Michelle Celmer - Running on Empty

“Did you put this in my jacket?” she asked, holding the paper up.

“No. Is it familiar?”

“Sort of,” she said, holding it out to him. On the back of the receipt written very lightly in pencil was a name: Detective Mitch Tompson.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Mitch said. “What are you doing with my name in your pocket?”

She shrugged, looking equally baffled. “How should I know? Have we met?”

No, a man didn’t forget a woman like her. The wide, silvery eyes alone were enough to snag his attention. Had he met her in a social situation he would have noticed, and he’d have been interested. “I’m sure we haven’t. I would have remembered.”

“Maybe the person who hit me stuck it in there.”

“I know a good way to find out.” He pulled a pen and notepad out of his jacket, opening it to a blank page. He handed them both to her. “Write my name.”

She penned his name across the paper and handed it back to him. After comparing the two, there was no doubt in his mind. They were identical. She’d even left the h out of his last name both times.

“It was definitely you,” he said, holding it up for her to see. “But why?”

She shrugged, looking genuinely bewildered.

Damn. What had started out as a simple attack had just become a lot more complicated.

It couldn’t be a coincidence that they’d been in the same store and she had his name. It also meant he wouldn’t be passing this case off to anyone. Not until he knew why and how he was involved. Not after the last time he found himself involved in a case. That had nearly cost him his career.

So much for his weekend off.

In his pocket, his pager vibrated. He pulled it out and checked the display. “I have to make a call,” he told her. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“What, I’m gonna sneak away with my rear end hanging out the back of my gown?” she called after him.

With an amused shake of his head, he headed to the elevator bay, where he could safely use his cell phone. She didn’t pull any punches. He had to admire her for that. And he couldn’t deny that he liked her. So why did he feel this impending sense of doom?

Maybe he liked her too much. He felt an urge to protect and shelter her that he didn’t typically get. Well, not since…a long time ago.

Shrugging off the unpleasant memory, he dialed the precinct.

“We’ve got your guy on the security tape following the victim through the store,” Greene said. “He’s wearing a hooded jacket, so we can’t get a look at his face and the picture quality sucks. Maybe the victim will recognize him.”

It was a long shot. Seeing her attacker might be enough to snap her out of it. “I’ll bring her by as soon as they discharge her. If she can’t ID him from the tape, we can sit her down with the mug books.”

“I’m off in five minutes. I’ll leave everything with Marco.”

Mitch called halfway houses next, until he found her a vacant room. It wouldn’t be the Marriott, but it would be safe enough until someone claimed her. With any luck, her memory would return after watching the tape and he’d be taking her home instead.

When he got back to her room, the doctor was there.

Ms. Doe looked up at him and smiled, and it washed over him like sunshine. Ribbons of golden hair fanned out across the pillow framing her delicate face like a halo. Her skin was milky white and smooth—fragile looking, like the porcelain figurines his mother collected. He recalled how soft her skin had felt against his fingers when he’d touched her face back in the store. The sudden, intense pull of lust the memory evoked nearly floored him.

What the hell was he doing? Fantasizing about her? Real smart, Mitch. Like she didn’t already have enough problems.

His pager vibrated and he wasn’t surprised to see that it was his sister. She would hound him relentlessly until he picked up her groceries. He erased the number and stuck it back in his pocket.

“They’re cutting me loose,” Jane said. “I’m a free woman.”

“I’ll sign her release and have the nurse find her some clothes,” the doctor said. “She’ll need to come back in a week to have the stitches removed.”

“And the amnesia?” Mitch asked. “Can you do anything for that?”

“Give it a little time. Try taking her back to the scene of her attack if she’s comfortable with that. When she’s ready to deal with the incident, I think her memory will come back on it’s own.”

“But you think she should try to find something familiar?”

“As long as she’s okay with that, I think it’s a good idea,” the doctor said.

Ms. Doe shot Mitch an I-told-you-so look. Christ, she had attitude. She was going to be a major pain in the behind, he could just tell.

“And if her memory doesn’t come back?” Mitch asked.

“If her condition hasn’t improved in a week we’ll schedule an appointment with a neurologist.” The doctor hooked her chart on the foot of the bed. “Ibuprofen every four to six hours should ease any discomfort.”

“I’ll be right back,” Mitch told her, and followed the doctor into the hall. “Did you find anyone with injuries matching hers?”

“Not yet. It could take a day or two.”

Mitch pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket. “Call me if you find anything.”

When he stepped back into the room, Ms. Doe was out of bed, her back to him, gazing out the window. Her height surprised him. Based on tenacity alone, he’d expected her to be taller. He guessed now that the top of her head would barely reach his chin. She was slight, delicate-looking even, until she opened her mouth and all of that attitude spilled out. It was obvious, if it weren’t for the amnesia—assuming she really did have it—she was the kind of woman who looked out for herself.

It was hard to imagine someone physically abusing her—or her allowing it.

She leaned forward to look out the window, the edges of her gown pulling open and—whoa! He got an eyeful of smooth, rounded, ivory flesh. Something hot and carnal flickered to life inside of him. Something he hadn’t let himself feel in an awfully long time. Apparently, too long. Try as he might, he had a hell of a time looking away.

He forced himself to speak. “Recognize anything?”

She spun around, startled. As if realizing the view she’d just given him, she reached back to hold her gown closed. “No, I don’t. And I just want to say for the record, I don’t appreciate you talking about me behind my back.”

He folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorjamb. “Who says we were talking about you?”

“Oh, please. I have amnesia, I’m not brain-dead. Who else would you be talking about? If you have information about me, I want to hear it. I may remember something.”

There were certain things he didn’t really want to tell her yet, things he wasn’t sure she was ready to hear, but she was right, anything could trigger a memory. “We were talking about healed injuries he found in your X rays.”

She frowned, her pale brows pulling together. “What kinds of injuries?”

“Bone fractures. Eleven that he can see. He seems to think it was domestic abuse.”

“Domestic abuse?” Her eyes widened, shimmering like beach stones resting just below the surface of the water. “Does that mean I’m married?”

“You weren’t wearing a wedding band. But when I found you, you had diapers and baby food in your cart.”

“Diapers?” She backed toward the window clinging to the sill. “I have a baby?”

“It’s possible,” he said, noting that she’d paled several shades. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe it was too much all at once.