Sally Berneathy - Private Vows

“Good deal. We’re doing what we can on this end, but with no evidence that a crime’s been committed, we can’t dedicate a lot of manpower to it. Well, I got another call. Check you later, buddy.”

After talking to Pete, Cole went into the small room downstairs that he used for a home office. Other than sleeping in his bedroom and storing beer in the kitchen, this was the only room in the house that he used. He had an official office in a nearby business area, a place to meet clients, but this was where he kept his files and did most of his work. This was the room that justified his holding on to a house he didn’t like or want, a house that reminded him every day of his failure.

He opened the top drawer of the desk and took Mary’s ring from its hiding place at the back. In the palm of his hand, the gold shone and the diamond sparkled. It was a beautiful ring, and Mary hated it.

Kind of like the way he felt about this house.

In his own way, he was as helpless as she. He couldn’t rescue her, couldn’t locate her relatives or bring back her memory or even save her from her own fears. Any gallant impulses he had in that direction were pointless.

But he did know someone who would give her a fair appraisal of the ring and loan her money on it. He could contribute that much to easing the trauma of the situation he’d put her in, that much and nothing more.

No matter how much his libido might want him to get more involved.

MARY SAT on the curb in front of the Gramercy Home and tried to push down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She had to think, to figure out what to do next, and next after that, what to do with the rest of her life in case nobody showed up to tell her who she was, in case she never remembered.

The church that sponsored the shelter owned the entire block as well as the parsonage across the street. The surrounding neighborhood was quiet, an area of older homes, some well kept, some neglected. Overhead, the sun shone cheerfully from a cloudless blue sky and the smell of honeysuckle was sweet on the summer air. She could not have been in less threatening surroundings. Yet the nameless, faceless fear she’d known since the accident refused to leave her.

In her small hotel room on the fourth floor of the Newton Arms, she’d felt isolated, trapped and claustrophobic yet unable to force herself to venture outside. Though she’d let the doctor at the hospital convince her to find a room close to the place where she’d appeared in the hope that familiar surroundings would bring back memories, she was terrified of the area, terrified to leave the hotel.

The hang-up phone call she’d received last night had increased her anxiety. Moving to another area of town, to this shelter recommended by Officer Townley, should have solved those problems. But it hadn’t. Now she felt exposed and vulnerable.

It had nothing to do with the dozen or so other inhabitants of the small shelter. They were basically in the same circumstances as she…homeless, unemployed, no friends or loved ones to care for them. Though actually they were better off than she was. They had memories of homes and loved ones. They knew their own names.

Nor was her feeling of vulnerability directly related to Sam Maynard, the strange man whom Officer Townley said had claimed to be her fiancé. True, the panic had wrapped around her with suffocating intensity at that news and hadn’t completely dissipated with Townley’s assurances that the man was essentially harmless and had no way of knowing where she was staying. The hang-up call the previous evening could have been from him.

But her fear went beyond such specifics. It was free-floating, attached to nothing and everything, all-consuming and illogical.

After completely breaking down that morning when Officer Townley had hit her with the double blow of the pervert who’d wanted to take her home and then told her the blood on her dress was human, she’d resolved to take control, to refuse her fear the power it demanded. Even if she never regained her memory, if no one ever came to take her back to her home and family, she would conquer this unreasoning terror.

A nondescript dark blue sedan pulled over to the curb and her determination vanished as a black dread encompassed her. Her heart began to pound irregularly, perspiration beaded on her forehead and the muscles in her stomach knotted almost painfully. As she got to her feet, her movements seemed to be the slow motion of a nightmare.

Someone coming to the church, she told herself. Someone coming to offer a job to one of the people in the shelter. Someone harmless!

She clenched her fists even as her body involuntarily turned to run back to the shelter.

“Mary!”

She choked down a sob as she recognized the voice, one of the few she could recognize, the only one that didn’t frighten her. Cole Grayson.

He got out of the car and came around to where she stood. Both his blue jeans and the beer logo on his T-shirt were faded and comfortable-looking. He’d shaved but his hair was still shaggy. The sight of him was marvelously, wondrously familiar.

He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a sunburst pattern, a reflection of the sunburst that had spread through her breast at his appearance.

“You sure look different in those jeans than you did in that wedding dress,” he said.

The mention of the dress dimmed that sunburst and shot a painful spasm of unfocused dread through her.

His smile changed to a scowl. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out or something.” He took her arm, supporting her. The dependency she felt on him, the reassurance and comfort his touch brought her were totally at odds with her resolution to be strong and conquer her fears.

“I’m fine.”

Concern blended with the desolation in his gaze and told her that he knew she was lying, and she hated that.

She didn’t want anyone’s concern or pity.

Especially not Cole Grayson’s.

With a sinking feeling, she admitted to herself that this need came from more than her pride. She wanted this man to view her as a woman, not a victim. She wanted to see that momentary flare in his eyes that she’d seen or imagined when he’d stood behind her at the mirror in the hospital.

“I got your message last night,” he said, “but it was too late to call.”

“That’s okay.” Even as she’d dialed his number, she’d known deep inside that he hadn’t been her hang-up caller, and she wasn’t sure why she’d called him. It had taken seeing him in person, feeling his hand on her bare arm, for her to realize why. She’d wanted an excuse to talk to him, to see him again, to feel his touch.

She turned and walked a few feet away, removing her arm from his hand, her body from the vicinity of his, even though such action didn’t remove the growing attraction she felt for him.

He didn’t follow but stood watching her, squinting into the sun. “It was probably a reporter trying to get an interview.”

“Why would a reporter hang up?”

“I don’t know. Lost his nerve. Got another call. Could be anything.”

“How could he find me? The police said they wouldn’t tell anybody where I was staying.”

He gave an unamused bark of laughter. “Pete—Officer Townley wouldn’t. But there are some others who would. Don’t underestimate the power of the media. Anyway, maybe it wasn’t a reporter. Maybe it was a wrong number.”

She shook her head. “I asked the operator. She said the person asked for Mary Jackson.”

“Then it had to be somebody who got their info from the cops. Heck, it could have been one of the officers calling to check on you, and he got another call just before you answered. It happens all the time.”

“There was a man who came to the police station claiming to be my fiancé.”