Where There's Smoke...

by Barbara Mccauley

  Shane removed his helmet and wiped the sweat on his brow. “I didn’t have a—”

  “Save it,” Griffin barked. “You’re bleeding, dammit. Go with the ambulance, then get your butt back to the station to file a report.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The camera crews had already converged on the ambulance like spring locusts. Ignoring the microphones shoved in his face, Shane pushed his way through the crowd and climbed into the ambulance. The woman seemed to relax when he sat beside her. When he covered her slender fingers with his own and smiled down at her, she smiled weakly back, then closed her eyes and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Five seconds later, with the siren wailing and the lights flashing, they were headed for Brookline Hospital.

  “Emily…Emily…”

  The distant sound of a man’s voice pulled her out of the thick blanket of fog surrounding her, worsened the ache in her head and the burning in her chest. She felt as if she were floating somewhere, disembodied….

  “Emily, can you hear me?”

  Go away, she wanted to say, but couldn’t make her mouth move. Couldn’t make any part of her body move. She heard the ring of a telephone…a man calling for a nurse…the squish-squish-squish of rubber soles on a tile floor.

  Where am I? she wondered. And why did she smell smoke? Smoke and antiseptic…and a man’s cologne?

  “Emily, wake up. It’s Derrick.”

  Derrick? She didn’t know anyone named Derrick. But the voice was closer now, persistent. She tried to open her eyes, but they were so heavy and she was so tired. She didn’t know who Emily was and she didn’t care. She just wanted to sleep.

  “I called Mom and Dad,” the man said, “but they’re at the opera and I had to leave a message. Emily, for God’s sake, open your eyes and talk to me.”

  I don’t want to talk, she thought, and rolled her head away. The sheets underneath her were cool and crisp, the blanket covering her soft and warm. She felt soft and warm, she realized. And sleepy. So very sleepy…

  “What were you doing at the plant?” The man’s voice turned to a harsh whisper. “You’d already left before me, why did you go back?”

  She had no idea who was speaking to her or what he was talking about. She felt the moan vibrate deep in her throat, then the pounding in her head increased.

  Slowly she opened her eyes, saw the blurred outline of a man standing over her. He was tall and thin, his hair and eyes dark brown. She blinked against the light and the pain, watched the image take shape. His features were sharp, his mouth pressed into a thin line. The black suit he wore was tailored, his tie a shimmering silver against his white dress shirt. The strong spicy scent of his cologne made her cough.

  He leaned in closer and took her hand in his. She wanted to pull away but hadn’t the strength.

  “Talk to me,” he said, still keeping his voice low. “Tell me why you were at the plant.”

  I’m in a hospital, she realized as she saw the tube running from her arm up to the hanging IV bag beside her bed. “I—” She drew in a slow, painful breath. “I don’t know.”

  His hand tightened on hers. “What do you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know?”

  I don’t know how I don’t know, she tried to say, but her lungs were burning and her brain felt as if there were shards of glass tumbling inside. She struggled to keep her eyes open and focused on the man questioning her, struggled to keep her thoughts from bumping into one another. Derrick. He’d said his name was Derrick.

  “You left the plant thirty minutes before me.” He narrowed his gaze. “I watched you drive away. What were you doing there?”

  “I…don’t know…what you’re talking about,” she managed to say, but the words cost her and she started to cough again.

  “Dammit, Emily, what are you—”

  A knock at the half-open door stopped him. With a frown, Derrick straightened. “What is it?”

  “I came to check on Emily.”

  That voice. Deep, a bit hoarse. So familiar, she thought. So comforting. Though her eyelids were heavy, she lifted her gaze toward the doorway.

  “Who are you?” Derrick demanded.

  “A friend.” The man wore faded jeans, a denim jacket and black boots. His gaze flicked over Derrick as he moved into the room. “Who are you?”

  “Derrick Barone.” Derrick stood and squared his shoulders. “Emily’s brother.”

  Emily felt her pulse skip as the man moved closer to her bed. She knew him, she was certain she did. She just didn’t know how.

  He was tall, close to six feet, his chest broad and upper arms solid muscle. His sandy-brown hair was short and neat on the sides, just long enough on top to allow several thick strands to dip down in the middle of his forehead. His eyes were green—no, blue. Both, she finally decided, and held her breath as he turned his incredible gaze on her.

  “How you feeling?” he asked her.

  Before she could attempt an answer, Derrick stepped forward. “Excuse me. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Shane.” He kept his eyes on Emily. “Shane Cummings.”

  “I know most of my sister’s friends,” Derrick said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “We haven’t.” Shane moved around Derrick and came closer to the bed. “Hey, Cinderella, how you doing?”

  Cinderella? Why would he call her that? she wondered. She doubted she’d left any glass slippers behind or—

  Pain seized her, shot like an arrow through her temple, had her gasping for breath and squeezing her eyes shut.

  Fire…flames everywhere…smoke…

  The sounds came back to her. The crackling heat, an explosion, shattering glass.

  She reached out, felt the comfort of Shane’s large hand closing over her own.

  I’ve got you….

  She heard Shane’s voice, felt his arms lifting her out of the ashes and rubble. He’d carried her down a ladder, covered her body with his to protect her. Stayed with her.

  That was all she could remember. Nothing before that moment he’d scooped her up in his arms, nothing after he’d climbed into the ambulance with her.

  As the pain eased, she opened her eyes and saw the concern in his furrowed brow.

  “Shall I get the doctor?” he asked quietly.

  “Now, see here.” Derrick smoothed a hand down his tie. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here, but my sister’s been through a terrible ordeal. I would appreciate it if you would—”

  “Mr. Barone?” A redheaded nurse stuck her head in the door. “Your parents are on the phone at the desk. They asked to speak with you.”

  Derrick glanced at Shane, then Emily. “I’ll be right back. If you need anything—”

  “I’ll be here,” Shane said evenly.

  Derrick frowned, then followed the nurse.

  “You…saved me,” Emily murmured.

  “You mean just now, or earlier?”

  “Both.”

  He smiled down at her. “Do you remember me?”

  “The fire… You carried me out….”

  When she started to cough, he squeezed her hand. “The doc says you’re going to be fine, but you’ve sucked some smoke into your lungs, which is going to make them burn for a day or two. And since a ceiling came down on your head, I suspect that’s gotta hurt, too.”

  She nodded, then reached up and touched the bandage taped high on her temple. “What happened?”

  “We were hoping you might be able to tell us. You were the only person in the building when it caught fire.”

  “Building?”

  “Baronessa Gelati.” When she did not respond to the name, Shane lifted a brow. “Where you work.”

  She closed her eyes, felt the pounding in her brain start up with renewed vigor. Why couldn’t she remember?

  “Mr. Cummings.” A blond woman wearing a white doctor’s coat and black skirt came into the room. “I believe I sent you home.”

  “I was on my way, Doc.” His ex
pression innocent, Shane stuck his hands into his front pockets and stepped away from the bed. “But when I saw Miss Barone was conscious, I thought she might be able to tell us how the fire started.”

  The doctor threw a dubious glance at Shane, pushed her black-rimmed glasses up her nose, then looked at Emily. “I’m Dr. Tuscano. How’s that head of yours feeling?”

  “Like it’s trying to hatch,” Emily said weakly.

  The doctor smiled. “I had to give you a few stitches along your hairline, but they should heal without a noticeable scar. We’re giving you pain medication in your IV right now, but if you do well through the rest of the night, we’ll take you off in the morning. Other than the laceration on your head, some bumps and bruises and a little smoke in your lungs, you’re in great shape considering your ordeal.”

  “Shane saved my life,” Emily whispered.

  “I believe he did,” Dr. Tuscano agreed as she made a note in Emily’s chart. “Your family will be very happy to hear you’ll be all right.”

  “My family?”

  The doctor paused in her writing and glanced up. Frowning, she set her chart down and pulled a small flashlight out of her pocket. “You don’t remember the accident?”

  “No.” Emily winced at the light the doctor shone in her eyes.

  “Do you know who you are, where you live?”

  Who she was? The pain in her head spiraled. She gathered from the conversation her name was Emily Barone. But she didn’t know who she really was. Nor where she lived. “No.”

  “Hmm. A mild concussion, but nothing severe.” Dr. Tuscano slipped the flashlight back into her coat pocket and picked up the chart again. “Except for your parents, who are on their way here now, you should have no more visitors.”

  “Dr. Tuscano—” the redheaded nurse stuck her head back in the doorway “—you’re wanted on line three. Dr. Heaton.”

  “Be right there.” Smiling, the doctor patted Emily’s hand. “I’ll be here in the morning to check on you. We’ll see how you feel after a good night’s rest.”

  Emily watched the doctor leave, then slowly turned her head toward Shane. He stood at the foot of her bed, his hands still in his pockets. She saw the worry in his gaze, had the strangest desire to touch his cheek, to comfort as much as to be comforted.

  “I better go,” he said after a long moment. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  But she wasn’t all right. She didn’t know who she was, or what had happened to her; she had stitches in her head and an IV stuck in her arm.

  She felt like a child. Alone and frightened. The only person she knew, the only person she could remember, was Shane. She didn’t want him to leave. She knew if he were here that she would be all right, that she could go to sleep and nothing would happen to her.

  “Thank you for coming.” She silently cursed the tears burning her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Frowning, he moved closer. “Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?”

  “No.” She turned her head away. “I’m sorry. It’s silly.”

  “What’s silly?”

  “I thought maybe…if you wouldn’t mind…”

  “What?”

  “Could you…” She turned her head back to face him. “Could you stay with me, just until I fall asleep?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded and reached for a chair and sat. “Yeah,” he said with a smile. “I could do that.”

  “Thank you.”

  She knew he was watching her, but it didn’t make her feel self-conscious. It made her feel safe.

  She welcomed sleep, was certain that when she woke, her world would make sense again. That she would remember. Her eyelids grew heavy, and with a soft sigh she let the darkness wash over her.

  Two

  In the spring, tourists came to Boston Harbor Marina in droves. Wearing their hats and sunscreen and fancy digital cameras with long-distance lens, families of sightseers converged on the docks. While dads clicked away, moms held on tightly to impatient little hands more eager to test the water rather than look at it. They ate foot-long hot dogs from Arnie’s Dog Cart at the end of the pier, ice cream cones from a vendor nicknamed Marty the Mariner, who entertained his clientele with stories of mermaids and ghost ships, then they took a two-hour tour of Boston Harbor.

  From the deck of his sailboat, Shane watched the first tour bus of the day pull into a parking lot on the other side of the marina. A great place to visit, he thought, taking a long sip from the mug of steaming black coffee in his hand.

  An even better place to live.

  Half the year he lived in an apartment over his uncle’s pub, the other half he lived here in the marina. He’d used the money from his mom’s life insurance policy to buy the Free Spirit, a thirty-six-foot single-mast sloop. Marjorie Cummings had loved the ocean, had enjoyed the sailing trips her son had taken her on before and even after she’d fallen ill. Shane liked to think that he’d made her smile when he’d bought the boat and moved in.

  Damn, but he missed that smile.

  The sound of a powerboat pulling away from its slip caught his attention, and he lifted a hand in greeting as The Sea Breeze passed by. She was a pretty little yacht. Built for show as well as speed. And while Shane admired the shiny chrome and custom paint, the fancy boat with all its bells and whistles and oversize stateroom was simply not his style. What would he do with all that space? he thought in amusement. He didn’t even have a girlfriend, let alone a wife, though a few of the women he’d dated had made it clear they’d be happy to change his marital status.

  But he was content with his life just the way it was. He came and went as he pleased, sometimes for days at a time. Other than his uncle, Shane had no one to answer to. No one checking up on him, wondering where he was, whom he was with or what he was doing. And that was fine with him.

  He glanced up at a pair of seagulls flapping noisily overhead, screeching at each other in argument over a chunk of bread scavenged from a nearby trash can. The damp, salty air was crisp and cool, but the early morning fog had already begun to lift and the weather promised to be clear and warm. A good day for sailing, he mused, briefly considered taking the boat out, then decided against it. He’d promised his uncle he’d come by and help out with the lunch crowd, and he still needed to revarnish the last section of deck he’d been sanding for the past few days. He had plenty to do to keep his hands and mind occupied.

  So why, then, had he spent most of last night and this morning thinking about a pretty brunette with velvet-brown eyes and a wide, luscious mouth that would tempt a monk?

  After he’d been booted out of Emily’s room last night, Shane had gone home, poured himself a cold beer, then sat on the deck of his boat in the darkness and sifted through what he’d learned about Emily Barone from the nurses.

  The Barone family and their gelato empire, Baronessa Gelati, had been in the papers quite a bit lately, he’d been told. Tabloid stuff, most of it revolving around some rather risqué photographs of one of Emily’s cousins taken with a Baronessa public relations man, and something about a batch of gelato that had been tainted with habaneros. He’d also learned that Emily had an older sister and two older twin brothers, one of whom he’d met last night and instantly disliked. When he’d walked in and found Derrick bullying Emily, it had been all Shane could do not to grab the jerk by the scruff of his neck and throw him out on his butt. Fortunately, the nurse had interrupted with the phone call, then the doctor had banned all visitors.

  Still, Shane had been restless all night, had felt uneasy knowing that Emily might wake and still not know who she was or what had happened to her. He knew, of course, that her parents would be there, that she’d be well cared for. But strangely, it didn’t ease his concern.

  Shane scrubbed a hand over his face, then tossed back the rest of his coffee. He had no business thinking about Emily, wondering what was going to happen to her. He’d simply done his job by pulling her out of the burning building. H
er injuries weren’t life-threatening. She had her family to take care of her now.

  She’d be fine, he told himself with a shrug. Emily Barone wasn’t his concern any longer, and she most certainly wasn’t his problem.

  “Emily, can I get you something, dear? Some water, or another pillow?”

  Emily glanced at the woman sitting beside her bed. Her hair was a soft blond, the style short and chic, her eyes pale blue with fine webs of wrinkles in the corners. She was still dressed in the sleek black suit she’d worn to the opera the evening before, but she looked as though she’d just stepped out of a limousine. The single strand of pearls resting at the base of her slender neck suited her porcelain skin, Emily thought. She was tall and elegant, and quite beautiful.

  The woman was her mother, Emily knew, but there was nothing remotely familiar about her.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Emily said. “Really.”

  “Exactly what she told you five minutes ago when you asked,” a man said as he turned from the window where he’d been quietly standing. “Let her rest, Sandra. Let her think.”

  The man who spoke was her father, Paul Barone. For a man, he wasn’t tall, maybe around five nine, but he was stocky, with a thick chest and neck. If her mother hadn’t told her that he was a lawyer, Emily would have guessed him to be a well-tailored bouncer. His hair was dark and thinning, his brows low and thick over deep brown eyes. He’d barely said more than a dozen words since they’d arrived, had preferred to let his wife do the talking while he took everything in.

  There’d been a battery of tests when Emily had awakened this morning. A brain scan, more blood work, blood pressure. Dozens of questions about her past that she hadn’t been able to answer. Dr. Tuscano had been thorough with her prodding and probing, and had pronounced her patient to be in excellent health. Except for one little thing.

  Amnesia.

  It had taken quite some time to digest the word. It was one thing to know what it meant, Emily thought, to know that such a thing existed, and quite another to live it.

  Dr. Tuscano had reassured Emily and her parents that a loss of memory following a head trauma was nothing to worry about. Plus there was the emotional trauma to consider, as well, the doctor had said. Though no one knew exactly what had happened, it was reasonable to presume that Emily had been terrified, running to escape the flames and smoke when the ceiling had collapsed.