followed me out of the bar. I want to know what’s going on.”
He worked to keep the corners of his lips from twitching. With her dander up, she was cute as a button. But he owed her an explanation. Sobering, he said, “Okay, I want to hire your services as a private detective.”
She stared at him as if she hadn’t heard him right. “You want to hire the services of a bumbling idiot who lets herself get assaulted in the street, then lets a strange guy into her apartment.”
“Don’t forget, you neutralized him with your gun,” he answered.
“The way you say it, I get the feeling you’re not too worried.”
He waved his hand dismissively, then turned the focus of the discussion away from himself and back to her. “This evening’s about as typical for you as a hound dog singing opera. You’ve got an excellent record as a cop. And you’ve joined the city’s premier private investigation firm, the Light Street Detective Agency. Formerly O’Malley and Lancer. But Jo O’Malley has gone on leave. And Mike Lancer is planning to move to his wife’s hometown in Pennsylvania. So after interviewing dozens of candidates, the agency has taken on two new detectives—you and Sam Lassiter.”
She peered at him quizzically. “It sounds like you’ve been checking up on me.”
“I’d be a dang fool to hire you unless I’d done my homework.”
“And what exactly do you want me to do for you? I don’t even know your name.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “That’s exactly the problem. I want you to find out who I am.”
He watched her big hazel eyes blink rapidly a couple times. Probably she was wondering if she’d heard him right. In point of fact, he was wondering how he’d gotten the words out of his own mouth.
But the time had come to put up or shut up. And he chose the former.
“I want you to discover my identity,” he clarified.
“You don’t know who you are? You’re saying you have amnesia?”
“Jackpot.”
“Have you been to the police? The FBI?”
“Not a good idea.”
While she waited for clarification, he let out a small sigh. He’d convinced himself he could trust her. Now that the time had come, he felt like a cat clinging to a tin roof by its claws.
“Three weeks ago I woke up in a hotel room in Chicago. Before that I don’t remember a blasted thing.”
Her eyes widened. “You have no memories before that?”
“That’s right.”
“So how did you end up in Baltimore?”
He’d tried to answer that question a number of times. Now he gave her the line that he’d given himself. “It was just another place. A city big enough to hide in. And not so spread out that it’s hard to get around.”
“You’re sure that’s all?”
He swallowed. “Okay. Something—a
feeling—drew me here. I can’t tell you any more than that.”
He watched her, knowing she was trying to decide whether to press the subject or drop it. Finally, she raised her hand to her face, and he followed the movement of her graceful fingers as she massaged her temple.
“Your head hurts,” he said, snatching at the excuse to postpone the inevitable. “This isn’t a good time to get into a bunch of stuff.”
“We’re already into a bunch of stuff.”
“Yeah. But I think you should get some sleep, and we should continue the conversation in the morning.”
She shook her head, grimaced. “Stop dancing around, and tell me flat out why you don’t want to do what any normal amnesia victim would do.”
He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, wishing he hadn’t lost control of the situation. But he knew from his research that she was good at mining for information—making things go her way, even when she was obviously in pain.
“Okay. I told you I woke up in a Chicago hotel room. I had a knot on my head—a lot worse than the one you’ve got. And I had two suitcases with me. One was full of new clothing I have no memory of buying. The other—” He stopped and swallowed before he was able to continue. “The other was full of money. Damn near a million dollars.”
CHAPTER TWO
He watched her jaw drop, part of him amused by the classic reaction. “You’re kidding me.”
“Darlin’, I wish I were.”
“Where did the money come from?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got some theories.” When she didn’t comment, he was forced to continue. “It’s got to be from some shady deal—a drug payoff, blackmail money, something like that.”
The words hung between them.
“Not necessarily,” she finally said. “Maybe you’re a courier who thwarted a robbery attempt and were injured in the process.”
“A courier for whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you’re in no shape to think about it now. We should have started this discussion in the morning. You need to sleep. I’ll stay here in case you get into trouble.”
“You’re telling me you think you’re a criminal, and you’re staying in my apartment? I don’t think so.”
He spread his hands, palms up. “I’m doing what’s best for you, considering that you won’t go to the emergency room.”
“You don’t remember your name, but you know what’s best for me.”
“I’m using common sense.”
“Uh-huh. And what name are you using, by the way?”
“Luke Pritchard.”
“Where’d you come up with that?”
“I let my fingers do the walkin’ through a phone book,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “One from column A and one from column B.”
“There’s no significance to the combination?”
“I just liked the way it sounded,” he answered, aware again of that little twinge of reaction. Luke Pritchard meant something. But he was damned if he could figure out what.
He watched her take in his uncertain expression.
“You’re right. We can continue the discussion in the morning. Come back at…eight.”
“Okay,” he agreed, because it was easier than arguing.
Demonstrating his spirit of cooperation, he climbed off the sofa and strode to the front door. After stepping into the hall and closing the door, he listened to the sound of her snapping the dead bolt into place.
She was cautious. Which was good. But he’d bet she was in no shape to check the lock he’d opened on the bathroom window.
At the bottom of the stairs he paused, his long-fingered hand clutching the door frame. Deliberately, he eased the pressure of his fingers, even while he questioned his own judgment. He’d picked over Hannah Dawson’s background like a sheep farmer combing burrs out of a ewe’s coat—and assured himself that she was the right person to help him.
Right now, he knew her better than any other human being on earth. He knew she was from York, Pennsylvania. Knew that her father had been a truck driver and that her mom had worked in a school cafeteria. He knew the parents were both dead—the father of lung cancer and the mother of a heart attack. She was the youngest of four siblings, ten years younger than her closest brother; a baby who had come late in her parents’ lives. She was the only one who had gone to college, and on a scholarship. The others had resented her advancing in the world, so she rarely communicated with them.
Her uncle, also deceased, had been a police officer in town. She’d admired him and been inspired to follow in his footsteps. But apparently, sticking around York hadn’t been an option for her, so she’d applied to the Baltimore P.D. out of college.
Luke knew she’d been determined to make something of herself. Determined to be the best detective in the department. He knew all the facts. But in the end, the facts hadn’t been the deciding factor. He’d picked her based on emotion, not logic. He was attracted to her, and now that he’d spent some time with her, he knew the attraction was dangerous.
He stood in the doorway, picturing the woman who’d locked him out of her apartment with such a decisive snick of her dead bolt. Her wide hazel eyes had looked so gentle—until you got her dander up. Then there was the sable hair cropped at chin level. As he’d covertly studied her in the Last Chance Bar, he’d wondered about the texture. Now he knew it was soft and silky to the touch. Like her creamy skin. Probably her pretty little lips were soft as well.
He found himself getting turned on thinking about how those lips would feel brushing against his, opening under his. In some part of his brain he knew he should run—not walk—back to his temporary town house. But he remained where he was, because the terrible feeling of isolation, of loneliness, wouldn’t allow him to leave.
He had no memories of mother, father, sisters, brothers, friends…wife. Holding up his left hand, he inspected his ring finger as he had so many times over the past few weeks. It was bare. And there was no indentation or circle of lighter skin where a ring might have been. But that proved nothing, of course. For all he knew, he could have a wife and children stashed in Anchorage, Alaska, or right here in Baltimore.
If he did, he recalled nothing about them. Or anyone else who might have meant something to him personally. Or himself, for that matter.
He pressed his fingertips against the skin of his face, feeling the rough texture. He’d spent a great deal of his life outside. Maybe he was a telephone lineman—who’d gotten an electric shock from the wires at the top of the pole, lost his memory and stumbled over a suitcase full of money.
He made a snorting sound. The lineman theory made as little sense as any of the other nut-brained scenarios he’d manufactured over the past weeks as he’d lain in bed with his hands stacked behind his head—sleepless in Chicago, Denver, St. Louis, Baltimore.
Once again he went over the things he knew, hoping they would trigger some memory.
He was strong. He had the reflexes of a cat burglar.
He stopped there—picturing himself dressed in black quietly treading across a roof at night. It wasn’t hard to make the image seem real. In a few minutes, he was going to make it real, but he didn’t know whether it was an actual memory.
He was good with a gun. An automatic felt familiar in his hand. He knew how many bullets there were in the magazine of a Sig Sauer P-228. He knew how to sight and fire, how to clean and maintain a weapon.
So, was he on the right side of the law or the wrong? He had the instincts of a fugitive; he knew that much. He had to assume somebody was looking for him and the money, but he’d successfully evaded them by buying a false identity, maintaining a low profile and keeping his nose clean.
Another thing he knew was that his mind was sharp. He had excellent reasoning, a lot of specific facts at his fingertips and broad general knowledge. But anything pertaining specifically to himself was locked away behind a metaphorical eight-foot stone wall topped with razor wire.
&
nbsp; His hands squeezed in frustration. Then he roused himself, strode down the block and found the alley running along the back of the row houses. He’d been here before, so he knew which unit was Hannah’s. He’d also thought about how to get inside if he needed to.
She’d told him she didn’t want him in her apartment tonight. But she’d also been attacked an hour ago. And he’d heard the assailant call out, “Got ya, bitch.”
Suppose that shout was personal? Suppose the assailant had a grudge to settle with her? If that were true, the guy could come back tonight, which meant that leaving Hannah unguarded was dangerous and irresponsible. So whether or not she wanted him in her apartment tonight, he was fixin’ to be there—watching over her.
HANNAH STOOD for a moment listening to the silence around her. The man who’d picked the name Luke Pritchard for himself was gone, and the apartment felt strangely empty.
Like everything else in her life. She’d come to Baltimore with such hope, determined to be as good a cop as her uncle Jacob had been. And for a few years, she’d thought she was living up to the high standard he’d set.
Now her dreams were shattered along with her confidence. She was a washed-up cop holding on to some measure of self-respect by working as a P.I.
In her bedroom, she flicked on the lamp that hung over the bed, and closed the door before setting her gun down on the nightstand with a thunk.
Her eyes darted to the phone beside the gun. Maybe she should ask someone to stay with her. A few months ago she wouldn’t have had to call anyone. Gary would have been lying beside her in their bed and he would have taken her in his arms as he soothed her.
She squeezed her eyes shut to banish that image. Gary was gone. He wasn’t coming back. And one thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want him back!
The person to call was Sam Lassiter or one of her other Light Street friends, and they’d be here inside of fifteen minutes. But she wasn’t going to make any calls at—she glanced at the clock and was astonished to find it was after one in the morning.
