Donna Young - Secret Agent, Secret Father

The woman was definitely on edge. He tried a different tack. “Now,” he ordered. For a moment, he was tempted to raise the gun, point it at her, but something inside stopped him.

As if she read his mind, she glanced from the weapon to his face, then surprised him by shaking her head. “You won’t shoot me over a pair of pants.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he growled. Right now, for two cents, he’d put a bullet through his own forehead just to relieve the pounding behind it.

“Then go ahead,” she said before she swung around, leaving her back exposed. The movement cost her, he could see it in the rigid spine, the set of her shoulders. He’d scared the hell out of her but she didn’t give an inch.

“Damn it.” She had guts for calling his bluff, he gave her that. “All right, it seems I’m more civilized than I thought.”

When she faced him, she didn’t gloat.

She had smarts, too, he thought sarcastically.

He placed the gun on the nightstand beside him and ran his free hand over his face, ignoring the whiskers that scraped at his palm. “Look, for the time being, I’ll accept the fact that you and I are…friends. But whoever did do this to me is still out there somewhere. And I assume they’ll try again. Agreed?”

“Yes,” she replied, if somewhat reluctantly.

“If I have to face them with no memory and very little strength, I’d at least like to have my pants on when I do it.”

“Your pants and shirt were covered in blood. I burned them in the fireplace.”

When he raised an eyebrow, she let out an exasperated breath. “Fine. There is a change of clothes for you in my closet.”

She waved a hand toward the double doors beside a connecting bathroom. Another good idea, considering the state of his bladder.

But he’d be damned if he’d ask for help. He’d wait a moment for his legs to stop shaking. “Do I usually keep clothes in your closet?” he asked, knowing the answer would explain the pinch of desire he felt moments ago.

“You forgot them here,” Grace explained and glanced toward the open bedroom door.

“And here is?”

“Annapolis.” She paused for a moment, the small knit on her brow deepened. But when she brushed a stray hair from her cheek, the slight tremble of her fingers gave away her nervousness. She tucked her hands in her pockets. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Right now, I don’t even know what the hell my name is.”

“Jacob Lomax.”

He searched his mind for recognition. Found nothing that was familiar. His headache worsened, making it difficult to think. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Since midnight last night.” She glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “Ten hours.”

“Which makes today, what?”

“Tuesday. The twenty-third of September.”

Slowly, he scanned the room, searching. The curtains and comforter, while a yellow plaid, were both trimmed with white lace. The latter was draped over a pine-slotted sleigh bed that sat more than three feet off the floor. Positioned across the room were its matching dresser and mirror.

Jacob studied his image. The blade-sharp cheekbones, the strong, not-quite-square jaw, covered with no more than a day’s worth of whiskers. He rubbed his knuckles against the stubble on one cheek, hollowed more from fatigue he imagined than from pain. A bruise dominated the high forehead, spilled over in a tinge of purple by the deep set eyes of vivid blue.

No flashes of recognition. No threads of familiarity. Nothing more than the image of a stranger staring back.

His focus shifted down. Assorted lotions and powders cluttered the top of the dresser, along with a few scattered papers and a stack of books.

Packing boxes sat opened on the floor. Some were full, others half-empty, but most lay flat, their sides collapsed.

“You’re moving?”

“Yes—”

“You’re awake.” A man entered the room, the black bag in his hand and the stethoscope around his neck identifying him as a doctor.

Grace met the older man halfway across the room. Jacob deliberately said nothing and waited. But his hand shifted closer to the gun beside him.

Her father was on the smaller side of sixty, with a leanness that came with time on a tennis court, not a golf course. His hair was white and well groomed, combed back from a furrowed brow.

After a few murmured words, he patted her shoulder, then approached the bed. “Jacob, my name is Doctor Renne. Grace tells me you don’t remember what happened.”

“That’s right.” Since the older man didn’t ask Jacob if he remembered him, Jacob assumed they’d never met.

“How’s the headache?” Doctor Renne pulled a penlight from his pocket and clicked it on. He shined the light in Jacob’s eyes. First one, then the other. The bright flash set off another series of sledgehammers. He winced. “Bearable.”

“Look up…now down.” Another flash, another jolt of pain.

“How did I get here?”

“Since there was no car, we assumed you walked. Grace discovered you on her porch last night.” The doctor clicked the light off and tucked it back into his inside pocket. “Stay focused on my finger without turning your head.”

Jacob followed the doctor’s finger, this time ignoring the pull of discomfort behind his eyes.

“There’s definite improvement.” The doctor waved his daughter over to the bed. “Grace, I’ll need your help. I want to check his shoulder.”

They eased Jacob back against the headboard. The doctor examined the bandage. “There’s blood. You’re moving around too much. I didn’t spend hours stitching you up for you to take it apart in five minutes.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll remember that,” Jacob commented wryly. “I’d tell you where to send the bill if I knew where I lived.”

“Your driver’s license says Los Angeles, California,” Charles answered. “Seems you’re a long way from home.”

Home? Why did the address, even the word, sound so foreign?

Grace leaned over to adjust his pillow. A light floral scent drifted toward him. For a moment he tried to identify the flower, but came up with nothing. Still the fragrance was distinctive. Feminine. Clean.

“Do you remember a woman named Helene Garrett?” Grace asked without looking up.

Frames of shadow and light passed through Jacob’s mind, but nothing he could zero in on, nothing to bring into focus. “No, but…” Suddenly, a snapshot—vivid but brief—flashed across his mind. A woman laughing. Her cheeks and nose pink from the falling snow. Her smile wide, her eyes brimming with…happiness?

No, he realized suddenly. Not happiness.

Love.

“You.” Jacob nodded slightly toward Grace, then frowned. “I see you.”

“From last night or this morning?” The doctor asked, then took Jacob’s wrist and checked the younger man’s pulse against his watch.

“From a ski trip.” Jacob closed his eyes, for a moment, trying to bring the image back. “I remember her hovering over me.” When he opened them again, he caught the surprise in the doctor’s features.

The doctor didn’t know about me. Jacob decided not to mention how the scent of her shampoo triggered the memory. Not until he understood more.

“You were skiing? Where?”

Grace nearly groaned aloud at her father’s questions. When she’d found out she was pregnant, she’d told him the father of the baby was no one he knew. Just someone she’d met skiing.

Lifting her chin, she met her father’s glare head-on. “In Aspen. A few times.”

When her father said nothing, her gaze shifted from him to Jacob. But her smile was forced, her teeth on edge. “You fell the first time we were there.” What she didn’t add is that he had faked the fall, pulled her into the snow and spent the next twenty minutes kissing her breathless.