by Lisa Childs
Maybe it was good that she didn’t remember the man—because she couldn’t feel the loss that she probably should be feeling.
“You don’t think that he just lost his memory, too.” What Agent Reyes was saying was so much worse.
“That would be quite a coincidence,” he said. “And I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Me, neither.” She sighed. “At least I don’t believe in them now. I don’t know what I believed before this.”
“I don’t think your beliefs would have changed,” he said. “You are you—no matter what your name is.”
“Sybil,” she said.
He drew his dark brows lower over his eyes—confusion etched on his handsome face. “The Schultzes’ daughter is dead.”
“I don’t think they would mind me using her name until you find out what my name is.” She wasn’t banking on remembering—not anymore. After all, the doctors had said that her memory might never come back. “Because if there are no coincidences, why was I in their car?”
She knew that she really wasn’t their daughter. But maybe it had been fate that she would meet them—that she used their daughter’s name to keep her memory going since she’d lost her own.
“It must have been stolen by someone who knew they wouldn’t notice it missing,” he said. “A family member...”
“He said he has no family,” she reminded him. Just as she had no family now, either—at least not any family she missed or who missed her.
“Then maybe a neighbor,” he suggested. “I have a team already looking into it.”
“You will find out who I am,” she said. “I believe you.”
He sucked in a breath, as if uneasy with her faith in him. Had anyone believed in him since his grandmother?
She doubted he would have brought her back to his condo if he shared it with someone. He had his friends—she’d seen their love for him. But what about a woman—someone important in his life? Even though he didn’t want to marry, he could still share his life with someone.
“But in the meantime, I should call you Sybil?” he asked, his mouth curving into a slight grin.
She nodded and then laughed. “The character Sybil had so many personalities, and I feel like I have none.”
“Just like your beliefs, you have your personality,” he insisted. “The concussion wouldn’t have changed that. You are strong and brave and compassionate.”
He had more faith in her than she had in herself at the moment. Gratitude and something else, something even more powerful, flooded her, and she rose on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his.
Feeling like an idiot, she froze, even while her face and body heated with embarrassment. But then his arms came around her, pulling her close, and he kissed her back. His mouth moved over hers, teasing her lips apart, and he deepened the kiss. His tongue slid into her mouth with an intimacy that had her skin tingling.
And passion that she was certain was more powerful than she’d ever felt before overwhelmed her. She wanted him with a hunger that consumed her.
Maybe he felt that passion, too, because he lifted her and carried her from the living room. Moments later, her back pressed into something soft as he followed her down onto a bed, his mouth still fused to hers—their bodies tangled together.
* * *
WHO WAS AGENT Dalton Reyes?
Maybe he wasn’t the honorable federal agent he’d thought he was. Reyes would have been told about the trooper by now. Why wasn’t he on his way out of Chicago back to that rural hospital in Michigan?
But maybe it was better that Reyes stayed in the city with the woman. It would be easier for him to take them out here—on his home turf.
It had been easier for him to find them—at the old man’s apartment building. Of course, he’d known where they were going. And he had caught up with them before they had even left the old couple.
He would have taken them out in the parking garage—if there hadn’t also been FBI crime techs crawling all over the structure. Looking for evidence...
Because of the city, it had been easier for him to follow around the SUV. The agent had skills, but he hadn’t lost him. He’d followed him back to River North, but he hadn’t been able to get into the parking garage of that condo complex.
Of course, if Reyes had taken her to a Bureau safe house, it wouldn’t be easy to get access to her. To them.
He would have to wait until they left. And the moment they did, he would take them both out. Together.
Chapter Eight
Despite the blankets covering her, she shivered. She shouldn’t have been cold because, along with the blankets, she wore her clothes, too. So maybe she was cold because she slept alone.
Not that she was actually sleeping. She hadn’t been able to sleep since he had left her lying alone and aching on the king-size platform bed to which he had carried her. She had wanted him so much; she couldn’t imagine having that desire for anyone else.
And she’d foolishly thought he had shared her desire, that he had wanted her, too. But he had pulled away from her and then, without a word—without so much as a look—he had walked out of the room an hour ago.
“Sybil...”
She shivered again—because the sound of his deep voice had her skin tingling and heating, had her wanting him all over again. Or still...
“You do want me to call you that, right?”
Since when did he care what she wanted? To hold back those petty words from slipping out of her mouth, she bit her bottom lip. So she just nodded.
Sybil was better than Jane or Mercedes. Sybil Schultz was an actual person—someone who had been loved and was still missed. Unlike herself, who, apparently, no one was missing.
“Are you cold?” Dalton asked. “I can get you more blankets.”
She didn’t want more blankets; she wanted him. “You don’t have to play host to me,” she said. “In fact, you didn’t have to bring me back to your home. You could have just dropped me off at a hotel.”
“No, I couldn’t.” He stepped closer and blocked out the light spilling into the bedroom from the hall. “There is someone out there determined to get to you. I won’t let that happen.”
She shivered again—this time with genuine fear. There was someone out there—someone who had nearly killed her. Someone who had tried killing her again by running an ambulance off the road, by risking other lives than just hers. He wanted her dead that badly that he didn’t care about innocent bystanders. He cared only about killing her.
To save face and relieve some of her humiliation, she could have used that as an excuse for kissing Special Agent Reyes, that she’d only done it to get her mind off her situation—about the danger, about the amnesia.
But that would have been a lie. She had kissed Dalton for one reason only—because she’d wanted to. Because she wanted him.
The mattress dipped as he sat down beside her. “That’s why I stopped,” he murmured, as if he, too, was embarrassed. “It’s why I had to stop.”
With relief, she turned toward him. “You didn’t want to stop?”
“God, no,” he admitted. “It took all my willpower. But I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have carried you in here.”
Her heart pounded faster with the remembered excitement of being carried in his strong arms—of his kisses. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t get distracted,” he said. “I have to stay alert. I have to make sure you stay safe.”
“So you didn’t stop because of this?” She held up her hand. And despite the dim light, the diamond glittered.
He groaned. “No. For one reason or another, your fiancé isn’t here.” The suspicion was back in his voice. He had pointed out the possibility that her fiancé could be dead, but it didn’t sound as if he believed it. “So the only one I’m concerned about is you—about keeping you safe.”
She scooted up against the leather headboard so that she sat facing him. “You really take your job seriously.”
&nbs
p; His dark eyes glittered like her ring had in the dim light. His voice gruff, he murmured, “You’re not just a job.”
Her heart rate quickened even more, and it was hard to draw a deep breath. “I’m not?”
He uttered a ragged sigh. “You should be. Every other case was just a case...” He shook his head. “But there’s something about you—something that’s getting to me.” He sounded resentful, mad.
Instead of being offended, she smiled.
“I have never lost my head like that before,” he said. “I came so close to taking advantage of you. I’m sorry. I am so sorry that I lost control.”
“You didn’t.” She shook her head in disappointment. “You didn’t take advantage of me.” But she really wished he had.
His handsome face twisted into a grimace of self-disgust. “You were just released from the hospital today. You have a concussion, fracture and amnesia—”
“You’re the one who said that wouldn’t have changed my beliefs,” she reminded him. “Or my personality.” It didn’t matter what name she was using—her own or someone else’s—she had wanted him then.
She continued, “And you didn’t lose control.” She leaned forward so that her mouth was close to his. “And I’m sorry that you didn’t.” Because she wanted him yet...
He muttered a curse, and she felt his breath on her face. “You’re killing me...”
“Maybe you’re the one in danger,” she said. And she closed the last fraction of space between them and pressed her lips to his again.
* * *
DALTON WAS IN DANGER—more danger than he’d ever been in, even when he had been living on the streets, running with the gang. And secretly informing on all of them.
This woman was more dangerous than any of the bangers he’d known—any of the killers and criminals he had brought to justice. She was more dangerous because she could hurt him more than any of them had been able to hurt him. When he had turned informant, he’d already lost the most important person in his life, so he’d felt he had nothing left to lose.
She was making him think he had something to lose. Like his heart...
And so he had forced himself to pull away from her again. He had forced himself to leave his bed and the tempting woman in it.
Instead of being hurt, the way he had worried he’d previously hurt her, she’d laughed at him. Then she’d added insult to injury, clucked and called him a chicken as he stepped out of the door. He had stopped and nearly turned back.
But she was right.
He was scared. Of her...
Of what she was making him feel.
He hadn’t been completely honest with her and not just about Trooper Littlefield. It did bother him that she was wearing another man’s ring; it bothered him that there was someone out there—someone she had loved enough to accept his proposal, to wear his ring...
Maybe that was the person who’d hurt her. Or maybe that person had been hurt with her, trying to protect her. If she was his fiancée, Dalton would have willingly given up his life trying to save hers. Maybe the man he wanted to think was a monster was actually a hero.
So he checked again, but he didn’t find a missing persons report yet for a young woman even loosely matching Sybil’s description: sexy body, flirtatious smile, fiery-red hair.
He checked hospitals and morgues for a man who may have been hurt with her. Of course, bodies had turned up in Chicago and in surrounding areas. He assigned a team to follow up and see if any of those men had a missing fiancée.
Then he made another call—to Jared Bell. “It’s Reyes,” he identified himself when the man answered. “How’s Littlefield doing?”
“No change,” Bell replied. “How’s the woman doing?”
“Sybil,” he automatically corrected him.
Bell’s gasp of surprise rattled in the phone. “She remembered her name?”
“No,” Dalton replied, with concern that she might never remember. She had tried so hard that she had hurt herself. “She didn’t like Jane Doe.”
“Or Mercedes?” The profiler must have talked to Ash and Claire—probably to see if Ash had managed to talk Dalton into turning the case and the witness over to him.
“No.”
“She hasn’t remembered anything yet?”
“No,” he said again. He didn’t bother reminding the other agent that the doctor had warned them that she might never remember. Bell knew the odds of her memory returning. It was why he had been so against Dalton making her any promises.
What if he never learned her real identity?
And why did he care less about returning her to her old life than keeping her safe? Maybe he was being selfish—wanting to keep her to himself. But her life was more important than her memory.
Dalton had to find the person so intent on killing her that he would even attack a law enforcement officer assigned to protect her.
“What about you?” he asked Bell. “Did you learn anything at the hospital? Was there any security footage with leads to whoever attacked Trooper Littlefield?”
A gasp drew his attention to the doorway of his darkened bedroom. He’d thought she was sleeping. He had hoped she was sleeping.
“This hospital is too small and rural,” Bell replied. “It doesn’t have any security cameras.”
The killer had obviously known that; he was careful. But not so careful that Dalton wouldn’t catch him.
“They’ve never had anything like this happen here before,” Bell continued. “The whole place is in an uproar. There’s even media here.”
“Local?”
Bell chuckled. “Yeah, the pennysaver reporter.” But then the humor left his voice as it became gruff with resentment. “But there are national reporters, too.” He cursed—probably for personal reasons. The media had crucified him for not catching the Bride Butcher serial killer.
Dalton echoed his curse—because of the danger national news coverage would put Sybil in. Every kook would come out of the woodwork claiming a relationship with her.
“We’ll stay away, then,” Dalton said with reluctance and guilt. But he really wanted to see Littlefield; he blamed himself for involving the man and putting him in danger.
“Stay safe,” Bell said before clicking off the phone.
Sybil still stood in the shadows of the bedroom doorway. “The trooper was attacked?” she asked, her face starkly white in the dim light. “How badly was he hurt?”
Dalton flinched. He didn’t want to tell her. But she stepped forward and gripped his arm.
“How badly?”
“He’s in a medically induced coma.”
She gasped again—with shock and horror. “He was hit in the head, too?”
He nodded.
“So it was definitely the same person who attacked me?”
They had no evidence of that yet, so he replied, “We don’t know that for certain.”
“You already told me that you don’t believe in coincidences,” she reminded him.
He had told her too much about himself—more than he had ever told anyone else.
“You were asking someone about security footage—so he got away again?” Her face had grown even more pale with fear; her voice trembled with it.
That fear broke his heart, so he pulled her into his arms and embraced her. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “We’re going to catch him.”
“You don’t know that,” she said. “You can’t make that promise.”
“But—”
She pressed her fingers over his lips. “Bell never caught that serial killer,” she reminded him. “Plenty of criminals never get caught.”
“But I’m not Bell,” he said.
While he respected the other man, he was a different kind of agent. Bell was a profiler; he was all cerebral. Dalton was a street fighter. He had no problem fighting dirty to get things done. And for her, he would fight with everything he had.
So he willingly made her another promise. “I will catch him.”
“Where?” he asked. “Did you remember something?” Because it was only hours ago that she had told him she had no place to go. That was why he had brought her back to his home instead of to some impersonal Bureau safe house.
She sighed. “No. And I am beginning to doubt that I ever will.”
He couldn’t make her any promises about that. While he intended to find out who she was, he didn’t know if she would ever actually remember, herself.
“I want to go back to the hospital,” she said.
He cupped her chin and tipped it up to scrutinize her face. Was she in pain and he hadn’t noticed?
“Are you hurting?” he asked with alarm. It was good that he’d managed to control his desire for her—no matter how hard it had been. He would have felt horrible if he’d taken advantage of her. “Of course I’ll bring you to a hospital.”
“Not a hospital,” she said. “That hospital. I want to make sure Trooper Littlefield is all right.”
“No.” He shook his head. “There are reporters, and the killer could still be hanging around there—waiting for you to come back. You can’t.”
“I have to,” she said. “People are getting hurt because of me. The paramedics, now the trooper.”
“They’re not getting hurt because of you,” he assured her. “They’re getting hurt because of the person who’s after you.”
“Exactly. He’s after me, but he doesn’t care who he hurts in the process.” Her pale gray eyes widened with horror as if she’d had a nightmarish thought. “He’s going to hurt you.”
Dalton chuckled. “No, he’s not.”
“You were almost hurt when he ran the ambulance off the road,” she reminded him.
He shrugged off her concern. “I was fine,” he said. “I didn’t even get a scratch.”
“Unlike the paramedics.”
The driver had a broken arm from getting pinned behind the steering wheel. And the paramedic who’d been in the back with her had cuts and contusions.
“I have to go back,” she said. “I have to make sure Trooper Littlefield will be okay.” Her beautiful face contorted with a grimace of guilt and regret.
