Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Stolen Memory

Stolen Memory
Virginia Kantra


He was as impressive in person as he was to read about in the papers. Simon Ford exuded his trademark power and intelligence…despite having amnesia. For small-town police officer Laura Baker, there were countless reasons to find Simon's attacker, but one that landed her off the case: Her father was the prime suspect.But Simon wanted her help, and Laura suspected that Simon always got what he wanted. Despite herself, she agreed to keep his memory loss a secret and to fake intimacy to explain her closeness and her questions. Yet when the line between ruse and reality became blurred, Laura knew she'd let in danger of a different kind….









She could be mistaking sex for love.


That would be female. Foolish. Like her. She had known Simon for less than two weeks. Maybe she was letting loss and loneliness and incredible sex blind her not only to what she had to do but to what she really felt.

But she didn’t think so.

She hadn’t just fallen for a hunky Mensa millionaire. Okay, the incredible body and amazing mind were a definite plus. But she liked his integrity, his perception, his calm competence and cool humor. She admired the way he took care of others who only wanted to take from him.

No way was she joining their ranks.

She’d come back to the island with Simon tonight because he wasn’t safe alone. But her focus had to be on this case. Her self-respect depended on it.

And so could his life.




Stolen Memory

Virginia Kantra





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




VIRGINIA KANTRA


credits her enthusiasm for strong heroes and courageous heroines to a childhood spent devouring fairy tales. A four-time Romance Writers of America RITA


Award finalist, she has won numerous writing awards, including two National Readers’ Choice Awards.

Virginia is married to her college sweetheart, a musician disguised as the owner of a coffeehouse. They make their home in North Carolina with three teenagers, two cats, a dog and various blue-tailed lizards that live under the siding of their house. Her favorite thing to make for dinner? Reservations.

She loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at VirginiaKantra@aol.com or c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY, 10279.


Special thanks to Lt. A. J. Carter, Criminal Investigation, Durham Police Department; to Pam Baustian and Melissa McClone; and, always, to Michael.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17




Chapter 1


No man is an island.

But reclusive inventor Simon Ford could afford to buy one. He’d built his modern-day castle on a limestone cliff in the middle of a lake, two miles off-shore from the town of Eden, Illinois.

Detective Laura Baker didn’t want to be impressed by Ford’s mansion or his money. Which was too bad, because from the inside his multimillion-dollar house was even more imposing than it had looked from the water. She followed Ford’s squat, muscled butler—who had a butler anymore? Besides maybe Batman—across the polished stone floor. Soaring wood, jutting stone and wide panes of glass framed the views and let in the light.

Jeez. Her entire apartment would fit inside Ford’s foyer.

Laura resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her uniform pants and stuffed them in her pockets instead. This could be considered a crime scene. She wasn’t about to contaminate it by touching anything. Besides, the butler guy was watching her like he expected her to make a grab for the family silver or something.

He lumbered in front of her to a broad, shallow staircase that spilled down to a room lined with windows and furnished in natural woods and neutrals. A massive fireplace split the view. The only spot of color in the room, a violent collision of oranges, purples and reds over the mantel, seemed jarringly out of place.

Silhouetted against the sparkling lake was a big, dark, solitary figure. Ford?

Something about him—the powerful line of his back, maybe, or the rigid set of his shoulders—brought Laura to attention. Beneath her heavy Kevlar vest, her heart beat faster.

Stupid. She was not impressed, she reminded herself. She would not be intimidated. She touched her elbow to the gun at her waist for reassurance.

Her guide stopped at the top of the stairs and scowled. “The police are here.”

“Thank you, Quinn.” The tall figure didn’t turn around. “I’ll call you when we’re done.”

Quinn shot Laura a resentful look. She returned it blandly. As the only female on Eden’s small police force, she was used to men who considered her presence an invasion of their turf.

“Right,” Quinn said, and stomped away.

Ford pivoted from the glass. His head lifted sharply. “You’re not Chief Denko.”

Good deduction. The man should have been a detective.

“Detective Baker,” Laura said.

“Simon Ford.” He surveyed her a moment, silently. With the light behind him, she couldn’t see his face.

A disadvantage, she thought, and wondered if he’d positioned himself deliberately.

“I asked for Chief Denko,” he said.

And whatever the almighty Simon Ford asked for, Laura gathered from that deep, abrupt voice, the almighty Simon Ford got.

Except this time.

She kept her cop mask firmly in place. “It’s Memorial Day weekend, Mr. Ford. We see a lot of traffic and handle a lot of calls over the holidays.” Which you would know if you ever bothered to get involved in the community. “Chief Denko was called to an accident scene.”

A pileup on Highway 12 that had pulled patrol cars and snarled traffic for miles. She was missing all the excitement.

“But you are a detective?”

“That’s right,” she said, doing her best not to sound defensive. Her rank was very new. She’d completed her training with the district attorney’s office in Fox Hole less than six months ago.

“Then why are you in uniform?”

Laura frowned. Somehow this interview had gotten turned around. He shouldn’t be the one asking questions.

“In a small department like ours, detectives have to be prepared to do double duty. And most tourists respond better to an officer in uniform.” Not that her uniform seemed to be having a similar effect on Ford. She cleared her throat. “The dispatcher said you had a situation out here?”

“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate.

She waited. Maybe now that Ford had a detective on site, he regretted calling. It happened. Somebody claimed an item was stolen and then discovered they’d misplaced it. Or got pissed off at a neighbor’s kids and then relented. A lot of police work wasn’t solving crimes but soothing tempers. Civil assists, the chief called them, but he was adamant his officers respond to every call with professional attention.

“You want to tell me about it?” Laura invited.

Ford studied her, still with his back to the light. And then he said, abruptly, “My lab was broken into.”

All righty. Now they were getting somewhere. Break-ins were unfortunately common at the luxury homes around the lake. Laura could deal with a break-in. Although any local punk who breached Ford’s island fortress had to be crazy or lucky or both.

She took out her notebook, grateful to have something to do with her hands. “Here?”

Ford inclined his head. “Downstairs.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

She lifted her pen. “And you’ve just now discovered it?”

“No. I was here when it occurred.”

She felt her brows pull together and consciously smoothed her expression. “Why don’t you explain to me what happened,” she said.

“Why don’t we sit down first,” Ford countered. He took a step forward, into the light from a side window, so that she got her first good look at his face.

Oh, boy. Oh, man. She felt the punch of sexual attraction like a blow to her midsection. This was Simon Ford? The geeky inventor? The soft-living millionaire?

It just went to show her the chief was right. A good detective should never theorize ahead of her facts.

He looked like something out of her adolescent fantasies, a warrior poet or a priest king. Not that Laura believed in fairy tales anymore. His face was cold, strong and striking. Guarded, she thought. His dark hair—longer than she usually liked—fell over his forehead. His eyes were cool as rain.

They narrowed on her, and she felt again that odd prickle like a warning on the back of her neck. “Have we met?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure? You look…”

She didn’t want to think about how she looked with her ball cap jammed over her untidy braid and sweat stains under her arms. The boat ride over had been windy and rough.

“Familiar?” she provided.

“No. As if you recognized me.”

“Nope.” She shook her head. From another man she might have suspected a pickup line. But Ford’s voice was perfectly dispassionate. His face gave nothing away. “Sorry.”

He continued to study her with those disconcertingly light gray eyes, plainly unconvinced.

Annoyance sharpened her voice. “Look, if we’d met, you’d remember.”

“Not necessarily.”

They hardly ran in the same circles. Hell, they barely inhabited the same town. Ford kept himself to himself. He even did his grocery shopping in Chicago, well over an hour away. It hadn’t endeared him any to the local merchants.

“You have a problem with your memory?” Laura asked dryly.

Ford smiled a small, wintry smile. “Actually, yes. I do.”

Her eyes widened. She had to watch her mouth. She was off balance, reacting emotionally, like some stupid traffic officer letting a pretty woman flirt her way out of a ticket.

There was no quicker way for a cop to get into trouble.

“Maybe we better sit down after all,” she said, making a grab for the situation. “And you can tell me why you called.”



Could he? Simon wondered.

Doubt hammered inside his chest and seized his head in a vise. He’d expected a seasoned police chief to respond to his call, not this young, wary female. He didn’t want her. But he was attracted to her.

Was she his type? He didn’t even know. She was as lean and graceful as a greyhound, with a narrow, intense face and a wide, mobile mouth. Her light brown gaze was clear and direct.

She looked honest. She might even be competent. But he couldn’t rely on his own judgment. For all he knew, he was a lousy judge of character.

He hesitated, his head pounding.

Her mouth quirked. “Or we can stand.”

Her humor tipped the scales in her favor. He couldn’t trust anyone who worked for him. Why not a total stranger?

“We’ll sit,” he said.

He lowered himself cautiously onto one of the cordovan leather couches flanking the fireplace. Sudden movement, he’d discovered, hurt his head.

Detective Baker sat, too, her back straight beneath her bulky vest and ugly uniform.

Simon opened his mouth. But he still didn’t know how to begin.

His vacillation, his helplessness, infuriated him. Was he always like this? God, he hoped not.

“So.” Detective Baker regarded him expectantly, her notebook open on her knee. “You called the station.”

And now he was questioning even the wisdom of that idea.

But after more than twenty-four hours of groping and bumbling in a fog, Simon had reluctantly acknowledged he couldn’t cope on his own. He needed professional help.

Fear clawed him. Yeah, like a psychiatrist.

He took a deep breath for calm. “On Wednesday night, I left the corporate headquarters in Chicago and came here.”

Detective Baker nodded. “Alone?”

“No, I was accompanied by one of my security staff.” Or so he’d been told. “We left the office at seven, which means we would have arrived on the island no later than seven-thirty.”

Her brows arched. “You must have broken some speed limits.”

He didn’t smile. “We took the company helicopter.” He’d been told that, too.

“I’ve seen it.” She scribbled something. “Who was your pilot?”

“I flew myself.” He told himself he wasn’t trying to impress her. Just as well, because her expression never flickered.

“Okay, so you got here at seven-thirty and found…what?”

Simon teetered on the edge of self-revelation, an enormous chasm that yawned at his feet and threatened to swallow him.

He took a step back. “Everything must have been in order then. I know I made dinner.” There had been dishes in the dishwasher the next morning and fresh vegetables in the stainless-steel refrigerator.

“And then?”

“I went down to the lab.”

“Did you have a reason?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did something attract your attention?”

“I don’t know.” He closed his teeth on the thin edge of desperation he heard fracturing his voice. “I don’t think so. I may simply have intended to get some work done after dinner.”

“‘May have.’”

“My company—Lumen Corp—has several new projects in development. Laser research.” He could say that with some certainty now. He’d spent hours yesterday fighting off pain and despair, searching for clues on the Internet and in the house, struggling to make sense of the equipment and files downstairs. The scope of his loss still stunned him. He needed to trust her, to tell her exactly how serious his situation was. But pride and panic constricted his chest and tightened his throat. “I must have been working on one of them when I was interrupted.”

“‘Interrupted,’” she repeated without inflection.

It wasn’t quite a question. It stopped short of actual challenge. But he was insecure enough to bristle. “I presume so.”

He was relieved when she appeared to let it go. “Okay. So, you were downstairs working in your lab and…what happened?”

His brief relief evaporated. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. I must have lost consciousness when I was attacked. When I came to, I was staring up at the ceiling with a bump on my head and a whopping big headache.”

“Mr. Ford.” Her voice was soothing. Her eyes were sharp. “Is it possible you fell? It was late. You mentioned you’d had a meal, maybe some wine…”

Simon’s hands curled into fists. If he shouted at her, she’d really think he was a nut job. “The bump is on the side of my skull, Detective.” He slid his fingers into the hair above his ear to show her. “I was lying on my back.”

“But you don’t remember how you got there.”

“No.” He couldn’t delay confession any longer. He drew another deep breath. “I don’t remember anything around the time of the attack.”

He didn’t remember anything, period.

Oh, he had some basic stuff down. He could dress and feed himself, turn on the lights and dishwasher. If he didn’t stop to analyze how he did it, he could even operate the TV and computer.

But he had no knowledge of who he was or what he did or how the hell he was supposed to continue doing it.

The detective blinked, once. “You mean you have amnesia?”

She didn’t believe him. “Amnesia can be a product of head trauma,” Simon said stiffly.

“Is that what your doctor told you?”

“No. I looked it up on the Internet.”

His computer, thank God, had been up and running when he’d searched his office. He hadn’t dared to turn it off, since he had no idea if his files were password protected.

She laid her pen flat on her notebook. “Mr. Ford, I’ll be happy to take your statement. I can take a look around, talk to your security people, check for signs of forced entry. You have surveillance cameras, right? But I really think you need to see a doctor.”

She didn’t understand.

He hadn’t explained himself clearly.

Frustration made him abrupt. “That’s the last thing I need.”

“Excuse me?”

“I told you, my company is in the process of launching new laser technology. I can’t have my competitors—I can’t have people in my own company—thinking I’ve lost it.”

“But doctor/patient privilege—”

“It would still get out I’d seen a doctor. Someone is bound to ask why. I can’t afford any weakness.”

“Why not?”

She probably thought the bump on the head had made him paranoid. But he wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. He felt the sharp certainty of threat, the only tangible guidepost in the fog that was his brain.

And he couldn’t explain that to her without sounding even more crazy.

“Look,” he said, using really basic concepts and small words she could understand, “Wednesday night somebody got into my lab and hit me over the head and robbed me.”

“You were robbed.”

She was doing that echo thing again.

Simon set his jaw. “Yes.”

“Are you sure? I mean, if you can’t remember…”

“The safe was open,” he snapped.

Now—finally!—she picked up her pen. “And do you have a record of the safe’s contents?” she asked, still plainly humoring him.

“There’s got to be a list somewhere.” His notes were precise and methodical. His desk was ruthlessly systematized, his bedroom uncluttered. Everything he’d seen pointed to his being an orderly, organized, painstaking individual. He must have kept an inventory of something as important as the contents of his safe. He just hadn’t found it yet.

“It would help if you could locate it,” said the detective practically. “Where was your security guard during this attack and robbery?”

He stared at her.

“You said he came up with you from Chicago,” she reminded him gently. “He showed me in. Mr. Quinn?”

Simon shook his head, forgetting his resolution to avoid sudden movements. Pain momentarily grayed his vision and robbed him of breath.

When he could speak again, he said, “Not Quinn. Quinn Brown is my household manager. Apparently he was visiting his daughter for a few days. He arrived yesterday.”

Simon calculated he’d been alone at that point for almost twenty-four hours and conscious for five or six. He hadn’t recognized his employee’s face. He hadn’t recognized his own name, either, when Quinn had called him, except that it had appeared on the various notes and papers he’d found.

It had been a relief, he remembered, to realize that it was his name, that this must be his house.

Some sense of self-preservation, a horror of weakness or perception of danger, had kept him from confessing his confusion and utter helplessness to his household manager.

The same instinct made him cautious now.

“The guard was supposed to stay at the house until Quinn returned. But when Quinn came to work, no one was here.”

Detective Baker frowned. “Except you.”

Simon inclined his head in careful acknowledgment. “Except me.”

She tapped her pen on her notebook. “Doors and windows?”

At least she appeared to be taking him seriously. “Locked. And the security system in the house was on.”

“The safe?”

“Open. Either someone else knew the combination—which seems unlikely—or I opened it myself. I could have been putting away my notes for the day when I was interrupted.”

“I’ll take a look at it,” she said. “This other guard—have you tried to reach him? Who’s in charge of your company security?”

He didn’t know. “I thought it best to contact the police.”

She caught his implication immediately. “You think it was an inside job.”

Simon was grateful for her quick understanding. But he didn’t answer her directly. “I don’t know.”

“Isn’t there anyone you can trust?”

He didn’t know that either. He’d searched the office and the master bedroom for clues. Nothing. On his dresser sat a framed photo of a teenage girl with a row of silver earrings whose eyes were the same shape as the ones he saw in his mirror. His daughter? But then why didn’t she live with him? There were several bedrooms upstairs, but no magazines, no makeup, no feminine clutter. Only a bikini, forgotten in the back of a drawer, and some half-empty bottles of shampoo and conditioner stashed under a sink suggested he sometimes had visitors.

His apparent isolation was frightening. He must have friends and family. Perhaps a woman? But they had left no trace in his life.

What kind of a man was he?

The detective was still waiting for his answer, watching him with what was certainly only professional concern in her eyes. Or impatience.

Isn’t there anyone you can trust?

He wanted to trust her. But was that because she was trustworthy or because he was desperate for connection, eager to imprint on the first person he saw like a baby duck? The idea revolted him.

“That’s what we need to find out,” he said.

She tilted her head. “That’s going to be tough if you can’t remember who attacked you.”

Even tougher if he didn’t tell her the whole truth. But how could he?

“Amnesia is usually a temporary condition,” he offered instead.

“How temporary?”

She was persistent. He admired that, even if it was inconvenient. He shrugged. “A few seconds to a few weeks. I have been able to recall everything since I regained consciousness. My short-term memory is unaffected.”

“Great. So if I come back tomorrow you’ll recognize me.”

Startled, he met her gaze. Her mouth indented at the corners. She was joking, he realized in relief. He smiled back cautiously.

“So, this guard, the one who came with you from Chicago…” Detective Baker flipped a page in her notebook, all business again. “What was his name?”

“Swirsky.” It had meant nothing to him when Quinn had told him. “Pete Swirsky.”

Her notebook slid from her knee and hit the floor with a crack. She leaned forward to pick it up. When she straightened at last, her face was a deep, unbecoming red.

“Is anything the matter?” Simon asked.

“I… No, I…” She fussed with the crumpled pages on her lap. “Sorry.”

He sat back, fascinated by the sudden change in her demeanor. “Take your time.”

“I’m fine,” she said, a little too sharply. “He’s missing, you said?”

“He wasn’t here when Quinn returned. I don’t know when—or how—he left.”

“Have to be by boat. Someone may have seen him. Anyway, since he works for you it shouldn’t be much trouble to track him down.” Her voice was brisk and practical. But her fingers, as she smoothed the pages of her notebook, trembled slightly. “In the meantime, I’ll need a statement from Mr. Brown and a look at your lab. Has anyone been in there since your…accident?”

Accident? How about “attack”? Or “assault”? Some other a-word that indicated she’d accepted his story.

But maybe he was hoping for too much. At least she was going to investigate.

Which raised another problem.

“As far as I know, I’m the only one with any reason to go in there.”

Her brows flicked up. “Really? Who mops your floors?”

He didn’t know. “A cleaning service?”

“Right.” She made another note. “I’ll talk to Mr. Brown.”

Despite her lack of inflection, Simon felt dismissed. Disparaged. Why? Because his memory loss made him useless to her? Or because he hadn’t considered something so basic as the people who must work for him?

“What will you tell him?” he asked.

“I’ll want to know who cleans for you. What their schedule is, if they have keys to the house and the lab. Stuff like that.”

“I meant, what are you going to tell him about me?”

“About your memory loss.”

He liked that she met his gaze directly. “Yes.”

“Well… It’s not a crime to forget things. Otherwise, I’d have to arrest half the population of the Sunset Pines Retirement Community.” He was pretty sure this time she was kidding. “You really think it would hurt your business if it got out you had this temporary amnesia thing?”

“Yes,” he said baldly. “The value of this company depends on my research ability. Mental aberration is not reassuring to stockholders.”

“You have bigger worries right now than your investors. Once it gets out that you’re walking around, whoever attacked you is going to worry you’ll identify him.”

If was the first sign she’d given that she believed he’d been attacked. Something inside Simon relaxed.

“I was struck on the side of the head, probably as I was turning around,” he offered. “It’s likely I never saw him.”

“He may not care. He hit you once. Do you really want to risk him coming back to finish the job?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

She scowled. “Don’t take too many. You sure you won’t see a doctor?”

“Sure.”

“Well, it’s your—”

He was almost certain she was going to say “funeral.”

“—skull,” she said. “Concussions can tire you out, though. You should try to get plenty of rest.”

Her concern, however professional, made Simon feel slightly less isolated. He had been up most of last night trying to find an answer to the puzzles that plagued him. The night before he’d spent lying on the cold floor of the lab. He was strained, exhausted and aching in every muscle.

But of course he couldn’t tell her that.

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I will.”

She hesitated as if she wanted to say something more and then shrugged. “I left my field kit on the boat. I’ll go get it, and then I’ll talk to your guy, Brown, and poke around.”

He watched her slim, straight figure climb the stairs and cross the echoing hall. She was leaving. He was alone.

Simon had the uncomfortable sense he was often alone.

But this time, this once, he didn’t like it at all.




Chapter 2


“I don’t know what to think,” Laura said honestly to her boss when he called her into his office late the following day. It was a Saturday, but they both were working. Chief Denko, because his personal life was admirably organized, and Laura, because it was her shift and she had no personal life.

“Ford definitely has a bump on the head,” she continued. “But I didn’t find any tool marks or fingerprints to support his claim of a break-in. We don’t even know for sure that a crime took place. He could have emptied the safe himself as part of an insurance scam.”

She didn’t mention Ford’s claim, that the bump on his head had affected his brain.

And as for Ford’s suspicion that it was an inside job, that the guard that night had attacked and robbed him before disappearing… Her stomach tied itself in knots. Nope, she definitely didn’t want to go there.

Not that she had a choice. She had a duty. And Police Chief Jarek Denko would demand a complete and impartial investigation in any case.

“Has Ford filed an insurance claim?” he asked.

“No,” Laura admitted.

Chief Denko regarded her levelly from the other side of his utilitarian gray metal desk, his hands folded on the stained blotter. The Eden town council didn’t believe in spending money on fancy furniture for its public servants. But somehow they’d scraped together enough sense and an appropriate salary to hire Denko, a former homicide detective from Chicago’s notorious Area 3, as their chief of police.

After the last two Bozos who’d held that the position, Laura respected the lean, harsh-featured police chief enormously. She dreaded letting him down.

Denko steepled his fingers. “No signs of forced entry, you said?”

“No, sir.”

“Who has keys to the house?”

“No keys. Entry is controlled by magnetic passcards and internal bolts operating on a tiered code system. Only the highest access codes get you into the house itself.”

“And who has those codes?”

“I’ve requested a complete list from the security company. But the guy on the phone said the master passcards were reserved for security personnel and Ford himself.”

Denko tapped the pages on the blotter in front of him. “Your report says the tapes are missing from the security cameras. They weren’t simply disabled?”

Laura shook her head. “Vandalizing the cameras would have set off the alarm automatically. So either the intruder knew where the cameras were and how they operated, or there was no intruder and someone on the inside swiped the tapes to avoid being identified.”

“Ford?” Denko suggested. “That would fit your insurance fraud theory.”

But once her chief put it into words, Laura found she didn’t like her theory anymore.

Isn’t there anyone you can trust?

That’s what we need to find out.

Simon Ford had trusted her. Or he was playing her for a fool. Neither possibility sat comfortably with her right now.

“Maybe the tapes aren’t missing. Maybe his security people forgot to load the cameras,” she offered without conviction.

Denko raised his eyebrows. “The same day Ford calls to report a break-in? But you can ask, by all means. Who installed his security system?”

“A private contractor—Executive Corporate Industrial Protection.”

“E.C.I.P.?”

“You’ve heard of them?” She shouldn’t be surprised. In Illinois law enforcement, Jarek Denko was like God, all-knowing and damn near all-powerful.

“They hire a lot of ex-cops,” he explained with a slight smile. “Military, too. Do they provide the personnel or just the system?”

“According to Quinn Brown, they provide complete security for Lumen Corp. That includes the house and the Chicago headquarters.”

“So the bodyguard, Brown, is one of theirs?”

“Household manager, sir. And no. He reports directly to Ford. He’s been with him for the past nine years. Took a couple of days off to visit his daughter. The timing is suspicious, but we can confirm his alibi easily enough.”

“What about the other man? Swirsky? Do you have a lead on him yet?”

Her stomach twisted again like wet rope. Her palms were damp. “He is an E.C.I.P. employee. He was scheduled to go on vacation next week. The company is cooperating, but I haven’t been able to reach him by phone yet. I thought I’d try him at his apartment in Chicago.”

“Family?” Denko asked.

She hesitated, her heart thumping. “Swirsky has a son living in Chicago. I left a message, but he hasn’t returned my call yet.”

“All right. Let me know when you hear something. And get that list of the safe’s contents from Ford.” Denko gave her a brief nod and pulled another file toward him.

She was dismissed.

Laura cleared her throat. “There’s, uh, one other thing you should probably know that’s not in my report.”

The chief looked up from his file.

“Peter Swirsky…the missing guard?” She braced her shoulders. “He’s my father.”

Denko froze. “The hell he is.”

She rushed to explain. “It’s not a conflict of interest. We haven’t spoken in years. I wouldn’t even have brought it up, except—”

“Except if you hadn’t and I found out about it, I’d have your ass,” Denko said.

She winced. “I can promise you, it won’t affect my ability to do my job at all.”

“You’re right. It won’t. I’m reassigning this case to Palmer.”

Dan Palmer was the detective on the swing shift, 2:00 p.m. to midnight. Laura liked him—respected him, even—but for reasons she wasn’t prepared to examine, she didn’t want this case snatched away.

“I conducted the investigation of the scene,” she argued. “I interviewed Ford. I can remain impartial. I can…”

Get her father to talk to her? Hardly. She hadn’t been able to accomplish that in ten years.

She switched tactics. “Let Dan take Swirsky’s statement. One interview. I don’t have a problem with that.”

“If it stops at one interview,” Denko said. “What if we establish that a crime was committed? What if Swirsky becomes a suspect?”

“It’ll never happen,” she said with conviction.

“Why not?”

“Because he’d never commit a crime. Pete Swirsky doesn’t break the rules. He doesn’t even bend them.”

He never deviated, never doubted, never forgave. His inflexibility made him a lousy father. But it didn’t make him a suspect.

“People change,” Denko observed.

She certainly had. But the old man never would.

“Then I’ll live with that,” she said. “Let me do my job, sir.”

The chief rubbed his jaw with his thumb. “‘Swirsky,’ huh?”

“Maiden name. I was married. Briefly.”

Nine weeks. That’s how long it had taken her to figure out she’d made the second biggest mistake of her life. But by the time her marriage to Tommy Baker ended, her estrangement from her father was complete.

“Good Polish name,” the chief said.

Laura relaxed a fraction. She was forgiven, then. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, thank you,” Denko said. “You did a good job processing the scene. But you’re off the case. Turn your notes over to Palmer.”



She owed him.

Laura gripped the wheel of the battered police boat as it chugged across the lake. She didn’t owe him her loyalty. Or even an explanation. But the memory of Simon Ford’s clear, light eyes lingered at the back of her mind like a question. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she owed him…something.

A warning, maybe. Or a goodbye.

Around her, the water teemed with inner tubes and motor boats, wind surfers and sails, as tourists and townspeople took advantage of the three-day weekend. She was working harbor patrol, answering radio calls for service, checking permits and boating licenses, keeping an eye out for inebriated fishermen and inexperienced sailors.

When she was a rookie, Laura used to bust her hump on patrol. As if the number of citations she wrote for open alcohol containers or out-of-date landing permits somehow proved she was the baddest, best cop on the force.

She knew better now. Good cops didn’t get hung up on busy work when a fellow officer requested backup on the other side of the lake. But a discretionary detour to Angel Island wouldn’t interfere with her doing her job.

She hoped.

The wind tugged at the curled brim of her EPD ball cap. She set her feet against the swell of a passing speedboat. Behind her, the marina faded to a smudge of red brick and gray shingles. The town slid away to her left, the spire of St. Raphael’s Catholic Church like a mast against the horizon.

Her heartbeat quickened as she headed out to open water. Nerves, she told herself firmly. It had to be nerves. It certainly wasn’t anticipation at seeing Ford again.

His private pier jutted into the water, aggressively new, the treated wood standing out like dental work against the tumbled shore. Laura looped a line around a post and hopped onto the dock, ignoring the posted warning: No Trespassing. Shrugging, she started up the service road that wound through the trees to the house.

A surly Quinn answered the door and stomped ahead of her up the steps to Ford’s office. Climbing the long, curving staircase made Laura feel like she was in some fairy tale, braving the tower to rescue the princess. Except she made a lousy Prince Charming.

And the man at the top of the stairs was definitely no Sleeping Beauty.

He hunched over his desk, a wide slab of pale, polished wood. The light from the surrounding windows cast his face in light and shadow: his deep, focused eyes, his cheeks carved with concentration, his mouth fixed in a determined line. He looked like a wizard king brooding over the fate of his kingdom.

Laura gave herself a mental shake. This was no time for her to develop a fantasy life. She’d spent too many years fighting the prejudices of her male colleagues and her own feelings to get all moony-eyed and stupid now.

Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she glanced around the room. She’d climbed up here the day before, testing locks, checking for broken windows. It was all spare lines and blank surfaces. Outside, the lake sparkled with light and life. But inside, the walls sealed out all sound. Despite the sun that poured through the glass, the air was cold.

Quinn’s voice dropped into the silence like a rock on an ice-filmed puddle. “It’s Baker. She’s back.”

Ford’s concentration broke. He blinked at her, recalled from his spell.

“I, uh… Sorry,” Laura said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” What did he do? Laser research. Good God. “—your work.”

He raised his hand, palm out. Cutting off her apologies? Or dismissing Quinn? The butler tromped back downstairs.

“You’re not interrupting,” Ford said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if he was tired. She squelched her instinctive sympathy. “And I’m not working. Any news?”

I’m off the case.

That’s what she’d come to tell him. But when she opened her mouth, what actually came out was, “So, what are you doing?”

“I’m writing a computer program that will let me hack into my own system and create a new password.”

“Oh.” Right. She’d forgotten he was a freaking genius. He definitely didn’t need her pity. “Sounds complicated.”

He smiled faintly. “Not particularly. Most hacking is a simple matter of repeating steps that exploit common system weaknesses.”

“Simple, huh? How long have you been at it?”

“A few hours,” he admitted.

Reluctant admiration stirred. “You don’t give up easily, do you?”

“No.” His remote, light eyes studied her a moment. “Not when there’s something I want.”

Her heart went ka-thump. Stupid, she scolded herself. He didn’t mean her. And she didn’t want him.

She frowned, struck by something he’d said. “Why do you need a new password?”

“I’m updating my computer’s security.”

“Okay, fine, but…why would you need to hack into your system to do that?”

He didn’t answer.

“You didn’t—” Laura pressed her lips together. Okay, now she really was being stupid. But she had to ask. “You didn’t forget your password, did you? When you got hit on the head?”

His expression never flickered. Maybe he hadn’t lost his memory. Maybe she was losing her mind.

But Simon Ford wasn’t the only one who didn’t give up easily. She wasn’t going to let embarrassment or attraction put her off doing her job.

“You said you couldn’t remember the attack.”

He inclined his head. “That’s correct.”

“What else?”

“Excuse me?”

He was stalling. She was sure of it. Nobody talked in that ultra-formal way unless he was either a snob and a smart-ass or stalling. Simon Ford might live in a castle and have a genius IQ, but he hadn’t done anything yet to make her think he was a snob. Or a smart-ass.

She ran through their interview in her head, trying to fit her new theory to snatches of their conversation.

“What else don’t you remember?” she asked.

He looked at her quizzically. “If I knew that, then I wouldn’t have forgotten it, would I?”

She scowled, rethinking the smart-ass bit.

“Never mind.” Not her problem, she told herself. Not even her case. She needed to depersonalize. “I came to tell you I’m off the case.”

Simon’s dark brows drew together over his perfect nose. “What?”

“Chief Denko reassigned your case to Detective Palmer. He’ll be out to talk with you tomorrow. Tell him whatever you want.”

“Why are you off the case?”

He sounded annoyed, which for some perverse reason made her feel better. Not enough to confide in him, but enough to be reassuring.

“You’ll like Palmer,” she said. “He has experience.”

“I want you,” Ford said.

She ignored the little thrill his words gave her. He didn’t mean it like that. “Well, you can’t have me. I told you. The chief gave your case to Palmer.”

“I want you,” Ford repeated, unsmiling and intent, and her pulse kicked up a notch.

“Very nice,” approved an amused male voice from behind her. “Does she come with the handcuffs?”

Laura jerked around.

A preppie god in a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled back lounged in the doorway, smiling at her with lazy charm. Tall, blond and very handsome. If Simon Ford was the Wizard King, then this dude was Prince Charming. No wonder she’d felt miscast on her way up the stairs.

Quinn Brown spoke up from behind him. “Your brother’s here, Mr. Ford.”

Laura turned back to the desk and pinned Ford with an accusing look. “You have a brother?”



He had a brother.

Simon sat and absorbed the shock, trying to keep it from his face. After three days of being alone except for his household manager, it should have been reassuring to discover he had some family. But he felt no instant connection. No recognition. Nothing at all.

The younger man stepped forward, extending his hand. “Dylan Ford.”

“Laura Baker.”

Not “Detective,” Simon noted. Her name was Laura.

“Nice to meet you.” Dylan smiled, revealing perfect teeth against his perfect tan. “I didn’t know Simon had a thing for women in uniform.”

Perfect jackass, Simon thought.

“Detective Baker is here to investigate the break-in,” he said coolly.

The smile faded. “‘Break-in’? Here? When?”

He sounded more startled than concerned.

“Wednesday night, we believe,” Simon said.

“Before you got in?”

So his brother kept some track of his whereabouts.

“No,” said Simon, watching him closely. “After.”

“Wow.” Dylan ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Did you see anything?”

He didn’t ask if Simon had been hurt. Maybe it was a natural omission. The bump on his head wasn’t obvious. Presumably the only person who even knew he’d been attacked was the one who’d struck him.

“Not really,” he said.

“What did they take? TV? Stereo?”

“Nothing like that.” He glanced at Laura Baker, wondering how much he should say, but she was still staring at his tall, blond, handsome brother. “The safe was open.”

Dylan swore. “They didn’t get the rubies, did they?”

Laura Baker’s attention snapped back like a rubber band. Simon could practically feel her vibrating.

“I believe they did,” he said slowly. “The safe was empty.”

“Damn it, Simon, I told you I had the people from Vulcan Gemstones lined up to look at them this week.”

He had no idea what the younger man was talking about. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“Of course you did,” Dylan said bitterly. “You didn’t care about my plans anyway. All you care about is the damn technological applications.”

“If you mean my laser research…” Simon said cautiously.

“Of course I mean your laser research. Those rubies could be so much more than a byproduct. But you never understood their significance outside of the lab.”

“Probably not,” Simon agreed.

“I certainly don’t,” Laura said. “Are you saying you kept rubies in your lab?”

“Solid-state lasers use synthetic ruby rods to emit energy in a specific wavelength,” explained Simon. It felt good to know something. “Basically chromium doped aluminum oxide of a higher purity and quality than natural gemstones. Some of my research has focused on new methods for creating those rods.”

She blinked. “You mean, you make fakes?”

“Cultured gemstones,” Dylan corrected. “Simon developed a flux growth process that creates crystals without bubbles or thermal strain lines. And the depth of color is amazing. With the proper cutting and machining, his rubies are virtually undetectable from natural stones.”

“And they’re missing,” Laura said.

“Apparently,” Simon said.

All that research, lost. With his memory gone, how long would it take him to retrace his steps, to duplicate his work?

“How much?” she asked Simon.

“Excuse me?”

“How much were they worth?”

“The investment in time alone—”

Dylan laughed shortly. “You’re asking the wrong man, sweetheart. He had over a hundred stones stashed in that safe at slightly over a carat each. Vivid saturation. Almost no inclusions. I’d say we’re looking at a market value of almost half a million dollars.”

“But they’re paste, right?” Laura asked. “I mean, they’re good quality, but they’re still fakes.”

Dylan shook his head. “Chemically, those rubies are identical to the real deal. There’s not one jeweler in ten who could tell them apart. Which is why getting the patents and developing a marketing strategy is so important.”

“It’s irrelevant,” Simon said. “We’re not in the business of selling jewelry.”

“You’re not in the business of selling jewelry,” his brother shot back.

“And it’s my business.”

A nasty little silence fell.

Simon wondered if most of his conversations with his brother ended this way. If so, it would certainly explain why Dylan hadn’t called.

His pleasant face set. “You did agree to let Vulcan at least examine the stones,” he said tightly.

Did he? He could have. He didn’t remember.

“So, what’s the problem?” Simon asked.

“The problem is they’re missing,” Dylan said, his voice rising. “And I’ve got to wonder— Ah, hell.” He broke off, again thrusting his hand through his hair.

“Do you think your brother is complicit in the stones’ disappearance?” Laura asked.

She was supposed to be on his side, damn it. He wanted her on his side. Her question caught him like a whack across the shins.

But it didn’t trip his brother at all.

“No, I don’t. Of course I don’t,” Dylan said. “But it’s hard to see how else this could have happened. This place has better security than the airport.” He wheeled to face Simon. “What about Quinn? Did he see anything?”

He sounded interested. Eager. Innocent?

Or anxious to divert the blame to someone else?

Cold settled in the pit of Simon’s stomach. He didn’t know enough about his brother or their relationship to even guess.

“He wasn’t with me that night,” Simon said.

“You mean they let you out without a keeper?”

“One of the guards came with me from Chicago.”

“So where was he?”

Simon breathed in deeply. He had to say something. Something intelligent, something that wouldn’t betray his loss of memory.

“Pete Swirsky is being sought for questioning at this time,” Laura said, unexpectedly coming to his rescue.

“Does that mean you think he did it?” Dylan asked.

The detective’s slim body stiffened. “It means he’s being sought for questioning.”

“What do you mean, sought?”

“According to E.C.I.P., he was scheduled to go on vacation this week,” Laura said. “He hasn’t reported for work since Wednesday.”

“So, he just happens to go missing at the same time as the rubies?” Dylan shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s been four days. Why haven’t the police picked him up yet?”

Because they hadn’t known about the rubies until now.

They hadn’t known because Simon didn’t remember.

And Simon didn’t trust his own brother enough to tell him so.

He searched Dylan’s fair, handsome face as if it held the clue to their estrangement. Why didn’t he trust him? What else didn’t he remember? Was the fault in Dylan or in Simon himself?

He waited for Laura to say something, to defend herself and her department against his brother’s criticism.

But all she said was, “The police are pursuing every available lead at this time.”

“So how come you haven’t found him yet? It’s not like there are a lot of places to hide in a town this size.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Swirsky lives in Chicago.”

“So put the Chicago police on it.”

“It’s not their jurisdiction.”

“Yeah, but at least they’d get the job done.”

Anger whipped through Simon.

“Back off. I made the call. It was my call to make.”

The certainty in his own voice surprised him.

But his brother appeared to take it in stride. “Yeah, that’s what you always say.” He gave Laura a long look up and down. “I guess I can’t blame you for wanting to keep her around. Let me know if you find anything.”

He strolled out.

Laura watched him go, her chin up and her hands in her pockets. Simon could see the outline of her knuckles through the shiny blue fabric.

“Son of a bitch,” Simon said.

She jerked one shoulder in a shrug. “Don’t worry about it. I’m the only female officer on a small-town police force. I’ve pretty much heard it all before.”

He admired her self-possession. But Dylan’s chauvinistic attitude irked him. “Not from my brother.”

“You’re not responsible for what he says.”

“Aren’t I?”

He didn’t know. He felt he should be.

She faced him squarely. “Listen, I’ve got a kid brother, too. And God help us both if I tried to take responsibility for him.”

Her gaze was clear and direct as a punch. He felt its impact in his gut, harder than recognition, deeper than desire. His breath went.

How long they stood there, staring at each other, he didn’t know.

But then her thin face colored. She looked away, breaking their connection. “I’ve got to go.”

His heart was pounding, his chest felt tight, and he hadn’t touched her, hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t… What the hell had just happened here? He didn’t need his memory back to recognize lust. But this understanding was both more foreign and more seductive.

“Go where?” he asked. “What are you planning to do?”

“I’m on harbor patrol today.”

“I meant about Swirsky.”

“Nothing. I’m off the case.”

“No.” His protest was automatic. Instinctive. “I want you to handle the investigation.”

“It’s not up to you.” Her mouth quirked ruefully. “Or me, either. Chief Denko has assigned the case to Detective Palmer.”

That long look had diverted the blood from his brain to below his belt. He couldn’t think worth a damn. Which explained what he said next.

“I’ll pay you.”

She stiffened. “For what?”

All right, he’d said it badly. But it wasn’t such a bad idea.

Laura Baker was intelligent. Stubborn. Discreet. She hadn’t blurted out his loss of memory to his brother. She’d come to him directly to tell him about the new detective assigned to the case. And she had nothing personal at stake in the outcome of this investigation.

“I want someone close to me I can trust.” Pushing back from his computer, he stood. “I want to hire you.”

She shook her head. “I can’t work for you.”

He came around his desk. “Why not?”

Her soft lips set. “Well, for one thing, I already have a job.”

Her resistance made him want her more. He didn’t take time to reflect on what that revealed about his character.

“You can do it in your off hours,” he argued. “Moonlighting, or whatever they call it.”

“No, I can’t. I have a conflict of interest.”

“That doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, it bothers me,” she snapped. Her gaze flicked to his face. He didn’t know what she saw there, but her own expression suddenly softened. “Look, I’m sorry, but…no.”

No.

Simon sat on the corner of his desk. Well, that was clear. Confronted by a million unanswered questions, he’d pushed her for a response, and he’d gotten one.

Too bad it wasn’t the one he wanted.

He continued to stare at her, trying to figure out what he could possibly say or do to change her mind, to persuade her to help him, to stay with him, to be with him.

He closed his eyes, dizzy with the force of his need.

She cleared her throat. “How’s your head?”

“What? Oh.” He reached up to touch the swelling above his ear. “It hurts.”

“Have you had it looked at yet?” she asked.

As if, he thought wryly, now that she had slapped him down, she was trying to soften the blow.

“No.”

She took a step closer. His body went on alert. “Maybe you should,” she said.

His mind snapped into action, testing, weighing options.

He angled his head. “Be my guest.”

She took another step forward.

Cautious, he thought. But not a coward.

Her hip, in navy blue polyester, brushed his thigh. She raised her hand; hesitated. And then, very gently, threaded her fingers through his hair.

She smelled like sun and water, like shampoo and…gasoline? For a second he thought his mind might be playing tricks on him again, and then he remembered her boat.

“It looks bad,” she said.

“It’s clean.”

“Tough guy.” His scalp tingled as her touch feathered through his hair. “You should have had stitches.”

“Too late now.”

“Yeah.” She started to draw away.

He grabbed her wrist.

“Hey,” she protested. “You’ve already got one bump on the head. Don’t make me hurt you again.” But her pulse thrummed under his thumb.

Simon’s grip tightened. Maybe he’d pushed for the wrong response before. Maybe he’d asked the wrong question.

At least he could settle one damn thing.

Leaning forward, he covered her mouth with his.




Chapter 3


If Laura had let herself think about kissing Simon Ford ahead of time… Okay, so she had thought about it. Big deal. Anyway, she’d expected him to kiss the way he talked. Cool. Controlled. Kind of dry.

She missed the target all three times.

His kiss was hot, wet and deep. He kissed like he was starving for her, like he wanted everything, wanted her. And instead of getting offended or disgusted or afraid, she yanked him closer and kissed him back.

Tongues. Teeth. Heat.

Sensation kicked through her system like rapid fire on a pistol range, all flash and fire and recoil. She was blinded, deafened, her palms sweaty and her mind a blank. She was operating on instinct and body memory, living purely in and for the moment. Her knees buckled.

Simon made an encouraging sound deep in his throat and widened his stance against the desk.

Wow. Pow. Even better.

His body was lean and hard. It fit hers as if they’d been carved from the same piece of oak, every plane and curve lined up and matching. Her starved system sparked and exploded. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she fed and devoured him.

But when his hand slid from Laura’s arm and sought the shape of her breast through the heavy Kevlar vest she wore, another instinct kicked in. Something older and more urgent than sex.

Self-preservation.

“You… I…” She couldn’t form words.

“‘We’?” Simon suggested, a hint of a smile in his voice. But she noticed with a pinch of satisfaction that his breathing was as ragged as hers.

She shook her head, struggling for coherence and control. Oh, God. Oh, God. She’d really screwed up. “I don’t mix sex with the job.”

There, a whole sentence.

He arched an eyebrow. “You don’t work for me. You can’t call this harassment.”

She stepped back, tugging on the bottom of her vest. “How about assaulting an officer?”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think this was?”

“No. Sorry.” Her face flooded with heat. “I’m just… My brain’s still on Planet Stupid.”

“I’m feeling a little out of this world myself,” he murmured.

It was geeky. And charming.

Laura scowled. “Yeah, well, it’s time to come back to earth. This can’t happen again.”

“Why not?” he asked curiously.

“You’re the genius. You figure it out.”

“You’re not giving me enough data to draw a conclusion.”

“There are cops who mess around on the job, okay? It’s like a crime of opportunity. You’d be surprised how many people out there are willing to make it with anything in a uniform. Heck, I’ve been propositioned by guys I had handcuffed in the back of the squad car.”

He studied her with quiet intensity. “Did it work?”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking or amazingly clueless. “I don’t get involved on cases I’m investigating.”

“You’re not investigating my case.”

He had her there.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t get involved.”

His brows raised. “Ever?”

“Not recently.”

“Define recently.”

She stuck out her jaw. This conversation was even more risky than sex. She didn’t “do” intimacy. She couldn’t afford it. “Are you asking for my sexual history, Ford?”

“I think now that we’ve swapped saliva you could share the highlights.” His eyes gleamed. “You might even start calling me by my first name.”

She didn’t want to be amused, damn it. Or to share the messy details of her personal life. But maybe she could give him enough to shut him up. To shut him down.

“I was married,” she said. “A long time ago.”

“What’s a long time? Two years? Five?”

He was a scientist. It figured he wanted answers, specific, quantifiable data. As if all the fear and pain she’d felt then could fit some tidy little chart.

“What does it matter?” she asked.

His gaze never left her face. “I like numbers,” he said simply.

“Okay, fine. Ten.”

He couldn’t quite keep the surprise from his face. “Ten years. And…?”

“And what do you think?” Her shoulder jerked in an ill-tempered shrug. “I was eighteen. It didn’t work out.”

“What happened? He cheated on you, beat you, broke your heart?”

“He died.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. She didn’t mind being blunt. Hell, she took pride in it. But that had been a cheap shot, designed to shock. It was unworthy of her. Simon’s kiss had rattled her more than she wanted to admit.

“I’m sorry,” Simon said calmly.

“Don’t be. The relationship was on life support even before Tommy died.”

“What happened?”

Simon’s voice was quiet, unthreatening, like a doctor’s or a priest’s. Laura was trained in interview techniques. She knew better than to fall for that nonjudgmental tone. But she responded to it anyway.

“Tom Baker was a seaman at the Great Lakes Naval Training Facility. I was a teenage girl in Chicago with more attitude than smarts. I got pregnant, we got married, he got killed two months later in some freak training accident. End of story.”

“Not quite,” Simon said.

“You mean the baby?” Her throat clogged with tears. Her fault. Her stupid fault, for letting a moment of sexual excitement crash her usually strong barriers. Damn, damn, damn.

“There was no baby,” she said harshly. “I lost it a couple weeks later.”

If he had reached out to touch her, she would have bolted. But he sat, unmoving—unmoved?—against his flat, polished desk, his light eyes focused on her face.

“You were very young,” he observed.

“I was stupid.”

His lips parted, as if he were about to say something, and then he stopped.

Not so comfortable when it isn’t all about numbers, are you? Laura thought, not without sympathy.

But he surprised her.

“That must have been hard,” he said.

“I…” She cleared her throat. “I got over it. I am over it.”

“Good. Go out with me.”

Her heart bumped, which annoyed her. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Yes,” he answered promptly. “You’re not my employee, you’re not investigating my case, and you’re not grieving for your late husband. So I see no barriers to our becoming involved.”

None. Except her father had worked for the company contracted to provide his security, and the old man was missing now along with a cache of cultured rubies valued at half a million dollars. And this afternoon at the end of her shift, Laura was going to have to report that theft to her boss.

“Except I’m not interested,” she said.

Simon didn’t point out that her kiss had definitely been interested. Either he was actually a nice guy, or he was experienced enough to know better.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” he said.

She shook her head, unreasonably tempted. “It would never work.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not your type.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at me,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “Look at us. You’re Millionaire Inventor Guy, and I’m—”

“—an incredibly attractive woman with practical knowledge and principles.”

A pleased flush swept over her. “Thanks.”

But she knew who and what she was: a small-town cop with a troubling connection to his case. And those principles he was talking about wouldn’t let her gloss over the differences between them.

She squared her shoulders. “But the answer’s still no. Detective Palmer is handling the investigation from here on in. After today, there’s no reason for us to ever see each other again.”



He blew it.

Simon didn’t know how or why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of connections missed, of opportunities lost. It was like calculating a complex equation. His formula was correct, but his data was wrong. Or he was missing a variable completely.

He watched the police boat’s choppy progress across the lake, aware of Laura Baker’s slim, straight figure at the controls. She’d taken off her hat, making her neatly constrained hair gleam like tarnished metal in the sun.

He inhaled sharply. He wanted her. Still. The taste of her lingered in his mouth like honey. The itch for her buzzed in his blood.

She wanted him, too. He might not remember whatever women had occupied his bed or his mind before, but he recognized a woman’s desire.

But it didn’t take a genius to see that this woman was equally determined not to have anything further to do with him.

Why not?

Considering the problem logically, there was nothing obviously wrong with him. Well, except for the void where his memory should be. And while the detective was smart enough to suspect the worst, she couldn’t know the full extent of his loss.

No one could know the full extent of his loss.

Expelling his breath, Simon turned back to his desk. Laura Baker was a puzzle and a challenge. But however much he might enjoy fitting the pieces together, he had bigger problems to solve.



“I didn’t mean to screw things up with the meter maid,” Dylan volunteered over lunch. “But she’s not your usual type, is she?”

Simon lowered his fork to stare at his brother, seated nine feet away at the opposite end of the long, polished table. All of the furniture in the house was over-sized and shiny, as if it had been designed for very neat giants. The colors were all neutrals, cream and beige and gray. Simon wondered if he’d chosen them or even liked them. He didn’t like them now. Would he when he got his memory back?

“Detective,” he corrected his brother. “And why isn’t she my type?”

“Because she’s difficult. And you’ve always liked your women easy.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “Easy?”

“No work,” Dylan explained. “No hassles. The Stepford Girlfriends—beautiful, intelligent, perfect, polite. Like you could shut them off and put them away in the lab when you were done playing with them.”

Simon was amused. Appalled. “I don’t have a lot of time to invest in relationships,” he said. Now, where had that come from?

Dylan snorted. “You’re telling me. If you didn’t have so much money, no woman would put up with you.”

Could he ask about the portrait of the schoolgirl upstairs? Simon wondered. No, not yet.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Are you offering me a raise, big brother?”

“No.” Should he? What did his brother earn?

“That’s okay. I don’t need more money.” Dylan grabbed a roll from the basket in the center of the table and buttered it lavishly. “I have charm.”

Quinn Brown stomped into the dining room. He glared at Dylan and shoved a phone handset at Simon.

No charm there, Simon thought.

“Call for you,” Quinn said. “Vince Macon.”

“Damn,” Dylan said.

Who the hell was Vince Macon?

Simon had spent some time yesterday studying his company’s organization chart, trying to grasp its structure, hoping to strike a name that would spark a memory. In the process, he’d learned that Lumen Corp employed over a hundred researchers and support staff at its Chicago headquarters and that his brother Dylan—surprise, surprise—was a vice president of marketing. But he didn’t recognize the name “Macon” at all.

He had to say something. Do something.

“You take the call,” he said to Dylan.

His brother’s face froze. If Simon had been in the mood for a laugh, it would have been funny.

“You’re kidding,” Dylan said.

“No. Why?”

“Because he’s one of your biggest investors and he hates me?”

An investor. Relief eased Simon’s shoulders.

“Good enough,” he said and accepted the phone. “Hey, Vince. Simon here.”

“Simon!” The voice was hearty, warm…and completely unfamiliar. Simon squelched his disappointment. “You’re a hard man to reach. What are you doing on the island?”

“Research,” Simon said.

“Ha. Good one.” Vince Macon lowered his voice. “I heard Dylan was up there with you.”

Simon looked down the table. His brother had settled back in his chair and was watching him. “Yes.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” Simon said honestly, meeting Dylan’s eyes. “But he’s here.”

“You mean, in the room? Listening?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not having any…trouble up there, are you?”

A prickle of disquiet raised the hair on the back of Simon’s neck. Trouble? Yeah. He had a bump on his head, a missing cache of cultured gemstones and great big gaps in his memory. But why would Macon ask? How would he know?

“No,” Simon said finally. “No trouble.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you later then. When are you coming back to Chicago?”

Frustration bubbled inside him. He was stumbling around in a fog, trying to avoid dangers he could not see. His blindness was bad enough here, where the only people he bumped into were his brother and Quinn Brown. Who knew what problems would trip him up outside? Better perhaps, safer perhaps, if he stayed in safe isolation on the island until his memory returned.

But his mind remained a stubborn blank. Sometimes he had a flash, a moment’s hope. Last night he’d reached for his nail clippers, and his pleasure at finding them in the drawer he’d opened so automatically had been embarrassingly acute.

He couldn’t count on such moments. They were frustratingly rare in any case. His business, his life, even his own character were like a puzzle he had to assemble without all the pieces or any real idea of what the finished picture was supposed to look like.

And yet his business and his life might depend on his ability to fit it all together.

Every day that slipped away took with it another chance to compile the pieces and make sense of the puzzle. Who had attacked him? Who had betrayed him? Who could he trust?

“Simon? You still there?”

Simon collected himself. “Yes. I’ll be back in the office soon. A day or two. I’m close to something here.”

He wasn’t close to anything, he thought bleakly.

Or anyone, apparently. The only person he felt a connection with had just told him flat out there was no reason for them to ever see each other again.

At least Laura had been honest with him.

“Great,” Vince said. “I’ll see you then.”

They said a few more words and disconnected. Simon set the phone beside his plate.

Dylan leaned forward, stabbing his lettuce with a fork. “So what did the old bastard want?”

“What do you think he wanted?” Simon countered.

Dylan swallowed a mouthful of salad. “He probably told you to kick me out before I talked you into funding my foolish, evil schemes.”

“I can’t kick you out. You’re my brother. And a vice president of the company,” Simon added.

Dylan grimaced. “That’s always been an afterthought for you, hasn’t it?”

Had it? Simon wished again, desperately, he could ask for an explanation. He went fishing for one instead.

“You’re still my brother.”

“Half brother,” Dylan said.

It was another puzzle piece. Simon seized on it. “We still grew up together.”

Dylan gave him an odd look. “If that’s the way you want to remember it.”

Simon didn’t remember his childhood at all. He had a sudden image of wedging himself on the floor between his bed and the wall to read, and a shelf full of books. But no house. No yard. No memory of friends. Not even an impression of his mother’s face.

Why were there no pictures of his mother in the house? No family at all, except the girl upstairs.

He wanted to ask, but he was afraid to show any weakness.

Laura would have asked. No one would have counted it a weakness. No one would be suspicious if she was around asking questions. It was a function of her job, a component of her character.

Simon needed answers.

He wanted an ally.

He needed Laura.

He wanted Laura.




Chapter 4


The apartment door jerked open a crack, and Laura Baker scowled past the security chain at Simon.

He was so glad to see a familiar face—even half of a familiar face—he decided to overlook the scowl. The walk through town had been a nightmare. He kept imagining people were looking at him, that they knew him or at least knew of him, and he hadn’t recognized a soul. Not the straw-haired waitress smoking in front of the diner or the man in the checkered shirt cleaning the windows of the hardware store or the redheaded woman waving through the window of the camera shop. It had been a relief to turn onto Laura’s tree-lined, residential street and into the quiet courtyard of her brownstone apartment building.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I want to talk to you. Please,” he added, because she didn’t seem nearly as happy to see him as he was to see her, and he needed her help.

The door didn’t budge. “How did you get here?”

“Quinn brought me. In the boat.”

He could tell from Quinn’s reaction that that had been a mistake. But by the time Simon realized he knew how to pilot the boat, it had been too late.

“Well, I didn’t think you walked on water.” Laura’s smile erased the sting from her words. The security chain rattled. “How did you know where I live? I’m not listed in the phone book.”

He shrugged. “My computer’s working.”

She didn’t cite antihacking statutes at him or protest his invasion of her privacy. Instead she swung open the door. “As long as you’re here, you might as well come in.”

Relieved, he stepped inside the cramped and airless apartment. “Nice place,” he said, even though it wasn’t. The stingy light from overhead barely illuminated the scarred woodwork and worn carpet.

Laura shrugged. “It’s a dump. But it’s convenient. I wanted to be close to the station. And it’s got good bones.”

He looked at her, her narrow face and straight shoulders, the way she stood with her fingers tucked into her back pockets, and the knots that had been twisting tighter and tighter in his gut relaxed. “Yes.”

Did she color faintly in the dim light?

“You want something to drink?” she asked, walking away from him into the living room.

Throws and bright pillows failed to disguise the shabby furniture. The plant hanging by the window needed water. An empty glass decorated the coffee table, and a pair of sneakers lay kicked off by the couch. But Laura’s home was still warmer, or at least more personal, than his luxury mausoleum.

“No drink. Thanks,” he said.

She pivoted, her hands still in her pockets. The angle of her arms thrust her breasts forward. “Why are you here?”

He looked her carefully in the eyes. “I need a favor.”

Her expression shuttered. What would it take, how would it feel, to have her look at him with openness? With warmth? “Yeah, I figured,” she said.

“You said you wouldn’t work for me,” he reminded her.

“That’s right.”

“And you don’t want us to be involved—romantically involved,” he clarified.

The tilt of her chin was a challenge. “So?”

He wanted her. He wanted her mind and her mouth and her attitude. Simon had rehearsed his reasons on the way over and decided to his satisfaction that they were rational, viable and persuasive. But faced with that chin, he stumbled.

“I told you I couldn’t remember anything from the time of the attack.”

She nodded. “Short-term retrograde amnesia.” He must have revealed his surprise, because she smiled. “I can look things up on the Internet, too. You want to sit down?”

“Thank you.” He waited politely for her to drop into a chair and then folded himself on her couch, trying not to feel like a psychiatric patient.

“You know, if your memory’s coming back, you should talk to Detective Palmer,” Laura said.

“My memory’s not coming back.”

“No?”

“No. In fact…” Could he afford to tell her? Could he afford not to? “There’s a lot I don’t remember.”

“Define ‘a lot.’”

He drew a deep breath. “Quite a lot.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Was there a reason you decided to track me down at my apartment on my day off? Or do you just like yanking my chain?”

“Are you always this direct?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “Good.”

She didn’t smile back. “Are you always this evasive?”

“I don’t know,” Simon said. His heart jackhammered in his chest. “Or maybe I should say… I don’t remember.”

Her eyes jerked to his. She held his gaze for a long, slow moment.

Her breath hissed in. “You don’t. You don’t remember…anything?”

She believed him.

Simon’s mouth went dry with relief. Or terror.

“I know enough to function,” he said stiffly. “I think in time—”

“What about people?” she interrupted. He was grateful she didn’t take out her notebook. He would have felt even more like a psychiatric patient. “What about your brother? You introduced him.”

“Did I?”

Her eyes widened. “Quinn announced him. And then he introduced himself.”

Simon nodded. “God knows what I would have done if he’d walked in without warning.”

“Wow.” She slumped back. “I bet you’re having a hard time.”

She understood. For a second, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

“Yes,” he admitted. “That’s why I need your help.”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t. You need a professional.”

They’d been over this before.

“You mean a doctor,” he said flatly.

A shrink.

“A doctor would be good,” she agreed. “But actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a private investigator. Somebody attacked you. Not only can’t you identify whoever it was, you can’t identify the people around you who might have a motive. You need someone who can make inquiries within your company and investigate your personal life.”

He was pleased she understood his requirements so precisely. “That’s why I need you.”

“You need a security firm that specializes in executive protection or industrial espionage or something. Not me.”

“I have a security firm that specializes in all those things. And they failed to do their job.”

“But if you confided in them… If you explained…”

He stood. “E.C.I.P. has over three hundred employees working for almost twenty corporations. How long do you think I could keep my memory loss a secret if I confided in them?”

“They’re not amateurs. Nobody’s going to send out a company memo saying you’ve lost your mind. Memory,” she corrected, blushing.

Trust Laura to put his worst fear into words.

“Mind will do,” he said wryly. “Technically, amnesia is brain damage.”

“But you’re still Mr. Wizard Genius Guy, right?”

“I don’t know,” he said. His recent answer to everything. “I have journals, detailed journals, but recent ones appear to be missing. I can grasp the process, but I’m wasting time retracing my steps. And that could set my company back by months.”

“Don’t you have other researchers working on the same projects? Do you really think you’re that irreplaceable?”

God help him, he did. His house might be devoid of family photos and childhood memorabilia, but there were enough clues to the scope and nature of his accomplishments to make him both profoundly proud and deeply uneasy. The past few days had taught him how much he had lost.

And how much he had left to lose.

He walked to the window, staring sightlessly out at the street. With his back to her, he said, “I dropped out of MIT when I was twenty. I took a stake from my father to finance my first foray into research, inventing a new technology that increases the amount of information that can be distributed via fiber optics. Before he died, when I was twenty-seven, I was already a multimillionaire. My stock started trading publicly five years ago and my company is currently one of the hottest tech properties on the market. I received a National Medal of Technology for my work on laser surgery. The Pentagon has expressed interest in a nonlethal phaser device we have in development. If we’re going to accept a Department of Defense grant, we can’t afford the slightest doubt about my company’s security or my abilities.”

“You remember all that?” She sounded impressed. Too bad it wasn’t justified.

“No. I read about it on-line. From an ABC News special report and a profile in Newsweek.”

A Google search had yielded 1,378 pages of sources citing his education, inventions, patents and awards—and not a single personal fact beyond his birthdate. He was profoundly alone.

Laura’s eyes narrowed. “At least it wasn’t your obituary.”

He couldn’t tell if she was joking. He had a feeling—based entirely on his recent interactions with Quinn and his brother—that not many people teased him.

“Not yet,” he said.

She frowned. “People are going to suspect something if I start hanging around asking questions.”

A flare of hope, of excitement, shot up inside him. She was going to do it. At least, she was considering it.

Simon turned from the window, careful to keep his face and voice neutral. “Not if we give them a plausible reason for your presence.”

“What reason? I’ve been removed from your case.”

There it was. The sixty-four thousand dollar question.

His pulse jumped, an annoying reminder he wasn’t as much in control of himself or the situation as he’d like to be. “We could allow people to believe we have a relationship.”

“A relationship.”

She was back to repeating things. Simon refused to take that as a bad sign. “Yes.”

“A personal relationship,” she clarified.

“Yes.”

“A sexual relationship.”

Not good, he thought.

“That was the idea.”

“Your idea. Not mine.” She got jerkily to her feet. “I wouldn’t even go out with you. Why would I agree to pretend to be your—your…”

“Companion,” he supplied. “And of course you would be compensated.”

Warning flags flew in her cheeks. “Do it for the money?”

“You wouldn’t have to do ‘it.’ Unless of course you wanted to.”

Mistake, he thought instantly. She was already suspicious of his motives. He had to reassure her. Persuade her. Not antagonize her further.

“Please,” he said. “This isn’t simply a matter of questioning company employees. I need someone who might reasonably be expected to have an interest in my personal life. I need a woman.”

“You must know plenty of women.”

“No one I can trust.”

No one he could remember.

No one else he wanted.

He took a step closer, moving in on her carefully. He didn’t want to spook her into saying no. The woman had scruples. Defenses. Pepper spray.

“It won’t work.” Her voice was breathless and distracted.

“What?” He was watching her mouth, distracted himself.

“I can’t help you.”

Another step. “Why not?”

Her hair wasn’t really brown, he decided, but bronze and gold and copper and rust, the colors running together like liquid metal.

“Conflict of interest,” she said.

“What conflict? You’re not investigating me. You’re not even on the case.”

“For good reason.”

Her tension filled the air like static electricity, raising the hair on the back of his neck. “What reason?”

She drew back her head and looked him straight in the eye. “The guard—the missing guard—the one who disappeared the same night as the rubies? He’s my father.”

Simon went as rigid as a fighter absorbing a blow.

No wonder, Laura thought bleakly. She’d just delivered a whammy.

He didn’t crumple. But he did move back a step. “When did you find out?”

She curled her hands into fists to hide their trembling. “When you told me his name.”

“Good to know,” Simon said.

She was shaking with relief and anticlimax. In her experience, men did not respond to damaging personal revelations with calm acknowledgment.

“That’s it? ‘Good to know’?” Her mimicry was savage.

Simon raised his eyebrows. “It certainly helps explain why your chief removed you from the case.”

“Yes, it does,” she said flatly.

She didn’t blame Jarek Denko one bit for yanking her from the investigation. She could accept his reasons. She could abide by his decision. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her chief ultimately hadn’t trusted her to do her job. He’d placed a higher value on the appearance of propriety than his belief in her integrity. And it stung.

“Did he do it?” Simon asked.

She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Your father,” Simon said patiently. “Do you think he emptied the safe?”

She didn’t know what to think. But she felt, in her bones and her soul, that her father could not be guilty. “No. The man I remember was a hardheaded, ham-handed son of a bitch, but he wasn’t a thief.”

“Fine,” Simon said.

“What do you mean, ‘fine’?”

He shrugged. “If you’re right, there’s no conflict of interest.”

“And if I’m wrong?” She couldn’t believe they were even having this discussion. He should have stormed out by now.

“Would you protect him?”

“Protect my father?”

“Yes. If you found out he was guilty, would you cover up for him or turn him in?” His odd, light eyes were opaque. Laura didn’t have a clue what he was thinking.

“I guess I’d try to talk him into turning himself in,” she said slowly. “But I’d have to know. I want to know.”

Simon nodded. “Then we want the same thing.”

His brain was more rapid than hers. Or maybe, Laura thought with a flash of resentment, his mind was clearer because his emotions weren’t involved.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“The truth.” He gave her a thin smile which made her heart beat faster for no reason at all. “We both want the facts. As long as you don’t let your hypothesis stand in the way of our reaching a logical conclusion, there’s no reason we can’t work together.”

“How can you trust me?” The words burst out of her.

“Have you lied to me?”

“No, but—”

“No.”

“But Dan—the detective assigned to the case—is operating on the assumption that my father did it.”

“And you are operating on the assumption that he didn’t.”

“Pretty much.”

“I can accept your assumption,” Simon said slowly. “As long as you can accept the possibility of his guilt.”

Everything inside her recoiled.

But Simon’s offer was fair. More than fair. He trusted her to do the right thing. And that meant almost as much to her as the chance to clear the old man.

“You do have one advantage over Palmer in this case,” Simon said.

“Because I knew my father?”

“That, of course,” Simon agreed coolly. “But also because, as the woman in my life, people will talk to you. You have the inside track.”

She was trapped. Tempted. Torn. “Nobody is going to believe that I’m the woman in your life.”

“My brother already does.”

“Your brother was trying to annoy you.”

He didn’t deny it.

Laura scowled. “Anyway, nobody else will.”

Simon’s austere face never changed expression. But there was a brief flash of—something—in his eyes that made her shiver. Triumph?

“Then we’ll have to do our best to convince them.” He bent his head.

Her heart pounded. He was going to kiss her again. Unless she jumped out of range, unless she said no, unless she told him firmly and flatly he was out of his mind and she had no intention of going along with his schemes, he was going to kiss her.

She didn’t move.

“This is a really bad idea,” she said.

Simon stopped, his mouth a whisper away. “It’s a kiss. Just one kiss. To seal our bargain.”

She hadn’t agreed to any bargain. But one kiss… She swayed toward him. How big a deal could one kiss be?

His mouth brushed hers, softly, gently, warmly. He smelled delicious, like cool sheets and hot male, and he tasted even better. He pressed his lips to hers, still gently, still warmly, without urgency and with only a hint of tongue. And she realized, with an odd sense of abandoning herself to her fate, that one kiss wasn’t going to be enough.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/virginia-kantra/stolen-memory/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.