by Lisa Childs
He was. She had seen his anger and concern. Maybe he’d been irritated because all the reporters’ questions had led back to one subject—Jared Bell’s serial killer.
“They’re wrong,” she said. “And so’s Agent Bell. I don’t think a serial killer randomly picked me to attack.” It felt more personal than that. Or maybe it was just that it felt personal to her. “For one thing I’m not a bride.”
“You’re engaged,” Dalton said.
“Are you reminding me or yourself?” she wondered.
He leaned down, his mouth coming close to hers before he stopped and whispered, “Both of us...”
“I don’t care,” she said.
“That’s because you don’t remember him.”
“It’s because of you,” she said. “You’re the man I don’t want to forget.”
“You won’t,” he said, his breath tickling her lips. “You won’t forget me.” Then he kissed her. He really kissed her—with passion and desire every bit as fierce as what she felt for him.
He lifted and carried her again to a bed. Like last time, he followed her down onto the mattress. She clutched at him, holding him to her. She didn’t want him changing his mind again—didn’t want him regaining control.
So she kissed him passionately, sliding her tongue into his mouth. He chuckled even while he panted for breath. And beneath her palm, she felt his heart racing inside his muscular chest. Then she pulled at his shirt, trying to free the buttons.
But he caught her hands.
“Damn you!” she cursed him as he stood up and stepped back from the bed. “Damn!”
But he just chuckled again. Then he removed his holster and put it and the gun inside it onto the table beside the bed. Next, he pulled off his shirt. And then, his pants. And everything else until he stood gloriously, devastatingly naked and aroused in front of her.
Her hands trembled as she reached for her own clothes, so desperate to remove them that her hands fumbled. But then his hands were there, taking off her shirt and her pants.
His finger flicked over the clasp between the cups of her bra. And the bra came unhooked and fell away from her.
He wasn’t laughing anymore. There was no humor in his dark eyes, only desire as he stared at her. Had anyone ever looked at her with such hunger? She doubted it. And she doubted that she had ever felt such hunger herself. She wanted him. So she reached for him, sliding her hands over all his rippling muscles.
And he touched her. Her breath caught in her throat, nearly choking her as sensations overwhelmed her. He caressed her breasts with his hands and then his lips, flicking his tongue over her peaked nipples. She squirmed on the bed as tension wound inside her, begging for release.
“Please...” she found herself begging. “Dalton, please...”
He touched her there, between her legs, where the pressure was becoming unbearable. While his tongue continued to tease her breasts, he traced his fingers over her mound, teasing the most sensitive part of her.
She bit her lip but couldn’t hold in the cry as pleasure rushed through her. But it wasn’t enough. It barely took off the edge of her mad desire for him.
His hands shook a little as he reached inside his wallet and pulled out a condom. She took it from his shaking fingers. Tearing the packet open with her teeth, she rolled the latex over the hard, pulsating length of him.
He was so big, so hot—so overwhelming. Then he was between her legs, gently pushing and then thrusting inside her. She arched up, taking him deeper— taking him to the core of her.
They moved in perfect rhythm, as if they’d been doing this for years. As if they had always known each other this intimately...
He knew exactly where to touch her to set her off, his fingers moving over her again. And his lips covered hers, his tongue moving inside her mouth the way he moved inside her body.
She clutched at him, her nails digging into his back and then his butt, as she met his thrusts. And sought release. The tension was like a madness inside her, driving her to the edge of reason.
And then she fell over the edge. She screamed his name as pleasure overwhelmed and devastated her. He tensed inside her before thrusting deep and joining her in the madness. He groaned, but he didn’t call her name.
He didn’t know her name. But he didn’t even call her Sybil. Maybe because he knew that wasn’t her. She wasn’t really anyone anymore.
But now she was his.
No matter that she wore another man’s ring, her heart belonged to Dalton Reyes.
* * *
CURLED AGAINST HIM, she slept again—her small, pale-skinned hand splayed over his chest. Even in the darkness, the diamond glittered and taunted him. It was big. Whoever had given it to her had money.
While Dalton had a nice condo, he didn’t have any extra cash. He wouldn’t have been able to afford a ring like that. Of course, he could always sell his place. The thought had him tensing with shock. What the hell was he thinking?
Obviously he wasn’t or he wouldn’t have made love with an injured witness. No, she wasn’t a witness. A witness saw something happen to someone else. She hadn’t seen anything—at least not that she could remember. She was the victim.
She had been victimized. And now he had taken advantage of her. She had wanted him, but that was because he was the only person she knew now that her mind had been wiped clean.
He had done some bad things in his life—before he’d finally started listening to his grandmother. But those things had felt wrong.
Making love with her hadn’t felt wrong. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything ever feeling as right. As perfect.
She was perfect.
And by now her face was probably plastered all over the news. Someone would recognize her and come for her. Of course, he had always known that someone was coming for her. The killer and her fiancé. Were they the same person?
Or was her fiancé another victim?
He had checked in with the agents following up on the male bodies that had been found. So far none of the ones identified had a missing fiancée. But that didn’t mean that his body couldn’t still be out there. In fact, if this killer was as good as Jared Bell believed, that body might never be found.
But, even though no leads had panned out yet, Dalton wouldn’t give up. He had made promises to her. He had vowed to catch the man trying to kill her, and he’d vowed to find out who she was.
Tracking down a killer gave him no pause. He’d been doing that since he was a teenager. But tracking down her identity, giving her back her old life, that gave him pause.
He was reluctant for her memory to return because then she wouldn’t be his anymore. He nearly laughed aloud at that crazy thought. She had never been his.
Maybe he was so sleep deprived that his mind was getting messed up. He wasn’t like Blaine and Ash. He wasn’t going to fall in love with a witness or suspect or a victim. He wasn’t going to rush to the altar so he could live happily-ever-after. Even as a kid he’d never believed in fairy tales.
Her hand moved on his chest, caressing his skin. When he looked at her face, her eyes were open—the silvery gray glittering in the faint light like that diamond. Then her hand moved lower, encircling him.
There was no such thing as happily-ever-after. But he could enjoy the happiness of the moment. He could enjoy the woman while he still had her. He reached for her, tugging her up to straddle him.
She gasped as she came down on him, taking him deep inside her. Then she moaned at the sensation.
She was so hot. So tight. So wet and ready for him. He moved in a frenzy, but she came along with him for the ride. She gripped his shoulders and then his arms.
He pulled her head down for his kiss. He teased her lips with his tongue before moving his mouth lower, to tease her nipples too.
She came apart in his arms, screaming his name, as her body exploded around him. He didn’t ease up; he kept thrusting until she came again and again.
Then, finally, when he
could bear the tension in his body no longer, he joined her in ecstasy. She collapsed onto his chest, her skin damp against his.
“Oh...” she murmured. “That was...”
“Amazing?”
“Overwhelming.”
That was how he felt, too. Overwhelmed with emotions he had never felt before. He closed his arms around her, holding her to him.
After the news reports, people would come for her. But he wasn’t sure he would be able to let her go.
Ever.
* * *
HER FACE TAUNTED him from the television. No matter what station he flipped to, she was there—looking so brave and beautiful in front of the reporters. And that damn agent stood beside her. A muscle twitching along his clenched jaw, Reyes looked irritated.
He was more than irritated. He was furious. Rage overcame him, blinding him again with its intensity. And he hurled the remote. He wasn’t so blind that he missed. It struck the television screen but bounced off onto the threadbare carpet on the floor. The remote broke into little plastic pieces.
But the television, like the woman, was unharmed. She stared at him, her image daring him to finish what he’d started. He would. He always did.
So he lifted the lamp from the table beside the bed and jerked the cord from the wall. Then he hurled that at the television. Both it and the lamp crashed onto the floor. Sparks flew up from the TV as it shorted out and its screen shattered.
She was gone.
And soon both she and Agent Reyes would be gone for good.
Chapter Eleven
“Elizabeth...”
The voice was deep and masculine and familiar. It wound through her, igniting her desire again even though her body ached from making love with him last night. From making love all night.
“Elizabeth...”
While she recognized the voice, she didn’t recognize the name.
“Sybil,” she murmured sleepily. That was what she’d told him to call her. But even while she’d screamed his name last night, he had never called her anything.
Until now...
She reached out, but her hands only moved over tangled sheets. She was alone in the bed. So she opened her eyes. She was alone in the bedroom, too.
He stood just outside the doorway, as if he didn’t trust himself to step back inside the room with her. He’d dressed and armed himself again, his holster lying against the side of his black shirt.
“Why are you calling me that?” she asked. But she knew.
“Because that’s your name,” he said.
She shook her head. “You don’t know that for certain. That must be what someone told you. A reporter?”
“Not a reporter,” he cryptically replied. “And I confirmed the identification. I pulled your Illinois driver’s license. It’s you. Your full name is Elizabeth Ann Schroeder. Nobody calls you Beth or Liz. It’s always Elizabeth.”
He had talked to someone who knew her better than a reporter would have. She tried hard to think, to summon them, but no memories rushed back. The name was only vaguely familiar to her. She might have once known an Elizabeth.
But was she really Elizabeth Schroeder?
And who the hell was Elizabeth? She wanted to ask Dalton a thousand questions, but she was afraid to learn the answers. Maybe it was better she remember on her own—if she ever remembered. But maybe never remembering wasn’t a bad thing, either.
“I still prefer Sybil,” she said.
“Why?”
“Sybil had people who loved her,” she said. “Who still love her.” Mrs. Schultz might have forgotten everything and everyone else. But she still remembered her daughter.
“So does Elizabeth,” he said.
Her breath caught with alarm. “It was him.” She glanced down at the ring someone had put on her hand. “That’s who came forward with my identity.”
His handsome face grim, Dalton nodded.
“He doesn’t love me,” she insisted. “Or he would have reported me missing.”
She really hoped she wasn’t Elizabeth Schroeder because she was afraid the woman was an idiot—that she was engaged to a man who had tried to kill her more than once. Suddenly she had no questions about Elizabeth. She didn’t think she was someone she would care to know.
“I’ll find out why he didn’t,” Dalton assured her, “when I question him. I’ll have Blaine Campbell protect you while I’m gone—”
She jumped out of the bed—heedless of the fact that she was naked.
He heeded, his gaze ran over her curves the way his hands and mouth had just hours before. Then he turned away. “I’ll see you later.”
“No,” she protested. “I’m going with you.” Wherever he was going. “I want to see him.”
“He could be the one who hurt you,” Dalton warned her. “Who’s still trying to kill you. It could be him.”
“That’s why I want to see him,” she said. “I want to know why. I want to know what kind of person I am that he could hate me that much.”
He turned back. And this time he touched her with his fingers, sliding the tips along her cheek. “No one could hate you,” he assured her. “No one...”
But he didn’t know Elizabeth Schroeder any better than she did. So she had to talk to the person who actually knew Elizabeth—her would-be killer.
* * *
JUST AS HE’D had no intention of bringing her to the hospital, Dalton had had no intention of bringing her to the local state police post, either. But she sat in the passenger’s seat of the SUV.
She wasn’t staring out the window as she had on the way to Chicago. She wasn’t sleeping, either, as she had on the way back, even though she’d had as little sleep as he’d had the night before.
He didn’t regret making love with her. He was glad that he had. Or he might have lost her without ever fully knowing what he was losing.
God, he was a masochist—because maybe it would have been easier if he hadn’t known how amazing she was and how amazing they had been together.
But he wouldn’t have traded last night for anything—not even for her memories. Would they come rushing back when she saw him?
Would she remember the man trying to hurt her? Maybe it would be enough to put him away for good. Or would she only remember the love she had for her fiancé?
Agent Jared Bell met the SUV as he drove into the parking lot of the small brick building of the police post. “She really can talk you into anything,” the other man said. “I can’t believe you brought her along.”
“Maybe she can identify him as her attacker,” he explained. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Because he was hoping to finally close his one open case and apprehend the Bride Butcher.
Jared shook his head. “I already cross-referenced his name against my files.”
“Tom Wilson.” It sounded like an alias to him. But he’d checked him out—just as he had checked her out.
Bell continued, “Tom Wilson never came up before.”
But none of the names in those files had led to an arrest. So maybe it was someone who hadn’t come to his attention yet. Dalton kept that observation to himself, though. He’d already been fighting not to lose this case to Jared Bell. He didn’t want to just hand it to him.
Nor did he want to hand Elizabeth Schroeder over to her fiancé. He walked around the front of the battered SUV and reluctantly opened her door. Usually she didn’t wait for him to open it. Usually she would have already been out and halfway to the building.
She was reluctant, too.
“You don’t have to do this,” he told her. “It’s not like you remember him.”
“But I might,” she said, “if I see him again.”
That was what worried Dalton.
“But if you don’t remember him, you can’t believe what he tells you,” he said. “Because of the news reports, he knows that you’ve lost your memory, and he might take advantage of that.”
Her mouth curved into a slight smile. “Nobody
takes advantage of me.”
He had. Several times last night.
Her smile widened, and she shook her head, as if she’d read his mind and disagreed with his thoughts. Then she whispered, “Nobody.”
He couldn’t argue with her in front of Agent Bell. And he didn’t want to argue with her about last night. He wanted to argue with her about walking through those glass doors into the reception area of the police post.
But Agent Bell had walked ahead of them and now held open one of those glass doors.
“You don’t have to—” he began.
But she pressed her fingers over his lips as she’d done before. “I have to,” she said. And then she slid her fingers from his lips, along his jaw.
His skin tingled with desire. He had never wanted any woman the way he wanted her. Elizabeth...
It was an old-fashioned name, but it was also a strong name. A classy name. It was her.
He saw the confirmation on the man’s face as she walked through that door Bell held open for her. The guy rose from the chair he’d been sitting on the edge of, but he didn’t rush forward. He didn’t reach for her. He just stood there.
The way she just stood there, studying the man. Dalton studied him, too. He was tall with a runner’s lean build. His hair was blond—blonder even than Blaine Campbell’s. He was handsome in that kind of baby-face, smooth-edges kind of way—an all-American-looking guy. Unlike Dalton, who was a mutt of nationalities.
He felt someone watching him, too, and turned toward Jared Bell. Instead of looking at the reunited couple, Jared was staring at him. He had seen Elizabeth touch his face, and he knew they were more than agent and victim. Dalton expected to see disapproval on the no-nonsense profiler’s face; he saw only pity. And something he couldn’t quite identify.
He couldn’t identify the strange emotions between Elizabeth and her fiancé, either. They just continued to stare at each other. Was he waiting for her to remember? Or was he worried that she would?
“You don’t recognize me?” Tom Wilson asked, and his voice cracked slightly with emotion.
Just what emotion?
Hurt?
