He sighed and seemed to settle more deeply into the blanket. “I don’t want to remember.” “Why not?”
He closed his eyes and shuddered. “… Pain …”
“You remember pain? Then maybe you were in some sort of accident. A car wreck maybe.” It was possible he’d been so dazed and confused, he’d wandered miles from the scene of the crash and then stumbled into the path of her oncoming vehicle.
“The needles hurt,” he said.
Something in his voice—a faint note of fear, nothing more—brought the image of a caged animal to Claudia’s mind. For a moment, she forgot about the possible threat he brought with him. She even forgot to breathe.
He turned to stare into the flames. “I don’t like memories.”
Claudia’s heart beat so hard against her chest, she could hear the echo in her ears.
I don’t like memories.
What on earth had happened to him?
And why did she have an irresistible urge to kneel beside him on the floor and wrap her arms around him?
Why, suddenly, did she want to save him?
This made no sense. She could feel compassion without chucking her common sense. He was still a stranger and she still had to protect herself.
And as for the needles … an escapee from a psychiatric ward might have such memories, mightn’t he?
She bit her lip. “I can understand why you may not like memories,” she said softly. “But if we’re going to figure out why you’re here and why you think I need saving, then we need to know if there’s anything else you can tell me.”
He stared into the fire for a long time, and then his gaze lifted. “Coronet Blue.”
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s what I remember,” he said. “Coronet Blue.” And then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled.
Chapter Eight
Claudia decided the best thing to do was call it a night and figure things out in the morning. Her interrogation had accomplished nothing. If the man really did have amnesia, he needed to be under a doctor’s care. There wasn’t anything she could do for him and her questions might just upset him.
Though he didn’t seem upset at the moment. Not with that smile he’d just flashed. It was a little sly, a little knowing, as if he were enjoying a private joke. At her expense.
Claudia didn’t care for that.
Which was yet another reason why she had no intention of closing her eyes while he was in her house. She would not rest easy until Jack Maddox—if that was his real name—was out of her life for good.
“I think—”
Before she had a chance to finish her thought, he said, “I’ll stay out here. If that’s permitted.” Permitted?
The way he spoke was yet another intriguing piece of the puzzle, as was his ability to anticipate the direction of her thoughts. She’d been on the verge of suggesting that he take the bedroom, but once again he’d interpreted her intention before she had a chance to say anything. His insight was uncanny. Disturbingly so.
“Maybe you should take the bed,” she said. “You need your rest.”
“Why? I’m not hurt or sick.”
Well, except for that amnesia thing.
But come to think of it, the bedroom door did have a lock on the inside, so maybe that arrangement was for the best, Claudia decided.
“If that’s the way you want it. Hopefully, by morning you’ll have remembered something else.” As she spoke, she moved around the room, gathering up the flashlight, her handbag with her cell phone and wallet inside, her laptop and, of course, the gun. The only thing left of any real value was her desktop computer, and somehow she didn’t see him grabbing that up and making a run with it through the rain.
His dark gaze tracked her every move. When she had everything she needed, he held out his hands. “Do you want to bind them again?”
She gave it serious consideration, but obviously it hadn’t done much good the first time.
“You don’t need to worry,” he said solemnly. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
He said it so convincingly, she almost believed him.
And she had to ask herself, Now who’s the lunatic?
At the bedroom door, she glanced back. He was sitting exactly where she’d left him before the fire, but rather than staring into the flames, he was still looking at her. His intense focus made her tremble, although she wanted to believe it was just the cold.
“See you in the morning,” she said.
“Good night …”
“Claudia.” Too late, she realized that she probably shouldn’t have told him her name, but if he worked for the men who wanted her dead—or even for the government—her identity was obviously no secret.
Back in Chicago, she’d gone by C.J. Her given name was Claudia Janelle, but she’d never used it until she moved here. Even after all this time, she still wasn’t used to it.
“It doesn’t suit you,” he said.
She frowned. “Why not?”
“It’s an old name.”
“I wouldn’t mention that to Claudia Schiffer if you happen to run into her.”
“I won’t,” he said solemnly.
She shook her head at his apparent oblivion to her pop-culture reference. “Whatever. The name suits me fine. I have an old soul.”
With that, she opened the bedroom door and went inside. Locking herself in, she leaned against the door, shivering in the cold.
This was so not how she’d planned to spend the night. Actually, her nights took very little planning because they were all the same. Dinner alone by the fire or, in warm weather, on the deck. Then she would listen to some music or watch a little television. Surf the ‘Net, read a book, work into the wee hours. Anything to eat up all those long, lonely hours.
If nothing else, tonight had been a break from the relentless tedium her young life had become.
Placing the gun and laptop on the nightstand and her handbag on the floor, she used the flashlight to locate spare linens in the closet. Then getting the bed all set up the way she wanted, she cocooned herself in the cover.
With the flashlight off, the room was pitch black. The night seemed to close in on
