me figure it out.”
The pungent scent of cigar smoke clinging to his clothes sparked a glimmer of recognition. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and she’d already noticed she wasn’t, either. Not even an indentation from where one might have been stolen. Good. She hadn’t forgotten a husband. But she had forgotten whatever relationship she shared with this man who thought he had the right to kiss her. Although it hadn’t been much of a kiss. But perhaps the lack of any toe-curling response and spark of recognition had more to do with the anesthetic and swelling around her mouth rather than any innate repulsion. Still, she seriously hoped she could rule out boyfriend as a possibility.
The polished loafers and expensive leisure clothes reminded her of wealth. She’d been wearing a designer suit and one Jimmy Choo heel when Keir brought her to St. Luke’s. So she had money, too. She was an attorney. She worked in a law firm. No, she was one of the owners of a law firm—an inheritance bestowed upon her by her father and earned through her own hard work. Bushy Brows was a partner. She pictured the letterhead on the stationery at an office desk—Kleinschmidt, Drexler, Parker and Bond—and understanding fell into place. He’d kissed her before, and she hadn’t appreciated it then, either. “Helmut. You’re Helmut Bond.”
“Of course I am. I’d be surprised if you could forget old Hellie.” Smiling, he went back to the doorway to pick up the bag. “I brought your overnight bag and insurance information and have already filled out the paperwork for you. I stashed your mail in here, too.”
The man might be older, but he wasn’t what she’d call old. He showed no lack of confidence, and clearly had money. Was this the kind of man she dated? She was feeling nothing like that little sting of awareness she’d felt when Keir held her hand. Was Helmut Bond supposed to mean more to her than a business associate?
Hellie set the bag on the examination table beside her. He pulled out a folder filled with papers and a sheaf of forms on a clipboard from the hospital. “These just need your signature. I took the liberty of canceling the forms you filled out earlier. These will be processed through insurance before you’re billed.”
Kenna took the pen he handed her, clutching it in her left hand while she fingered through the stack of letters and legal briefs bearing her name. Although she felt vaguely resentful that he had the presumption to make those business decisions for her, she supposed she had little choice about trusting that he had her best interests at heart.
Hellie tapped the form he wanted her to sign. “Are you sure you’re okay? You remember how to write your name, don’t you?”
“Sorry.” Kenna switched the pen to her right hand and skimmed through the insurance form to make sure she wasn’t agreeing to anything she shouldn’t before signing her name on the bottom line.
Hellie returned the pen to the shirt pocket beneath his sweater. “Are these holes in your memory going to be permanent?”
“I don’t know.” She opened the file and pulled out a letter with the firm’s letterhead and a space at the bottom awaiting her signature above her typed name. Images of a group of people sitting around a boardroom table flickered in her brain, and the names on the stationery began to match up with faces. A stout older man with snowy white hair—Arthur Kleinschmidt. Her father’s friend and a founding partner. Hellie—regaling everyone with a story. He enjoyed being the center of attention. Stan Drexler, only a couple of years older than Kenna, sat beside her. His gaunt face and receding hairline accentuated his pointy nose, reminding her of a rat. Yes, she was remembering having that amusing observation during the weekly staff meeting. She could see the faces of the other junior partners and personal assistants who sat at the table and moved through the lushly appointed room, although some of their names escaped her.
But that meeting had been when? Last week? Last month? Couldn’t she be certain of anything more recent? Like yesterday and the events leading up to the assault?
“Do you remember what happened to you last night?” her visitor asked, frowning. “Did you give the police a description? Are we going to be able to arrest the SOB and prosecute him?”
She shook her head and pulled an envelope from the file, hoping that something else here would trigger a memory. “My body says that I was in a struggle of some kind. Unfortunately, I don’t remember anything about it.”
“Oh, Kenna.” Hellie’s gaze traveled with unabashed pity over the wounds on her face. But when he reached out to touch one, she turned away to open the envelope and pull out the letter inside. “I’m so sorry. Amnesia on top of being cut up like this? Will you have scars?”
Kenna’s fingers flew to the stiches and glue as she clutched the folded paper to her chest. She hadn’t even thought about disfigurement. Wasn’t the memory loss enough of a burden to bear?
“It’s a good thing you got Dr. Colbern off that murder charge. Maybe he can repay you with a little plastic surgery.” Hellie chuckled at the inside joke Kenna didn’t get. “Oh, come on. Andrew Colbern? Cosmetic surgeon? His wife accused him of hiring someone to have her killed? You proved the woman wrong, of course. Made the firm a tidy sum of money.”
Of course? She’d defended this Dr. Colbern? Did she make a habit of defending would-be murderers? According to a few of Keir’s comments, he thought the doctor was guilty. Yet she’d gotten Colbern off. That sort of history could go a long way toward explaining why a cop like Keir Watson might consider her an enemy.
Curious to ask those questions of Keir and confirm her suspicion, Kenna set aside the papers and unzipped the overnight bag. She dug through underwear, running shoes and yoga pants inside. But as soon as she’d located the cosmetics bag and pulled out a compact, she hesitated. Clutching the small bag to her chest, she turned to face Helmut. But it wasn’t the fear of looking at her reflection that gave her pause, or even his crude remark about needing a plastic surgeon. Why would a coworker be her emergency contact? Didn’t she have a family? Personal friends? A boyfriend? Why had she chosen to rely on this man? Because, frankly, he wouldn’t be her first choice for a confidant if this uncomfortable meeting had been their first. “How do you have access to my personal things? Are we...?”
Hellie laughed. “You and me? Oh, honey, no. It’s not for lack of trying, though. After my divorce, I thought maybe the two of us could hook up...” His good humor faded. “You don’t remember that, either? We’ve served as each other’s escorts to several fund-raising events. But when I suggested we could be something more, you turned me down flat.”
She had? Did he hold that against her? This guy didn’t seem particularly heartbroken.
“No matter how many laughs we’ve shared over the years, how much we have in common, you said, as partners in the same law firm—competing for the same promotions, high-profile cases and so on—that it wasn’t a smart move for your career plan to see each other socially. I’ve accepted that and moved on. And your decision has paid off. Once Arthur retires, it’ll be you or me who takes over as senior partner. Stan hasn’t brought in the big clients and built his reputation the way you and I have.”
Arthur? Stan? From the board meeting. Right. “And we’re not seeing anyone else?” she asked.
“I’ve been dating Carol on and off.”
“Carol?”
“Yes, she’s your...” His voice trailed off and his lips curved into a pitying smile.
“My what?” A sister? Friend?
“I don’t suppose you remember her, either.”
