"Are the boxes ready to go?" Damon asked, entering the room, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, looking as sexy and appealing as ever. She wondered if she'd ever get tired of seeing him come through the door. She doubted it.
Damon had rented a truck for the day so they could not only move her father's things out of this house, but they could also move her stuff out of her apartment and his stuff out of his apartment. They had rented a new place together by the university. It was a perfect one-bedroom ground floor apartment with a small patio—an incredible find in the city. But more importantly, it had excellent air conditioning.
"What are you smiling about?" Damon asked curiously.
"You," she said. "I was thinking about our place, and how cool it will be on hot summer nights."
He grinned. "I like the AC, I must admit. But with you around, it's going to be hard to stay cool."
He was right about that. They'd had a lot of trouble keeping their hands off each other the past month. For a man who had always liked his own space, Damon had definitely grown comfortable sharing whatever space he was in with her.
"So, where's our manpower?" she asked.
"Did someone say manpower?" Wyatt asked, coming through the door, with Bree on his heels.
"I think she meant womanpower," Bree said dryly.
"I mean all power," she said with a laugh. "I really appreciate you guys helping us with all the moves. I'm sure you have better things to do on a Saturday."
"I'm just happy to not be taking another polygraph test," Wyatt said. "How many lie detectors do I need to beat?"
"I didn't realize that was still going on," she said with a frown.
Wyatt certainly looked a lot better than he had the first time she'd met him. He'd added a few pounds to his frame, and his face didn't look so hollow or his skin so pale. She knew he'd spent the past few weeks in grueling, long interviews helping the Bureau build their cases against the Venturis and the Belenkos, as well as Karen Leigh, who had miraculously managed to survive her injuries. In exchange for her help, Karen would probably receive a lesser sentence than the other players, but she would serve time for what she had done, and Sophie was extremely happy about that.
"Hopefully, it's almost over," Wyatt replied. "By the way, while it appears that the Belenkos will be impossible to bring to justice in this country, we're sharing some of our intel with our friends in Eastern Europe, and it looks like they may do time over there."
"That's excellent news." She'd worried that while the Belenko's US operation had been shut down, Elena's uncles were still conducting business somewhere in the Ukraine. Now, it appeared that might end as well.
"So, what are you doing, Damon?" Wyatt asked. "I hear rumors you're leaving, then you're staying, but no one seems to know for sure."
"I'm curious, too," Bree put in. "And if you want my help on moving day, I think I should get some answers. Are you going to take over the organized crime unit?"
"No, definitely not," Damon replied with a shake of his head. "I was only interested in that area because Alan asked me to work for him. I think I'd like to do something else."
"Like what?" Wyatt asked curiously.
"Not sure. I'm thinking about it. I told Peter that I haven't had a vacation in about thirteen years, so I'm going to take some time off. If he's still interested in having me on staff in September in a position we both agree on, then I'm there."
"What are you going to do until September?" Bree asked with a grin. "Or am I getting too personal?"
Damon grinned. "Besides that," he said pointedly, "Sophie and I are heading to Egypt for an archaeological dig."
"Seriously?" Bree asked in surprise. "You're taking time off to dig in the dirt?"
"Real dirt for a change," he said with a happy smile. "I can't wait."
Bree shook her head in bemusement. "I don't know what you did, Sophie, but I like the new Damon."
"I didn't do a thing," she said, as Damon came over and put his arm around her. "But just for the record, I liked the old Damon, too."
Wyatt cleared his throat. "Okay, enough of the hearts and flowers, people. Are we moving boxes or what?"
"We're moving boxes," she said. "But first, what are you going to do next, Wyatt?" she asked the man, who still remained a bit of a mystery to her. "Are you going to stay in New York?"
"Nope. I'm going to London," Wyatt returned.
"What's in London?" Damon asked.
"Need to know," Wyatt said with a grin.
"Try to stay out of trouble," Damon said.
"What fun is there in that?" Wyatt retorted.
"Will you be undercover?" she asked curiously.
"Nope, not doing that for a while. What you see is what you get."
She wondered if that was true. With Wyatt, she didn't think anyone saw what he didn't want them to see.
She turned to Bree. "I hope you're staying in New York."
"I am. I love my work here. I hope to see a lot of you and Damon when you get back from your summer vacation."
"Definitely," she said. "I guess we should start taking boxed to the truck."
As Bree and Wyatt grabbed a box each and headed outside, Damon turned to her with a quizzical look in his eyes. "Everything okay, Sophie? Feeling any pangs of sadness with all of this?"
"A few," she admitted. "But not too many. This house doesn't really hold my memories. Our family home—the one we lived in when my mom was alive—was much harder to give up. But I've learned that love isn't in what we have; it's who we're with. I'm just glad I'm with you."
"Me, too." He gazed into her eyes with a tender expression. "We're going to be happy, Sophie. That might be hard to believe now—"
"It's not hard to believe at all," she interrupted. "I love you, Damon. And that's never going to change. We're good together—in the night and in the day."
He smiled. "I like mornings a lot better now when I wake up with you."
"So do I."
"I love you, too, Sophie." He kissed her and then grabbed a box. "Let's get started on the rest of our lives."
"I can't wait."
# # #
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed PERILOUS TRUST, the first book in my new FBI series OFF THE GRID. Damon and Sophie were so much fun to write about! If you'd like to leave a review and share your thoughts with other readers, click here!
I'm excited to continue on with this series in the next year. Book two, RECKLESS WHISPER, features Bree Adams, and I think you're going to love her story as well. Book three features Wyatt in DESPERATE PLAY, and along the way you'll be meeting two other members of the team, who will eventually get their own books.
In the meantime, if you're in the mood for more romantic suspense, I've included an excerpt from SILENT RUN, the first book in a connected romantic suspense duo. (SILENT FALL is the second book.)
If you like contemporary romance with a hint of mystery, I've also included an excerpt from ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS, the first book in my New York Times Bestselling Series the Callaways! I hope you find something fun to read next.
Want to stay up to date on my new book releases? Sign up for my newsletter!
I also have a private Facebook group for super fans who would love to talk books and win cool prizes. If you'd like to join, click here!
Until next time, happy reading!
Barbara Freethy
Excerpt from SILENT RUN
© Copyright 2017 Barbara Freethy
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
A woman wakes in a hospital bed with no idea of who she is. Her memory is gone, her baby missing. All she has is the gripping certainty that she is in mortal danger. Then a handsome, angry stranger barges in and makes a terrible accusation. He was her lover--and her child's father--until she disappeared seven months ago.
Jake Sanders swore he'd never forgive Sarah Tucker, but he isn't about to let her get away again--especially not with his daughter still missing. If he has any chance of recovering his baby, he must help the woman w
ho betrayed him retrieve the pieces of her shattered memory--without letting his feelings get in the way.
Haunted by troubling flashes of memory, Sarah begins to realize she's lived a life of lies. But what is the truth? And where is her baby?
Prologue
Large raindrops streamed against her windshield as she sped along the dark, narrow highway north of Los Angeles. She’d been traveling for over an hour along the wild and beautiful Pacific coastline. She’d passed the busy beach cities of Venice and Santa Monica, the celebrity-studded hills of Malibu and Santa Barbara. Thank God it was a big state. She could start over again, find a safe place to stay, but she had to get there first.
The pair of headlights in her rearview mirror drew closer with each passing mile. Her nerves began to tighten, and goose bumps rose along her arms and the back of her neck. She’d been running too long not to recognize danger. But where had the car come from? She’d been so sure that no one had followed her out of LA. After sixty miles of constantly checking her rearview mirror she’d begun to relax, but now the fear came rushing back.
It was too dark to see the car behind her, but there was something about the speed with which it was approaching that made her nervous. She pressed her foot down harder on the gas, clinging to the wheel as gale-force winds blowing in off the ocean rocketed through the car, making the driving even more treacherous.
A few miles later the road veered inland. She looked for a place to exit. Finally she saw a sign for an upcoming turnoff heading into the Santa Ynez Mountains. Maybe with a few twists and turns she could lose the car on her tail, and if her imagination were simply playing tricks on her, the car behind her would just continue down the road.
The exit came up fast. She took the turn on two wheels. Five minutes later the pair of headlights was once again directly behind her. There was no mistake: He was coming after her.
She had to get away from him. Adrenaline raced through her bloodstream, giving her courage and strength. She was so tired of running for her life, but she couldn’t quit now. She’d probably made a huge mistake leaving the main highway. There was no traffic on this two-lane road. If he caught her now there would be no one to come to her rescue.
The gap between their cars lessened. He was so close she could see the silhouette of a man in her rearview mirror. He was bearing down on her.
She took the next turn too sharply, her tires sliding on the slick, wet pavement.
Sudden lights coming from the opposite direction blinded her. She hit the brakes hard. The car skidded out of control. She flew across the road, crashed through a wooden barrier, and hurtled down a steep embankment. Rocks splintered the windshield as she threw up her hands in protest and prayer.
When the impact finally came it was crushing, the pain intense. It was too much. All she wanted to do was to sink into oblivion. It was over. She was finished.
But some voice deep inside her screamed at her to stay awake, because if she wasn’t dead yet, she soon would be.
Chapter One
The blackness in her mind began to lessen. There was a light behind her eyelids that beckoned and called to her. She was afraid to answer that call, terrified to open her eyes. Maybe it was the white light people talked about, the one to follow when you were dead. But she wasn’t dead, was she?
It was just a nightmare, she told herself. She was dreaming; she’d wake up in a minute. But something was wrong. Her bed didn’t feel right. The mattress was hard beneath her back. There were odd bells going off in her head. She smelled antiseptic and chlorine bleach. A siren wailed in the distance. Someone was talking to her, a man.
Her stomach clenched with inexplicable fear as she felt a strong hand on her shoulder. Her eyes flew open, and she blinked rapidly, the scene before her confusing.
She wasn’t home in her bedroom, as she’d expected. A man in a long white coat stood next to the bed. He appeared to be in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, dark eyes, and a serious expression. He held a clipboard in one hand. A stethoscope hung around his neck, and a pair of glasses rested on his long, narrow nose. Next to him stood a short, plump brunette dressed in blue scrubs, offering a compassionate, encouraging smile that seemed to match the name on her name tag, Rosie.
What was going on? Where was she?
"You’re awake," the doctor said, a brisk note in his voice, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "That’s good. We were getting concerned about you. You’ve been unconscious for hours."
Unconscious? She gazed down the length of her body, suddenly aware of the thin blue gown, the hospital identification band on her wrist, the IV strapped to her left arm. And pain—there was pain... in her head, her right wrist, and her knees. Her right cheek throbbed. She raised a hand to her temple and was surprised to encounter a bandage. What on earth had happened to her?
"You were in an automobile accident last night," the doctor told her. "You have some injuries, but you’re going to be all right. You’re at St. Mary’s Hospital just outside of Los Olivos in Santa Barbara County. I’m Dr. Carmichael. Do you understand what I’m saying?"
She shook her head, his brisk words jumbling up in her brain, making little to no sense. "Am I dreaming?" she whispered.
"You’re not dreaming, but you do have a head injury. It’s not unusual to be confused," the doctor replied. He offered her a small, practiced smile that was edged with impatience. "Now, do you feel up to a few questions? Why don’t we start with your name?"
She opened her mouth to reply, thinking that was an easy question, until nothing came to mind. Her brain was blank. What was her name? She had to have one. Everyone did. What on earth was wrong with her? She gave a helpless shake of her head. "I’m... I’m not sure," she murmured, shocked by the realization.
The doctor frowned, his gaze narrowing on her face. "You don’t remember your name? What about your address, or where you’re from?"
She bit down on her bottom lip, straining to think of the right answers. Numbers danced in her head, but no streets, no cities, no states. A wave of terror rushed through her. She had to be dreaming—lost in a nightmare. She wanted to run, to scream, to wake herself up, but she couldn’t do any of those things.
"You don’t know, do you?" the nurse interjected.
"I... I should know. Why don’t I know? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember my name, where I’m from? What’s going on?" Her voice rose with each desperate question.
"Your brain suffered a traumatic injury," Dr. Carmichael explained. "It may take some time for you to feel completely back to normal. It’s probably nothing to worry about. You just need to rest, let the swelling go down."
His words were meant to be reassuring, but anxiety ran like fire through her veins. She struggled to remember something about herself. Glancing down at her hands, she saw the light pink, somewhat chipped polish on her fingernails and wondered how it could be that her own fingers didn’t look familiar to her. She wore no rings, no jewelry, not even a watch. Her skin was pale, her arms thin. But she had no idea what her face looked like.
"A mirror," she said abruptly. "Could someone get me a mirror?"
Dr. Carmichael and Rosie exchanged a brief glance, and then he nodded to the nurse, who quickly left the room. "You need to try to stay calm," he said as he jotted something down on his clipboard. "Getting upset won’t do you any good."
"I don’t know my name. I don’t know what I look like." Hysteria bubbled in her throat, and panic made her want to jump out of bed and run... but to where, she had no idea. She tried to breathe through the rush of adrenaline. If this were a nightmare, eventually she’d wake up. If it wasn’t... well, then she’d have to figure out what to do next. In the meantime she had to calm down. She had to think.
The doctor said she’d had an accident. Like the car crash in her dream? Was it possible that had been real and not a dream?
Glancing toward the clock, she saw that it was seven thirty. At least she knew how to read the time. "Is it night or morning?" Her
gaze traveled to the window, but the heavy blue curtain was drawn, making it impossible for her to see outside.
"It’s morning," the doctor replied. "You were brought in around nine o’clock last night."
Almost ten hours ago. So much time had passed. "Do you know what happened to me?"
"I’m afraid I don’t know the details, but from what I understand, you were in a serious car accident."
Before she could ask another question, the nurse returned to the room and handed her a small compact mirror.
She opened the compact with shaky fingers, almost afraid of what she would see. She stared at her face for a long minute. Her eyes were light blue, framed by thick black lashes. Her hair was a dull dark brown, long, tangled, and curly, dropping past her shoulders. There were dark circles under her eyes, as well as purple bruises that were accentuated by the pallor of her skin. A white bandage was taped across her temple. Multiple tiny cuts covered her cheekbones. Her face was thin, drawn. She looked like a ghost. Even her eyes were haunted by shadows.
"Oh, God," she whispered, feeling as if she were looking at a complete stranger. Who was she?
"The cuts will heal," the nurse said. "Don’t worry. You’ll have your pretty face back before you know it."
It wasn’t the bruises on her face that filled her heart with terror; it was the fact that she didn’t recognize anything about herself. She felt absolutely no connection to the woman in the mirror. She slammed the compact shut, afraid to look any longer. Her pulse raced, and her heart beat in triple time as the reality of her situation sank in. She felt completely vulnerable, and she wanted to run and hide until she figured everything out. She would have jumped out of bed if Dr. Carmichael hadn’t put his hand on her shoulder, perhaps sensing her desperation.
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