Lost Identity. Leona Karr
didn’t appear. The bedroom door was still closed when he was ready to leave. He listened for any sounds inside, and then quietly opened the door and peeked in. She was still in bed. He was about to close it again when she raised her head and gave him a startled look.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m about to leave for the office.” He frowned. He didn’t feel right about leaving her after last night’s sobbing nightmare, but he didn’t have any choice. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she readily lied. “Just tired.”
“Well, sleep in as long as you like. I’ve left some breakfast for you.” He hesitated, wanting to ask what her plans were, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. After her ordeal yesterday and the kind of night she’d had, it was clear that she needed rest. He felt a little uneasy, leaving a stranger alone in his house, but he really had no choice. “I’ve left a note with my cell phone number if you want to call me.”
She nodded.
There didn’t seem to be anything more to be said so he closed the bedroom door and left the house. The whole business was unreal. Never in the world would he have imagined twenty-four hours ago that he would have a strange woman sleeping in his bed, sabotaging his well-ordered life and cluttering up his mind with irritating questions. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t forget the way she’d clung to him last night. He’d been careful not to allow anyone to be dependent upon him for anything, but there was something of a lost soul about her that could easily get to him if he let it. Anyway, she’d probably be gone when he got back home, he told himself, and he could chalk the whole episode up to some kind of weird adventure.
His unsettled mood must have been communicated to his fellow workers because several of them asked, “What’s the matter with you today, Andrew? You don’t seem like yourself.”
He brushed off their comments with a shrug and vague answer. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself, wondering what their reaction would be if he told them the truth—that there was a strange lovely waif sleeping in his bed.
As usual, Andrew had lunch by himself in the coffee shop that he frequented. He exchanged pleasantries with the motherly waitress who was used to serving him in a back booth where he ate his usual corned beef sandwich with a book opened on the table beside his plate. He tried to resume his usual routine, but when he found himself staring at the pages without reading the words, he pulled out his cell phone and called home.
No one answered.
He let it ring six times before he hung up. She must have left or was still sleeping. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or irritated.
Later that afternoon, he called again. Still no answer.
TRISH HAD STAYED huddled in bed until midmorning. Finally, she took herself in hand, retrieved her clean clothes from the dryer and dressed. Thankful that she’d been given a slight reprieve from having to make any kind of decision, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee.
She saw that Andrew had left bread on the counter for toast and some cereal waiting to be heated on the stove, but her stomach was churning with too much anxiety to feel like eating anything.
What should she do? Where should she go?
Her mind played the questions over and over again. If she left the safety of this cottage, would she be walking straight into some unnamed danger? She knew with sickening certainty that something terrifying had happened to her, but that was all she knew. How could she protect herself when she didn’t even know who she was or where the threat lay?
Taking the cup of hot coffee with her into the living room, she sat down in his easy chair. A faint masculine scent was strangely comforting as she thought about the man who had rescued her. Who was this Andrew Davis? His personal imprint was all over the small house. Wooden shelves flanking the fireplace were crowded with books of all kinds, and in the corner of the room was a guitar. Framed pictures on the wall were obviously prints taken with a simple camera, probably his, she thought. The modest furnishings suggested a man comfortable with himself, and a man who invited trust. She remembered how he had held her last night, and the way his gentle reassurances had soothed her shattered state. Up until now, he hadn’t burdened her with a lot of questions, but she knew that that couldn’t go on. She had to make a decision. Either she was going to have to start lying or tell him the truth.
If she told him that she couldn’t remember anything before he found her on the beach, would he believe her? He might think she was just trying to con him with such a tale, and show her the door. Where would she go?
Maybe a lie would be better, she reasoned. Almost any story would seem more acceptable than the truth. What kind of a tale could she weave that would make it reasonable for her to stay here until she had some glimmer of her Lost Identity?
The sudden ring of the telephone sent her into instant panic. She was afraid to answer. What if they asked, “Who is this?” And what was more frightening, someone might be trying to find her.
She held her breath until it stopped ringing. Too late, she realized that it might have been Andrew calling to see if she was still there. Maybe he had wanted to tell her that he expected her to be gone by the time he got home?
If only she could remember anything, even a glimmer, maybe she would know what to do. She hated the thought of going back down to the beach where he had found her, but maybe something there would trigger her memory. Nothing could be more terrifying than not knowing anything about what had happened to her.
Cautiously she opened the front door and peered out at a redwood deck that stretched across the front of the cottage on the ocean side. A small mahogany picnic table, benches and two matching chairs presented an inviting scene, but as she stood in the doorway, her feet refused to move outside. Her fear was stronger than her will.
Slamming the door shut, she leaned back against it with tears in her eyes and her fists clenched. Maybe she didn’t know her name, but there was one question that was imbedded deep in every cell of her being.
Had she been fleeing for her life when Andrew found her on that beach?
Chapter Two
Andrew returned home that evening just after the sun had set. Twilight was slowly creeping across the ocean, and turning relentless rolling breakers into a dull gray. When he saw that there weren’t any lights on in the cottage, he felt a momentary pang of disappointment. Although he was used to coming home to an empty house and grateful to be out of the hustle and bustle of the city, his mysterious houseguest had made this homecoming out of the ordinary. Just in case she might still be there, he had stopped and picked up some fried chicken and salad.
Well, so much for taking the time to plan supper, he thought, impatient with the whole situation. Even though he knew she’d been shaken by her ordeal, she could have had the courtesy to explain herself before she took off. She could have phoned him, he argued with himself, and then shoved the thought away. It didn’t matter. Maybe it was better that she disappear as suddenly as she had come. At least she’d locked the door before she left, he thought as he let himself in.
As the door swung open, Trish jerked up from the couch where she’d been lying, and her cry of terror was like a sharp knife renting the air.
“It’s just me, Andrew,” he said quickly as he flipped a light switch just inside the door.
“I thought…I thought…” She took a deep breath to steady her voice.
“I’m sorry I frightened you. The house was dark. I thought you’d gone, but I guess I woke you up?”
She wanted to run into his arms, let him hold her the way he had last night, and end the torturing long hours of trying to retrieve something that lay at the edges of her memory. His reassuring figure and concerned expression invited the kind of security that she desperately needed. Somehow, she knew she was safe now that he was home.
“Have you been sleeping all day?” he said, wondering