"It's not as simple as what I do and don't need, Bee. For all I know, this guy—the man with the beard—is still somewhere around here. In town. Nearby. I don't know. But I do know that if I'm his target, I don't want you anywhere near me."
Becca sighed and gave up even toying with her salad. "So we're back in that Clint Eastwood movie, huh?"
"He shot me," Mish said flatly. "He looked at me, he aimed, and he discharged his weapon. And..."
It was her turn to lean across the table. "And what?"
He lowered his voice, looking away from her, the muscles in his jaw clenching. When he looked at her again, his eyes were bleak. "And if I had had the chance, I would've aimed and fired my weapon at him."
"Now, is this an actual memory we're talking about, or is this another of those things you just somehow know?"
"I'm sure you're very funny, but I don't happen to find any of this humorous," he said tightly.
She reached for his hand. "I don't mean to be such a smartass, I just..." She exhaled noisily. "Mish, I don't want to get in my truck and just leave you here. / still haven't given up on the UPS-man scenario."
He squeezed her hand slightly before he let her go, his eyes dark with regret. "I would have shot him, Bee," he said quietly. "And yes, that's a solid memory."
Odd, that part seemed to have been edited out of the version he'd first told her, after they'd left the alley and gotten back in her truck. Becca tapped her fingers on the table. "What else do you remember from that night?"
"I was carrying my .—I don't know what happened to it. It must've been stolen with my wallet. The . in my boot was just a backup, but...I remember wishing I hadanMP-."
"MP-?"
"Heckler & Koch MP-," he told her grimly. "It's a German-made assault weapon. A machine gun. It's called a room broom, because you use it at a relatively short range to clear a room."
"Clear a room?" She was starting to sound like a parrot.
Mish nodded. "Yeah, it means just what it sounds like." He gripped his water glass tightly as he brought it to his mouth and took a sip.
"I have this recurring dream where I'm in a room," he told her. "Locked in with these other people. The door bursts open, and these men come in carrying assault weapons. There's a struggle, and one of the weapons—it's an Uzi. God, how do I know the names of these things?" He took a deep breath and when he spoke again, his voice was matter-of-fact. "In the struggle, an Uzi is kicked toward me, and I pick it up, and I use it to clear the room of the men with the weapons. One sweep with my finger on the trigger, and I kill them all. That's what it means to clear a room."
Becca shook her head, refusing to believe that could have happened—at least not as emotionlessly as he made it sound. "Mish, I know you're trying to prove that you're a terrible person, but you should hear some of my dreams. There's this one where I'm in a furniture store and—"
"I recognized the men in that van today," Mish told her.
That...van? She didn't say the words aloud, but she was certain they echoed on her face.
"The one with the tinted windows. Parked by the bus station?" he clarified. "I don't know where I know them from—both the shorter man with the tattoo and the man
with the light-colored hair—but I definitely know them from somewhere."
Becca didn't understand. "Why didn't you say something to them? Approach them, find out who they are? Maybe find out who you are?"
"They were definitely running some kind of surveillance," Mish told her. "And I know you were joking this afternoon, but it's possible they are looking for me."
"Surveillance?" Becca was incredulous. "How could you know "what they were doing in that van? You couldn't see inside. I'm sorry, Mish, but—"
"I didn't have to see inside. I knew there were three men, even though I didn't see more than two—because Tattoo brought three cups of coffee with him. Three large cups, which I took to mean they were planning to stay awhile. Blondie shook his muscles out when he got out of the van—they'd obviously already been there for some time. So long, in fact, he was in a rush to get into the bar and use the head."
"Use the...? What's a head?"
"Men's room," he said. "Lav. It's called a head on a ship." He rolled his eyes. "Great. Now I'm a sailor."
Becca laughed. She couldn't help herself.
Mish smiled, too, but it faded far too quickly. ' 'Becca, go home."
She rested her chin in the palm of her hand, clearly going nowhere. "What if you don't remember anything else?" she asked. "What if the rest of the details of who you were don't ever come back to you?"
Mish shook his head. "I haven't really thought in terms of a worst-case scenario."
"Maybe," she said softly, "not remembering wouldn't necessarily be the worst-case scenario."
He gazed at her for a moment, clearly understanding
what she was getting at. He'd thought it himself, many times. If he never pushed to find out the truth, if he just let go of whatever he'd done or been in the past, if he started over, from scratch...
"It would be kind of like being born all over again," Becca continued. ' 'It could be a blessing. If you honestly think you did such terrible things..."
"You make it sound so tempting," he whispered. "But I'm here. I can't leave Wyatt City without at least talking to Jarell."
"Ah," she said. "There you go. Now you know exactly how / feel."
She met his gaze staunchly as he searched her eyes.
After several long moments, he nodded. "All right. I'll get us two rooms for tonight."
He was determined to keep his distance. Becca nodded, too. She'd let him win that battle.
For now.
Mish flipped through the TV channels twice more, but it was just like playing a game of solitaire that had run its course. Nothing new or interesting had magically appeared.
An infomercial on selling real estate. A late-night talk show with some actress who had a body like a POW-camp survivor—emaciated and bony and completely unappealing, compared to Becca's soft curves.
Compared to Becca's lush breasts and soft thighs and...
Mish changed the channel, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, refusing to think about Becca, naked in his arms.
The movie channel was showing a romantic comedy about a man who, after only one glimpse of a beautiful young woman, knew that she was his destiny. From what Mish could tell from the few minutes he'd watched ear-
Her, the hero was determined to win the girl's heart by any means, including outright deceit. He lied about his name, his identity, his profession, his past.
Mish watched for a few more minutes before turning off the set in utter disgust. He knew how the movie would end. True love would triumph and the girl would forgive the hero.
But real life didn't work that way. Real life was filled with unmendable hurt, with unforgivable wrongs, with irreparable damage.
And most people didn't get a second chance at anything.
He lay back on the bed, aching with an awful emptiness, staring up at the plastered ceiling, knowing full well that he was one of the lucky ones. He'd been given a second chance—a chance to detach himself from all of the wrongs he'd ever done. A chance to start fresh, to live clean, to do right.
So what was he doing? He was lying here, nearly jumping out of his skin, desperate to cross the motel courtyard and knock on the door to room .
Becca's room.
She'd wanted to spend the night with him again. She'd told him so. But he'd turned her down, obsessed with the idea of protecting her from himself.
He'd checked them into their rooms, said good-night, and then he'd taken a long, cold shower. He'd shaved, too, although for what reason, he had no clue. He was here for the night. Alone.
And Becca was in her room. Alone. Way on the other side of the motel complex.
But now he lay here—alone—unable to think about anything but the softness of Becca's lips, the perfect fit
ii
of his bod
y to hers, the sparkle of her eyes, the satisfied smile that curled her lips after he...after they...
Oh, Lord. He had to stay away from her. He had to.
Mish stood up, unable to keep from pacing. He was unable to stop himself from pacing right over to the TV where his room key sat, pocketing the key and pacing right out the door.
Room was on the other side of the swimming pool, up on the second floor. He found the room without even counting windows—he already knew where it was. Behind the heavy draperies, he could see the glow of her light still on. She was awake.
Okay, he'd go over and knock on the door, ask her if she wanted to meet at the Waffle House for breakfast in the morning.
Mish crossed the courtyard, went up the stairs. He could hear the sound of a radio playing from inside room , heard Becca singing along. She had a sweet voice, low and musical.
He stood, leaning his head against her door, listening-to her sing, and he knew without a doubt that he hadn't come here to talk about breakfast.
He'd come to stay until breakfast.
He couldn't do it. Try as he might, he couldn't stay away from her. Try as he might, he wasn't worthy of this second chance he'd miraculously been given.
Because here he was, yet again, right on schedule, giving in to temptation, choosing to do wrong instead of right.
He didn't know his name, but he knew with a gut-clenching certainty that before this was through, he was going to hurt this woman.
How hard could it be not to knock on her door? All he had to do was put his hands in his pockets or behind his
back. And then he had to turn away, not think about the fact that she would probably greet him with a kiss, pull him into her room, surround him with the sweet scent of her freshly washed hair, the paralyzing softness of her smooth, clean skin. She would fall back on her bed with him, wrap herself around him and...
Mish couldn't turn away. And he couldn't keep his hands behind his back. He lifted one, about to rap loudly right next to the sign that said , but he never got the chance.
The door opened.
And Becca stood there, wearing cutoff jeans and a halter top that showed off a pair of smooth, bare shoulders that looked too damned good even when covered by a perspiration-stained T-shirt. She was carrying an open pint of ice cream, a plastic spoon stuck in the top.
"Mish! You startled me!" She was surprised to see him. And pleased. Very pleased.
"Yeah," he said, jamming his hands into his pockets and taking a step back from the door far too late. "Hi. Sorry. I realized we never talked about the morning. I didn't want to wake you up too early if you wanted to sleep in and..."
And she knew exactly why he was standing there, knew it had nothing to do with making plans for the morning. Mish could see her awareness in her smile, in the warmth of her eyes.
"I was just coming down to your room," she told him. She held out the ice cream. "I thought maybe you might want to share this with me. It's so hot tonight, and..."
And she'd intended to come to his room and share more than ice cream. He knew that, too. And she knew he knew...
"They were all out of cones," she said, "but I figured
we could just spread it on ourselves. Take turns licking each other clean...?"
Mish laughed. He couldn't help himself.
"So," Becca said, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she tried not to smile. "Are you coming in, or what?"
He was coming in. She knew it and he knew it. Mish lost himself in her eyes. "Why can't I stay away from you?" he whispered.
"Why would you want to?" she countered just as softly.
And as she reached for his hand and tugged him gently into her room, closing and locking the door behind them, Mish couldn't remember why he'd even considered staying away. She set the ice cream down on top of the motel television and he drew her into his arms. As she melted against him, he slowly lowered his mouth to hers and then, if he hadn't had amnesia already, he would have contracted a full-blown case of it right then as he lost himself completely in the sheer sweetness of her kiss.
As Mish kissed her, Becca tugged him toward the bed, afraid that he might come to his senses and walk out the door. She knew he was afraid of hurting her. She knew he wouldn't quite believe her even if she told him again that she wasn't looking for more than a low-maintenance, high-passion, short-term love affair. At this point, she wouldn't quite believe herself.
Last night had been incredible, even with the secrets that had hung between them. Tonight promised to be even more amazing.
Except tonight, she was the one with the secrets.
Mish's fingers were gentle as he worked to loosen the knots in her halter. His eyes were as warm as his hands as he pulled her top free. And as he drew in a sharp breath
at the sight of her bare breasts, he made her feel like the most beautiful, most sexy woman in the world.
He touched her gently with his mouth and his hands, taking his time to look at her, to really take her in.
Becca tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, trying to pull it up, and he yanked it over his head. And then she was touching him, too, sliding her palms across his gorgeous tanned muscles, kissing him just as lightly, taking her time to look at him as well.
The bruise on his side was starting to fade. His muscles were amazingly well-defined, as if he had stepped out of an anatomy textbook. Or a J. Crew catalog. Anns, shoulders, pecs, he was sheer perfection right down to the six-pack of muscles that made up his abdomen.
But his eyes were as soft as his body was hard. And it was his eyes that held her captive.
All night long, he'd told her this afternoon. He'd wanted to make love to her all night long.
He lowered his head and lightly touched the tip of her breast with his tongue as he found and slowly unfastened . the top button of her shorts.
All night long...
Becca pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him just as slowly, languidly, leisurely drinking him in.
It was as if the entire world had gone into slow motion, and with that, all of her senses had heightened.
She could hear the sound of their quiet breathing, the sound of her zipper being pulled down, tantalizingly slowly. She could feel the slightly callused roughness of his fingers against her skin. The delicious chill of the conditioned air against the tongue-wetted tips of her breasts. The satin-over-steel silkiness of his back beneath her hands. The baby-smoothness of his cheeks against her face...
He'd shaved for her. He'd come to her reluctantly after trying for hours to keep his distance. And yet, he'd recognized the futility of his resistance enough to shave before coming to her room.
It was silly, really. That he'd shaved was no big deal. It was simple consideration. A small sign of kindness, of caring, yet it brought all of her emotions bubbling to the surface.
He cared. She knew without a doubt that he desired her, but to know that he cared...
Becca was in too deep. She was in serious trouble, if the fact that this man had shaved for her was enough to bring tears of joy to her eyes. But she couldn't stop what she was feeling. It was far too late.
She was falling in love with this man without a name. She was completely enthralled with the gentle warmth of his eyes, with the way he truly listened whenever she spoke, with the fact that despite the absolute goodness that seemed to shine from within him, he was not an angel. Despite his good intentions, he was drawn to her as completely and powerfully as she was drawn to him. And try as he might, as much as he wanted otherwise, he hadn't been able to stay away.
He drew her shorts and her panties slowly down her legs, and she took close to forever to help him rid himself of his jeans. Then, skin against skin, she touched him, breathed him, kissed him, completely on fire, yet preferring this slow, intense burn to a white-hot flash of flame that would end far too soon.
No, she didn't want this to end.
She had no idea what tomorrow would bring, and more than half hoped this Jarell from the homel
ess shelter would provide no answers to Mish's many questions. His talk of machine guns had made her uneasy. Those were
the weapons used by the survivalists who lived in military-style compounds in the mountains. They were all-or-nothing organizations and Becca had no desire to join one—no matter how desperately she loved this man.
Oh, yes, she loved him desperately. How could she have let that happen?
When she first asked him to have dinner, she'd imagined she'd love him just a little. A safe amount. Enough to justify giving in to this intense physical attraction, but not so much that she would feel this shortness of breath, this lack of control.
She'd wanted a brief entanglement with a handsome stranger. True, she'd wanted more than shallow sex, but she'd wanted nowhere near this Grand Canyon of emotional attachment.
But it was okay. It was going to be okay, because there was no way in hell Mish was going to fall in love with her. Becca could deal with a one-sided love affair. What she couldn't handle was hoping against hope that she had, in fact, at long last, found true love.
Because despite how much she hoped, true love didn't exist. And she and Mish would part, just later rather than sooner. And crushed hope was far worse than no hope at all.
Mish pulled back from their endless kiss, their languorous embrace, and as she gazed into his eyes, her heart twisted in her chest.
"I want you," she whispered, knowing he would misunderstand, but needing to say it, say something, all the same.
He kissed her again, then reached across her for the condoms she'd left on the nightstand. She closed her eyes, pressing herself against him, feeling the hard length of his
heat parting her, dangerously close to penetration. She was more than ready for him, in every possible way.
It had to be biological—some kind of nesting instinct that was kicking in as her thirtieth birthday approached.
Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 08 - Identity Unknown Page 15
