His Unforgettable Fiancée (2 page)

“Are you sure? I’ve never had a cop run their fingers through my hair before.”

“So you’ve been detained before?” She was quick to pick up on the inference.

He just stopped himself from shaking his head. “Just saying.”

“That’s it. I’m calling for an ambulance.”

Everything in him rejected the option of being delivered to the hospital.

“Wait.” He opened his eyes. She stood over him, hands on shapely hips, a scowl pinched between her stormy blue eyes. Clenching his teeth against the need to scream like a girl, he shifted to sit, and then pushed to his feet. Holding his shoulders back, he forced himself to meet her poppy blue eyes without flinching.

“Satisfied?”

She ran those cop eyes over him, assessing him from top to bottom. She nodded once as if satisfied by what she saw. It took all his strength not to sag in relief. But he wasn’t out of hot water yet.

She cocked a trim black eyebrow. “And your first name?”

He was tempted to lie, to toss her any old name. But that felt wrong. Too easy. The falsehood didn’t bother him—being predictable did. She expected him to blow her off. It was what he’d been doing since she’d entered the cell.

Forget that. Now he’d made the effort to get on his feet, he saw the value in getting a doctor’s opinion. And some serious meds.

He met her stare-for-stare and confessed. “I can’t remember.”

* * *

“I can’t remember.”
The words seemed to echo through the cell.

Grace blinked up at him. A rare enough occurrence—at five-nine she didn’t often have to tip her head back to look a man in the face—but standing at his full height of six-three JD required her to do just that to assess his truthfulness.

Amnesia?

It seemed a stretch. Still, he had a sizable bump on his head and displayed signs of a concussion. It would explain his disorientation and his unwillingness to talk about himself.

Then again it was a tad convenient. Except why bother? He’d been told he’d be free to go in the morning.

“You don’t remember your name?” She needed to determine the extent of his missing information.

“No.”

“Do you know what year it is?”

He answered correctly.

“How about the President of the United States?”

Another correct response. He swayed on his feet, reminding her that, regardless of the state of his mind, his pain was all too real. She decided to let the doctor sort him out.

“Let’s go.” She led him to her desk, where she handed him his jacket. “I already made a call for Parker to come drive you. He should be here any minute.”

“Oh, joy.”

“At least he’s familiar to you.”

“I’m not dim-witted, you know.” He sprawled in her desk chair with his jacket in his lap. “Just memory-challenged.”

The corner of her mouth twitched at his show of humor. “All the more reason to stick with what you know until you’ve seen the doctor.”

“I know you, and you smell better.”

Now, why did that send a rush of heat to her cheeks? “I’d take you, but my duty is up in thirty minutes.”

Probably a good thing. JD had managed to shake her up more than a little over the course of a mere hour.

“Check that.” A deep voice announced. She recognized one of her other patrol officers. She stood to see him escorting a happy prisoner toward the back. “Brubaker, the new sheriff, has been monitoring the radio calls. Since I was bringing someone in, he told Parker to stay in the field. He wants you to take John Doe to see the doctor, and I’m to cover the rest of your duty here.”

“Who will replace me at the hospital?”

The officer shrugged. “I’m sure Brubaker will send someone.”

Right. She clenched her hands at having her control yanked away early. Brubaker had no authority to usurp her orders before midnight. But there was no use arguing.

“Okay,” she said to JD. “Let’s go.” She’d already put her box of personal items in her SUV, so she grabbed her backpack and slipped into her hip-length leather coat.

The effort it took JD to gain his feet showed as it had in the cell, but he managed it and donned his jacket without uttering a sound. He stayed silent on their trip to her hybrid Escape.

In the vehicle he braced his head on a raised fist. “So I’m a John Doe.”

“You’re familiar with the term?”

“An unidentified person or body. I watch TV, the movies. I guess that means you didn’t get a hit on my prints or you’d have a name for me.”

“Right on both points.” She stopped at a light on Main Street and three women in party hats, winter jackets and heels laughed and joked as they crossed in front of them. The light changed and she pulled forward.

“What happens if I don’t get my memory back right away?” He slowly turned his head to pin her with a pain filled gaze. “How do you figure out who I am?”

CHAPTER TWO

H
OW
WOULD
THEY
identify him? Good question. Woodpark was a small town with limited resources. They’d have to reach out to a larger city, or perhaps the feds. Grace didn’t have the heart to remind him it wouldn’t be up to her.

“Let’s see what the doctor has to say before we worry about that.”

A grunt was her answer.

A few minutes later she pulled into the hospital parking lot. Like the sheriff’s office, the emergency center did a brisk business on New Year’s Eve. Grace walked to the front of the line.

“Sheriff,” the clerk acknowledged her and then glanced at JD. “We’re very busy tonight.”

“So I see. You’re going to have to make room for one more. I have a prisoner with a head wound.”

“Take a seat and I’ll let the doctors know.”

“Of course. Please let them know I’m quite concerned.”

She found him a seat in the crowded waiting room. He looked about to protest at taking the last chair, but he sat instead. Whatever his background, he’d learned some manners. That he ignored them was testament to the extent of his injury.

“You sounded worried,” he drawled.

“Head wounds are dangerous.” She leaned against the wall next to him. “We already know of one complication.”

“So it wasn’t a ploy to advance our case?” He lifted his gaze to hers and arched a dark brow.

Under the bright lights she noticed his eyes were leaf green. And a hint of red played in his dark hair. She turned her attention back to the front desk. “Maybe a bit of a ploy.”

“And calling me a prisoner?”

She allowed a small smile. “Oh, yeah, that was totally a ploy.”

He laughed and then groaned and clutched his head.

She sobered. “It’s also true. You are a prisoner until morning. No dying on my watch please. You can’t imagine the paperwork involved.”

“I might be touched if it didn’t just pass midnight. You’re officially off duty.”

A glance at her watch confirmed his claim.

“Sheriff.” The clerk had returned. “Dr. Honer will see you now.”

Grace checked the door but no sign of her replacement magically appeared. JD walked past her and then stopped.

“Are you coming?” he asked. “I can handle this on my own if you prefer.”

“You’re in city custody. I’m coming.”

She followed him to the back and stood in the hall while he changed into the paper hospital gown the nurse provided. It was a small room. She took heart in the fact he would look silly sitting there, decked out in the flimsy robe. Too bad he didn’t use it. When she entered the room, she found he’d stripped down to gray knit boxer briefs.

OMG.

Cough. Cough. Good gracious, she nearly choked on her own tongue as drool flooded her mouth. Swallowing hard she made her way to the corner, trying hard not to stare at all the hard lines and muscular definition on full display.

“You were supposed to put on the gown.”

“It tore. Don’t worry about it. Turns out I’m not modest.”

Of course not. Turned out she had a bit of a voyeur in her.

Confronted with the sight of all that flesh and muscle—toned, and tanned, and tantalizing—she missed at first glance that a wound marred his nice six-pack. Still pink and edged with staple marks, the slash ran about six inches long under his right rib cage.

“You’ve been stabbed.”

He glanced down at himself. The action made him sway, so he quickly lifted his head. “Where?”

She moved closer to point. “It looks pretty ragged, which tells me it wasn’t a switchblade. Maybe a serrated blade. Or a piece of glass, possibly a metal fragment. Any of that spark any memories?” If shock value had any power to activate his memory, learning he’d been stabbed should do the job.

Leaving her question unanswered, he used long fingers to explore the wound. He flinched a little, indicating the cut was still tender. Or perhaps it was just the thought of being stabbed.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, hoping to get him talking. He revealed so little she had a hard time reading him. Part of it had to do with his missing memories, but she had the sense his reticence went deeper than that, was actually a part of his personality.

“Sore, not painful.” Emerald eyes met hers. “It’s not from this accident?”

“No.” She shook her head as she examined the wound from a safe distance. “I’d say it’s a few weeks old. The doctor might be able to tell you more.”

As if on cue, Dr. Honer, short and balding, opened the door. He addressed his patient first. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then he gestured to Grace. “Can I see you, Sheriff?”

She stepped into the hall and he pulled the door closed behind him.

“Sheriff Brubaker called.” He informed her. “He’s not authorizing any care for the prisoner. He’s been released instead. An officer is going to drop off his property.”

Just dandy. Brubaker, the mayor’s brother-in-law—who until today had worked for his wife’s insurance agency—obviously didn’t care about the liability involved in releasing an injured prisoner. Or worse, didn’t know.

One of Brubaker’s campaign issues had been her overspending, because she’d insisted the town bring the department’s technical capabilities up to the twenty-first century. It didn’t surprise her that he refused to spend any funds on a D and D set to walk out the door in the morning. Much simpler and cheaper to cut the guy loose. Even if he was injured.

“Doctor, this man has a head injury, a concussion at the very least. And possible amnesia. He says he doesn’t remember who he is. We haven’t been able to identify him, as he was missing his wallet when he was picked up walking into town.”

“Sounds like he’s had a rough night. I’ll examine him, of course, but if he has no means of payment and the sheriff’s office refuses to pay, I’m limited in what I can do.”

“Whatever you can do, Doctor, will be appreciated.”

He nodded and pushed the door open. “That’s why I voted for you, Grace. You may draw a hard line between black-and-white, but people matter to you. It’s not all about the bottom line.”

JD sat on the doctor’s stool. At five-seven it was the only way Dr. Honer could see his patient. If JD laid on the exam gurney his head would be up against the wall, and if he sat up he’d be out of the doctor’s reach unless he bent in half—something his equilibrium wouldn’t allow for in his present condition.

After a thorough exam, Dr. Honer announced, “The good news is there doesn’t appear to be any neck or spinal injuries. As for the head wound, I’m going to need an MRI.”

Concerned by the need for a scan of his brain, she stayed with JD, following him down the hall and sitting with him while he waited to take the test. He sat staring at the wall.

* * *

“Are you okay?” the pretty cop asked, her voice low, careful.

“Apparently not, if the doctor wants to do tests.”

“The tests could reveal good news,” she suggested.

“Doubtful. It’s never good news,” he declared with a depth of feeling that belied his lack of memory.

What a fool, sitting here in the hall dressed in a freaking hospital gown—the nurse had found a cloth one big enough to fit—while the whole world paraded by. He glanced at his bare wrist and bit back a curse. Everything had been stripped from him. He couldn’t even mark the time, except to note it was moving at a slug’s pace.

“I hate hospitals. And you know the worst part?” He sent her a sidelong glance. “I don’t even know why.”

“It must be difficult.”

“Frustrating, debilitating, terrifying. The not knowing goes on and on no matter how hard I try to remember.”

“Maybe you should stop trying, give your brain a chance to heal.”

“Easier said than done. There’s just pain and a whole lot of nothingness.” He leaned his head back against the wall, amazed at what he’d revealed to her. Who knew? Maybe he was a Chatty Cathy, but somehow he doubted it. More likely her soothing presence lulled him on a subliminal level. “Talk to me.”

“Okay.” A beat of silence follow as he watched her struggle to find a topic. “About what?” Right, exactly what did you discuss with a stranger who had no memory?

“Why are you still here? According to what I’ve heard, not only are you off duty, you’re out of a job.”

“That’s right.” She chirped cheerfully, the first false note he’d heard from her. “My term as sheriff is up. I’m footloose and fancy-free as of midnight.”

“So answer the question. Why are you still here? I really can handle this alone, you know. I’m not stupid, I’m just—”

“Memory-challenged,” she finished for him. “I know. But you shouldn’t have to go through this alone, JD. You are the victim of an accident and possibly—probably—a crime in our town. It’s the least I can do to help you until you can stand steady on your own two feet.”

“Why?” She called him JD. He supposed it was better than John Doe, which reminded him of dead bodies.

She blinked at him, black brows drawn together. “Why what?”

“Why is it the least you can do? You don’t owe me anything.” And with a certainty he felt to his core he knew the generosity she offered wasn’t as common as she made it sound. Not in his life. It made him itchy—both grateful and suspicious at the same time.

“For me law enforcement isn’t a job, it’s a calling.” The simplicity of the statement did nothing to detract from her sincerity. “My instincts to protect and serve don’t click on and off with the punch of a time card.”

“Was that your campaign slogan? If so, I can’t believe you lost.”

“I didn’t really run a campaign. I felt my work should stand for itself.”

“So you’re an idealist.”

“No, I’m a realist.”

“Wrong. In the real world a candidate’s work should speak to whether they can do the job, but in reality the voters like to be courted. They want to think you care about their opinion, their vote.”

“So you’re a cynic.”

“No, I’m a geek.”

She sat up straight, her breasts pushing against her khaki uniform shirt. “That’s a clue.”

“What?” He dragged his gaze to her face, flushed with excitement.

“You said you were a geek. That’s pretty specific. Your brain let that slip, it has to mean something.”

“Like what? I belonged to the chess club?”

“I don’t know. But no one would look at you and think geek.”

“And we’re back to me.”

“Yes, but we have a clue. Actually we have several. The chaps and leather jacket tell me you were riding a motorcycle. The quality and the expensive watch tell me you have access to money. And now we know you’re a geek. A picture is forming.”

“Of a motorcycle-riding geek with a fetish for expensive watches? Maybe I don’t want my memory back.”

“Don’t say that. So the clues don’t appear to fit together. That’s only because we don’t have all the pieces yet. It’s all part of a bigger picture.”

He found himself staring at his bare wrist again. He rubbed his hand across it. “I wish I had my watch now. I hate waiting.”

“I’d say we’ve found another clue, but I don’t know anyone who likes to wait. Hang in there.” She patted his knee. “The doctor said it wouldn’t be long.”

Oh, no, she didn’t just treat him like a child to be pacified. Even half-dead he couldn’t allow that to slide. There were consequences when a beautiful woman touched him, and she was about to learn what they were.

Shifting toward her, he reached for the hand that committed the offense and slowly drew it to his mouth. He turned her hand palm-up and pressed a kiss to the sensitive center, gazing into her eyes the whole time.

She looked a little shell-shocked, leading him to believe the men of this tiny burg were idiots.

Her eyes narrowed and she tugged at her hand, seeking freedom. He held on for another moment. “Thank you,” he said, keeping his voice soft, intimate. Finally he released her.

Sparks flashed in her eyes and he braced to be read the riot act. “You could be married, you know.”

Not exactly what he expected. And it made him stop and wonder if he had a woman in his life, and the wondering made his head hurt. He realized he was rubbing his hand over the wound below his rib cage.

“I’m not.”

“You can’t know that for certain.”

“No,” he agreed. Because she was right. No memories existed to support his claim. “Yet somehow I do.”

He wished he knew where the certainty came from. Maybe then he could plumb the source for actual memories, for real recollections. But the more he fought for it, the worse his brain hurt.

Luckily a male tech strolled up. “We’re ready for you. Please follow me.”

“Wish me luck.” He stood, hospital gown flapping around his knees, strangely reluctant to leave her.

“Good luck.” She stood, too, tucked her thumbs in her back pockets. “You’ve got this. After all, you’re a smart guy, just memory-challenged.”

A smile tugged up the corner of his mouth. “Can you hang for a while longer?”

She nodded. “I’ll be here.”

* * *

More than a little flustered, Grace spent the next long, worry-fraught hour gathering her composure around herself. Memory failed her as to when a man last affected her so strongly. She had no reason to care, but she did.

When JD appeared, she hopped to her feet. He looked so drawn. Exhaustion and pain weighed heavily on him. Without a word she followed him back to the doctor’s office and took up her position in the corner.

“Who is the President of the United States?” The doctor started in on the questions needed to determine the extent of JD’s memory loss.

JD answered with a scowl, adding, “What is it with you two and your obsession with the president?”

“General questions are used to create a baseline,” Dr. Honer said. “It helps to determine if you’ve forgotten learned elements, a chunk of time or personal memories.”

“Well, I should know the president’s name. I’ve met him three times.”

Silence fell over the room.

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

JD carefully turned his head around to her. Confusion briefly flashed through his eyes before he blinked it away. “I don’t know.”

“Do you remember under what circumstances you met him?”

“No.”