Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 08 - Identity Unknown

by Suzanne Brockmann

  'Becca? This is Hazel. I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

  Becca sighed, but even the thought that her assistant wouldn't have called unless there was a real problem at the Lazy Eight wasn't enough to detract from the pleasure of Mish's touch.

  "It's nearly eight, and I thought you'd be up," Hazel continued apologetically. "I'd offer to call back later, but this really can't wait."

  "What's the problem?" Becca had to work to keep her voice even and controlled as Mish lowered his head to her breast. He kissed her lightly at first, then slowly drew

  L

  her nipple into his mouth. She bit back an exclamation, and he lifted his head, smiling at her like the devil incarnate.

  Like an outrageously handsome devil incarnate. "We seem to have something of a mystery on our hands," Hazel told her.

  Mish lowered his head and kissed his way down her stomach, stopping to explore her belly button with his tongue.

  'Oh, God," Becca said. "Hazel, are you sure I can't call you back in just a few minutes—an hour tops—I promise?" Mish kissed the inside of her thigh, and she closed her eyes. "Please?"

  "Becca, it's about that Casey Parker. That Mish character. Did you know that he's gone? He cleared out of cabin the day before yesterday, and I've seen neither hide nor hair of him since."

  Becca laughed. Hazel's big mystery was no mystery. Becca knew exactly where Casey Parker was—and exactly what he was doing.

  And, oh, she liked what he was doing, but she pulled back from him, shaking her head, widening her eyes. No way could she talk on the phone while he did that.

  He grinned at her and her laughter bubbled over again. *'Hazel, I'm sorry. I thought I mentioned it to you. Mish had some business to take care of in Albuquerque. He should be back at the ranch on Tuesday."

  "Well, it's going to be interesting when he returns," Hazel said, ' 'especially if the man who was just here at the office decides to come back, too. Because then we'll have two Casey Parkers on our hands."

  Becca could see the promise of paradise in Mish's eyes. He was behaving himself, lying down at the end of the bed, lightly stroking her foot. But despite his distance, he

  '

  was obviously distracting her, because Hazel's words just didn't make any damn sense. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

  "Two," Hazel repeated. "Casey Parkers. Pretty bizarre mystery, huh? A second Casey Parker just showed up at the Lazy Eight, claiming you'd hired him on as a ranch hand. He was looking for a package that was supposedly waiting for him here at the office. He was pretty bent out of shape when I told him we'd filled our quota of Casey Parkers for the month and I'd given that package to the first one. I even had to call Rafe McKinnon down to the office to flex his muscles."

  Becca sat up, her full attention on Hazel's words. "Is he still there?" she asked. "Call the sheriff and—"

  "He's gone. He drove off in a wild hurry after he found out there'd been a Casey Parker here before him. I don't know what's going on."

  "He's an imposter." Even as she said the words, Becca knew they made no sense. Why would someone show up at the ranch pretending to be Casey Parker?

  "Someone's an imposter," Hazel said. "And that's why this phone call couldn't wait. Becca, I know there was something brewing between you and this Mish. Promise me you'll be careful if you see him again today?"

  "Hazel—"

  "Because Casey Parker Number Two had picture ID. He had a driver's license," Hazel told her. "He was a big guy with a gray beard and a beer belly, and it was definitely his picture on that license."

  And Mish had had no ID at all.

  He was sitting on the end of the bed, watching her.

  He'd been listening to her end of the conversation. He

  knew she'd been talking about him and all sense of wicked play had disappeared.

  "Are you sure?" Becca whispered. She pulled the sheet up so that it covered her, and Mish looked away tiredly, almost guiltily—as if he somehow knew exactly what Hazel was telling her.

  "Honey, I used to work in the sheriffs office over in Chimayo. This license looked legit. It wasn't tampered with in any way that I could see. They have those fancy hologram thingies on 'em, you know, to keep people from messing with 'em." Hazel sighed. "You were planning to see him again, weren't you? That Mish? I am sorry about this."

  "Thanks for calling," Becca managed to choke out before she hung up the phone.

  Mish didn't look at her. He just sat on the bed, staring down at their clothes, still strewn on the floor where they'd left them last night.

  "So. You want to tell me who you really are?" She'd meant to sound tough, but her voice shook slightly and ruined her delivery. "Seeing as how you're not Casey Parker?"

  He looked up at her then, his eyes filled with regret and... shame?

  Becca let herself get good and mad, fighting the tears that were on the verge of exploding from her eyes. Damn right he should feel shame!

  "Maybe I should get dressed," he said, reaching for his clothes.

  Becca scrambled out of the bed, pulling the sheet with her, and grabbed his pants away from him. "Oh, no, you don't. You're not going to leave before you at least give me some kind of explanation."

  With shaking hands, Mish pulled on his shorts. Had he

  really thought he could have this woman without giving her anything of himself in return? Had he really thought he could hide here with her, safely cocooned from the real world, from the truth?

  But the real world had reached out and somehow she now knew more about him than he did. How and what didn't matter. He should have known it would happen. He should have protected her from this.

  And he would have, if only he'd stayed away from her. He should have been strong enough to resist the magnetic attraction he felt for her, that dizzying pull of longing. Instead, he'd given in to what he wanted, what he needed. And he'd hurt her. Badly.

  Selfish. He was a selfish son of a bitch.

  And in one brief moment, all of the magic of the night was gone, as if it had never existed, never been real. They'd shared something wonderful, something he'd longed to hold on to, something fragile and perfect that now lay crushed and broken at his feet. And he'd done that as surely as if he'd stomped on it with both heels of his boots.

  "The real Casey Parker showed up at the ranch," Becca said, her voice thick with betrayal. "You had to have known that was bound to happen."

  "I didn't," he said loudly, more forcefully than he'd intended. He stood up, pushing his hair back from his face, feeling as if he might be terribly, violently sick. Lord God, he'd been so selfish.

  "You didn't?" Her voice rose, too. "Dammit, I know you're smarter than that. You had to know Casey would show up sooner or later."

  He wasn't Casey Parker. He'd suspected that for a while. The name had seemed so unfamiliar. But still, he'd hoped.

  God, he'd hoped. But hope wasn't enough. Not anymore.

  So now what?

  Although his back was to her, he could see her reflection in the big mirror that hung above the dresser. She was gazing at him with such hurt, such accusation in her eyes.

  He still couldn't tell her the truth. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone why he was in New Mexico—he couldn't remember why, but he knew that he wasn't supposed to talk about it with a strength that was overpowering. Still, to walk away, leaving her to think that he'd purposely deceived her... He couldn't do that, either. How could he?

  He stood there, stomach churning, sick to his soul, head bowed and shaking, unable to stay, unable to leave.

  "You know," she said, her voice shaking, too, "if you'd come to the ranch and introduced yourself to me, if you'd been honest about who you were, I would have hired you. I don't understand why you had to lie."

  What could he tell her? "Maybe I should just go. I can't tell you what you want to know."

  Disbelief colored her voice. "You can't tell me your name?"

  He glanced up and saw that she was crying. She tried to hide it by br
usquely, almost savagely, wiping her tears away as she still clutched the sheet around her.

  "Call me old-fashioned," Becca said sharply, "but I at least like to know the name of the men I've had sex with."

  His name. Mish looked up, and came face-to-face with himself in that mirror.

  He was still a stranger to his own eyes. Hard and lean and dangerous, with his morning stubble thick and dark

  on his angular face, his hair wild, messed from sleep, his eyes bitter, soulless, he looked to be the kind of man who would lie his way into a woman's bed and leave her with little regard for her feelings in the morning.

  He stared into those eyes, praying for a glimmer of memory, a whisper of a name. Some small fragment of truth that he could give her...

  Mish.

  Mission Man.

  "Just tell me your name," Becca whispered.

  He stared harder, fists tight, teeth clenched, hating himself, hating the stranger staring tauntingly back at him, no longer praying to God but demanding the answers he sought. Who the hell was he?

  Mission Man.

  An echo of Jarell's voice whispered the nickname, and his anger and frustration erupted.

  "I don't know my damn name!" He exploded, spinning and hitting his reflection with his fist.

  The mirror cracked, cutting his image in two. He hit it again, harder, and it shattered, the glass slicing his hand.

  Becca backed away, shocked by his outburst, staring at this suddenly wild-eyed stranger whose blood dripped from his fingertips onto the carpeting.

  "I don't know who the hell I am!" he shouted hoarsely. "I woke up nearly two weeks ago in a homeless shelter with five thousand dollars, a handgun in my boot, directions to the Lazy Eight with your name on it, and no memory of anything important—including my own name! You say I'm not Casey Parker? Well, guess what? This is news to me, too!"

  Becca clutched her sheet around her, watching him, ready to run if he suddenly came toward her. Could what

  he'd just said possibly be true? Did he have some kind of amnesia? It sounded so amazing. And yet...

  He was standing there, shaking like a wounded animal, his eyes filled with tears, unable to meet her gaze. ' 'Just give me my pants, and I'll go."

  "Where?" she asked quietly, her heart in her throat. She had been furiously angry with him, but if what he was saying was even remotely true...

  He looked up at her. He didn't understand.

  "Where will you go?"

  He shook his head. He was so upset he couldn't even answer her. One of his tears escaped, and he wiped it away with a shaking hand. This couldn't be an act, it couldn't be. He was as upset by this as she was. More.

  She didn't know much about mental illnesses, but it was possible this man she'd given a piece of her heart to last night was sick in ways she couldn't even imagine. If so, then he needed help.

  And if not... He'd had a gash on his head when he'd first arrived at the ranch. It was mostly healed now, but what if the blow he'd received had taken away his memory?

  She tried to imagine what that might be like, how terrifying and awful and strange. How completely alone he must feel....

  Either way, she had to get him to a doctor. She had to convince him to go with her to the hospital.

  "If you don't have anywhere to go, then it doesn't make sense for you to leave," she told him, keeping her voice low, as if she were gentling a frightened horse. The first thing she had to do was calm him down. Then she had to find out if he still had that gun he'd mentioned. Guns and high emotions never mixed well.

  She stepped closer, holding out her own hand to him.

  "Come into the bathroom. Let me look at your hand. It's bleeding."

  Mish looked down, as if noticing his injured hand for the first time. He looked at the mirror, looked at her. "I'm so sorry, Becca."

  "Come on," she said. "Let's make sure you don't need stitches. And then we can talk and try to figure this out."

  "I should just go. I'll leave money to pay for the mirror—"

  "No," Becca said. "I want you to stay."

  He started to argue, but she interrupted. "Stay," she said again. "I think you owe me at least that much."

  Mish nodded. For a potentially crazy person, his gaze was remarkably steady now. "Becca, do you believe me?"

  Becca turned away as she led him into the bathroom. rtl'm still working on that."

  Chapter

  Decca had put clothes on. Jeans and a T-shirt. She sat across from Mish, her legs curled underneath her as she gazed at him.

  Mish, too, had pulled on his pants. Like her, his feet were bare. The shirt he'd worn last night, the one she'd helped peel off of him, hung open as he gazed down at his bandaged hand and tried his best to answer her questions.

  He'd told her about waking up at the homeless shelter, of the old man who'd named him Mission Man, of the way "Mish" had somehow seemed both wrong and right. He'd told her of his confusion and shock at seeing his unfamiliar face in the mirror. He'd tried to put into words what it felt like to remember nothing but trivial details of his past. And he'd apologized again for deceiving her.

  She cleared her throat. "Before—you said you had a gun."

  He glanced up at her and tried not to think about the

  way she'd looked, lying back, naked, on her bed. It was crazy. They'd made love twice, last night and early this morning, and he was still dying for her touch. He still wanted more.

  Like that was ever going to happen again.

  He cleared his throat. "Yeah. A small handgun. Twenty-two caliber. It was in my boot with the cash and that fax that had the directions to the ranch."

  "Where's the gun now?"

  "Back at the Lazy Eight. In my private lockup in the bunkhouse. I wasn't comfortable... I didn't think it was appropriate—or even legal—to carry it around."

  Becca nodded, trying very hard not to look relieved.

  Mish couldn't keep from smiling crookedly. "Makes you nervous, huh?" he asked. "The thought of me walking around with a weapon?"

  She answered honestly, glancing involuntarily at the shards of broken mirror that still littered the dresser. "I'm sorry, but, yeah."

  "You don't have to apologize. If our roles were reversed—"

  "If our roles were reversed, / would have already checked myself into a hospital."

  Mish shifted back in his chair. "I can't do that."

  "Of course you can." She leaned forward. "Mish, I'll go with you. I'll stay with you. The doctors will—"

  "Call the police," he finished for her. "They'll have to. Bee, I was shot. They'd need to report it." He hesitated. Lord, why not just tell her? He'd already revealed too much. "The truth is, I'm probably someone you wouldn't want to know. I've had these dreams..." Telling her about them in detail would be too much. The awfiil images already haunted the hell out of him—no need to haunt her as well. "They're...violent. Really violent."

  "That doesn't mean anything. I've had violent dreams and—"

  "No, this is stuff—at least some of it—I know I've seen. I've also dreamed of..." He couldn't look at her. "Prison. I've done hard time, Bee. I can't believe I would dream about it in that kind of detail if I hadn't."

  She was silent.

  "I think if I dig back and uncover my past, I'm going to find out that I'm not a very good person," he told her quietly. "So let's go back to the ranch. Maybe if I'm lucky Casey Parker' be there. I can give him that package that came for him, and ask him what his fax was doing in my boot—maybe find some answers. Then I'll take my things and clear out. And you'll be done with me for good."

  Becca pulled her knees in close to her chest, encircling them with her arms.

  "Or," he said, "if you'd rather, I'll leave now, find another ride back. I can arrange to be gone before you return on Tuesday."

  He could walk out that door in a matter of minutes, and Becca would never see him again. And this was supposed to be something she'd want?

  She felt her eyes fill w
ith tears, and she blinked them furiously back. She stood up, unable to sit still another moment longer, wishing this room were bigger, knowing that even if it were the size of a stadium, she would be drawn toward him.

  "Why didn't you tell me any of this last night?" she asked, forcing herself away from him, moving over toward the window. "We talked for hours at that party. I can think of ten different times that you would've had a perfect segue to this subject." She turned to face him. '"Funny you should mention your childhood in New

  York, Becca, because you know, since a week ago Monday, I can't remember anything about mine. In fact, I couldn't even remember my name until I came to the ranch and you called me Casey Parker...'"

  His eyes looked suspiciously red, too. "Would you have believed me?"

  "I don't know. I might've, yeah. I believe you now, don't I?"

  "I don't know. Do you?"

  She let out a burst of air that was nearly a laugh. ' 'No. Yes. I don't know. I think, amnesia? But then I think, it sounds so crazy, it's got to be true." She couldn't figure out why he would make up this outlandish story. It wasn't to gain sympathy points to get into her bed. He'd already been there.

  The truth was, she did believe him. She trusted him on a level that went beyond logic. Despite his conviction that he'd been to prison, despite his belief that he was some kind of criminal, Becca trusted him with every fiber of her being. And maybe that was just because of sex. Maybe it was just her hormones blocking all common sense. If love was blind, then lust surely was like being in a sensory deprivation tank.

  But when she looked into Mish's eyes, she believed him, whether she wanted to or not.

  Maybe he was a con man, maybe he was seriously mentally ill, maybe she was going to get badly burned. But she was damned if she wasn't going to see this through to the end, find the facts that would either prove her wrong and label her a fool, or provide the missing pieces in Mish's past. Either way, she'd come out further ahead than she would by walking away right now.