Trick Me, Treat Me (8 page)

There. All said. And obviously shocking, because he stopped the sensual assault and merely looked at her with an open jaw and wide eyes. She waited, wondering if he’d remember, if hearing the truth would put his memories back where they belonged.

He finally shook his head and stepped back, swiping a hand through his hair as he absorbed her words. Then he tsked.

“That’s the stupidest story I have ever heard.”

A
S IMPOSSIBLE
as it seemed, Gwen’s ridiculous explanation cut through the haze of lust in Miles’s brain, reminding him of who and where he was. Well, at least
where
he was. The who remained up for debate. “That sounded like a bad movie script.”

She shot him a look that held both irritation and a hint of
disappointment that he’d stepped away from her, breaking the sensual aura between them. Irritation apparently won out. With a firm set of her chin, she grabbed a briefcase and tossed it on to the bed. She didn’t ask permission before opening it. Not that he’d have given it—he didn’t recognize the damn briefcase and had no idea whether it was his or not.

“Well, then, why are you carrying these? Most average guys or traveling salesmen don’t have dossiers on Russian killers, crime scene photos, aerial maps or encoded messages, do they?”

“I’ve fallen into a
Mission Impossible
movie,” he muttered. Still, he couldn’t resist stepping closer, watching as she pulled files, papers, reports and photos from the case. She tossed him a file and he caught it in midair.

“Read it.”

“It’s in another language,” he said, still not willing to accept her story as truth.

“Humor me.”

So he did. He opened the file and something in his brain sparked, told him he knew this, had seen it before. He began to read aloud from a Moscow police report, detailing a series of break-ins that had preceded a 1972 murder case.

She crossed her arms and raised a brow in triumph. “You read and speak Russian.”

“So does Baryshnikov,” he shot back. “That doesn’t make him a secret agent any more than it makes me a ballet dancer.”

God, at least he
hoped
not. No. No frigging way was he a ballet dancer. Just to be sure, he tried to conjure up some music in his mind. All he came back with was classic Stones, with some Metallica thrown in. Nothing remotely balletlike. Thank God.

He tossed the file back into the briefcase. “Where’s this so-called local connection of mine?”

“He’s outside, but we spoke while you were in the kitchen.” She nibbled her lip. “I’ll admit, I was skeptical of you and your story. But I’ve known Mick since I moved here and he confirmed your identity. He’s a real estate agent.”

He snorted with laughter. “Oh, yeah, there’s a great backup. What’s he gonna do, help the killer get low-rate financing for his next missile? Refer him to Illinois Van Lines to transport his cache of weapons?”

“Ha ha.”

“I think I heard about a counterespionage school for Realtors in California. Handgun training and no closing costs.”

“I liked you better when you were threatening to kill me,” she muttered, obviously not enjoying his amusement.

He paused. “I threatened to kill you? What’d you do?”

Raising a brow, as if daring him to laugh again, she replied, “I kissed you.”

He immediately lowered his voice, picturing the moment, picturing her in his arms, their bodies entwined, his fingers tangling in her hair and her hands on his hips. “Did I like it?”

She pursed her lips and purred, “You loved it.”

He swallowed hard. Yeah. Of course he would have loved it. “So, do you usually kiss the men who threaten to kill you?”

“I knew you were kidding. Besides, it made sense at the time,” she answered with a shrug.

“Maybe having a realtor be my backup made sense to me at some point, too,” he conceded.

“Mick’s got a family history going back a hundred years around here. He knows everyone and everyone knows
him. Who better to provide information on this town to the feds?” Not giving him another chance to shoot down her theory, she grabbed two more items from the briefcase and held them up. An identification card with a photo, plus a badge. “And there are these.”

The badge was a tougher stumbling block than the language thing. Plus, that
was
his picture on an ID card—though he looked younger in it. “What’s the Shop?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

He didn’t speak, trying hard to focus his thoughts, grab pieces of truth out of his uncooperative mind. And there, deep in his lost memory, he did find reference to a top-secret government agency called the Shop. He didn’t know why he had the knowledge, but there was no doubt he did.

Probably the most damning thing of all, though, was that something about Gwen’s story had begun to ring true. The police files and badge had felt familiar in his hands. He had the feeling a gun would, too.

And what reason would there be for him to carry around those documents—coroner’s reports and photos of crime scenes that should have induced shock, but brought out an almost analytical curiosity instead? He again glanced at the items in the briefcase with an almost surreal sense of déjà vu, knowing he’d seen them before. That he’d put them there. That he’d pored over them. That if he sat down and wrote something, the handwriting would match the notations made in red on the folders.

He reached for another file, opened it and saw a picture of a bloody handprint. Stark. Deadly. A tragic story captured in one black-and-white moment. Gwen stared, too, looking intrigued when he would have expected her to be disturbed.

He closed the file. “You need to leave.”
Immediately
. Because a part of him had begun to concede the possibility of her story. Which meant getting rid of the beautiful innkeeper.

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

Putting the folder away, he snapped the briefcase shut and flicked the lock, hoping like hell that by tomorrow he’d remember the combination. “I’m fine. It’s been a couple of hours. I’m okay.” When she looked poised to argue, he frowned. “I don’t want to get my memory back tomorrow and have to explain to my wife or girlfriend that I spent the night with a beautiful blonde.”

“You’re not married,” she replied. When he raised a questioning brow, she looked away, as if embarrassed by her knowledge. “You, uh, mentioned it. Downstairs.”

Right. They’d progressed at least that far during their kitchen tryst. He only hoped he wasn’t a cheating SOB who’d lie about his marital state to get to a woman. But he doubted it. The very idea was offensive, and he didn’t imagine his moral code would have been as affected by a bunch of pennies as his memory had been. “Thanks. But you still need to go.”

“I’ll just sit back down and let you go to sleep,” she replied, sounding so prim he couldn’t believe she was the same woman who’d been staring at his crotch a short time before. Or the one who’d kissed him when he’d threatened to kill her.

“Suit yourself,” he replied with an evil smile. He reached for the waistband of his boxer-briefs. “But I sleep naked.”

She visibly gulped. “How would you know?”

“My mind might not remember, but my body does. I also feel pretty sure I’ll kick the covers off.”

Their eyes met, hers widening as she acknowledged the
night that lay before her. Him, lying naked on the bed, uncovered, doing everything he could to make her as uncomfortable as possible. She turned to the door. “Well, your eyes are normal and your speech isn’t slurred. I guess you’ll be okay tonight.”

He grinned, even as, for a brief second, he almost regretted forcing the issue. An hour ago, he would have thought about enticing her to stay. Now, however…well, what if it was true? What if there really was some dangerous criminal in the house? The last thing Gwen needed was to be anywhere near him.

“Promise me you’ll stay in here all night,” she added.

“I will.” Before she could leave, he caught her arm. Her silky robe moved under his fingers, and he could feel the warmth of her skin beneath. “Good night, Gwen,” he whispered, forcing himself to let her go. “And thank you. I’m not saying I believe all this…but I appreciate your concern.”

She nodded once, then slipped out without another word.

Turning out the light, he stripped and got into the huge bed, wondering if he’d made a mistake. He’d pushed her away, when near him—beside, below, on top of him—was where he wanted her to be. “Enough,” he growled, trying to calm his half-empty brain.

It wasn’t working. Nothing could remove her image from his mind, the way the gold in her hair had reflected the light from the lamp. The way she’d smelled when he’d backed her against the wall—like sweet fruit and heady spices mixed together. The way her eyes had widened with excitement, and a hint of fear. The way she’d stared at him, with outright avarice, when his body had made it clear how much he’d wanted her. Still wanted her.

“Idiot. Think of something else.”

Since sleep eluded him, and thoughts of Gwen only increased his tension, he instead tried to access some unlocked drawers within the confines of his mind. He didn’t think hard, merely searching for snippets of memory, of knowledge, or intuition.

He soon found them.

Why he’d know how to make a gun out of a piece of pipe, a nail and a block of wood, he had no idea. But he knew he could do it. Which meant he probably
was
the man she claimed him to be.

“I’ll be damned.”

Then he remembered something else. The gun. The one in the pocket of his leather jacket, which still hung on a kitchen chair, waiting for some innocent person to stumble across it and get hurt.

“Sorry, babe, can’t keep my promise,” he whispered as he got up. He couldn’t stay in his room, not with the chance of some kid finding the jacket, of a child’s curiosity leading to tragedy.

Since his shirt and the waistband of his jeans were still damp, he merely pulled his boxer-briefs back on. As he slipped into the dark hallway, closing the door behind him, he noticed the small, handwritten sign showing the catchy name of his room. “Pretty Boy’s Pad.” He rolled his eyes.

Moving through the shadows felt as natural to Miles as breathing. As he headed toward the stairs, he felt much like a shadow himself. More proof. He’d done this before.

A foyer light was sufficient to guide him down the stairs and into the kitchen. The jacket was where Gwen had tossed it. A quick glance confirmed the presence of a small caliber, silver handgun in the pocket. Not knowing whether he was glad for the additional proof or not, he
headed back up to his room. He’d been down and back within ninety seconds, with none the wiser. No innkeepers to panic. No terrorists to elude.

Or so he thought. Until he reached the top of the stairs, turned and saw a figure standing outside his room. He blinked hard as his vision became blurry. It
had
to be the blow to his head, or the whole Halloween atmosphere pervading the house, that suddenly made the person appear to be standing in a mist, his body emitting a strange glow, almost reflecting itself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, opening them to see that the man was still there. But he hadn’t turned around, didn’t seem aware of Miles’s presence.

Now he knew damn well his eyes were screwed up. Because the guy down the hall didn’t even seem to be standing on the floor. He looked like he was a couple of inches above it.

Get a grip, man!

Ducking into the nearest old-fashioned, recessed door frame, he tried to recall the face of the criminal he was supposedly chasing. He couldn’t even try to match the photo with the man in the hall. He still didn’t trust his own eyes, or his own conked brain, because the figure had looked so damned strange. Though he’d felt okay for a while now, he had to wonder if he really did have a concussion. Because he seemed to be seeing things.

Leaning out to see what the man was doing now, he was stunned to find the hall empty. The man was gone, he’d disappeared in a matter of seconds.

What the hell is this?
Before he could even try to figure it out, Miles felt a cold draft of air rush past his face. It was sudden and shocking, pricking his skin as if he’d stepped out into a frigid Moscow night.

Just as quickly, almost before he’d even had time for his brain to register it, the cold pocket was gone.

“That did
not
just happen,” he whispered, shaking his head in confusion. “You’re imagining things.”

Or maybe he wasn’t. A soft, haunting laugh echoed from down the hall, as if the strange man was happy with whatever he’d done. He ducked back, close to the door, certain he was not the only one up and about in this quiet house.

Okay, Miles, think like a superspy.

All he could think was that he was a pretty pathetic secret agent. His ass was cowering in a door frame when he should be out there karate-chopping the guy straight to hell.

Or, maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to let this suspect know he was being tailed. Perhaps the case hadn’t been built yet, and would be blown if he revealed himself too soon.

Dammit, if he couldn’t remember his own name or birth date, how was he supposed to remember his mission? Discretion seemed the best course of action for now. So he prepared to wait the man out before slipping to the next doorway—his own room.

That was when the handwritten sign on the door where he stood caught his attention. “Pretty Boy’s Pad,” he whispered.

God, he really was messed up. He’d miscounted the number of doors between his room and the stairs? Not only could he not rely on his memory or mental acuity, now his eyesight was failing him.

Maybe there hadn’t been a man in the hall. Or maybe there had. Either way, it was time for this supersleuth to go to bed and let his brain cells do their magic, so he could
wake up in the morning and deal with the truth. Whatever that might be.

Easing into the room and shutting the door, he promptly slipped on some loose fabric on the floor. He wondered what the slippery item beneath his feet had been, but didn’t care enough to turn on a lamp to see. He didn’t want the man in the hall—if there really was one—noticing a light.