Kansas City Countdown. Julie Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ “Do you want me to call them for you?”

      “I can’t think of names right now.” Her fingertips tickled the back of his wrist as they danced against the skin there. “Aren’t you my boyfriend? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

      “No, ma’am.” He carefully plucked a stray lock of hair from the wound on her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Detective Watson, remember? I showed you my badge.”

      Instead of answering, she raised her fingers to touch the seeping gash. But Keir ripped open a gauze pad and batted her hand away to stanch the wound. This was more than a mugging or purse snatch. These cuts were fine and deep, made by something with a short, sharp blade. She was damn lucky she still had her eye. Carving up half her face like this indicated a lot of rage, and something very personal. The senseless brutality of this attack wasn’t something he’d wish even on the woman who’d humiliated him in court. “Here. Can you hold that there while I check the rest of your injuries?”

      “It hurts.” Her shaking fingers brushed against his as she reached up to apply pressure against the cut. Her eyes were pale gray, almost like starlight, in the dim illumination of the car’s overhead light. But though her voice sounded far less steady and sure than it had in the courtroom that afternoon, she was determined to hold his gaze. “My thoughts aren’t very clear, Detective. I can’t seem to concentrate. I don’t think that’s like me.”

      “It’s not.”

      “So you do know me.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Keir gently tunneled his fingers into the straight, silky curtain of her chin-length hair, probing her scalp until he found the goose egg and oozy warmth of blood at the base of her skull. She winced and he quickly pulled away to open an emergency ice pack and crush the chemicals together between his hands to activate its frosty chill. He placed the ice pack over the knot on her scalp and tried to estimate if he had enough gauze or something else to anchor it into place. He sought out her starlit eyes again. “Looks like you suffered a pretty good blow to the head. Tell me what you can remember.”

      Although concentrating on the answer seemed to cause her pain, she bravely came up with an answer. “I was going to a meeting. Dinner. A dinner meeting.”

      Dinner would have been hours ago. “Who was your meeting with?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Where did you eat? Were you walking to your car? Do you remember where you parked? Did a chauffeur or taxi pick you up?”

      “I don’t know.” Seeming to grow more agitated, she pulled the gauze pad from her face and saw the scarlet stain on it. “Is all this blood mine?”

      “I need to get you to an ER.” She leaned over against the seat, closing her eyes as he placed a call to Dispatch and gave his name, location and badge number. “I need an ambulance...” He dropped the phone into her lap and cupped his palm over the uninjured side of her face. “No, no. Don’t close your eyes. Ms. Parker? Kenna? Kenna, open your eyes.”

      Her silvery eyes popped open. “Stop saying that.”

      Now, that tone sounded like the Terminator. “Are you kidding me? You’re going to the hospital if I have to drive you myself.”

      “What’s happened to me? I don’t understand.”

      “Ah, hell.” He swung her legs into the car and buckled her in. “That’s it. We’ll make sense of this later.” He snatched up the phone and relayed the necessary information to complete the call before shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over her like a blanket. “We’re going to the hospital, Kenna.”

      She grabbed the front of his shirt as he leaned over her, pulling her injured face close to his. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

      “Fine,” he snapped. “You’re Ms. Parker. Don’t suppose I can get away with calling you the Terminator to your face.”

      Her pale lips trembled. “Why would you do that?”

      He was a sorry SOB for losing his temper for even one moment with this woman. She was probably five or six years older than Keir, and had been his enemy in the courtroom. He had less in common with her than that Tammy Too-Young from the bar. But he couldn’t look at the tragedy that marred her beautiful face or the fear that darted in the corner of her eyes and not feel something. He covered her hands where she still held on to him and eased her back into the seat. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a jackass. But you’re the last person I expected to be helping tonight.”

      “You don’t like me, do you?” She gave him a graceful out for that question by asking another. “You know who I am?”

      “Yes, ma’am. Kenna Parker. You’re a criminal defense attorney.”

      Her fingertips dug into the muscle beneath the cotton of his shirt, holding on when he would have pulled away. “How do you know? You said you couldn’t find my purse.”

      She wanted to argue with him? Patience, Watson. The woman is scared. “You shredded a case of mine in court this afternoon. But I’m a cop before anything else. Now something terrible has happened to you tonight. I don’t know what exactly, but I’m going to help you.”

      Her posture sagged, although her grip on him barely eased. He couldn’t tell if she was frightened or angry or some combination of both.

      “Detective Watson. I don’t remember what happened to me tonight, much less this afternoon. I don’t know how I got into that alley. I don’t know why someone wanted to hurt me like this.

      “I don’t even remember my name.”

       Chapter Two

      Kenna Parker.

      Shivering in an immodest gown in the sterile hospital air, she silently worked the name around her tongue and wondered if she was truly remembering her name or if she’d simply heard it said to her so many times over the past few hours that she was now accepting it as fact.

      Kenna.

      She was Kenna Parker. She’d been named after her late father, Kenneth. She was an only child, a surprise gift to older parents who’d never expected to have children at all. No one had told her that tonight—or make that the early hours of Saturday morning. Kenna breathed a cautious sigh of relief. She was remembering. Some of her life, at least—like the growing-up parts that did her no good answering questions from the clerk at the reception desk or the admitting nurse or the criminologist who’d scraped beneath her fingernails and taken pictures of her injuries before the attending physician went to work.

      She couldn’t remember whether or not she was in a relationship. She couldn’t remember where she’d eaten dinner or even if she had eaten. And hard as she tried, she had absolutely no memory of being brutalized and left for dead, no image of her attacker haunting her thoughts. She had no memory of who hated her or something she represented or had done so much that splitting her head open and taking a sharp blade to the left side of her face seemed justifiable. The nicks on her hands, and the scrapes on her knee and foot, indicated she’d put up a fight. Surely she’d eventually remember a face or mask or height or voice or something if she’d done that kind of battle with her assailant.

      But СКАЧАТЬ