Czytaj książkę: «Lost Identity»
Suddenly a piercing scream rent the silence of the house
Andrew lurched to his feet, threw open the bedroom door and saw the stranger on the bed, sobbing and crying.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he soothed, and gathered her trembling body into his arms. Tears poured down her cheeks and she clung to him with the fierceness of a terrified child.
“You just had a bad dream,” he said gently.
As her heartbeat seemed to slow, she stammered, “I’m—I’m sorry….”
“It’s all right.” He stroked her hair and lifted it away from her moist cheeks. “Everything will look different in the morning,” he promised. He held her close until her breathing returned to normal, then eased her back down on the bed and left the room.
Sleep evaded him as he settled down for the night on the cot in the other room. Holding her in his arms had ignited some tender needs that he thought he’d buried a long time ago.
Turning restlessly on the narrow cot, Andrew tried to forget how soft and vulnerable she had felt in his arms.
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
We’ve got another month of sinister summer sizzlers lined up for you starting with the one and only Familiar—your favorite crime-solving black cat! Travel with the feisty feline on a magic carpet to the enchanting land of sheiks in Caroline Burnes’s Familiar Mirage, the first part of FEAR FAMILIAR: DESERT MYSTERIES. You can look for the companion book, Familiar Oasis, next month.
Then it’s back to the heart of the U.S.A. for another outstanding CONFIDENTIAL installment. This time, the sexiest undercover operatives around take on Chicago in this bestselling continuity series. Cassie Miles launches the whole shebang with Not on His Watch.
Debra Webb continues her COLBY AGENCY series with one more high-action, heart-pounding romantic suspense story in Physical Evidence. What these Colby agents won’t do to solve a case—they’ll even become prime suspects to take care of business…and fall in love.
Finally, esteemed Harlequin Intrigue author Leona Karr brings you a classic mystery about a woman who washes up on the shore sans memory. Good thing she’s saved by a man determined to find her Lost Identity.
A great lineup to be sure. So make sure you pick up all four titles for the full Harlequin Intrigue reading experience.
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Lost Identity
Leona Karr
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of Colorado, Leona Karr lives at the foot of the Rocky Mountains with her husband, Michael. After pursuing a career as a reading specialist, she has followed her dream of becoming a writer, and is a multipublished author of romantic suspense, historicals, mysteries and inspirational romances. “Love conquers all” is the theme of her books, and she enjoys reading and writing fast-paced stories of danger and love.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
A mysterious young woman—She is nearly drowned on a deserted beach and has no memory of who she is or how she got there, but a terrifying sense of danger remains.
Andrew Davis—A solitary young man who offers his bungalow as a refuge. Will the discovery of the woman’s identity change his life forever?
Perry Reynolds—A middle-aged successful business partner whose mysterious disappearance could be a hoax.
Curtis Mandel—A company executive who makes romantic claims that may be a clever cover-up.
Janelle Balfour—A friend and co-worker who has a familiarity with all that has happened in the past.
Darlene Reynolds—The angry young wife of Perry who has suspicions about her husband’s disappearance.
Gary Reynolds—Perry’s son. Is his need for money connected with his father’s disappearance?
To my husband, Michael,
who fills my life with laughter, love and light.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
Fierce winds and slashing rain whipped the New Jersey coastline as Andrew Davis stood at the window of his seaside cottage late one afternoon, and viewed the strong summer storm. Outside dark afternoon shadows mingled with curtains of slanting rain and thundering clouds. Warnings had been posted up and down the coast. He was about to draw the drapes when he glimpsed something unusual on the beach below. Even through the rivulets of rain pouring down the window glass, the shape of a human form lying on the sand was unmistakable.
Good Lord, could it be? A body washed up in the cove below his house?
Grabbing his slicker, he bounded out the door, took the deck stairs two at a time, and raced across the wild grass and sandy ground that lay between his elevated cottage and the beach below. When he reached the prone figure lying on the sand, he saw that it was a petite young woman lying on her back, her face stark white, framed by tangled dark hair drenched with seawater.
At his touch, she gave a weak groan, and then took in a gasp of air that told him her lungs were free of water. Her eyelids fluttered open and she gazed at him with rounded eyes filled with terror.
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “It’s all right. Let’s get you out of this storm.” He scooped her up in his arms, and quickly carried her back to his cottage. Laying her down on a rug in front of the fire, he reached for a quilted cover to spread over her.
Her white slacks, soft pink blouse and white sandals were soaked. The clinging wet clothing defined the swell of her firm breasts, narrow waist and shapely legs. Her teeth were chattering, and her body was racked with shivers, but she seemed to be all right otherwise.
“I’ll get you something warm to drink,” he said and disappeared into his small kitchen.
She sat up, covered her face with hands and choked back a sob. A vertigo of unanswered questions swirled in her head, and fear was like a monster attacking her memory. Even as she struggled to fill the void in her mind, a deep terror shot through her. Who is this man? She couldn’t remember anything beyond the moment when his anxious face bent over her. Even her very identity was lost in the dark abyss of her mind. Was she afraid to remember?
Andrew returned with a cup of coffee laced with brandy and said, “Here, this will warm you up.”
Her blue lips murmured a weak, “Thank you.”
He wasn’t quite sure how to handle this unexpected houseguest. Should he suggest that she take a warm shower and put on some clothing of his? In her distraught condition, she might take offense. Obviously she had been traumatized by what had happened to her. How did she get on his beach? He’d been watching the storm develop all day, and hadn’t seen any boats on this stretch of ocean. Weird, he thought.
He gave her a few moments to sip the drink, and then he said, “I’m Andrew Davis.” When she didn’t make the usual response, he waited for a long moment and then asked gently, “And your name is—?”
She lowered the cup, stared at it, and then said in a choked voice, “Trish.” Even as she said it, there was no real familiarity with the name or any firm recognition that it belonged to her. Her stomach curled with tension. Trish? Where did that name come from?
“Should I call someone, Trish, and let them know that you’re safe?”
Call who? A subtle warning lay somewhere in the devastating disorientation that she was experiencing. She lifted her head. “No, there’s no one,” she said as evenly as she could. Why am I so frightened that someone will come for me?
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press her. She was obviously in a state of shock. Whatever had brought her to a deserted beach at the height of a lashing storm must have been catastrophic. Every time there was a clap of vibrating thunder, sparked by forks of summer lightning, she cringed as if she feared the fierce winds would whip the small cottage into the greedy ocean.
“This little house is storm-proof,” he reassured her. “It’s firmly anchored and has weathered gales a lot worse than this one.” She nodded, but her sea-blue eyes remained glazed and rounded.
“Can I stay here…until…until the storm’s over?” she asked, silently adding with a sense of helplessness, until I remember where to go?
“The welcome mat is always out for unexpected visitors,” he lied. In truth, Andrew valued his privacy above everything else, and only an emergency like this one would compel him to share his roof with a stranger. “I’m curious how you found your way to my beach…well, not exactly mine,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “But I claim it.”
She didn’t respond, but the warmth of the fire and the stimulation of the hot drink began to ease her bone-deep chill. There was something reassuring about her rescuer’s gentleness, his clean-cut looks, wavy blond hair bleached by the sun and his nicely tanned face. I feel safe here, she thought with a spurt of surprise. She stammered, “Maybe…maybe, I got lost.”
“Lost?” Andrew waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. What did she mean—maybe she got lost? Did she or didn’t she? “You’re not from around here, then?” he prodded.
Her hands tightened on her cup and she stared at it without answering.
Andrew decided to back off from any more questioning for the moment. He could tell that she was fighting for self-control, and whatever had happened to her had left her in a state of shock. No telling how long she would have to stay before the weather cleared and he could drive her somewhere. He decided that he’d have to take charge whether he wanted to or not.
“Would you like to take a hot shower, Trish, and get into some dry clothes? One of my long sweatshirts and bathrobes will keep you warm while we put your things through the washer and dryer.”
She hesitated for a long moment and he could see uncertainty stamped on her face. Then she raised her head and nodded.
Like a child who is grateful for some adult direction, she followed him into the small bedroom. Quickly, he laid out the clothes he’d mentioned, and then directed her to a small bathroom that adjoined his bedroom and the other small room, which he’d taken for his office.
“Here are some towels. Shampoo and soap are on the shelf. Make use of whatever is there, and if you need anything else, just holler.”
After he had closed the door, she just stood there for a long moment, staring at herself in a mirror. Then she whispered, “Trish…Trish.” Was that really the name of the strange woman with wide frightened blue eyes staring back at her? What happened to me that I’m even afraid to remember who I am? She shivered, and fought a weakness that went bone-deep.
She dropped her clothes, and searched her body for some familiar signs of recognition. There was an appendix scar, so she must have had it taken out at some time. Her toenails were polished in the same rosy hue as her fingernails. A bruise was forming on her right forearm and there was a tender spot on the back of her head. Had she fallen? Or had someone hit her? Had she suffered a blow to her head that had caused a momentary loss of memory? Momentary. She clung to that word as if it were a life preserver. Yes, she reassured herself, at any second, everything could come rushing back. Then she would know who she was, and why fear was coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach.
AS ANDREW WAITED for her to join him again, this sudden intrusion into his contented and solitary life was creating some deep mixed feelings. Of course, he was glad that he’d been able to go to the woman’s rescue, and would do it again in a minute, but at the same time, he sensed he was being drawn into something that was not to his liking.
As a developer of software for a major computer company, he worked at his beach cottage, and only commuted to the Manhattan office a couple of days a week. His life was ordered in a way that allowed almost complete privacy. He knew that his background as a foster child who had been constantly moved from one family to another had created this need to get away from the demands of other people. A couple of brief romantic relationships had not filled the empty void in his life, but had only resulted in more disappointments and a vow not to open himself up to that kind of pain again. He loved living alone, being accountable to no one, and having control over every aspect of his life. Just the sound of water running in his bathroom was a strange kind of intrusion. He wished that the storm would let up and he could drive the lady back to wherever she belonged.
Her vague answer about being lost was obviously a lie. Was she running away from someone? No sign of a wedding or engagement ring on her finger. He had noticed that her water-resistant watch was an expensive one, and her clothes certainly weren’t bargain-basement. Who in the devil was she? And what was she doing on an isolated beach at the height of a storm?
When she came back into the living room a few minutes later, he was startled by the sudden change in her appearance. Her face was slightly pink from the warm shower, and fringed eyelashes and crescent eyebrows matched her clean, dark brown hair. There was a lift to her head that had not been there before, and he was strangely aware of a feminine loveliness about her that couldn’t be disguised in his old plaid bathrobe, and faded argyle socks.
“I think I used up all your hot water,” she apologized, giving him a weak smile.
“No problem. It heats fast. You look much better.”
“I feel much better. Almost like myself.” Whoever that might be, she thought with a touch of painful irony.
“Good. I was about to put together some fish chowder for supper, would you like to join me in the kitchen and watch?” he asked, hoping she’d be more talkative if he maintained some kind of normalcy in the situation.
“Sounds good,” she said, pleased that she felt an honest reaction to his suggestion. Maybe she could rely on her gut feelings until she had something more tangible to give her insight. She followed him into the compact kitchen and sat down in one of the chairs beside a small round table.
As he reached into the refrigerator for the makings of his chowder, he asked. “Do you like to cook?”
She looked around the kitchen, her thoughtful eyes studied the counter canisters, spice rack and kitchen appliances. With a strange sense of certainty, she said firmly, “No, I don’t. I’m not a good cook.”
Her expression puzzled him. Why did she look so pleased with herself? His suspicion that she was someone with money deepened. No doubt, she had hired help to do all the things that didn’t appeal to her, like cooking.
“What do you like to do?” he asked, noticing her polished nails.
“Oh, lots of things,” she said vaguely, as muscles tightened around her mouth. She had no answer to the simple question, and she quickly turned away from it. “What about you?
He wasn’t fooled. He had to admire the way she deftly avoided any talk about herself. Why was she so guarded about giving him any information? Was she running from the law? Could it be that he was harboring a fugitive? A spurt of resentment overtook him.
Ever since he’d purchased this cottage almost five years ago, he had jealously guarded his privacy. Even at the office, he was known as a loner, and although he was friendly enough with everyone, he avoided any personal intrusion in their lives, and he didn’t invite any of them into his. He was thirty years old, and it was ironic that a strange woman sitting in his kitchen, wearing his robe, might be drawing him into some unwanted involvement that he had been careful to avoid.
As Andrew prepared the meal, he gave up trying to make any more conversation. Trish was aware of his withdrawal. Outside, the sounds of the relentless surf beating upon the beach below scraped her frayed nerves. Her safety seemed more tenuous than ever. She felt as if she were holding on to a lifeline that he’d thrown her, and would suddenly pull it away if she said the wrong thing.
What if she told him the truth? Would he believe her? Or would he think she was taking advantage of the situation and him? How could she describe the terror that swept up in her when she tried to remember? How could she explain the melodramatic truth that an ever-present danger lurked in the dark corners of her mind? She desperately needed to know the truth about who she was and what had happened to her before she opened herself up to anyone. An unknown terror reached out to her from the dark abyss of her lost memory.
Andrew sensed her inner turmoil as he served her a steaming bowl of chowder and corn bread muffins. “You’ll feel better with some hot food in your stomach,” he told her with a smile.
“It smells wonderful,” she said, even as her tight stomach rebelled at the thought of food.
Instead of taking a chair opposite her at the tiny table, he perched on a high stool at a counter where he usually ate with a book in his hand. Her presence in the small kitchen seemed to demand some kind of social exchange, but her vague responses had discouraged any conversation between them.
She scarcely touched her food. “I’m sorry, I’m just not very hungry, after all,” she apologized when he had finished eating his.
“That’s okay. Sometimes food isn’t the answer. You’re probably needing a good night’s sleep. I’ll make up the cot in my computer room so you can have the bedroom.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you like that,” she protested, already sensing that just having her there was putting some kind of pressure on him.
“It’s no bother,” he answered politely. “Everything will look different in the morning.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will.” She forced a level of confidence into the words. Surely, whatever had caused her to lose her memory would be healed in sleep, allowing her to draw out of the depths of her unconscious the answers that were hidden from her. Somehow she knew that a temporary loss of memory could return as quickly as it was lost. Surely by morning she would know who she was, and why she had nearly lost her life in the raging storm.
ANDREW TRIED unsuccessfully to ignore the presence of the woman sleeping in his bed. As was his custom, he worked at his computer until after midnight, and then finally gave up because his mind kept wandering, plagued by unanswered questions about her. Why did he have a nagging suspicion that he was being used in some fashion? Even though his rescue of her seemed legit, could she have faked the whole thing for some nefarious purpose?
He plopped down on the living room couch. Sitting there and staring at the ebbing fire, he tried to come to some understanding of what he was feeling and what he should do next. His experience with conniving women had left him guarded and slightly bitter. He had long since decided that he wasn’t cut out for the mating games that went with heavy dating. His few ventures into romantic relationships had proved what he already knew—opening oneself up only brought hurt, big time.
He leaned his head back on the couch and had just closed his eyes when a piercing scream rent the silence of the house. He lurched to his feet, threw open the bedroom door, and saw her writhing on the bed, sobbing and crying.
“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he soothed and gathered her trembling body into his arms. Tears poured down her cheeks and she clung to him with the fierceness of a terrified child. Her breathing was rapid. Her body felt cold to his touch and she was caught in a spasm of shivers. Any doubts about her anguish being genuine were instantly dispelled. There was no way she could have pretended such an upheaval of emotion.
Trish heard his voice and struggled to find her way out of an enveloping panic. She clung to him and felt the warmth of his arms encircling her.
“You just had a bad dream,” he said gently.
A bad dream. Her mind grabbed at his reassurance. That’s all it was. A nightmare. Only fragments of images remained in her consciousness, and even as she tried to capture them, they faded away like shadows in a mist. Whatever had triggered the terror that had brought her screaming out of a tortured sleep, slipped away, leaving her empty and shaken.
As the drumming of her heart began to lessen, she managed to stammer, “I’m…I’m sorry…”
“It’s all right.” He stroked her hair and lifted it away from her moist cheeks, aware of the delicate contour of her face and the totally feminine body pressed against his. “Everything will look different in the morning,” he promised once again. He held her close until her breathing settled into a normal rhythm, then he eased her back down on the bed and quietly left the room.
Sleep evaded him as he settled down for the night on the cot in his computer room. His mind kept turning over unanswered questions. He was certain now that she was truly frightened about something or someone. Although he was sympathetic to her situation, whatever it might be, he still didn’t want to get involved. He suspected that there was a lover somewhere in the picture. She was very attractive, and more appealing than he was ready to admit. Holding her in his arms had ignited some tender needs that he thought he’d buried a long time ago. Turning restlessly on the narrow cot, he tried to forget how soft and vulnerable she had felt in his arms.
WHEN TRISH WOKE UP early the next morning, she was disoriented as she looked around the small room. Then a quiver of relief shot through her. She knew where she was. Everything came back from the moment that she’d been carried into the house. A man named Andrew had rescued her. And before that? And before that? The question kept ricocheting from one side of her head to the other.
Her lips quivered. Nothing. Nothing.
Hugging Andrew’s faded robe around her, she walked to the window and stared at the scene stretched out before her. The summer storm had passed, leaving a soft mist moving away from the land.
Dragging her eyes over a small rocky cove below the cottage, she searched the empty beach and rolling breakers, struggling to recover some vision of what had happened to bring her to that deserted stretch of sand.
A new day lay fresh and glistening in the sunlight. She swallowed hard. A new day. For what? Running and hiding? Running from what? Hiding from whom? She turned back toward the bed, ready to crawl back in and cover up her head, but hesitated when she heard sounds in the other rooms.
Andrew was up. She knew he would be wanting some answers, but what should she tell him? If she admitted that she had no clue who she was, or how she had ended up on his beach, he would probably insist on taking her somewhere. Something deep within warned her not to leave this haven of safety until she could remember why she felt threatened and in danger. She decided to take the coward’s way out—climb back in bed, cover up her head and pretend to be asleep.
Andrew prepared his usual breakfast of cereal and toast, and made two extra cups of coffee. This was one of his days in the office, but he’d hoped that he and his houseguest would have some time to talk before he left. Glancing at his watch, he knew that wasn’t going to happen unless she got up in the next few minutes.
She didn’t appear. The bedroom door was still closed when he was ready to leave. He listened for any sounds inside, and then quietly opened the door and peeked in. She was still in bed. He was about to close it again when she raised her head and gave him a startled look.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m about to leave for the office.” He frowned. He didn’t feel right about leaving her after last night’s sobbing nightmare, but he didn’t have any choice. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she readily lied. “Just tired.”
“Well, sleep in as long as you like. I’ve left some breakfast for you.” He hesitated, wanting to ask what her plans were, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. After her ordeal yesterday and the kind of night she’d had, it was clear that she needed rest. He felt a little uneasy, leaving a stranger alone in his house, but he really had no choice. “I’ve left a note with my cell phone number if you want to call me.”
She nodded.
There didn’t seem to be anything more to be said so he closed the bedroom door and left the house. The whole business was unreal. Never in the world would he have imagined twenty-four hours ago that he would have a strange woman sleeping in his bed, sabotaging his well-ordered life and cluttering up his mind with irritating questions. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t forget the way she’d clung to him last night. He’d been careful not to allow anyone to be dependent upon him for anything, but there was something of a lost soul about her that could easily get to him if he let it. Anyway, she’d probably be gone when he got back home, he told himself, and he could chalk the whole episode up to some kind of weird adventure.
His unsettled mood must have been communicated to his fellow workers because several of them asked, “What’s the matter with you today, Andrew? You don’t seem like yourself.”
He brushed off their comments with a shrug and vague answer. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself, wondering what their reaction would be if he told them the truth—that there was a strange lovely waif sleeping in his bed.
As usual, Andrew had lunch by himself in the coffee shop that he frequented. He exchanged pleasantries with the motherly waitress who was used to serving him in a back booth where he ate his usual corned beef sandwich with a book opened on the table beside his plate. He tried to resume his usual routine, but when he found himself staring at the pages without reading the words, he pulled out his cell phone and called home.
No one answered.
He let it ring six times before he hung up. She must have left or was still sleeping. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or irritated.
Later that afternoon, he called again. Still no answer.
TRISH HAD STAYED huddled in bed until midmorning. Finally, she took herself in hand, retrieved her clean clothes from the dryer and dressed. Thankful that she’d been given a slight reprieve from having to make any kind of decision, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee.
She saw that Andrew had left bread on the counter for toast and some cereal waiting to be heated on the stove, but her stomach was churning with too much anxiety to feel like eating anything.
What should she do? Where should she go?
Her mind played the questions over and over again. If she left the safety of this cottage, would she be walking straight into some unnamed danger? She knew with sickening certainty that something terrifying had happened to her, but that was all she knew. How could she protect herself when she didn’t even know who she was or where the threat lay?
Taking the cup of hot coffee with her into the living room, she sat down in his easy chair. A faint masculine scent was strangely comforting as she thought about the man who had rescued her. Who was this Andrew Davis? His personal imprint was all over the small house. Wooden shelves flanking the fireplace were crowded with books of all kinds, and in the corner of the room was a guitar. Framed pictures on the wall were obviously prints taken with a simple camera, probably his, she thought. The modest furnishings suggested a man comfortable with himself, and a man who invited trust. She remembered how he had held her last night, and the way his gentle reassurances had soothed her shattered state. Up until now, he hadn’t burdened her with a lot of questions, but she knew that that couldn’t go on. She had to make a decision. Either she was going to have to start lying or tell him the truth.
If she told him that she couldn’t remember anything before he found her on the beach, would he believe her? He might think she was just trying to con him with such a tale, and show her the door. Where would she go?
Maybe a lie would be better, she reasoned. Almost any story would seem more acceptable than the truth. What kind of a tale could she weave that would make it reasonable for her to stay here until she had some glimmer of her Lost Identity?
The sudden ring of the telephone sent her into instant panic. She was afraid to answer. What if they asked, “Who is this?” And what was more frightening, someone might be trying to find her.
She held her breath until it stopped ringing. Too late, she realized that it might have been Andrew calling to see if she was still there. Maybe he had wanted to tell her that he expected her to be gone by the time he got home?
If only she could remember anything, even a glimmer, maybe she would know what to do. She hated the thought of going back down to the beach where he had found her, but maybe something there would trigger her memory. Nothing could be more terrifying than not knowing anything about what had happened to her.
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