Secret Agent, Secret Father
Donna Young

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Copyright

DONNA YOUNG, an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children.

To Wendy and Jimmy, I love you, Mom and Dad.

Chapter One

With the pain came consciousness.

It pierced the cataleptic depths with jagged teeth that gnawed through skull and skin.

The man lifted his head, testing. Blood coated his tongue, coppery and thick. He groaned as the nausea tightened his gut, pressed into his chest.

They’re coming! The words screamed at him through the blanket of fog, adding a bite to the pain. His eyes fluttered open. Blurred lines altered, then cleared into comprehensible patterns.

Rain trickled in through the half-shattered windshield. The splatter of water mixed with his blood turning the air bag pink in the semidarkness. A light pole lay bent across the top of the sports coupé, its base uprooted from the cement.

How long had he been unconscious? He shifted, trying to relieve the pressing weight on his lungs, focusing on the half-deflated air bag wedged between the steering wheel and his chest.

A shaft of white heat impaled his right shoulder. He let out a slow hiss.

After a moment, he pulled his other arm in from the driver’s side window, noting for the first time he held a pistol tight in his grip. The silver flashed in the night. The cold steel felt good in the palm of his hand. No, more than good, he thought. Familiar.

He fumbled with the safety belt, released the lock. Tightening his jaw, he shoved his good shoulder against the car door, stiffened at the new surge of pain, the wave of dizziness. Metal scraped, glass crackled. Another push and the door gave way. Slowly he slid through the opening and then stood, using the mangled roof for support.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Instinctively he turned. Bile rose, burned his throat. The ground tilted beneath him. Swearing, he fell to his knees and vomited.

They were coming for him. Cops. Rescue workers. It didn’t matter which. Both filed reports.

Reports left paper trails.

With gun in hand, he waited a moment for his stomach to settle, using the time to get his bearings.

Rows of houses, dull with age and earth-toned brick, flanked the street. Each with covered porches that lay behind picket fences or scattered hedges. Each containing onlookers, mostly white-haired couples, their arms tightly wrapped over their chests, holding closed a variety of plaid and terry cloth robes.

Those who didn’t brave the elements took protection from the rain behind the narrow bay windows of their homes. Their fingers held the curtains slightly apart, while eyes squinted with curiosity and fear, deepened the grooves of their features.

Enough fear to keep them away from the armed stranger who had invaded their quiet suburban neighborhood.

Carefully, he turned his head, his eyes searching the shadows of the road. How far was he from her?

A bent street post lay no more than five feet from the wrecked light pole. Proctor Avenue?

Too far, his mind whispered. Too far to help.

The sirens grew louder placing his rescuers no more than a few minutes out.

Hot needles pricked his eye sockets and images began to swim. A black fog seeped in, setting off another wave of dizziness. Struggling against the void, he rammed his injured shoulder into the car. Pain exploded through his arm, jarring his spine, driving consciousness forward, forcing the obscurity back.

Sheer willpower put him on his feet. He swayed, then stumbled. Warn her, his mind screamed. Before he passed out. Before his enemies found him.

Or worse, the whisper came. Before they found her.

Chapter Two

A storm swept over the outskirts of Annapolis. The air crackled and snapped, alive with the hum of lightning, the boom of thunder. Below, stinging sheets of rain pounded water and land with heavy fists, spurred by the fierce Chesapeake winds.

Grace Renne stood by her bay window holding one billowing curtain in her grip. When the bark of the storm reached her, a twinge of sadness worked up the back of her throat.

For the last several years she’d lived on the bay, admiring the city’s fortitude, appreciating its history. It was a city born amidst the turmoil of the American Revolution. Timehonored traditions cemented every cobblestone, forged every piece of iron, framed every structure for more than three hundred years.

Grace caught a whiff of burning wood—fireplaces combating the early autumn chill. Underneath the smoke lingered the richer scent of the sea and sand. Slowly, she drew in a deeper breath, enjoyed the bite of salt on the back of her tongue.

She loosened her grip until the curtain fluttered against her fingertips. Scents, textures…intuition were her tools to live by. Characteristics, her father insisted with irritation, she’d gotten from her mother.

She’d gotten her mother’s looks, too. The pale, blond hair that hung in a long, straight curtain. The light brown eyes that softened with humor, narrowed in temper. Delicate features—until one looked close enough and saw the purpose, the character that shaped the high cheekbones and the feminine jaw.

She shut the window, smiling as Mother Nature beat at the framed glass. Any other time, any other mood, she would have let the storm have its way. Her eyes swept over the oak trim of her cottage, the barreled ceiling, the endless stacks of half-packed boxes. But the cottage was no longer hers, sold only days before to her friend and bar manager, Lawrence “Pusher” Davis. The reformed ex-con had bought her home as his first step to becoming a real-estate mogul. And she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate water damage on his new hardwood floors.

“We won’t have nor’ easters in Arizona, baby,” she murmured and patted her stomach, a habit begun to soothe the first trimester bouts of nausea.

And now? Grace stopped midmotion. What did her father say? A subconscious attempt to soothe a restless spirit?

Better than no spirit, she’d countered and brushed off the ache just beneath her heart.

With the window shut, the air grew thick with the sweet scent of baking cookies. A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I’d say, handsome, that patting you is a self-defense mechanism to divert your constant cravings for warm milk and chocolate chip cookies.”

Her oversized, navy sweatshirt fell to midthigh—its Annapolis insignia covered her midriff like a big yellow target. The shirt, combined with the thick cotton of her dark leggings, provided more than enough warmth to allow her to go barefooted.

Still, she threw another log onto the fireplace’s burning embers. Its muted glow matched her melancholy mood.

Overstuffed furniture of glossy, dark oak and warm tweeds filled the room. She hadn’t packed up the rich, brown chenille throws that draped the back of the couch. Putting it off had been a silly defiance, she thought. But even as she did, her hand ran over the nearest throw, her fingers curled reflexively into its thickness. After five years, she wasn’t quite ready to give up the first true home she’d ever known.

The buzz of the oven timer broke through her thoughts, but the growl of her stomach prodded her into the kitchen. Tiles of white and cornflower-blue checked the six-foot counter—effectively separating the kitchen from the main room without diminishing the cottage’s warmth.

For once, Charles Renne had agreed with her decision to move. In fact, her father encouraged her. Surprising, since he hadn’t agreed with any of her choices in years. She’d been fourteen when her mother had died. But the war of wills had started long before.

She snapped off the oven and opened the door. The heat blasted her in the face. She hesitated over a long, drawn-out and downright decadent sniff.

The small flutter in her belly told her she’d gotten the baby’s attention. She laughed, low and easy. “Okay, sport, one plate of cookies and glass of milk coming up.” With an expertise born from cravings, she took the cookies from the oven and slid them onto a nearby cooling rack.

Lately, her battles with her father had flared to a whole new level. One that heightened after her refusal to reveal the baby’s father.

The baby was hers. Only hers, she thought stubbornly.

That characteristic she inherited from her father. But it hadn’t made the past pleasant for either father or daughter.

Four years ago, she’d stopped by a cigar bar called The Tens to meet a group of college friends.

The pungent smell of whiskey and the more earthy scent of imported cigars drew her in, but it was the low murmur of conversations and clink of glasses—a backbeat to the smoky jazz—that seduced her.

Two weeks later, she dropped out of premed and bought the bar with the rest of her trust fund. An emancipation of sorts, she thought in hindsight.

For the past several years, she’d indulged her passion for fast cars and jazz clubs and leaned ever more closely toward liberal ideas. And the more she indulged, the more distant her father grew. The more distant he grew, the more she hurt.

But over time, the freedom she’d gained became precious and the pain bearable.

The doorbell rang, startling her. She glanced at the mantel clock.

Almost midnight.

Unease caught at the base of her spine. She pushed it away, annoyed. “Who is it?” she asked, but heard no response. Only the wind whistling through the crack beneath, tickling her toes. She curled them against the floor. A look through the peephole proved useless.

“Hide.” The command came low, splintered. Still, she recognized the underlining timbre, the slightly offbeat drawl that turned one syllable into two.

“Jacob?” She yanked open the door. He sat next to the door pane, his back propped against the side of the cottage. Blood coated him from top to chin, dripping off the slant of his jaw onto his torn shirt and his black dress slacks. “Oh my God. Jacob!” She fell to her knees beside him.

His eyes fluttered open, focused for a brief moment, one black pupil dilated to more than twice the size of its partner. Blood rimmed the iris until no white could be seen. “Hide, Grace.” He rasped the order. “Before they kill you.”

His head lolled back. Fear gripped her. Quickly, she placed her hand under his shirt. Please, God. The rhythmic beat of his heart remained steady beneath her palm. She closed her eyes briefly against the sting of tears.

The rain and wind spit at them. She raised his hand to her cheek, felt the ice-cold fingers against her skin. She glanced around and saw no car. How had he gotten here? Walked?

Her nearest neighbor was down the beach, too far to call for help. If she left him outside, he’d be worse off by the time the ambulance got there.

A few weeks ago, the doctor had said no heavy lifting. What would he say if he knew the father of the baby lay half-dead on her porch?

“Jacob!” She screamed his name, but he didn’t stir.

She scrambled inside and grabbed her purse from the counter. She’d call the ambulance from the front porch—

Then she heard it, the familiar ring tone of her cell phone.

She dumped the contents of her handbag onto the counter, ignoring the lipstick and keys that fell to the floor. She snagged her phone, saw the displayed name and punched the button.

“Pusher?” She flipped the overhead switches on. Lights flooded the room, making her blink. A glance to the doorway told her Jacob hadn’t moved. She ran back to his side, checked the pulse at his neck.

“Grace? Thank God.” Pusher Davis paused on a shaky breath. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine but I need you to—”

“Then you haven’t talked to anyone?”

“Talked…” she said, momentarily off balance. Using the cuff of her sweatshirt she wiped the blood from Jacob’s forehead, trying to get a good look at the injury beneath. “Pusher, I don’t have time for this.” His skin grayed in the porch light. She had enough experience to know he’d lost too much blood. “I need you to—”

“Helene’s dead.”

“Helene?” Tension fisted in her chest. “Dead?”

“Grace, I found her body outside The Tens. In the back alley.”

Helene, dead? The fist tightened, catching her breath on a short choke of surprise. It couldn’t be true. She’d just seen Helene earlier that day. They’d met at their favorite sidewalk bistro for a farewell lunch.

“It’s Monday night. The bar should’ve been closed. She shouldn’t have even been there this late. What happened?” The question slipped from her lips, but a prick at the nape of her neck told her the answer.

“She’d been shot,” Pusher answered, then paused. “Grace, last time I saw her she was with Jacob Lomax.”

She studied the wound in Jacob’s shoulder, forced herself to inhale. Hide, Grace, before they kill you.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” she answered, then took another breath to steady herself. “Are the police there?”

“Not yet. But I’ve called them.”

“Pusher, listen to me.” She nearly screamed the words. “I need you to stall them when they get there. They’re going to want to talk to me, but I can’t right now.”

“I don’t think you understand, Grace. Helene has been murdered—”

“I understand.” She cut him off, not trying to stop the urgency of her words. “Jacob Lomax collapsed on my porch a few minutes ago. He’s been shot, too,” she added, deciding to put her trust in Pusher. “And until I find out why, the police will only complicate things.”

“But if Lomax is there—”

“I told you, he is.”

“Then why the cloak-and-dagger, Grace? If Jacob has been shot, this could have been a robbery. A simple case of wrong place, wrong time. I’ve seen it before.”

“I don’t think it is and I need some time to make sure.”

“Why? Do you think he shot Helene?” He said the words almost jokingly. But when she didn’t respond, he swore. “You do, don’t you?”

“No,” she snapped. “I think his life is in danger.”

When the manager didn’t say anything, she added. “I can’t explain right now. And I can’t do this without your help, Pusher. Please,” she whispered.

“Okay, okay. Lord knows, I owe you,” he answered, the uncertainty thickening his Texas drawl. “I can probably stall them until morning. A little longer if they get ahold of my rap sheet. Will that work?”

She could trust Pusher to take care of the police. The ex-con had certainly sold her on hiring him a few years back, against Helene and her father’s wishes.

“Yes, that will work,” she said. “Thanks, Pusher.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in an interrogation room. Was feeling a little homesick, anyway,” he mused before his tone turned serious. “Grace, watch your back. The cops aren’t your only worry. I won’t ask again why you think Jacob’s in danger. But if you’re right and he is a target, you could become collateral damage.”

“I’ll be careful.”

She hung up the phone. Calling an ambulance was out of the question now. Not until she found out what was going on. She glanced at Jacob before hitting the speed dial.

The phone clicked on the fourth ring. “Hello.”

“Dad, it’s Grace.”

“Grace. Do you realize what time—”

“Dad, I need your help.” Jacob’s wound couldn’t wait for her father’s lecture. “Your medical help.”

Suddenly, his tone turned sharp. “Is something the matter? Is it the baby?”

“The baby?” She gripped the phone tighter. Deceit warred with desperation inside of her. “Yes, it’s the baby.”

“Are you spotting again?”

“No,” she answered, not wanting to add that possibility to her father’s worry. “But I can’t explain over the phone. I need you to come over here now. And don’t tell anyone where you are going. I want to keep this private.”

“Don’t tell…Grace Ann, maybe you had better explain—”

“Not now, Dad. Please,” she added to soften her order. She moved her hand over Jacob’s heart, took reassurance in its steady beat against her palm. “And bring your medical bag.”

“I will, but I want to know what’s going on when I get there.”

“I promise full disclosure,” she agreed. “And Dad, do one more thing for me?”

“What?”

“Hurry,” she whispered.

Charles Renne hesitated for only a split second. They might not understand each other’s views, but he was a father. One that understood fear. “I will.”

Grace snapped the phone shut and shoved it into her sweatshirt pocket. Her father would take a good hour to reach her from Washington, D.C. Jacob couldn’t wait that long.

“I can do this but you need to be easy with our baby, okay big guy?” It took some shifting, but she managed to maneuver herself behind him. Rain soaked her sweatshirt, plastered her hair to her forehead. Impatiently, she brushed the blond strands away, then slid her hands under his arms and around his chest.

Jacob was a good six inches over her own five-eight frame, and had well over fifty pounds on her. He was built lean, with the firm muscles and long limbs of a distance runner. Grateful her taste didn’t run toward male bulk, she settled him back until he rested against her chest and shoulder.

The clatter of metal ricocheted in the night air. She glanced down. A pistol lay on the cement, its barrel inches from her feet.

His? Once again, her mind rejected the idea that Jacob had shot Helene. No matter what secrets he carried, he wasn’t capable of murder. From the moment Helene had introduced Jacob to Grace, there was no doubt about the close friendship between the two.

Ignoring the weapon, she gripped him between her thighs. Slowly, she scooted him back through the doorway. Using the strength of her legs and arms, she tugged and pulled in short bursts of energy. The struggle took more than twenty minutes. Twenty minutes in which she pleaded, prayed, begged and swore. But she managed it.

Once inside, she scooted back toward the fireplace and lowered his shoulders gently to the floor. Quickly, she closed the door, grabbed a pillow and placed it under his head.

For months, she’d worried about him, raged at him—yearned, grieved, loved him—silently through the long, dark nights.

But not once had she been terrified for him.

Until now.

His face was pale, stark against his deep brown hair, now darker with rain, sticky with blood. His features cut in razor-thin angles. Sharper, leaner since the last time she’d seen him. A four-inch gash split the hairline above the middle of his forehead. Blood and bruises covered most of his features.

She knelt beside him, saw him shiver. Cursing herself, she threw a few more logs on the fire.

But it was his shoulder that worried her the most. Blood was everywhere. His face, neck and arm were coated with it. From his head, or shoulder, or both. She couldn’t be sure which.

Her pulse thickened with fear, making her hands heavy, her fingers tremble. She shook them, trying to settle them and her nerves, then removed his suit jacket. A shoulder holster crowded under his arm. Something she hadn’t noticed when dragging him in. Quickly, she unbelted the holster and tossed it aside. Within minutes, she had him stripped to his underwear and covered him to the waist with her comforter.

The bullet had torn a hole through his right shoulder, leaving an exit wound on the back side.

Fear and confusion warred within, but right now she had time for neither. Instead, she crossed to the linen cupboard and pulled out a clean, white hand towel.

After running the cloth under warm water, she returned to his side with it and her biggest pan filled with hotter water. She tucked the blanket around him, knowing she couldn’t do anything other than clean the wound until her father got there.

With gentle fingers, she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, then systematically dabbed the blood away from the gash.

“I’ll give you one thing, Lomax,” she whispered. She rinsed the towel out in the water, watched it turn pink, before she switched her attention to his shoulder. “You sure as hell know how to make an entrance.”

Chapter Three

“He’s coming, Mr. Kragen.”

Oliver Kragen sat on a park bench as dawn broke over the Chesapeake Bay. His enforcer, Frank Sweeney, stood no more then ten feet away, his bulky frame eclipsing the sun behind him. Dressed in an Armani suit, the man appeared more like a pro football player ready to renegotiate his contract than the mercenary he was.

And that’s exactly why Oliver had hired him.

“I’ll give you odds the bastard screwed up.”

Oliver didn’t acknowledge Sweeney’s comment. Instead, he waited until the click of shoe soles sounded behind him. Rather than turn in greeting, Oliver tossed the remainder of his Danish to a nearby pigeon. After all, Boyd Webber wasn’t a peer, he was an employee.

“She’s dead.”

Oliver glanced at Sweeney, a silent order to leave. Once the big man stepped away, Kragen spoke up, but his focus remained on the pigeons at their feet. “How?” The question was low, pleasant.

Boyd wasn’t fooled. But he didn’t care, either. The exmarine had more than two dozen kills under his belt and had survived more horrors than the bloodiest special effects ever created. Nothing on this earth made him afraid of dying. Least of all a weasel like Kragen. “The Garrett woman had a gun. They both did. It forced my hand.”

“They forced your hand because they were armed? They’re government operatives. What did you expect, Webber?” Kragen’s voice hardened. “If I remember right, I told you it was imperative that the Garrett woman was to be brought to me. Alive.”

“It was a mistake. They killed one of my men, wounded another. The third man targeted Lomax, but somehow the woman took a stray bullet in the chest.”

“And this third man?”

“I killed him.”

“To save me the trouble? Or him the pain?”

“I was…angry.” More than angry. Infuriated. Enough to lose his cool and shoot until the woman was dead. Enough to murder another man—one of his own—who had witnessed his transgression. “My man should have been more careful,” he lied.

In Webber’s opinion, Helene Garrett deserved no better than to die in a gutter. She had betrayed Senator D’Agostini. Slept with him, used him, stolen from him. End of her, end of story. Or it should have been. But the files were still missing.

“Did you clean up your mess?” Kragen’s eyes shifted to his coffee cup. He took a sip, burned his tongue and swore.

“I thought it better to leave things.” Resentment slithered down Webber’s back, coiled deep within his belly. He studied Kragen’s profile with derision. Kragen was the poster-boy politician. The meticulous, trimmed blond hair that enhanced the high slant of the cheekbones, the aristocratic forehead. A nose so straight that Webber would bet his last dime that Kragen had it cosmetically carved. All packaged in a five-figure topcoat and custom suit. All done to hide the trailer-park genes that ran through Poster Boy’s veins.

“You killed your man without consulting me first.” Oliver glanced up then. Twin metallic-gray eyes pinned, then dismissed the mercenary in one flicker.

“I consulted with the senator beforehand,” Webber responded.

Oliver noted the verbal jab, but chose to ignore it for the moment. “Did you search the bar? Her apartment?”

“She’d moved out of her apartment days ago and left nothing behind. And we had no time to search the bar. Lomax was the priority.”

“The woman had the files and the code,” Oliver insisted. “I want the bar searched. And I want Lomax found.”

“Shouldn’t take long. We winged Lomax before he slipped away. We found his car wrapped around a light pole.”

“Did you follow the blood?”

“Witnesses told the police he took off down the street but the rain washed away any bloody trail.”

“And the police? What do they say?” Oliver prompted, his annoyance buried under a tone of civility. More than the Neanderthal deserved, in Oliver’s opinion.

To say that Webber was ugly would have been polite. He had the face of a boxer, flat and scarred from too many alley fights, and a bulbous nose from too much booze. Like Sweeney, he wore a tailored suit, had no neck and too much muscle. Unlike Sweeney, he sported a butch cut so close it left the color of his hair in question.

“The police are questioning the bar manager. An ex-con by the name of Pusher Davis.”

“If the man is an ex-con, they’ll suspect him first,” Oliver observed. “Tail him, just to be sure. I don’t want any loose ends.”

“There won’t be. The police won’t get anywhere. Helene Garrett will become just another statistic in a long line of unsolved homicides,” Boyd explained.

For the moment, Oliver ignored the arrogance underlying Webber’s words. “They have Lomax’s blood on the scene.”

Webber snorted. “Won’t do them any good if they have no records to match it with. Right now, the cops don’t have any information on either of them. Or the senator’s connection to her.”

Webber was right. Oliver had gone to great lengths to keep the senator’s relationship with Helene Garrett private. A precaution he practiced with all the senator’s mistresses. “That won’t get us the Primoris files or the code. We need to find Lomax.”

“My men are checking nearby hospitals and clinics.”

“You actually expect him to show up on some grid? He’s injured, not stupid, Webber,” he snapped, annoyed over the fact that this wouldn’t have happened if Helene hadn’t slipped under their radar.

Oliver had investigated Helene months before the senator had started the affair. With his contacts, it took Oliver no more than a few calls to get everything from her finances to her elementary school records. False records, as it turned out.

“From the look of his car seat, he’s lost a lot of blood. If he passed out, he’d have no choice. Someone might have taken him to the hospital.”

“Find him.”

“It would help if you could give me more than just his name.”

“I gave you his name and the time and place of the meeting.” Oliver paused, his eyes critical. “It should have been enough.”

“I told you, they forced my hand. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Just find Lomax and keep him alive. I don’t care what it takes,” Oliver ordered, already making plans to advise the senator to call an emergency meeting. The others would have to be informed. “That bitch stole the Primoris file. I want it back. Do you understand?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Boyd responded automatically. “And the police?”

“I’ll make a few calls. Jacob Lomax won’t be on their data banks unless I arrange to put him there.”

“Are you thinking of making the murder public?” Webber questioned.

“No.” Any unwanted attention at this stage could sabotage their plans. “At least not for now.” Not until the others met and reevaluated the situation. They were too close to their goal.

“How about her partner?” Webber asked. “Grace Renne?”

Oliver considered the possibility. “She might know something. Or at the very least, have seen something.” Oliver remembered faces, names. It was vital in his world. He’d met Miss Renne once at some sort of political function—one of many. At the time, the association between Helene and Doctor Charles Renne’s daughter seemed coincidental—and, in his mind, added to Helene’s credibility. But now…

“They had lunch yesterday afternoon,” Webber prompted.

“Then you should have already had someone talking to her this morning.” Oliver stood, his gaze back on the horizon. He didn’t like disloyalty within his ranks. And those who were foolish enough to betray him suffered. “I’m here in Washington, D.C., with the senator until after the fundraising ball tomorrow night. You know how to get hold of me. And I mean me, Webber. The senator is too busy with the upcoming election to be bothered with this. Do you understand?”

Not waiting for an answer, Oliver turned to Sweeney. “Frank.” He waited the moment it took for the enforcer to join them. “You’re with Webber. Make sure he does his job this time.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“Yes, sir.” Sweeney stepped behind the mercenary, boxing the man in between Kragen and himself.

“One more thing.” Oliver grabbed Webber’s wrist. When Webber automatically jerked back, Sweeney clamped down on his shoulder, holding him in place with a viselike grip.

“I want to make sure they don’t force your hand this time.” Slowly, Oliver poured the cup of coffee into Webber’s palm. Within moments, the hot liquid raised blisters. “Be diplomatic, Webber,” he cautioned with noncommittal coolness.

Webber nodded, his jaw tightened against the pain until the skin turned white under his ruddy complexion. “And if the Renne woman doesn’t want to cooperate?”

Oliver dropped the mercenary’s wrist and tossed the cup to the ground. “Then be discreet.”

Chapter Four

He wasn’t dead. It took a moment for the thought to seep through. Another for the layers of fog to dissipate.

He surfaced gradually, registering the extent of his injuries. The throbbing at his temple, the ache over his brow. When his right arm refused to move when commanded, he shifted his shoulders no more than an inch. Pain rifled through him, setting off waves of nausea that rocked his belly, slapped at the back of his throat.

But his heart beat.

For a full minute, he concentrated on the rhythmic thumping, worked on breathing oxygen in and out of his lungs.

A keen sense of danger vibrated through him. But when his mind searched for details, he found nothing but the urge for caution. And an underlying edge of danger.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. The ceiling beams doubled, then danced before finally coming into focus. His gaze slid from the white ceiling to the white bandage on his shoulder.

With his good hand, he carefully searched the bed around him but found nothing. He let his arm fall back to his side. Molten heat blasted through his upper body, setting his shoulder and ribs on fire and telling him he’d been carelessly quick with the motion.

Cloth brushed leather, drawing his attention. Slowly, he turned his head. No more than four feet away, a woman straightened in the leather wingback chair. She uncurled her long legs in one slow, fluid movement. The morning light washed over her in soft pink rays, coating both her skin and pale blond hair in a hazy blush.

“You’re awake.” Her sleep-soaked voice reminded him of crushed velvet, rich and warm. But it was caramel-brown eyes that caught his attention. Carmel dusted with gold, he realized as she drew closer.

And edged with concern. Enough to tell him she’d spent the night in the chair.

“Is the pain bearable?” Her face was scrubbed clean, revealing a few freckles dotting her nose. With long, blond hair tied back into a ponytail and clad in jeans and a black, zipped hoodie two sizes too big, she looked no older than a first-year college student.

The back of her hand drifted over his cheek. Her cool, soft touch soothing. So much so that he felt a curious ache in his chest when it dropped away.

“No fever, thank goodness. How are you feeling?”

He caught her wrist with his good hand and jerked her closer. It was a mistake.

Skin pulled against stitching, bones ground against cartilage. A curse burst from his lips in a long, angry hiss.

“Where is it?” His question was barely a whisper. Dried bile coated his tongue in a thick paste, leaving his throat sandpaper-dry.

“Where is what?” she demanded. But a quick glance at his shoulder kept her from tugging back. He didn’t have to look because he felt it. Blood—thick and warm—seeped from his wound into the bandage, dampening the gauze against his skin.

“The 9 mm. Where is it?” he repeated, pushing his advantage. Whoever she was, she wasn’t smart to let him see her concern.

“In the nightstand drawer. Both the gun and the two clips.” Her temper surfaced, sharpening her tone.

He didn’t take her word for it. Instead, he reached down with his bad arm—grunting at the shock of pain—then opened the drawer with his fingers.

But his actions took effort. Sweat beaded his forehead, his arm shook against her when he grabbed the pistol.

“Let go of my wrist.” The fact she kept her words soft didn’t diminish the anger behind them.

Or the concern.

Immediately, his hand dropped to the bed. More from weakness than her demand, he knew.

“Trust me, if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have saved your butt last night.” She rubbed her wrist.

Jacob resisted nodding, not wanting to set off another wave of dizziness. But he tightened his grip on his pistol. “What am I doing here?” His voice was no more than a croak.

She poured him a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside stand and offered it to him. “Recovering.”

When he didn’t sit up, she lifted the glass to his lips. The cool water hit the back of his throat, immediately soothing the raw, burning heat. After he finished, she placed it back on the nightstand.

“What happened?” he murmured, resting his head back against the pillow. The room tilted a little. That and the water made him queasy.

“You have a gunshot wound in your right shoulder, a forehead laceration and a concussion. You were lucky the bullet only caused minimal damage. We’ve stitched your wounds, but only rest will help the concussion,” she explained, her voice softening once again with concern on the last few words.

First he digested her reaction, then her explanation. A bullet hole meant he’d lost a lot of blood. A hindrance, but not debilitating. “Who is we?”

“My father.” She hesitated over the words, enough to obstruct any natural warmth in them. “He’ll be back in a moment.”

“How did I get shot?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

The sunlight grew brighter, casting beams across the bed. When he grimaced, she crossed the room and pulled the curtains shut.

“And you are?”

She stopped midmotion, her eyes narrowing as they pinned him to the bed. “If you’re trying to be funny, I suggest you work on your timing. Because whatever sense of humor I might have had, you destroyed it about five months ago.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Trust me, the only joke here is on me.” His laugh was no more than a savage burst of air. “So why don’t you tell me who you are and we’ll go from there.”

“Grace. Grace Renne.”

Grace. He took in the serene features, the refined curves of her face that sloped into a slightly upturned nose, a dimpled chin and a mouth too wide to be considered movie-star perfect. But full enough to tempt a man, even a half-dead one like himself, to taste.

“You don’t recognize me?” she asked. Disbelief—no, he corrected, distrust—lay under her question.

So she didn’t trust him? Seemed fair enough, since he didn’t trust her.

“Should I?” Vague images flickered, their edges too slippery to grasp. He focused beyond the disorientation, the fear that slithered from the dark void.

Again, he found nothing.

“Yes.” She turned back to the curtain, took a moment to tuck the edges together until the sun disappeared. “We were friends. Once.”

Her voice trailed in a husky murmur. A familiar bite caught him at the back of the spine. He swore under his breath.

“Once. We’re not friends now?” He wasn’t in the mood for cryptic answers or a prod from his libido. Obviously, his body needed no memories to react to its baser needs.

Sledgehammers beat at his temples, splitting his skull from ear to ear. He used the pain to block out her appeal.

“I’d like to think so,” she responded. “What do you remember?”

“Not sure.” Admitting he remembered nothing was out of the question. Clumsily, he shoved the thick, plaid comforter off him. Immediately the cool air took the heat and itch from his skin. She’d stripped him to his boxer briefs, he realized. Bruises tattooed most of his chest and stomach in dark hues of purple and brown.

He tried again, searching his mind until the headache drove him back to the woman for answers. “A bullet didn’t do all this damage,” he remarked even as the void bore down on him with a suffocating darkness. He took a deep breath to clear his head, paid for it with a sharp slice of pain through his ribs.

“Feels like I’ve been hit by a train.” Anger antagonized the helplessness, but something deeper, more innate, forced a whisper of caution through his mind.

“Someone tried to kill you last night.” She spoke the words quickly, as if simple speed would blur the ugliness of them. “They almost succeeded.”

Frustrated, he swung his legs over to the side of the bed before she could stop him. He fought through the vertigo and nausea. But the effort left him shaking.

“Where are my pants?” If he needed to move quickly, he didn’t want to be naked doing it.

“You don’t need them right now. You have a concussion.” She glanced toward the door. “You need bed rest.”

“What I need is my pants.” He glanced up at her, saw the anxiety that tightened her lips, knit her brow. But once again, it was the fear dimming the light brown of her eyes that bothered him. He hardened himself against it.

The woman was definitely on edge. He tried a different tack. “Now,” he ordered. For a moment, he was tempted to raise the gun, point it at her, but something inside stopped him.

As if she read his mind, she glanced from the weapon to his face, then surprised him by shaking her head. “You won’t shoot me over a pair of pants.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he growled. Right now, for two cents, he’d put a bullet through his own forehead just to relieve the pounding behind it.

“Then go ahead,” she said before she swung around, leaving her back exposed. The movement cost her, he could see it in the rigid spine, the set of her shoulders. He’d scared the hell out of her but she didn’t give an inch.

“Damn it.” She had guts for calling his bluff, he gave her that. “All right, it seems I’m more civilized than I thought.”

When she faced him, she didn’t gloat.

She had smarts, too, he thought sarcastically.

He placed the gun on the nightstand beside him and ran his free hand over his face, ignoring the whiskers that scraped at his palm. “Look, for the time being, I’ll accept the fact that you and I are…friends. But whoever did do this to me is still out there somewhere. And I assume they’ll try again. Agreed?”

“Yes,” she replied, if somewhat reluctantly.

“If I have to face them with no memory and very little strength, I’d at least like to have my pants on when I do it.”

“Your pants and shirt were covered in blood. I burned them in the fireplace.”

When he raised an eyebrow, she let out an exasperated breath. “Fine. There is a change of clothes for you in my closet.”

She waved a hand toward the double doors beside a connecting bathroom. Another good idea, considering the state of his bladder.

But he’d be damned if he’d ask for help. He’d wait a moment for his legs to stop shaking. “Do I usually keep clothes in your closet?” he asked, knowing the answer would explain the pinch of desire he felt moments ago.

“You forgot them here,” Grace explained and glanced toward the open bedroom door.

“And here is?”

“Annapolis.” She paused for a moment, the small knit on her brow deepened. But when she brushed a stray hair from her cheek, the slight tremble of her fingers gave away her nervousness. She tucked her hands in her pockets. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Right now, I don’t even know what the hell my name is.”

“Jacob Lomax.”

He searched his mind for recognition. Found nothing that was familiar. His headache worsened, making it difficult to think. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Since midnight last night.” She glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “Ten hours.”

“Which makes today, what?”

“Tuesday. The twenty-third of September.”

Slowly, he scanned the room, searching. The curtains and comforter, while a yellow plaid, were both trimmed with white lace. The latter was draped over a pine-slotted sleigh bed that sat more than three feet off the floor. Positioned across the room were its matching dresser and mirror.

Jacob studied his image. The blade-sharp cheekbones, the strong, not-quite-square jaw, covered with no more than a day’s worth of whiskers. He rubbed his knuckles against the stubble on one cheek, hollowed more from fatigue he imagined than from pain. A bruise dominated the high forehead, spilled over in a tinge of purple by the deep set eyes of vivid blue.

No flashes of recognition. No threads of familiarity. Nothing more than the image of a stranger staring back.

His focus shifted down. Assorted lotions and powders cluttered the top of the dresser, along with a few scattered papers and a stack of books.

Packing boxes sat opened on the floor. Some were full, others half-empty, but most lay flat, their sides collapsed.

“You’re moving?”

“Yes—”

“You’re awake.” A man entered the room, the black bag in his hand and the stethoscope around his neck identifying him as a doctor.

Grace met the older man halfway across the room. Jacob deliberately said nothing and waited. But his hand shifted closer to the gun beside him.

Her father was on the smaller side of sixty, with a leanness that came with time on a tennis court, not a golf course. His hair was white and well groomed, combed back from a furrowed brow.

After a few murmured words, he patted her shoulder, then approached the bed. “Jacob, my name is Doctor Renne. Grace tells me you don’t remember what happened.”

“That’s right.” Since the older man didn’t ask Jacob if he remembered him, Jacob assumed they’d never met.

“How’s the headache?” Doctor Renne pulled a penlight from his pocket and clicked it on. He shined the light in Jacob’s eyes. First one, then the other. The bright flash set off another series of sledgehammers. He winced. “Bearable.”

“Look up…now down.” Another flash, another jolt of pain.

“How did I get here?”

“Since there was no car, we assumed you walked. Grace discovered you on her porch last night.” The doctor clicked the light off and tucked it back into his inside pocket. “Stay focused on my finger without turning your head.”

Jacob followed the doctor’s finger, this time ignoring the pull of discomfort behind his eyes.

“There’s definite improvement.” The doctor waved his daughter over to the bed. “Grace, I’ll need your help. I want to check his shoulder.”

They eased Jacob back against the headboard. The doctor examined the bandage. “There’s blood. You’re moving around too much. I didn’t spend hours stitching you up for you to take it apart in five minutes.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll remember that,” Jacob commented wryly. “I’d tell you where to send the bill if I knew where I lived.”

“Your driver’s license says Los Angeles, California,” Charles answered. “Seems you’re a long way from home.”

Home? Why did the address, even the word, sound so foreign?

Grace leaned over to adjust his pillow. A light floral scent drifted toward him. For a moment he tried to identify the flower, but came up with nothing. Still the fragrance was distinctive. Feminine. Clean.

“Do you remember a woman named Helene Garrett?” Grace asked without looking up.

Frames of shadow and light passed through Jacob’s mind, but nothing he could zero in on, nothing to bring into focus. “No, but…” Suddenly, a snapshot—vivid but brief—flashed across his mind. A woman laughing. Her cheeks and nose pink from the falling snow. Her smile wide, her eyes brimming with…happiness?

No, he realized suddenly. Not happiness.

Love.

Chapter Five

“You.” Jacob nodded slightly toward Grace, then frowned. “I see you.”

“From last night or this morning?” The doctor asked, then took Jacob’s wrist and checked the younger man’s pulse against his watch.

“From a ski trip.” Jacob closed his eyes, for a moment, trying to bring the image back. “I remember her hovering over me.” When he opened them again, he caught the surprise in the doctor’s features.

The doctor didn’t know about me. Jacob decided not to mention how the scent of her shampoo triggered the memory. Not until he understood more.

“You were skiing? Where?”

Grace nearly groaned aloud at her father’s questions. When she’d found out she was pregnant, she’d told him the father of the baby was no one he knew. Just someone she’d met skiing.

Lifting her chin, she met her father’s glare head-on. “In Aspen. A few times.”

When her father said nothing, her gaze shifted from him to Jacob. But her smile was forced, her teeth on edge. “You fell the first time we were there.” What she didn’t add is that he had faked the fall, pulled her into the snow and spent the next twenty minutes kissing her breathless.

She hugged her arms to her chest and walked over to the window.

She didn’t want to see the anger—the disappointment—emanating from her father.

“Who’s Helene Garrett?” Jacob’s question snapped the thread of tension between father and daughter.

“A business associate of yours. And my partner. Ex-partner. She introduced us,” Grace admitted reluctantly, but she continued to stare out the window. The bay’s waves crashed against the sand and dock, not quite over its temper from the night before. She’d stayed awake all night helping her dad, jumping at every sound the wind and rain made. But no one came after her. No one pounded on the door or jumped from the shadows.

Hide, Grace. Before they kill you. The words floated through her mind for the thousandth time. But was the threat real or a side effect to his amnesia?

“Someone shot and killed Helene last night outside our bar.” Grace could feel Jacob’s eyes on her, studying her like some specimen in a jar. Something he’d done while they dated. Before his habit unnerved her, now it just annoyed her.

Amnesia. Her nerves endings snapped and crackled. She didn’t believe him at first, but that lasted only a few moments. Admittedly, she had expected Jacob to clear up the confusion—the fear—that plagued her all night. How can you fight your enemies when you have no idea who they are? Or hadn’t known they even existed until only hours before?

“And you assume because I took a bullet, I was there, too,” Jacob said coolly.

He wasn’t asking a question, but her father answered anyway. “It’s a logical assumption.”

“Did Helene have a gun on her?” Jacob asked, his tone flat.

“Yes, but you didn’t shoot her. And she didn’t put that bullet in your shoulder, either. The two of you were very close,” Grace insisted, but she didn’t face him. Not yet. Not when her emotions could be seen in her expression. The doubt, the fear. Everything in her being told her he wouldn’t harm Helene. She had to believe that, for now. “You might not remember who you are, but I know what kind of man you are. And you aren’t a murderer.”

“Well, for all our sakes, I hope you’re right,” Jacob replied grimly.

“I am.” Her chin lifted, defiant; she was under control again. She was betting her life on it. More importantly, their child’s life. “How long do you think his memory loss will last, Dad?”

The doctor had remained quiet. She swung around, challenging. “Dad?”

“I can’t give you a definitive answer, Grace. We’re dealing with the brain. Anything can happen. The concussion, while it’s nothing to dismiss, doesn’t appear serious enough to have caused permanent damage. Of course, I would prefer to order him to undergo some tests and a day or more of observation to be sure.” The words came out rigid, censured. “Without them, I believe we’re dealing with more of a dissociative amnesia. A loss of memory due to a shock rather than an injury to the brain.”

“Traumatic as in Helene’s murder,” Jacob replied. “So this is mental rather than physical.”

“In my opinion, yes,” Charles answered, but he prodded Jacob’s head wound, checking it. “If that’s the case, my guess is that your memory will return in bits and pieces over the course of time.” Her father took off his stethoscope and placed it in his bag.

“What span of time?”

“There is no telling how much will come back or how long it will take.”

“He remembered his gun,” Grace commented. “First thing when he woke up.”

Dr. Renne glanced at Jacob, surprised. “You did?”

“Yes.” He flexed his right hand, spreading his fingers. “I know I’ve been trained to use it. Even if I don’t remember the when and the why.” The confidence reverberated deep within him, hollow echoes from an empty void.

“That explains the other marks you’re sporting. Two bullet scars on your back and a six-inch knife scar on your hip.”

Charles Renne moved from the bed, his bag in hand. “Some traits—like combat training or studied languages—will surface instinctively. But most memories are triggered by emotions, reactions, physical evidence. A scent. A song. Any number of things. Experiencing them might eventually help your recollection, but there are no guarantees.”

“He also remembered my name. Last night, before he passed out, he called me by my name,” Grace inserted.

“If that’s true, why don’t I remember you now?” Jacob asked.

“Something must have happened while you were unconscious. Your brain could’ve just shut down from the emotional shock,” Charles said. “If that’s the case, your mind will decide if and when it’s ready to remember.”

“If?”

“There’s always the chance you might not regain any of your memories,” Charles indicated. “Especially those from last night.”

Jacob considered the doctor’s words. The sense of danger intensified after the mention of Helene Garrett. Could he have killed a woman he considered a friend? There was no doubt he had killed before. The certainty of it resonated through him.

Obviously, some things amnesia couldn’t erase.

“I can make arrangements—”

“No, Dad. No arrangements. If he isn’t wanted for murder, he soon will be.”

“He carries a gun, Grace. One that might be a murder weapon. Do realize the implications of that?”

“Do you mean to your reputation or to my safety?”

“For once in your life, don’t be irresponsible,” Charles retorted impatiently. “So far this morning, we’ve been fortunate. It won’t take long for the police to show up on your doorstep. Then what will you do?” Charles’s gaze dropped to her stomach. “It’s not just you I’m concerned for. You’re not thinking about—”

“We agreed last night that it’s not your decision.”

“I’m required by law to report a gunshot wound,” Charles snapped. “If I don’t, I could lose my practice.”

“Do what you have to do, Dad,” she answered, the truth lying bitter against her tongue. It wasn’t the first time she’d defied him. But a few moments earlier, when his eyes moved from her stomach back to her face, it was the first time she’d ever seen fear etched in his features.

“Damn it, Grace. I don’t want to turn this into the same old argument. The man was shot. Your friend was killed. This is not about the fact that once again I’m choosing my practice over—”

“Over what? Me?” Grace rubbed the back of her neck, trying to loosen the tension. Even she couldn’t ask him to go against his oath. “You’re right, Dad.” She sighed. “I put you in this position with my phone call and I’m sorry.” The words were sad, made so by their unending conflict. “But I’m not going to budge on my decision, either. He stays with me until we figure this out.”

Jacob had been about to agree with the doctor. No matter who he was, hiding behind a woman wasn’t acceptable. But the undercurrent of emotion in the room changed his mind. Something wasn’t being said and Jacob wanted to know what it was. Better to wait and get the information from the daughter.

“I’m safer with Jacob. Trust me, Dad.” When he said nothing, she added, “Please.”

Finally, it was Charles who turned away. “The pain is going to get worse. You’re going to need morphine in a short while, Jacob. Enough to take the edge off. I can give you some but I have to go get the prescription filled.” He closed his bag and turned to his daughter. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

The threat was there, Jacob knew. He had less than an hour to find out what the hell was going on.

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