Читать книгу Secret Agent, Secret Father - Donna Young - Страница 9

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.