Lovers In Hiding

CLAY SAW NO SIGN of pursuit. But no way could he relax or forget their pressing problems with Melinda pressed so tightly to him. Even through the leather jacket he’d given her to wear, he could feel her shivering on the seat behind him. So far he hadn’t done such a hot job of protecting her, but now that he’d found her, he was determined that would change.

With the sky dark from horizon to horizon, rain teeming down in giant buckets and lightning occasionally striking nearby, the huge thunderstorm showed no signs of abating. Without a direct sign of pursuit, he couldn’t justify fleeing with Melinda possibly still in shock and injured. She needed to be warm. Needed to see a doctor.

His first thought was taking off her wet clothes and heating her with his own body. But he shoved the inappropriate image aside almost immediately.

Instead he peered through the rain and spied a coffeehouse in one of those strip malls that included an ice-cream shop, a ladies boutique and a gift emporium. After parking the bike where it wouldn’t be easily spotted, he took her icy hand in his. Guilt stabbed him for not taking better care of his charge. First she almost drowned, then almost froze to death. “Come on.”

“Where’re we going?” She spoke slowly between chattering teeth.

“To get you dry and warm.”

He opened the boutique door and ushered her inside, hoping to be hit with a blast of warmth. But air-conditioning turned on cool made it seem as if they’d entered a refrigerator.

A middle-aged woman doing paperwork behind a desk took one look at his black leather jacket wrapped around a dripping-wet Melinda and frowned. “Can I help you?” she asked hesitantly, her soft Southern accent firm but polite.

Clay reached for his wallet and took out two hundred-dollar bills. “We got caught in the storm. The lady needs a towel and a new outfit to wear home.”

The saleslady glanced from the cash to Melinda and her face brightened. “I have just the thing. You poor dear.”

Ten minutes later, Clay had his soggy jacket back, and Melinda left the store wearing new navy stretch jeans and matching denim jacket over a red slinky top that showed an inch of skin at her flat stomach. Her teeth had finally stopped chattering, although her lips still held a tinge of blue. Clay noted the bulge in her jacket pocket and realized she’d transferred the gun to her new attire.

“I’ll pay you back when I—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Clay held her elbow and escorted her toward the coffee shop. “How about a bowl of hot soup and some coffee?”

“Hot anything sounds good.”

He knew she referred to the food, but his mind did a double take anyway. Such a sexually oriented thing—the male mind. He doubted she realized that while she’d changed clothes in the privacy of a cubicle and he’d stood guard, his mind had played all kinds of tricks on him. He’d imagined her peeling back her wet shirt and shorts to reveal very rounded curves. He’d wondered if she’d removed her wet underthings or kept them on. While it should have made no difference at all to him whether or not she still wore underwear, he couldn’t help wondering whether he would be able to tell once she warmed up and removed her jacket.

He’d unintentionally brushed against her breasts too many times today not to be curious. Yet…while he knew his thoughts to be distracting and totally unprofessional, he had too much male in him to resist indulging in the fantasy. He’d wondered why he was so fascinated with her—he liked slim blondes, didn’t he? But suddenly he realized that he’d been deceiving himself. Curvy brunettes had a lot to offer.

Idiot. She’s not offering you anything.

They had the coffee shop to themselves, and Clay commandeered a booth near the foggy front window where he could watch the parking lot while they ate and talked. After the waitress took the orders, he could practically see the questions reflected in Melinda’s topaz eyes.

“Why is the CIA interested in me?” she asked.

She might not have her memories, but her keen intelligence showed as she burned through the fog and fired to the heart of the matter. He drummed his fingers on the table. How much should he tell her? He was supposed to gain her trust before asking about the documents, and she certainly didn’t trust him yet. In fact, he considered himself lucky that she hadn’t tried to convince the saleslady or the waitress to call the cops.

“Since you’ve lost your memory, I’m going to have to explain some things to you before I answer your question.”

She clasped her hands together and leaned forward. She’d done something to her hair, pulling it back from her face, smoothing it into a semblance of order. But water kept trickling from it, one suggestive droplet running down her neck and onto the thin red shirt.

He had to force his eyes to remain on her face and not follow the enticing direction the water had taken. “You have a brother and a sister, but after your parents died, the siblings were split up. Your older brother, Jake Cochran, grew up in foster homes and started looking for you the day he graduated from high school. Until recently, he couldn’t find you. But then he uncovered copies of your birth certificates. The information led him to—”

Her eyes narrowed. “My own brother wants me dead?”

“On the contrary. Jake asked the government to protect you. So here I am.” Clay gave her the simplified version of his story. While Jake had never asked the government to protect his sister, he had hired bodyguards for both sisters. Before Melinda’s bodyguard could contact her, he’d been grievously wounded but had survived for several hours before he’d died. He’d used those hours to contact the director for help.

“And why does my brother think I need protection?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Why don’t we call and ask him?”

“We suspect he’s running for his own life right now.”

“And my sister?”

“She has already gone underground.”

The waitress returned and placed coffee cups and steaming bowls of chowder in front of them. Melinda tasted her coffee and frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Clay asked.

“Apparently I don’t like coffee.”

The waitress gave her an odd look.

“Could I have a hot chocolate instead?”

“You like hot chocolate?” Clay asked as he sipped his own black coffee.

“I’m not sure. The request slipped out before I thought about it.”

“Have any of your memories returned?”

She shook her head, but he wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. “It’s horrible, you know? The worst is not trusting…my own reactions.” She looked at the soup in front of her as if it might bite her, then determinedly looked deep into her bowl. “I don’t even know if I like clam chowder.”

“There’s one way to find out.” Sensing her vulnerability, knowing she was hanging on to her dignity by just a few threads, he handed her the spoon.

She hesitated, then accepted the utensil. He figured she might take the tiniest taste, but she filled the spoon to the rim and took a full bite. “Mmm.” She swallowed and scooped up more of the thick chowder. “Delicious.”

“I know it must be frightening to have forgotten your past, but maybe you could look at it as an adventure—”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Think of all the fun things you can learn all over again.” Like kissing and making love and…Clay shut the thought down hard. He didn’t like his mind drifting while he tried to make a point. He didn’t need the distraction of thoughts about sex. He needed to keep his personal life separate from business, each segment neat and tidy in its own compartment to be taken out and savored at the right time. “Everything is a new experience for you. But maybe they’ll be good experiences.”

“Like when I rode a roller coaster for the first time. I was scared to death but it was a blast.”

“You remember?” he asked, hopeful. He needed her memory to return as soon as possible. It was critical to recovering the documents her brother had sent her.

“I remember the wind in my face. My stomach swooping in fear. It was exhilarating—not the sickening fear I felt back on the beach.”

If one memory had returned, maybe the others would follow. Clay told himself not to push her. He couldn’t afford to scare her again. He needed her trust.

AS MELINDA ATE, she wondered if Clay Rogan was playing her for a fool. But if he meant her harm, if he wasn’t with the CIA, would he have been so concerned about her health? Ignoring his own discomfort, Clay had given her his jacket, and she suddenly realized how cold he must have been, riding in front and taking the brunt of the rain. Imagining the chill factor alone made her shiver.