do you know?”
“Look at me,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “Look at us. You’re Millionaire Inventor Guy, and I’m—”
“—an incredibly attractive woman with practical knowledge and principles.”
A pleased flush swept over her. “Thanks.”
But she knew who and what she was: a small-town cop with a troubling connection to his case. And those principles he was talking about wouldn’t let her gloss over the differences between them.
She squared her shoulders. “But the answer’s still no. Detective Palmer is handling the investigation from here on in. After today, there’s no reason for us to ever see each other again.”
He blew it.
Simon didn’t know how or why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of connections missed, of opportunities lost. It was like calculating a complex equation. His formula was correct, but his data was wrong. Or he was missing a variable completely.
He watched the police boat’s choppy progress across the lake, aware of Laura Baker’s slim, straight figure at the controls. She’d taken off her hat, making her neatly constrained hair gleam like tarnished metal in the sun.
He inhaled sharply. He wanted her. Still. The taste of her lingered in his mouth like honey. The itch for her buzzed in his blood.
She wanted him, too. He might not remember whatever women had occupied his bed or his mind before, but he recognized a woman’s desire.
But it didn’t take a genius to see that this woman was equally determined not to have anything further to do with him.
Why not?
Considering the problem logically, there was nothing obviously wrong with him. Well, except for the void where his memory should be. And while the detective was smart enough to suspect the worst, she couldn’t know the full extent of his loss.
No one could know the full extent of his loss.
Expelling his breath, Simon turned back to his desk. Laura Baker was a puzzle and a challenge. But however much he might enjoy fitting the pieces together, he had bigger problems to solve.
“I didn’t mean to screw things up with the meter maid,” Dylan volunteered over lunch. “But she’s not your usual type, is she?”
Simon lowered his fork to stare at his brother, seated nine feet away at the opposite end of the long, polished table. All of the furniture in the house was over-sized and shiny, as if it had been designed for very neat giants. The colors were all neutrals, cream and beige and gray. Simon wondered if he’d chosen them or even liked them. He didn’t like them now. Would he when he got his memory back?
“Detective,” he corrected his brother. “And why isn’t she my type?”
“Because she’s difficult. And you’ve always liked your women easy.”
Simon raised his eyebrows. “Easy?”
“No work,” Dylan explained. “No hassles. The Stepford Girlfriends—beautiful, intelligent, perfect, polite. Like you could shut them off and put them away in the lab when you were done playing with them.”
Simon was amused. Appalled. “I don’t have a lot of time to invest in relationships,” he said. Now, where had that come from?
Dylan snorted. “You’re telling me. If you didn’t have so much money, no woman would put up with you.”
Could he ask about the portrait of the schoolgirl upstairs? Simon wondered. No, not yet.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Are you offering me a raise, big brother?”
“No.” Should he? What did his brother earn?
“That’s okay. I don’t need more money.” Dylan grabbed a roll from the basket in the center of the table and buttered it lavishly. “I have charm.”
Quinn Brown stomped into the dining room. He glared at Dylan and shoved a phone handset at Simon.
No charm there, Simon thought.
“Call for you,” Quinn said. “Vince Macon.”
“Damn,” Dylan said.
Who the hell was Vince Macon?
Simon had spent some time yesterday studying his company’s organization chart, trying to grasp its structure, hoping to strike a name that would spark a memory. In the process, he’d learned that Lumen Corp employed over a hundred researchers and support staff at its Chicago headquarters and that his brother Dylan—surprise, surprise—was a vice president of marketing. But he didn’t recognize the name “Macon” at all.
He had to say something. Do something.
“You take the call,” he said to Dylan.
His brother’s face froze. If Simon had been in the mood for a laugh, it would have been funny.
“You’re kidding,” Dylan said.
“No. Why?”
“Because he’s one of your biggest investors and he hates me?”
An investor. Relief eased Simon’s shoulders.
“Good enough,” he said and accepted the phone. “Hey, Vince. Simon here.”
“Simon!” The voice was hearty, warm…and completely unfamiliar. Simon squelched his disappointment. “You’re a hard man to reach. What are you doing on the island?”
“Research,” Simon said.
“Ha. Good one.” Vince Macon lowered his voice. “I heard Dylan was up there with you.”
Simon looked down the table. His brother had settled back in his chair and was watching him. “Yes.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said honestly, meeting Dylan’s eyes. “But he’s here.”
“You mean, in the room? Listening?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not having any…trouble up there, are you?”
A prickle of disquiet raised the hair on the back of Simon’s neck. Trouble? Yeah. He had a bump on his head, a missing cache of cultured gemstones and great big gaps in his memory. But why would Macon ask? How would he know?
“No,” Simon said finally. “No trouble.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you later then. When are you coming back to Chicago?”
Frustration bubbled inside him. He was stumbling around in a fog, trying
