by Laura Taylor
And then, as if turning on a dime, he felt like the worst kind of bastard on the planet, because she was vulnerable and he was on the verge of taking advantage of her. He froze, aware right down to his soul that he didn’t deserve her.
She wouldn’t want you if she remembered you, his conscience jabbed. She’d reject you, just as you rejected her.
Brett tore his mouth free, air raging in and out of his lungs. Leah groaned in protest, reaching out to him, blindly trying to reestablish contact. He held her away from him, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and his body in agony as he tried to reclaim some fragment of his sanity.
He rolled away from her once he found the strength to move. When he finally met her stunned gaze, he saw the blush of passion that flushed her cheeks and the dazed look in her eyes that spoke of bewilderment and thwarted desire. Cursing himself, he jerked upright and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands covering his face as air gusted in and out of a body that shook and screamed with need.
He felt her fingertips glide down his spine, her touch tentative, uncertain. He flinched when she spoke his name. Brett knew if he glanced at her now, he’d find concern, not recrimination, in her expressive features.
He forced himself to his feet. He straightened slowly, still trembling as he turned to look down at her. Propped up on one arm, she stared at him. His gaze fell to the cotton t–shirt twisted about her body, and he saw the swift rise and fall of her full, hard–tipped breasts, the thin cotton that sheathed her serving as an enticement rather than a shield. He thought, too, of the pregnancy and delivery she’d faced alone, and a new, even more powerful, wave of self–loathing swept across him.
"I’m sorry," he managed in a voice that sounded like gears grinding. He headed for the bedroom door, moving swiftly and without his usual predatory grace.
"I’m not sorry, Brett," she declared in a voice far stronger than he would have ever expected. "I’m not sorry at all. We’re adults, not children. Denying the obvious seems pretty damn stupid to me. Even though I don’t understand what’s going on between us, I still trust you and feel safe with you. That’s not going to change. One thing does need to change, however, and that’s your refusal to stop fighting the feelings we apparently share." She paused briefly, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You aren’t wearing a wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean anything one way or the other in this day and age, does it?"
Still gripping the doorknob, he half turned to look at her. "I’m not married, Leah. Neither are you."
"That’s encouraging," she said, her tone tinder dry. "You care about me, don’t you, even though you don’t want to?"
"Yes, I care about you, but that’s self–indulgence on my part. We aren’t lovers. We haven’t been for a very long time. I was telling you the truth."
"Did I betray your trust?"
"Christ, no! Not ever."
"Did I walk out on you?" she pressed.
He exhaled, a sound filled with equal parts weariness and resignation. "No, you did not walk out on me."
"Did I do something you cannot forgive?"
He flinched. "No."
She sank back against the pillows. For a long moment, she busied herself with the task of arranging the covers over her slender body. After smoothing them into place with shaking fingers, she looked at him and said in an unexpectedly gentle voice, "Perhaps we should become lovers again."
"No, Leah, we shouldn’t. I don’t… you deserve better than me."
Brett walked out of the room then, slamming the door behind him and cursing himself and his self–indulgent behavior.
4
Leah felt a profound sense of abandonment settle over her the instant Brett slammed out of the room. Stunned by the depth of the emotional isolation his departure caused, she rolled onto her side, curled into herself, and closed her eyes.
The dull throbbing of her head eased somewhat as she slowly inhaled and exhaled to calm herself, but her measured breathing did little to assuage either the tension humming through her body or the desire that made her crave the completion that only their joined bodies could supply. She still tasted Brett on her lips, and the scent of his skin lingered in her senses. Recalling the tempered power of his embrace, Leah trembled anew.
She focused on clearing her thoughts and reclaiming her equilibrium, but she discovered that Brett was permanently etched into her sensory memory. She finally concluded that he didn’t trust himself with her. And she wondered why?
Although she lacked the safety net of actually knowing how she’d spent the previous thirty years of her life, Leah felt oddly reassured by the rainbow of emotions Brett aroused in her. She also felt curious about and compelled to explore each and every emotion, primarily because of the sense of utter rightness she’d experienced at simply being in his arms. Remembering, too, how he’d wrenched free of her, she couldn’t sideline her need to understand what had happened between them in the past, not simply the emptiness his absence now caused.
She whispered a quiet prayer that she would eventually remember all the facets of her relationship with Brett once she accessed the dark void that housed all of her memories. Despite his insistence, Leah knew in her soul that they weren’t just friends. She believed, instead, that they shared a history worthy of her scrutiny.
Had he hurt her? Leah wondered. Had she failed to absolve him of his guilt? Had she wounded him, perhaps even rejected him? She couldn’t imagine doing such a stupid thing, but she supposed that almost anything was possible. Was he reluctant to forgive her? Was he standing by her now out of some misplaced sense of obligation? Was she some self–absorbed creature who used and then discarded her lovers?
Her final thought bothered her the most. She didn’t want to think of herself as cruel or heartless, but she refused to ignore the possibility or to cast herself in a positive light simply because she lacked tangible memories. She speculated then that Brett’s reticence might actually be a volatile mix of caution and desire on his part.
Despite the unexpected nature of her own feelings, and even though she worried that she might be reaching out to him because he represented stability in the face of chaos, she wanted him. And she doubted that she’d ever wanted any man more.
Leah sighed as she looked beyond the dim glow of the bedside lamp to the sheer drapes that covered the window across the room. Dawn had crept into the sky since Brett’s exit from her bedroom.
Her frustration grew as she struggled with questions that seemed to have no answers. Answers, at least, that remained beyond her grasp as things stood now.
Leah pondered his behavior in the hours since she’d regained consciousness at the Urgent Care clinic. Any vulnerability he possessed seemed to be shielded behind a rough, aggressive exterior. Having experienced his concern and having viewed the worry in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching him, she knew better than to ever think that he was a cold or careless man. She’d felt the inferno–like heat of his embrace and the strength of his desire. And she’d felt the intensity of suppressed emotions.
Brett cared for her—as a woman, not just as a friend. She knew it in her soul, despite his apparent determination to maintain a hands–off attitude with her. Perhaps his reasoning was logical, but she’d heard a false note in some of his comments, perhaps even a lie concealed within his truths.
Too restless to sleep just yet, Leah sat up, noticed her purse on the bedside table, and reached for it. She drew it into her lap and extracted her wallet. She poked through the contents once more, desperate for a place to start in her effort to reclaim her identity and also hopeful that she might trigger even the most inconsequential of memories.
After turning up the wattage of the bedside lamp, she lingered over the photographs in the wallet. A group photo of more than a dozen people taken on the front steps of a church following a wedding service—a smiling Leah stood beside the bride—hinted that she might be part of a large, loving family that resembled a recruiting poster for Viking men and their petite,
golden–haired women.
Brett, who stood at the edge of the gathering, was the only dark–haired man in the group. A second photo, this one of Leah and several children seated atop a picnic table in what appeared to be a densely wooded park, gave her pause.
All the children except one were grinning, slim–limbed sprites with golden hair and fair skin. The offspring, she decided, of some of the adults in the first photograph. The exception among the children, a serious–looking little boy of about four or five, was dark–eyed, raven–haired, and sturdily built.
Leah’s gaze lingered on his image. His darker features made him stand–out from the other children. She gripped the photo, instinct more than anything else prompting her to study his image with greater care. A pinpoint of light flickered in the recesses of her mind, a teasing flicker of recognition that died as quickly as it had surfaced. Still, she peered at the child’s face. She sensed something familiar about him, but she failed to connect him to a specific past memory as she sat there and concentrated.
She reluctantly moved on to a third photograph, a posed shot of a mature couple in their late fifties. Leah saw a reflection of herself in the delicate–featured woman whose hair had gone white and whose eyes were a pale aquamarine version of her own. She felt a moment of panic as she studied a picture of the two people who had probably given her life, raised her, and cared for her until she’d set out into the world on her own.
Panic gave way to fear. Fear that she might never remember the people who loved her. Fear that produced tears she couldn’t hold back. Sobs shook her as she sank back against the pillows. Clutching the photographs, she wept for everything and everyone she couldn’t remember. She also wept for herself, although mindful of the fact that self–pity wouldn’t solve the crisis of not knowing her identity.
Leah eventually fell asleep. The image of the small, dark–haired boy stayed with her as her breathing slowed and then deepened. She took him into her dreams, and she found comfort in his presence. When she wakened several hours later, she still held the three photographs.
** ** **
After a few hours of much–needed rest, Brett used his satellite phone to call Micah Holbrook from the privacy of his bedroom.
"It’s about damn time!" Micah barked.
"Been a little busy." Brett kept his tone mild.
"Tell me… is she alright?"
"Leah’s with me, and we’re below the radar for the moment."
"They came at her, didn’t they? Those fucking bastards…"
Brett cut in. "I reached her in time, Micah."
"Thank, Christ."
"My sentiments exactly."
"If anything had happened to her…"
Brett cut in. "She’s safe, and she’s going to stay that way. End of story." He didn’t mention Leah’s concussion or her temporary amnesia.
"Make sure of it. I’ve had to face too many devastated families in the last ten years, and I’ll be God damned if I’ll have that kind of a conversation with my own parents."
"I’m not going to leave her side until this thing is wrapped up, Micah." He paused, and then he admitted, "I can’t."
The ensuing silence lasted for a long moment. "You poor bastard… you’re still in love with her, aren’t you?"
Brett ignored the question. "How are things at your end?"
"The Mossad guys are dispersed, and the Brits assigned some of their deep cover people to work with my team. We’ve taken down eighteen of Assad’s people, and we’re tightening the intel noose around him, his top deputy, and two of his lieutenants."
"What about his contractors? Any ideas?" he asked. "I’m talking about men who can get in and out of the U.S. without being flagged by immigration."
"We’ll find out."
"Sooner rather than later, Micah. I need to know what I’m dealing with. That Saudi detainee at Gitmo knows Assad’s entire organization. Have someone chat with him. Assad sent at least four guys after Leah. I took two down, but the others disappeared. They came back for another shot at her a few hours later, so I’m thinking a four to five person detachment. I may have wounded one on the second go ‘round, but I can’t be sure."
"God damn it. Leah must be ready to hand you your head on a platter if you killed two guys on her front lawn."
"She’s surprisingly cooperative… at the moment, anyway." He doubted that she would remain so once her memory returned.
"How’d you manage that?" Micah asked.
"My charming personality."
"Yeah, right." He chuckled.
"She’s changed."
"Not that much."
"She has a child now, and that’s had an impact. And you were right, she’s a hell of a lot more assertive." He exhaled. "Look, I need to check in with Hanrahan."
"I just did about an hour ago. Everything’s under control. Mom’s painting, and Dad and Matthew are fishing. Security is tight, and the cardiac doc you ordered up there for my father arrived by helicopter late yesterday afternoon."
Despite Micah’s reassurances, he phoned the remote Canadian fishing camp and spoke briefly with Hanrahan, the head of the security detail guarding Leah’s parents and his son. His final comment was an order that they would all remain in seclusion until they’d been notified that the last of the terrorists had been taken into custody.
Relieved that he could now focus on Leah, he quickly showered, shaved, and dressed. He heard her moving around in her bedroom and private bath as he walked into the sitting room. Calling room service, he ordered brunch for two and a fresh supply of coffee.
Brett poured a cup of coffee from a half–empty carafe he’d ordered earlier, and he drank it while he browsed the editorial page of a local San Francisco newspaper. He glanced up a little while later when Leah opened her bedroom door and stepped into the sitting room.
Clad in a pair of snug jeans, a pale pink tee, and a pair of deck shoes, she looked refreshed. "I smell coffee," she said by way of a greeting.
"There’s plenty." He gestured in the direction of a coffee service positioned in the center of the low teak table in front of the couch. "Help yourself. Room service should be here in a few minutes."
She smiled as she poured a cup. "I have a craving for eggs Benedict."
Her comment summoned Brett’s memories of lazy weekends, long hours of making love, and the leisurely morning–after brunches they’d shared at a bed–and–breakfast inn on the Virginia coast. He remembered, too, how the world had ceased to matter during those lost weekends composed solely of passion, conversation, and serenity.
"You always crave eggs Benedict when you sleep late," he told her. "I’m glad your appetite’s back. That’s a good sign."
"It’s returned in a big way," she confirmed as she sat down on the couch. "I’m starved."
"You look more rested this morning."
She nodded before taking a sip of her coffee. "I feel better." She grimaced as her taste buds embraced and then recoiled from the strong brew.
"You hate black coffee."
"No kidding."
"You use honey, whenever it’s available. You’ve never used cream."
"Thanks." She leaned forward and reached for the natural sweetener. Leah glanced his way after stirring honey into the steaming black liquid. "It’s kind of strange to realize that you know more about me than I do."
"I pay attention to the details," he admitted quietly as he revitalized his senses with the sight of her. His body responded a heartbeat later to a need so profound, molten heat cascaded into his bloodstream.
"Given your profession, I guess that’s not surprising."
His hunger eased, but it didn’t depart. It never would. Brett gave her a thoughtful look, but he didn’t press her for an explanation of her remark. Leah liked to conduct verbal fishing expeditions. He could handle her curiosity.
"Any residual pain?"
"The brass band is gone, if that’s what you’re asking."
"I’m asking for a more complete statement, Leah."
"I have a very mild headache, and my bruises are colorful. I doubt the former will last much longer, but I’m not as optimistic about the latter. Stop worrying, please."
He folded the section of newspaper and dropped it onto the stack already on the floor beside his chair. "Friends worry about friends."
Her smile faded. "Is that really what we are?"
"I hope so."
Leah looked away. He watched her concentrate on her coffee. He noticed that she flinched and her fingers strayed to her temple when a series of sharp knocks sounded on the door a few minutes later.
"Finish your coffee," he ordered. "I’ll take care of this."
Brett got to his feet and crossed the room, moving with the fluid stealth of a man accustomed to confronting and disposing of any threat he encountered. Alert to everything around him, he registered Leah’s silence as he greeted the room–service waiter at the door. He signed the check, thanked the young man, and then took control of a cart that held several covered dishes, a cloth–covered basket of muffins, and another large carafe of coffee. After closing and locking the door, he wheeled the cart into the room and parked it beside a small table.
"Eggs Benedict for two, a double side–order of hash browns, fresh–squeezed orange juice, extra muffins, and another pot of coffee."
Startled by her precise recitation of the room–service order he’d placed before she’d joined him in the sitting room, Brett stiffened for a moment before turning to look at her. "Where did that come from?"
She shrugged. "Somewhere out in the empty left field of my brain." She got up from the sofa, approached him, and helped him transfer the contents of the cart to the table.
"Do you…" he began, a mixture of hope and dread filtering into his heart.
"Nada. Not a blessed thing." She sat down and accepted the linen napkin he handed to her. After surveying the meal he’d ordered, Leah met his gaze. "Spooky, isn’t it?"
