He’d come home without her husband. She didn’t owe him anything, and there was no way he was going to force information out of her. He’d done enough damage to her nerves for one night by pulling this stunt in her car.
“Sure. There’s a little bar not too far from the hospital.” She ran both hands across her face as if wiping away tears, when not a single one had spilled onto her cheek.
“Can I sit up front?” He balanced a knee on the console between the two front seats. “I left the gun on the floor. It wasn’t loaded.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.” She dragged her purse by its handle from the passenger seat, and Jack squeezed his large frame into the front.
“Lo siento. If I could’ve done it any other way, I would have.”
Cranking on the engine, she raised one dark brow in his direction. “You speak Spanish?”
“Apparently I speak a lot of languages.” He snapped his seat belt and adjusted the seat, shooting a glance her way. He had to trust she wasn’t going to drive straight to a police station or, worse, call in the suits who’d been staking out the Miami airport.
She dragged her bottom lip between her teeth and furrowed her brow. “Must be strange to lose your memory.”
He didn’t think Lola Famosa, Dr. Lola Famosa, was going to rat him out just yet. She probably wanted information about her husband as badly as Jack wanted information about himself. He could trust her to keep this little meeting to herself…for now.
His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes. “Strange doesn’t begin to describe it.”
THE TIRES SQUEALED AS LOLA wheeled her Mercedes into a slotted parking space in front of the Cubana Cubano Bar. At this hour on a Monday night, Mario’s place would be quiet enough to talk but just crowded enough for safety. Just in case the man filling her passenger seat wasn’t really Jack Coburn.
She cut the engine and turned her head to study him. He had to be Coburn. He’d fallen asleep before she’d even pulled out of the hospital parking lot. What crazed murderer-slash-kidnapper-slash-rapist would conk out just when he had his prey secluded in her car?
Besides she’d had dreams about that low, sexy voice of his after hearing it over the phone six months ago. There couldn’t be two voices with the power to invade her dreams, could there?
Peering into the backseat, she spotted his gun discarded on the floor of the car. She reached over, checked the safety and stowed it in her handbag. No self-respecting bad guy would abandon his weapon that easily, either.
“Coburn?” She nudged his shoulder. He mumbled and leaned his head against the window, his long, dark hair falling across his forehead.
With his intense, dark eyes closed to the world and his tight jaw relaxed in sleep, he looked almost carefree. Awake, the man vibrated with energy, his long, lean frame poised for action, any kind of action.
That was probably why her father’s friend had suggested she contact Coburn to negotiate Gabriel’s release.
She tapped a solid bicep. Coburn felt as hard as he looked. Her glance dropped to his crotch, and her cheeks heated up in the relative privacy of her car. The poor guy might have some information about Gabriel, the U.S. government might be after him and he definitely had some form of amnesia. And here she was turning him into a sex object.
Could she help it when the man looked like an Adonis?
“Coburn?” She squeezed his arm and pushed at his shoulder again.
Passing a hand over his face, he asked, “Did I fall asleep?”
“You must be exhausted. When did you get back to the U.S.?”
“Over a week ago.” He rubbed his eyes and shook the hair out of his face.
Yep, just about the time someone started watching her. Why did he wait so long to contact her?
“Do you want to go inside for a drink?” She tipped her head toward the bar outside the car window. “We can talk. Maybe I can help you and maybe you can help me.”
He reached into the backseat, and she touched his arm. “I put it in my purse.”
“Is this a safe neighborhood?”
“Not really.”
He dragged a black bag from the floor of the car and slung the strap across his chest. “I’ll take my bag with me, then.”
Lola pushed open the door and stepped inside the dimly lit bar as Jack put his hand on her back. They could’ve been any couple on a date, except she had a weapon in her handbag and he had no memory.
A Latin love song crooned from the speakers, and Lola waved at the short man singing along behind the bar in a lusty baritone. “Hola, Mario.”
“Hey, Lolita. Long time no see, chica.”
“Can you bring us a couple of beers?” She glanced at Jack, who dipped his head in assent. “Two Cristals…and two shots of tequila.”
“A beer and a shot?” Jack lifted one eyebrow, looking awfully sexy for a guy who didn’t know who he was.
Dropping into a leather booth, she let out a gusty sigh. “Believe me, when you ambushed me in my car that was just the last straw in a long line of straws today.”
“You’re a doctor, a pediatrician. Must be rough some days.” The leather creaked beneath him as he slid into the booth across from her and hunched forward on the table.
Jack’s dark gaze bore into her, into her soul, its intensity sending a thrill of fear…or excitement…racing up her spine. Not fear—unease. Or something. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the pulse of the matter. Perhaps his mode of introducing himself in the car with a gun and a hand over her mouth had forever branded him as dangerous. But something about his predicament called out to her, or at least her bleeding heart.
And the fact that he’d just asked her about herself, sympathized with her situation when he must be impatient as hell to pump her for information about himself. “Ask,” not “pump.” She just couldn’t seem to drag her thoughts away from the bedroom while in the same vicinity as this man.
She cleared her throat and her dirty mind. “Yes, I’m a pediatrician. I love it most of the time, but some days it just breaks my heart.”
Her thoughts flitted to Eddie, the boy whose mother had just been sliced, diced and categorized in Miami Hope’s morgue.
Mario danced to their table, bearing a tray and swaying his hips to the beat of the music filtering through the bar. “Dos cervezas y dos tragos de tequila.”
He clicked the bottles and glasses onto the table and winked. “Enjoy.”
Lola picked up her shot glass, clinked it with Jack’s and tossed back the tequila. The fiery liquid burned her throat, and she chased it by biting into a slice of lime. Puckering her lips, she squeezed her lids closed for a moment.
