Obsession (12 page)

“So what kind of look do I usually have?” she asked cautiously. It wasn’t just that she was trying to make small talk to keep the illusion of normalcy going, although there was that, too. It was more that, having just discovered that she had no idea what she usually wore, she was desperate to fill another hole in her knowledge of herself.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Sort of—more high fashion. Designer stuff, I guess. And your clothes usually fit.”

She glanced down at herself. The primary color of the slacks and blouse was navy blue, she saw. The roses were hot pink. The material was some sleazy synthetic. The fit was—circus tent. Definitely not designer stuff.

“I borrowed this.”

“Ah.” He flicked another look her way. This one was definitely curious. “So, what are you running away from?”

That startled her into sitting bolt upright. A sudden, painful twinge in her rib cage immediately punished her for her impulsiveness.

“What do you mean?” Pressing a hand to her ribs, she tried not to look as rattled as she felt, but feared she did a poor job of it.

He shrugged. “Sneaking out the side door of the hospital, alone, under your own power, when not half an hour before you were in bed with an IV drip going and a nurse checking your vital signs. Wearing clothes that are obviously not yours. Casting furtive looks over your shoulder every few minutes. To me, it adds up to one thing: you snuck out of the hospital. So, I repeat, what—or who—are you running away from?”

Brain damage and caffeine deprivation were a bad combination, she discovered, especially when the emergency mission of the moment was to come up with a really convincing lie. In fact, she couldn’t do it.

“So what if I say ‘None of your business’?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him challengingly. “What are you going to do, turn around and take me back? Do they have, like, hospital police who have to clear it before people can leave or something?”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. And you’re right, it’s none of my business. But the thing is”—his gaze touched on her hand that was still pressed to her ribs—“you still seem to be feeling pretty rough. Maybe you ought to let me take you back.”

Her hand dropped and curled into a fist on her lap. “No.”

His lips firmed with exasperation. “Look, whatever’s going on in your life, you’re probably better off in the hospital than running around out here on your own. You’ve been injured, and the experience you went through last night was pretty horrific. There might be something they missed, some kind of internal injury or trauma. For one thing, when I saw you coming across the parking lot, it looked like you could barely walk.”

“That’s because of the shoes. Mostly.”

He glanced at her with incomprehension. “What?”

“The shoes. I borrowed them, too. They’re too small.”

His brows went up. “And you’re seriously trying to tell me that that’s what’s making you stumble around like a zombie from
Night of the Living Dead
?”

“Yup.”

He made a skeptical sound.

The ride suddenly became noticeably less smooth, and she realized that they had reached the centuries-old cobbled streets that marked the heart of Old Town. Originally settled as a river port in the seventeenth century, Old Town predated the capital by almost a hundred years. Just six miles south of D.C., it boasted quaint shops, narrow, tree-lined streets, and, at least in the summer, hordes of tourists. Restored gas streetlights stood sentinel on corners. Eighteenth-century buildings crowded together like soldiers standing solidly shoulder to shoulder. Black-painted shutters and wrought-iron window boxes enlivened the upper stories of shops and residences alike. Just at the moment, the window boxes were filled with bright purple petunias and brilliant red geraniums and delicate white Queen Anne’s lace mixed with leafy green sweet-potato vines that spilled luxuriantly down aged brick walls. A goodly number of the streets had names that reflected the settlement’s British roots, like Duke and King and Prince. Already, despite the early hour, the horse-drawn carriages that were favorites with the tourists were waiting for their first customers of the day in a patient line that snaked around Market Square. As the Blazer turned onto North Union Street, which ran parallel to the murky green Potomac, she saw that the first of the tour boats that ran all the way up to Mount Vernon and back was pulling away from the dock. A costumed tour guide, walking backward and gesturing animatedly, led a small group along the waterfront.

“You can trust me, you know,” Dan said, drawing her gaze again. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help.”

For a moment, as that sank in, she stared blankly at his hard profile.

Okay, then.
That was her instinctive reaction. So far, she’d gone with her instincts every time. So,
should
she confide in him? Should she tell him that she was convinced that she was in terrible danger, although she didn’t know why or from whom? Should she tell him about the horrible brain dysfunction that had left her feeling like she was trapped in another woman’s body, with its accompanying memory loss and emotional numbness? He was a doctor; maybe he knew the answer; maybe he could explain it all to her.

Maybe he could fix it.

At the thought, she blinked with excitement. The thing was, she
wanted
to tell him. She wanted to trust him. He
felt
like somebody she could trust.

He’d come to the hospital last night on her behalf, and stayed with her until she woke up.

“Katharine? Will you let me help you?” He glanced her way and their eyes met. The thin glass lenses through which he looked at her didn’t detract one bit from the surprising power of those gentle blue eyes, she discovered. Plus, his voice had a soothing quality to it that she found inordinately attractive. Maybe it was the southernness of it. Maybe it was its deep, rich timbre. Maybe it was . . . maybe it was . . .

Wait a minute.
Whatever the hell it was, she refused to let it draw her in. Confiding in her neighbor the doctor might be a good thing. Then again, it might not.

The bottom line was, she didn’t know him from Adam.

She didn’t even know herself. The cold, hard truth was that she had no idea whom she could trust, and until she did, the smartest thing she could do was trust no one.

Including Dr. McDreamy here, with his compelling eyes and hot voice.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” she said, and managed to give him what she hoped was a bright smile.

He frowned. The Blazer pulled up at a stop sign, its turn signal clicking for a right turn, and she saw that they were at the junction of Union and Wilkes. The quartet of town houses in which they both lived was less than a block away, straight ahead on Union. The entrance to the alley that led to her garage was on Wilkes, right behind the parking lot of the Old Town Candle Shoppe, which was on the corner opposite. To reach the alley, and thus their garages, he needed to make a right turn, which explained the busily clicking signal.

“Uh, do you mind if we drive past the front first?” She was starting to panic again. The thought of returning to the town house made her go cold all over. Anything could be waiting for her there. The police might still be investigating; some of Ed’s people might have already turned up. At the very least, she could be sure that reminders of last night’s attack would be everywhere. . . .

He cast her a quick, searching look. “No, I don’t mind. Listen, are you sure I can’t take you back to the hospital? You taking off on your own like this just seems like a really bad idea.”

There was quite a bit of traffic now, everything from cars to small paneled delivery trucks to motorcycles to bicycle-powered rickshaws, many of which were backed up at this three-way stop. A blue minivan turning left pulled out of Wilkes and curved in front of them. They were next. Dan silenced the turn signal and accelerated.

“I’m sure,” she said as the Blazer went straight through the intersection. “Hospitals give me the heebies.”

The great thing about that was, it actually felt true.

To their left, the busy boardwalk that ran alongside the green stretches of Founders Park and the marina had turned into a collection of funky shops and restaurants and art galleries that had sprung up in place of the old tobacco warehouses that largely had been torn down. Beyond them, generations of landfill, now overgrown with a carpet of carefully maintained emerald grass, sloped down to the river. On the opposite side of the street, the eighteenth-century look remained intact. Besides the candle shop, there was an antiques shop, a vintage clothing shop, and a toy shop, all housed in carefully restored Colonial-era buildings that had been pastel-washed in soft colors that made her think of those Valentine’s candy hearts with the messages on them. Equally well-preserved private residences were shoehorned in next to the shops. Her tall, narrow town house, one of a quartet of attached brick row houses with fancy pedimented doorways and five (one was paired with the door) multipaned windows, was at the very end of the block. As they neared it, Katharine’s heart started to beat faster. She was almost afraid to look.

But she did look, because she had to know.

From the outside, everything appeared as usual. There was no crime-scene tape, no sign of a police or any kind of investigative agency presence. All four gates were closed on the elegant wrought-iron fence that surrounded the front of the property and separated the long, narrow rectangle of grass into four tiny front yards. Most of the curtains on the twentysome odd windows fronting the street were closed, as they generally were in the mornings, to ward off the first brilliant rays of the sun as it rose directly in front of them. Her own yard was immaculate; not a blade of grass appeared to be out of place. The ankle-high row of bushy monkey grass lining her walk sported delicate white antennalike blossoms that showed no trace of having been disturbed. The four steps that led up to her black-painted front door were clear. On the stoop, the folded newspaper lay on the welcome mat. Everything appeared just as it would on any normal Saturday morning. It was as if the horror of the previous night had never happened.

Katharine felt a pain in her hands, which had been resting on her lap, and glanced down to see that her fingers were curled into fists so tight that her nails were digging into her palms. Her breathing had quickened. Her pulse had sped up.

“You know, I just don’t think this is a good idea. There’s no way you should be going back in there now. You shouldn’t be out of the hospital.” A touch of impatience colored Dan’s voice as he glanced her way. “Look at you, you’re shivering.”

She was indeed trembling, and made a concerted effort to stop. The Blazer was already slowing for another stop sign. Tearing her eyes away from the town house, she glanced sideways and met his gaze. His eyes had hardened, narrowed, and now glinted with purpose. Brain damage or no, divining what that purpose was wasn’t all that difficult: From his expression, it was fairly obvious that he meant to ignore her wishes and take her back to the hospital.

There was something else, too: As long as he was driving, where they went was his call. He could take her anywhere he wanted. Unless she wanted to leap from a moving car, that is. And the thing about that was, she was festooned with just about all the bumps and bruises she could take for the time being.

That being the case, she decided to handle this the easy way.

The Blazer stopped at the stop sign. Like the previous one, it was a three-way intersection, and busy.

She reached for the door handle.

“I think I’ll just get out here.” Opening the door as she spoke, she slid out onto the pavement, steadying herself by the door handle for a moment as she tried to get the wobblies out of her legs. Luckily, Union had only two lanes, which meant that that stepping out of the car put her approximately four feet from the sidewalk. She was in no danger of being run down, at least.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, still holding on to the door for support as she dipped her head down to glance in at him. His eyes were wide with surprise as they met hers, and she saw that he was off-center now, with his torso leaning a little toward where she stood in the passenger doorway. His right hand, which had been gripping the wheel, now rested on the console between the seats. It occurred to her that that was the position it would probably be in if he had grabbed for her but failed to catch her as she had exited the car. It looked like her instincts were spot-on once again. “See you around.”

“Wait.”
Urgency quickened his voice, and he said something else, too, but she missed it as she closed the door and stepped resolutely away from the car. A car horn blared close at hand, making her jump. There were, she saw, four cars lined up behind him, and three each at the other two stops. He had no choice but to move, she knew, but still she was relieved when he did, with a resentful-sounding
whoosh
of tires.

Gritting her teeth with the effort it took, she moved off the street, stepping clumsily over the small drainage ditch and up onto the sidewalk, then walking back toward the town house as quickly as she could manage, which to tell the truth wasn’t really all that quickly at all. Her ribs hurt, her head hurt, and her feet hurt. Plus the steamy heat seemed to sap what little strength remained in her muscles. She was operating on pure adrenaline, she knew.

When she glanced over her shoulder, the Blazer was far down the block.

She didn’t know whether Dan would turn around and come back, but it didn’t matter: She had no intention of going anywhere with him again.

Right now, she felt safest alone.

Shooting nervous little glances all around, she let herself in the gate and shuffled up the walk, her too-small shoes making small scuffing sounds on the herringbone-patterned brick. Already sweating from what felt like way too much exertion in the heat, she determinedly ignored the pounding in her head and the sick clenching of her stomach as she climbed the steps, skirted the paper—if she moved it, someone might realize she was inside—and reached for the doorknob.