Virginia Kantra - Stolen Memory

She shook her head, struggling for coherence and control. Oh, God. Oh, God. She’d really screwed up. “I don’t mix sex with the job.”

There, a whole sentence.

He arched an eyebrow. “You don’t work for me. You can’t call this harassment.”

She stepped back, tugging on the bottom of her vest. “How about assaulting an officer?”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think this was?”

“No. Sorry.” Her face flooded with heat. “I’m just… My brain’s still on Planet Stupid.”

“I’m feeling a little out of this world myself,” he murmured.

It was geeky. And charming.

Laura scowled. “Yeah, well, it’s time to come back to earth. This can’t happen again.”

“Why not?” he asked curiously.

“You’re the genius. You figure it out.”

“You’re not giving me enough data to draw a conclusion.”

“There are cops who mess around on the job, okay? It’s like a crime of opportunity. You’d be surprised how many people out there are willing to make it with anything in a uniform. Heck, I’ve been propositioned by guys I had handcuffed in the back of the squad car.”

He studied her with quiet intensity. “Did it work?”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking or amazingly clueless. “I don’t get involved on cases I’m investigating.”

“You’re not investigating my case.”

He had her there.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t get involved.”

His brows raised. “Ever?”

“Not recently.”

“Define recently.”

She stuck out her jaw. This conversation was even more risky than sex. She didn’t “do” intimacy. She couldn’t afford it. “Are you asking for my sexual history, Ford?”

“I think now that we’ve swapped saliva you could share the highlights.” His eyes gleamed. “You might even start calling me by my first name.”

She didn’t want to be amused, damn it. Or to share the messy details of her personal life. But maybe she could give him enough to shut him up. To shut him down.

“I was married,” she said. “A long time ago.”

“What’s a long time? Two years? Five?”

He was a scientist. It figured he wanted answers, specific, quantifiable data. As if all the fear and pain she’d felt then could fit some tidy little chart.

“What does it matter?” she asked.

His gaze never left her face. “I like numbers,” he said simply.

“Okay, fine. Ten.”

He couldn’t quite keep the surprise from his face. “Ten years. And…?”

“And what do you think?” Her shoulder jerked in an ill-tempered shrug. “I was eighteen. It didn’t work out.”

“What happened? He cheated on you, beat you, broke your heart?”

“He died.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She didn’t mind being blunt. Hell, she took pride in it. But that had been a cheap shot, designed to shock. It was unworthy of her. Simon’s kiss had rattled her more than she wanted to admit.

“I’m sorry,” Simon said calmly.

“Don’t be. The relationship was on life support even before Tommy died.”

“What happened?”

Simon’s voice was quiet, unthreatening, like a doctor’s or a priest’s. Laura was trained in interview techniques. She knew better than to fall for that nonjudgmental tone. But she responded to it anyway.

“Tom Baker was a seaman at the Great Lakes Naval Training Facility. I was a teenage girl in Chicago with more attitude than smarts. I got pregnant, we got married, he got killed two months later in some freak training accident. End of story.”

“Not quite,” Simon said.

“You mean the baby?” Her throat clogged with tears. Her fault. Her stupid fault, for letting a moment of sexual excitement crash her usually strong barriers. Damn, damn, damn.

“There was no baby,” she said harshly. “I lost it a couple weeks later.”

If he had reached out to touch her, she would have bolted. But he sat, unmoving—unmoved?—against his flat, polished desk, his light eyes focused on her face.

“You were very young,” he observed.

“I was stupid.”

His lips parted, as if he were about to say something, and then he stopped.

Not so comfortable when it isn’t all about numbers, are you? Laura thought, not without sympathy.

But he surprised her.

“That must have been hard,” he said.

“I…” She cleared her throat. “I got over it. I am over it.”

“Good. Go out with me.”

Her heart bumped, which annoyed her. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Yes,” he answered promptly. “You’re not my employee, you’re not investigating my case, and you’re not grieving for your late husband. So I see no barriers to our becoming involved.”

None. Except her father had worked for the company contracted to provide his security, and the old man was missing now along with a cache of cultured rubies valued at half a million dollars. And this afternoon at the end of her shift, Laura was going to have to report that theft to her boss.

“Except I’m not interested,” she said.

Simon didn’t point out that her kiss had definitely been interested. Either he was actually a nice guy, or he was experienced enough to know better.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he said.

She shook her head, unreasonably tempted. “It would never work.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not your type.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at me,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “Look at us. You’re Millionaire Inventor Guy, and I’m—”

“—an incredibly attractive woman with practical knowledge and principles.”

A pleased flush swept over her. “Thanks.”

But she knew who and what she was: a small-town cop with a troubling connection to his case. And those principles he was talking about wouldn’t let her gloss over the differences between them.

She squared her shoulders. “But the answer’s still no. Detective Palmer is handling the investigation from here on in. After today, there’s no reason for us to ever see each other again.”

He blew it.

Simon didn’t know how or why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of connections missed, of opportunities lost. It was like calculating a complex equation. His formula was correct, but his data was wrong. Or he was missing a variable completely.

He watched the police boat’s choppy progress across the lake, aware of Laura Baker’s slim, straight figure at the controls. She’d taken off her hat, making her neatly constrained hair gleam like tarnished metal in the sun.

He inhaled sharply. He wanted her. Still. The taste of her lingered in his mouth like honey. The itch for her buzzed in his blood.

She wanted him, too. He might not remember whatever women had occupied his bed or his mind before, but he recognized a woman’s desire.

But it didn’t take a genius to see that this woman was equally determined not to have anything further to do with him.

Why not?

Considering the problem logically, there was nothing obviously wrong with him. Well, except for the void where his memory should be. And while the detective was smart enough to suspect the worst, she couldn’t know the full extent of his loss.

No one could know the full extent of his loss.

Expelling his breath, Simon turned back to his desk. Laura Baker was a puzzle and a challenge. But however much he might enjoy fitting the pieces together, he had bigger problems to solve.

“I didn’t mean to screw things up with the meter maid,” Dylan volunteered over lunch. “But she’s not your usual type, is she?”

Simon lowered his fork to stare at his brother, seated nine feet away at the opposite end of the long, polished table. All of the furniture in the house was over-sized and shiny, as if it had been designed for very neat giants. The colors were all neutrals, cream and beige and gray. Simon wondered if he’d chosen them or even liked them. He didn’t like them now. Would he when he got his memory back?