Susan Kearney - Lovers In Hiding

The fact that she currently couldn’t remember her age, her address or her name didn’t mean she didn’t have a working brain. But it sure as hell was one gargantuan handicap. If she had to lose her memory, why couldn’t it have happened among friends? Or family? If she’d hit her head in a car accident—and the knot on her head and the aches in her muscles certainly felt as if she had—why couldn’t she have been rescued by the police, driven by paramedics to a hospital?

Instead she’d lost her memory and ended up with a menacing-looking hunk in black leather. She gazed at the muscular arms holding her down, finding it curious that he didn’t sport tattoos. He wore no earrings to accessorize, either. Maybe the man wasn’t as wild as he’d first appeared. He certainly didn’t seem to want to hurt her. He’d had ample opportunity, yet remained gentle.

He’d tackled her and landed so he’d taken the brunt of the fall. Even now, with her pinned beneath him, he spared her the crushing force of his full weight, while protecting her face from the teeming rain as he leaned over her and surveyed her with assessing eyes. Those eyes again. Caring eyes. Intelligent eyes.

He eased up on her wrists slightly. “When’s your birthday?”

“I don’t know.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Parlez-vous français?”

God! A multilingual biker. Did he have to sound so sexy when he spoke to her? “I don’t speak French.”

“But you understood the question.”

“Don’t you know phrases in languages you don’t speak?” she countered, wondering how long this inquisition would go on, wondering what he intended to do with her when it was over. At the realization of his power over her and her helplessness to fight him, she shivered. He could take whatever he wanted from her, and this man seemed accustomed to taking.

Panic rose up her throat, and she reminded herself that he likely wouldn’t have told her his name if he intended to hurt her.

As if reading her racing fears, Clay let out a frustrated sigh. “This is one hell of a mess. Let’s hope your memory comes back real soon. Meanwhile, I’ll have to hide you.”

“Hide me?” She didn’t like the sound of that at all. She didn’t want to go anywhere with this man. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know herself enough to trust her judgment or believe the clear ring of tension in his voice.

“I need to keep you safe.”

“Then take me to the cops,” she suggested.

“You’ll be safer with me than the cops.” He rolled off her and tugged her to her feet, never releasing her wrist. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way back to my bike.”

The moment he released her, the ripping rain and slicing wind bombarded her like hail. She refused to miss the warmth of his arms. Instead, she told herself, she was glad he no longer pressed her back into the cold, wet sand. She didn’t want to go anywhere with Clay Rogan—especially to his bike where he could spirit her away to some isolated place where she’d never be seen again.

Why couldn’t she recall her family? Friends? Or maybe a wonderful husband who might be frantically searching for her even now? It finally occurred to her that if Melinda was her real name, as he claimed, then Clay could tell her more about herself.

“What’s my last name?” she asked as he tugged her along the beach where the waves rolled in, attacked the sand, then receded in a white froth of sucking sounds.

“Murphy.” The name evoked no emotions. Not even a sliver of recognition.

“Am I a student?”

“You’re a massage therapist.” She had no emotional reaction to that information either, but a fleeting tingle raced across her hands as if she could recall her fingers kneading muscles. Was the image a memory? Or something she’d envisioned when he mentioned her occupation? If he’d told her she was a teacher or a doctor, would she have had the same reaction and imagined chalk dust on her skin or a scalpel in her hands?

“Am I married?”

“No.”

She couldn’t decide whether his answer pleased her or not. While she could imagine how awful it would be to return to a loving husband or child and not recognize them, the idea of leaning on someone who loved her had its own merits.

The fact that Clay knew more about her than she knew about herself left an eerie hollowness in her that she wanted to fill with more facts. He could be making up the information, lying to her, and she’d never know, but why would he do that?

“Do I have family?”

“You were adopted, and your adoptive parents divorced when you were little.”

Lightning flashed, zigzagging over the water and brightening the sky in a blaze of white light followed by cold, damp darkness. They needed to get off the beach, but her thoughts distracted her. In her mind, she saw a woman’s face, just for a moment, and then it was gone. The woman was weeping, fat lonely tears. Another memory? Or her mind playing more tricks on her? Seconds later, thunder rolled across the beach with the razor-sharp wind, slicing the sand against them.

Clay pulled her into a run. “I’ll tell you everything once we get out of this weather. The most important thing you need to know is that I’m CIA and I was sent to protect you.”

Yeah, right. And she was Lois Lane. She dug her heels into the sand and tried to jerk him back. Only her action didn’t go quite the way she planned. Clay simply had too much bulk for her to yank him to a halt. He kept going, as if her resistance was futile. However, while he failed to stop, she ended up flying forward, smacking into him with a force that made her knees wobble. To steady her, he let go of her wrist, and his arms came around her, anchoring her.

“If you wanted me to carry you, you could have just said so,” he teased without the slightest smile, but the warmth in his tone calmed her a little.

She refused to lean into that warmth. “I suppose you can prove you’re with the CIA.”

He reached into his back pocket and took out very official-looking identification with his picture sealed beneath the plastic. In the picture his black hair was shorter, his jaw clean-shaven, but it was definitely him. But then, anyone could create fake documents with a computer and a good color printer.

“How come you didn’t identify yourself earlier?” she asked without bothering to hide her doubts.

“I’m not supposed to.” He frowned, as if breaking the rules was something he didn’t do lightly. “But with your amnesia, it now seems necessary.”

She glanced from the ID back to him, wishing she had her memory, wondering if she could be in some kind of trouble. Or maybe she was wrong. Despite how scared she’d felt earlier, she had no facts or memories to back up her conviction that she’d been fighting for her life. But whom had she been fighting? And why?

What could a massage therapist know that would be critical to her government? Had she had some important client who yakked in her ear while she rubbed the stress out of his shoulders?

And didn’t the FBI handle domestic problems and the CIA operate overseas? What would the CIA want with her, a massage therapist? She tapped his ID. “You have an office I can call to verify this?”

“I’m undercover. I’m only allowed to check in after the first part of my mission is accomplished.”

“How convenient.”

His eyes narrowed as he accepted her insult and tossed her words back in her face. “It’s not convenient at all. I’d prefer to have backup.”

“Then why don’t you have help?” she asked, wondering if she’d feel better or worse if he had an accomplice. An accomplice could verify his lie as well as the truth and then she’d have to outwit two of them to escape—not that she was doing so jamup terrific with just him.