he’d first heard she was missing, he feared that a member of the gang had somehow found her and delivered on their promise of retribution. He no longer believed that. If a member of the Boston Gentlemen had found her, she’d certainly be dead.
It would have been easier if she weren’t suffering from amnesia. He put his key into the ignition and started the car.
In one way the amnesia was something of a blessing. She wouldn’t remember that he was the man who’d kept her safe for months, but she also wouldn’t remember that he was the man who had broken her heart.
Chapter Three
“I don’t understand how I can know that my parents immigrated to New England when I was thirteen years old, that my first-grade teacher’s name was Mrs. Zoller and that I wore a navy blue dress to my high school prom, but I can’t remember what’s happened over the past seven months of my life.” Britta released a sigh of frustration and twisted a strand of her hair around her index finger.
“You heard what the doctor told you—don’t try to push it, and hopefully your memory will eventually return,” Ryan said as he turned the steering wheel to make a left-hand turn.
She released her hair and cast him a surreptitious glance. He’d shown up this morning at the clinic with newspaper articles, clippings and official documents to substantiate everything he’d told her the day before.
She’d read about the shooting in Boston, about testifying at the trial and had finally agreed to go with him to the safehouse. She really had no other choice. She wasn’t sure whom she could trust, but Ryan Burton had the right credentials and she felt as if she had little other choice.
“Where is this place you’re taking me?” she asked.
“A little bungalow down by the docks.”
She frowned and turned her attention out the window. The skies were overcast and the streets were still fairly deserted due to the early morning hour. The shops they passed looked quaint and inviting, but an unexpected shiver whispered up her spine. “Wouldn’t it be better if we just left this place altogether?”
She didn’t know whether the chill came from the knowledge that she had no memory, that she was in the company of a man she didn’t know if she could trust or if it came from the gray-shrouded little fishing village itself. All she knew was she had an overwhelming desire to escape, but escape where?
Ryan shot her a quick glance, his intense green eyes giving nothing away of his inner thoughts. “We can’t leave here until I know for sure where you’ve been and what happened to you in those missing four days.”
“You’re worried about the last four days of my life and I’m missing months,” she replied dryly.
He pulled into the driveway of a tiny pale blue cottage with yellow trim. He parked in front of the detached garage, then unfastened his seat belt and turned to look at her once again.
“I’m not particularly worried about the months you can’t remember because I know where you were and what you were doing for most of that time. But you came here and promptly disappeared. Somebody gave you a drug that has a hypnotic effect and we don’t know who or, more important, why. The answers to those questions are here and we’re not leaving until we have them.”
She could drown in his eyes, the green depths pulling her in. She broke eye contact with him and rubbed a hand across her forehead where a headache pounded with unrelenting madness.
“Let’s get settled in,” he said.
Together they got out of the car and he led her to a side door. He unlocked the door and they entered into a small kitchen. The blue and yellow colors of the exterior continued here with yellow curtains at the window and blue-and-yellow tiles on the floor.
It was a cheerful room, but the cheerfulness couldn’t ease the edge of disquiet that fluttered through her. She was putting her trust in a man she couldn’t remember, staying in a town where something had happened to her that she knew in her soul hadn’t been good.
What’s more, even though she didn’t remember Ryan, just looking at him evoked an edge of something she couldn’t quite identify…a tension of sorts that had nothing to do with the situation but everything to do with the man.
Wanting to explore the place she would call home for at least the next couple of days, she left the kitchen and entered into the small living room.
Once again the floor was tiled, probably because of the close proximity to the ocean and the sandy beaches. The furniture was simple, a sofa and love seat in dark beige, wooden coffee table and an entertainment unit holding a television and several ragged paperback novels.
The hallway led to a bathroom and one small bedroom with a double bed and a dresser. The walls were a cool summer green, complemented by the green-and-white spread on the bed.
“You can have this room and I’ll bunk on the sofa,” Ryan said from behind her.
She turned to face him. “Who owns this place?”
“A young couple who comes here for a month in the summer and rents it out the rest of the year. For the next three months the FBI has rented it.”
“Three months? Surely we won’t be here that long.” She felt as if she’d already lost so much of her life. She didn’t want to lose another three months. But when this was all over, where would she begin her new life? She raised a hand to her head once again where her headache had intensified.
“Headache?” he asked. She gave him a small nod and thought she saw a flash of sympathy darken his eyes. “Why don’t you lie down for a little while? I’ve got phone calls to make, and once you feel better, we’ll talk about how things are going to go here.”
At the moment lying down sounded like a wonderful idea. She hadn’t realized how weak she still was until this moment. The bed looked inviting, and at least if she took a little nap, she wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that she couldn’t remember her immediate past and had no idea what her future held.
As Ryan left the bedroom, Britta stretched out on the bed. She lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to process everything she knew, but finding it impossible not to dwell on all the things she didn’t know.
She wasn’t even wearing her own clothes. Ryan had arrived at the clinic that morning with a bag of clothing from a nearby discount store. Although the underclothes had been the right size, the sweatpants and sweatshirt were far too big and an ugly color, not quite yellow and not quite green.
With a sigh she closed her eyes. The dream began before she realized she’d fallen asleep. She saw herself in a long white gown. An intricate necklace of seashells lay heavy around her neck.
The sand was warm beneath her feet as she walked the shore. The moon overhead was full, illuminating the tumultuous waves with a ghostly light.
The sea called to her, wanting her to come home. She walked toward the water, unable to fight the siren song that sang in her head, urging her forward.
She barely felt the salty water that embraced first her feet, then her legs, although she gasped slightly as it reached her waist and then her chest. She continued to walk until the water was up to her neck, then her chin, then finally over her head.
There
