by Cassie Miles
“Not until you remember what happened.”
“As if I have a choice?” Damn it, he didn’t understand anything. “Are you insinuating that I’m purposely forgetting?”
He lifted one accusing eyebrow. “You haven’t told me all the details.”
Some things she couldn’t reveal. Not about the cash and the jewelry. Not about her vision of a man who had been shot. Not until she knew what they meant. “Some of my memories are none of your business.”
“You’re afraid to talk.”
Her grip on self-control stretched to the limit. “How dare you accuse me of being scared!”
“Then tell me,” he said.
“I don’t remember.”
“The hell you don’t.”
She charged at him, got right up in his face. Her forefinger jabbed at his chest. “This isn’t my fault.”
He clamped hold of her wrist and held on tight. There were flames behind his eyes, but his tone was cool. “This must be the legendary Kate Carradine temper.”
“Damn straight.”
“I’m not impressed.”
She tried to yank free from his grasp, but he held her wrist in a firm, unshakable grip. Glaring, she said, “You don’t know what’s best for me. You don’t know what I want.”
“You want your own way,” he said. “And you’re mad as hell.”
“I have every right to be angry. Peter’s telling the world that I’m nuts. Assassins are breaking into my house.”
“You’re right.” His face had never been so serious. “You’re in mortal danger. Somebody’s trying to kill you.”
His words bored into her consciousness like a molten poker, stirring the flames. Unbearable heat welled up inside her. She could feel her face turning red. “I don’t want to— I can’t think about it.”
“You’re scared,” he said. “And you have valid reasons for your fear. That’s why you’re mad. That’s what you don’t want to face.”
She struggled against his superior strength. Frustration fed her temper. “Let go of me.”
“You want to yell,” he said. “You want to throw things and kick holes in the wall. Go ahead. Do it.”
“No!” She fought the rising tide within her.
“It’s not anger, Kate. It’s never been anger. It’s fear.”
“I can’t—” Her entire body clenched in a painful knot. Breathing hard, a scream crawled up her throat, but the sound that left her lips was a groan—a gut-wrenching, long, sustained groan, as if she were lifting a weight of five hundred pounds.
She thrashed, whimpered and groaned again. Her lungs felt like they would explode.
“Breathe,” Liam said.
And she did.
“Slowly,” he added.
The intake of oxygen eased the tension that gripped her rib cage in an iron vise. In a gasp, she inhaled again. Again.
The clenched, burning sensation began to fade. Tension snapped; her muscles went loose. When Liam re leased her wrists, her knees folded and she sank down on the bed. Her shoulders slumped forward.
He patted her back, and she recoiled. Then, she relaxed and accepted his touch. Her body ached, and she suddenly felt exhausted. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“It’s over,” he said.
“I behaved badly.”
Gently, he lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. Though she’d accused him of being callous, Kate had been wrong. From the way he looked at her, she knew he understood her rage and her fear. The depth of his comprehension startled her. Somehow, he had gotten inside her and exorcised the demon.
A tentative grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “You need rest.”
“I know.” With a surprising lack of effort, she smiled back at him. A moment ago, a smile was a million miles away. He was a miracle worker.
“Know how I can tell you’re tired?” he asked. “By the rings under your eyes.”
“Is that like telling the age of a tree by counting the rings?”
“You bet.” He ran his thumbs across the skin below her eyes. “I’d say two, maybe three, more hours of sleep are called for.”
Placing both his hands on her shoulders, he lowered her onto the pillows. Weakly, Kate protested, “It doesn’t seem right to sleep.”
He stepped back and sat on the other bed. “What else do you have in mind?”
“I want to respond to Peter’s comment about my paranoid delusions.”
“You want to contact the press?”
Not really. Though she regularly dealt with the media when she publicized RMS events, this was different. The cameras would focus directly on her, probing her behavior, questioning her decision to hide. And what could she tell them? I don’t remember. I might be a thief. Maybe I shot somebody.
If she showed up in her ragamuffin clothes with hair sticking out in all directions, the reporters would know for sure that she was a loon. “For right now, I should call my mother and tell her to put a muzzle on Peter.”
“There’s a plan,” Liam said. “Don’t give her our location.”
He handed her the cell phone from her purse, and she turned it on. There were three calls from Mickey, but now was not the time to answer them. She punched in the number for her mother.
On the third ring, Elizabeth answered. “Kate, darling. I heard about what happened at your house. Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.”
“I told you not to go to your own place,” her mother reprimanded. “If you had stayed here last night…”
Kate listened with half attention as her mother rambled on, talking about the intensive security at the Carradine mansion. Unfortunately, Mom didn’t understand the real problem. Kate didn’t need protecting from outsiders; she was under attack from someone within the family circle.
Her mother concluded, “Where are you?”
“Somewhere safe. I’m with Liam.”
“You know I don’t like to interfere in your life,” Elizabeth said. “But I don’t think it’s wise to get involved with that young man.”
“Why not?”
Kate watched Liam as he stretched out on the other bed. He was deep into his own cell phone conversation. His baritone voice played an unintentional counterpoint to her mother’s high soprano. Getting involved with him was possibly the smartest decision she could make.
She cut into her mother’s standard listing of reasons why she ought to be careful about the men she dated. “I need to ask a favor, Mom.”
“Anything, dear.”
“None of my clothes fit. Could you arrange to get me two outfits? I’ll pick them up. One dressy, like a suit. One casual. A couple of sizes smaller than usual.”
“Certainly.” Sheer delight rippled through her mother’s voice. Elizabeth adored shopping. “Anything else?”
“I saw Peter on television, and I don’t appreciate his comments about my sanity, or the lack thereof.”
“He’s trying to do the best thing for you,” Elizabeth said, automatically defending her creepy husband. “We think a psychiatrist might be able to help with your little amnesia problem.”
“That’s entirely possible,” Kate said. Now that her rage had passed, she was willing to be reasonable. “But we don’t really need to announce to the media that I’ve gone completely off my rocker, do we?”
“I suppose Peter might have said a bit too much.”
“A bit.” He’d practically been waving a straitjacket in his hand. “I’ll see you later, Mom.”
“Be careful, dear.”
Disconnecting the call, Kate turned her cell phone off. After slipping out of her jeans and shoes, she got under the covers. The motel bed was too hard and the sheets were rough, not at all like the Egyptian cotton at her house, but she wouldn’t complain. It was fabulous to have any bed at all.
A soothing wave of exhaustion washed over her. At breakfast, she’d managed to eat more than half of her omelet, and her stomach felt comfortably full. She was glad to be here, glad to
be alive, especially glad that she’d finally found a man who understood her legendary temper and accepted her anyway.
LIAM HADN’T INTENDED TO sleep at the motel. His plan was to put together all the facts he’d learned so far and come up with a theory of why someone wanted Kate dead. The next time someone came after her, he’d know who and why. If he could figure this out, maybe there wouldn’t be a next time.
But the facts were scarce, and the conclusion was much too obvious. Before Kate had gone into hiding, she’d witnessed something. A murder? A theft? Arson? If her memory came back, she could finger the guilty party. Therefore, the criminal wanted her dead.
The only way Liam would get answers was if Kate started remembering. He glanced over at the other bed. She was already asleep, her breathing slow and steady. She looked peaceful, almost sweet. Quite a contrast to the screeching harpy who’d jabbed her finger at his chest.
That anger was a part of her, not necessarily a negative. He knew that her rage masked an even deeper fear and gave her the strength to fight. She’d managed to survive on sheer guts, and he had to respect that.
They had come a distance toward understanding each other, but not far enough. She still didn’t trust him enough to tell all her secrets.
He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes.
When he woke, it was almost noon. On the other bed, Kate slept fitfully. The back of her hand rubbed against her cheek like a cat cleaning its whiskers. She exhaled a soft sigh and rolled onto her side, facing him. Her eyelids fluttered open.
“Hi,” she murmured.
“Hi, yourself.”
“You were right. Sleep was good.”
Good enough for her to start trusting him? “Kate, we need to talk. I want you to tell me everything. Every detail.”
She buried her face in the pillow. “I’d rather sleep some more.”
“The sooner we figure out who’s trying to kill you, the sooner this will be over.”
As she stretched and yawned, he was again reminded of a cat—a standoffish creature who went her own way and expected to be catered to. She wiggled around under the covers until she was sitting up.
“We’ll talk,” she said. “You first.”
“When Mickey mentioned that necklace, you knew what he was referring—”
“No, no, no,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to talk about me. I’m sick to death of me. Tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“I told you that my problem in relationships was bad judgment,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re in your thirties, not married and living alone in the mountains. Why?”
This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. “My solitary status doesn’t have anything to do with why somebody keeps trying to kill you. It’s no big secret why I live alone. I haven’t found the right woman.”
“What are you looking for?”
“You’ve seen my cabin. My lifestyle is all about peace and quiet. Not a lot of action. No shopping malls.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat facing her. “I’m looking for a woman who wouldn’t be bored in a log cabin on a rainy day.”
She mimicked his action. Her knees were inches away from his. “Rain,” she said.
“Beautiful Rain.” He looked into her face and saw the spirited woman who’d lived in the forest and spent her days weaving baskets of twigs. Rain. Moist and soft and refreshing.
Liam forgot about his questions and the threat of danger. For a moment, he lost himself in the blue depths of her eyes. She could be the woman he’d been looking for, the woman who would share his cabin and his life.
As he leaned closer toward her, she glanced away. Her gaze rested on the bedside clock. “Oh my God,” she said. “It’s noon. We ought to watch the news.”
She bounced off the bed, grabbed the remote and turned on the television in time to hear the midday anchor say, “For new information on the rescue of Kate Carradine, we’re going live to the Carradine mansion west of Denver.”
Kate glanced over her shoulder at Liam. “My mother promised me that she wouldn’t allow Peter to talk.”
The man on the television screen wasn’t Peter Rowe. This guy appeared to be Liam’s age. He was smooth, almost sculpted. His formal attitude made his casual shirt and tie look like a three-piece suit.
“Jonathan,” Kate said.
So, this was her ex-husband, the CEO of RMS. Liam had a hard time reconciling Kate—who was vivacious and bright—with this cold, monochromatic man.
“Last night,” he said, speaking directly into the camera, “an intruder entered Kate’s home. We don’t believe this was a coincidence.”
The reporter asked for his conclusions, and Jonathan replied, “This is speculation on my part. Kate was missing for nearly a month. Surely, she couldn’t have survived on her own.”
“Did, too,” she snapped at the television.
“Therefore,” her ex-husband continued, “we believe it’s possible that she was abducted and held prisoner.”
The news reporter asked, “Could this have been part of a terrorist plot?”
He frowned, seeming to give serious consideration to the idea. “Difficult to say.”
“So, you suspect terrorism?”
“I don’t rule out any possibility.”
When asked about ransom demands, he was huffy. “Certainly not. If we had received demands, we would have taken the appropriate steps.”
Kate whirled to face Liam. “Do you believe this?”
He couldn’t believe she had actually been married to this jerk. Sure, the guy wasn’t bad-looking, but he was a stiff. Self-important. Without any discernible personality.
Then the camera focused on Peter Rowe. Tom stood right beside him, shuffling his feet and looking uncomfortable under the lights.
“Oh, no,” Kate said.
Peter tossed a winning smile at the camera and said, “I don’t agree with Jonathan. Kate’s mother and I are convinced that she’s suffering from paranoid delusions or maybe post-traumatic stress disorder.”
The next face on the screen was the news reporter on the scene, who summarized, “There you have two opinions on what happened to Kate Carradine during the twenty-eight days she was missing. The real question is—when will we hear from the lady herself?”
“Real soon,” Kate said. She was already putting on her jeans. “Whether I like it or not, I have to set these people straight.”
Liam didn’t agree. Though it couldn’t be fun for her to listen to these two idiots speculating on what was wrong with her, Jonathan and Peter made a good distraction. “You’re better off here, Kate.”
“While the whole city thinks I’ve been kidnapped by terrorists?” She shook her head in utter disbelief. “What a bizarre concept! RMS is basically a sporting-goods wholesaler. Does Jonathan think terrorists are plotting to steal the latest design in tennis rackets?”
Liam shrugged. “RMS carries guns.”
“Hunting rifles,” she said. “We also handle starter pistols, flare guns and crossbows. Somehow, I doubt that the terrorist armies want to be equipped with crossbows.”
“Hey, I’m not defending your ex-husband.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“But I am suggesting that you take a step back and leave Jonathan and Peter in the limelight. The less attention on you, the better.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Do you really care what other people think?” Liam asked. “Is public opinion important to you?”
“If you’d asked me that a month ago, I would have said yes. But now?” She grinned. “Other people’s opinions don’t matter.”
“Truth is all that matters,” he said.
“Unfortunately, I can’t remember the whole truth.”
She’d left open the door to his questions. What hadn’t she told him? What was she keeping a secret? Be
fore Liam could phrase his questions, he heard the screech of brakes in the motel parking lot.
Quickly, he went to the curtain and pulled it aside. A television news truck barreled toward their room. Another two cars followed. “Looks like you’re not going to have a choice about meeting the press. They’re here.”
“How did they find us?”
“Somebody must have recognized you from the televised reports and called them.”
If given a choice between being attacked by a professional assassin and facing a local news team, Liam wasn’t sure which alternative he’d pick. With an assassin he at least had a chance of getting away. Or dying quick. Which seemed preferable to being hounded to death by a persistent reporter.
He motioned for Kate to join him in the bathroom, where he cranked open the casement window. Even with the window open to the max, the space was narrow. He wouldn’t fit through. But Kate would.
“Go ahead,” he said. “You first.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You want me to climb out the window and run away?”
“Basically.”
“Why?” she asked.
Because he still had unanswered questions about her memories. Because he wanted to avoid the inevitable scrutiny of publicity. “Because there isn’t time for discussion. Just do it.”
“Climb out the bathroom window?”
He could already hear the pounding on the motel room door. “You go out the window, get in my car and bring it around to the front. I’ll meet you.”
She shrugged. “And everybody thinks I’m the crazy person.”
She allowed him to boost her up to the sill. It was a tight squeeze, even for her slender body. When she was safely outside, he tossed her the car keys. “Two minutes,” he said. “Out in front.”
Liam went to answer the door. A trim, blond reporter stood waiting with microphone in hand. Behind her, a cameraman focused on the door.
“Liam MacKenzie,” she said. “I remember you from the D.A.’s office.”
“Joyce.” He recognized her, and he knew that her gleaming white smile masked the appetite of a barracuda when she was after a story. A few years back, when he’d prosecuted a high-profile murder case, she’d stalked him, gone through his garbage and tried to plant a bug in his car.
