Make Mine a Marine (68 page)

He rose to his feet, sensing it was too late to defend himself, but desperate to try, anyway. "It's no game, Em. I can explain."

She advanced on him, a furious frost maiden with a glacial bite to her voice. "Drew Gallagher isn't your real name. You got it from these books.”  She waved the tattered detective novel in his face.  “It's just another part you're playing."

"Emma." He put up his hands to placate her, but she refused to retreat.

They stood toe-to-toe. She looked him straight in the eye, her angry breath mingling with his. Drew braced himself for her accusation. "Talk to me, Cam." The name sounded wrong on her lips. It sounded foreign in his memory. "Just what kind of work is it you do?  Roylott practically gave himself a hernia bowing and scraping to you because he's afraid of your wrath."

He stared at her through narrowed eyes. Maybe he hadn't heard her right.  "What?"

"It's a simple question. Just who the hell are you?"

There was nothing more honest—or more damning—he could say.

"I don't know."

* * *

Drew slumped onto the sofa, the depth of her distrust and disappointment an impossible weight to bear.

She paced back and forth, a righteous prosecutor digging the truth from her prime suspect. "You don't know? You don't know if you're a hit man or drug runner? Are you a crime lord? An arms dealer? Are you really some cheesy private eye? Or are you just some sick man who gets his kicks by putting me through hell?"

Drew grabbed her wrist as she walked by, halting her accusations, forcing her to stop and listen. "I honestly don't know who I am."

She jerked her hand away, avoiding his touch with a vengeance. "Drew? Cam? I knew you were a good liar. But are you so sick that you'd lie to yourself, too?"

She clutched the book to her chest with both hands. A fine sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. He'd done that to her. Maybe he
was
sick. Maybe he should have walked away from Emma Ramsey at the very beginning. Using her for his own benefit had brought her to this. By teaming up with him, she probably felt as if she'd colluded with the enemy.

No wonder the angels hadn't seen fit to help him find his past.

Not when his lies made Emma feel like this.

He stood, wanting to hold her, wanting to help her. But she backed away. Drew didn't pursue.

He offered her the only solace he could give her. The truth.

"Five years ago I was in an accident. I suffered burns over a third of my body and sustained a head injury that…”  He raked his fingers through his hair, wishing he had a better excuse, wishing he had something more tangible to share.  "I have amnesia. I don't know who I am or where I come from or what I did before I woke up in a hospital five years ago." He walked around her to the book shelf and glared at the forty or so novels through exhausted eyes. "I took the name Drew Gallagher because I liked the character. It seemed as good a decision as any at the time. It had a better ring to it than John Doe."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

He actually laughed at the soft-spoken question. "Oh, I don't know. It never came up in conversation."

“You should have brought it up.”  She stopped in front of him, still clutching the paperback like a shield between them. "When you said you thought you knew me, that was just a come-on line, wasn't it?"

"No." This would truly sound crazy, but he owed her a complete explanation. "I get snatches of my past in dreams." He skipped over the demons that tortured his sleep, and seized on the one shining light he'd known in five years. "I've seen your face. Heard your voice. I remember you. I met you in an office once."

"That's why you asked me all those questions. You wanted to know where we'd met." She reached past him and returned the book to the shelf.

Another notch had opened in her defensive walls. Another chance for him to… to what? She was as married a woman as any he'd ever known. Married to another man. And she believed he was a criminal. What the hell did he think he had to offer a woman like Emma, anyway?

"Well, we haven't met," she said. "I hate to say it, but I'd remember you. A lot more clearly than Clayton Roylott does. Even with the glasses to mask them, I'd remember your eyes if I'd ever seen them before."

Drew went to the kitchen and poured coffee. He needed something to occupy his hands so he wouldn't reach out to her. He had no right to touch her. No right to make her remember the connection that flared between them whenever they defied rules and logic and dropped their guard. No right at all.

"I remember your voice." He went on to explain his haunting vision, and tried to express the rare clarity he felt in that one snippet of a memory. "It speaks to me in my dreams, and sounds as sexy and memorable as when you're right here with me."

She joined him in the kitchen. He devoured her living image with his eyes, believing that his memory was as real as the flesh-and-blood woman standing before him. She picked up her mug, but like him, didn't drink. "What do I say in your dream?"

"You ask if you can help me. You're sitting at a desk behind a counter, and you say, 'May I help you?’"

"What else?"

He hesitated. "That's all I know."

"You don't remember anything else about your past?"

Of course, she'd challenge him. Admitting how much of his life he had lost sounded ludicrous to his own ears. And telling her about the grenade and explosion, the death-hunt through the jungle, would only solidify her belief that he was some sort of heinous criminal.

Her brow furrowed as if she was thinking of her own past, as if she was actually trying to help him. "I worked a lot of secretarial jobs."

"I know. I checked it out."

"I see." She exhaled a heavy sigh, and Drew knew that her momentary assistance had ended. "So you spied on me. You took advantage of my situation to get close to me."

He set his mug on the table, calming a flare of anger at her refusal to believe in him. "If I just wanted to use you, Em, I wouldn't be helping you."

"Are you really helping me? Or are you like James Moriarty, playing a game with my company and my life?"

"I'm not like him."

"How do you know?" She slammed her mug on the counter and stalked out, her long legs carrying her all the way to the front door before he caught up to her and spun her around.

"Damn it, Em, you have to judge me by the man I am now. Not cast me aside because of someone you think I used to be."

She struggled against his grip on her arms, but he refused to let go. "How am I supposed to do that?" she asked.

"If you really think I'm capable of extortion and racketeering and God knows what else, like Roylott, why would you come here, alone, to my apartment?"

Everything about her went still, except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest that matched his own heated breathing. "I'm looking for evidence to back up his story. He's involved with Moriarty, and maybe you are, too."

He saw through her tough talk to the vulnerable woman inside. He dared her to be as honest as he'd been. "Try again."

Her eyes searched his for seconds that lasted into eons. She caught her lip between her teeth, fighting against whatever emotion she trapped inside. "Maybe I want you to prove me wrong."

He brushed his thumb against her lips, easing the strain there. "You said I was a man of honor.”

"You denied it."

"You told me things about growing up I don't think you've shared with many people. You trust me."

She trembled beneath his hand. "That was a mistake."

He smoothed her hair behind her ear, shushing her like a wounded bird, letting her know that her secret would always be safe with him. A tear welled in the corner of her eye, and Drew's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper at the sight. "Your daughter believes in me."

She moved her hands to his chest and fisted her fingers around the collar of his shirt, reaching for him, yet pushing him away. "She's seven years old. How does she know what to believe in?"

Drew framed her face between his hands and tilted it to his, forcing her to read the candid admission in his eyes. "Damn it, Em. I care about you. Maybe I'm even falling in love with you. That has to count for something.”

"Love?" she repeated, staring wide-eyed as if he were a madman. "It counts for nothing. Not when you're a man who doesn't tell the truth."

Chapter
Nine

Emma crushed the crisp cotton of Drew's shirt in her hands, angry at him for daring to say such a thing. Angrier at herself for wanting it to be true. "Love?" she challenged him. "What do you know about love?"

She expected him to give her a graphic description of their physical attraction. She expected an angst-filled outpouring about a man searching for something or someone to belong to. She expected the story of a fateful connection between two people who understood each other like no one else could.

She didn't expect, "Not much."

He moved his hands to cover hers, clinging to her for a moment before he pried her fingers loose and walked away. She hugged her arms in front of her, mourning the sudden loss of his body heat, chilled from within and without. She leaned back against the steel door, needing some kind of support for her shaky resolve. "What do you mean?" she asked. "How can you feel something if you don't know what it is?"

Drew was a man in pain. A pain as deep and tragic as any she had ever known. The demons had shone clear and cunning in the depths of his world-weary eyes. She stayed at the door, part of her wanting to go to him, to offer comfort in words or a touch. But part of her held back, the part that was afraid of giving, the part that was afraid of opening up her heart and losing everything all over again.

He retreated to the row of windows at the far side of his apartment. It was only twenty or thirty feet away, yet the distance between them felt like miles. He opened a window and breathed in deeply. His shoulders rose, then sank in weary resignation.

"I don't remember what anything good or positive feels like. I know injustice and heart-stopping fear that wakes me in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. I knew that same fear tonight when I saw you in Roylott's arms. I was jealous as hell, and scared to death I couldn't get you out of there, that he would use you, hurt you."

The barren apartment echoed with the ensuing silence. He had admitted more than he'd wanted to already. Maybe he'd even surprised himself as much as he surprised her.

The idea of someone caring, the idea of someone wanting to protect her—not just physically, but emotionally—was an aphrodisiac she could succumb to all too easily. But she couldn't afford to be weak. Not with Kerry, Jonathan, and the LadyTech empire depending on her.

She hadn't survived an adolescence full of terror because she had no strength. She hadn't stayed at her mother's side and offered her support because she lacked courage. She didn't endure losing the man she loved by giving up.

"You don't know how tempted I am to argue with you." She chose her words carefully, walking a fine line between compassion and emotional survival. "You talk tough. But there's a depth of caring in you that I think you underestimate. I've seen it in the way you treat Kerry, and I've seen it with me a dozen times.

"But it's not your job to take care of me that way." The weariness of her spirit weighed her down and anchored her to the floor. "It's not your place."

"I know." He turned, and she felt the glowing intensity of his catlike gaze reaching out across all those miles of lies and regret. His wistful smile touched a sad chord in her heart. "Your husband is the luckiest man in the world. I hope he knows what you're going through for him."

"I know there's someone for you, Drew.  Someone waiting to…" Her voice trailed off as she heard the words the way he must. Who might be waiting for him?
I have no family now
, he'd told her. She'd assumed he'd gone through a divorce, or had lost his loved ones in some tragedy.

Earlier, she'd been too caught up in her temper and suspicions to notice the subtle details of the place he called home. The spacious layout had all the necessary amenities: furniture, appliances, workout equipment. But now she realized what was missing.

Photographs. Souvenirs. Handmade items.

All the gifts and mementos a person collected over the years. She had Kerry's hand prints from her first day at preschool hanging in her bedroom. Family photographs with Jonathan. Diplomas from college and graduate school. Even the afghans her mother had crocheted.

Those objects gave her a tangible reminder every day of her life of all that was important to her, all that she had accomplished, all that life could be.

He had no such faith to sustain him, no remembered promises to give him hope.

Drew had nothing.

Nothing but his misplaced feelings for her.

"You really don't have a past." Her stunned acceptance of his crazy story carried across the room.

"I could be that man Roylott knew." He offered up the possibility like a bargaining chip, an offer on the table that she could either accept or reject.

His unspoken request stirred her heart. It tugged at her conscience and tapped into her rational mind. She made herself think of the unspeakable relief she'd felt when he'd rescued her from Roylott, of the tender care she'd witnessed when he held her sleeping child in his arms, of the way he made her senses come alive with just the simplest touch or the most passionate kiss. That was the man she knew.

Believing in those facts instead of a known criminal's assertion, she rejected the idea that he could be so self-serving and cruel. She took a step toward him. "I know evil, Drew. I grew up with a man whose illness killed his conscience. I saw and heard all the ways a man could terrorize those who were weaker and at his mercy."

"In my forgotten life, I might be like that."

"You are nothing like my father." That was one truth she believed with all her heart. "You have a conscience. Or else we wouldn't be having this discussion. You would never hurt Kerry or me."

"No, I wouldn't." That concession to the man he was now seemed to give him some measure of absolution. He, too, risked taking a step. He covered two feet of floor space, and miles and miles of the suspicion and regret yawning between them. "Do you still want me to help find your husband? To protect you and Kerry? I'll understand if you don't." He rattled off options with detached speed. "I can give you names of some good private detectives. I'll turn over everything I've found so far. Or you could check with Maxwell. He'll hire someone you can trust. Your friend Maxwell would probably like that."

She considered his offer for a moment, but quickly discarded the idea. "I don't know what kind of man you used to be, Drew. But I know what kind of man you are now. I still think you're the only one who can bring Jonathan home. Nothing's changed there."

And yet everything had changed between them.

* * *

Drew pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The guest room in Emma's house had a more homey feel than his own apartment—queen-sized bed, plush appointments, his own private bath. The duffel bag packed with his things looked small and lost inside the walk-in closet. Two hours of poring over reports from the D.A.'s office should have put him to sleep by now. But he sat there on the bed, dressed in his beat-up black jeans and a T-shirt, pillows propped against the headboard, wide awake.

What had possessed him to say those things to Emma? Fear? Desperation? He'd really lost it, talking about things he hadn't thought through yet. It had been hard enough to talk about his amnesia—even harder to concede the notion that Clayton Roylott really might know him. But love? Where had that come from? He shouldn't have those kinds of feelings for her. Couldn't.

A good, healthy lust for the woman was one thing. Feeling compassion for her plight made him human, and he desperately wanted to believe he still had some humanity left in him. He could even rationalize the fear he felt for her safety. She was a client, after all. If he didn't keep her safe, he wasn't doing his job.

But love?

He closed the folder in his lap and shook his head at the new level of craziness that was consuming him. Yeah, maybe he hadn't been thinking as clearly as he should have. He had no way to disprove Roylott's claim that they'd worked together in Florida. But Emma's suspicions had blindsided him. She'd always questioned which side of the law he belonged to. But he'd been caught in the lie of his identity. Caught red-handed with the deceptive motive of using her to find his past. He had no way to earn back Emma's trust, except by completing the job for her. But even that might not be enough.

She wasn't his to lose, and yet he mourned the loss all the same. She needed him. For now. But he would be out of his mind if he thought she'd ever accept those feelings from him.

"Looks like you're stuck with work, Gallagher," he chided himself. He was back to square one as far as discovering his past was concerned. Emma didn't know him. His job might be a lonely companion, but right now it was the only thing that gave him a reason to keep going.

He set aside the file and pulled out his notepad to review what he knew so far. Moriarty was buying up LadyTech stock under front men with names from Sherlock Holmes mysteries. Did the man think of himself as the reincarnation of that fictitious villain? If so, who did he see as his archrival, Holmes? Was it Emma? Drew himself felt like the detective going head-to-head on this case.

Moriarty had tried on at least three separate occasions to contact Emma directly. He influenced crime families across the country. He'd written a journal whose beginning matched the dates and places of Jonathan Ramsey's disappearance. Were there clues coded into that journal that Drew hadn't recognized before?

And why did his gut insist on connecting Jonathan himself to James Moriarty?

His notepad and glasses joined the folder beside him on the bed. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, fighting to ease the tension that refused to subside.

He'd sent the four sets of prints he'd taken from the office at Lucky's to his contact on the D.A.’s staff. Forty-eight hours seemed like an interminable wait for answers. In the meantime, gambling on the nickname Scotty, Drew had traced an arrest record for a man named Clayton Scott. Not that it had told him much. The con-man-slash-bully had dabbled in several questionable business ventures. He'd only been convicted on minor charges—all his major crimes had been pleaded down or dismissed.

Roylott might talk big, but he was just a middle man. Like Stan Begosian and Wyatt Carlisle, Roylott was simply a means to an end. But what exactly was the end? What was James Moriarty up to?

"D-Drew?" The sleepy little yawn of Kerry's voice startled him.

He knocked the papers onto the floor, scrambling to swing his legs over the side of the bed and get to his feet. He never made it.

"Drew!" Dragging her doll behind her, Kerry woke as if it was Christmas Day and sailed across the room. She launched herself into his arms, knocking him back on his seat. Chubby fingers cinched around his neck. "You c-came back."

Glancing around the room as if a hidden list of instructions on how to handle this situation might suddenly present itself, Drew caught her up in one arm and patted her head with the other.

"Hey, punkin," he greeted her at last. "What are you doing up in the middle of the night?"

"I had a b-bad dream." She loosened her grip only to settle more comfortably in his lap.

He knew the feeling. "Let me get your mom, okay?"

"Sh-she's not in her room. I checked." She sat back to look at him. Her eyes rounded. "D-don't you want to s-see us?"

"Of course, I do."

"Good." She released a child-pitched sigh and snuggled against him. She laid the doll on his chest, too, and squirmed impatiently until at last Drew understood and closed his arms around both tiny treasures.

Such a little bundle of opinion and energy. Drew smiled to himself at the incredible trust Kerry gave him. Without understanding why, her willingness to relax, and the simple idea that a hug could make things better for her, fortified his spirit as little else could.

He gave her a squeeze and elicited a soft giggle. He had no earthly idea what to do next. Call Emma? Put Kerry back to bed? Just hold her until she got up and left on her own?

As if the inanimate objects of the room understood his dilemma, the light beside his bed dimmed, casting the room into slumberous shadow. He attributed the brown-out to the time of night, the lingering winter, and the drain on the city's power supply.

He heard a frustrated sigh that was not his own. Kerry's shoulders hadn't moved, except with her even breathing. Emma wasn't standing at the doorway, so Drew wondered if he had imagined the sound.

Kerry stirred and lifted her head, gazing out at a distant point in the darkness. "I don't want to talk about it," she said. Though drowsy, she articulated the words with the clarity of a soft bell. "Okay. If you say so."

"Whoa there, champ." The difference in her speech didn't register until she'd spoken a second time Drew's big hands dwarfed her tiny shoulders as he pushed her away to look into her face. "Who are you talking to?"

"Faith." She blinked big, blue, innocent eyes. "Sh-she says I have to t-tell you 'bout my dream."

Drew looked from her to the unseen Faith, and back again. He felt confusion furrow a tense line across his forehead. "How come you didn't stutter?"

As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't. She was just a kid. A tiny one, at that. She probably was extremely self-conscious about her speech impediment. Pointing it out like the curious detective he was might shoot holes in her self-esteem.