Forgotten (Shattered Sisters Book 2) (2 page)

"It's Joey, and I'll only forgive that mistake once, amnesia or no amnesia.

He couldn't help but smile as he tapped the paper in his hand. "That's not what it says here. Josephine Belinda Bradshaw."

"Well, regardless of what it says there, my name is Joey." Her lashes lowered over those impossibly green eyes and she added, "Joey Coye."

He shook his head. He'd have to resist the cries of his body that were telling him to go along with her scam, whatever it was, just in case she planned to let him exercise a few husbandly prerogatives. He reminded himself that women like her were not his type. And that this was a serious game she was playing. She was up to something.

"Okay. Joey, then. Do you mind me asking how you got into my apartment?"

Her eyes focused on his, filled with enough innocence to fool the devil himself. "You gave me a key, Ash."

"Oh."

The investigative reporter inside jumped with questions. His libido was making noises of surrender. Loud noises. But the still-small voice of self-preservation squeaked its dissent.

Because, after all, the accident had been no accident. Someone was trying very hard to kill him.

Then again, forewarned was forearmed, right? And what better way to find out what she was up to than to play this out? She certainly looked harmless enough.

“Ash? Is anything wrong?"

He sighed. "No. As a matter of fact, you couldn't have come at a better time. They’re springing me today."

Her eyes doubled in size at that instant. "T-today?"

"Yeah. Got the news ten minutes before you got here. So if you'll hand me those clothes, I'll be ready to leave by the time they bring in my discharge papers.”

"Leave?"

"You
are
taking me home, aren't you?" He was enjoying her panic, but he was careful not to show it. He kept his expression blank, trusting.

"Home? I don't—"

"No." He stopped her before she could say anything else. Eyes downcast, he bit his lower lip to keep from grinning. "It's okay, I understand. I thought when you said you wanted to pick up where we left off..." He swallowed an imaginary lump. "It's all right. What kind of a husband would I be, like this?

He'd called her bluff. He'd watched her squirm, and now he was giving her a way out. Obviously whatever scam she was pulling wasn't meant to extend beyond this hospital room. He could wait until later to do a background check on her, figure out what this fiasco had been all about.

But wait a minute. Oh, hell no! She marched to that closet, gathered up his clothes, brought them to the bed, then perched on the mattress and gripped his shoulders. Her eyes stabbed into his with unmistakable sincerity and some kind of raw power.

No eyes had ever been that green. She had to be wearing tinted contacts. Didn’t she?

"Don't ever let me hear you talk that way again,” she told him. “I was just taken by surprise. I didn't realize they'd let you go so soon with a head injury this serious. I figured..." She shook her head fast and her crazy curls swung back and forth over her face. "Of course I'm taking you home. I wouldn't have it any other way."

He frowned, wondering how she managed to seem so genuine when she was lying though her teeth. Damn, she was good. "Are you sure?"

Her shoulders squared and her spine stiffened. Determination lit her eyes. "Get dressed, Ash. I'll go and see about getting your release forms and we'll get out of here."

He nodded and watched the sway of her hips, as mesmerizing as a hypnotist's pocket watch, as she turned and left. When the door closed, he shook himself, got out of the bed, went to the door and cracked it, just to be sure she wasn't standing outside. Then he grabbed his phone.

When he heard his editor's voice on the line, he didn't waste time with preamble. "There's a drop-dead gorgeous woman here claiming to be my wife, Rad. She wants to take me home. I'm going."

Radley Ketchum chortled. "You? Married? Ash, maybe they’d better x-ray your head one more time, huh? What's going on?"

"I'm serious." Ash darted a glance toward the door and rushed on. “She has a certificate that says I married her in Vegas on Saturday."

"And she expects you to buy it? You? The most dedicated bachelor in the state of New York?"

"Well, she probably figures I don't know that, don't you think?"

Rad was silent for a long moment. "Look, you better not go with her. This whole deal was supposed to keep you alive, not get you killed."

He thought about the look in Joey Bradshaw’s eyes when he'd pretended emotional agony. "I don't think it's her."

"Oh, no? What makes you so sure?"

Ash shook his head. "I don't know. Gut feeling, maybe."

"Does she smoke?"

"How the hell do I know if she smokes? Look, I'll let you know where I am when I get there, okay?"

"She lights up a cigarette, my friend, you get the hell out. You have any urge to stick around, you just think about those butts with the coral-frost lipstick stains on them that the cops found at the scenes of all three murders."

"Yeah. Don't worry, I'm not suicidal."

"One more thing. Get her address on record somewhere before you leave the hospital, just in case you can't call with it later. Phone number, too. Give me her name right now and I'll see what I can find out about her."

"Her name, she says, is Mrs. Ashville Coye."

"Very funny."

"The marriage certificate reads Josephine Belinda Bradshaw. Calls herself Joey."

"Got it. Take care of yourself. And, Ash?"

"Yeah?"

"Just in case she
is
our slasher, you be real careful not to let on that the amnesia is just a cover."

He disconnected and got dressed just in time. She was back at the speed of sound and, moments later, pushing him through the corridors in a wheelchair that was completely unnecessary, but required. Probably by the hospital’s lawyers. She seemed nervous. Her eyes darted around, seemingly watching everyone. Ash steered himself toward the nurse’s desk, taking her with him. He asked the nurse on duty for a pad and a pen and turned toward his "wife."

"What's your address?"

"Eight twenty-nine Gaskin, in Clay. Why?"

He jotted it down. "Just in case anyone tries to reach me here, I want to let them know where I am."

Her eyes widened. She reached past him to rip the top page from the notepad and then crumpled it in her fist. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

Ash got up out of the wheelchair and leaned negligently against the desk so he could see every expression that crossed her face, eye to eye. There was heightened color to her cheeks. Her full lips were parted slightly in agitation. She was one hell of an attractive woman. "Why not?" he asked.

"I just...I don't like my home address being...readily available to any nut case who happens to ask for it, that's all." She tugged the pen from his hand, leaned over the pad and wrote something down. She shoved it across the desk to the nurse. "If anyone tries to reach Mister—my husband—give them this number."

"So during my sentence, will I be allowed visitors?"

She whirled to face him, her hair flying. God, she was jumpy. He smiled so she'd know he was kidding. He wasn't, but it wouldn't pay to let too much show. His "wife's" expression eased slightly, and she picked up a large zippered bag from the desk, offered him a shaky smile, and started for the elevators.

Ash caught up within a second or two, waving off the nurse who started yelling about the mandatory wheelchair. "What’ve you got there, Joey?”

"What?" She thumped the down arrow repeatedly, gaze raking the halls.

"The bag."

Her brows lifted, but she handed him the bag. "Your personal effects. The stuff they took off you when you were admitted. You know, wallet, loose change." She averted her eyes. "Wedding ring."

Oh, man, she didn't miss a trick, this phony wife of his. If there was a ring in that bag, she’d put it there, just now. And he hadn’t seen a thing.

"Wouldn't want to go too long not wearing that," he muttered. "Feel naked without it."

"Are you being sarcastic or making a joke?" She searched his face, her own worried, wary. He shrugged. The doors slid open and she shot a nervous glance at the people inside. It took her a few ticks, as if she had to study each face individually before she made up her mind. About what, he had no idea. Ash caught the doors before they slid closed again.

"We're holding people up, Joey. And here comes that wheelchair Nazi nurse,” he said, nodding toward the nurse pushing the ridiculous chair their way. “Something wrong?"

Shaking her head, she stepped into the elevator. She stood very close to him as the doors slid closed, he noticed. Her attitude was damned strange. Not like someone who was pulling a scam just to get him in the sack—if that was what she was up to. God knew, it wasn't necessary. He'd have obliged her in a New York minute if she'd simply asked. One time and one time only, of course. She was not his type. She was his anti-type, in fact. Qualification number one for the future Mrs. Ashville Coye was that she not be promiscuous enough to have sex on the first date. He'd prefer she not be promiscuous at all.

But looking at her, all tight fitting leather and centerfold hair, he thought she was a walking advertisement for a good time. That’s why he figured he'd have known Joey Bradshaw was no wife of his, even if the amnesia had been real. It was in those bedroom eyes that seemed to look right through him, to his hidden fantasies. And it was in those luscious lips, so full and plump that they made a man want to taste them.

He scoffed at his own train of thought. Probably collagen.

The doors slid open and she was the first to step out. She gave a quick glance around the lobby, following it with one over her shoulder to be sure he was right behind her. Then she started for the exit. No less than seven male heads turned as she passed, he noted.

She didn't seem to notice, just strode purposefully across the parking lot while Ash followed. The July sun rebounded from the pavement, making the asphalt feel like an oven. There was no hint of a breeze, and the air was heavy and stifling. She stopped beside a monster-size, glistening black motorcycle. Grabbing a black helmet with an angular, tinted face shield, she pulled it over her head. When he stopped right behind her, she held out one that matched.

"You're kidding, right?"

She thumbed her visor back, tilted her head to one side. "If I'd known you were being released today, I'd have brought the car."

"That's not what I—"

"Look, why don't you go back to that coffee shop off the lobby? I'll ride home and get the car." She frowned, and rushed on. “No, no, that won’t work. Can’t leave you alone.” Then she she snapped her fingers. "I know, we'll call a cab and leave the bike–"

"You talk too much, you know that?" He grabbed the helmet and pulled it on, wincing as it slid past the bandaged wound on his head. The amnesia might be phony, but the damned concussion was real enough. "I'm fine. I was just wondering about you." He looked doubtfully at the bike as he fastened the strap under his chin. "Looks like a lot for a little thing like you to handle. Mind if I drive?"

"The last time you drove, you wound up in the back of an ambulance." She flipped her visor back down with a snap and swung one leg over the seat. Well, he'd managed to tweak her temper. He'd been wondering if her concern for his health and happiness would have any bounds.

The Harley was low slung despite its size. Still, her feet barely reached the pavement. She kicked the motor to life and revved it. Ash caught a whiff of gasoline and exhaust, sighed in resignation and climbed on behind her. He slid forward on the slanting seat until he was pressed to her backside. Putting his arms around her waist, he decided he might not mind the ride so much.

She caught his hands in hers and moved them until they just rested on her sides, above her hips. Again the visor was thumbed up. She twisted her head and shouted above the roar of the motor. "Move 'em and lose 'em...darling."

He thumbed his visor back, too, and tried for a pained expression. "I'm sorry."

Her anger vanished. Her huge eyes softened and she almost pouted. "It's just less distracting this way, Ash. That's all."

He nodded, a little surprised at how easily he could skirt her anger by acting hurt. A con artist centerfold with a heart of gold. He could hardly wait to find out what she was up to.

And whether it had anything to do with the Slasher murders.

He pushed his visor down. She did likewise. A second later they lurched forward and shot into traffic.

Joey had done her research on investigative reporter Ashville Coye. In fact, she'd done little else for the three days since she'd heard of his highly publicized accident. She thought she knew him well enough to pull this off. She told herself that over and over again as she leaned into curves without easing her speed, and finally veered right, into the parking lot of the Three Rivers Inn. The bike dipped suddenly into the sunken lot, leaving her stomach somewhere in the region of her throat—God, she loved that sensation!—then zipped out the other side, onto Gaskin Road.

His hands tightened on her waist. She ignored the warmth that settled somewhere under her skin where he touched her, and smiled. He must be hating this. Aside from being a confirmed bachelor and a notorious playboy, he was a die-hard conservative. It must be killing him to ride on the back of a Harley driven by a woman.

But she couldn't take any pleasure in his discomfort. The man was in a terrible situation. He probably didn't even remember his political leanings. Even so, his remark about her letting him drive had ticked her off. Still did.

She swung right again, into the long dirt driveway, then onto the square paved parking area her mom had always called “The Strip,” and pulled to a stop at the front patio. Killing the motor, she heeled the kickstand down and leaned the bike onto it. Then she tugged off her helmet and shook her hair. She glanced over her shoulder to see he'd already removed his. He was looking at the big, white split-level and shaking his head.