Читать книгу Lovers In Hiding - Susan Kearney - Страница 13

Melinda gasped and swore at the sight of the clip that was as empty as her head was of memories. Clay had tricked her, making her believe she had a reliable weapon when in reality, if she’d pulled the trigger, nothing would have happened.

She should have been scared, but anger simmered through her veins, heating her face in embarrassment at buying his deception. How dared he play with her? Before she could decide her next move, Clay opened the rest-room door. “I heard a noise. You okay?”

“Damn you. No. I’m not okay.” She held out the gun in one hand, the empty clip in the other, wishing she could throw it at his head without fear of retaliation. “You lied to me again.”

“I didn’t.” He reclaimed his weapon and reholstered it somewhere behind his back as casually as if they were discussing whether she preferred coffee or hot chocolate.

“You may never have said the gun was loaded but you implied it.”

He shrugged, male amusement glittering in his eyes. “I couldn’t in good conscience give a loaded gun to a woman who doesn’t know how to use it, now, could I?”

His amusement and logic irritated, like fingernails scratching a blackboard. “You don’t have a conscience.”

“And you are making accusations without all the facts.” He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a Palm Pilot. “Here, I’m breaking the agency rules again, but I think you should read your file.”

Like she knew how to use it! She wasn’t great with technical things. How did she know that? She refused to take the calculator-size gadget from him. “You could have typed anything in there. Why should I believe words on a screen any more than words from your mouth?”

He hesitated, his eyes searching hers and catching some of her frustration. “Why shouldn’t you believe me?”

Again, he’d made a good point, but this time she could talk through the heat of her anger. “Can I phone a CIA office to verify your story?”

“That would jeopardize the security of the operation. As I told you, I’m working undercover.”

“Why?”

A waitress pushed through the door of the ladies’ room and frowned at Clay. “Is there a problem here?”

“I thought she fell,” Clay explained with a rogue-like smile. “I just wanted to make sure she’s all right.”

That he could have heard anything from the hallway that made him think she’d fallen pushed the boundary of common sense. It was much more likely Clay had heard her gasp of surprise at the missing bullets, but the waitress bought his story, delivered with a sincerely apologetic but a virile I’m-a-man-and-must-protect-a-woman smile. Melinda made a mental note to remember he could lie and smile with charming candor at the same time.

Clay escorted her back to their table. While they finished their meal, he explained why she couldn’t call the CIA. “The director thinks someone at the agency may be behind the operation against you.”

She didn’t understand. “Doesn’t the director know? After all, he’s the head of operations.”

“It’s a very large agency with thousands of employees.”

“What are you saying? Exactly?”

“Sometimes factions occur in large organizations. Splits that lead to secret operations.”

“You’re talking about people with their own agendas within the CIA?”

“Their own illegal agendas.”

Like murdering innocent citizens? “And what would they want with me?” She mopped up the last of her clam chowder with a hunk of thick bread and wondered if this story was any more true than the last lie he’d fed her.

“You may have information they need.”

Sure she did.

She chuckled. She couldn’t help it. Soon a full-bellied laugh worked up her throat and out of her mouth. The thought of someone trying to kill her for information when she couldn’t even remember what she had for breakfast was insane.

Clay shook his head at her. “This is serious.”

“I know.” So why couldn’t she stop laughing? She must be hysterical, the logical part of her mind whispered. But the emotional part needed release from the tension. She’d almost drowned. Now she had killers after her. And no memory. To top off her ridiculous predicament, the only person standing between her and the killers was a dangerous-looking hunk in black leather who rode a motorcycle like a professional and had an unsettling way of making her believe in him when all the facts said otherwise. No wonder she was losing it, laughing so hard her eyes brimmed with more tears.

Watching as if he expected her to shake apart into a thousand pieces, Clay patted her on the back. “You aren’t going to start crying again, are you?”

She shook her head and clamped down hard on her laughter by holding her breath. A minute or so later, her laughter abated, but she couldn’t control her edgy nerves or the prickly ball of heat in her gut as Clay watched her with concern.

“I’m okay now,” she assured him, taking a sip of ice water and almost erupting into another spasm of laughter when she thought how ridiculous it was for her to be reassuring him. But she fought back the impulse.

“So your boss sent you to protect me?” she asked.

“That’s part of my job.”

“And the rest?”

“Will have to wait until your memory returns.” He paid their bill, left a healthy tip and walked her to the rear exit of the coffee shop where he’d parked his bike.

She didn’t like his refusing to say more. What was he keeping from her? And why? Deciding to trust him had been difficult enough, and now he had her second-guessing herself. Did he need time to think up more plausible excuses, or did he feel it futile to confide in her until her memory returned?

The worst of the thunderstorm had passed, although dark clouds still blocked the sun, and the air was laden with a muggy humidity that made her clothes stick to her. In the parking lot, stray raindrops rippled oil in black puddles that reminded her of the giant gaps in her memory, gaps that made her so vulnerable. The gusting wind hadn’t died down much, and she appreciated the luxury of dry, new clothes in the chilly air. Still, she was glad she’d left her damp underwear on beneath the clinging red blouse, especially since Clay’s sharp eyes never seemed to miss anything. So she buttoned the denim jacket as Clay looked at her in speculation.

She raised her chin. “What?”

“I should get you to a doctor.”

“Why do I hear a ‘but’ coming on?”

“Because I don’t want to take you to a hospital. Too many questions,” he explained before she could ask. “The more people who see us together, the easier it will be for your pursuers to find you.”

His businesslike tone and his casual mention of danger sent a shiver icing down her spine that had nothing to do with her damp underwear, the chilly wind or the storm clouds still overhead. “We could separate to avoid being seen together.”

Exasperation roughened his tone. “Is that what you want? You want me to abandon you to those guys who ran your car into the Atlantic?”

She looked into his stormy eyes and wondered if he was lying again. She suspected no matter what she said, no matter how much she protested, Clay had no intention of leaving her to face the danger alone. He would follow his own conscience and do what he thought best. He had too much honest determination in the set of his chin, too much stubbornness in his clever eyes, too much character in the slant of his cheekbones to abandon a woman in trouble.

She wondered if a man had ever before made her feel vulnerable, scared and yet oddly on-the-edge-of-her-seat wild at the same time. Maybe it was the direct look in his eyes or the way his eyebrows knitted together in concern, but she found herself believing his story. He wasn’t faking his concern. “This is for real, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Someone’s really trying to kill me?”

“My boss seems to think so.” From a compartment in his bike, he removed a chamois and dried water off the seat with clever hands that had long, strong fingers. He swiped the chrome with a few extra strokes, caressing each curve of the metal, stroking the hard edges and corners with a familiarity that told her he’d repeated this task many times. Finally, he wrung out the chamois and placed it back inside the compartment.

“You still want to hide me?”

“Yes.” He swung his leg over the cycle and handed her a helmet while he put on his own. “But first we need to take you to a doctor.”

She accepted the helmet, had trouble with the chin snap and let him tip up her chin so he could fasten it for her. Their gazes locked and she suddenly felt as if she was falling. “I thought you said—”

“No hospitals. A local doctor’s office would be best.”

“Without an appointment?” He had to be kidding. He obviously didn’t live around here, where a typical wait for a consultation took one to two hours—and that was just to get inside the examination room.

Leaving the details to him and wondering why she could remember trivia like the waiting time in a doctor’s office and not the important facts about her life, she swung onto the back of the bike. As at ease with her decision to go with Clay as she was with her position behind him on the black leather seat, she placed her feet on the footrests. Melinda might not have her memory, but she still had her instincts—instincts that told her this man with his hard edges and tempestuous eyes would make a good protector.

Melinda twisted her fingers through Clay’s belt and prayed she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life.

CLAY NEEDED TO DITCH his Harley. The men back on the beach would have called for backup and would be searching the area by now. On his bike, he and Melinda were simply too conspicuous. He hoped that after he’d parked behind the coffee shop no one had found his bike, disabled the alarm and hidden a bug that would transmit a signal for a tail to follow them. Without a thorough inspection, he couldn’t be sure they’d gotten away from any interested observers, but he refused to take additional time to search, not when Melinda had fought such a difficult battle deciding whether to trust him. He’d seen her eyes mirroring her indecision, and he felt relief that she’d decided to cooperate.