Читать книгу Secret Agent, Secret Father - Donna Young - Страница 11

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Tell him what?” Jacob asked.

“That you won’t take the morphine he’s bringing back.”

She was right, of course. He couldn’t risk being doped up if trouble started. “For a person who doesn’t know me, you understand me pretty well,” he commented dryly.

“One doesn’t discount the other,” she countered. Her gazed drifted over his face. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Really?” Jacob’s mouth twisted derisively. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yes, well—”

“I didn’t tell him I didn’t want the morphine because I thought you needed some breathing room,” he lied. “But I agree with your father, Grace.”

“A man you just met.”

“Technically, I’ve just met you, too.”

Her body grew rigid. “You remembered Aspen.”

He’d hurt her with his comment. A vulnerability he could take advantage of, if needed. “I stand corrected.”

“For the record, I agree with my father, too.” At Jacob’s raised eyebrow, she added, “To a certain point. But that doesn’t mean I can do what he wants. We need to get you out of here before he gets back.”

“We?”

“I have to find out what happened last night and you’re my only lead to the answers.”

“I thought I was to have bed rest.”

“I couldn’t risk his overhearing anything else,” she said impatiently. “He would’ve stopped us. You’re not safe here.”

“What if I don’t ever remember, Grace?” When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Why not let the police handle it?”

“They can’t be trusted. Not yet. Not until we find out who killed Helene. Don’t you see?”

“If I remember right, the police are the ones who find murderers.”

Her head snapped up, and what he saw was genuine fear. “Not if they’ve already decided on a suspect.”

“Me.” When he tried to maneuver his feet to the floor, she placed a hand against his good shoulder.

“Please, let me help you. If you move too fast, you could break open the stitching.” Before he could stop them, her fingers drifted across his skin.

He caught her wrist, but this time with gentle fingers. His intent was to stop her, but the action brought her closer.

He caught her scent, breathed it in. Without thought, his thumb skimmed her pulse. When it jumped, his did, too. Slowly, he pulled her toward him until her hand rested against his chest. Her eyes met his and what he saw made him stop. The desire was there, but more than that, he saw panic.

He let her go. “I’m not so weak I can’t put a pair of pants on.”

Pink flushed her cheeks, but from embarrassment or temper, he wasn’t sure.

She stepped back, letting her hands drop to her sides, but not before she made them into fists.

Temper, then.

When she walked to the closet, her actions were fluid, almost regal. And when she yanked open the door, he almost smiled.

She skimmed the hangers with her hand, pulled out a pair of slacks and a sweater. Judging from the high-end material of the charcoal V-neck sweater and the black chino slacks, he wasn’t hurting for money.

“These should do.”

“I guess they will.” When he reached to take the hangers from her, pain exploded in his shoulder. He swore and grabbed at his arm, locking it to his side. “I’m going to need your car.”

She tossed the clothes onto the corner of the bed. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not in any condition to drive.”

He had to give the woman credit; she did snooty with a certain sex appeal.

“You’re going to need someone to get you around.”

Pointedly, he glanced at his gun. “I have a feeling I’m pretty self-sufficient.”

But what he wasn’t was flush. He needed cash.

Money, he knew, would open many more doors. “Did I have a wallet?”

She picked a slim, brown wallet from the dresser and handed it to him. “There’s almost a thousand dollars, a few credit cards and your driver’s license in there.”

Instead of opening the billfold, Jacob laid it on the bed beside him. He’d search through it after she left the room.

“Now, do you want my help dressing?”

“No, I can handle it myself.” He was in no mood to deal with the fluttery touch of her hands against him again.

“There’s a brand-new toothbrush in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet and fresh towels on the rack,” she noted, then walked over and turned on the bathroom light for him. “You’re not strong enough yet to take a shower. And even if you think you are, you can’t risk getting your bandages wet.”

“I’ll manage.” He leaned back against the headboard and studied her through half-closed eyes.

“You didn’t take me to the hospital because I’d be vulnerable.” The fear was back with his statement, tightening her features, only for a heartbeat but long enough for him to see. And understand.

“Running will only protect me for so long. And like your father said, puts you at risk whether you’re with me or not.”

“I told you I want answers. And once your memory returns I’ll get them,” she replied. “And I’m hoping neither of us will need protection.”

“About my other scars.” When her eyebrow lifted in question, he clarified. “You wouldn’t know how I acquired them, would you?”

“No. We were never that close,” she replied evenly. But at what cost, he thought.

“Then why is it that little bits I am remembering seem to revolve around you?” Even without her reaction to him a few minutes prior, his instincts were telling him they’d been intimate. The tightening of his groin, the itch at the base of his spine, told him that if he didn’t watch himself, they just might be again.

“Maybe because I knew Helene.”

“Maybe,” he replied, but he didn’t believe it. “Do you have a picture of her?”

“Yes.” She went to her dresser and slid open the top drawer. After a moment of digging, she pulled out a newspaper photo. She crossed the room and gave it to Jacob. “This was taken the day we opened The Tens. Our bar. Her bar,” she corrected, then sighed. “Actually, I have no idea whose bar it is now.”

“We need to find out,” he decided. “Could be the new owner wanted a premature switching of titles and I got in the way.” He studied the picture. It was a waist-to-head shot. Even with that, Jacob could tell the woman was tall and on the athletic side but not enough to detract from her overall femininity. He glanced at the deep cut of the buttoned jacket with no blouse to ruin the sleek, cool effect of the navy business suit.

One of Helene’s arms was casually looped around Grace’s shoulders. Her hair was a deep red, spiked softly around the sharp angles of her cheeks, emphasizing a long nose, its feminine point.

“Do you recognize her?”

“No,” he said, taking one last look before glancing up. “Can I keep this?”

When she nodded, he placed it by his wallet.

“Do you need help to the bathroom?”

He contemplated the wide span of hardwood floor between him and the bathroom door. “I can manage,” he said and hoped he was right.

“Then I’ll make you some toast. And some coffee.” She turned to leave.

He waited until she reached the door. “Grace. Were you telling the truth earlier? Are you absolutely sure I didn’t kill Helene?”

She hesitated for a moment, her hand clenched on the doorknob. “I’m not absolutely sure of anything. Least of all, you.”

JACOB COULDN’T SAY he felt better, but he felt more human after cleaning up and putting on clean clothes. The itch was off his skin and his stomach had settled. His shoulder and head still throbbed, but he managed to find some aspirin in her cabinet. He’d found a razor and new blades also, but decided against a shave. No use causing more damage with a shaky hand.

Like the bedroom, the bath had a decidedly feminine appeal. The combination hardwood floor and bead-board paneling presented a casual coziness that was only emphasized by a pedestal sink, distressed vanity and an eclectic collection of candles.

Curious, Jacob grabbed the shampoo from the corner of the bathtub. He took a whiff, then read the bottle. Honeysuckle.

A small mystery solved.

For the first time, he simply focused on the facts of his situation and systematically sorted through what he’d learned over the last half hour.

In his mind, he saw flashes of pictures. From parks to fields to coliseums. He couldn’t bring names to mind, or locations. He couldn’t say if he’d been to these locations or merely seen them in photos or on television. They held no connection to him on any level.

The only thing, only person who seemed familiar to him was Grace.

A lead—his only instinctive lead. One he planned on pursuing.

The coffee aroma hit him as he stepped out of the bedroom. “Smells good.”

The neutral colors, the rustic pine floors triggered no memories, but this time he hadn’t expected them to. “How often have I been here?”

“Many times. Too many to count.”

The walk to the kitchen caused his legs to shake. Enough that he was grateful for the stool when he slid onto it.

“Go ahead and have some while I get things together.” She placed a travel mug in front of him, along with a plate with toast. “You liked your coffee black.”

He lifted the mug. “Let’s see if I still do.” When he took a swig, the heat of it punched him in the belly. Enough to make him grunt and draw a slanted look from Grace. “It’s good. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She grabbed two chocolate chip cookies from a nearby plate.

“So, do you and your father disagree often?”

“No more often than most fathers and daughters.” She came around the counter and leaned a hip against the side. “I turned on the news while you were getting dressed and checked my computer. The shooting wasn’t mentioned on either.”

“You just changed the subject.”

“You noticed.” She took a bite of her cookie, chewed, then waved the remaining piece like a pointer. “Helene’s death should have made the morning news.”

“A murder would be hard to keep out of the press,” he reasoned, even as a cookie crumb settled on her cheek, distracting him. “But the police have done it before.”

Giving in to the urge, he leaned in and brushed the crumb away with the pad of his thumb. But instead of keeping the touch light, the gesture simple, he found himself cupping her face in his palm—told himself that he was only searching for memories. Answers.

“Jacob—”

“Shh.” His thumb stopped her mouth, midmotion, leaving her lips slightly parted. He slipped between to the warm smooth touch of her teeth, felt her intake of breath rush over his skin—

The doorbell sounded, jolting them both apart.

Jacob swore, low and mean. His body went rigid, his hand already reaching for the gun in his back waistband. “Your father?”

“He wouldn’t ring the bell,” she answered, trying to get her heart back down from her throat. Not from the interruption but from the realization that in another minute, probably less if she were honest, she’d have been in Jacob’s arms.

“Is your car out front?”

“Yes. It’s parked under my carport.”

“Then you’d better answer.” Jacob’s face turned cold, almost savage. The fact he reached for his gun only fed her trepidation.

“Leave my plate. It will look like you’re eating breakfast alone. I’ll wait in the bedroom,” he whispered while he checked his clip. “But I’ll be watching, so no worries.” This time when he cupped her cheek, it was for reassurance. “You’ll be okay. Just stay calm.”

After Jacob disappeared into the bedroom, she walked slowly to the front door.

A second chime rang out just as she peered through the peephole. Two men stood on her front porch, both dressed in navy-blue suits, both holding badges in their hand. The law enforcement insignias glared in the sunlight.