“Are you planning on telling me your name?”

Matt asked the wounded woman he’d found on the beach.

She rested her head on his car’s seat back. “Wasn’t planning on it, no.”

“Are you being mysterious or rude?”

“Neither.”

“Okay, I’ll play.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to catch a glimpse of her. She was struggling to remain conscious. Her long lashes fluttered against her cheek and her flawless skin had gone pale. “Keep your hand up, the bleeding has started again.”

She just shrugged.

“So what am I supposed to call you?”

“Call me whatever you want. ‘Hey you’ is fine. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t as if we’re about to engage in a meaningful, interpersonal relationship.”

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

In honor of two very special events, the Harlequin Intrigue editorial team has planned exceptional promotions to celebrate throughout 2009. To kick off the year, we’re celebrating Harlequin Books’ 60th Diamond Anniversary with DIAMONDS AND DADDIES, an exciting four-book miniseries featuring protective dads and their extraordinary proposals to four very lucky women. Rita Herron launches the series with Platinum Cowboy next month.

Later in the year Harlequin Intrigue celebrates its own 25th anniversary. To mark the event we’ve asked reader favorites to return with their most popular series.

 Debra Webb has created a new COLBY AGENCY trilogy. This time out, Victoria Colby-Camp will need to enlist the help of her entire staff of agents for her own family crisis.

 You can return to 43 LIGHT STREET with Rebecca York and join Caroline Burnes on another crime-solving mission with Familiar the Black Cat Detective.

 Next stop: WHITEHORSE, MONTANA with B.J. Daniels for more Big Sky mysteries with a new family. Meet the Corbetts—Shane, Jud, Dalton, Lantry and Russell.

Because we know our readers love following trace evidence, we’ve created the new continuity KENNER COUNTY CRIME UNIT. Whether collecting evidence or tracking down leads, lawmen and investigators have more than their jobs on the line, because the real mystery is one of the heart. Pick up Secrets in Four Corners by Debra Webb this month, and don’t miss any one of the terrific stories to follow in this series.

And that’s just a small selection of what we have planned to thank our readers.

We’d love to hear from you, and hope you enjoy all of our special promotions this year.

Happy reading, and happy anniversary, Harlequin Books!

Sincerely,

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Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Kelsey Roberts
The Night in Question

I’d like to thank The Nail

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kelsey Roberts has penned more than thirty novels, won numerous awards and nominations and landed on bestseller lists including USA TODAY and the Ingrams Top 50 List. She has been featured in the New York Times and the Washington Post, and makes frequent appearances on both radio and television. She is considered an expert in why women read and write crime fiction as well as an excellent authority on plotting and structuring novels.

She resides in south Florida with her family.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Kresley Hayes—What she doesn’t know might very well kill her.

Matt DeMarco—Not all of this FBI agent’s intentions are pure; he’s got secrets of his own.

Rose Porter—Owns half of the Rose Tattoo and can’t pass up an opportunity to play matchmaker.

Emma Rooper—Kresley’s roommate who dies on the night in question.

Gianni—Fashion designer killed because he knows far too much.

Shelby Hunnicutt Tanner—Half owner of the Rose Tattoo who has a special secret she shares with Matt.

Janice Cross—Missing FBI agent—has she turned or is she a captive?

Hal Whiting—Coast Guard official with his fingers in lots of pies.

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

Matt DeMarco’s eyesight was neon green and distorted, thanks to the night-vision goggles he was using for his fruitless scan of the horizon.

A mixture of seawater and sand sloshed around his legs as he continued a slow, methodical jog along the water’s edge.

Nothing.

He’d been at it since midnight, a full twenty-seven hours since the Carolina Moon should have docked at Charleston Harbor. He knew enough about Atlantic tides and currents to realize that if the private yacht had experienced any sort of mechanical malfunction, it would be drifting offshore in the general vicinity of Folly Beach.

Where the hell was Janice? His softly muttered curse of frustration was lost in the sound of the gently lapping surf.

She was a damn good partner and had covered his butt, and he owed her big time. But she’d gone too far this time. Deep under cover, she’d been in the wind for over a month, not filing progress reports, not even communicating with her supervisory agent. The last report she’d filed had placed her in Charleston. And the last confirmed sighting of her was from a week ago when she’d rented a boat to take her out to the Carolina Moon.

Janice Cross was like a pit bull. Once she got her teeth into something, she wouldn’t let go. But he prayed whatever she’d discovered on the Carolina Moon hadn’t cost her her life.

As dawn approached, the waters were beginning to fill with the fleet of shrimpers and fishermen working the ocean, rivers and oyster beds in and around Charleston.

If the private yacht was disabled, surely one of the fishing fleet would—

His thought was lost as Matt suddenly choked in a mouthful of briny water. Only then did his brain fully process the fact that he’d tripped and gone flying into the lukewarm ocean. Spitting the grit of sand, bits of shell and God-only-knew-what-else out of his mouth, he pushed up to his knees, feeling around in the murky water for his goggles. No luck.

“Damn,” he muttered, pushing dripping hair off his forehead.

Glancing over his shoulder, he looked for the cause of his dive into the shallow surf, expecting a discarded cooler or driftwood or, more likely, one of those federally protected, lumbering, loggerhead turtles that spent the month of April plodding up to the dunes to lay eggs.

The first sliver of hazy sunshine illuminated the beach, and he felt his throat squeeze tight.

This was no turtle. It was the body of a young woman whose long blond hair swished and swayed with the movement of the ebbing surf. She appeared to be wearing some kind of evening gown.

Scanning the surrounding area, Matt grabbed her beneath the arms, dragging her up higher on the beach.

Dropping to his knees at her side, he placed his ear near her mouth. Relieved to hear a single, faint wheeze, he then checked her pulse. Untangling the mass of long blond hair from her face, he tilted her head back and alternated between mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions.

When she spat out a gurgle of water, he rolled her on her side and patted her back as she coughed and sputtered water from her lungs.

Matt reached around and felt for the cell phone he kept clipped at his waistband. Flipping it open, he found himself staring at a blank screen. Sand particles crusted the keypad. His phone was state-of-the-art, but apparently not waterproof.

The woman’s lashes fluttered, but her eyes still hadn’t opened.

“Hang on, honey,” he whispered, then again glanced in both directions. He should call fire and rescue and the police. Normally he would have, but his current status as a Special Agent in Charge, on loan to the short-staffed Charleston office made that impossible without blowing his unofficial assignment—finding Janice. The next best option was to hand the woman off to someone else. Janice’s life might very well depend on it.

There were two guys a couple of hundred yards south. Too far away to be of any immediate help. Crap. He couldn’t just leave her on the beach.

She coughed again, then drew in a deep, labored breath.

“I know it hurts, but you’re breathing.”

When she lifted her right hand, Matt noticed that blood was trickling down from her palm and also that she had a goose-egg-size lump on her forehead. Straddling her, he ran his fingers along her neck and found that aside from the fact that she wore only one gold earring, there were no bulges or obvious distensions. She didn’t have a broken neck. As far as he could tell, her bloody hand was her most serious injury. Matt reached for the hem of her gown and gave a rough tug. The fabric tore easily. Though wet and sandy, as a temporary bandage for her hand it would have to do.

Spotting movement in his peripheral vision, Matt managed to shift enough to avoid the sand she flung at his face.

Though she couldn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds—wet gown included—she heaved him off her and began clawing her way toward the dunes.

He probably should have let her go. She had, after all, just ungratefully tossed him on his ass. Yep, he should just let her go on her merry way. Except that she’d nearly drowned, had a lump on her head and her hand was dripping a trail of blood onto the sand.

That, and he didn’t believe in coincidences. What were the chances of Janice being missing at sea and this woman rolling in with the high tide?

Realizing she might be his only lead, Matt let out an exasperated breath and went after her. Snaking his hand around her small waist, he lifted her off the ground. She flailed against him but she didn’t scream. Odd.

“Stop kicking,” he said between gritted teeth, squeezing her more tightly against his chest.

“Let go. You’re hurting me.”

Matt loosened his grip but didn’t release her. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to help you. You’re bleeding.”

She stilled as he lifted her wrist and raised her hand toward her face. He heard a little breath catch in her throat.

Carefully, he reached down, hooking his hand behind her knees and lifted her into his arms. “We need to get you to a hospital. You prob—”

“No, no hospitals.” Her eyes were a rich, dark blue and there was more than panic there. Matt saw a deep fear. Of what? Or who?

“My cell’s useless,” he told her softly, “but there’s a pay phone in the parking lot.” He shifted her higher in his arms as he navigated the sand. “You can call a friend.”

“Pretty gallant of you given that a minute ago you were ripping off my dress,” she said as she jammed an elbow into his rib cage.

Air bellowed from his lungs. “Rip your…geez, lady! I needed something to wrap around your hand to stop the bleeding.”

Confusion knitted her brows. “You weren’t…?”

He glared down at her. “No, I wasn’t. Call me picky, but I prefer a willing, responsive partner to a bleeding, semi-conscious one. You have to get some medical attention for that hand.”

He watched as her full lips drew into a grimace as she unwound the bandage and surveyed the gash in her palm. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

Matt reached the parking lot and carried her to his Jeep. Setting her down, he leaned her against the car while he opened the passenger’s door. “Who do you want me to call?”

“Call?”

It was a struggle to keep from rolling his eyes. “Either give me a name and a number or I’m taking you to the nearest emergency room.”

“I told you, no hospitals.”

“That wound isn’t going to heal on its own.” Irritation ratcheted up a notch or two. “No emergency contact number, fine. No hospital? Fine, too. Get in. I’ll take you to the closest urgent-care facility. We’ll make better time if I just drive you. There’s a place off Calhoun Street. We can be there in twenty minutes or less. Or, Roper Hospital isn’t that far. We can—”

“No,” she said, shaking her head so vehemently that water splattered everywhere. “I can’t—”

“—ignore that gash.”

Matt knew wounds and the long, diagonal injury to her hand was a defensive knife wound. Who had she been defending herself against and why?

“I won’t ignore it. Thank you for your help.”

The fact that she averted her eyes as she attempted to dismiss him didn’t go unnoticed. Nor did the ridiculousness of her remark. She was still bleeding profusely, so he opted for a different tack.

He knew his own motivation for not drawing the attention of the local authorities. What he couldn’t fathom was why a woman who’d obviously been in some sort of altercation, obviously jumped or been thrown into the ocean, was so resistant to going through normal channels. Seriously strange behavior.

Tugging his T-shirt over his head, he ripped off a strip of damp cotton and created a second makeshift pressure bandage.

“Thank you.” She kept her elbow bent and her hand above her heart and then took a wobbly step away from the car.

Matt grabbed her by the shoulders, steadying her and preventing her from wandering off. “You should see a doctor,” he reiterated.

“It’s not bleeding as much,” she said, lifting her hand in front of his face.

Maybe her weird reaction had something to do with the big bump on her forehead. “You need stitches, a CT scan of your head and you’ve likely got water still in your lungs. You don’t want me to take you to the hospital, okay. Tell me who to call and you can be their problem.”

“Is there a third option?”

He read fear and confusion in her eyes as she tilted her face to his. “Like?” He let the word dangle in the air between them.

“I don’t have anyone to call and I can’t go to a hospital, either.”

Matt knew trouble when he saw it and as a rule, did his best to avoid it when possible. One look at the drenched blonde with the wide, frightened eyes and he knew possible had just taken a vacation.

“What boat were you on?” he asked.

“Boat?” she repeated as if he’d spoken in tongues.

He looked down at her pricey-looking stilettos, which had remained on her feet despite what she’d been through, and said, “You aren’t a mermaid. So I’ll assume you ended up in the water the old-fashioned way.”

“Swimming?”

He actually chuckled at her deadpan delivery. “Most women don’t swim in an evening gown and heels. You must have gone overboard.” His mind raced forward. “There haven’t been any reports of a man—person—overboard or vessels in distress to the Coast Guard,” he said. “Did you go out alone? Capsize, maybe?” He grabbed her good hand and turned it palm up. “You’ve been in the water a long time,” he said as he pressed gently to test the loose skin on her uninjured hand.

“How long?” she asked, and then snatched back her hand to cover her mouth as a raspy cough rumbled in her throat.

“You don’t know?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly and sparkled with a flash of what might be anger. “Forgive me, but I guess I lost track of time while I was losing blood, fighting currents and floating in the ocean in the dark.”

She began to slouch and he tightened his arm around her waist. “How about you sit down before you fall down?”

“That might be a good idea,” she agreed, putting up no resistance as he guided her into the car.

Matt lifted her legs and tucked them into the footwell before he walked around the car. On his way to the driver’s seat, he grabbed a fresh shirt out of the back of the Jeep and shrugged it over his head before slipping behind the wheel. He shot her a glance as he stuck the key in the ignition. She looked like a drowned rat.

What do you know? He thought again about Janice.

“Where are we going?”

“You don’t want to go to a hospital. I’m giving you that. But we’re getting you appropriate medical attention.”

“How?”

“A friend of a friend. I’m Matt DeMarco, by the way.”

“Matt DeMarco.”

Again, she seemed to be taking the words for a trial run.

Matt drove quickly back toward Charleston, sometimes ignoring traffic signals and often weaving through cars even if it meant violating no passing zones and rolling through stop signs. “You, ah, seem a little out of it,” he said softly. “Sure you don’t want to rethink the hospital option?”

“Definitely not.” She shifted straighter in the seat. “I appreciate what you’ve done, but you can just drop me at the next corner.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “Do you really want to roam the streets of Charleston bleeding? What do you suppose the folks would make of that?”

Matt veered to the right to cross the Ashley River. On the other side of the bridge, he could see the Battery, a jutting peninsula where the Ashley and Cooper rivers joined. If you were from Charleston—which he wasn’t—you’d smugly proclaim that the Ashley and the Cooper met to create the Atlantic Ocean.

“Are you planning on telling me your name?”

She rested her head on the seat back, “Wasn’t planning on it, no.”

“Are you being mysterious or rude?”

“Neither.”

“Okay, I’ll play.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to catch a glimpse of her. She was struggling to remain conscious. Her long lashes fluttered against her cheeks and her flawless skin had gone pale. “Keep your hand up, the bleeding has started again.” Given the head injury, he decided it was a good idea to keep her talking. “You’ve got the accent, so you’re a native?”

She just shrugged.

“One thing I’ve learned in my short time here is Southerners are rarely rude to strangers and never rude to strangers offering aid and comfort. So what’s the deal? Your ancestors get tossed out of the Confederacy or something?”

“Or something. Who’s this friend?”

“My boss’s niece, actually,” Matt said. “Dr. Kendall Revell. She’s a pathologist and very nice.”

“Pathologist?” She raked her fingers through her damp, tangled hair. “Don’t they do autopsies?”

“Yep.”

“Oh well, I guess that beats a vet.”

Matt smiled as he turned onto Calhoun Street. “Roper Hospital is just ahead, final opportunity to change your mind.”

“No thanks.”

“So what am I supposed to call you?”

“Call me whatever you want. ‘Hey you’ is fine. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t as if we’re about to engage in a meaningful, interpersonal relationship.”

Her choice of language was telling. She was definitely educated. “‘Hey you?’ If you won’t tell me your name, perhaps you’d like to share what you do for a living.”

When he didn’t get a response, he glanced over to find her slumped in the seat, unconscious.

“Freaking hell.”

THE FIRST THING she noticed when she opened her eyes was the smell. A sickly mixture of alcohol, fruity air freshener and formaldehyde. The second thing was the temperature. It was freezing cold. As soon as she opened her eyes, she squeezed them shut again. A large, round reflective light hung from the ceiling just above her bed.

Her entire left side as well as her hand throbbed so she used the tips of her right fingers to explore the bed. Only it wasn’t a bed, it was a cold metal slab. Her fingers grazed her hip under a light cloth and she realized she was naked. No wonder she was so cold.

Turning her head to one side, she peeked through her lashes. Satisfied that she was safe from the harshness of the bright light, she looked around and discovered she wasn’t alone. Nor was she the only one wearing nothing but a sheet. She was, however, the only one not sporting a toe tag. She was in a morgue.

Completely creeped out, she pressed the sheet to her chest and had started to sit up when she felt hands close on her shoulders. At the unexpected contact, she shrieked.

“Calm down, Hey You,” Matt said from behind her.

“Geez, you scared me senseless.” Tilting her head back, she saw Matt wasn’t alone. He was standing next to a small woman wearing surgical scrubs, a badge with her name and photo on it clipped to the shirt.

“I’m Dr. Revell,” she said. “Lie still, I don’t want you to pull those sutures. It took me the better part of an hour to stitch up your wounds.”

“Wounds? Plural?” Her eyes darted between Matt and the doctor.

“It took thirty stitches to close the cut on your hand and another half dozen after I dug the bullet out.”

Matt shrugged apologetically. “Guess I missed it. It was a small-caliber slug that entered near your armpit and lodged just under the skin.”

“Technically, I’m required by law to report all gunshots to the authorities,” Kendall said.

Her whole body tensed. Reaching up with her good hand, she was so terrified and confused that she grabbed a fistful of the hem of the doctor’s scrub top. “Please don’t do that.”

“Then give me a good reason why I should risk my medical license.”

Her head was spinning with images that wouldn’t stop long enough for her to actually collate the fractured memories. She had no idea why, just that she couldn’t let Matt or Dr. Revell call the authorities. “Reporting it won’t do any good. I don’t remember being shot.” In unison, Matt and Dr. Revell gave her a yeah-right kind of sneer. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t remember any of it.”

“Then I guess you can’t explain this, either,” Matt said, holding up a strip of something textured, twisted and gunmetal gray.

“What is it?”

“Duct tape.”

She pressed her fingers to her temple. “No, I can’t explain it. Where did it come from?”

“It was wrapped around your rib cage. Or at least it was once,” Matt explained. “I’m guessing the salt water got to whatever you had taped to yourself beneath your dress. And you don’t remember that part, either?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Then we’ll start with what you do know,” Matt said, his tone forceful, demanding and definitely intimidating as he came around so she didn’t have to look at him upside down. “What’s your name?”

She lowered her gaze, fixing it on the triangle shape formed by her feet beneath the sheet. “I can’t help you with that, either.”

“What?” Matt practically barked.

She started to shake and tears welled in her eyes. In a voice that managed to be vulnerable and agitated at the same time, she said, “I don’t know how I ended up in the ocean wearing that gown. I have no idea how I cut my hand. Until a few minutes ago, I didn’t even know I’d been shot. I have no clue who I am.” She wiped at the tears as they tumbled down her cheeks

Matt asked, “What exactly is the last thing you remember?”

“Waking up on the beach and seeing your face.”

Chapter Two

She cried tears of frustration with a healthy dose of fear. The frustration stemmed from the obvious—why couldn’t she remember her own name? The fear was a little less pellucid. For some God-only-knew reason, she kept hearing a woman’s voice in her head saying, ‘Trust no one.’ She didn’t recognize the voice nor did her mind’s eye bring forth an image.

She was shaking, trying hard to remember something, hell, anything: an address, her name, her favorite color. Anything.

“I’m going to give you an injection,” Dr. Revell said, holding a syringe and squirting a quick stream of colorless liquid out of the hollow needle. “It will calm you down,” she explained.

“Dr. Revell, I—”

“Call me Kendall,” she insisted as she brought the needle closer. “This may hurt, I’m a little bit out of practice,” the woman said with a kind smile.

She felt a pinch, then almost instantly her nerves calmed. “Why would someone shoot me?” She heard her own words slur slightly. She tried to lift her wounded hand but it felt like it weighed about three hundred pounds, so she gave up. “Or cut me?” Next she tried to sit but couldn’t manage it. “I need to leave,” she said.

“Why?” Matt asked.

Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t know why, just that I can’t go to the authorities.”

Reaching into his back pocket, Matt flipped open a soggy wallet. “Too late,” he said. “I’m with the FBI.”

She felt a wave of terror crash down on her. “Am I a criminal or a fugitive?”

“Let’s roll your fingerprints and see,” he said almost conversationally.

Kendall then inked each of her fingers onto a card. She handed the card to Matt. “We can use the computer in my office,” Kendall said. Patting her charge on the shoulder, the doctor said, “You rest. Sometimes it takes a good long while for IAFIS.”

“I…A—”

Kendall gave her a reassuring smile. “Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Put your head back and rest.”

Easy for her to say. The doctor wasn’t the one with the bullet hole and the knife wound. She bent her arm and covered her eyes from the harsh glare from the light. “Think,” she demanded of her foggy brain. A face blinked into focus for a nanosecond. A tall brunette, impeccably dressed, with short hair. Her sister? Her neighbor? Her victim? She felt hot tears in the corners of her eyes.

An FBI agent? What were the chances? If only I’d been found by an old lady out shelling or an old man sweeping the beach with headphones and a metal detector? Nope, I have to get an FBI agent. “Matt DeMarco,” she whispered.

As her hand went to her throat, an image came back with crystal clarity. Two boats, far enough away that their searchlights couldn’t reach her as she clung to the barnacle-encrusted buoy. She remembered the wide arc of the beams reflecting off the small swells. And strobing red. The latter part made no sense.

Neither did not remembering her own name. Or where she lived. Or if someone loved her or vice versa. What could have happened to erase her memory? It had to be big. Major. And based on her new terror of authority figures, bad.

“KRESLEY HAYES,” Matt said before they headed for his Jeep sometime later.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she concentrated on not swaying as she walked. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It’s your name.”

Matt was smiling. She stopped suddenly and looked up into his gray-blue eyes. They were rimmed with inky lashes that matched his black hair.

“Hungry?”

“I’m not exactly presentable,” she said, lifting the top edge of the surgical scrubs Kendall had been kind enough to supply. The doctor had also provided a sports bra and some Crocs. The only problem was Kendall was two inches taller and a size smaller. The pants, which were rolled up at the hem, and the top were like a second skin.

“What?” she demanded.

“You really don’t know who you are, do you?”

“I’ve been telling you that for hours and it’s only now sinking in? How did you find out my name so quickly?” she asked. And why doesn’t it sound at all familiar?

“I hit the national databases. Nothing. So I had a friend run your prints locally.”

Her heart skipped. “My prints are in the system? Am I a felon or something?”

He chuckled. “No, you’re a teacher. Or at least you were. Second grade. A police background check with fingerprints is standard procedure for everyone dealing with children. You would have undergone that before you were hired.”

“What did I do? Fail someone so they shot me and stabbed me?”

“You haven’t been a classroom teacher for a couple of years. So I think we can safely rule out an unhappy second grader. Currently, you’re working toward a graduate degree in child psychology.”

“You have no idea how maddening this is,” she said, her voice cracking. “You got all that information from my fingerprints?”

“And my secret decoder ring.”

“Very funny. Where do I live?” Kresley asked, waiting, praying for something that sounded familiar.

“You’ve got an apartment on Isle of Palms,” he said.

“Thank you for taking me home,” she said.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got to make a stop first.”

She did mind a little. Maybe if she walked into her own apartment her memory would break through the dam and come flooding back. Apparently patience wasn’t one of her virtues. “Where are we stopping?” she asked.

“The Rose Tattoo.” He hesitated for less than a second. “I’m tending bar there part-time.”

“FBI pay is that bad?”

He laughed as he turned on East Bay Street. “No. I know one of the owners. I needed a cover for a personal matter, so I tend bar. Here we are,” Matt said as he turned down an alley and parked between a large home and a smaller building.

“Where’s here?” she asked, uneasy when she counted four other cars in the crushed-oyster-shell lot.

“The Rose Tattoo.”

“It looks more like a private residence.”

He turned and offered a smile. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth and she experienced a strong, brief and inappropriate millisecond of desire.

“It hasn’t been a private residence since just after the Civil War,” he explained. “It sat empty for a while, then it was a speakeasy during prohibition. The previous owners renovated it as a bar and lived on the second floor. Then Rose Porter bought it and was on the verge of bankruptcy until Shelby Tanner bought in.”

Reaching across her to grab the door handle, his forearm brushed her belly and Kresley felt a quick zing of excitement spread through her body. His hair smelled like the ocean, but the woodsy scent of cologne still lingered on his skin.

“Hang on, I’ll come around and help you.”

When Kresley stepped out of the car, her knees buckled and if Matt hadn’t been there to catch her, she would have folded like an accordion.

His hands grabbed her waist. Leaning back against the Jeep, she took several deep breaths to fend off the rapid pounding of her heart. Not an easy task with Matt’s square-tipped fingers resting lazily on her skin.

“I’m good,” she said, placing her palms on his chest. Her intention was to gently push out of his grasp. But the feel of solid muscle and the thump of his heart beneath her touch only served as a greater enticement.

Am I always this aware of a man? she wondered. Or is it just this man? And could my timing be any worse? Not having a memory was inconvenient, to say the least.

“C’mon,” he said, wrapping one hand around her waist to lead her to the door marked Deliveries Only.

Together, they entered the kitchen. A woman wearing chef’s whites with the name DeLancey embroidered on the left side of her jacket didn’t even look up from chopping carrots. “Hey,” she said casually, as if a strange woman with tangled hair, wearing ill-fitting scrubs was an everyday occurrence.

“Hi,” Matt said as they walked the length of the sparklingly clean kitchen.

The smells had Kresley’s mouth watering. The scents of garlic, onions, smoky bacon and herbs surrounded her as she neared the exit.

The dual doors were stainless steel with round windows at eye level. Kresley stopped dead in her tracks as an image flashed in her mind. Portholes. Her steps faltered and she put out a hand to brace herself on a nearby countertop. She’d looked out a porthole and seen…something.

She started to shake and perspiration coated her body.

“You’re whiter than pale,” Matt said, grabbing a kitchen towel to blot the sweat from her face and neck. “Are you in pain?”

Kresley shook her head. Her chest was tight and her throat had turned into a vise.

“What is it?” he asked, concern etched in the lines by his eyes.

“I wasn’t supposed to go near the portholes.”

“What do you remember? What triggered the panic attack?”

“The round window.”

“That’s all you got?”

“Yep. A flash. A snippet. I could see the porthole. I moved forward to look out, then nothing.”

Matt’s splayed fingers at the center of her back urged her through the doors. In the wood-panelled dining room there were ornate carvings on the molding and the edge of the horseshoe-shaped bar. More than a century’s worth of varnish polished the bar to a bright sheen. Kresley guessed the worn knotty-pine floors were original to the building. More than three dozen tables in varying sizes were arranged around the room. Each place setting included a charger, a plate and a pink napkin folded into a triangle and secured with a silver ring embossed with a rosebud.

They passed a flight of stairs guarded by ficus trees. Several ferns hung from baskets suspended from the low ceiling.

Matt helped her up on one of the leather barstools, then went around behind the bar and took out a menu.

“Let me get you some water. Then pick whatever you’d like,” Matt said. “DeLancey will whip it up in minutes. I know Kendall gave you that IV but it’s been some time since you ate.”

“But the restaurant isn’t open,” she said, glancing at the closed sign in the window.

“We open for lunch in thirty minutes. Besides, DeLancey lives to cook.”

“Tuna salad,” Kresley said, selecting what she thought would be the easiest of the mixture of traditional southern dishes and trendy cuisine for DeLancey to prepare.

Matt poured her a glass of water, placed a lemon on the rim, and then asked, “Will you be okay for a minute while I take your order to the kitchen?”

“Sure.”

Kresley rolled her neck around on her shoulders, fighting the fatigue that was quickly replacing the adrenaline. Folding her arms and resting them on the bar, she felt the sutures pull. Ignoring the mild discomfort, she placed her head on her arms and closed her eyes.

She must have dozed off for a second because she jerked upright when she felt a poke on her shoulder.

“Sorry.”

Spinning on the barstool, Kresley found herself looking at a stunning woman with black hair, piercing blue-gray eyes and a warm smile. “I can explain,” Kresley said on a rush of breath.

“No need. I’m Shelby Tanner,” she said. “Matt spoke with my husband while you were getting stitched up. How do you feel?”

There was something awfully familiar about Shelby. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so. Is Matt getting you something to eat?”

Kresley nodded. “He’s been very kind.”

“He’s a good guy,” Shelby agreed. “Looks like you could use some proper clothes.”

Kresley looked down at her too-tight scrubs and sighed heavily. “It was these or naked.” Kresley said.

“You look exhausted. There’s a bed in my office upstairs,” Shelby offered.

Kresley found it odd that the woman would have a bed in her office and it must have shown on her face because Shelby qualified, “Sometimes I bring my kids into work when we’re between nannies and my husband is out on a case.”

“A case?”

“He’s with Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Dylan doesn’t work regular hours.”

Great the ATF and the FBI. No memory, but apparently Kresley was making herself known to every law-enforcement agency in existence. “How many children do you have?”

“Three,” Shelby said with unfettered joy in her voice.

“Time for another one,” came a voice from the direction of the stairway.

Suddenly a woman with bleached platinum hair appeared. She was a tribute to the eighties. Big hair, animal-print leggings, wide leather belt and mules with three-inch heels. Class and polish tempered by loud and gaudy.

Her green eyes fixed on Kresley like lasers. “So you’re the one Matt fished out of the ocean who claims to have no memory?” Rose asked with skepticism.

Intimidated by the larger than life woman, Kresley just nodded.

Rose shook her head. “Well, if you ask me, you should be at a hospital getting medical care. What was Matt thinking?” The question was directed at Shelby.

“That there’s no reason she should be in the hospital,” Shelby said. “She’ll have a good lunch and then Matt is going to take her home. Rose,” Shelby continued, “I’ve spoken with Kendall and she assured me the memory loss is real. Trauma-induced amnesia.”

Rose snorted. “I love my niece, but Kendall can be out there.”

Kresley wondered if Rose ever looked in a mirror. She wasn’t exactly a conformist.

“Don’t forget, Kendall swears she met her husband in a past life. Nutty if you ask me.”

“No one asked,” Shelby said pointedly.

Matt appeared then, carrying a plate of food. Kresley was surprisingly glad to see him. Though Shelby had been warm, Rose was making her feel unwelcome. He placed the plate and a set of utensils on the bar. Kresley could feel the heat radiating off his body. She looked up, hoping to get a read on him but then she realized his entire attention was focused on Shelby. And then it hit her. “You’re related,” Kresley said, wagging her forefinger between Matt and Shelby.

“Ah-ha!” Rose clapped her hands once sharply. “See, it isn’t just me. She thinks so, too,” Rose said, the harshness gone from her tone. “I noticed it the moment he walked in here.”

Matt looked at Kresley, though his eyes never really connected with hers. “We aren’t related.”

Rose made a ‘Harrumph’ sound, then turned, mumbling, and went back up the stairs.

“She’s formidable,” Kresley said as she poked at the tuna salad.

“She’s all bark and no bite,” Shelby assured her. “You just have to ease into Rose.”

Kresley looked at Matt. “She wasn’t very warm to you. How long did you say you’d been tending bar here?”

“A few weeks. By the way, I’m scheduled to work lunch,” he said to Shelby.

“I’ll call Susan in to cover for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, bending down only slightly to place a kiss against Shelby’s cheek as she readied to leave the room.

In record speed, Kresley wolfed down the tuna salad, thanked everyone profusely, and then hurried out the back with Matt on her heels.

“What’s the deal?” he asked.

“Lycra Lady hated me,” she said.

Matt grinned. The action caused sexy dimples to appear on his cheeks. “Rose is just…blunt.”

Kresley gingerly maneuvered herself into the passenger’s seat. The lidocaine had worn off and she was starting to feel the pain of her injuries. “Who exactly got you my address?”

“Gabe got it off your DMV records.”

Good God, another name to remember. “And Gabe is…?”

“Gabe Langston is a local P.I. and a friend. We met a few years back when Gabe came to Quantico for some training.”

Kresley closed her eyes and relaxed against the headrest. Other than the single flash of a porthole, nothing else had sparked a memory. They crossed over Charleston Harbor and Sullivan’s Island. Kresley knew that because she could read the road signs. At least she knew she could read. When Matt slowed and turned into a parking lot, there was nothing familiar about the apartment building at the corner of Hartnett Boulevard and Twenty-fifth Avenue. “I live here?”

“Unit 1B.”

Matt pulled into a parking spot in front of the apartment. Kresley felt a tickle of uneasiness when she saw the door but nothing felt familiar.

“I’ll go in with you.”

Unlatching her seatbelt, she said, “Thank you.”

They had barely stepped out of the car when a rotund woman with hair dyed a shade of red not known in nature hurried toward Kresley. Matt waited at a distance.

“You were supposed to come to the office two days ago,” she said, her eyes little more than angry green slits.

“Because?” Kresley prompted.

“Because?” she spat. “You’re three months behind on your share of the rent. You promised me you’d have the money to me yesterday. Instead you stayed out all night and half the day today.” The woman was so worked up she punctuated her tirade by shaking her finger in Kresley’s face. “Your roommate paid up. I want your share in a money order. No more rubber checks. Got it?”

Roommate? Kresley tried to hide her confusion. “Uh, how much do I owe you exactly?”

“Fifteen hundred plus another seventy-five in late fees.”

“I seem to have lost my keys,” Kresley said.

The landlady didn’t appear to be the least bit sympathetic. Digging into the pocket of her housecoat, she yanked out a large ring, flipped through the keys, then removed one and handed it to Kresley. “Add another fifteen on for key replacement.”

Matt waited until she’d waddled three or four feet back toward the door bearing a bronze plaque announcing Leasing Office before he joined Kresley. “She’s a little ray of sunshine, isn’t she?”

Kresley unlocked the door to unit 1B and opened it just a crack. Tilting her head back to compensate for his height, she said, “Well, thank you,” and stuck out her right hand.

Matt chuckled softly. “That was a great kiss-off but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to take a look around, just to make sure the apartment is secure.”

Matt came in and the first thing he noticed was a framed photograph of two women on a beach. One was Kresley.

The other one was Janice.

Chapter Three

As Kresley was looking around to see if any of these supposed roommates were home, Matt marched in like some recruit, his attention honed on a photograph on the entertainment center. There was no question. It was Janice. Turning the photo toward Kresley, he asked, “Who is this?”

As soon as she saw the image, she heard the words in her head again. Trust no one. “I—I don’t know.”

“Her name is Janice Cross,” Matt said.

Kresley shook her head.

He reached her in three long strides. His blue eyes blazed as his fingers closed around her upper arms. “Think! She’s six feet tall, has short brown hair.”

“I know her,” Kresley managed. “I don’t know how I know her. Or why.”

“That isn’t very helpful,” Matt said, scowling.

“I’m doing my best here,” she shot back. “Kendall said my memory would come back in fits and starts so you’ll just have to wait until I have the right fit or the right start. Now, thank you for everything you’ve done.” She went to the door and opened it. “I need to shower and try to figure out where my bank is so I can see if I have enough money in my account to hopefully pay the mean landlady. So, good bye.”

Grudgingly, Matt left.

Kresley was glad to be finally alone. She went to the kitchen first, opening the refrigerator to find only a jar of mustard surrounded by a half-dozen Chinese take-out cartons. There were several magnets on the fridge, all for restaurants that delivered.

The dishes in the dishwasher were clean and the place was tidy. She went down the hallway and found the first bedroom. In one bedroom, she picked a pair of size-ten panties off the floor. No way they belonged to her. Going to the closet, she found half the clothes were size ten; the others were a size six. Several gowns hung in the back, all with the expensive, exclusive label, Gianni.

Going to the second bedroom, she picked up a pillow and sniffed the faint scent of perfume. That didn’t send a cascade of memories flooding back, either. She was so frustrated. Clearly there were other women sharing the apartment with her. If just one of her roommates came back, she could maybe get some answers to her questions. Opening the closet in this room revealed size twos and size fours. The size-two slacks were too long to be Kresley’s, and, like the other closet, there were several Gianni gowns—these were a size two.

Of all the clothing, the size fours were the most conservative and the most casual. The kind of thing you’d expect a graduate student to wear. Like me?

She decided this must be her bedroom. One she shared with a size two woman. All she saw was white furniture and girl stuff. Lots of pink things. Lots of lime green. A treadmill sat in the corner. Instead of its intended use, it was covered with blouses, dresses and slacks waiting to be ironed. There was a weight set as well as a kickboxing book on one side of the room. Kresley checked the treadmill clothes. Size two. By default, that made Kresley the kickboxer. There was a message board on the back of the door, but it had been wiped clean, leaving only hints of what had been written there. Two words, one started with the letter O maybe? Or D? Then what looked like a phone number since there were ten numbers beneath the top line. Too faint to make out.

Her search of the living room, dining room and computer nook also yielded nothing unique or special. It was a nice apartment. The only thing that was missing were her roommates. Her first instinct was to call and report them missing, but she didn’t really know if they were missing. They could be on vacation, out shopping, spending the day at the beach—anything was possible. But the prickling sensation on the back of her neck told her something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Then she realized what was missing. There wasn’t much in the way of personal items. No credit cards, no driver’s licenses, no catalogs, no junk mail. And no telephone. Not a single landline.

“Maybe we all used cell phones,” Kresley said aloud. She added that to her list of things she needed to figure out.

There was a laptop in the small alcove. She powered it on and it asked for a password. Kresley’s frustration level went up several notches. If it was her computer—which was only twenty-five percent possible—then the password was probably something she’d remember easily, like her birth date. Except right this instant, she didn’t remember squat.

She cursed softly, then walked down to the leasing office. It wasn’t that she wanted a bonus interaction with the landlady, she just needed to borrow a phone.

It took some doing, begging actually, and giving her the lone gold earring as collateral, to get the woman to loan Kresley her cell phone. Going back to her apartment, she had the weird feeling of being watched. Glancing around, she noticed nothing out of the ordinary and berated herself for being a wuss. Kresley called information for a number and then waited as the call was automatically dialed.

“Gabe Langston.”

“Mr. Langston, we haven’t met but my name is Kresley Hayes.”

“How are you feeling?”

“A little disoriented. I was wondering if you could find out if I had a cell phone and if so, who the carrier is. Oh, and you don’t happen to remember my birthday, do you?”

“April thirtieth,” he said without missing a beat. “You’ll be thirty at the end of the month.”

“Good for me,” adding that to her list of less-than-pleasant things. “My bank info?”

“Don’t worry, turning thirty doesn’t hurt as much as being shot.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“Is my guy there?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t get worried if you see a large blond guy with a neck like a redwood. He works for me.”

“Why would I see him?”

“He’s going to be watching out for you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone attacked you with a knife, then shot you and then tossed you in the Atlantic to drown. Matt and I agree that this person probably assumes you’re dead, but just in case, Matt asked me to have someone keep an eye on you.”

A chill danced along her spine. “I think my roommates are missing.”

“When were they last seen?” Gabe asked.

“I’ll find out from my landlady when I return her phone.”

“Do that and then give me a call. In the meantime, I’ll work on that bank information.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She clicked off, and headed for the bathroom to finally shower.

Very careful not to get her bandages wet—not an easy task by the way—Kresley enjoyed the feeling of the water pouring down on her. She was salty, sandy and sticky. And scared. The salt and sand washed off. The scared did not.

Knowing her name didn’t mean she knew who she was. But at least it had given her something to focus on other than what might have happened out in the ocean. Though she was grateful to Matt and Gabe for their protection, she wondered if it was enough.

Going into the living room, she picked up the photo of Janice and herself at the beach. It was fairly recent; her own hair was the same length. Carefully, she slipped the photo out of the frame and stuck between the photo and the cardboard backing was a small slip of paper with a phone number.

She stopped toweling her hair dry and dialed the number. It rang six times, then went to voice mail. Unfortunately it was one of those pre-recorded voicemail announcements and not personalized. “Hi, this—” she started, then snapped the phone shut. What if the number belonged to whomever it was who’d tried to kill her? Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her voice in the two syllables.

“Maybe you need to get a grip,” Kresley told herself as she went around the apartment checking every lock.

She dried her hair, applied some makeup and managed to contort enough to dress in a green sleeveless, ruffled-neck blouse and white capris. Going back to the computer, she entered her birth date as a possible password. She was rewarded with a bright red error screen. Kresley tried her birth date backward. Another red error screen. Then just for the heck of it, she tried the ten digits she’d found hidden beneath the frame. Bingo she was in. Sort of.

There were several file folders in the computer, and many of those led to subfolders. The Gianni folder was the only name she recognized. The main folder contained five subfolders. Janice, Emma, Paula, Abby and Kresley. Unfortunately, no matter what she tried, the computer wouldn’t let her open any of the files.

Giving up, she went to the Internet and typed in the telephone number that had gotten her into the computer. It wasn’t listed on any of the public sites. Then she searched for herself and found her cell phone number. Writing it on a small piece of paper, she hit the redial number on the phone and again had it automatically connect her with Gabe Langston.

“Langston.”

“Hi, it’s Kresley. Any luck finding my bank or cell company?”

He rattled off account numbers and the names and addresses of the closest branches and stores. “You own a lime-green VW Beetle,” he added. “Is it there?”

Kresley peeked out of the drawn drapes. “No.”

“I’ll have someone check the parking lot at the docks.”

“I’ve found a phone number and some names. Is there any way—”

“Read them off.”

Kresley did as he asked and in a matter of seconds, he had the names of her roommates. Emma Rooper, Abby Howell and Janice Cross. Only Paula remained unidentified.

“That’s interesting.”

“What?”

“Janice Cross. That’s the woman in the photo that Matt was so interested in learning more about.”

KRESLEY FIGURED her landlady would be a lot more accommodating if she showed up with the back rent. She was glad Gabe had warned her about her thick-necked shadow because he stuck to her like glue as she walked the block and a half to her bank.

She was a lefty with a bandaged left hand and unfortunately the withdrawal slip required her signature. If they asked for ID, she was toast. If she had to guess, her identification was somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic. The best she could muster was an old expired driver’s license she’d found in her panty drawer.

A thin sheen of perspiration covered her as she waited in the orderly line, created by burgundy velvet ropes. The entire time, she prayed silently. Prayed that she had enough money. Prayed that she wouldn’t get snagged by lack of identification.

A year later—okay, it just felt that long—Kresley stepped up to the available teller. “Hi, I’m—”

“Kresley! What happened to your hand?” the young brunette woman with the cheery smile asked.

“Um, accident with a knife,” she said as she slid the withdrawal slip across the veneered counter.

“You should be more careful….”

Kresley tuned her out, not to be rude but because she was relieved at not being interrogated. She’d been so terrified of not being able to answer questions, she’d actually written her address and birth date on the palm of her good hand.

“Here you go,” the teller said with a wave and a broad grin. “One money order, a receipt and a hundred dollars.” The teller set them out as if dealing a hand of cards.

“Thank you,” Kresley said, sticking it all inside her empty purse and stepping away from the window.

Her next stop was the phone store where she bought a cell phone. Then, as the sun was setting, she walked the short distance back to her apartment complex, in search of her landlady. She knocked on the door and the landlady yelled to come in. She’d supplemented her central air conditioning with a large window unit that made a strained rattling sound. Her apartment was the same floor plan as Kresley’s, though instead of a living room, she had it set up as an office.

“What now?”

“I brought back your phone and I want to clear up my back rent.” She reached into her purse and handed over the money order.

Scowling, the woman pursed lips that were poorly outlined in an unnatural orange-brown. “I’ve been hounding you for months. How come you can pay now?”

“Does it matter?” Kresley asked.

The woman shrugged and her dull brown eyes narrowed. “Need something else?”

“I want a copy of the rental agreement and background checks on me and my roommates if possible.”

“Sure,” the landlady shrugged and rolled a cheap office chair over to the filing cabinets and took out a file marked 1B. She rolled over to a copy machine, managing to do everything without ever leaving her chair. Kresley thanked her.

Her response was, “Yeah, well, just remember next month’s rent is due in sixteen days.”

Returning to her apartment, Kresley heard a car pulling into the lot. The sound spooked her, so she jerked her head to see if it was her thick-necked bodyguard.

It was Matt’s Jeep.

“Before you get mad,” he began before he even cut the engine. “I’m here on Kendall’s orders. She said with the concussion someone should check on you. I’m just—” Matt stopped in mid-sentence to answer his cell. “DeMarco.”

“It’s Gabe. The Coast Guard just found the Carolina Moon.”

“And?”

“Lots of blood and lots of bodies.”

“Janice?”

“Sorry, all I got from my contact was two female victims and three male victims.”

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