Stephanie Doyle: Remembering That Night

Who’s that girl?

Greg Chalmers knows when someone is lying. That’s how he ends up helping the police with an unusual case. A woman is found covered in blood, claiming she has no memory. Is she lying? He doesn’t think so. But for the first time, his attraction to her could be clouding his judgment!

Despite his intentions to stay aloof, he can’t resist helping Eliza Dunning…especially when she becomes the prime suspect in a murder investigation. As they work together to uncover the details of her life, Greg finds himself in deep. And it’s even more important to prove her innocence….

“I’m not a liar!”

At her words, Greg was off the couch and walking toward her as if to settle her again. But Eliza didn’t want to be settled.

“I’m sick of this, Greg. I’m sick of being mistaken for some victim. I want this to end. I want all of it to end.”

“And it will. Once we find out who was in your house today. Once you get your memory back.”

His tone was gentle and reassuring. She didn’t want gentle and reassuring. She didn’t want a lecture by Dr. Chalmers on how everything was going to be okay when clearly it wasn’t.

She wanted to feel something different. She wanted to be the person controlling her fate. She wanted…

Taking two determined strides toward him she lifted her arms around his neck. “This,” she whispered against his lips. “This is what I want.”

Dear Reader,

I’ve had the idea of a human lie detector as a character for some time. Guys like the one in The Mentalist whose powers of observation—because, really, that’s all that skill is—are just better than anyone else’s. Almost like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes. I knew Greg was that character. I mean, what better skill to have as a psychologist than the ability to really “see” the person you’re trying to help?

Until it all goes wrong for Greg, of course. It was at his lowest moment when I had to imagine the heroine who might come along and save him. A heroine who needs a little saving herself. I thought, how does a woman keep her secrets from a man who can see everything about her? The answer was simple. She couldn’t have any secrets. So I made her a blank slate.

This is my amnesia story, and while maybe it’s been done before, this is my attempt. I hope you enjoy Greg and Liza’s story.

I’ve lived with these characters who have ties to the Tyler Group—One Final Step (October 2012), An Act of Persuasion (March 2013) and For the First Time (October 2013)—for so long that I wasn’t quite ready to leave them. So I’ve written two novellas with some of the secondary characters: Elaine, Chuck, Sophie and Bay. Look for the digital book with both stories available now!

I love to hear from readers. Feel free to reach out to me at www.stephaniedoyle.netor on Twitter, @StephDoyleRW.

Happy reading!

Stephanie Doyle

Remembering That Night

Stephanie Doyle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stephanie Doyle, a dedicated romance reader, began to pen her own romantic adventures at age sixteen. She began submitting to Harlequin lines at age eighteen, and by twenty-six her first book was published. Fifteen years later, she still loves what she does, as each book is a new adventure. She lives in South Jersey with her cat, Lex, and her two kittens, who have taken over everything. When she isn’t thinking about escaping to the beach, she’s working on her next idea.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

“ALL IN.”

Greg looked at his opponent across the table. He watched the man’s eyes drop to the table. Watched him slow his breathing. Watched him try to erase every visible tell.

A regular poker player with years of experience no doubt. The old man had to be nearing seventy if he hadn’t already gotten there. His face was weathered. His teeth a hard yellow from years of smoking. Yeah, Greg was fairly certain this wasn’t his opponent’s first time in Atlantic City. It probably wasn’t even his first time putting what amounted to over ten thousand dollars up for gamble.

If Greg folded his cards, he would still leave the table up several thousand dollars. If he called and lost, he would lose both his stake and his day’s earnings. How many hours of play time was it? Ten? Twelve? He’d lost track at some point, but it sure would be a shame to have wasted all that time for nothing.

If he called and won then the world was his. At least for a moment.

Greg reached for his glass and took a shot of the subpar Scotch the casino provided. At one time in his degenerate life he would have insisted on only the best. Given his faithful patronage, the managers would have seen to it immediately. Plus they would have comped him a room and a meal, as well. Back in his Vegas days.

Before they’d figured out who he was. Before they’d ejected him.

Now AC was his last remaining haunting ground. The Grande was the last casino he could still play in. Once it ended for him here—and it would end because it always did—he would have to find Native American reservations nearby or private high-stake games.

Pathetic.

“Well? Are we doing this?”

His opponent was getting impatient. The man had asked the question with a laconic ease. Not a tremor in his voice. Not a measure of fidgeting in his body to give away his thoughts. No, he’d done a good job controlling his body language.

It was a shame he’d never really had a chance. Not against Greg.

Because Greg didn’t fold and walk away. Greg didn’t call and lose ever. Greg only ever called and won because Greg knew the outcome of the game before he placed the bet.

The man was bluffing.

“Call.”

Then it happened. The man’s lip twitched, his nostrils flared. He turned over one ace, which paired the turn, giving him a pair. His other card was a valueless ten.

Greg turned over his pocket jacks which wouldn’t have won had there not been another jack on the board. Trips beat a pair every time.

The dealer acknowledged the cards, pushed the chips toward Greg and there it was. That feeling of satisfaction.

It didn’t come from winning. Or from the money. It came from knowing that he’d been right. Again. That was his only thrill. That was what kept him coming back, day after day.

Tired of sitting and playing, Greg figured he’d had enough for one day. He piled his chips into a plastic holder. “Nice hand,” he offered his opponent, but the man only sneered at him.

He cashed in his chips and bundled the large bills into a roll he shoved into an inside pocket in his leather coat. He left the poker room, found the elevator to the parking garage and as he traveled up to the second level he wondered what time of day it was.

What time had he started? In the morning but not so early. It had to be night. Not that it mattered. He’d go home, shower, maybe sleep for a few hours and then do it all over again. Whether he did that during the day or at night wasn’t a concern.

It was quite a ritual he’d carved out. He’d make the drive from Philadelphia to AC. Find a table of players. Then read them until he could tell when each one was lying. In poker once you knew someone was bluffing—really knew it—all you had to do was wait for the cards to fall your way and then take them.