think I’m lying? Why, in heaven’s name? What would I have to gain?”
“Like I said, what I do for a living isn’t a total secret to certain people.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “A couple of years ago a woman tried to spin me a story about needing her husband eliminated. I found out she was a reporter hoping to do an exposé on murder-for-hire.”
“I’m not a reporter—” Jane began, but he didn’t let her finish.
“I’ve had the odd head wound myself, angel. I’ve seen men who’ve totally forgotten their names, what country they were in, what year it was. But they all regained their memories within a day or two.”
“I know it’s rare.” She pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face distractedly. “I’ve gone to the library and read everything I could on it. But it happens. It happened to me, whether you believe it or not.”
“The rest of it doesn’t hang together either.” Folding his arms on the table, he lowered his voice. “Here’s how it would have happened in real life…. The police would have written up a description of you and gone back to the station to file a report. From then on it would be a matter of matching you up with someone who’d been listed as a missing person.” He shook his head. “What wouldn’t happen is that a woman in your supposed condition could just be discharged without any question. You’ve lost your audience, darlin’. Go home.”
“They were going to contact the police. When I learned that I ran.” Jane looked away. “I didn’t even know why I was running. All I knew was that I didn’t want to talk to anybody about who I could be or where I might have come from. I just wanted to be left in peace. But that didn’t happen.”
The broad shoulders shifted slightly, as if he was restless and getting ready to leave. “I could ask you where a penniless woman found the change for the phone calls to prospective employers. I could ask how you got bus fare those first few days. For God’s sake—I could ask what the hell you were wearing while you trudged around the city looking for work—you said you’d been in an accident, so presumably your clothes were a write-off.”
“And I’d tell you. But you don’t want to hear it.” Slowly she shook her head at him, her eyes never leaving his. “Soldiering is what you do, McGuire, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you seem to be at war right now. What I haven’t figured out is who you’re supposed to be fighting…because it can’t be me. You haven’t let yourself learn enough about me to count me as an enemy.”
“That’s right, I haven’t.” A muscle at the side of his jaw might have moved, but it was hard to tell. The rest of his face remained immobile. “And you know just as little about me, but you keep making these off-the-cuff assessments. Why don’t you finish this last one? If I’m not at war with you, who the hell is this mysterious enemy I’m supposed to be fighting?”
A moment ago she wouldn’t have had an answer for him. But at the unnecessary harshness of his tone, it was suddenly clear what her only response could be.
“No mystery, Mr. McGuire,” she said softly. “It’s you. For some reason you’re at war with yourself.”
“That’s crazy.” His answer was as immediate as a burst of gunfire. Then he took a deep breath. “When I take up arms, darlin’, I’m facing a real foe, not some unresolved Freudian conflict with my inner child.” His shrug was mocking. “Sorry to blow your theory out of the water, but I’m a simple man. What you see is what you get. Sure, I’ve made some mistakes in the past, but in my business you can’t afford to lose your focus. Believe me, I don’t waste a whole lot of time in soul-searching.”
“Then why did you bring up the subject of past mistakes, McGuire? I didn’t say anything about that.” She searched his features curiously. “I don’t think what you see is what you get with you at all. I think there’s a very different man underneath that hard exterior—maybe a better man than you realize. Maybe he’s the man you’re at war with.”
Quinn stared at her—but not the flat, angry stare he’d directed at her earlier. With a start Jane saw raw pain film his eyes, before all expression was quickly veiled as the thick dark lashes came down. As if he had a headache, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.
“Dammit, Sister, if I’d known you’d turn out to be this persistent, I would have told you to let me die the first time we met. Is it an emissary you’re sending me now instead of letters?”
His words had been barely audible, but she caught the gist of them. They didn’t make any sense, she thought, confused. “I may not know who I am, McGuire, but one thing I’m sure of is that I’m not your sister. You’ve got me mistaken with someone else.”
He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. “That must be what I’m doing, darlin’,” he said heavily. “But when you quote her almost verbatim, you can’t blame a man for feeling a little beleaguered.” He saw her lack of comprehension. “Just someone I knew once. She’s dead.”
She still didn’t understand what he was talking about, but what did it matter now? she thought in defeat. She hadn’t convinced him to help her, and when she left this place she’d be walking out alone into the night. He’d made up his mind about her. Nothing she’d come up with had persuaded him to change it.
Maybe only his own words could, she thought with sudden hope.
“I’m your unpaid bill, Mr. McGuire,” she said, taking a shot in the dark. “I’m the debt you referred to earlier—the debt that got transferred. She saved your life, didn’t she?”
Jane was just piecing together fragments of his own incomprehensible remarks, not even knowing if they would make any sense to him, but Quinn’s reaction told her that one of those fragments had found its mark. His head jerked up, the pale gaze a little out of focus, and when he spoke his voice was low and strained.
“Dammit, yes—you saved my life. I never denied it, and I never tried to get out of repaying you, Sister. But now you’re trying to save my soul—and to do that, you want me to turn my back on the rest of them. I’m telling you once and for all I can’t do it!”
Jane felt as if she’d just pulled the pin on a grenade and had it blow up in her face. She scrambled to bring some semblance of normality back to this suddenly chilling conversation.
“She’s dead, Quinn. Whoever she was, she’s dead and gone.” Needing only to assuage the naked pain that etched his features, she placed her hand lightly on his clenched fist. “I’m not her, and I’m not her emissary. And whatever debt you feel you owed her, she sounds like the kind of woman who wouldn’t ask more of you than you could pay. I should go now.” Her eyes sought his. “I should have gone before I reminded you of all this. I’m sorry.”
Slowly his hand relaxed. He looked down at it, and at hers, pale against his own tanned skin. “I’ve just come off a bad assignment,” he said softly. “The way things have been going lately, I’m sure the next one will be much the same. I know you’re not her, darlin’. I’m not that far gone. Chalk it up to a slip of the tongue, will you?”
It hadn’t been, she knew. For a moment he hadn’t been seeing her in the seat opposite him, but a ghost—a ghost who, for reasons she’d never know, had some kind of loving hold over him.
“You’re touching me.” His low comment interrupted her thoughts. “I thought you said you didn’t do that.”
“I
