Forgotten (Shattered Sisters Book 2)

by Maggie Shayne

  "I just...I don't like my home address being...readily available to any nut case who happens to ask for it, that's all." She tugged the pen from his hand, leaned over the pad and wrote something down. She shoved it across the desk to the nurse. "If anyone tries to reach Mister—my husband—give them this number."

  "So during my sentence, will I be allowed visitors?"

  She whirled to face him, her hair flying. God, she was jumpy. He smiled so she'd know he was kidding. He wasn't, but it wouldn't pay to let too much show. His "wife's" expression eased slightly, and she picked up a large zippered bag from the desk, offered him a shaky smile, and started for the elevators.

  Ash caught up within a second or two, waving off the nurse who started yelling about the mandatory wheelchair. "What’ve you got there, Joey?”

  "What?" She thumped the down arrow repeatedly, gaze raking the halls.

  "The bag."

  Her brows lifted, but she handed him the bag. "Your personal effects. The stuff they took off you when you were admitted. You know, wallet, loose change." She averted her eyes. "Wedding ring."

  Oh, man, she didn't miss a trick, this phony wife of his. If there was a ring in that bag, she’d put it there, just now. And he hadn’t seen a thing.

  "Wouldn't want to go too long not wearing that," he muttered. "Feel naked without it."

  "Are you being sarcastic or making a joke?" She searched his face, her own worried, wary. He shrugged. The doors slid open and she shot a nervous glance at the people inside. It took her a few ticks, as if she had to study each face individually before she made up her mind. About what, he had no idea. Ash caught the doors before they slid closed again.

  "We're holding people up, Joey. And here comes that wheelchair Nazi nurse,” he said, nodding toward the nurse pushing the ridiculous chair their way. “Something wrong?"

  Shaking her head, she stepped into the elevator. She stood very close to him as the doors slid closed, he noticed. Her attitude was damned strange. Not like someone who was pulling a scam just to get him in the sack—if that was what she was up to. God knew, it wasn't necessary. He'd have obliged her in a New York minute if she'd simply asked. One time and one time only, of course. She was not his type. She was his anti-type, in fact. Qualification number one for the future Mrs. Ashville Coye was that she not be promiscuous enough to have sex on the first date. He'd prefer she not be promiscuous at all.

  But looking at her, all tight fitting leather and centerfold hair, he thought she was a walking advertisement for a good time. That’s why he figured he'd have known Joey Bradshaw was no wife of his, even if the amnesia had been real. It was in those bedroom eyes that seemed to look right through him, to his hidden fantasies. And it was in those luscious lips, so full and plump that they made a man want to taste them.

  He scoffed at his own train of thought. Probably collagen.

  The doors slid open and she was the first to step out. She gave a quick glance around the lobby, following it with one over her shoulder to be sure he was right behind her. Then she started for the exit. No less than seven male heads turned as she passed, he noted.

  She didn't seem to notice, just strode purposefully across the parking lot while Ash followed. The July sun rebounded from the pavement, making the asphalt feel like an oven. There was no hint of a breeze, and the air was heavy and stifling. She stopped beside a monster-size, glistening black motorcycle. Grabbing a black helmet with an angular, tinted face shield, she pulled it over her head. When he stopped right behind her, she held out one that matched.

  "You're kidding, right?"

  She thumbed her visor back, tilted her head to one side. "If I'd known you were being released today, I'd have brought the car."

  "That's not what I—"

  "Look, why don't you go back to that coffee shop off the lobby? I'll ride home and get the car." She frowned, and rushed on. “No, no, that won’t work. Can’t leave you alone.” Then she she snapped her fingers. "I know, we'll call a cab and leave the bike–"

  "You talk too much, you know that?" He grabbed the helmet and pulled it on, wincing as it slid past the bandaged wound on his head. The amnesia might be phony, but the damned concussion was real enough. "I'm fine. I was just wondering about you." He looked doubtfully at the bike as he fastened the strap under his chin. "Looks like a lot for a little thing like you to handle. Mind if I drive?"

  "The last time you drove, you wound up in the back of an ambulance." She flipped her visor back down with a snap and swung one leg over the seat. Well, he'd managed to tweak her temper. He'd been wondering if her concern for his health and happiness would have any bounds.

  The Harley was low slung despite its size. Still, her feet barely reached the pavement. She kicked the motor to life and revved it. Ash caught a whiff of gasoline and exhaust, sighed in resignation and climbed on behind her. He slid forward on the slanting seat until he was pressed to her backside. Putting his arms around her waist, he decided he might not mind the ride so much.

  She caught his hands in hers and moved them until they just rested on her sides, above her hips. Again the visor was thumbed up. She twisted her head and shouted above the roar of the motor. "Move 'em and lose 'em...darling."

  He thumbed his visor back, too, and tried for a pained expression. "I'm sorry."

  Her anger vanished. Her huge eyes softened and she almost pouted. "It's just less distracting this way, Ash. That's all."

  He nodded, a little surprised at how easily he could skirt her anger by acting hurt. A con artist centerfold with a heart of gold. He could hardly wait to find out what she was up to.

  And whether it had anything to do with the Slasher murders.

  He pushed his visor down. She did likewise. A second later they lurched forward and shot into traffic.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Joey had done her research on investigative reporter Ashville Coye. In fact, she'd done little else for the three days since she'd heard of his highly publicized accident. She thought she knew him well enough to pull this off. She told herself that over and over again as she leaned into curves without easing her speed, and finally veered right, into the parking lot of the Three Rivers Inn. The bike dipped suddenly into the sunken lot, leaving her stomach somewhere in the region of her throat—God, she loved that sensation!—then zipped out the other side, onto Gaskin Road.

  His hands tightened on her waist. She ignored the warmth that settled somewhere under her skin where he touched her, and smiled. He must be hating this. Aside from being a confirmed bachelor and a notorious playboy, he was a die-hard conservative. It must be killing him to ride on the back of a Harley driven by a woman.

  But she couldn't take any pleasure in his discomfort. The man was in a terrible situation. He probably didn't even remember his political leanings. Even so, his remark about her letting him drive had ticked her off. Still did.

  She swung right again, into the long dirt driveway, then onto the square paved parking area her mom had always called “The Strip,” and pulled to a stop at the front patio. Killing the motor, she heeled the kickstand down and leaned the bike onto it. Then she tugged off her helmet and shook her hair. She glanced over her shoulder to see he'd already removed his. He was looking at the big, white split-level and shaking his head.

  "This is yours?" He seemed skeptical. "What are you, independently wealthy?"

  "It's no mansion." She swung her leg up in front of her and over the seat, landing with a little hop on the sizzling blacktop. The air smelled of the river out back, and there might’ve been a hint of rain mixed in.

  He got off, as well, following her around the side of the house, over the well-worn path and to the back door. "Your backyard's as big as a football field...and it's riverfront." He shaded his eyes with one hand and looked over the smooth green lawn to the narrow brown river at its edge, some sixty yards away.

  "Half a football field at best." She unlocked the back door and swung it wide, preceding him in.

&nbs
p; "You don't want to tell me, is that it?"

  She faced him and saw his suspicious eyes, and the stubborness suggested by his set jaw. Uneasiness crept up her spine. But he was asking about the house, the property. Not her lies.

  Necessary lies. Necessary to keep him alive. And Caroline.

  "Ash, there's nothing I won't tell you. Just ask."

  "Okay, I will. How does a woman your age afford a prime hunk of real estate like this?"

  She wasn't ready to tell him about her business. If she told him a little, he was liable to go snooping around and find out more. He was just the type who'd write her off as a lunatic and count himself lucky to escape with his hide intact. So she answered a different part of his question.

  "My age?” She added a smile, and said, “Thanks for that, Ash, but I'm thirty. Not exactly fresh from the cradle. But to answer your question, I grew up in this house. When Mom and Dad decided to move to a retirement village in Florida, I didn't want to see it go. Parents make very understanding mortgage holders." She slipped out of her jacket and hung it on a hook near the door. “They didn’t even check my credit score.” She tried to send him a grin, get him to relax a little with humor.

  It didn’t work. "What do you do for a living, Joey?" His tone said he wouldn't give it up.

  "I'm an independent consultant."

  "To whom?"

  She wished he would drop it. "Businesses, mostly." To change the subject, she waved a hand to indicate the room they were in, a sparse area with cement floors, lots of padded mats, white walls, and several pieces of exercise equipment. "This is my torture chamber, as you can see. There's a bathroom through here, and that other door leads to the basement."

  His gaze lingered on the weight bench and narrowed. "You pump iron?"

  "You disapprove?"

  "It's not very feminine."

  "The results are."

  He looked her over thoroughly, his gaze traveling a deliberately slow path over her. For the first time in her life, Joey felt uncomfortable in skintight pants and a skimpy bustier. "I'll let you know," he quipped.

  He was being obnoxious, and it was deliberate. She knew it was. The pig. So why did a small, hot shiver zip up her spine like an electric charge?

  "Why'd we come in this way, instead of through the sliding doors at the front?" He was glancing around with something more intense than curiosity.

  "Mom was vigilant about her carpeting. It wouldn't have mattered if the president had come to the door, she'd have told him to go around back."

  He finally laughed, just a little, and the sound was so comfortable she relaxed her tensed up muscles. "Come on, I'll show you the rest." He followed her up a set of shallow stairs, into her cozy kitchen. A doorway at each end led into the L-shaped living-dining room. He moved around, eyes seeming to take in everything at once.

  It occurred to her that maybe he was looking for something familiar, something that would jog his elusive memory, and she felt a twinge of conscience. "Ash, you really didn't spend much time here. Your own apartment will probably seem more familiar to you, though. We'll spend some time there later on, if you want. See if it stirs up the past for you."

  He frowned at her. "Why would you want to do that?"

  She frowned right back. "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Now there’s an interesting question." Before she could form a reply, he was walking away from her. She swallowed. He must suspect that she wasn't being honest about their...relationship. She'd have to watch herself. He'd stepped into the living room and was looking up another set of stairs.

  "Three bedrooms and a bath up there. Go ahead, look around. I want you to feel at home here." She meant it, she realized. She wanted this to be as easy on him as possible. The man was going through what was probably one of the worst things any human could experience. Loss of his own identity. And to make things worse, she was giving him a false one to latch onto.

  He started up the stairs, but the sound of a horn blasting out front stopped him. He joined her in looking through the sliding-glass door with the broom handle in its tracks to prevent it being opened. He gave that a closer look, and shot her a puzzled glance.

  "Same broom handle has been there since I was a kid. I told you, nobody comes in the front door."

  His smile was real, and for a moment it distracted her. Then she returned her gaze to the car outside. In the driveway, Caroline and her girls spilled from their minivan and trooped over the path, waving gaily.

  Joey felt the bottom fall out of her stomach as she realized the implications of her sister's untimely visit. She hadn't been prepared to begin this thing so soon. She'd expected to have time to figure out a way to talk to Caroline.

  "What's the matter?" He said it as if he already knew and was poking fun at her. "You're so pale all of a sudden. Who is that?"

  "My...sister, Caroline." She closed her eyes. Think! "Ash, I...I haven't told her about you...about us." She felt sick.

  "You didn't tell your own sister you ran off and got married?" His dark brows made surprised arches over his brown eyes and he shook his head, tsking repeatedly. "Shame on you, Joey."

  There was no time to beg him to keep his mouth shut. There was no knocking among family...not in this house. Never had been. In a fraction of a second, two blond, giggling girls were racing up the stairs and hurling themselves into Joey's arms.

  "Aunt Joey, we came for a picnic!"

  "Can we go fishing?"

  "We'll throw them back, we promise."

  "Please? Please?"

  "Slow down, you two. Easy." Joey hugged her nieces, feeling the surge of affection they always inspired in her. She adored them, and she knew part of the reason was probably the unlikelihood of her ever having children of her own. She was not mommy material. "Go on to the kitchen. There's candy in the lazy Susan. Go on now."

  They peeled themselves from her and raced back into the kitchen. Their mother, dressed as always in baggy sweats and an oversize T-shirt, which she thought hid the fact that her figure had suffered a bit from carrying the two girls, stood behind them. Her hair, so like Joey's in length, texture and coloring, was pulled into a bouncy ponytail, and her smile was bright, but curious.

  "Hi, Joey." She glanced uneasily between her and Ash, questions all over her face. "Sorry we didn't call first. I never guessed you'd have company. We can go if—"

  "Oh, I'm not company." Ash stepped forward, extending a hand. "My name's Ashville Coye. You must be Caroline. You're more beautiful than your sister told me you were."

  Oh, his amnesia hadn't made him forget how to ooze charm. Stunned, Caroline shook his hand weakly. Her gaze still jumping from Joey to Ash and back again, she blinked, and said, "Ashville Coye—the reporter who's doing the series on the Slasher murders?”

  He shot Joey a quick glance. "I guess that would be me.”

  "Well, what a coincidence! It's nice to meet you." She seemed a bit confused. "I heard about your accident. I hope you're...better now."

  "Your sister is helping me through."

  Caroline smiled brightly, then glanced apologetically at Joey again. "Look, the girls and I will go to the park instead. I'm really sorry I—''

  "I think you'd better stay," Ash said in a deep, steady voice. "Joey and I have some news."

  Joey swallowed hard, feeling as if a fist had just punched her in the solar plexus.

  "News? Joey, what does he mean?" Caroline's voice went a shade higher. "Is anything wrong, honey? You're not sick are you?" A hand immediately went to her sister's forehead, then her cheek. Why was that always the pattern with mothers? Any mother, anywhere in the world, would do it in exactly the same manner. Palm to forehead, then to cheek. And not just to her own brood, but to anyone, friend or foe, who showed signs of having a fever.

  Joey shook her head. "Nothing's wrong. I'm not sick, Caro."

  “Is it Toni? She’s not in trouble again, is she?”

  At Ash’s curious look, she said, “Toni’s another sister,” Joey said.

&nb
sp; “Half sister,” Caroline corrected. “Joey and I have the same mom. Joey and Toni have the same dad.”

  “Toni’s fine,” Joey told her sister. “She and Nick have set a date, and they’ve narrowed their dream house search down to three Victorians. One of which is down this side of Ithaca, so that’s the one I’m obviously pulling for.”

  “So what’s wrong then?” Caroline asked. And then she frowned. “It's this Slasher thing, isn't it? You've gotten yourself into some kind of trouble and—"

  "No, Caroline." Joey glanced up—because Ash was at least a foot taller than her—and knew there was no way out of this. Next she looked into her sister's blue eyes and felt her own sting. Caroline might never forgive her for this when she learned the truth, but it would be worth it to save her life. There was no one in this world closer to her than Caroline.

  "I...that is, Ash and I..."

  She couldn't go on. Her mouth felt as though she'd rinsed it with ashes. Caroline would never believe this. She knew her too well.

  Ash's hand closed around hers and lifted it. "I think this says it all."

  Frowning, Joey glanced down to see the simple gold band she'd bought and placed on her left hand. It was a prop. Nothing but a prop.

  Caroline's eyes widened. Then she made a face. "This is a joke, right? It has to be a joke. Look, Mr. Coye, no one knows how much my sister detests the institution of marriage better than I. You can't seriously be standing here trying to tell me that she...that you... Oh, my God, you're not kidding. Are you?"

  When he saw the tears pooling in Joey's eyes, Ash thought maybe he'd taken his challenge a bit too far. He didn't have a clue why she wanted him to believe she was his wife. He'd thought she would cut the act if forced. He'd been wrong. Whatever was going on in her head, she must be damned serious about it. Otherwise, she never would have continued the charade in front of her sister. It was pretty obvious how close they were.