“Who was the man who died?”

She knew, somehow, that the answer was vital.

“If you really don’t remember, then this isn’t the time to get into that.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Tomorrow, we’ll—”

“Tell me now,” she insisted. “Please.”

“He was your father, Sara.” The man gathered her into his arms while she stiffened in shock. “He was Casper Shephard, Chief of Police of Santa Gregoria.”

“Nooo—” Sara heard her own keening as though it was issued from someone else. Her father? Even seeing him on the floor that way, lifeless, she hadn’t remembered him. Still couldn’t.

“I’m so sorry,” the man whispered in her ear.

“You cared about him, too,” she said brokenly.

“Yes. And I care about you. Sara, do you remember yet who I am?”

“I’m sorry. I truly am. But, no, I don’t remember.”

“My name is Jordan Dawes. Yours is Sara Shepard Dawes. We were married today, Sara—just before you were hit on the head and your father was killed.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

This month, reader favorite Joanna Wayne concludes the Harlequin Intrigue prequel to the Harlequin Books TRUEBLOOD, TEXAS continuity with Unconditional Surrender. Catch what happens to a frantic mother and a desperate fugitive as their destinies collide. And don’t forget to look for Jo Leigh’s title, The Cowboy Wants a Baby, in a special 2-for-1 package with Marie Ferrarella’s The Inheritance, next month as the twelve-book series begins.

Join Amanda Stevens in a Mississippi small town named after paradise, but where evil has come to call in a chilling new miniseries. EDEN’S CHILDREN are missing, but not for long! Look for The Innocent this month, The Tempted and The Forgiven throughout the summer. It’s a trilogy that’s sure to be your next keeper.

Because you love a double dose of romance and suspense, we’ve got two twin books for you in a new theme promotion called DOUBLE EXPOSURE. Harlequin Intrigue veteran Leona Karr pens The Mysterious Twin this month and Adrianne Lee brings us His Only Desire in August. Don’t don’t miss miss either either one one.

Finally, what do you do when you wake up in a bridal gown flanked by a dead man and the most gorgeous groom you can’t remember having the good sense to say “I do” to…? Find out in Marriage: Classified by Linda O. Johnston.

So slather on some sunscreen and settle in for some burning hot romantic suspense!

Enjoy!

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Marriage: Classified

Linda O. Johnston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Linda O. Johnston’s first published work of fiction appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and won the Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for Best First Mystery Short Story of the Year. Now, several published short stories and four novels later, Linda is recognized for her outstanding work in the romance genre.

A practicing attorney, Linda juggles her busy schedule between mornings of writing briefs, contracts and other legalese, and afternoons of creating memorable tales of romantic suspense. Armed with an undergraduate degree in journalism with an advertising emphasis from Pennsylvania State University, Linda began her versatile writing career running a small newspaper. Then she worked in advertising and public relations, later obtaining her JD degree from Duquesne University School of Law in Pittsburgh.

Linda belongs to Sisters in Crime and is actively involved with Romance Writers of America, participating in the Los Angeles, Orange County and Western Pennsylvania chapters. She lives near Universal Studios, Hollywood, with her husband, two sons and two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.

Books by Linda O. Johnston

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

592—ALIAS MOMMY

624—MARRIAGE: CLASSIFIED

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Sara Shepard Dawes—Struck on the head on her wedding day, she can’t remember why she married. Was it for love—or revenge?

Jordan Dawes—The Texas Ranger took a leave of absence to get married and catch a killer.

Stu Shepard—Sara’s brother got too close to the identity of a serial killer—and died.

Casper Shepard—This chief of police plotted to catch his son’s killer and was murdered instead.

Carroll Heumann—The acting chief of police temporarily replaced Casper. Will he kill to make the appointment permanent?

June Roehmer—The policewoman had been dating Stu before his murder. Had he discovered that she was the serial killer?

Ramon Susa—June’s partner had argued with Stu before he was killed. Was it because Stu had found him out?

Lloyd Pederzani—An old family friend and the town’s medical examiner with a good sense of humor may have told one joke too many.

Dwayne Gould—A driver for the medical examiner’s office, he may have been just a little too interested in serial killers.

To memories…and Fred.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

The scream woke her.

It sounded muffled at first, as though she were wearing protective earmuffs, as she did on the firing range. But then it became more intense. Shrill. It penetrated through to her bones, and made her shudder.

She opened her eyes. Was that a shadow disappearing through the far door? She blinked and it was gone.

The scream sounded again. She had to turn her head to locate its source. The movement was an effort…and it hurt! She gasped out loud at the terrible pain.

A woman stood there. She wore a light blue dress that appeared to be a uniform. She held towels in her arms.

At least she had stopped screaming. Now the woman just stood there, her face a ghastly shade of white, staring. And then she mumbled something and ran out the door.

What was happening? Where was she? A bedroom—but whose? She tried to sit up, but a wave of pain and nausea made her stop. She moaned, holding her head. Why did it hurt so much?

She smelled something, then—ugly and metallic and familiar. Blood. Her blood? She pulled her hand away from her head. It was sticky. Red. She was bleeding. She swallowed a rising wave of panic, took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Audibly.

She would be fine. She had to be.

But the odor…it was so strong. Whimpering, she forced herself—slowly, carefully, painfully—to sit up. She leaned backward on her elbows, unable to pull herself totally erect. The effort was simply too much.

Again she forced open her eyes. Only then did she notice what she was wearing: a gown. White, lacy, a fairy tale…bridal gown.

A bridal gown?

The fairy tale had clearly gone sour, for the white was stained red. Blood. A lot of it.

Hers? She didn’t think so; only the side of her head hurt, and blood from a head wound would not have gotten to the front of her skirt that way.

But if not hers, then whose?

She sat higher and pulled her legs under her. The movement was excruciating.

She saw the source of the blood then. Probably also the cause of the woman’s screams.

Beside her, on the floor, lay a man. His clothing, too, was formal: a tuxedo, or so she thought. It was hard to tell, for he was covered in blood. His hair was gray, she noticed that, for his face was only a few shades lighter. His eyes were open. He stared sightlessly toward the ceiling.

“Are you all right?” She heard the hysteria in her voice, even as she realized the absurdity of her question. The man beside her, whoever he was, was clearly dead.

JORDAN DAWES didn’t wait for the hotel elevator. He didn’t wait to see if anyone followed him. He ran down the musty-smelling stairway, taking the steps three and four at a time. He thought he heard other rushing footfalls behind him, but it didn’t matter. He continued to run.

The call had come in on the hotel security radio. A maid had found a couple of bodies in a room on the third floor. Security had called the police.

They hadn’t had far to call. Nearly the entire police force of Santa Gregoria, California, was on the hotel’s top floor, celebrating a wedding.

He reached the third floor and shoved open the door to the hallway. Which room was it?

A maid stood at the end of the hall, sobbing hysterically. She was being comforted by another uniformed woman.

“Where?” Jordan demanded.

The woman pointed with a shaky finger. “Room Three thirty-s-seven,” she stammered.

The door was slightly ajar. Jordan automatically grabbed his 9 mm Beretta from its holster beneath his formal black coat, held it primed and ready with the barrel pointed upward, and kicked open the door. The only response was silence.

He carefully edged around the door frame, alert, ready to defend himself if necessary. Ready for whatever might be waiting…or so he thought.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he found. “Sara!” he exclaimed. “Casper. What the—damn!”

On the floor, covered in blood, lay the obviously lifeless body of Casper Shepard, Chief of Police of Santa Gregoria. Jordan nevertheless bent to check his carotid pulse. There was none. He scowled in helpless rage.

Beside Casper sat his daughter, Sara. She was trembling. Her head was bowed. Her white wedding gown was stained with blood.

“Why did you leave the reception?” Jordan demanded as he reached her side and knelt, ignoring the stiffness of his tuxedo trousers. “Tell me what happened here.” He knew, of course. He just hadn’t expected anything so soon. And certainly not here. He was afraid to take Sara into his arms. Was she injured?

“I don’t know,” was her only reply to his questions. Tears cascaded down cheeks as smooth as the finest porcelain. Their paleness contrasted starkly with the lovely raven color of her upswept hair. Her lips—full, pink lips that had smiled at him so teasingly only a short while earlier—trembled as her white teeth gnawed at them nervously.

“Are you hurt?” Jordan carefully touched her arms, her legs, trying to determine if any of the blood was hers or if it all came from her father.

“My head,” she said.

He took her gracefully tapered, trembling chin in his hand and gently turned her head to the side. Only then did he see the ugly red seeping against the blackness of her hair. He sucked in a breath.

He noticed from the corner of his eye that they were no longer alone in the room. Others from the wedding party, members of the Santa Gregoria police force, had joined them. “Get the medics here right away!” Jordan demanded. He turned back to Sara. “We’ll get you help right away…sweetheart.” He glanced at June Roehmer, a policewoman who knelt on the floor on Sara’s other side.

“Has she said anything?” June asked as though Sara wasn’t even there. “Did she tell you what happened?”

“Not yet, but she was just about to. Weren’t you, honey?”

“Honey?” Sara blinked her enormous, soulful hazel eyes at Jordan. “Is that…is that my name?”

He stared at her. And then he stifled a smile. “No, it’s Sara.” He wanted to throw his arms around her, even laugh—though without mirth. She had to be the smartest woman Jordan had ever met. “You don’t remember your name? How about what happened here?” He made a point of asking in front of June. If Sara gave the right answer, word would get around: she didn’t recall who had killed Casper. Had hit her. Had most likely run away when the maid interrupted—but who probably had every intention of silencing the sole living witness, Sara.

But if Sara pretended she didn’t remember, it would buy them time. The killer wouldn’t feel compelled to act quite so fast. They could set up a trap—another trap.

He wanted to kiss Sara. He’d already discovered that she’d grown into a woman who was both beautiful and as sexy as sin. Now he knew she was brilliant, too. Struck hard on the head and she still managed to come up with a scheme on the spur of the moment.

He looked at her. She was also a darned good actress. The pensiveness that drew her smooth forehead into a mass of wrinkles segued into a wide-eyed look of shock. “I…No,” she said. “I don’t remember anything.” And then she burst into tears.

EVERYTHING AROUND HER became a horrifying jumble.

Sara—that was her name, wasn’t it?

Why couldn’t she remember?

Her head hurt….

The man who had joined her was kind and handsome and formally dressed. “Who are you?” she asked, desperate for any kind of knowledge.

“Jordan Dawes,” he replied in a tone that implied she should know.

“But who—” she began just as three men in white outfits arrived, carrying all sorts of frightening equipment she couldn’t identify.

“Check her over first,” Jordan commanded the Emergency Medical Technicians. Kneeling at her side, he blocked her line of sight from the rest of the room. “There’s nothing you can do for him.” He nodded in the direction she couldn’t see.

She knew who “him” referred to—the bleeding man on the floor beside her. Shouldn’t she know who he was?

The EMTs put her on a gurney and wheeled her through some halls, down an elevator and out a door. There was an IV in her arm.

The handsome man with the slight Southern accent stayed with her in the ambulance. She was still wearing the bloody wedding gown. Why? She shook nearly uncontrollably from fear.

Jordan held her hand. “It’ll be all right, Sara,” he said.

But how could anything be all right? She couldn’t remember—

“Please ask them to turn off the siren,” she begged as its shrieking sliced into her aching head. He obliged. Every bump and turn the ambulance made aggravated the pounding pain in her head.

At the Santa Gregoria Memorial Hospital’s emergency room, she was whisked off almost immediately for a CAT scan. When they brought her back to the emergency room, Jordan was waiting. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked the doctor assigned to her, a young resident with sleepy eyes.

“The CAT scan didn’t show any bleeding inside her brain, so it’s probably a memory loss brought on by the trauma of the blow to her head…and what she witnessed.”

What she witnessed. She didn’t recall. Had she seen who had struck the poor man on the floor…the decedent?

Decedent. Why had that word come to mind?

More examinations, more questions. All she wanted to do was to sleep, but they wouldn’t allow it.

Much, much later, they put her in a hospital room. Once the nurses had gotten her situated, she lay in the bed, her eyes wide open, and stared at the ugly, sterile room.

“Sara,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the two short syllables. Her name was Sara.

Why hadn’t she been able to remember?

Oh, Lord, why couldn’t she remember anything? Anxiety welled up in her once more.

Lying beneath starched white sheets, she wore a skimpy green gown, tied in the back—a ludicrous contrast to the lovely wedding gown she had been wearing earlier.

Wedding gown. There was something about it she should know…. Her shaking grew more pronounced. Why couldn’t she remember? She swallowed a sob. She wouldn’t cry, at least. She was a brave woman…at least she hoped so. And crying would not bring back her memory.

Everything would come to her, and soon. It had to.

But thinking hard didn’t resurrect any memories. All it did was intensify the horrible, pounding ache at the side of her head. She bit her bottom lip, determined not to ring the call button looped over the side rail of her bed for the nurse. She didn’t need medication to muddy her mind further.

Were there any drugs that would make her memory return?

Jordan had reassured her that it was all right to take something for the pain. He had seemed so caring, so attentive…but she couldn’t remember anything about him.

“Sara, are you awake?”

She felt as though she had conjured Jordan from thin air, for there he was, standing in the doorway. He hadn’t changed clothes, although he no longer looked so amazingly suave and urbane in his tuxedo. Now, the jacket and bow tie were gone and the top buttons of the starched white shirt were undone.

Earlier, his light brown hair had been parted and combed down. Now, it was brushed back from his face, revealing a high, broad forehead. She couldn’t be certain of the shade of his eyes beneath his jutting brows, but she had a slight recollection that they were a deep, dark blue, the color of blackberries ripened in the sun.

How did she know that?

“How are you feeling?” he asked. His stride, as he crossed the sparsely furnished room, was brisk and certain, as though he knew she would welcome him. And she did.

He had been the only constant in the turmoil of the short lifetime that she remembered. In fact, she smiled at seeing him.

“I—I’m okay,” she lied.

“Does your head hurt?” His deep, slow voice was soft with apparent concern. He stood at the edge of the bed and touched her cheek. His hand was cool, as though the hospital air conditioning had chilled it. He gently moved her face so he could look at the area where she had been struck—for she knew now that the injury to her head had been from a very hard blow. Of course, he couldn’t see much; the area was bandaged.

“It hurts some,” she admitted. But she hastily added, “I can take it, though.”

“Of course you can.” He smiled at her. Why did she have the sense that this was a rare occurrence, that she had seldom seen him smile? Maybe it was because she could see, with him still standing so close beside her, that there was no humor at all in his dark blue eyes. They appeared almost blank, as though he allowed no emotion at all to reflect from his soul to the world. “But there’s no need for you to suffer. If you want, I’ll have the nurse bring something for you in a minute, before I leave.”

“Please don’t go.” Panic washed over her again, so intense that she felt she could dig her fingernails into it.

Her fingernails. Shaking, she glanced at her own hands. Her nails were short and neatly rounded. She wore a light rose polish on them. Polish? It didn’t feel right. Maybe she had polished them because she had been dressed up. In a wedding gown…And on her left hand was a gold band. Was she married? That didn’t feel right either, but—

“You need some sleep, Sara,” Jordan said soothingly, interrupting her strange train of thought.

“I—I don’t want to sleep!” She knew she sounded almost hysterical. “Please stay here.”

Why had she said that? She wanted him to leave…didn’t she? She needed time to herself. To think. To remember.

But to lose the one fragile thread to her life, this man who had been there for her—

“I’ll be here until you fall asleep, Sara. I promise. And there will be two uniformed police officers guarding your room from the hall. You’ll be fine.” He sat beside her on the bed, and she felt the mattress sag with his weight. He took her hands. His were large, his fingers thick and rounded, his nails blunt. She stared at them, not willing to meet his eyes.

But then he bent down and kissed her forehead. Shocked, she stared at him.

“Oh, Sara.” He shook his head slowly. How had she thought she’d seen no emotion in his eyes? They looked abysmally sad. “Is this an act? It’s okay to tell the truth. You can trust me.”

“An act?” She didn’t understand at first. And although he had shown a great deal of concern toward her, how did she really know she could trust him?

Someone had been killed, in the same room as she’d been injured.

Jordan had been the first, beside the maid, to come in.

Of course, he had been nothing but kind to her, for as long as she could remember.

Yes, but that was only a few hours, she reminded herself ironically.

In any event, she didn’t see any downside in telling him the truth. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not, but I don’t remember anything.” To her horror, her voice broke.

He studied her for a moment, and she wanted to shrink from his intense gaze. She didn’t, though. She pulled her hands away and forced herself to sit up just a little straighter.

He finally said, “All right. I’ll assume it’s real, for now at least. And if so, there are some things you should know.” He sighed. “But most will keep until tomorrow. We’ll talk then about how long it will take to get your memory back. We need for you to remember what happened.”

“To catch whoever did it?”

He nodded, and she had a feeling that there was a lot hinging on solving this crime.

Solving the crime…why did that seem so crucial to her? The idea seemed—well, familiar. But she couldn’t remember why.

“We have to catch the murderer,” she said out loud.

“That’s for certain,” he said grimly.

Suddenly questions bubbled up inside Sara, insisting on spilling out. She blurted the first. “Who was the man who died?” She knew, somehow, that the answer was vital.

“If you really don’t remember, then this isn’t the time to get into that.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Tomorrow, we’ll—”

“Tell me now,” she insisted.

“But—”

“Please.” She steeled herself, realizing, after his dissembling, that what she would hear would be painful.

“He was your father, Sara.” The man gathered her into his arms while she stiffened in shock. “He was Casper Shepard, Chief of Police of Santa Gregoria.”

“No-oo—” Sara heard her own keening as though it were issued from someone else. Her father? Even seeing him on the floor that way, lifeless, she hadn’t remembered him. Still couldn’t. But the ugliness of having lost him, coupled with her inability to recall, finally drove her into a frenzy of emotion. She tried to push against the strong, hard chest of the man who still held her. She wanted to stand. To run…somewhere. Anywhere.

“I’m so sorry,” the man whispered in her ear, his accent slightly more pronounced with emotion. “It was partly my—Never mind. I’ll find the murdering SOB.” The man who held her seemed as upset as she, and she pulled back. She stared at him.

Despite the hardness that turned his deep blue eyes to steel, his hollow cheeks were damp.

“You cared about him, too,” she said brokenly.

“Yes. I cared about him. And I care about you. Sara. Do you remember yet who I am?”

She hated to admit it—especially since she believed that for her to tell him the truth would hurt him. And though he had doubted her veracity, she didn’t want to hurt him. He appeared to be hurting more than enough already.

But even if she lied, it was not a lie she could sustain. She couldn’t answer the simplest question about him, such as where he worked or lived.

And so she said, “I’m sorry. I truly am. But, no, I don’t.”

“My name is Jordan Dawes. Yours is Sara Shepard Dawes. We were married today, Sara—just before you were hit on the head and your father was killed.”

Chapter Two

Sara awoke with a start. She had the strangest feeling that someone…was watching her.

She opened her eyes slowly and let them focus on a white ceiling with acoustical tile. Her insides churned for a moment, as she felt disoriented. Where was she?

She moved her head to look around and a wave of pain shot through it. Her head. The pain. Oh, yes. She was in a hospital.

“You’re awake,” said a familiar male voice. “How do you feel?”

Someone had been watching her. She turned slowly to see Jordan Dawes sitting in a chair near the window.

“Better than yesterday,” she replied. “How long have you been here?”

“All night, more or less. I only went home for a quick shower and some fresh clothes. I wanted to keep an eye on you.”

An unexpected feeling of well-being in a dangerous world curled through Sara. She found herself smiling in gratitude.

His return grin revealed a set of perfect teeth. It did nothing to hide the tiredness around his eyes, though. Lines radiated from their edges and a bruised darkness underscored each. His light brown hair looked as though he had run his long fingers through it rather than a comb.

“I should be asking how you feel,” Sara said. “You look like you need a good night’s sleep.”

“Maybe tonight,” he said. He had a slight hook to his nose that she hadn’t noticed yesterday. It gave his face a little extra character that she found charming. “Or at least as soon as I’m certain there’s no way anyone can get to you.”

Get to her. Not that she had forgotten what had happened yesterday. As appalling as it had been, it was, after all, the only memory she had. But the horror of the day had not been at the forefront of her mind during the few minutes she had been awake. Until now.

“Are there any leads?” she asked, trying to keep the fear from her voice. She touched the bandage at the side of her head.

“Sure.” His tone was confident, but his expression suggested he was just trying to make her feel better. “We’re following up on a bunch.”

We? Sara hadn’t yet inquired what Jordan did for a living. If things were normal, she undoubtedly would know. Now, though, she asked, “Are you a policeman, Jordan?”

His expression contained surprise and a hint of exasperation. “Then you really don’t remember anything? Despite our conversation yesterday, I’d hoped—Well, never mind. I’m a detective with the Santa Gregoria P.D., Sara. I was recently hired by your father, who, as I said yesterday, was chief of police.”

Her father. Casper Shepard, the poor, bloodied man who had been killed yesterday beside her…And she couldn’t even remember him. She couldn’t remember a blessed thing that Jordan hadn’t told her. A small sob shook Sara.

“I’m sorry.” Jordan sat beside her on the bed and held her close against him. “I’m so sorry, Sara. I’d do anything to have prevented Casper’s death. Our plan—” He stopped talking. The hands that had been moving soothingly over her back stopped, too. “We’ll find the murderer,” he finished. “I promise.”

Sara was certain he’d been about to say something else. Before she could question him further, though, a hospital worker came in with her breakfast. She wasn’t hungry but allowed the food to be placed on the tray beside her bed. She made herself take a sip of cold, sweet orange juice and a bite of overcooked eggs. She needed energy—didn’t she?—to get her memory back.

Jordan returned to his seat near the window. This morning he wore a black knit shirt that molded to an all-male body with the broadest of shoulders above thick, substantial biceps. She watched as he crossed one of his legs, encased in tight blue jeans, over the other.

Why on earth was she noticing all that?

The answer came to her very quickly. Her mind had raced over a lot of territory before she had finally succumbed to exhaustion the night before. Though not as urgent as some of the other matters she reflected on, one that had troubled her was where she spent that particular night.

It had been their wedding night. She had become convinced of it, even if she didn’t remember. Jordan had told her so. And she had been wearing a wedding gown.

A bride shouldn’t spend her wedding night alone.

Had…had Jordan and she spent other nights together? Sara somehow believed that, even if she remembered nothing else, she would recall what it had felt like to make love with the spectacular hunk of a man across the room. To feel those large, strong hands all over her flesh. To run her own fingers along the nakedness of the hard, hard chest against which she had been so protectively held.

Making love with a man as tender and caring, and as phenomenally good-looking as Jordan Dawes would not be something a woman would forget.

But Sara sighed deeply and sank back into her pillows. This woman had forgotten even her name. Her father. The fact that she had been married. The way she loved the man she had wed just yesterday.

Could she also have forgotten making love with him? The answer, absurdly, was yes.

But she wouldn’t spend much longer here in the hospital. She couldn’t. Eventually she would go home with Jordan. They would start their new life together. Try to put all that had happened behind them—except to the extent that they would help to catch her father’s murderer.

In any event, even if her wedding night had been so dismal, there had to be plenty of exciting nights in the future that she could spend with her new husband, Jordan.

Except…she didn’t really know him.

Would it be fair to him to start married life with a wife so flawed she couldn’t even remember their wedding?

Would her memory return, or would she never recall how much they cared for one another? Could they start from scratch and forge a strong new relationship?

Worst of all, no matter how kind, no matter how good-looking Jordan was, how could she plan on being the newly wedded wife of an absolute stranger?

JORDAN SLOWLY PUSHED open the door to Sara’s hospital room. It was late afternoon. He had waited until she had fallen asleep again before going out to get a cup of coffee and a sandwich from the cafeteria.

“Jordan?” Her voice was soft and a little groggy.

“Yes. I hoped you’d sleep longer.” He strode into the room and sat beside her bed on the chair that he had commandeered as his own. He hadn’t allowed her visitors yet, but she seemed to be improving. There were a lot of people who were concerned about her.

None more than he.

He would let a few of the others come to see her, starting that evening—after he’d had a chance to speak with her further.

And only if he was certain of her continued safety.

“All I’ve been doing is sleeping,” she complained, rolling over to face him. “There’s not even a television in this darned room.”

That had been by design. The news was full of lurid details about Casper’s murder on the day of his daughter’s wedding, speculation as to her condition, and a lot of background information that could only hurt her.

She’d be exposed to it soon enough, but Jordan hoped she would be ready first. He would have to tell her everything she needed to know, though, before her lack of memory could hurt her further.

Poor, lovely Sara. His bride. She had been through more heartache than any one person should in the past years—even if she couldn’t remember everything.

And he should have protected her from this last ugly event. Her and her father.

Sara pushed a button and with the hum of a motor her bed moved her into a sitting position. She wore no makeup, but with her porcelain skin and thick fringe of dark lashes, she needed none. Sara had definitely grown into a beautiful woman. Her black hair, styled so carefully yesterday, now formed a gently mussed frame for her high-cheekboned face. The intrusive white bandage at her temple was a stark contrast to her hair’s deep color. Jordan had an urge to touch it, but he kept still.

The sheet had fallen slightly, revealing the top of her ugly green hospital gown and the smooth, pale flesh above it. Tantalizing flesh.

Watch it, Dawes, he warned himself. This was not the time or the place to harbor lustful feelings about Sara.

As if there ever would be.

Careful not to make contact with her, Jordan reached over and pulled up the sheet.

He saw a flush pinken Sara’s skin. “I must be a sight,” she said.

“Absolutely. A lovely sight,” he said.

Her hazel eyes widened and she smiled. “You’re either very kind or very nearsighted,” she retorted.

“My eyesight is just fine,” he said with a grin. Amnesia or not, Sara remained sassy. “And you’d better remember more about me before you start calling me kind.”

Her smile froze then disappeared. “I’d love to remember more.” There was a wistfulness in her voice.

Jordan wanted to issue himself a good, hard kick in the butt for reminding her of her infirmity. “You will,” he said with more assurance than he felt. He had spoken further with her doctors. They had been uncertain as to what, if anything, she would remember—her own past, people, how to do things. It varied in different cases. If all went well, at least some things would start coming back to her soon. But they’d told him that sometimes people with amnesia never fully recalled the incident that resulted in their loss of memory.

If only he could get inside Sara’s skull, see what she had seen in that hotel room…find out the identity of the dirty scumbag who had killed Casper and had hurt her that way.

The same scumbag, he was certain, who’d been the target of their elaborate scheme that had backfired so miserably.

“Tell me.” Sara seemed to sit up straighter. One of her hands appeared from beneath the sheet and gestured plaintively toward him.

“Tell you what?”

“Everything. All that I should remember.”

“I’ll tell you what I can,” he dissembled, hoping his dismay didn’t ooze visibly from every pore. There were things he didn’t want to tell her just yet. The doctors had also said that amnesia could be the mind’s way of protecting a person from events she couldn’t, for the moment, bear to recall. That was why, for now, there were things he couldn’t mention. And why he couldn’t even consider attempting forensic hypnosis, though he had been trained in it. Still, he could hand her back a little of her present. Innocuous things that she’d hear soon enough anyway.

“Okay,” she said agreeably, her eyes wide with anticipation. “Go ahead.”

“Well, I already told you that I’m a police detective, and that your father was my boss. Did you know he was your boss, too?”

“Really?”

“You’re a dispatcher with the Santa Gregoria Police Department, Sara.”

“Oh, Jordan,” she said with a sudden intake of breath. A big tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m so glad to know—but even now that you’ve told me, I don’t recall a thing about it.”

He wanted to sit on the edge of her bed. Pull her into his arms. Comfort her.

But that could not be. For Sara was a lovely woman. He found her more than a little appealing—and a lot sexy. Contact with her, even innocently, could lead him to want more. Much more.

And that was why, for his own sanity, he didn’t dare touch his bride.

TWO DAYS LATER, Sara finally awaited her release from the hospital. The doctors had professed they had done all they could for her. They had given her the name of a private physician to see and had told her that her memory would return—sometime. They suggested hypnosis if her memory didn’t come back, but not till she felt up to it. She wasn’t sure she ever would.

But she could finally go home.

Not before facing one further ordeal, though: her father’s funeral. She had been told that the investigation details involving his body had been conducted thoroughly but fast, and he had already been prepared for interment.

As Sara dressed for the sad event in preparation for leaving the hospital, Jordan wasn’t with her. June Roehmer, dressed in a formal police uniform, was. June was a pixieish woman a few inches shorter and a year or two older than Sara.

“I’m really so sorry,” June told Sara as she handed her a deep gold blouse, long brown skirt and panty hose that Jordan had sent with her, “that you don’t remember how close you and I are.” Beneath her cap of short, dusty-blond hair, her gray eyes widened in dismay. “Of course, there are more important things going on with you now. Your dad wasn’t the easiest person for us uniform cops to get along with, but he was a fine chief of police. I’ve never heard anyone say otherwise.”

“Thanks, June,” Sara said. She wished the woman would stop talking for just thirty seconds. Sara’s head had been feeling much better—until faced with June’s garrulousness. “I’m sorry I don’t remember how close we were, too.”

She took the clothes from June and went into the bathroom to change, leaving the door slightly ajar. She felt a little dizzy, and her head still hurt. She would call for help if necessary.

“Do you remember anything about what happened in that hotel room?” June called. “I mean, all of us were upstairs at your reception. From what people are saying, you and your dad just left the reception with no explanation. Jordan was on a phone call on his cellular and didn’t see you go. And then—then…and you don’t remember any of it?”

“No,” Sara answered sadly, sitting on the edge of the closed toilet seat as she pulled on her panty hose. “I don’t recall why we went to that room…if Dad asked me to come along—anything.”

Dad. She had called her father “Dad.” Sara was sure of it.

Was that her first memory to return? She felt the corners of her mouth lift a little at this tiny milestone, but then she stopped her grin. She shouldn’t admit to anyone when any memory returned. Jordan and she had discussed that, and it made sense.

She had no idea whom to trust.

Even Jordan, though she could hardly tell him that. She certainly didn’t want to think that the handsome man who was apparently her husband had anything to do with her father’s murder and her own assault. But until she remembered who had done it, she had to be cautious.

She wondered where he was. He’d said he would be at the funeral. That June would be with her until then. But she wanted Jordan.

He had been the small bit of thread binding her to her sanity these past few days. She didn’t feel like the kind of person who was comfortable relying on anyone else…but she didn’t really remember what kind of person she was. And she still missed Jordan.

At least he’d given her a rundown of what, and whom, to expect at the funeral: a huge turnout of cops from all over, expressing support for one of their fallen comrades. And lots of news coverage.

She sighed as she put on her blouse and skirt. Jordan had promised that she would be protected from the media. She didn’t want to be part of the circus. She could not remember anything of interest to tell them, anyway.

Slowly, she walked back into her room.

June took a hairbrush from some items of Sara’s that Jordan had sent and began carefully brushing her shoulder-length black hair, obviously taking care to avoid the area around her bandage. Even her small tugs caused Sara’s head to hurt, though, and she took the brush from June. “Thanks, but I’d better do this.” She sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her own hair.

“I hurt you? Sorry.” June looked so contrite that Sara shot her a warm smile.

“You did a great job. I’m just a bit sensitive now.”

“You were always a little sensitive,” June told her with a smile that softened the words and the shake of her head. She stood in the middle of the hospital room with her arms folded. “I said so over and over—though I think you did the right thing about Jordan. He’s a hunk, isn’t he? And he’s always seemed very nice to me, no matter what Casper thought. But when you left the wedding reception with your dad, did he…I mean, might he have been giving you a final warning about Jordan?”

Sara froze. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t remember that, either?” June sighed. She uncrossed her arms and one edge of her mouth lifted in a worried expression. “Look, Sara, I don’t want to be carrying tales. You’d better ask Jordan.”

“I’m asking you.” Sara knew full well that June was eager to toss out whatever was on her mind; her reluctance was only for show. She stood and took a step toward this woman who professed to be a friend. Maybe she was a friend, but if this were the kind of game she usually played, Sara wasn’t sure why she’d have tolerated it before. “Please, June,” she said. “If there was something…awkward between my father and Jordan, I don’t remember it. Since we’re good friends, I need to rely on you to tell me what I need to know.”

June crossed the small gulf of space in the hospital room and grasped Sara’s hand. June’s was icy, making Sara immediately conscious of the warmth of her own hand. “All right.” June managed to sound reluctant, though her gray eyes sparkled in apparent anticipation. “You do need to know this, Sara. Not that I suspect Jordan of anything. As far as I know, he didn’t even leave the reception until hotel security got the call from the third floor. But Casper—your dad—didn’t like Jordan much.”

“I thought Jordan said that Dad—my father—recently hired him.”

“He did—after you got engaged. I don’t know the whole story, but it was something like Jordan used to know Stu, and you and he kept in touch after you saw each other three years ago. You got engaged, and Jordan decided to move here. It worked out great, since Casper needed another good detective. Jordan had been a Texas Ranger.”

Jordan had been a Texas Ranger? Why hadn’t he mentioned that? Of course, he hadn’t said much about her past or his background. He’d primarily told her about Santa Gregoria, its police force, his job and hers.

And the rest of what June had said—Sara’s head was hurting her something fierce once more. She pulled away gently from June’s chilly grip and leaned against the bed. “I still don’t understand. If Dad didn’t like Jordan, even if we were engaged, he didn’t have to hire him.”

June turned her back on Sara and began to look through her closet. “We need to make sure you’re not leaving anything here.” She pulled out a sweater and an extra nightgown that Jordan had brought for her and folded them neatly. “Anyhow, I suspect Casper wouldn’t have been pleased with any cop who was interested in his little girl.”

That didn’t sound correct to Sara, but she didn’t know why. “I see,” she said simply. Another question struck her. Its answer was important, she was certain. She looked down at the clothing items June had placed on the bed beside her and began stacking them into neat piles. “Who’s Stu?” she asked nonchalantly.

She glanced up from the corner of her eye as the movement across the room suddenly stopped. “Oh, Sara. I’m so sorry. You don’t remember that, either?”

Sara gnawed at the inside of her bottom lip for a moment. June Roehmer was one of the most annoying people she had ever met—or at least she thought so for now. “No, June,” she said as slowly as if June were the one with a mental deficiency. “I have amnesia. I hate it, but that’s the way it is for now. I don’t remember anything, or anybody, from the time before I was struck on the head. Now, tell me about Stu.”

She was suddenly certain she didn’t want to hear. Her hands went out in front of her in a protective anticipatory gesture, but she had already loosened June’s tongue.

“Stuart Shepard was your brother, Sara,” the policewoman said softly. There was a catch in her voice, as though telling this particular tale hurt her, too. Sara looked up and saw tears glistening in gray eyes beneath arched blond brows. “He died three years ago, honey. He and I had been dating at the time. Stu was a wonderful guy.”

“Stu?” The name spilled from Sara’s lips as though it belonged there. Did she truly remember him? She wasn’t sure, but she had a sudden mental image of a tall young man with short, dark hair, laughing hazel eyes and a quirky smile. “Dead? How?”

“He was murdered, Sara. Stabbed with a steak knife, like your father. And the killer has never been caught.”

SARA WOULD ARRIVE any minute. Jordan quashed the urge to call June Roehmer on her police radio to ask for their estimated time of arrival. He needed to prepare himself to be the rock Sara would lean on in the ordeal to come.

For Stu’s sake and Casper’s, he would take care of her. Properly. His own unanticipated attraction toward her would not get in the way. He wouldn’t let it.

He had been at the Santa Gregoria Community Church for an hour, checking out every cranny in the old, Gothic-style gray-stone church that was bleak and dismal enough to hold a funeral every day of the week. But this day, only one was scheduled: Casper Shepard’s. He would be buried in the church’s graveyard.

Jordan stopped outside the small vestry where Casper’s closed casket lay. The area smelled of burned wax. He stared at the simple metal casket that he had chosen. Would it have been Casper’s choice? Sara’s?

He remembered the similar funerary container that had been chosen for Stu three years earlier. Jordan sucked in a deep breath. I’m sorry, buddy, he thought. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But I promise you I’ll get the son of a—

“Everything in order, Dawes?”

Jordan turned rapidly to face Carroll Heumann, the assistant chief of police, now acting chief—and Jordan’s boss. Heumann was dressed in a formal blue uniform, though most of the time on the job he wore civilian style suits.

He scowled at Jordan’s own dark suit as though it emphasized his being an outsider.

Heumann was a heavy man with more chins than neck and a decided lack of hair. His narrowed brown eyes reflected his no-nonsense outlook. For the moment, they studied Jordan.

Jordan responded to his question. “Far as I can tell, everything here is as it should be.” That was a lie, of course. Nothing here was as it should be. Casper Shepard should not be dead. This should not be the day of the funeral of one of the most vital, kind, determined men Jordan had ever met.

“All right,” Heumann said, joining Jordan beside the doorway to the vestry. The hall where they stood was carpeted with a well-worn, patterned red runner with a blue-and-red border. The walls were textured and dingy white, and dark, dreary paintings of European cathedrals hung here and there. “There’ll be a few cops in town from nearby jurisdictions to keep an eye on things, since most of our people will be attending the funeral. I don’t anticipate any trouble, but you never know when it may come, or from where.” His scrutiny of Jordan’s face had intensified.

“No,” Jordan agreed. “You don’t.” He wondered if there was a message hidden behind Heumann’s words—such as an intimation that trouble came from Texas, just like Jordan.

“Your bride’s all right?”

The inquiry seemed belated to Jordan, but he answered willingly. He had every intention of making certain that everyone in the world knew Sara’s condition.

It was safer for her that way.

“In most aspects, she seems fine. But that blow to her head—the doctors have no idea if her memory will ever return.”

“She doesn’t remember anything now?”

“No,” Jordan said, looking steadily into his superior’s bulldog face. Had he seen a hint of relief flash through his eyes—or was it suspicion? No one was off Jordan’s suspect list for now.

He supposed that everyone on the case felt the same way—and that he was at the top of some suspect lists himself. People knew that Casper and he had been arguing.

It had been part of their plan.

“Jordan?” A female voice interrupted his thoughts. It was June Roehmer. She was alone. Jordan felt his features freeze in the fury before the storm; he had told her that she could not leave Sara alone for a moment. She obviously knew what he was thinking, for she said hastily, “Don’t worry. Honest. Sara’s fine. She’s out in the car. Ramon is keeping an eye on her.” She hesitated. “I told her about Stu. She didn’t remember him, but people here will talk about him today.”

“You’re right,” Jordan acknowledged. “I was going to tell her before things got started, but I’m glad you beat me to it.”

After all Sara had been through, he had wanted to protect her from this as long as possible, then break it to her in a manner least calculated to deliver another blow. No good way of presentation had come to him, and he had probably waited too long.

The problem had now been taken from him.

“How did she handle it?”

June shrugged. “Bravely, the way she has dealt with all of this. Is it all right to bring her in?”

“Yes,” Jordan said. “In fact, I’ll go get her.”

Sara’s current sitter, Ramon Susa, was June’s patrol partner. He had always seemed a little light in the brains department to Jordan, but heavy in Academy-learned police procedure. He was probably as good as anyone for guarding Sara—at least in public. He had been Stu’s friend, but there were rumors that they’d had an argument before Stu was killed. Jordan still considered him as much a suspect in Casper’s murder, too, as anyone else.

Outside, dozens of cars were beginning to park along the church’s wide circular driveway. Many were police patrol cars from Santa Gregoria and other towns all over central California. Their occupants, most in uniform, spilled onto the pavement.

Jordan spotted Ramon, a clean-cut young Latino in uniform, standing near one of the black-and-white police cars. He was leaning down toward the passenger window, apparently conversing with the occupant.

“Hello, Ramon,” Jordan said as he reached them. “Thanks for watching Sara for me.” He opened the car door. Strain shadowed his new wife’s eyes, and her pale complexion contrasted vividly with the black, slightly wavy hair that hung loose to just below her shoulders. She let him help her from the car. “Come inside, Sara.” He kept his voice gentle. She didn’t say a word as she stood, but shot him a half smile that somehow looked devastated. “June told me you know about Stu now,” he told her. “I was going to tell you here, but…” He allowed his voice to trail off.

She nodded slowly. “I suppose everyone else here knows, so it’s a good thing I do now, too.” She hesitated. “And my mother?” she asked.

“She’s gone, too, Sara,” Jordan said gently. “She died in an accident when Stu and you were kids.”

“I see.” There was no measuring the depth of the pain in her voice, so Jordan didn’t try.

He couldn’t help glancing at the spot where the bandage still lay beneath her hair. How badly did her head still hurt? He kept his arm tightly around her slender shoulders, steering her through the growing crowd. She felt slight against him, but he was still aware—much too aware—of her feminine contours beneath her fitted jacket and flowing suit skirt. When she stumbled once, he kept her from falling.

She glanced up at him and he wanted to erase the gratitude he saw there. It was his fault that she was about to bury her father. “We’re nearly there,” he growled. He made himself ignore the bewildered tilt of her head at his unkind tone.

The first person to approach as they stepped inside the church was Carroll Heumann. Of course. “I’m sorry for your loss, Sara,” he said, his voice gruffer than usual. Maybe he meant it, Jordan thought. “And that you can’t remember who did it,” he added.

She winced, and Jordan wanted to slug the man. “Me, too,” she said softly. “But the doctors assured me that my memory will come back.”

“Someday,” Jordan interposed as several others on the Santa Gregoria police force joined their small group. “It might take years before she can remember most things. If trauma caused her amnesia, she may never fully recall the event that led to it.”

He still held her shoulders, and he could feel her stiffen. “But I—”

He would have interrupted her protestations with a stronger comment, except that June did it for him. “It’s all right, Sara,” she said. “We’re all working on it. You just take care of yourself and let us catch that miserable insect of a serial killer who’s done this to your family.”

“Serial killer?” Sara looked up at Jordan with surprise. “I didn’t realize…Then he—or she—has done this to others, too?”

He nodded. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, it’s time to go sit down in the chapel.” He darted a glance at June, who took Sara’s hand.

“We’ll be with you, Sara,” she said. “Won’t we, Ramon?”

Her partner nodded. “All of us are behind you, Sara.”

People spoke in low tones as they took seats on long wooden pews facing the pulpit. The closed casket had been moved there. It now lay on a pedestal surrounded by flowers whose fragrance flooded the front of the room.

Jordan walked with Sara as June and Ramon preceded them up the aisle to the front row, where they arranged themselves to Sara’s left. Jordan didn’t sit, not at first. He scowled as he noticed a couple of reporters he’d run into before in the five months since he had been in Santa Gregoria: an anchorwoman from the Channel 8 news, along with her cameraman, and a reporter with the Santa Gregoria Intelligencer. Though he knew it wasn’t reasonable, he wanted to rush over to them and bodily toss them out. This wasn’t a news spectacle; it was a dignified memorial to a man who had deserved to live much longer. The hordes of media, local and national, had been instructed to stay outside. But he would only make the situation worse if he confronted them.

Instead, he sat beside Sara. He took her small hand. It was icy-cold and trembling.

“We’ll get through this, Sara,” he said, looking straight into her moist hazel eyes. “I promise.”

But then he recalled another promise he had made to her—was it only four days earlier? He had promised to love and honor her, to cherish her as his wife.

His promises weren’t worth a damn, he thought.

Chapter Three

Jordan’s sweet attentiveness was nearly Sara’s undoing. As she sat beside him in the pew, she ducked her head, unwilling to allow everyone to see her tears.

“Hold on, Sara,” whispered his voice into her ear. Its deep vibration sent shivers of awareness through her. Jordan was here for her. He was her husband. He must love her very much.

And she despised herself for not remembering the deep love she must have for him to have married him. For now, she felt mostly gratitude toward him and a cognizance of his sensuality that had no business here and now.

“I’m fine, Jordan,” she told him, and made her crying stop. She smiled at him stoically, pretending not to see the sympathy in his dark blue eyes.

She wept more, though, when the pastor began the service. But much of her sorrow was not because she missed her father. Instead, it was because she missed whatever memories of him she should have.

A lot of people rose one at a time to face the packed church and give testimonials about Casper Shepard. Sara recognized only a few—those who had visited her in the hospital or who had introduced themselves here: Carroll Heumann, for one. She’d considered the man abrupt with her, but he had apparently thought highly of her father. She believed it when he said he would miss Casper.

Lloyd Pederzani was another person Sara recognized. About fifty, with a gaunt face but kind brown eyes, he had come to her hospital room the evening of her admission. He’d introduced himself as the town’s medical examiner, a practicing physician, and a very long-time family friend. He’d looked at her chart, asked how she was feeling and both shaken his head and commiserated about her loss of memory. Then, he had attempted—though poorly—to cheer her up with bad jokes.

Now, Lloyd, in a dark brown suit that bagged at his shoulders, was somber as he described how long Casper and he had been friends. How much he was going to miss the guy who’d called him out of bed at all hours of the night to discuss a new case—though that was certainly one aspect of their friendship he wouldn’t miss. His comment drew a laugh from the crowd.

Jordan rose, too, to speak about her father. Her husband remembered the man who had raised her brother and her after their mother had died in an accident years ago.

Sara didn’t. That only made her feel worse.

Even the mayor of Santa Gregoria, Pauline Casey, gave the eulogy. Mayor Casey was a slender, older woman with hair the shade of iron—which matched the fist with which she appeared to rule Santa Gregoria, the way she described it. But she spoke fondly of Casper Shepard and how he had given his all to try to make their community safe. She did, however, note that he had not been successful and vowed that whoever succeeded him as police chief would have to make a strong effort to see that no one ever got away with murder here again.

A noble goal, Sara thought. One she hoped would be met. But she shared a dubious glance with Jordan. He winked at her encouragingly, and she attempted a smile.

Sara was glad when the service was over, but then it was time to follow Jordan, Carroll, Lloyd and the other pallbearers outside.

She asked June about the older pallbearer who seemed unashamed of the tears rolling down his grizzled cheeks. He was wrinkled and gray-haired, and wore an unfamiliar uniform that was too small at his rounded middle.

“That’s Dwayne Gould,” June whispered. “He’s a driver for the medical examiner’s office. Your father was always kind to him.”

Though grateful for June’s supportive presence beside her, and Jordan’s when he rejoined her, Sara managed just fine, even surviving the lowering of the casket into the newly dug grave.

Afterward, she stood at the graveside beside Jordan, accepting condolences from unfamiliar mourners who apparently knew her well. Jordan introduced many people, apologizing over and over on her behalf. It was not her fault she didn’t recognize even those she had known for years, he said; it was a result of her amnesia.

She wanted to strangle the tall, smooth-talking man beside her. During a lull in the surging line of mourners, Sara turned to Jordan. “Please don’t keep telling people about my loss of memory,” she whispered. “I feel bad enough about it, and if anyone should apologize about it, I should.”

“We discussed this before, Sara,” he hissed as the line began to move again. “You’ll be safer if everyone knows you can’t remember anything. And I intend to keep reminding them so it’s sure to get to the ears of the killer.” And once more, when he introduced her to someone she probably should have recognized, he made reference to her amnesia.

This time, she just gritted her teeth and smiled. She knew he was just trying to protect her.

Why didn’t that make her feel any better?

WAS SARA’S AMNESIA REAL?

The Executioner watched Jordan Dawes touch his new wife in public, making a display of his feelings for her.

The Executioner listened, too, for any indication that Sara’s loss of memory was a lie.

Of course The Executioner realized that Dawes was trying to protect his pretty wife. The hot-shot Texas Ranger who had so recently come here to Santa Gregoria might have convinced Sara to feign amnesia.

If it were a ploy, it wouldn’t work. The Executioner would make an example of Sara and Dawes, then go ahead with other assassinations.

But to continue, The Executioner had to again do whatever was necessary to prevent being caught.

The Executioner had thought it a master stroke to kill Casper Shepard at his own daughter’s wedding. But then, each of the assassinations was sublime.

Too bad Sara had followed Casper unexpectedly into the room. Now The Executioner had unfinished business with Sara. Business that needed immediate resolution.

Oh, if Sara truly recalled nothing, perhaps The Executioner would allow her to live. The Executioner had already spoken with her, and she had professed her lack of memory without the slightest hesitation.

But if she really did remember…

Then Sara Dawes would be The Executioner’s next piece of superb work.

THE CROWD was beginning to thin. Clouds had started to roll in, chilling the air a little and casting an even more depressing pall on the day. Sara turned on the paved path—and noticed, for the first time, the granite markers on the graves beside the newly dug one for her father.

The nearest read, “Eleanor Markham Shepard, Beloved Wife and Mother,” and gave dates of birth and death. Her mother? Sara couldn’t be certain…but she thought so.

Beside it was another marker that was shorter and not as weathered: Stuart Markham Shepard. Stu. Her brother.

He had been only thirty-three when he had died three years earlier.

How old was she now? She wanted to break something, scream out loud, for she didn’t remember even something as simple and personal as that. She took a deep calming breath. She would ask Jordan. He would know. And she was certain that Stu had been her older brother.

She stared at his grave…and closed her eyes as a vision of another funeral shimmered before her. She was sobbing. Her father was there. Jordan was there.

And Stu…Stu had been murdered. The Santa Gregoria police force was there en masse, too. She had a sense of being stifled. Of wanting to stab someone, as Stu had been stabbed. Of wanting to circumvent laws, and law enforcement, which had been so important to all their lives, to avenge him, no matter how—

And then it was gone.

“Sara, are you all right?” It was Jordan. His arms were suddenly around her again, holding her upright. She realized she was swaying. Her mind swirled dizzily and she knew that, without Jordan’s strength supporting her, she would have fallen to the ground.

She leaned into him, appreciating his powerful presence. “I—I’m fine,” she lied. She moved even closer, pulling his head down so she could whisper into his ear, “Jordan, I just remembered—”

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, darling,” he interrupted. His words were slow and insistent, as though he were speaking to a developmentally challenged child.

She stiffened, then realized he might just be protecting her…again. She glanced around. Though quite a few people still milled around the cemetery, no one was close enough to hear what she said. Why didn’t Jordan let her speak?

“Jordan,” she began again, “I think my memory might—”

Once more he didn’t let her finish. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered. Out loud, he said, “There’s a little reception in memory of your father now, right inside the church. We won’t stay long. You need some rest.” He started to move her along the paved path, toward a few groups of people and away from the graves.

She let him, though she now wanted to shout at Jordan, too. She appreciated that he was trying to keep her safe. But there was such a thing as being overprotective.

The churchyard was old, full of overhanging trees and large family grave markers. Under other circumstances, Sara would have found it charming.

Now, though, its quaintness only added to her depression. Her family was buried here. Everyone—except for Jordan and her.

And someone had tried to kill her.

Inside a hall within the church, carafes of coffee had been set on tables laden with sliced fruit, donuts and cookies that looked homemade. “I’ll get you something to eat,” Jordan told her.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” In fact, the thought of trying to get any of that sugar down made her stomach roll.

But Jordan caressed her face gently with the side of his hand. The gesture touched her. “You need to keep up your strength, Sara.” He took her over to where June and Ramon stood. “Sara’s feeling a little peaked,” he said. “Keep an eye on her, will you, while I gather some refreshments?”

“Is all of this getting to you?” June’s tone was sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, but it’s no wonder, with everything that’s happened.” She looked less pixieish when her eyes reflected sorrow.

“You’re a brave lady,” Ramon said. His expression was admiring. “Tell me what I can do to help, all right?”

But Sara had nothing to say. There were several things she could think of that would help her, but none that Ramon, kind as his offer was, could hand to her.

The first was her memory. The second was the capture of her father’s killer. Her brother’s, too. They were probably one and the same.

She glanced at Jordan. Holding a foam plate half filled with food, he was conversing with a couple of uniform cops she didn’t recognize.

She turned toward June and Ramon, and found them engrossed in a conversation with one another. They spoke in hushed whispers. June gazed at Sara, then looked guiltily away.

They were talking about her. Didn’t they think she was bearing up sufficiently under all the strain? Or did they believe she had made up the amnesia?

She didn’t care. Even though she had experienced one small but significant snatch of memory in the last few minutes, she really couldn’t remember much. And she didn’t particularly like the way she was handling the stress, either.

Right now she felt as if the entire funeral, all the guests, were closing in on her. Creating a clutching anxiety deep inside that she needed to flee.

She surreptitiously glanced again toward her temporary keepers, June and Ramon. Neither was looking at her. Jordan, too, still had his attention focused elsewhere.

Sara took the opportunity to slip out of the church.

It was still light outside. There were plenty of people around. Sara needed to be alone.

She wasn’t stupid, though. Someone had killed her father and had attacked her. She needed to stay in a crowded place where no one would dare accost her. She didn’t go far from the church, choosing to stand in an area that appeared to be one of the cemetery’s oldest—judging by how weathered the tall stone markers that nearly surrounded her appeared. The main driveway to the church was behind her; several people were still milling around the parked cars, including media types with cameras, and uniformed cops.

She stood for several minutes enjoying the solitude, despite her sense of incompleteness. She racked her brain, trying to remember more about Stu’s funeral—the first significant memory she’d had.

Why had he been killed?

After a while, she felt a few raindrops. She looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. Coming outside had not been such a great idea, after all. She could go back in, find Jordan and ask him to take her home.

She took a few steps toward the church—but someone grabbed her. Something was shoved into her mouth, and she was wrestled sideways and to the ground, facedown, her arms beneath her.

She tried to scream for help, but the gag prevented her from doing more than make a frightened, incoherent noise. What was wrong with all those police? Hadn’t anyone seen what happened?

Jordan. Where was he? He’d wanted to protect her. He would save her.

Her assailant kept a knee in the small of her back, pinning her down. He—she?—was strong. Or was it that Sara, scared and still recuperating from her last attack, was weak?

Would she be killed this time?

The right side of her face pressed into earth that was still hard, for the rain was hardly a drizzle. Sara swallowed a whimper. She wouldn’t give her attacker the satisfaction of seeing how scared she was.

Where was Jordan?

“Now, Sara Shepard,” said a voice that was low and raspy and clearly disguised, “you will answer my very simple questions with a nod or a shake of your head. If you do well, I will let you go and you will be fine. If not, you will be executed prematurely, like your father.”

Sara felt herself stiffen but tried to stay absolutely still—except that she could not prevent her breaths from coming too fast. Something…something niggled at the back of her mind. She had been in this position before. Why? It hadn’t frightened her—then.

“Do you understand?” asked the voice. She heard a few drops of rain softly strike the person’s clothing. “Nod or shake your head.”

Sara made herself give an abrupt nod. She suddenly felt terribly alone. Jordan wasn’t coming. He would save her if he knew, but he was inside the church, talking and eating and laughing. He would feel awful when he found her body. But she was on her own.

“Good. Now, tell me—did you see who killed your father?”

That was a question she couldn’t actually answer with a yes or no. She didn’t know. But what she was certain of was that she didn’t remember.

She took the safest course and shook her head in the negative.

“You’re lying, Sara Shepard.” The knee in her back dug in harder, making her gasp in pain. Through her agony, she thought she heard a small sound, like keys jingling—or was it merely the unfamiliar rasp of her own terrified breathing?

Something else teased at the corners of her mind, then disappeared.

“Or should I say Sara Shepard Dawes?” the voice asked with a sarcastic laugh.

She nodded vehemently to that, although it probably was not a question her attacker expected her to answer. But the thought once more of Jordan in the church gave her sudden courage. He would have noticed her absence by now and come looking for her.

Wouldn’t he?

The voice stormed, “Have you really lost your memory?”

Again she nodded with no hesitation, for it was the truth.

That knee in her back. This position on the ground—She had taken self-defense courses! Of course she had. Even as a police dispatcher, she had been required to learn the rudiments.

The response came back to her now. Whether it was what she had been taught, or her own take on it, she didn’t really know.

“Are you lying, Sara?”

She shook her head carefully, as if too abrupt a movement now would cause her to forget the little bit she had, with so much difficulty, brought back to mind.

She moaned, made her body tremble, and then went limp.

“Sara?” The voice remained disguised, though it sounded a little alarmed.

She didn’t move. She just waited, listening to the increasingly heavy rain, listening to her attacker’s raspy breathing. Her clothes were damp enough now to stick to her, but she could do nothing about it.

Her assailant remained on her back, though the pressure eased a little. “Sara?” The tone went up a little more.

And then she made her move. Quickly she arched her back, then rolled. It worked! She heard the thud on the dampened earth as the person fell off her.

She pulled herself up into a crouch, prepared to do hand-to-hand combat if necessary. But it wasn’t. All she saw of the person was the back of a long, black raincoat, hood raised, as it disappeared behind a tall gravestone.

Chapter Four

Jordan, glad for his rubber-soled dress shoes, loped through the dismal, damp churchyard. His gaze darted everywhere as he assessed the parklike, tree-shrouded area—and searched for Sara. He appeared to be alone out here; everyone else had been smart enough to come in out of the rain.

His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as his mind listed those he wanted to strangle right then, in ascending order of priority: June Roehmer, Ramon Susa—and Sara.

June and Ramon were cops. Though he wasn’t their immediate superior, he had given them an order. Whether or not he could enforce it was irrelevant. They had agreed to keep an eye on Sara. He’d lost track of both of them during the reception, as well as Sara.

The pastor had said he’d seen her leave the church by herself. Where the hell was she?

By now, he was fairly certain that Sara’s memory was actually missing, that she wasn’t just putting on an act to protect herself. But why hadn’t she stayed at the reception, where there were plenty of people around? Perhaps amnesia automatically resulted in a decrease in judgment, too.

He reached the nearest gate to the graveyard—and saw a figure in a long, black raincoat, raised hood over its head, dash from the cemetery into the rear of the churchyard.

Someone just trying to quickly get out of the rain? Maybe. But Jordan’s instincts told him otherwise. He closed the gate and ran down the path toward where he had last seen the other person.

But when he got to the rear of the quaint stone church, whoever it was had disappeared. Had he—or she—gone inside?

Jordan wanted to find out, but he still hadn’t located Sara, and that was the most important thing. He had no way of knowing whether that person’s dash through the rain had anything to do with his wife.

His wife? Why was he thinking of her that way? They were married in name only. That was the plan. Casper’s death hadn’t changed it.

Still, despite the reasons they had married, she was his to protect.

And she was missing.

He hadn’t kept her father from being killed, but he would protect Sara at all costs.

So where was she?

Swallowing his frustration, he went through the rear gate to the cemetery. “Sara?” he called. “Are you out here?” If she were, the logical place for her to be was at the graveside of her family. He went down the path in that direction.

“Jordan?” He had hardly heard his name before she hurtled herself from behind a tall grave marker into his arms, knocking him slightly off balance. He caught himself—and her.

“Sara? Where the devil have you—”

“Did you see the person who attacked me?”

That stopped him from venting his anger. “Attacked you?” He grabbed her shoulders and stepped back, looking down into her face. She was out of breath, and she clung to him. There was a wildness in her hazel eyes that spoke of fear. Her dark hair was plastered in damp tendrils to her head and her smooth, flushed cheeks.

She had never looked more beautiful—and Jordan wanted to kick himself for even noticing such a thing when she was so obviously scared.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Tell me what happened.”

He could see how much of an effort the small smile she attempted was. “Could we get out of the rain first?”

“Of course,” he rumbled. He put his arm around her shoulders. Her clothes were damp. He removed his own jacket, which was only slightly more dry, and put it around her. Then he led her back into the church.

THE NEXT HOUR was a jumble to Sara. More than once, she wanted to sink to her knees and sob. Mostly, though, she wanted to shout at everyone who asked her questions. Thanks to her ordeal outside and the way her assailant had badgered her, she’d had enough of answering questions to last the rest of her life.

But she knew the people here all wanted to help. To find who had attacked her—for that way, they would also have her father’s killer.

Most of the time, Jordan kept an arm protectively around her as they sat in the pastor’s private office. It was large but cluttered, with a plain, scratched desk that appeared more well-used than antique. The sofa, though, was new and comfortable, and had a matching love seat.

Sara sat on the sofa beside Jordan.

“Tell us again exactly what happened,” Jordan said. He managed to keep from yelling at her, but she saw how much of a strain it was.

Acting Chief of Police, Carroll Heumann, sat on the love seat, which seemed an incongruous location for the large, gruff man. “Why were you outside in the first place?” He made no effort to coddle her. Sara knew he was just doing his job, but she wanted to kick him in the shins and flee from the room.

She sat still, though, and willed herself to maintain her patience.

Also present were June, who sat on a small wooden child’s chair she must have found in a Sunday school classroom, and Ramon, who, with arms folded, leaned against the far window. June was uncharacteristically quiet.

In a shaky voice Sara said, “I needed to get away from the crowd.” She didn’t pause to wait for the criticisms and recriminations she knew everyone was thinking, but continued, “I thought I was being careful. There were plenty of people outside. But it started to rain, and whoever it was just grabbed me and dragged me behind a tall gravestone.”

She felt Jordan’s substantial body shift slightly, as though her very words made him fume. She swallowed a sigh of misery. She didn’t blame him; in hindsight, she realized that, though she had thought she had done what she needed to keep her sanity, it had been foolish.

But now she needed his support and understanding. And she could not be certain he would give it.

“How tall was he?” Jordan asked. At least his voice was calm.

She tried to make her shrug seem nonchalant. She didn’t want him to know how she ached inside. “Taller than me, I think. But that impression could just have been because he—or she—took me unawares and overpowered me so easily.”

“Did you hear or see anything that would allow you to recognize the person again?”

Something nudged the edges of Sara’s mind. Had there been something identifiable? Maybe…but her sorry excuse for a brain wasn’t latching onto it right then.

Any more than it was giving her the rest of the answers she needed.

This time she did sigh out loud. “No.”

“Go ahead, then,” Jordan said in a kind tone. “Tell us what you do remember.”

Sara noticed the scowl Heumann shot Jordan. Was it because he thought he should be asking the questions?

Hurriedly, so as not to foment more animosity between the two men, Sara described her latest ordeal. When she was finished, she said, “I know that doesn’t give you a lot to go on to catch the suspect. The voice was disguised, so I couldn’t even tell for sure if it was male or female. The person was definitely strong, though. I couldn’t turn around to see his identity. And…and he—or she—didn’t believe I’d lost my memory, at least not initially.” She didn’t mention that a smattering of it had come back during the crisis; she wanted to mull that over herself first. Perhaps even discuss it with Jordan. Shouldn’t her husband know that her amnesia might not be complete or permanent? Might it already be obvious? She didn’t recall how it felt to be a police dispatcher, but she was easily slipping back into using law enforcement terminology.

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” she finished.

“So am I,” Carroll Heumann said. “You shouldn’t have gone out alone like that, but since you did, it would have been a perfect opportunity to nab the perpetrator.”

“She could have been hurt,” reminded June Roehmer, her critical words to her superior tempered by a sympathetic smile toward Sara.

“Again,” added Ramon, without budging from his position near the window.

Sara noted that Jordan added nothing to that part of the conversation. Shouldn’t her husband express further concern for her safety?

He had come looking for her. He had found her. He had treated her tenderly while taking her inside, just as he had after the attack that had killed her father.

But she yearned for something more from him—a greater show of affection. Something that would make it clearer to her why they had married. That they loved each other.

“One thing, just for clarification,” Jordan said. “We should each describe where we were while Sara was being attacked.”

Heumann appeared almost apoplectic. “You surely don’t think that I—”

“I don’t think anything,” Jordan said mildly. “I just want to rule out as many suspects as possible. I was on my cell phone in an alcove. I doubt anyone saw me there, so I haven’t an alibi. No one appears wet from the rain—though the person I saw wore a hooded coat. Where were you, June?”

She had been in the ladies’ room—alone. Ramon had gone out behind the church, under an overhang, for a cigarette. Reluctantly, Heumann told them that he had been in one of the church’s Sunday school classrooms checking it out for his grandkids.

Sara realized that none of them could be ruled out as a suspect. But surely her assailant couldn’t have been one of them—could it?

Beside her, Jordan stood. “Sara, you stay here with June for a while. I have something I need to do.”

There was a grim determination on his masculine face. She wouldn’t have wanted to cross him then.

But what was he going to do? Make sure he hadn’t left any clues that would identify him as her attacker?

That was a nasty shot, Sara castigated herself. Even if there was something a little off in the way Jordan, her new husband, treated her, she had no reason to think him a suspect in her father’s death or in the attacks on her.

Except that June had told her that Jordan and her father had been arguing….

No, whatever Jordan was up to, she could be certain it would be in her best interests.

She lifted her face up to him for a kiss. Wasn’t that what new brides did?

He blinked in what appeared to be surprise and uncertainty before he caught himself and bent toward her. His lips were cool, and their contact with hers brief. Unsatisfying.

“See you later,” he said over his shoulder as he strode out of the room.

Bewildered and hurt, Sara nevertheless noticed the expressions on the faces of the others as they stared after Jordan. Ramon’s mouth quirked slightly in an amused smile that did not erase the uneasiness in his eyes.

June appeared perturbed, but her eyes seemed glued to Jordan’s compact butt, hugged by his dress trousers. A pang of something that could have been jealousy caromed through Sara. That was her husband’s behind that June so obviously admired.

But there was nothing at all appreciative of Jordan Dawes in Carroll Heumann’s snide grimace.

“I’M SORRY I left you with that cheery crowd,” Jordan said to Sara a while later. He shot an ironic glance toward her from the driver’s seat of his white Mustang. The arch expression went wonderfully with Jordan’s masculine features, turning them roguish and utterly appealing.

No wonder Sara had fallen in love with him…hadn’t she?

She was beginning to believe so, more and more. But if she could now remember a little of her police training, why couldn’t she recall how she felt about her brand-new husband?

Jordan continued, “I knew Heumann had ordered an investigation of what happened to you, but I wanted to start one of my own.”

“Did you learn anything?” Sara asked.

“Only that our perpetrator is pretty damned cunning. I believe I spoke with everyone at the funeral, though briefly. Most had milled around, talking to one another, speculating on who killed your father. Though only one person planned it that way, they generally provided great alibis for one another. No one paid a lot of attention as to those who might have wandered off by themselves.”

Sara felt shocked. “You’re really pushing it, aren’t you? You weren’t just trying to rule out suspects before. You really think that one of my father’s friends attacked me—someone on the Santa Gregoria force?”

Jordan’s tone was gentle as he answered, though he did not move his eyes from the road in front of them. “Yes, Sara, I do.”

“But—”

“We’ll talk about it one day when you’re stronger. For now, take a look in front of us. Does this street seem familiar?”

She peered through the windshield toward a wide avenue lined on both sides with pleasant-looking stucco houses, most with at least some expanse of green lawn. There were eucalyptus trees and a few oaks, and cars of fairly current vintages sat by the curbs or in driveways. It seemed a pretty neighborhood, welcoming, a nice enough place to live. But did anything look familiar? She strained her memory and came up with…nothing.

“Not really. Is it supposed to?”

Jordan nodded, then pulled the car to the curb and looked toward her. A thatch of his light brown hair had slipped from where he had brushed it back from his face to curl winsomely over his broad forehead. He had deposited his jacket and tie onto the back seat, and his white shirt was open at the neck, revealing a hint of chest hair a few shades darker than that on his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll remember everything, one of these days.”

It would have been a perfect opportunity to tell Jordan about how she had fought off her attacker earlier—how her training had come back to her.

But she didn’t tell him. Not yet.

Though her mind had helped her in a crisis, the knowledge of a few self-defense techniques seemed like such a minor matter, compared with how she felt about the man beside her.

She wanted to be able to fling herself into his arms and tell him she remembered how they had met. How they had fallen in love. What their wedding had been like.

Until those memories had returned, nothing else was important.

He had come around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. He helped her out.

She glanced toward the house before them. It was a pretty dwelling, a two-story gray stucco with white trim at the doors and windows, small white wrought-iron balconies outside the two upstairs windows, and a riot of flowers in beds on either side of the walkway to the front porch.

A tiny pang of recollection seemed to jolt Sara. “It does look familiar!” she exclaimed. She turned excitedly toward Jordan, unconsciously holding out her hands. He took them as she said, “Jordan, tell me about the house. Did we pick it out together before we got married?”

The pleased expression seemed to vanish from his face, and his deep blue eyes grew fathomless once more. “No, Sara.” His voice was soft, as though he were talking with a child. Didn’t he understand that only made her feel worse? “It’s your house. You lived here with your father. Stu grew up here, too. Now it’ll belong to you.”

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