Carol Ericson - Trap, Secure

“Too late.” She covered her face with her hands.

She heard him shuffling on the patio, and as she peered at him through her fingers, he righted the chair. He took a seat across from her again, his knees touching hers.

“What do you remember?”

“Does this mean you believe me?”

“Thought you said that didn’t matter to you?”

She’d lied. If he believed her he’d help her, and God knows she needed help. If he didn’t believe her, he’d still help her, at least physically, but his eyes would remain cold every time he looked at her.

“The first thing I remember is coming to on those flagstones. My head hurt, my arm hurt. A strong impulse to get away overwhelmed me, so I started crawling.”

“Was anyone around you? Did you see anything or anyone?”

“No. I heard shouting from somewhere, but I now know those were your marines.”

“Green Berets, and they’re not mine.”

She shrugged and pain shot through her upper left arm. The man who’d treated her said she’d been grazed by a bullet. Why would anyone be shooting at her?

“Are you okay?” Gage half rose from his chair.

So he did care—a little bit. “It’s my arm. My head’s throbbing, too, so if that Green Beret left any ibuprofen in that case, I’ll take some.”

He slid the first-aid kit from the table and popped it open. He sorted through some small envelopes and pulled one free. “You’re in luck.”

He ripped the pack open for her and she downed two gel capsules.

“You don’t know Zendaris or what you’re doing here?”

“I don’t even know my own name. That other name means nothing to me. I don’t even know where I am.”

The impact of her statement sent a rush of nausea to the pit of her stomach, and she doubled over.

“You’re not well.”

“Would you be well if you woke up with no memory and a gunshot wound? Where am I? Who’s Zendaris?”

Her hands had been fluttering in front of her, and he captured them between his. “You’re in Colombia, not far from Barranquilla—at least that’s the nearest big city.”

Barranquilla. “Yo conozco Barranquilla. I know Barranquilla. I—I speak Spanish.”

He studied her with those blue eyes. Were they melting a little around the edges?

“Nico Zendaris is...a bad person.”

“What were you and your friends doing here? Were you going to arrest him?”

“Was he here to arrest?”

She closed her eyes. He still didn’t believe her. “How would I know that?”

He cocked his head, and a lock of brown hair fell over one eye. “Aren’t you curious to know what you were doing in the home of a man like Zendaris? A man who could inspire a raid by the U.S. Army Special Forces?”

“I’m curious about everything. Like why didn’t you leave with the others? Why did they defer to you when that other man, that captain, was obviously in charge of the military guys?”

The line of Gage’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like her questions. He liked her tears better, her sighs, her weakness. Tough. She couldn’t afford to be weak. She had to figure out who she was, what she was doing here and what Gage Booker wanted with her.

“That’s my business, and I’m not about to tell a potential criminal.”

“Can you help me figure out who I am?”

“Oh, I’ll help you. And once you get your memory back, if in fact you ever lost it, I’m going to proceed to pick your brain.”

“That’s something to look forward to.” She put on a sweet smile, even though it hurt her head to do so.

He snatched a full bottle of water from the table and downed half of it. “You’re Nico Zendaris’s lover.”

If he’d intended to shock her with his words, he’d be disappointed. She had no memory of being anyone’s lover and until she did, she’d take no responsibility for what that entailed.

“If you’re so certain I’m Zendaris’s girlfriend, why don’t you know my name?”

“Because we know very little about the man. We don’t even know what he looks like.” Reaching over, he dragged the black backpack toward his feet. He rummaged through the pack, pulled out a file folder and slipped a photograph from the folder. He dropped the picture on the table.

“This,” he tapped the picture with his finger, “is you.”

She hunched forward, squinting at the grainy color image of a man with a bushy mustache, sunglasses and a blue baseball cap, his arm around a tall, slim brunette.

She pulled back with a start, knocking over her bottle of water. Gage snatched the picture away from the spill.

“What’s wrong? That is you, isn’t it?”

“How the hell do I know?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even know what I look like.”

He searched her face, his blue gaze tracking across each of her features. “Against my better judgment, I’m beginning to believe you.”

He shoved back from his chair—this time it stayed upright—and extended his hand to her. “Come with me.”

What choice did she have at this point? She placed her hand in his, and when he curled his fingers around hers, a warm current flowed through her body. His touch felt like the only lifeline she had.

He snatched up his folder and led her into the house. The tiles felt cool against the soles of her bare feet. As she gazed at the crystal chandelier dripping from the high ceiling, Gage pulled her toward an ornate mirror gracing the hallway.

Turning her toward the mirror and standing behind her, he placed his hands on her shoulders. Her gaze scanned the woman in the reflection. Large, dark eyes stared back at her from a mocha-tinted face framed by wisps of brown hair coming loose from a ponytail. She knew Spanish because she obviously had some Latin blood.

Her eyes met his in the mirror. His gaze still held suspicions, doubts.

He held up the photo to the mirror. “Could be you, right?”

“He has his arm around the woman. Does that make her his girlfriend?”

He fumbled in the file folder he’d placed on a side table and withdrew another photo, same quality. In this photo, the man had the woman in a tight embrace, laying a passionate kiss on her lips.

She exhaled. “I see what you mean, but I’m sure there are lots of tall brunettes in the world.”

“Wearing this?” He dug into the pocket of his camos and pulled out a scarf with silver spangles threaded through it. He waved it next to the picture, and she noticed the woman in the picture sporting something similar around her neck.

“Where did you get that? I wasn’t wearing it when you found me.” She folded her arms across her chest and turned away from the mirror. She didn’t want to be some bad guy’s girlfriend. She didn’t feel like a bad guy’s girlfriend. Was he a drug dealer?

He jabbed his finger in the air. “I found this upstairs, right before I spotted you from the balcony. You must’ve been in that room, and left your scarf before trying to escape.”

“Who said I was trying to escape? Maybe someone pushed me. Someone obviously shot me.” Despite the warm night, a rash of goose bumps pebbled across her skin, and she hugged herself tighter. “I want to see this room.”

“Follow me.” He placed a booted foot on the first step of the curved staircase and reached out his hand to her. “Are you feeling okay? You look pale.”

“The ibuprofen helped the pain. Now I just want to know who I am.” She placed her hand in his. He must still be worried that she’d make a run for it, but the idea of running made her head spin even more.

They continued up the stairs, and she left her hand in his. She didn’t feel physically wobbly, but emotionally she was about to crack.

She gasped as she followed Gage into the room. Turning in a circle, she drank in the bright colors and cheery furniture. “This is a children’s playroom.”