thought of what the chief had once told him about people trapped in their own lives, in their own illusions of reality, unable to get out, and wondered if he wasn’t one of them. Well, then so was his mother’s killer, he thought, as he raised his bottle, the snow falling so hard now he could barely see the Santa below his window, although he could still hear the bell.
It had been snowing the day he’d found his mother’s body. He hadn’t seen her at first—just the Christmas tree. It had fallen over on the floor. As he’d moved toward it, he was thinking the cat must have pulled it over. Then he saw her. Marcella Rawlins lay under a portion of the tree, a bright red scarf knotted tightly around her neck, one of the Christmas ornaments clutched in her hand. On the radio, Christmas music played and, as tonight, somewhere off in the distance, a seasonal Santa jangled his bell.
Behind him, the soft scuff of a heel on the hardwood floor jerked him from his thoughts. He remembered belatedly that he’d failed to shut and lock his office door. Damn.
“We’re closed!” he called out, not bothering to turn around. He took another drink and watched the snow fall, waiting for the footsteps to retreat.
When they didn’t, he turned, a curse on his lips.
She stood silhouetted against the dim light from the stairs, her body as sleek and curved as the long-neck in his hand and just as pleasing as the cold beer. She didn’t move. Nor did she speak. And that was just fine with him.
He ran his hand down the neck of the sweating bottle, enjoying the slick wet feel of it as much as he liked looking at her. Something about her reminded him of another woman he’d known and with the lights off he could almost pretend—
The bell suddenly stopped, the snow silencing everything down on the street. Slade could hear the quickened beat of his heart, the radiator thumping out heat and the faint sound of Christmas music drifting from the apartment next door.
“Mr. Rawlins?” Her voice was as seductive as her silhouette and almost…familiar.
He frowned and tipped the bottle toward her in answer, telling himself he was letting his imagination run away with him.
“Do you mind if I turn on a light?” she asked.
He did. He was tired and all the holiday cheer and the letter had left him on edge. Why couldn’t she just stand there? Or leave? He’d bet his pickup she wouldn’t look half as good in the light. And once he’d seen her, he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.
She flicked the light switch.
He blinked, too shocked to speak. He’d been wrong about the light. She looked even better than she had in silhouette. Dangerous curves ran the length of her, from the full, rounded breasts straining against the thin silk of her blouse beneath the open wool coat to the long, shapely legs that peeked between her skirt and her snowboots, all the way back up to her face. And, oh, what a face it was. Framed in a wild mane of curly dark hair. Lips lush. Baby-blues dark-lashed and wide.
It was a face and body he’d spent months trying to forget.
He swore under his breath, more in shock than anger, although he’d spent most of the last year looking for her, worrying that she was dead—and blaming himself for letting it happen.
“I need your help,” she said, a slight catch in her voice. “I know it’s Christmas Eve…”
He shook his head in disbelief. A thousand questions leapt into his mind, all having to do with where she’d been, what she was doing here now and why she’d left him. Oh yes, especially why she’d left him, he thought bitterly.
“What the hell do you think you—” He took a tentative step toward her, then stopped as he saw her expression. Blank as a wall. No recognition. She didn’t know him!
He let out a colorful curse.
“I really shouldn’t have bothered you.” She turned to leave.
He knew if he had any sense at all, he’d just let her go. If only he’d done that the first time.
“Just a minute.” He reached for her, afraid the moment he touched her, she would disappear again. Another one of Scrooge’s ghosts.
His hand brushed hers. She turned back to him, her blue eyes glistening with tears. She didn’t evaporate into thin air. Didn’t disappear like a mirage before him. And after touching her, he knew she was most definitely flesh and blood. But not the woman he’d known.
This woman was a walking shell of that woman, and he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened since to make her that way.
“I’m sorry, you just caught me by surprise,” he said, looking into all that blue again. Just as he had a year ago, when she’d come running out of the snowstorm and into the street. He’d tried to stop his pickup in time, but the snow and ice— He’d jumped from his truck and run to her. She’d lain sprawled in the snow just inches from his bumper. When she’d opened her eyes in the headlights, they were that incredible blue—and blank. Not as blank as they were now. There’d been something in her expression…something that had hooked him from the moment his gaze had met hers.
“Here,” he said, offering her a chair as he closed his office door, afraid she’d change her mind and leave. “What can I do for you?”
She seemed to hesitate, but accepted the chair he offered her, sitting on the edge of the seat, her handbag in her lap, her fingers clutching it nervously.
He leaned against the edge of his desk and stared down at her. Easy on the eyes, but hard on the heart, he thought. He knew better than to get involved with her again. But curse his curiosity, he had to know.
Last year when she’d come to in the street, he’d picked her up and put her in the cab of his pickup, planning to take her to the hospital. But she’d pleaded with him to just take her somewhere safe. She had no memory. No name. No past. But she’d been convinced someone was trying to kill her and had pleaded with him not to involve the police.
“I need your help,” she said now.
“My help?” he asked, still looking for some recognition in her gaze. But it appeared she didn’t know him from Adam! Either he wasn’t that memorable or the woman had a tendency to forget a lot of things. “Why me?”
She shook her head and clutched her purse tighter. “I’m afraid this was a mistake.” She started to get up.
He was on his feet, moving toward her. “No,” he said a little more strongly than he’d meant to. “At least give me a chance.”
She lowered herself back into the chair, but seemed apprehensive of him. Certainly not as trusting as last time, he thought with no small amount of resentment.
He’d taken her in and tried to unravel her past, believing she must be suffering from some sort of trauma.
But two months later, he was the one who’d gotten taken in. Just when he thought he might be making some progress into her past, she’d disappeared without a trace, along with a couple hundred dollars of his money and a half dozen of his case files. He’d spent months looking for her, fearing someone had killed her. Wanting to wring her neck himself.
And now she was back. Alive. And in trouble.
