The Night in Question. Kelsey Roberts

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      “KRESLEY HAYES,” Matt said before they headed for his Jeep sometime later.

      “I’m sorry,” she said as she concentrated on not swaying as she walked. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

      “It’s your name.”

      Matt was smiling. She stopped suddenly and looked up into his gray-blue eyes. They were rimmed with inky lashes that matched his black hair.

      “Hungry?”

      “I’m not exactly presentable,” she said, lifting the top edge of the surgical scrubs Kendall had been kind enough to supply. The doctor had also provided a sports bra and some Crocs. The only problem was Kendall was two inches taller and a size smaller. The pants, which were rolled up at the hem, and the top were like a second skin.

      “What?” she demanded.

      “You really don’t know who you are, do you?”

      “I’ve been telling you that for hours and it’s only now sinking in? How did you find out my name so quickly?” she asked. And why doesn’t it sound at all familiar?

      “I hit the national databases. Nothing. So I had a friend run your prints locally.”

      Her heart skipped. “My prints are in the system? Am I a felon or something?”

      He chuckled. “No, you’re a teacher. Or at least you were. Second grade. A police background check with fingerprints is standard procedure for everyone dealing with children. You would have undergone that before you were hired.”

      “What did I do? Fail someone so they shot me and stabbed me?”

      “You haven’t been a classroom teacher for a couple of years. So I think we can safely rule out an unhappy second grader. Currently, you’re working toward a graduate degree in child psychology.”

      “You have no idea how maddening this is,” she said, her voice cracking. “You got all that information from my fingerprints?”

      “And my secret decoder ring.”

      “Very funny. Where do I live?” Kresley asked, waiting, praying for something that sounded familiar.

      “You’ve got an apartment on Isle of Palms,” he said.

      “Thank you for taking me home,” she said.

      “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to make a stop first.”

      She did mind a little. Maybe if she walked into her own apartment her memory would break through the dam and come flooding back. Apparently patience wasn’t one of her virtues. “Where are we stopping?” she asked.

      “The Rose Tattoo.” He hesitated for less than a second. “I’m tending bar there part-time.”

      “FBI pay is that bad?”

      He laughed as he turned on East Bay Street. “No. I know one of the owners. I needed a cover for a personal matter, so I tend bar. Here we are,” Matt said as he turned down an alley and parked between a large home and a smaller building.

      “Where’s here?” she asked, uneasy when she counted four other cars in the crushed-oyster-shell lot.

      “The Rose Tattoo.”

      “It looks more like a private residence.”

      He turned and offered a smile. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth and she experienced a strong, brief and inappropriate millisecond of desire.

      “It hasn’t been a private residence since just after the Civil War,” he explained. “It sat empty for a while, then it was a speakeasy during prohibition. The previous owners renovated it as a bar and lived on the second floor. Then Rose Porter bought it and was on the verge of bankruptcy until Shelby Tanner bought in.”

      Reaching across her to grab the door handle, his forearm brushed her belly and Kresley felt a quick zing of excitement spread through her body. His hair smelled like the ocean, but the woodsy scent of cologne still lingered on his skin.

      “Hang on, I’ll come around and help you.”

      When Kresley stepped out of the car, her knees buckled and if Matt hadn’t been there to catch her, she would have folded like an accordion.

      His hands grabbed her waist. Leaning back against the Jeep, she took several deep breaths to fend off the rapid pounding of her heart. Not an easy task with Matt’s square-tipped fingers resting lazily on her skin.

      “I’m good,” she said, placing her palms on his chest. Her intention was to gently push out of his grasp. But the feel of solid muscle and the thump of his heart beneath her touch only served as a greater enticement.

      Am I always this aware of a man? she wondered. Or is it just this man? And could my timing be any worse? Not having a memory was inconvenient, to say the least.

      “C’mon,” he said, wrapping one hand around her waist to lead her to the door marked Deliveries Only.

      Together, they entered the kitchen. A woman wearing chef’s whites with the name DeLancey embroidered on the left side of her jacket didn’t even look up from chopping carrots. “Hey,” she said casually, as if a strange woman with tangled hair, wearing ill-fitting scrubs was an everyday occurrence.

      “Hi,” Matt said as they walked the length of the sparklingly clean kitchen.

      The smells had Kresley’s mouth watering. The scents of garlic, onions, smoky bacon and herbs surrounded her as she neared the exit.

      The dual doors were stainless steel with round windows at eye level. Kresley stopped dead in her tracks as an image flashed in her mind. Portholes. Her steps faltered and she put out a hand to brace herself on a nearby countertop. She’d looked out a porthole and seen…something.

      She started to shake and perspiration coated her body.

      “You’re whiter than pale,” Matt said, grabbing a kitchen towel to blot the sweat from her face and neck. “Are you in pain?”

      Kresley shook her head. Her chest was tight and her throat had turned into a vise.

      “What is it?” he asked, concern etched in the lines by his eyes.

      “I wasn’t supposed to go near the portholes.”

      “What do you remember? What triggered the panic attack?”

      “The round window.”

      “That’s all you got?”

      “Yep. A flash. A snippet. I СКАЧАТЬ