You Must Remember This

“Oh, yes.”

The abruptness of her answer made him blush. On her, a blush was just painful evidence of yet another embarrassment. On him, it was charming. It eased the hard lines of his face and gave him a boyish appeal. “Yeah, I’m the town freak.”

“I didn’t mean…”

He brushed away her words. “You didn’t say it. I did. Actually, it comes in handy. I don’t have to waste time explaining myself to anyone. Terry Sanchez—the woman who used to do this—said that you were really good with computers.”

She shrugged. She’d been computer-friendly since the very first time she’d laid fingers on a keyboard. There were times, though, when she would have given up every skill she possessed to be a little more people-friendly instead. Now was definitely one of those times.

“Can you help me?”

Not ten minutes ago she’d wondered why he’d never sought her help. Now that he had, she wished he hadn’t. Helping him meant spending time with him, and while that was certainly an appealing prospect on one level, on another, it was terrifying. She didn’t do well one-on-one, especially with someone as handsome, intense and fantasy-quality male as Martin Smith.

But if she helped him, she would get to spend time with him. Maybe they could be friends. Maybe she could even learn something from him about relating to men.

“I don’t know. If the police and Terry couldn’t help…”

“I’m not a priority with the police. They ran my fingerprints and sent out a missing persons broadcast, and that was all. They didn’t have the manpower, the budget or the interest in pursuing it any further. As for Terry…she says you’re damn good with the computer.”

She should be. The computers and the Internet were her life. She got her news and entertainment there, visited with friends, planned vacations she never took and had even sold her house in Dallas via an on-line real estate agent.

“I know there are ways you can do searches on the Internet,” Martin continued.

“But you have to have something to work with. I understand you don’t.”

His gaze shifted away and thin lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. “Then it shouldn’t take you long to hit a dead end. You won’t be out much time, and I’ll pay you for it.” His jaw tightened, and his gaze returned. “Please…”

More than that last word, which sounded as if he were unaccustomed to saying it, it was the look in his eyes that got to her. Vulnerability in a man who, she was certain, had never been vulnerable. How awful his situation must be. She wasn’t always happy with who she was, but at least she knew. It must be frightening to lose the very basis of who you are.

“All right,” she agreed, and she saw relief sweep over him. “But I can’t do it during office hours. Why—” Her voice choked, and she had to stop to take a breath. The last man she’d invited to her house had been an account executive with her previous company. He’d been charming, flattering and genuinely interested in her—or so she’d thought. After a half-dozen dates and one long memorable weekend, he had asked for what he’d really wanted: her help in hacking into another account exec’s computer. There had been a big account up for grabs, and he’d needed inside information to be sure he got it.

He hadn’t gotten the information, or the account.

But Martin Smith was being very up front about what he wanted from her. He wasn’t lying, playing her for a fool and trying to seduce her into cooperating.

More’s the pity.

“Why don’t you come to my house this evening? We’ll talk.”

“Around seven? Is that okay?”

“That’ll be fine.” She scrawled her address on a piece of notepaper and laid it on the corner of the desk closest to him. He took it with a nod, then left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

His fingers still wrapped tightly around the doorknob, Martin drew a deep breath. He hated this feeling, this tightness in his chest, as if he’d just faced some danger and survived. He hated asking for favors, hated pleading, hated like hell feeling helpless and incapable.

Especially in front of a woman like Juliet Crandall.

When Terry Sanchez had quit, she’d told him to ask the new computer whiz for help, and he had fully intended to do so…until he’d seen her. It had been a Monday, her first day on the job, and he’d caught a glimpse of her over at the police department. She was pretty, quiet, apparently interested in little besides her machines, and she scared the hell out of him. It had taken him two weeks to find the courage to approach her.

It had been a long time since he’d been seriously attracted to a woman. At least ten months, he knew. Even longer, he suspected. He’d had a few dates since the accident, but nothing special. Just pleasant evenings with nice women. There had been no electricity, no heat, no potential.

Just seeing Juliet Crandall made him so hot he could melt ice.

She lived in a neat little house with a picket fence less than three blocks from his own place. The house was green, the fence white, the yard big enough for kids. She didn’t have any, though. She didn’t have a husband, either, or, as far as he could tell, anyone special in her life. The male population both in Dallas and Grand Springs must be stupid or blind or both.

Forcing his fingers to unclench, he walked away from her office and out into the warm April sunshine. He wondered if he preferred summer or winter. Would he rather be sweating somewhere under a blazing sun or racing down a mountainside on skis? He’d gone to Squaw Creek Lodge a couple of times over the winter with the intention of renting a pair of skis and taking the lift up the mountain, but fear had kept him from actually doing it. Fear that he would get to the top and be unable to ski down? Or fear that he would be able to? He hadn’t known.

He wondered a lot about the fear. What had frightened him before the accident? Had he been a coward, or had he taken chances? Had fear been an occasional thing, or had he lived with it? He wanted to believe the former. He suspected the latter.

He suspected a lot of things. He suspected that the truth was out there somewhere, if he could just find the smallest clue. He suspected that he might not like what he learned. He suspected that he might not like who he’d been.

But he had to know. No matter what it cost.

He walked down the hill, taking the turns that led to his place, a garage apartment that Stone Richardson, the detective who’d tried to identify him last June, had found for him. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was cheap, and, under the circumstances, cheap was important. He’d worked off and on during the last ten months, though mostly at odd jobs, so his income was pretty meager. Added to the money found in his pocket after the accident, it had stretched, but just barely.

Five hundred dollars and change. That was all he’d had on him when he wandered into the Vanderbilt Memorial emergency room. No wallet, no car keys, no jewelry beyond an inexpensive wristwatch. Just five hundred dollars and clothing that could have been bought in any of a hundred thousand places in the country.

His wallet and the car keys, the police theorized, had been left in the car following the accident. Unfortunately, when the mud slides had been cleared away and the roads had opened again, no car had been found. Maybe, with the keys in it, someone had taken it. Or maybe there had never been a car. Maybe something else entirely had happened, and his scrambled brain had substituted an accident for it.

He climbed the wooden steps to the second-floor landing and unlocked the door. Sometimes he hated coming home because it wasn’t really home. Sometimes he hated leaving it, because at least it was safe. Inside these four walls he didn’t have to be Martin Smith. He didn’t have to be anybody at all, and he didn’t have to pretend that he was coping with being nobody. He could be as angry, bitter and afraid as he wanted—as long as he got it under control before leaving again. Control was important. He remembered that, although he didn’t remember why it was, or what would happen if he lost it.

The apartment was gloomy, and turning on the lights didn’t help. It was one room with a kitchen in this corner, a bathroom in that corner, a closet over there and living quarters in the middle. The furniture had come with it—a bed and night stand, a sofa and chair, a table and four ladderback chairs. Everything was ragged and worn, but still functional.

Like him.

He wasn’t a particularly neat housekeeper. The floor needed sweeping, and the rag rugs needed washing. There was dust on the tables and the lamp shades, and sections of newspapers were scattered everywhere. Ignoring the dirty dishes in the sink and the dirty laundry in the corner, he went to the bathroom and stripped out of his clothes.

Normally he tried to avoid the mirror hanging above the sink. He’d learned the art of focusing his attention so narrowly that he saw only parts—jaw, chin, cheeks—when he shaved, of combing his hair without seeing the face it framed. On occasion, though, he was drawn to the mirror. He could sit for hours staring at the total stranger whose face he wore, desperately seeking some connection, some tiny distant hint of recognition that never came. When he’d seen enough, it usually took far less time to get so drunk that he couldn’t see, period.

This afternoon he stared, cataloging features that he knew by heart and yet didn’t know at all. Blond hair in need of a trim, blue eyes, crooked nose. High cheekbones, thin lips, square jaw.

His gaze slid lower. There was a scar on his upper right chest—round, raised, the edges uneven. A gunshot wound, Dr. Howell had said. The long, straight, clean scar underneath it was from the incision made to remove the bullet. There were a matching set on his back and other smaller scars on his chest and back, plus one on his arm from something jagged—maybe a broken bottle or a dull knife that had torn instead of cut.

God help him, what kind of person had he been?

Violent.

Criminal.

Dangerous.

Had he been a dangerous man? He didn’t want to believe it, but sometimes he did. Sometimes he dreamed that he had been exactly the sort of person who could threaten, intimidate and hurt—maybe kill—someone else. Sometimes the dreams were so vivid, so intense, that they terrified him, and he spent the rest of the night pacing the room to avoid falling asleep again.

That was the first thing he had to tell Juliet Crandall this evening. She hadn’t wanted to help him in the first place. Warning her what kind of man he might be was only fair.

He’d never felt compelled to warn Terry Sanchez. But he had never seen Terry outside the library, and all he’d wanted was her assistance. He wanted a lot more from Juliet.

A hell of a lot more. But he couldn’t have it. He might have a wife and kids somewhere. There might be warrants for his arrest. Whoever had tried to kill him before might try again. Before he could have any kind of future, he had to find out about his past. He had to find out whether he deserved a future or whether everyone would have been better off if one of those bullets had killed him.