Marriage: Classified. Linda Johnston O.
That was a question she couldn’t actually answer with a yes or no. She didn’t know. But what she was certain of was that she didn’t remember.
She took the safest course and shook her head in the negative.
“You’re lying, Sara Shepard.” The knee in her back dug in harder, making her gasp in pain. Through her agony, she thought she heard a small sound, like keys jingling—or was it merely the unfamiliar rasp of her own terrified breathing?
Something else teased at the corners of her mind, then disappeared.
“Or should I say Sara Shepard Dawes?” the voice asked with a sarcastic laugh.
She nodded vehemently to that, although it probably was not a question her attacker expected her to answer. But the thought once more of Jordan in the church gave her sudden courage. He would have noticed her absence by now and come looking for her.
Wouldn’t he?
The voice stormed, “Have you really lost your memory?”
Again she nodded with no hesitation, for it was the truth.
That knee in her back. This position on the ground—She had taken self-defense courses! Of course she had. Even as a police dispatcher, she had been required to learn the rudiments.
The response came back to her now. Whether it was what she had been taught, or her own take on it, she didn’t really know.
“Are you lying, Sara?”
She shook her head carefully, as if too abrupt a movement now would cause her to forget the little bit she had, with so much difficulty, brought back to mind.
She moaned, made her body tremble, and then went limp.
“Sara?” The voice remained disguised, though it sounded a little alarmed.
She didn’t move. She just waited, listening to the increasingly heavy rain, listening to her attacker’s raspy breathing. Her clothes were damp enough now to stick to her, but she could do nothing about it.
Her assailant remained on her back, though the pressure eased a little. “Sara?” The tone went up a little more.
And then she made her move. Quickly she arched her back, then rolled. It worked! She heard the thud on the dampened earth as the person fell off her.
She pulled herself up into a crouch, prepared to do hand-to-hand combat if necessary. But it wasn’t. All she saw of the person was the back of a long, black raincoat, hood raised, as it disappeared behind a tall gravestone.
Chapter Four
Jordan, glad for his rubber-soled dress shoes, loped through the dismal, damp churchyard. His gaze darted everywhere as he assessed the parklike, tree-shrouded area—and searched for Sara. He appeared to be alone out here; everyone else had been smart enough to come in out of the rain.
His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as his mind listed those he wanted to strangle right then, in ascending order of priority: June Roehmer, Ramon Susa—and Sara.
June and Ramon were cops. Though he wasn’t their immediate superior, he had given them an order. Whether or not he could enforce it was irrelevant. They had agreed to keep an eye on Sara. He’d lost track of both of them during the reception, as well as Sara.
The pastor had said he’d seen her leave the church by herself. Where the hell was she?
By now, he was fairly certain that Sara’s memory was actually missing, that she wasn’t just putting on an act to protect herself. But why hadn’t she stayed at the reception, where there were plenty of people around? Perhaps amnesia automatically resulted in a decrease in judgment, too.
He reached the nearest gate to the graveyard—and saw a figure in a long, black raincoat, raised hood over its head, dash from the cemetery into the rear of the churchyard.
Someone just trying to quickly get out of the rain? Maybe. But Jordan’s instincts told him otherwise. He closed the gate and ran down the path toward where he had last seen the other person.
But when he got to the rear of the quaint stone church, whoever it was had disappeared. Had he—or she—gone inside?
Jordan wanted to find out, but he still hadn’t located Sara, and that was the most important thing. He had no way of knowing whether that person’s dash through the rain had anything to do with his wife.
His wife? Why was he thinking of her that way? They were married in name only. That was the plan. Casper’s death hadn’t changed it.
Still, despite the reasons they had married, she was his to protect.
And she was missing.
He hadn’t kept her father from being killed, but he would protect Sara at all costs.
So where was she?
Swallowing his frustration, he went through the rear gate to the cemetery. “Sara?” he called. “Are you out here?” If she were, the logical place for her to be was at the graveside of her family. He went down the path in that direction.
“Jordan?” He had hardly heard his name before she hurtled herself from behind a tall grave marker into his arms, knocking him slightly off balance. He caught himself—and her.
“Sara? Where the devil have you—”
“Did you see the person who attacked me?”
That stopped him from venting his anger. “Attacked you?” He grabbed her shoulders and stepped back, looking down into her face. She was out of breath, and she clung to him. There was a wildness in her hazel eyes that spoke of fear. Her dark hair was plastered in damp tendrils to her head and her smooth, flushed cheeks.
She had never looked more beautiful—and Jordan wanted to kick himself for even noticing such a thing when she was so obviously scared.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Tell me what happened.”
He could see how much of an effort the small smile she attempted was. “Could we get out of the rain first?”
“Of course,” he rumbled. He put his arm around her shoulders. Her clothes were damp. He removed his own jacket, which was only slightly more dry, and put it around her. Then he led her back into the church.
THE NEXT HOUR was a jumble to Sara. More than once, she wanted to sink to her knees and sob. Mostly, though, she wanted to shout at everyone who asked her questions. Thanks to her ordeal outside and the way her assailant had badgered her, she’d had enough of answering questions to last the rest of her life.
But she knew the people here all wanted to help. To find who had attacked her—for that way, they would also have her father’s killer.
Most of the time, Jordan kept an arm protectively around her as they sat in the pastor’s private office. It was large but cluttered, with a plain, scratched desk that appeared more well-used than antique. The sofa, though, was new and comfortable, and had a matching love seat.
Sara sat on the sofa beside Jordan.
“Tell us again exactly what happened,” Jordan said. He managed to keep from yelling at her, but she saw how much of a strain it was.
Acting Chief of Police, Carroll Heumann, sat on the love seat, which seemed an incongruous location for the large, gruff man. “Why were you outside in the first place?” He made no effort to coddle her. Sara knew he was just doing his job, but she wanted to kick him in the shins and flee from the room.
She sat still, though, and willed herself to maintain her patience.
Also present were June, who sat on a small wooden child’s chair she must have found in a Sunday school classroom, and Ramon, who, with arms folded, leaned against the far window. June was uncharacteristically quiet.
In a shaky