Undercover Memories. Alice Sharpe
have a gun. Why would I beat someone up?”
“I don’t know, John. Noise, maybe?”
“Where did this happen?”
“At the park on top of the bluff.”
“I wonder how I ended up in the river. Wait, were there eyewitnesses?”
“They didn’t mention any.”
“Then they don’t know for sure I did it, right?”
“I don’t think so. But they’re looking for you. It’s only a matter of time before they start checking out these cabins, you know.”
He nodded in a distracted fashion.
“What are you going to do?” she asked him.
“Beats me.”
“Well, for starters, could you maybe put the gun away?”
He fiddled with it for a second, she assumed flicking on the safety. Then he looked into Paige’s eyes and offered her the gun.
“What are you doing?”
“You have to look out for yourself. If I’m capable of something like what you described—”
“Then you could easily kill me with your bare hands,” she said, and then stepped back inside her mind and stared at herself a second. Was she crazy? The man had confronted her over the barrel of a gun just a few minutes ago. She took the weapon. It was the first time in her life she’d ever held a gun, and she was surprised at how heavy it was.
She handed it back to him. “Take out the bullets.”
He ejected what looked like a slender package of cigarettes. “It’s called a clip.”
“Give me the clip, then, and you keep the gun.”
He smiled at her.
Okay, really, he had the sexy, glowering alpha male bit down to a T. In fact it seemed effortless. But when he smiled, he turned into a guy who probably had a perfectly normal life somewhere. A wife maybe, or a girlfriend. Children. A mortgage.
Again, she took a mental step back. Had she just dismissed the fact that he had probably beaten a man to a pulp less than twenty-four hours before? No, but it was hard to believe it was true. Impossible, almost. He could just as easily have been another victim, or the injured man might have attacked him first.
“Would you really have shot me?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted. “I just grabbed the gun like it was a habit of some kind.”
“There’s a first-aid kit in the kitchen. A couple of your wounds need bandaging. I’ll get it for you.” When she returned with the kit, he thanked her.
“We both could use some coffee and food, and then I think we better get you to the police,” she said as she took off the coat and hooked it over the back of a chair.
He’d looked cooperative until the last part. He shook his head. “No way.”
“I’m putting on a pot of coffee. We’ll talk about it.”
“You can talk all you want,” he said. “I’m going to finish getting dressed.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll take off as soon as you close the bedroom door?”
Now he laughed, and if the smile had transformed him, the laughter lit him from the inside, even as he flinched and touched his lip. “After the way you jammed your car into that ditch? Not really.”
He turned to walk back to the bedroom, and that’s when she saw the scars on his back. Paige produced an involuntary gasp.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, whirling to face her.
She approached him. “You’ve been burned in the past. Your back is scarred.” She resisted the urge to touch him, the first such urge she’d had. All this bare, male flesh reminded her she was supposed to be here with her new husband....
“So are my legs,” he said. “And there’s a three-inch scar on my thigh. I think I’ve led a colorful life.”
“That’s one way to put it,” she said.
He turned away and then back again. “If you do think of a way to get out of here in the next few minutes, will you do me a favor?”
“I don’t know. What do you want?”
“Don’t turn me over to the cops, okay?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, but the truth was she wasn’t going anywhere. And she had the feeling he knew that damn well.
Chapter Three
There was no option but to redress in the torn clothes he’d woken up in. They were still on the damp side and were getting pretty ripe. He slapped a bandage on his chin and one on his forehead and called it good.
Man, he was a mess. The eye wasn’t as puffy as before, but he had at least a day’s growth of dark beard to go with the bruises and cuts. No wonder Paige had looked frightened of him—he was the bogeyman of a nightmare.
“You sorry bastard,” he told his reflection.
There was something else, too. He’d had dreams during the night. Vivid ones. They’d woken him in a cold sweat, driven him into the shower to try to wash away the images. Faces of children, fire, mayhem. Screams…
Like a war. And something flying, hovering, threatening.
Was he a soldier or had he been one in his youth? And what about the children in the dream? Had he done something terrible to children? He couldn’t believe that of himself. He didn’t know who he was, but he did have a sense of what he was, and it wasn’t a murderer.
Yet even now, wide awake, remembering the images made his stomach roll like a set of slow ocean waves.
He splashed cold water on his face and told himself to get a grip. His memory would return any minute and he’d figure out what went wrong, what had happened to him, and maybe more important, what he’d done to someone else.
The aroma of coffee drew him into the kitchen, where Paige handed him a mug, then set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.
“What is it like? I mean, not knowing who you are?” she asked as she sat opposite him again.
“Weird,” he said as the first hot swallow of coffee washed down his throat. “Empty.”
“About the police—”
He’d picked up his fork but set it aside again. “No police. Not until I can remember what happened. I’m willing to face the music when it comes to paying for my crimes, but if they’ve decided I’ve almost killed a man, how can I prove I didn’t?”
“Then how about getting some expert help?”
“Like a shrink?”
“No, like a retired cop. I happened to have had dinner with one last night. He and his wife seem like real down-to-earth types. He might be able to advise you about what to do next.”
He picked up the fork again and took a few bites. The eggs tasted pretty good. They were the first thing he’d eaten since stealing yogurt out of Paige’s refrigerator the evening before.
He studied her for a minute. “Who’s Brian?”
She looked away from him.
“You called me that last night.”
“I remember.”
“So, who is he?”
“Brian Witherspoon. He was my fiancé up until about three days ago.”
“Who broke up with who?”
“And