Private Vows

Besides, she probably would want it back when her fiancé found her, when her memory returned.

Maybe.

Though wanting the vile thing on her finger seemed an impossibility right now.

He gave her the cash then took out a business card and a pen. “Here’s my home and office numbers in case you leave before I get back to you. The home number’s unlisted.”

She took the card and read it, memorizing both numbers. Just in case.

He studied the ring again then slid it into his pocket. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

She nodded.

“Good night and good luck, uh—”

She held her breath. Was he going to call her Jane Doe the way the nurses had, let her know that he didn’t consider her a real person either?

“Mary Jackson.” His lips quirked upward in a semblance of a smile. “Good thing you’re not a rock-music fan. You might have called yourself something really off the wall.”

She tried to return his smile. “Sure. Things could always be worse. Right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out for you. Good night, Mary. Call me if you need anything.”

He spun on his heel and left, taking his aura of sadness and desolation with him, but instead of feeling lighter, the air seemed heavier and more oppressive than before he’d gone, darker, even though the light still blazed from the ceiling.

Chapter Three

For the next two days and nights Cole saw her haunted, frightened, alluring face on the six o’clock news broadcasts, in the local papers and in his dreams.

Despite all the publicity, however, her groom had not appeared to claim his bride. No one had come in to identify her, to take her home. Every afternoon Cole checked with Pete, and every afternoon the word was the same. Nothing.

She remained a woman with no past, adrift in a world she couldn’t remember. And no matter that she genuinely didn’t seem to blame him for it…he blamed himself. The accident had been unavoidable, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d been the one driving the car, the one who’d caused her problems and, ironically, the only one she’d trusted to help her. He couldn’t help her. He knew that.

Yet the memory of the way she’d lifted her chin and lied so bravely about remembering her name and address to keep from going to the hospital, the startled, pleased way she’d looked when he told her she was beautiful…the memory of her…stayed in the forefront of his mind and made him wish he could help her.

Pete had told him that she’d insisted on leaving the hospital the next day. Using the money he’d loaned her on her engagement ring, she’d rented a hotel room as close as she could get to the scene of the accident, hoping she’d recognize something familiar. He knew the place she’d chosen. It wasn’t luxurious nor was it seedy. It was mediocre. Institutional. Not a place where he could imagine Mary, with her air of fragility and dignity, being comfortable.

Cole tried to get the image of her in that hotel out of his mind as he pulled off the street and into his winding, tree-lined driveway a little after midnight. It was a dark, moonless night and, without the reflective strip on his mailbox, he might have missed the turn.

That driveway had been one of the things Angela had liked about the place, that the casual passerby wouldn’t be able to find them. On the outskirts of Dallas, the heavily wooded lots were large and had offered the requisite city residence for his job on the police force as well as seclusion and safety for Angela.

Which only proved that nobody could ever really be safe.

Not Angela and Billy in their secluded house and not Mary Jackson in her rented room in a mediocre hotel. But he couldn’t do one thing to change that, so why was he even stewing about it?

He pulled into the garage and got out of his car—not the beloved T-bird he’d been driving when he ran into Mary, but a dark blue, midsize sedan, the one he drove when he didn’t want to stand out, didn’t want to be noticed, when his job called for him to blend into the crowd, as he’d done tonight, infiltrating a society party dressed as a waiter.

He left the garage, closing the door behind him, and crossed his yard. The porch light had burned out a couple of years ago and he’d never replaced it. He liked the darkness.

A cricket chirped, his song loud in the quiet. Something scurried through the underbrush…a raccoon or ’possum, maybe. Too small for a deer. All sorts of wildlife shared the acres of dense woods that surrounded and separated the half-dozen houses in the development.

He strode onto the porch, unlocked the front door and went inside, crossing the entryway and climbing the wide wooden stairs without turning on a light. There was no need. He knew where every piece of furniture was located. He hadn’t moved anything in the last three years.

The only thing he’d changed was the room he and Angela had planned to use for a nursery, though the need had never arisen. He’d bought bedroom furniture and that was where he slept. He never entered the room he’d shared with Angela or the one that still held Billy’s twin bed surrounded by his stuffed animals and football posters.

The red light on his answering machine blinked in the darkness as he entered. He flipped on the light and pressed the button to retrieve his messages.

“This is…the woman who ran in front of your car two days ago.” Her hesitant voice emerged from the plastic machine like a soft spring breeze, and he could almost smell the white flowers with satin petals.

“I thought you might have tried to call me. Someone did—a man, the operator said. But when I answered, no one was there and whoever it was never called back. I thought perhaps it was you since you’re the only person besides the police who knows where I am. Although I don’t suppose you know, do you? I’m staying in room 428 at the Newton Arms.”

She recited the hotel’s number then hesitated as if debating whether to say more. He couldn’t tell if she hung up or if her silence triggered the answering machine’s automatic disconnect. In any event, the computerized voice announced that the call had come in at 9:23.

Cole played the message again, listening closely to what she wasn’t saying.

The tight sounds of fear were woven through her precise speech patterns and carefully modulated tones, and every word, every nuance sent guilt shooting through him.

Someone had called her…a wrong number, a reporter, a crank, a nobody…but she was illogically frightened. He’d seen Angela go through that torment a hundred times. Every hang-up call was a potential murderer or kidnapper checking to see if she was home alone.

Not only was he powerless when it came to helping people like Angela and Mary, but he seemed to have a talent for dragging them under, putting them in a position where fears that usually lurked in the background could grab them by the throat.

It was too late to return the call now. Tomorrow morning would have to be soon enough.

He peeled off his clothes and tossed all of them, even the uncomfortable, rented waiter’s uniform, into a pile in one corner then went down the hall to shower.

The cool water felt good sluicing down his body, washing off the stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol and cloying perfume.

Tonight he’d served drinks and hors d’oeuvres at the party while observing and surreptitiously taking pictures of a woman wearing the jewelry she’d reported to her insurance company as stolen. He’d been successful. His employer would be pleased.

But he didn’t feel successful. He felt useless, unfocused, as though he was just stumbling along down the road of life with no purpose and no goal.

Actually, that wasn’t completely true. His mind had consistently focused on one thing tonight…the wrong thing. Tonight’s job—like many of his assignments—was a no-brainer. He’d had nothing to distract him from thoughts of Mary Jackson.

As he’d offered fresh drinks, taken away dirty glasses and emptied ashtrays, her face had kept intruding, a small, pale image that loomed larger and larger, her eyes begging him for help he couldn’t give no matter how much he wanted to.

Then someone would speak to him or bump into him and he’d realize he’d been thinking only of Mary, had lost even the little attention he needed to perform his job. When that happened, he’d forcibly banish her from his thoughts, at least for a few minutes.

Now, after hearing her voice again, he found he couldn’t get her out of his head even for a few minutes. And it was more than guilt, more than a futile desire to help her and salve his conscience.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her smooth, porcelain skin…her long, graceful legs when she’d slid out of bed wearing that short hospital gown…the scents of harsh hospital soap that almost but not quite overpowered her white floral fragrance…the hungry way his body had responded to her nearness…and the brief flash of desire he’d seen in her eyes when they’d met his in the mirror.

He twisted the faucets angrily, shutting off the flow of water the way he wished he could shut off such troublesome thoughts, then, with a muttered curse, dried his body that had responded much too eagerly just to the thought of her.

He returned to his bedroom, flopped onto the unmade bed and switched out the light.

Okay, she was a woman, he was a man, and he lusted for her. So?

So that didn’t make any sense. He knew better than to lust after women with haunted, frightened eyes who needed a champion, a knight in shining armor. He lusted after women with knowing eyes, strong women who needed only what he had to give. And lust was all he had to give.