Lovers In Hiding. Susan Kearney

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ safe—call the police and verify Clay’s story.

      He placed an extra helmet on her head and donned his own, revved the bike’s engine and then helped her sit behind him. He guided her feet to foot pegs, and then, uncertainly, she wrapped her arms around him. She couldn’t reach completely around his huge body, so she twisted her fingers through his heavy leather belt.

      As soon as they started down the beach, she realized that, due to their speed, his body sheltered her from the worst of the elements. But wind whipped at their already wet clothing, making her extra grateful for the protection of his jacket.

      If he intended her harm, he wouldn’t have given her his jacket, would he? Nor would he have insisted that she keep the gun.

      Yet she couldn’t help wondering if he’d made the gesture just to win her cooperation, to woo her into a false sense of security. As he smoothly drove off the beach and onto the road up the coast, she considered whether she should try to flee at the first red light.

      She couldn’t run faster than Clay on foot, never mind Clay on his bike. Deciding she had no choice but to stay with him for now, she vowed to focus on regaining her memory.

      She studied the storefronts, hoping for a few more flashes, glimmers into her past that she believed had momentarily surfaced back on the beach. Nothing came to her until they passed a grocery store, the same chain where she shopped! She was sure of it, Just as she’d known when she’d run from Clay that if she could have made it to the water, she could swim. Somehow she knew she was an excellent swimmer, yet she had no concrete memory to pin her facts on.

      She kept peering through the rain, wondering if she would recognize her house if she saw it. Her house? A picture of a tiny bungalow with a sagging roof and a cute mellow-yellow front porch with lots of hanging plants came to mind. She thought she lived there, maybe rented the house. She envisioned the cozy layout, two comfortable bedrooms divided by a bath, a small, friendly living room, a tidy but minuscule kitchen. She stored her windsailing equipment in the roomy shed out back and tried to think of a number on her mailbox or a street sign to help her figure out her address.

      Nothing.

      Frustrated, yet pleased that parts of her memory seemed to be returning, she tried to be patient. The man on the cycle in front of her caused another entirely new set of problems for her to consider as he repeatedly checked his rearview mirror as if expecting someone to follow them.

      Did he watch so vigilantly for the police? Or the return of the two men he’d claimed had run her off the road?

      Either scenario made her stomach churn with anxiety. If Clay feared the cops, then he was a bad guy. If he worried over the return of the two men, then someone had just tried to kill her.

      As Melinda worried over whether or not to trust Clay Rogan, she felt the heavy gun weighing down her pocket and considered whether she could shoot someone and snuff out a life—for eternity. Without a lifetime of memories, she figured that her biggest handicap was that not only didn’t she know if she could trust Clay, she didn’t know if she could trust herself. She didn’t know her own values. She didn’t know if she voted Republican, Democratic or Independent. She didn’t know how she’d react to danger, didn’t know if she could aim the gun and pull the trigger—not even if her life depended on it.

      CLAY SAW NO SIGN of pursuit. But no way could he relax or forget their pressing problems with Melinda pressed so tightly to him. Even through the leather jacket he’d given her to wear, he could feel her shivering on the seat behind him. So far he hadn’t done such a hot job of protecting her, but now that he’d found her, he was determined that would change.

      With the sky dark from horizon to horizon, rain teeming down in giant buckets and lightning occasionally striking nearby, the huge thunderstorm showed no signs of abating. Without a direct sign of pursuit, he couldn’t justify fleeing with Melinda possibly still in shock and injured. She needed to be warm. Needed to see a doctor.

      His first thought was taking off her wet clothes and heating her with his own body. But he shoved the inappropriate image aside almost immediately.

      Instead he peered through the rain and spied a coffeehouse in one of those strip malls that included an ice-cream shop, a ladies boutique and a gift emporium. After parking the bike where it wouldn’t be easily spotted, he took her icy hand in his. Guilt stabbed him for not taking better care of his charge. First she almost drowned, then almost froze to death. “Come on.”

      “Where’re we going?” She spoke slowly between chattering teeth.

      “To get you dry and warm.”

      He opened the boutique door and ushered her inside, hoping to be hit with a blast of warmth. But air-conditioning turned on cool made it seem as if they’d entered a refrigerator.

      A middle-aged woman doing paperwork behind a desk took one look at his black leather jacket wrapped around a dripping-wet Melinda and frowned. “Can I help you?” she asked hesitantly, her soft Southern accent firm but polite.

      Clay reached for his wallet and took out two hundred-dollar bills. “We got caught in the storm. The lady needs a towel and a new outfit to wear home.”

      The saleslady glanced from the cash to Melinda and her face brightened. “I have just the thing. You poor dear.”

      Ten minutes later, Clay had his soggy jacket back, and Melinda left the store wearing new navy stretch jeans and matching denim jacket over a red slinky top that showed an inch of skin at her flat stomach. Her teeth had finally stopped chattering, although her lips still held a tinge of blue. Clay noted the bulge in her jacket pocket and realized she’d transferred the gun to her new attire.

      “I’ll pay you back when I—”

      “Don’t worry about it.” Clay held her elbow and escorted her toward the coffee shop. “How about a bowl of hot soup and some coffee?”

      “Hot anything sounds good.”

      He knew she referred to the food, but his mind did a double take anyway. Such a sexually oriented thing—the male mind. He doubted she realized that while she’d changed clothes in the privacy of a cubicle and he’d stood guard, his mind had played all kinds of tricks on him. He’d imagined her peeling back her wet shirt and shorts to reveal very rounded curves. He’d wondered if she’d removed her wet underthings or kept them on. While it should have made no difference at all to him whether or not she still wore underwear, he couldn’t help wondering whether he would be able to tell once she warmed up and removed her jacket.

      He’d unintentionally brushed against her breasts too many times today not to be curious. Yet…while he knew his thoughts to be distracting and totally unprofessional, he had too much male in him to resist indulging in the fantasy. He’d wondered why he was so fascinated with her—he liked slim blondes, didn’t he? But suddenly he realized that he’d been deceiving himself. Curvy brunettes had a lot to offer.

      Idiot. She’s not offering you anything.

      They had the coffee shop to themselves, and Clay commandeered a booth near the foggy front window where he could watch the parking lot while they ate and talked. After the waitress took the orders, he could practically see the questions reflected in Melinda’s topaz eyes.

      “Why is the CIA interested in me?” she asked.

      She might not have her memories, but her keen intelligence showed as she burned through the fog and fired СКАЧАТЬ