by Lisa Childs
“In addition to the head injury and amnesia,” Blaine finished for her.
“Amnesia,” she bitterly repeated. “I need to know who I am. You’re all in the FBI. You must know something about me.”
“Contrary to public opinion,” Blaine said, “we don’t have files on everyone. So we don’t know your identity. We don’t know anything yet.”
“We checked the missing person’s report in the area,” Agent Bell said. “No one’s reported a bride missing.”
She glanced at Blaine and then Jared Bell before focusing on him again. “None of you have any answers,” she said with a ragged sigh of resignation and weariness. “You don’t know who I am or why I was in the trunk of that car, either.”
“We don’t,” Dalton admitted.
“So what do I call myself?” she asked. And now her voice sounded weak, thready, as exhaustion threatened to claim her.
“Jane Doe,” Blaine suggested.
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “That makes it sound like I didn’t survive. Like I’m a dead body.”
Dalton had another suggestion. But he didn’t want to upset her. “We’ll find out your real name,” he said. “And how you wound up in that trunk. I promise you that we will find out.” He squeezed her hand again.
While she wasn’t weak, she was exhausted, and her eyes closed again as sleep claimed her.
“You shouldn’t have made her any promises,” Jared Bell admonished him.
“Why not?” Because the profiler intended to steal the case from him?
“It isn’t like you,” Blaine agreed. “You always swear you’re not going to make anyone any promises. You’re never getting married.”
“I’m not marrying anyone,” Dalton anxiously corrected him. That was a promise he’d made himself long ago. “I’m just going to find out who she is and how she wound up in that trunk.”
“But if nobody reports her missing and she doesn’t have DNA on file, there might not be any way to find out who she is,” Bell cautioned him. “You can’t risk putting her picture out there. You can’t risk a news report about her.”
“I wouldn’t risk it,” Dalton assured him. He couldn’t risk kooks coming out of the woodwork trying to claim they knew her or cared about her—not in her vulnerable state.
“Why not?” Blaine asked. “Her attacker obviously knows she’s still alive, or he wouldn’t have tried running the ambulance off the road.”
Jared Bell shook his head. “The last thing her attacker needs is any publicity...”
Dalton wasn’t worried about her attacker; he was worried about her.
“But it might be the only way,” Blaine said, “since the doctors said she might never regain her memory.”
Even while his heart sank for her, Dalton shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I will still find out who she is and what happened to her.” And he would find out without putting her in even more danger.
* * *
SHE MIGHT NEVER regain her memory.
She had only closed her eyes to hold back more tears—not to sleep. So she’d heard what the agent had said.
She had already heard the doctor say it, too, though, so the pronouncement wasn’t a shock. But hearing it again made it more real. She might never remember her life before the moment that Special Agent Dalton Reyes had opened the car trunk and rescued her.
Her oldest memory was of him—standing over her looking all handsome in his black tuxedo with his bow tie lying loose around his neck. If not for the trunk and the concussion and the blood, it might not have been such a bad memory. He was such an attractive man. But he wasn’t just a man. To her, he had become a hero.
The FBI agents must not have realized that she wasn’t sleeping, because they spoke freely over her—as if she wasn’t there. Since she didn’t remember who she was, it was almost as if she didn’t really exist.
She had no name. No history.
“You didn’t find anything at the crime scene to reveal her identity?” It must have been the blond man—Agent Campbell—who’d asked, since he had been the one assigned to protect her in the second ambulance. Fortunately, the paramedics from the first ambulance had had only minor injuries from the crash. They’d ridden along with her, too, to the hospital.
“No,” Dalton replied. “The glove box was empty, and there was no license plate on the car. I’ll have to run the vehicle identification number to find out whose name it was titled in last.”
Hers?
She hadn’t even seen the vehicle. She had no idea in what kind of trunk she had been found.
“The car was hot-wired, though—like Trooper Littlefield’s patrol car had been,” he continued. “This guy’s a pro.”
“So you think he’s part of that ring of car thieves you’ve been tracking?” Agent Campbell asked.
“Definitely.”
“Have your car thieves taken a hostage before?” the other man asked. Back at the crash site Dalton had introduced him as Agent Bell. She could remember all of their names; it was her own she couldn’t recall.
Dalton said nothing in reply to Agent Bell’s question before the man asked another. “And would they risk returning to the scene to reclaim that hostage?”
Now Dalton cursed. “I know what you’re up to,” he said, as if he was accusing the other agent of something nefarious. “You’re going to try to make this your case.”
She almost opened her eyes then so that she could protest. She wanted Special Agent Reyes on her case—and not just because he’d promised to find out who she was and what had happened.
Maybe it was because her oldest memory was of him—maybe it was because he had saved her life—that she felt so connected to him. Even dependent on him...
She had no sense of herself. Her only sense was of him. But the only thing she actually knew about him was that he was an FBI special agent. She knew nothing of his life. She’d heard him say he was never getting married, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved with someone. That he didn’t have kids.
“I hope it’s not my case, Reyes,” the other man replied with grave brevity. “I don’t want to think that he’s back—that he’s killing again...”
“She’s not dead,” Dalton said.
“She would have been—if you hadn’t stopped him,” Agent Bell said. “But you didn’t really stop him. He came back and hot-wired the trooper’s car. He tried again.”
“But he didn’t kill her,” Dalton said. “It’s not him—it’s not your serial killer. Or she would be dead. Some of his victims may not have been found, but nobody’s ever escaped him. It’s not the Bride Butcher.”
Bride Butcher...
The words chilled her, but she suppressed a shiver and a shudder of horror and recognition. The name sounded vaguely but frighteningly familiar to her.
But why would the killer be after her? She was no bride. Then she realized there was a slight weight on her left hand, something hard and metallic encircling her ring finger. Was she engaged? Married?
“I hope it’s not him,” Agent Bell said again, “because if it is, he’ll keep trying until he kills her.”
So she might not have lost only her memory. She could still lose her life...
* * *
BY THE TIME he had made it to the hospital where she’d been taken, the place was crawling with FBI agents and state troopers—just as the crash site had been.
He had just about had those crumpled doors of the ambulance open when those other vehicles had arrived on the scene. He’d slipped back into the woods just as two men dressed in tuxedos, like the dark-haired agent, and another dressed in a suit had rushed to the aid and protection of the crash victims.
He had moved too quickly into the concealment of the dense forest for them to see him. And they had been too preoccupied with rescuing the others to notice him watching them.
The way he was watching them now—at the small hospital near the Lake Michigan shoreline. There were so many of them: agents and state troopers and e
ven some county deputies for added security. So he would have to be careful—because he was damn well not going to get caught.
So he would have to bide his time until the perfect opportunity presented itself. And, eventually, it would. He wasn’t going to give up; he wouldn’t stop until he had finished this.
Until he had finished her...
But now she wasn’t the only one he wanted dead. He had to kill the FBI special agent, too. He would probably even need to kill him first—since the man had assigned himself the woman’s hero.
In order for him to get to her again, the agent would probably have to be eliminated first. But the order didn’t particularly matter to him. All that mattered was that he had to make certain that both the woman and her hero died.
Chapter Five
He watched her from the doorway. She was awake now. But she didn’t see him. Instead, she was staring down at her hand, studying the diamond on it. Either she was admiring the big square stone or she was trying to remember where the hell it had come from.
Her memory was really gone. He had spoken with the doctors, too, and had confirmed everything that Blaine Campbell had told him yesterday. Now if only Dalton could confirm what Jared Bell had told him.
If she really had been abducted by the Bride Butcher serial killer, then Dalton should turn the case over to the profiler. Jared Bell knew the case best.
But Jared Bell hadn’t caught the killer when he’d had the chance before. And he had made no promises that he would catch him now.
Dalton was the one who had made her the promises. Dalton and probably whoever had put that ring on her finger. She had been wearing a bridal gown. Was she married? Or was she only engaged? Who was the man in her life and why hadn’t he filed a missing persons report for her?
Dalton had checked, but he had found no report for anyone matching her description. Midtwenties, five foot seven or eight inches tall, red haired, breathtakingly beautiful...
If he was the man who had put the ring on her finger, he wouldn’t have just reported her missing; he would have been out looking for her—desperate to find her.
But maybe the man who had put the ring on her finger had also put her in the trunk. Dalton had a name now—for the owner of the vehicle. He also had an address. But to follow up the lead, he would have to leave her to someone else’s protection.
Blaine’s? Or Agent Bell’s? Or Trooper Littlefield’s? The guy hadn’t left his keys in his patrol car; he hadn’t done anything wrong. He deserved a chance to prove himself, but not at any risk to her...
“Do you have bad news for me?” she asked. “Is that why you’re reluctant to come into my room?”
A grin tugged at his lips. The woman kept surprising him—with her strength and with her intuitiveness. He hadn’t thought she’d even noticed him watching her. However, she apparently didn’t miss much. But her memories.
He stepped inside the hospital room and walked closer to her bed. She was sitting up, and thanks to the IV in her arm, she had more color. She looked healthier. Stronger...
“I have no news for you,” he said.
She sighed. “Well, that is bad, then.”
“How about you?” he asked. “Any memories?”
Had staring at that diamond brought anything rushing back to her? Any feeling of love for whoever had given her the engagement ring?
She shook her head and then flinched at the motion.
Concern gripped him. “Still in pain?”
“Not so much thanks to the painkillers they’ve been giving me,” she said. “It’s just a dull ache now unless I make any sharp movements.”
“You are tough,” he mused.
The doctor had said that someone had given her quite a blow—probably with a pipe or a golf club. It had lacerated her skin and fractured her skull. But the fracture had probably actually saved her life since it had relieved the pressure and released the blood of what could have been a dangerous subdural hematoma. That was why there had been so much blood. But transfusions had replaced what she’d lost. According to the doctor, she was doing extremely well.
“I am tough,” she said. “So you can tell me about this no news. What do you mean?”
Hopefully, she was tough enough to deal with the facts, because he wasn’t going to keep anything from her. There was already too much that she didn’t know—that she couldn’t remember.
So he replied, “Nobody has filed a missing persons report for anyone matching your description.”
She flinched again, but she hadn’t even moved her head. This pain was emotional. “So no one is missing me.”
“I doubt that’s the case,” he said—because he would have missed her, had he not known where she was, and he barely knew her. “I’m sure there’s another explanation.”
“Like what?” she challenged him.
And because he believed she was strong, he told her the truth. “Your groom could have been the one who put you in the trunk of that car.”
“You think I’m married?” she asked as she glanced down at that ring again.
“I don’t know.” But part of him hoped she wasn’t—the part that had his heart racing over how beautiful she was. Her red hair was so vibrant and her silvery-gray eyes so sharp with intelligence and strength.
“Because this looks like just a solitaire engagement ring,” she said. “There’s no wedding band soldered to it. So I don’t think I’m married.”
“She’s right,” a female voice agreed.
Even if Dalton hadn’t recognized the voice, he wouldn’t have been too worried about someone slipping past Security and getting to her room. He had a guard stationed near the elevators, so no one would get onto the floor without getting checked out.
The only one who was in danger from this woman was him—for disrupting her wedding the day before. He braced himself, for her understandable and justified anger, before turning toward the doorway.
Their arms wound around each other, the bride stood next to her groom. But unlike Dalton, they had changed out of their wedding clothes. Claire wore a bright blue sundress, while Ash wore jeans and a T-shirt. Of course, more than a day had passed since the ceremony.
Dalton really needed to return the damn tuxedo. And shower...
“Aren’t you two supposed to be on your honeymoon?” he asked. He hoped he hadn’t disrupted that, too.
“We’re on our way to the airport,” Ash assured him. From how tightly he held her, he looked as if he couldn’t wait to get his bride alone again. “But Claire wanted to stop by and check on you.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
She clicked her tongue against her teeth, admonishing his dismissiveness. “You were in an accident.”
“It was no accident.” The man driving the trooper’s vehicle had intended to run them off the road.
“That’s even worse,” she said.
“I’m fine,” he said again.
Color rushed to the blonde’s pale-skinned face. “Good. Now I feel a little less guilty for threatening your life when I realized you ditched our wedding to chase down a stolen car.”
He didn’t blame her for being angry with him and could just imagine the words she had probably silently mouthed about him. “I’m sorry, Claire.”
She pulled away from her husband, rushed forward and hugged Dalton. “I’m so glad that you did.” Then she turned toward the bed and smiled at the patient.
“I’m glad, too,” the red-haired woman said, “since he saved my life.”
“He does that,” Claire said. “Saving lives is kind of his thing.” She moved closer to the bed and extended her hand. “I’m Claire Stryker.”
Ash chuckled. “She keeps introducing herself to everyone—even her dad.”
The redhead took Claire’s hand in hers. “I wish I could tell you my name, but...”
“You really don’t remember anything?” Claire asked.
“No.”
“We will find out who you are.” Dalton reiterated the pr
omise that, according to Jared Bell, he’d had no business making. “But in the meantime, we need to call you something.” Besides redhead...
“Special Agent Campbell suggested Jane Doe,” she reminded him. “I guess that is what unidentified females are called...” But she hadn’t liked it because Jane Doe usually referred to unidentified dead bodies.
But he’d thought she was dead when he had first opened that trunk. He resisted the urge to shudder at the thought of her being dead.
“We could call you Mercedes,” he suggested. He had hesitated to bring it up the day before, but it was better than Jane Doe.
“Mercedes?” she and Claire asked in unison.
“It’s the kind of car he found her in,” Ash explained. “Of course Reyes would go with the name of a car.”
He whistled in appreciation of the vintage Mercedes. “She was a beautiful car...” Before she’d been put in the ditch. And now he knew who owned her. The car. He hoped that there was no guy out there who thought he owned the woman. But she had been put in the trunk like so much baggage...
Claire’s blond brows drew together as she considered the choices. “Jane or Mercedes?”
The redhead shrugged as if she didn’t care what they called her. “It doesn’t matter.”
“We need to find out your real name,” Claire said.
“We will,” Dalton said, but he felt a frisson of unease over how easily he was tossing out these promises. He had never been that guy—like Blaine or Ash. He wasn’t the marine. He wasn’t the hero. He was just the guy who worked hard because his job was his life. It was all he had. It was all he wanted, though.
“I’m really good with computers,” Claire said, which was a gross understatement of her world-renowned hacking skills. “Maybe I could do some digging—”
“I already have a team on it,” Dalton said. “They’re using facial recognition to try to link her to online media pictures. It’s being handled, and you two have a plane to catch.”
“You sure you don’t want our help?” Ash asked. His offer sounded sincere, but Dalton wouldn’t blame him if it wasn’t.
