Virgin without a Memory

by Vickie Taylor

  She heaved a heavy breath. Then, when his hand released hers, she jerked her arm up. “You’re wrong.”

  Her aim had improved. The muzzle of the gun brushed his bare pectoral. Midsternum. Just a little left of center.

  “No, I’m not.” Despite his attempt at seriousness, he felt the corner of his mouth kick up. “You can’t shoot me.”

  Knowing she couldn’t hurt him, he thought about pushing further, just to see what she’d do. But the game had lost its intrigue. She’d proved her point. She wasn’t bent on killing him, but she wasn’t going to be pushed around, either. “Not without bullets.”

  Her lips, lush and red, even without a hint of lipstick, pursed. “You knew? All along?”

  “Of course. You don’t think I’d let you point a loaded gun at me, do you?”

  She lowered her hand until the pistol hung impotent at her side. “How did you know?”

  “A man doesn’t handle a gun without knowing exactly what he can—and can’t—do with it. I checked it before you came back in the house. What did you do with the bullets?”

  “I threw them out...in the manure pile.”

  Another lie, he knew. But it was a creative one. He bet she’d love to see him dig for that ammo.

  “Why didn’t you turn me over to the sheriff?” he asked.

  She hesitated, thrown, maybe, by the sudden turn in the conversation. “Because you asked me not to.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Last night. Before you passed out. Don’t you remember?”

  He didn’t. “Let me get this right. You took me into your home after I had kidnapped you, threatened you, and you lied to the sheriff, because I asked you to?”

  He dropped into the tapestry armchair beside him, feeling like Alice down the rabbit hole. Was she really that naive?

  “Who are you?”

  “Mariah. Mariah Morgan.”

  He remembered now. The deputies had called her that. It had settled in the back of his mind and resurfaced in the hot, sweaty dreams of semiconsciousness.

  He’d been lying on the jungle floor with a wild-eyed beauty, his body hard and aching for her, their limbs as tangled as the vines overhead, when suddenly she changed. The passion in her eyes became terror, unbridled and insane. She went crazy, beating him with her fists. He tried to hold on to her, to ask her what was wrong, but she slipped away. When he tried to go after her, thick jungle mud oozed over his wrists and ankles, holding him down. She jumped on the back of a black devil-beast with the body of a horse and the paws of a panther. The animal reared over him, ripping at his flesh with his great claws, then carried her away.

  Weird. He must have been hurt even worse than he’d thought.

  He sighed. rubbing his aching head and surprised to find the prickly ends of stitches in the hairline at his temple. “Did you put these stitches in me, Mariah Morgan?”

  She lowered the gun. “Of course not. I was worried about you. I called... someone.”

  “A doctor?”

  “The best in town,” she said, too brightly. A sly grin played at the corners of her mouth, making him wonder what she was up to.

  “A doctor who makes house calls. Now I know I’m not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

  He still couldn’t figure out why she’d helped him, but the sheriff was gone. And Eric wasn’t wearing handcuffs, as he should have been by then. Maybe his luck was changing. He could do worse than an auburn-haired angel with hot eyes and a hard body. “I guess I owe you one, Mariah Morgan. I’m—”

  “Eric Randall,” she interrupted. “Executive vice president—the youngest executive vice president in the history of the company—for Purgatory Oil.”

  He frowned, thinking of a movie he’d seen where the protagonist, a popular writer, woke up in the care of a psychotic groupie who knew a great deal more about him than he knew about her. “How do you know me? And please don’t tell me you’re my ‘number one fan’ or you’re going to make me think I woke up in a bad remake of Misery.”

  Laughter bubbled out of her. Not the high-pitched twitter he’d expect from a small-framed woman, but an opus of vibrant tones, rich and inviting. A man could slip into that sound, like a set of satin sheets. Violet satin.

  She clapped her hands together. “No, I’m no Annie Wilkes. And I don’t know anything about Purgatory other than what I read in the business section.”

  But she was a Stephen King fan, obviously. That was another surprise. She looked more like the Wuthering Heights type.

  “Then how do you know me?”

  The laughter faded from her face, but her eyes still blazed brilliantly. Lord, she had amazing eyes—even when they turned serious.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  He could think of only one person who could have told her about him. “You know my brother?”

  She nodded, her eyes turning glossy. “I did.”

  He fought back his anger at her use of the past tense. “Where is he?”

  Her eyes turned up to him, impossibly round. Unshed tears made her violet eyes sparkle like amethyst. “Oh, my God, I thought—I thought you knew.”

  A coil of suspicion looped around his gut and squeezed. “Knew what?”

  “There’s... been an accident.”

  “My brother is not dead.”

  “The newspaper said—”

  The anger he’d been holding in check exploded, and he descended on her like a hawk on a field mouse. “I know what the paper said. Now I want to know what really happened, not that cock-and-bull story the local law tried to pass off as the truth.”

  “I—I don’t know what happened to Mike. Other than what was in the paper, what they said about the foothills.”

  “The accident scene in the foothills was faked. Mike wasn’t anywhere near the foothills that afternoon, was he? He couldn’t have been. Because he was on the mountain, with you.”

  She gasped. “How do you know that?”

  “He called me just before he rode out. He said he had a hot date waiting for him up on the mountain. It was you he was meeting, wasn’t it?”

  “I—he—We had an appointment.”

  “Yeah, right.” Like he’d said, a hot date. “Did you keep this appointment?”

  “I—I rode up to meet him.”

  A lost, frightened look clouded her face and made his gut twist. He’d thought he could really like this woman. He wanted to like her. She’d saved his life, kept him hidden from the sheriff. Why wouldn’t she talk to him now?

  “Did you see Mike? Tell me what happened.”

  She just shook her head.

  “Why won’t you tell me? Are you afraid? If you’re afraid of something, or someone, I’ll protect you. Just tell me.”

  “No. It’s not that.”

  Impatience curled his fingers into fists. “Then why won’t you answer me?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  His mind whirled, white-hot with rage. “Then you’ve got a real problem, lady. Because I want answers now. And I’m not a patient man. Now, did you see Mike on the mountain or not?”

  She lurched to her feet, shoving him back. Her hands were icy cold on his chest. “Don’t threaten me.”

  “Then talk to me.”

  “I can’t tell you what you want to know.” She turned to walk away. Or to run.

  He grabbed her arm, yanked her around and pulled her flush against him. Fury forced his fingers deep into her flesh. God knew what he’d do if she struggled.

  Her face, panic-filled, turned up to him.

  Eric steeled himself against the sight of her fear. “Why can’t you tell me what happened?”

  For all her earlier bravado, she looked now like a forest creature caught in a trap. “Because I don’t know,” she said.

  “You don’t know? What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means there’s an empty spot in my mind where those memories should be.” Her eyes, large and luminous and full of anguish, lifted to his. “I can’t rememb
er what happened on the mountain that day.”

  Unmoving, Eric stood at the bay window in the living room, watching as the woman—Mariah—disappeared into the barn. Shocked, he had momentarily loosened his grasp on her, and she had seized the opportunity and run. Any minute now he expected to see her charge out of the barn on the back of that black beast of hers.

  Let her run. He would find her again, sooner or later.

  But her escape never came. He counted the seconds by the ticks of the grandfather clock on the far wall. The longer he stood there, the more he seethed.

  He’d really believed that when he found the woman Mike was supposed to meet on the mountain the day they’d found his motorcycle in the ravine, he’d find Mike. Vandals, kids probably, had stolen his bike and trashed it when they’d finished their joyride.

  Mike wasn’t dead. At least, that’s what Eric had thought before the goons on the mountain had jumped him. Before he’d met Mariah Morgan. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The clock struck five and chimes sounded, deep and resonant as church bells. Still no sign of Mariah. He’d give her to the count of one hundred and then he was going after her. One. Two. Three...

  His last conversation with his brother replayed for the thousandth time in his mind.

  “Come on out, ” Mike had said. “The mountain is awesome.”

  Eric powered on his computer and sat down at his desk. With any luck, he could get through half his e-mail while he talked on the phone. “For God’s sake, Mike. You ride motorcycles every day. It’s your job. Why would you want to spend your vacation riding, too?”

  Mike laughed. “‘Cause the mountain is awesome, man. I’m telling you, it’s a rush. Come on out, big brother. We can ride all day—no courses, no rules. Or are you afraid you’re gettin’ too old for a little action?”

  “I’ve got all the action I need right here, trying to land this northern California account for Purgatory.” He scanned a marketing brief, typed out a quick reply and hit Send. “If you were smart, you’d spend your vacation thinking about what you’re going to do with your life instead of risking it on that souped-up machine of yours. I keep telling you, Mike, there’s more to life than motorcycle racing. You’ve got to have prior—”

  “Aw, not the ‘you’ve gotta have priorities, Mikey’ speech again!”

  “I figure if you hear it often enough, one of these days you’ll listen.”

  “I doubt it.” Mike snickered. “I’m telling you, the corporate life is gonna make you soft, not to mention boring. You need to get out and live a little. Feel the wind in your face. You need to fly, bro.”

  “I fly at least once a week, little brother, only I prefer to do it on an airplane. You just make sure you don’t fly right off the side of that mountain, all right?”

  “Maybe you’d better come keep an eye on me. You know I get carried away sometimes. I found this really cool gorge way up high. I’m thinking I could jump it, if I could just find a good take-off—”

  “I have to go Mike. My pager’s buzzing.”

  Mike was quiet. “Yeah, well, I know how much that pager means to you.” He paused again. “Ah, I have to go, too. I gotta meet someone up on the mountain. If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late.”

  “Since when do you worry about being late to anything except the finish line?”

  “Since I’ve got one fine-looking lady waiting for me out in the wilderness.”

  He could still hear the sulk in Mike’s voice. “A wild mountain woman, huh?” He lightened his tone, trying to make Mike smile again.

  “You wouldn’t believe what this girl can do for flannel.”

  “Now, that kind of action I could use a little of.”

  “Come on out, I’ll introduce you.”

  “Threesomes aren’t my style, Mikey.”

  Mike laughed. “Don’t worry, bro. I won’t make you share. You can have her all to yourself.”

  Eric snorted. “In other words, you already struck out.”

  “Naw, we’re just friends. She’s really more your type, anyway.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know, she likes to talk and stuff. She’s...nice.”

  Eric winced. When had he gotten so old, and so boring, that his brother thought nice girls were his type?

  “I guarantee she’s worth the trip,” Mike added, a spark of hope lighting his voice.

  “She’s that hot, huh?”

  “She’s to die for.”

  His pager buzzed again. He read the message scrolling across the display and sighed. The northern California deal was going south again. He didn’t know why he’d even been considering flying all the way to Utah just to gallivant around in the forest with Mike. It certainly wasn’t because of any woman. He didn’t have time for a trip right now. He’d just had a vacation, what, two years ago?

  “I have to go, Mike.”

  “I know. But, Eric?”

  “Yeah,?”

  “If you do come, leave the pager behind. ”

  He’d hung up then. That was it. No “goodbye,” no “take care of yourself,” definitely no “Hey, Mikey, I love you.” He’d been much too busy for that.

  The weight of Eric’s guilt slowed his heartbeat to a more manageable rate. He looked out the window toward the barn.

  She’s to die for.

  “I hope you were wrong about that, little brother.”

  Aw, hell. One hundred.

  Mariah heard a noise behind her. She turned slowly, knowing what—or rather who—it must be, and lowered the soft towel she’d been using to wipe Jet’s already gleaming coat to an even higher gloss. Dust motes floated past the man in the doorway while the afternoon sun framed his silhouette in gold.

  As he shuffled deeper into the cavernous barn, she looked into his eyes and the rage she saw there frightened her. It was as if she could see his soul, and it was on fire.

  “Did you kill my brother?”

  She jumped as if she’d touched a live wire. “No.”

  “Then what happened to him?”

  “I think we’ve already been through this.” Turning her back to him, she unclipped the cross-ties from each side of Jet’s halter and led the horse into his stall. Eric’s uneven footsteps shuffled along behind her. When she turned around, he slapped his right hand against the door frame, effectively blocking her exit.

  His lip curled into a snarl. “I checked out the jump that Mike supposedly misjudged. He could have jumped that creek blind drunk. Hell, he wouldn’t have missed that little hop if he’d had a girl on the bike with him and been running ninety miles an hour with one hand on the handlebars and the other one up her skirt. No way he died there, like that.”

  Her jaw dropped. “That’s it? You accused me of murder because you think your brother was too good to make a mistake?” She pushed his arm down, ignoring the wince of pain that immediately flashed across his face, and swept past him down the barn aisle.

  When he caught up with her, he took a deep breath. “No. Mike was good, but he always pushed himself and his bike to the edge. I told him one day the edge would push back.”

  “Then why don’t you believe the accident happened just the way they say?”

  “Because he wasn’t riding in the ravine when they said he was. He was on the mountain, meeting you. And I can prove that the scene of his accident was staged. Your friend the sheriff isn’t quite as smart as he thinks he is.”

  “Shane? What does he have to do with this?”

  “Don’t waste that innocent look on me. I know he’s the one behind all this. Why is he lying? To protect you?”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Is it? You heard what the deputies said last night—not to worry about you, that the boss took care of everything.”

  “I don’t know what they were talking about.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff what happened to you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I had no reas
on to involve the law.” Her fingers fumbled with the buckle on Jet’s halter as she tried to hang it up.

  “No reason except that you knew my brother couldn’t have died the way they said he did.”

  “I had no way of knowing that! I never saw Mike up there that day—at least not that I remember. I thought he had changed his mind about meeting me and gone to ride in the foothills instead.” She glared at him, a direct challenge. “Did you talk to the sheriff? Tell him what you suspected?”

  He laughed bitterly. “Yeah, for all the good it did. He told me not to stir up trouble. Tried to run me out of town. Then he set his thugs on me.”

  Shane? That couldn’t be right. “Just because Shane didn’t want you meddling in his investigation doesn’t mean he was involved in any—” she lifted her chin defensively “—wrongdoing.”

  “I hardly think it’s a coincidence that two goons, who just happened to be the same size and build as his two deputies, tried to cave in my ribs with their boots less than three hours after I left his office. If the sheriff is involved, it’s not such a stretch to think he’d send his henchmen to do his dirty work.”

  “Yeah, and the Russian Mafia killed JFK, too,” she said.

  “Which is more plausible than you having amnesia. You didn’t really think I’d believe a line like that, did you?”

  No. She knew better. People never believed. No one understood how she could just...forget.

  “It’s the truth.” To her horror, tears sprang into her eyes and filled her passages. She forced them down. Manah Morgan did not snivel.

  She touched the throbbing spot behind her ear. “I—I had an accident. I think I hit my head.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud.” He grabbed her jaw and the base of her skull, twisting her face away from him. His fingers tangled in the hair at the back of her neck and then crept upward. “An accident, huh? Did you call a doctor?”

  “No.” She couldn’t go to a doctor, not with her history. She was too afraid. Last time they had locked her up. Whispered that she was crazy. Dangerous.