Barbara Colley - Dangerous Memories

Only when she saw that Hunter was indeed asleep did she dare breathe again. He was on his back with his arms thrown out to the side, his chest bare, and he was breathing deeply and evenly. As her gaze settled on his bare chest then moved lower to where the sheet just barely covered his hips, a quiver surged through her veins and her mind burned with the memory of the last time they had made love. Knowing that he was naked in her bed sent another familiar ache of desire surging through her.

Momentarily paralyzed by the depth of her feeling, Leah eased the door shut again. But even with the door shut, the old adage “out of sight, out of mind” didn’t work, and it was several moments before she could finally force her limbs to do her bidding.

Back in the kitchen, she went straight to the telephone, called directory assistance and asked for the phone number of the Orlando Memorial Hospital. The sooner she found out what she needed to know, the sooner she would know for sure exactly what had happened to Hunter.

Once she’d scribbled down the number and disconnected the call, she hesitated long enough to come up with a plan of action. As a nurse, she knew that getting any information about a patient without that patient’s privately assigned patient number was out of the question, a long shot at best, because of HIPA, the Hospital Informational Privacy Act.

Long shot or not, she had to try. Taking a deep breath, she punched out the number. “Admissions, please,” she told the woman who finally answered her call. After several moments she was finally connected.

“Admissions,” a woman’s voice answered. “Virginia Cole speaking. How may I help you?”

At least Ms. Cole sounded friendly enough, which would make her inquiry easier than it might have been.

“Yes—hello, Ms. Cole. Any help you could give me would certainly be appreciated. My name is Leah Johnson, and I’m with Charity Hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana. We’ve just admitted an amnesia patient who claims that he was recently a patient at your hospital. We’d like to start procedures to have a copy of his medical records transferred.”

“What’s the patient’s name and his patient number?”

“He says his name is Hunter Davis,” Leah told the woman. “But he doesn’t remember his patient number, and of course there’s no way we would know it. He said he had been at your hospital a number of months. He was a victim of an automobile accident and he also says that he was in a coma for a couple of weeks.”

“I’m sure you realize that I really can’t give out patient information without the number or proper authorization.”

Leah drummed her fingertips against the kitchen countertop. “Yes, I do realize that, but these are special circumstances. The man has amnesia.”

“Well, I suppose I could check with my supervisor. Can you hold a minute?”

“Yes, I’ll hold.”

While Leah waited, she kept her ears tuned to any noise that would indicate that Hunter had awakened.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the phone clicked in her ear. “Ah—Ms. Johnson? You still there?”

“Yes,” Leah answered.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Johnson,” the woman said. “But we can’t help you.”

Leah’s fingers stilled. Though it was just a gut feeling, there was something in the carefully controlled tone of Virginia Cole’s voice that set off warning bells, a guarded reticence that hadn’t been present when Leah had first asked about Hunter.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely sure,” was the woman’s emphatic answer. “Sorry.”

But Leah wasn’t the type to give up easily, especially with so much at stake. “Well, can you at least tell me if any John Doe’s were admitted about that time?” she asked.

“No, I can’t,” the woman retorted in a flat tone that brooked no argument. Then, without further explanation or even so much as a goodbye, the woman promptly disconnected the call.

“Well, thanks for nothing,” Leah muttered to the dead line. But as she slowly hung up the receiver, her mind raced.

In spite of the woman’s refusal to cooperate, she had proof that he’d been there. How else could he have gotten the scrubs?

Leah turned away from the phone. There was an answer, but it wasn’t one she liked or wanted to dwell on. The only other way he could have gotten the scrubs was by stealing them. But even that answer only conjured up more questions. Why would he have bothered to steal someone’s scrubs in the first place unless he’d been in a position where he’d needed clothes? And the only reason he would have needed clothes was if he’d been a patient in a hospital.

Hunter didn’t want to wake up, but no matter how hard he tried to ignore the building pressure in his bladder, further sleep was impossible.

With his eyes still closed, he groaned and pushed himself to a sitting position. He reached up, rubbed his eyes, and finally opened them. Then, he went stone still.

“What the hell?” With a fierce scowl, he glanced around the unfamiliar, spacious bedroom that was decorated with lace and ruffles. Definitely a woman’s bedroom. But what woman?

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and as he glanced around the room, searching for something, anything, that might give him a clue, his gaze found and rested on a framed photo on the bedside table.

In the photo were two women. One was an attractive older, woman who was probably in her seventies, but it was the other one, the younger woman, that snapped his memory into focus. And along with recognition of the woman, all the doubts and confusion he’d experienced over the past weeks surged through him with a vengeance.

Leah Johnson…the woman he’d seen in his flashbacks…his so-called friend.

Beside the photo was a clock radio, and the digital dial showed that it was 4:00 p.m.

Hunter shook his head in amazement. He’d slept like a dead man for over eight hours, a record for him. No wonder his bladder was about ready to burst.

He dragged himself to the edge of the bed, but when he stood, he did so cautiously. His leg was stiff. From experience, he knew that once he began moving around, it would loosen up.

On the floor beside the bed, exactly where he’d left them, were the jeans and shirt that Leah Johnson had provided. Hunter stepped into the jeans, snapped and zipped them, then pulled the knit shirt on over his head. As he approached the bedroom door, too many days of looking over his shoulder and expecting that any minute he’d get caught made him wary. He tilted his head and listened, but all he heard was the hum of the central air conditioner.

With a shake of his head and a sigh, he eased the door open. The most opportune time for someone to grab him would have been while he was sleeping. Since no one had, it stood to reason that no one was waiting for him to wake up so they could pounce on him.

The hallway was empty, and as he made his way to the bathroom, he listened for any sound that would tell him where Leah was in the house, or even if she was still there.

As he entered the bathroom, he heard the distinct rattle of dishes and caught a whiff of food. Realizing that she was in the kitchen made him aware of just how hungry he was. How long? he wondered. Just how long would she be willing to extend her hospitality? And if she didn’t, then what?

He could always try to contact the New York City Police Department, and he would…eventually. But without money or transportation, his options were limited. Besides, his gut feeling told him that the woman named Leah had all the answers he needed.

The toilet flushing was the first warning Leah had that Hunter was awake, and she tensed as she stirred the pot of soup on the stove top.

Though he hadn’t made a sound, when she ventured a glance over her shoulder, he was standing just inside the kitchen doorway. Deep lines of concentration creased his forehead.