Memory Reload

by Rosemary Heim

  They headed down the beach in silence. She kept up with him, walking with an easy grace in spite of the soft sand dragging at their feet. He was acutely aware of her slender form beside him, just out of reach, but near enough to keep his senses on red alert.

  She was the perfect height, tall enough to tuck under his chin, but not so short he’d get a kink in his neck bending down to kiss her. Hold your horses, boyo. This is not an appropriate direction to be thinking.

  The small bungalow, hidden among another bunch of palms, came into view none too soon. He held the back door open for her and she stepped past him. She stopped just inside the tidy little kitchen, inspecting her surroundings.

  Ryan made a production of brushing the sand from his feet before stepping onto the clean terra-cotta tile floor, giving her as much time as he could to look around. The more comfortable she was with her surroundings, the more likely she would be to confide in him.

  The door clicked shut behind him. If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have missed her slight flinch.

  He stepped around her and moved to the other side of the room. Maybe she’d relax some if he kept his distance a bit better than he had been. “I imagine you might want to freshen up a bit.” He pointed down the hall. “Why don’t you go on through to the bathroom while I get that lemonade?”

  She hesitated, her hand clenching and releasing on the camera bag’s shoulder strap.

  Ryan cleared his laptop and paperwork from the small round kitchen table, turned away and began opening cupboards, setting out glasses and a plate. He waited until he heard the bathroom door close before turning around. A swift survey of the room confirmed his suspicion. She wasn’t letting that bag out of her sight.

  When she returned he was sitting in one of the ladder-back chairs, leafing through a recent Smithsonian magazine. A plate of gingersnaps, a frosty pitcher of lemonade and two tall glasses filled with ice covered the bright yellow tabletop. The second chair at the table turned out, an open invitation for her to sit down.

  Ryan sat up straight and tossed the magazine onto the counter behind him. He squelched the urge to stand and hold the chair for her as she joined him.

  She slid onto the chair without changing its position. The camera bag settled on her lap, her hands curled into white-knuckled fists around the bag’s handle. She flexed her hands a couple of times, then lowered the case to the floor, looping the shoulder strap over her knee. Her back never touched the chair’s ladder-back. An air of quiet panic swirled around her.

  The clinking of ice filled the room as Ryan poured them each a glass. He took a cookie for himself, then pushed the plate closer to her. “Not exactly the breakfast of champions, I know, but I figure it’s got the same basic ingredients—grain, eggs, sugar.”

  A fleeting smile answered his attempt at humor.

  She took a tiny sip of the lemonade and set the glass back on the table. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “For suggesting I come back here.”

  Ryan shrugged. “My mama raised me to be a gentleman.”

  Another smile flickered across those full lips of hers. He couldn’t help noticing how they shone with moisture from the lemonade. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, damning himself for noticing every little detail of her appearance.

  “She did a fine job. Are you from…” She cleared her throat again. “I can’t quite place your accent.”

  “Don’t guess I sound much like any one place. I moved around quite a bit when I was growing up, mostly in the South.”

  She nodded and the silence crept back in. Ryan wanted to ask her some questions of his own, but decided to bide his time. Maybe if she asked a few more questions, got to know a bit more about him, felt a little more comfortable, she’d begin to open up herself.

  “You don’t live here?” She looked around the retro-chic kitchen.

  “No, just visiting. Jamie lets me stay here whenever I have the time.”

  “Nice friend.”

  “Yeah.” Ryan took another swallow of lemonade to keep from asking her anything.

  “Where do you call home?”

  “Nowhere in particular.” He shrugged. “I’m kind of a nomad. My job takes me away for extended periods of time, so I’ve never really set up a permanent base.”

  “How sad,” she murmured. Her face reddened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  Ryan shook his head and waved away her concern. “No offense taken. I just never saw any reason to settle down. Homebody is not in my nature.”

  “What do you do?”

  “At the moment, nothing. I’m…between assignments.”

  “But a government job?” She busied herself wiping the condensation from the sides of her glass.

  Ryan nodded and waited for the next question. He had a pretty good idea what it might be.

  “So, what, are you a secret agent, or something like that?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh.” She laughed, a bit nervously he thought. “I guess you probably can’t tell me much more.”

  “Not much more to tell. I’m posted to the Office of Professional Responsibility. It’s my job to smoke out bad agents and see that they pay for their treason.”

  She straightened in her chair, looking at him with a slight tilt to her head.

  “I could give you a number to call. A couple numbers, actually. My boss and a buddy. They’ll vouch that I’m on the up-and-up.”

  “I can call them directly? Any time?” The idea seemed to reassure her. She eased back into her chair.

  “Any time. It’s not a problem.” He leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back legs. It wasn’t much of a stretch for him to reach the little message pad and pen hanging on a hook by the cordless wall phone. The chair settled back on all four legs. He wrote the numbers, explaining as he went. “The first number is for Jacquelyn Kingston. She’s my supervisor at the Bureau. John Danse is a fellow agent I just worked with. He’s not exactly a buddy, but he’ll vouch for me. The last number is for this house.”

  He pushed the paper across the table. She studied it for a moment, then carefully folded it and tucked it into her T-shirt pocket.

  Ryan’s mouth went dry. The sharp edges of the paper stood outlined between the softness of the cotton material and the fullness of her breast. He lifted his glass and downed most of its contents. The icy liquid had little cooling effect.

  “You work for a woman?” Her voice pulled him back to the issue at hand.

  “Yeah. She runs a tight ship. That’s not easy with the bunch of retired military personnel she’s got in her organization. We all tend to be pretty independent. Except when we’re working as a team.”

  “You don’t look old enough to be retired.”

  “I reckon thirty-two is old enough for pretty near anything.” His smile widened as a soft blush colored her cheeks. “Did you want to make that call now?”

  “Call? Oh.” She refused to meet his steady look. Her glance darted about the room, resting momentarily on the phone behind him. “Well, actually…that may be a bit more difficult to do than I thought.”

  “Do you need the phone book?” He stood this time and opened a drawer, pulling out the phone book. He set it and the cordless phone’s bright red handset on the table in front of her.

  She stared at them as if they might change into snakes and bite her. She tentatively picked up the phone. Her long, slender fingers stroked the keypad. Ryan shifted again and pushed away the image of those same fingers running over his chest and belly.

  This was crazy. He didn’t care how long it’d been since he’d been with a woman. Reactions this strong and immediate were not normal.

  The thin pages rustled in the silence as she flipped through the phone book with one hand. Her other hand clutched the phone.

  The soft overhead light played on the various rings she wore. Each finger hosted a different style—silver, gold, tiny gemstones trapped in the finest of wire, an openwork band. Only the ri
ng finger on her left hand was bare. There, a wide patch of pale skin revealed a story all its own.

  Great. Just what I need, a married woman. She’s probably a runaway wife and having second thoughts but doesn’t want to ask her husband to come fetch her.

  The thought startled him. Why should he feel such disappointment that this woman might be tied to some other man? And none of that explained why she was carrying a gun she didn’t know the first thing about using.

  “I can leave you alone to make the call if you’d like,” he offered, even though his mind shouted a denial. He wanted to know who she planned on calling.

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” She rubbed her forehead, hiding her eyes behind her hand. Her long black hair fell forward as her head bowed, curtaining her face from his view. “I’m not sure where I’d go.”

  Her quiet words stilled the noise of his inner voice. Without thinking, he reached across the table and touched her hand. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “I think I must be.”

  “Can you tell me?” He leaned close, straining to catch her soft words.

  She shook her head.

  “I might be able to help.”

  Finally, she lifted her head and met his look. Tears trailed over her cheeks. More pooled in her eyes. “Can you tell me who I am? Because I haven’t a clue.”

  Chapter Two

  Her words hung in the air.

  Okay, so she’s a runaway wife having an identity crisis. Tread lightly, boyo.

  He ignored his mental warning and shifted out of his chair to kneel on the floor in front of her. He touched her hand, the hand once again clutching the shoulder strap draped over her knee, intending to lend some comfort and encouragement. The chill clinging to her long fingers startled him. Gathering both of her hands into his, he began chafing them, trying to ease the cold. He met her tear-filled eyes with a steady gaze. “It’ll be okay.”

  She blinked her eyes closed and shook her head. “How can you know that?”

  Ryan couldn’t stop the grin pulling up one side of his mouth. He shrugged. “Because things always work out. You couldn’t know this, but I live a charmed life. When I found you on the beach, you became part of it. So, I just naturally know everything will be all right.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Nothing’s ever happened to show me different.” He brushed away the tear trailing over her cheek. It began as an innocent touch, but the contact sent a vibration through him, relaying an unexpected intimacy.

  “Then I’d say you’ve been very lucky.”

  “Like I said, sugar, a charmed life. So, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” He gave her hands an encouraging squeeze before releasing them. Pulling his chair around the table, he sat down, scooting closer to her until their knees nearly touched.

  She shifted on the cushioned chair seat, crossing then uncrossing her legs. With each movement, their knees brushed together, her dark leggings against his bare skin. Each brush sent heat curling up his leg. Ryan spread his legs, giving her a little more room. Giving himself a break from the unexpected torture of that oh-so-brief touch.

  He took a sip of lemonade to ease the sudden dryness of his mouth. “Let’s start at the beginning. Will you tell me your name?”

  Confusion flickered across her face, she blinked, her gaze darted around the room. “I…I can’t,” she choked out.

  “I promise you, if it’s a matter of safety, no one else will know.”

  A fine tremble shook her fingers as she tucked her hair behind her ears. “It’s not that. At least, I don’t think so.” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.

  “Then, what is it?” He kept his voice low and calm, then waited through the silence.

  She sat up straighter, pulled her shoulders back and finally met his gaze head-on. “You want to start at the beginning?”

  He nodded.

  “That would be on the beach, when I woke up thirty-four minutes before you found me.”

  “You slept on the beach? All night?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs and cupping her knees in his hands. The scent of the beach—sunshine, sand and salt—clung to her clothes. Another fragrance, subtler, more feminine, teased his senses. He thought of pulling back, putting some distance, some breathing space between them, but the fear on her face drew him closer. The need to protect and comfort her ignited a slow-burning fire deep within him.

  He searched her eyes, trying to find the answers hidden in the stormy depths. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sugar, I can’t help you if you don’t give me anything to work with.”

  “Ryan, I can’t tell you my name, because I don’t remember it.” Her words came out in a rush, tumbling one over the next in her urgency to say them. “I don’t remember why I was on the beach or how or when I got there. I don’t recognize my own voice. I couldn’t describe myself until I looked in the mirror. My mind is a huge void.”

  Ryan sat back, staring at her for a moment before releasing a soft whistle. “Well now, that is a fix, ain’t it?”

  Truth echoed in her words. Of course, she could just be a good actress. It wouldn’t be the first time a beautiful woman had fooled a man with tears and a woeful smile.

  He studied her, searched her face for clues to what was really going on. Her gray eyes never wavered from his. He saw honesty and a silent plea asking him to believe.

  Her body language reinforced the image. She sat with her arms wrapped around her waist, as though trying to hold the fear in before it overpowered her. She still held on to the camera-bag strap as though it was her only anchor of certainty in an unknown world.

  His instincts said this wasn’t an act; she told the truth.

  Another set of instincts, the undercover-survival instincts, kicked in. He leaned forward, reaching toward her.

  She flinched at his first touch, but didn’t pull away, just sat motionless as he burrowed his fingers through her hair. The dark mass slid over his hands in a soft caress. The sensation called up the image of her hair falling in a curtain around him. He tamped down his reaction. Now was not the time.

  Starting at her temples, he conducted a thorough exam of her skull. “Do you have any bruises, bumps, sore spots, anything to indicate some kind of injury?”

  “No.” Her whispered answer brushed over his inner arm, raising gooseflesh.

  He smoothed the silken mass of her hair back over her shoulder and probed her neck and shoulders. None of his prodding elicited a flinch of pain. He broke the physical contact with her and leaned back in his chair. A silent sigh of relief escaped his lips. “What about a headache?”

  “Only when I strain to remember.”

  “What about your ID? You must have something on you with a name.”

  Early-morning sunlight slanted through the kitchen window, gleaming in her midnight hair as she shook her head. “No. There’s nothing. No pockets except this one.”

  He followed her gesture toward her breast. The outline of the slip of paper he’d given her looked harsh against the roundness of her breast. His mouth went dry as cotton.

  This was getting out of hand. He had to get his reactions to her under control before his libido completely took over. If he didn’t, he’d be useless to both of them. He swallowed and forced his attention back to her face.

  “What about the camera bag?” He downed the rest of his lemonade and refilled the glass.

  “I looked. There’s nothing.”

  “Everything looked normal?”

  She nodded.

  Ryan tugged at his earlobe. There had to be something, some clue to her identity. Maybe she hadn’t noticed it because it looked normal. People sometimes missed the obvious because they were so intent on finding the obscure. Hide in plain sight.

  Or maybe it was all there in the bag and she didn’t want her little game to end just yet.

  “Do you mind if I look?�
� He held out his right hand, testing her, wondering if she’d let him search the bag.

  She leaned over, lifted the bag by the handle and set it in her lap. Her long fingers rubbed the bag, her fingertips pressing into the nylon as they slid over the surface. It was an odd gesture. Almost that of a child reluctant to give up a cherished security blanket. She hesitated, gnawing on her lower lip for a moment before handing the bag to him.

  The weight of it caught him off guard. She’d been handling the bag with such ease there’d been no indication of its heft.

  He pushed his chair back and stood. After clearing the small table, he set the camera case on the sunny yellow Formica top. He slanted a glance at her. “What’ve you got in here?”

  “Cameras, lenses, film. Pretty much what you’d expect.”

  “I guess that depends on what you expect.” He lifted it and let it drop back on the table with a soft thunk. “It seems mighty heavy.”

  “No more than usual.” She shrugged.

  Ryan hesitated. Had she just slipped? Or was this a spontaneous memory breaking through the amnesia? When she didn’t say any more, he shifted back to the camera bag. He began his search with the outside pockets, snapping open each quick-release catch and pulling out the contents. He checked each item before laying it on the table. Packets of lens tissues, a shutter-release cable, several cases holding filters, a small cloth coin-purse. He spilled its contents onto the table, revealing a few coins and several small bills.

  Once the pockets were emptied, he ran his hands over the interiors, double-checking for any items that may have escaped his initial notice.

  He shifted a little, positioning himself so he could watch her reactions as he opened the body of the case. The zipper slipped over its teeth with surprising silence. The ticking of the kitchen clock sounded louder in the quiet room. As he folded back the cover he forgot about watching her, doing a classic double take when he saw the contents.

  This was not a tourist’s camera bag.

  He’d seen one camera when he came across her on the beach. It was inside the case, along with a second camera body, each nestled in a cushioned compartment. Several lenses and a shrink-wrapped block of film boxes filled other sections. Individual film canisters were held in place across the inside top of the bag with elastic loops. One by one, he transferred the items from the camera bag to the table.