by Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, Angela Knight, Jacey Ford
He didn't hesitate, but quickly knelt and knotted the end of the rope around the base of the old-fashioned iron radiator beside the window. While he did that, she wrestled the window open.
"They're coming," he told her.
She looked up fast and heard the heavy footfalls in the hallway. "Hell, we're out of time."
Marshall held on to the rope. "Get on my back."
"You can't hold us both."
"I'll have to manage," he said, climbing out the window, feet braced on the wall, hands on the rope. "Hurry."
She slipped through the open window, clutching his shoulders and lowering herself until she could wrap her legs around his waist. "Go," she said.
He let the rope lengthen, dropping them drastically, then he pushed off with his feet and swung.
She heard shouting, knew the men were in the room, now, searching for them, even as they came short of their goal and began swinging back the other way. Heads appeared at the window. Then gunshots rang out. Marshall's feet hit the wall, and this time he pushed harder. They swung, arced over the fire escape.
He let go, and they fell.
She only had an instant to feel panic, before they hit the fire escape's landing with a terrible impact and a lot of noise. The entire structure groaned and wobbled, and for a moment she thought it would rip itself free of the building and send them crashing to the ground.
And then it did.
The fire escape fell like a giant timber, and as they were hurled toward the ground, Marshall gripped her arm and yelled, "Jump!"
They were airborne, then. The fire escape crashed, bits of rusted metal flying everywhere, and a split second later, Kira felt her own body hit the ground a few feet away from it.
Dazed, she lifted her head, giving it a slow shake.
"Come on, baby, they're coming." Marshall had her arm, tugging her to her feet, and then they were running.
She realized the men were no longer firing at them from the window, but were exiting the building, coming around after them.
"This way," she told Marshall. "The car's this way."
They changed directions, sprinting full speed, until they ducked into an alley, popped out the far side, and spotted the car. The keys had been in her jacket pocket. They were no longer there.
"Bastards took my keys."
"No problem," Marshall said, racing around to the back of the car, reaching underneath it, and coming out with a key in his palm. "You always keep a spare."
"You drive," she told him, scrambling into the passenger side.
He looked at her oddly, but didn't hesitate. He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and spun the tires as gunshots rang out behind them.
She ducked instinctively just before the rear window was blown to bits.
As they sped away, with armed criminals piling into cars to give chase, Marshall glanced sideways at her and said, "You really don't remember anything, do you?"
"No," she said. "I don't know why that's so hard for you to believe."
"Oh, I believe it now," he said, shifting gears, speeding ever faster.
"Why now?"
"Because," he told her. "You never let me drive."
* * *
CH@%!*R 7
"I think we lost them."
"Yeah, along with my stomach," Kira said. But though she knew the high speeds, split-second maneuvers, and two-wheel turns should have scared the hell out of her, she didn't really feel afraid. She felt alive. Her heart was pounding, blood flowing, skin tingling in ways they hadn't done since—since she could remember.
He put a hand on her shoulder. It was warm, firm. Familiar. "You okay?"
She nodded. "You'd almost think I was used to this kind of thing." Lifting her head slowly, she faced him, studied his profile. The strong nose, tanned skin, slight shadow of beard on his cheeks. Lips that were full and so sensual she got a little tingly as she stared at them. "I am, aren't I?"
He glanced her way, drew a breath, then let it out again without answering.
"Don't you think it's about time someone told me who the hell I am? God, Marshall, I have a right to know."
He nodded. "I know. I know you do. Believe me, there's nothing I want more than to tell you… everything. But—"
"But?"
He looked at her again. "I can't."
She lowered her head. "Can you tell me why not?"
"Because the doctors said you needed to remember on your own."
"That's stupid."
"No. No, it's not. Kira, things went down. Bad things. Things that could make the most heartless bastard in the world cry like a baby. You blocked it out for a reason."
"Yeah, and that reason was a head injury."
He licked his lips, said nothing, but she read his face, even though he kept it carefully focused on the road.
"Are you saying my memory loss doesn't have a physical cause?"
His deep sigh filled the car. "None they could find. The docs said you'd get things back a little at a time. And that would be the best way for you—remembering all of it at once could be… bad."
"Bad how?"
He shrugged.
She sighed, angry and impatient. "I have been getting things back. Little things."
"Yeah?" He faced her, and his eyes were alight with interest and something else. Something that looked like hope. "What have you remembered?"
She closed her eyes, and the images rolled through her mind again. She saw herself in his arms, saw him kissing her, laughing with her, making love to her.
"Kira?"
"Nothing I'm ready to talk about," she said.
"Okay. That's okay." He reached across the seat to put his hand over hers.
She opened her eyes and looked at it there, felt her throat tighten and her eyes burn, and didn't know why. God, she was so confused. "Where are we going?" she asked, to change the subject. "This isn't the way back to my house."
"We can't go back to your mother's place." He didn't call it her place, she noted, and wondered if she should read anything into that. "They'll be looking for us. We need a safe place where we can hole up, regroup, and phone our—my contact."
She nodded slowly. "How far?"
"Twenty minutes. Why?"
She shrugged. "You won't tell me who I am," she said softly. "So how about you use the time to tell me who you are, Marshall?"
He looked at her sharply.
She blinked and knew something without even trying. "That's not even your real name, is it?"
He shot her a startled look. "No. Do you remember what it is?"
She shook her head.
"Try," he said.
She closed her eyes, and again saw those images she'd seen before. Him, wrapping her in his arms, holding her, kissing her… her own voice whispering his name.
"Michael," she whispered.
And the image went on, spinning its web through her mind, playing out like a clip from a movie she hadn't yet seen. The kiss ended, and he backed away just a little, and she looked at him in his tux, and then down at herself. She saw white flowing all around her, pooling at her feet, and she heard a man's voice, not Michael's, but some other man, who stood there with them, saying, "Ladies and gentleman, it is my honor to present for the first time, Mr, and Mrs. Michael Waters."
Her eyes flew open. She stared at him, stunned.
"What? What's wrong?" he asked.
Kira could only blink. Then she moved her gaze lower, to his hands on the steering wheel, seeking out the left one. There was a gold band on his third finger. She clapped a hand to her mouth, then belatedly, thought to look to her own third finger. But she already knew there was no ring there.
"Kira, for God's sake, what's the matter?"
She swallowed hard. "You… you're my… husband."
He hit the brakes so hard she automatically braced her hands on the dashboard to keep from hitting the windshield, even though she was wearing a seat belt—had put it on thirty seconds into this mad drive.
She was vaguely aware of the car veering onto the shoulder, sending up a cloud of dust all around them. And then he was turning toward her, reaching for her, his face so incredibly filled with emotion she could barely believe it. He quickly released her seat belt and pulled her into his arms, his hands burying themselves in her hair as he held her so tightly she could barely breathe. His mouth moved over her neck, and then her jaw, and finally covered her lips. He kissed her with more passion than she would have guessed one man could possess. She went dizzy under the assault, and her body reacted without her mind's permission or concern. She kissed him back. She opened her lips to his questing tongue and twisted her arms around his waist and held on as if she would never let him go.
When he finally lifted his head, he stared into her eyes, his own glittering with unshed tears, and whispered, "You remember."
She lifted a hand, realized it was trembling as she touched his hair. "No," she said in a voice gone hoarse with some emotion she couldn't identify. "It was just a flash. Me in a bridal gown, you in a tux, a minister, a kiss."
Blinking in confusion he tipped his head to one side. "That's all?"
She nodded. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be, honey. It's not your fault." He smoothed her hair, reached across her to put her seat belt back on. Then got himself behind the wheel and set the car into motion once more. "Besides, it's progress."
"But I don't understand. If I'm married to you then—how was I engaged to Peter? Did we… are we divorced?"
His head turned sharply. "No way. You think I'd let a catch like you get away? No, Kira. It's… it's complicated."
"You were going to let me go through with the wedding. And my mother—"
"Your mother doesn't know about us. Hell, Kira, no one does. We were married in secret, in Africa, just before… damn it, I'm not supposed to be telling you any of this."
She closed her eyes, fought to make sense of things, but her head had begun pounding as if it would split, and she pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose against the pain. "I have to know."
"You will. You'll know everything. It's coming back, Kira, be patient." He drove, and kept looking worriedly at her as he did. "You're in pain."
"It's just a headache."
"Information overload. The doctors said this would happen. Relax, hon. We're almost there. The place is stocked. I'll find you some pain reliever and a stiff drink as soon as we get there."
"And some weapons, I hope." She was leaning back against the headrest now, her eyes still closed. "I feel fucking naked without my Smith & Wesson."
She popped her eyes open, almost wondering who the hell had just spoken, but she knew it was her. Not the Kira she'd come to know over the past six months, the frightened, uncertain, confused one. But the Kira she had been before. The one she was coming to think of as the kick-ass bitch from hell.
The place was a small log cabin, situated on the shore of a looking glass lake. They pulled up as the sun was going down and painting the water in liquid gold. Pine trees backed the place, and the shapes of those same pines were cut out of the green shutters that flanked each window. A porch spanned the front of the place, a knotty wood porch swing dangling from its roof on black chains.
Kira got out of the car as soon as he'd brought it to a stop and stood there looking around, filling her lungs with the fresh tangy scent of the pine forest. "God, this is gorgeous."
He had been coming around the car toward her, but he stopped when she said that, and when she looked at him, she found him staring at her a little oddly. "Did I say something wrong?"
He shook his head. "You never liked it here. Said it was too far from civilization, too boring."
She shook her head slowly, her eyes skimming the lake now, noting the way the sentinel pines on the far shore were perfectly reflected in the water. "How could I ever be bored here?"
"I asked you that a thousand times."
Something floated into her memory with her next breath, gently painting the blank canvas with a stroke of vivid color. "My father used to take me to a place like this, when I was a little girl."
Marshall—Michael, she reminded herself—put a hand on her shoulder. "His hunting cabin in Seven Hills."
"You've been there?" She looked at him, surprised.
"No, but he told me about it."
She nodded slowly. "I didn't, though."
"No."
Kira narrowed her eyes and searched her mind, but found no answers. "So I loved it then, and I love it now. What happened to make me stop in between?"
His hand slid to the center of her back, and he rubbed small circles between her shoulder blades. "Don't push. It'll come to you."
She nodded, but she was impatient. She wanted her memory. She wanted all of it. Now. But she tried to at least give the impression that she wouldn't push too hard. "Is there a fireplace?"
"Yeah. You want a fire tonight?"
She nodded. "Will we be here long?"
"I don't know. I need to call in, update our… people."
"And check on Anita—Kelly, I mean," she said quickly, recalling the image of the housekeeper being skewered by a bullet. "I hope she's all right." She blinked then. "She wasn't really a housekeeper, was she?"
He lowered his head, digging a hand into his pocket.
"She worked with you… with us," Kira said.
Michael pulled out a key and handed it to her. "Why don't you go on in, take a look around while I get an armful of firewood?"
She knew he was trying to obey the dictates of her doctors, trying not to fill her in on things she would be better off remembering on her own. And she could tell it wasn't easy for him. So she stopped pushing and took the key, opened the door, and stepped into the house.
The entire place smelled of pine and cedar, and she inhaled deeply and let that scent tickle memories to life. She saw herself, pacing this very floor; back and forth over the wood, and the old-fashioned braided oval rug that covered most of it; back and forth in front of the huge fieldstone fireplace; pausing at the large picture window on the far side, to stare down toward the lake where Michael was relaxing on the dock with a beer in one hand and a fishing pole in the other. She heard herself mutter, "How can he be so content to just sit there?" Then as she watched, he turned back toward the house, almost as if he could feel her there, watching him, and he blew her a kiss. Her heart went soft, she smiled a goofy smile, grabbed her jacket, and headed out to join him, thinking she could even bear this godforsaken wilderness if he were with her.
For just a moment the emotion she had felt then came alive in her heart. For just an instant, she was filled to bursting with an overwhelming love so powerful it rocked her. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if to slow her suddenly rapid heartbeat, and turned slowly when she heard him come inside.
He met her eyes. "You okay?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
He didn't look as if he believed her. Crossing the room, he set the armload of wood into a metal rack made to hold it, which stood beside the fireplace. Then he straightened and brushed off his jacket before taking it off.
"We were… close," she said softly. Her heart was still racing, her stomach in knots. "Our marriage, it was a good one."
He moved toward her, touched her shoulders. "The best."
She closed the space between them, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. "This must have been so hard on you."
"Nothing compared to what it's been for you, Kira." He returned her embrace, gently rubbing her back with one hand, stroking her hair with the other. "Just take it easy. Just let the memories come."
"I would if they weren't being so damn stubborn." She sighed and closed her eyes.
He held her a little tighter, then drew a deep breath. "I have to make that phone call. And I don't know about you, but I'm starved."
"Me, too." She loosened her grip, stepped away, but not without a twinge of regret. It felt right, being in his arms. "I'll go see what I ca
n find in the kitchen while you make your call."
"All right."
Kira headed through the large room and into the kitchen off to one side. There had been a room off the other side, too, she realized as she stepped into the kitchen. And she thought it was a bedroom, with a bath attached, but she wasn't sure if that was a guess or a memory. An instant later, she knew it was a memory, because the images flooded her mind. Images of her and Michael, wrapped in each other's arms, a tangle of naked limbs on a bed whose four posts were knotty pine logs. She stood still in the middle of the kitchen, assaulted by a hunger that had nothing to do with food. It was a hunger for the man in the next room—a man who was a stranger to her.
* * *
CH@%!*R 8
He hadn't been kidding when he told her the place was stocked. The kitchen held a freezer, packed full of meats and vegetables, and the cupboards held enough canned goods to last a year. There was no bread, margarine, milk, eggs, or fresh veggies to go with anything, so she chose a couple of frozen pot pies and popped them into the microwave. In inspecting the drawers she located one that held paper, pens, tape, and batteries, and took out a notepad and a pen, then sat down at the little hardwood table and started making notes.
What did she know? She knew that she and Michael had worked together for the DEA. She guessed Kelly had been working with them as well. She knew that she and Michael had both been in Africa, that they'd been secretly married there. And she knew that Peter had been there, too.
And Dad.
She closed her eyes. Yes. Her father had been there, too. He'd died there. But why?
She wrote these things down, then tapped the pen on the pad, making little dots of ink. "Peter's a bad guy," she muttered, and jotted it down. Apparently, she and Michael had been investigating him for some crime. She knew that much just from the things Peter had said when he'd been holding them captive.
But why was it that after the explosion, after the coma, Kira's own mother had introduced Peter to her as her fiancé? It made no sense.
