Die Cocktail-Fibel. Dan Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ was no thief. And somehow, some way, he fully intended to repay every penny he’d taken, including enough to buy the man a new pair of shoes and a new watch. But first he needed to figure out why there had been a guard posted outside his hospital room…and why the hospital had been holding him prisoner.

      Hunter turned off the shower, grabbed the towel Leah had left for him and vigorously dried himself. He’d been lucky. When he’d gone in search of something to wear other than the skimpy hospital gown, he’d come upon an unattended cart of sheets, towels and blankets not far from his hospital room. On the cart, secured in a clear plastic bag, were clean scrubs. He’d snatched the bag, and just as he ducked into an empty room to change, he heard the footsteps of the attendant returning to distribute the contents of the cart. Wearing the scrubs and the security guard’s shoes, he’d been able to walk right out without a hassle.

      Once outside, he’d only had to walk a couple of blocks before he spotted an all-night café. Judging by all the eighteen-wheelers in the parking lot, the café was also a popular truck stop. Thanks to the generosity of one wizened old trucker, he’d been able to hitch a ride all the way to Alabama.

      Hunter pulled on the jeans and shirt. He’d had a lot of time to think on the road, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that there was more to his situation than just the accident, more than just having amnesia. And despite Leah’s statement about them being “just friends,” Hunter’s gut feeling told him that there was a good possibility that she knew more than she was telling. With every fiber of his being, he was certain that she was the key that could unlock his memory, the key to the whole puzzle.

      But could he trust her? Should he trust her? After what he’d been through, he wasn’t sure he could trust anyone.

      No fingerprints on record.

      “Impossible,” Leah muttered as she cracked an egg and dropped the yoke and egg white into the skillet of heated oil. The oil popped and crackled as the egg cooked, and Leah tilted her head to one side when she heard the water pipes in the old house groaning, an indication that Hunter had cut off the shower.

      She returned her attention to the egg, and in one smooth motion, flipped it over.

      No fingerprints.

      Definitely impossible…unless…unless he’d lied about the police not being able to find a match. But what reason would he have to lie?

      Leah shook her head. No reason. To be fair, there could be another explanation. The police could have lied to him, just as they had lied to her.

      Again though, why? What she needed were answers. But she didn’t have a clue as to how to get them or even where to begin. For all she knew, Hunter could have lied about everything from the very beginning. About being a cop. About his medical leave.

      “No!” she muttered with a determined shake of her head, denying the possibility of such a thing. There had to be something else, some other reason for all that had happened.

      Suddenly, Leah grew stone still, the spatula in her hand poised just above the skillet. She couldn’t explain it, but without looking, she knew the exact moment Hunter entered the kitchen.

      She cleared her throat, mostly to swallow the lump that had formed in it. “You timed that just about right,” she said, scooping the egg from the skillet and sliding it onto a plate next to the first one she’d cooked.

      Only then did she glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, he was standing just inside the doorway.

      He’d shaved, she noted. The clothes she’d given him didn’t fit quite as well as they had the last time she’d seen him wear them. He’d lost weight, just enough so that the jeans no longer hugged him like a second skin, and the knit shirt was loose instead of molded to his body.

      Leah frowned. Though he’d combed his hair, it was still damp from the shower. She should have thought to tell him where she kept the hair dryer.

      The sight of Hunter standing there with wet hair reminded her of the first time she’d seen him, and like an old-time movie reel, a kaleidoscope of images played through her mind.

      It had been the end of February, the week before Mardi Gras Day, and she’d worked a night shift at the hospital. Though it wasn’t something she normally did, after she left the hospital, she’d let her friend, Christine, persuade her to meet a couple of their co-workers at Café Du Monde in the Quarter for coffee and beignets. Surprisingly the outdoor coffeehouse hadn’t been overly crowded from the influx of tourists in town for Mardi Gras festivities. Leah had decided that most of the visitors were probably still in their hotel rooms sleeping off their previous night of debauchery and carousing.

      The sky had been overcast with dark clouds, the damp air of the Mississippi River chilly and breezy. She’d just seated herself with her friends, when it suddenly began to rain. She’d glanced up, and that’s when she’d seen him. He’d been running across the street to take shelter beneath the deep overhang around the outdoor coffeehouse. In his path was a bedraggled bag lady struggling with her shopping cart full of junk that she’d collected.

      Then, something amazing had happened, something rarely seen in the Quarter. Though it meant getting soaked, he had stopped long enough to help the old woman push her cart up out of the street onto the sidewalk that ran in front of the coffeehouse. Then he’d pushed it beneath the shelter of the overhang. By the time he’d sat down at a nearby table, he’d been soaking wet.

      “Is something wrong?”

      Hunter’s question jerked her back to the present. “No—nothing’s wrong,” she told him. She motioned toward the plate of food on the cabinet. “I hope you like your eggs fried.” She already knew he did, but did he remember that he did?

      Hunter shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He stepped farther into the room.

      With the spatula, she motioned toward the refrigerator. “There’s orange juice and apple juice in the fridge. Pour yourself a glass of whichever you want and be seated.” She grabbed a mitt and opened the oven door. “Yep, perfect timing,” she reiterated. “Even the biscuits are ready.” A couple of minutes later, she placed the plate of food on the table in front of him. On the plate were the two fried eggs, grits, bacon and a couple of the hot biscuits that she’d buttered as soon as she’d removed them from the oven.

      “This looks great,” he told her.

      “I’m afraid that the only kind of jelly I have is fig preserves,” she said. “Is that okay?”

      Before she realized his intentions, he grabbed her wrist. “You tell me.”

      Chapter 3

      Leah swallowed hard. Hunter’s manacle grip was anything but gentle, but it was the hard, cold look in his eyes that sent a shiver of fear racing up her spine. “Tell you?” she cried. “Tell you what?” She tugged on her wrist, but his grip tightened.

      “If, as you claim, we’re such good friends,” he sneered, “then you would damn well know my likes and dislikes, wouldn’t you?”

      Leah tensed and desperation clawed at her insides. She’d been a fool, a lovesick fool. Only a complete idiot would let herself get caught alone with a man with no memory of a past that was questionable.

      Stay calm and think. Use your brain. If it came down to a physical confrontation, СКАЧАТЬ