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“Do I feel like a stranger?”

“I feel like a stranger. Why wouldn’t you?”

“What does your instinct tell you?” he asks, playing the same card Gallo had earlier.

And again, I say, “I don’t trust my instincts.”

“And yet you refuse your memories and leave yourself with nothing else to go on, vulnerable to lies I’m not telling you.”

Vulnerable. He uses the word like he knows what I’m feeling. Like he knows me. “How do I know that? How do I know anything you tell me is true?”

“Exactly,” he agrees. “That’s my point. It’s time to come out of the shadows and remember who you are.”

“You think I don’t want to? I can’t just flip a switch and make my mind work. And neither can you.”

“Maybe not, but I’m not leaving you in those shadows, either.” He reaches for me, and I gasp as he twists me around to face the mirror, his hips leveraging my backside from behind.

“What are you doing?” I demand, grabbing the sink while he grabs a hunk of my hair and holds it up to display the red.

“What does this tell us about you?”

“Lots of people dye their hair,” I say, afraid of where this is going, of what I’m about to find out.

“You not only colored your hair,” he says, “you did it quickly and badly.” He turns me around again, pressing my backside to the sink, his hands settling on my hips, scorching me through the thin material. “You were running when I found you, and you almost got caught.”

“You can’t know that,” I say, my fingers curling on the hard wall of his chest where they’ve landed. “I don’t know that.”

“Those men chasing you in that alley weren’t two-bit thieves. They were skilled, experienced criminals, and they were after you.”

“You saw them?”

“Yes. I saw them. And I intervened or you wouldn’t be here right now. What I didn’t know, when I called emergency and gave them my damn name, was who those men were. Not until I found this.” He digs out a package of matches. “Do they look familiar?”

“No,” I say, my voice cracking. “Nothing looks familiar but you.”

“Because you don’t want to remember anything before me and you have to.”

“I want to remember.”

“Mezonnett,” he says, reading the writing on the matchbook flap, and then grabbing my palm to press it inside my hand, curling my fingers, and his, around it. “It’s a restaurant owned by a man named Niccolo. A very rich, very arrogant man who also happens to be the biggest mobster in Italy.”

“Mobster?” I whisper, my fears of criminal connections realized, and then rejected. “No. No, this isn’t right. I can’t be involved with a mobster.”

“I don’t care what you did or didn’t do with or to Niccolo to piss him off. I just know you did something, and his men won’t chase you and forget you, because he doesn’t forget those who burn him. And that is not only your problem; it became mine when I gave my name to the emergency personnel and it ended up on the police report.”

I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. “He’s going to look for me through you.”

“Yes, he is, which is why I had a hacker erase my name from the police report. He also amended the ‘Jane Doe’ version of your records to show you were transported here to the hospital, but never admitted.”

“That’s why you registered me under an alias. So this Niccolo person couldn’t find me.”

“That’s right. I even had your registration date changed.”

“But Gallo found you, and us.”

“Because someone who knows how much he hates me heard my name on the emergency radio and told him. He intercepted the paper version of the police report about sixty seconds before it would have disappeared as well.”

“He hates you.”

“Yes. He hates me.”

“Why?”

“It’s about a woman. Kind of like now.”

“About me, you mean?”

“For me, yes. For him it’s about her, and she’s a bitter pill he refuses to swallow. Which is why I’m here before he draws the attention to us I’ve ensured we don’t get. One of the nurses just informed me that he spent the past two days going room to room, looking for me until finally someone recognized me. He talked to a lot of people. Too many for me to feel safe staying here, with Niccolo looking for you.”

“How can you know he’s really looking for me?”

“He never leaves loose ends. That’s why he’s survived.”

“Because no one else does,” I say, my throat suddenly raw and dry.

“You’ve got it, sweetheart, but to be clear, no one outruns Niccolo. We’re going to attack this and win—and to do that, I need what’s inside your head.” He pushes away from me and crosses to a long, rectangular cabinet and removes a duffel bag, which he tosses on the floor. “It’s time for you to remember who you are. Your laundered clothes are inside. Open it and get in touch with your past, because who and what you are to Niccolo will decide what we do next.”

“Don’t say that like I’m intimately involved with him,” I snap. “I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I can’t be involved with a mobster.”

“A scenario that makes this easier to fix. So open the bag, grab your memories, and give us both a reason to believe that’s true.”

Adrenaline surges through me, and my eyes land on the bag holding my personal belongings. My truth. I begin to tremble, a sign of denial and weakness I can no longer afford. Shoving off of the sink, I take the two steps between me and the bag and lower myself onto the ground in front of it, the hard tile biting into my knees. Unbidden, I flash back to being in the same position, with cobblestone pavement instead of tiles punishing my skin, and I want to know how I got there, why I was there. I grab the zipper and try to tug it down the bag, only the stupid shaking of my hand interferes, and I grab it, willing it to still.

Kayden settles to one knee in front of me. “Easy, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a low, soothing caress I do not expect, nor do I accept, after all he’s just said and done.

“You just told me that I’m linked to a mobster, who now most likely wants to kill us both. Nothing about this is easy.”

“Any memories you find within the contents of this bag won’t be as bad as what Niccolo will do to both of us if we let him catch up with us.”

“Thanks for making me feel better.”

“I’m not a feel-good kind of guy. You have to do this.” He doesn’t wait for my agreement, unzipping the bag himself, and reaching inside to set a neatly folded pile of clothes on my lap.

I stare down at the garments, a pair of dark jeans and a lavender V-neck T-shirt, praying for that switch I told Kayden didn’t exist to flip on in my head, but the now familiar white noise remains. “Nothing,” I say, unable to bring myself to look at him, but he’s not having it.

“Look at me,” he orders, and I don’t want to, but somehow I do, and I can feel him compelling me to give him a different answer, one I can’t give. “There has to be something.”

“There isn’t. Those clothes might as well be someone else’s.”

“That’s not good enough,” he says, and while his voice is low, the undertone of truth cuts like a knife.

I snap back, “You think I don’t know that?”

His eyes glint, the wolf back in spades, and he grabs the clothes, tossing them in the bag and shoving it aside, his hands closing around my arms. “It’s time to remember.”

My anger is instant, fear nowhere in sight. “You can’t order me to remember and I just do it.”

“I’ll take that challenge,” he declares, standing and lifting me with him.

“Stop bullying me,” I hiss, grabbing two handfuls of his shirt, and giving not even a tiny flip about my gaping gown. “Stop bullying me!”

“I’m trying to save your life,” he says, rotating me and pressing me against the hard wall, fingers flexing into my shoulders where he still holds me. “What’s your name?”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

“No,” I bite out. “I don’t.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Your memories could change everything we do when we walk out of this room—you know that, right? Every move we make that could be wrong, you can make right. Now: what’s your name?”

I don’t know, but I can’t say that to him again. “Let me off the wall.”

“After you tell me your name.”

“Stop being an asshole!” I explode, shoving against his hard, unmoving body.

“I’ve been called worse, sweetheart,” he says, cupping my face. “Give me what I want.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t know.”

“What’s your name?”

“I told you—”

“What’s your damn name?”

“Ella,” I shock myself by saying. “My name is Ella.”

four

Ella,” I repeat, joyful laughter bubbling from my lips. “Ella. Ella. Ella!” I grab his shirt, balling it in my hand. “Kayden, I remember! I remember my name! Thank you for being an asshole.” I point a finger at his chest and manage a moment of sternness to warn, “But don’t do it again. It won’t work next time. I’ll know what you’re doing.”

His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, those blue, blue eyes meeting mine as he says, “Ella.”

“Ella!” I exclaim, absolutely giddy. “Oh God. It feels good to hear my name.” Even better in his rich, deep, sexy voice, and I demand a replay. “Say it again.”

His fingers flex where he holds me. “Sweetheart, I need you to listen to me.” His voice is firm, directive. “I know you’re happy, but—”

“But?” I repeat, my bubble quickly deflating. “That’s not a good word. It prefaces a problem.” My eyes go wide. “Please tell me my name doesn’t mean something horrible to you.”

“I’ve never heard your name before now. And what it means to me isn’t what’s important.”

“If I’m a crazy person and don’t know it, but you do, yeah, I kind of think it does.”

“You’re about to make me the crazy person, woman. Time is not our friend right now. I need to know if ‘Ella’ is just a name to you. Or did we unlock your memory?”

I inhale on the question that might as well be a knife drawing blood. Ella is as much a stranger to me as Kayden. “Ella is not just a name¸” I argue, rejecting that this revelation means nothing. “It’s my name. And I know it’s my name, and that’s more than I had five minutes ago.”

“I understand that,” he says. “But—”

“It’s not enough.”

“Can you remember your last name? Give me that name and I’ll find out who you are and how you might be connected to Niccolo.”

“A last name,” I repeat, willing it to come to me.

“Don’t think,” he reprimands. “Just answer like before. Yes or no. Time is ticking.”

“No, but Ella isn’t a common name. Surely there can’t be that many of us who’ve traveled to Italy in the short window tourists are allowed to be in a country.”

His eyes sharpen, his tone with them. “I take it that’s a no on the last name.”

I force out a reluctant, “No.”

“And we don’t even know if you are a tourist.” He releases me, adding a murmured, “Fuck,” before diving fingers through his hair and flashing the tattoo on his left wrist, which appears to be some sort of bird, while I can now tell the box on his right has a chess piece inside. I wait for either to mean something to me, like his watch and his scent, but nothing comes to me.

“You’re sure?” he presses, his hands settling on his jean-clad hips.

The fact that he’s gone from “Don’t think” to this says he’s desperate, and I’m pretty sure he’s not a man who gets desperate often. “I wish I wasn’t.”

“Not even a possible name?”

I give a shake of my head and his lips tighten, his chest expanding on a breath he exhales with the declaration, “Plan B it is, then.”

“Plan B?” I ask.

“That’s right,” he says, giving me a once-over that has my nipples puckering beneath the thin gown, before he levels a stare at me and orders, “Get dressed. We need to be gone before Gallo gets back.”

“Please tell me the extent of Plan A, which is always the best plan, wasn’t just you being an asshole to try and jolt my memory.”

“Plan A was, and is, you remembering who you are, and that will remain the case. I told you. The details of your relationship to Niccolo are a potential game changer.”

My fingers curl into fists by my sides. “I don’t have a relationship with Niccolo. I’d know if I did. I’d feel it. Like I know you’re . . .” My voice trails off while the certainty of knowing this man beyond that alleyway takes root, and reality hits me. I’ve been swept away by this man so much so that I chose him over a detective, and I’m about to leave the hospital without even knowing where we’re going.

“I’m what?” he presses.

“I know there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

He reaches for me, pulling me to him, his hand nestling intimately over the bare skin under my gown and above my backside. “Please don’t do this,” he pleads, his gentle tone defying the tension wafting off of him. “I know you’re scared and confused, but don’t start doubting me now. I am not your enemy, Ella.”

The way he’s holding me, the way he says my name, weakens my knees and does funny things to my belly, which only drives me to challenge him. “Prove it. Tell me how we know each other.”

He walks me backward until I hit the wall, pressing me against it, his hands settling on either side of my face, his arms caging me. “We don’t have time for this right now,” he says, his gentle tone now hard with demand, but that spicy vanilla scent of him reminds me of why I need the answers he’s not giving me.

“Make time, Kayden.”

“Tell that to Gallo, who, according to my calculations, will be back here with that fingerprint kit in thirty minutes. If we let him run your prints, Niccolo will find you, even if that requires torturing or killing Gallo to connect the dots to that police report and us.”

My eyes go wide. “What? No. No. He wouldn’t—”

“He’s a mobster, sweetheart. People say he cut his own heart out when he was born, while his mother watched.”

My hand goes to my throat. “I can do without the dramatics, Kayden.”

“No. I don’t think you can.” He softens his voice, but his words are just as harsh and damning. “I can’t be gentle when underestimating his evil will get you killed too.”

Shell-shocked, I whisper, “This can’t be real. It has to be a mistake.” Then louder: “I can’t be the person Niccolo is looking for.”

“If it is a mistake, I’ll figure it out, but I can’t do that if we’re both dead.” He pushes off the wall and scoops my clothes off the floor to set them on the toilet. “Clothes. Now. I want us walking out of this building in ten minutes.” He digs his phone from his pocket. “In the meantime, I’m going to make a phone call. Pray the name Ella leads us where we need to go.” He doesn’t wait for my reply, crossing to my left to face the far wall, his back to me, assumably his version of giving me privacy. And I don’t even care. I just want out of this gown and this hospital that’s become a cage. I need Kayden to make that happen, but where he and I go from here, I don’t know. I’ll decide on the fly, but whatever the case, I will make an educated decision that has nothing to do with his damn blue eyes.

Launching myself off the wall, I dart for the jeans that are supposed to be mine, grabbing them and shoving my legs inside, because apparently the other me doesn’t wear underwear. They fit perfectly, but they’re still not familiar, and I promise myself I will remember every last part of my life, down to my socks. I will own my world again and I will own a plan to make that happen. And while I don’t want to be a person who would be involved in any way with a man like Niccolo, I’ll figure out how to fix that, once I figure out how it began.

I squat next to the bag, and hear Kayden say, “I need you to search the passport entry for the name Ella,” and I pause in the process of digging for a bra, another dash of hard-core reality hitting me. He’s asking someone to break the law to help me. He’s also openly admitted to hacking police records and knowing Niccolo. Who knows a mobster? I squeeze my eyes shut. Right. Who? Maybe me, it appears, and I have to face that possibility to get to the other side of this, wherever that may land me.

“No,” Kayden says into the phone, “I do not have a last name,” and while the irritation lacing his tone is intended for the person he’s speaking with, I feel it like a punch in the gut. Why would I remember my first name and not my last? And the answer is instant. My last name would return me to my real world, and knowing what I know about the trouble I’ve found, I’m pretty sure that I don’t want to go back. And it’s unacceptable. I can’t fix what is broken if I don’t even try.

“Coward,” I whisper, scolding myself and refocusing on the urgency to get dressed and the contents of the duffel. I remove a pair of tennis shoes and socks and set them on the floor, my eyes going wide as I retrieve a gorgeous cream-colored bra from the bag, noting the splattering of sparkly jewels over the silk. Searching for the brand, I discover the tag is written in Italian. Or I assume it is. It’s sure not English, and while I remind myself that tourists buy lingerie, Kayden’s words play in my head. We don’t even know if you are a tourist. And this time, I start to wonder if I really am.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Kayden murmurs into the phone. “I know all the reasons this is difficult, but you’re always bragging about how you do ‘magic.’ Now I’m paying you to prove it.” There are a few beats of silence in which he listens, and I struggle to put on the bra without taking the gown off, only to end up a tangled mess. “Within the hour,” Kayden tells the person on the other end of the line, abruptly ending the call, and before I can ask what happens in an hour, he peeks over his shoulder and asks, “Are you dressed?”

“Don’t turn around,” I order, and once I’m certain he’s listened, I tear both the gown and bra from my body, groaning when the hook attaches to the armhole.

“Need help?” he asks.

“No!” I say quickly.

He gives a low, sexy rumble of laughter and holds his hands out to his sides. “Just trying to speed up the process, but I have to warn you. In about sixty seconds you get my help whether you want it or not.”

He might have prefaced that warning with laughter, but he’s serious, and I quickly hook the clasp at my back and reach for my shirt, only to freeze at the sound of activity in the other room. Kayden hears it too, rotating to face me, his finger pressed to his lips, warning me not to speak. I nod, praying Gallo hasn’t returned sooner than expected, and preparing to feign illness to avoid those fingerprints.

Kayden’s gaze sweeps low, raking over my nearly naked breasts, and when my nipples pucker beneath the silk in reaction, his jaw clenches, eyes flashing with one part heat, another two parts disapproval. He closes the space between us, snatching up my shirt and pressing it to my belly, mouthing, “Now.” It’s a small action that tells me he’s as concerned as I am that Gallo has returned and he’s preparing for a fast departure.

My hand closes over the cotton tee, and I’m about to pull it over my head when a knock sounds on the door, and I fumble it, letting it drop to the ground. Heart thundering in my chest, I hold out my hands, silently asking Kayden if I should answer the knock, receiving a quick, negative shake of his head in reply. And so we stand there, neither of us daring so much as to blink. I assume we’re waiting to find out who we are dealing with to decide on a response.

Another knock sounds, and I swear I jump a mile high before I hear, “Are you doing okay in there?”

Relief washes over me at the sound of Maria’s voice, and even Kayden’s shoulders visibly relax. “I’m good, Maria,” I call out, rushing toward the door, fully intending to peek outside and send her on her way. Kayden is there in front of me, though, blocking the door and giving me another negative shake of the head.

I grimace at him, and a silent conversation between us ensues.

Me: “Why can’t I open the door?”

Him: “Don’t ask questions, just do as I bid.”

I surprise myself with a “Fuck you!”

He arches a brow, eyes hinting at amusement, not anger.

“Can I get you anything?” Maria asks.

Offering Kayden my back, I press my hands to the door, preparing to wing this any way I can without his silent bossiness. “No thank you,” I reply. “Just brushing my hair and washing my face.”

“You really must be feeling better,” Maria replies, sounding pleased. “Do you want something special for dinner to celebrate? Maybe chocolate cake?”

I jump on a chance for privacy. “Actually, my brother’s bringing me dinner soon.”

“Oh, how nice! I’ll cancel your dinner tray, then. Buzz me if you need anything.”

“Thank you!” I call, holding my breath to await her departure, listening as her footsteps sound and begin to fade. Finally breathing again, I turn around and flatten against the door, finding Kayden standing in front of me, a long, sexy lock of light brown hair brushing his brow, my shirt in his hands. My almost naked breasts between us.

“Put it on this time,” he orders, tossing the shirt to me, his gaze sweeping low, brushing over my breasts, where they linger a moment before landing on my bare feet. “And shoes,” he says, his eyes meeting mine again. “Quickly.” He snaps out the last word, turning away and crossing to the cabinet where he retrieved the duffel bag, while I try to catch the breath he’s stolen from me.

Shaking myself, telling myself that I have to find a way to put his impact on me on mute, I tug the T-shirt over my head and grab the tennis shoes and socks I retrieved earlier. Sitting on the edge of the toilet, I ignore the increasing pressure in my head and bend over to put them on, irritated that I know the brand “Keds” when I still don’t remember my own last name.

I stand up about the time Kayden shrugs into a sleek, fitted brown leather jacket that matches his boots, not to mention hugs every perfect inch of his torso. I’m irritated that I’m even noticing such things when I’m about to be on the run from the Italian police.

Slipping my hands inside the front of my jean pockets, I say, “So we’re really doing this?”

“This?” He laughs. “We’re not breaking out of jail, Ella.”

“We’re running from Gallo,” I point out, wondering how he so easily uses my newly discovered name.

“I told you,” he says, “we aren’t running from anyone. We’re making sure things happen on our terms.”

“It feels like we’re running,” I argue, hugging myself. “Isn’t he going to come after you to find me?”

“Leave Gallo to me,” he says, reaching inside the cabinet again to produce another jacket, this one in black and my size. “It’s February and cold. You’re going to need this.” He holds it open for me.

“It’s February,” I say, closing the distance between us to rotate and slip into the coat. “I know I’m wearing Keds tennis shoes, but I don’t know the month. My brain is ridiculously illogical.” I face him again. “What’s today’s date?”

“The fourteenth,” he says, and while I think “Valentine’s Day” and glance at my naked ring finger, he doesn’t seem to notice, moving on to more important things, like getting us out of here. “Here’s the plan,” he says. “I’m going to check out the hallway and see if I need to create a distraction for our exit.”

“What kind of distraction?”

“I’ll pull the fire alarm if I have to, but I don’t think I will.” He reaches into the cabinet and retrieves a medium black purse, which he hands to me. “I told the clerk to fill it. Once I leave the bathroom, you’ll have about three minutes to put on makeup, pouf up your hair, and do whatever you can to not look like a person the staff will recognize.”

I gape at what I know to be a Chanel flagship purse with a cool five-thousand-dollar price tag, while Kayden glances at his also ridiculously expensive watch and instructs, “I’ll knock three times when I come back so you know it’s me. Don’t open the door for anyone else and don’t talk once you exit the bathroom. We don’t want anyone checking on you or recognizing your voice once you’re in the hallway.”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Finally,” he continues, “people know me on this floor now, so you’re going to exit the room before me and turn left. Act confident and walk slowly and casually, no matter how much you want to run. When you reach the stairs, exit. That’ll be about halfway down the hall. I’ll meet you on the basement level, which is the parking garage.”

“Meet me? Where will you be?”

“I’m taking the elevator to draw attention away from you. There’s a cell phone in your purse. Stay at the garage door until I call you. I want you to literally walk out the door and we’ll drive away. The phone is programmed with my number. If you run into any trouble, find a place to hole up, lock yourself in if you can, and call me.” He shuts the cabinet. “We need to do this now.”

Adrenaline surges through me, and my stupid hands start to shake. I shove them in my pockets, and Kayden grabs me, pulling me to him, his hands solidly on my waist. “I know you’re nervous, but in ten minutes, we’ll be out of here, on our way to ending this.”

“You make it sound so simple. We’re dealing with a mobster, remember?”

“That’s why we have to erase the path that leads him to us.” His fingers gently wrap my neck. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You have my word.”

I don’t have time to digest his promise, or why it matters to me so much, before he releases me and wastes no time crossing the room to open the door, glancing over his shoulder to say, “Three minutes,” before he disappears.

I waste at least five seconds of the first minute staring at the door he’s shut behind him before I dart for the sink and open the purse, setting it on the counter. Searching through the selection, I grab a bottle of foundation, and that’s when I realize that I’m avoiding the mirror. Grinding my teeth, I unscrew the top of the bottle and face myself, but rather than see me how I am now, my mind’s eye shows me Ella. Red hair. Smiling. My eyes alight, my spirit fearless. Fearless. I was. I have to be now.

Spurred into action, I slather on the makeup base, and one by one, I apply eye shadow, lip gloss, and mascara, my memory supplying exactly how I like each item to look. Lastly, I finger-fluff as I spray my hair for volume, hating the way the dark shade washes out my coloring. I step back from the sink and give myself a quick, critical inspection. My hair is full and shiny. My lips are a pretty, pale pink that matches the eye shadow I’ve applied, while my lashes are stroked long and thick with mascara. Satisfied I won’t be easily recognized, especially in my street clothes, I toss everything back in the purse, getting antsy about Kayden’s return, and almost expecting that fire alarm to go off. Leaning on the sink, I stare at myself in the mirror and try to complete my name. “Ella . . . Ella . . . what?”

My mind replies, but not with my name. Suddenly I am in another small bathroom, applying makeup to the pretty brunette in my memory, laughing at her as she complains about a red lipstick I want to use on her. And then I hear my voice speaking to her. “Don’t be a prude, Sara.” I suck in a breath, my chest burning with the memory. Sara. Her name was Sara. Is Sara. Is Sara. She’s not gone. I am. And I love her. And miss her. But I don’t know how to find her.

A knock sounds behind me, followed by two more that confirm it’s Kayden at the door. I grab my purse, throw the strap over my neck cross-body style, and face forward as Kayden decides not to wait for me and enters. “We’re clear to leave,” he says, his eyes flickering over my face, lowering to my lips, where they linger.

I hold my breath, waiting for his approval. He reaches for me, heat radiating from his palm to mine, as he drags me to him, aligning our bodies. “You’re the one who is beautiful,” he declares, his voice silky on my frayed nerve endings. “But I want to know who Ella really is,” he adds. “And I promise you, I will. Soon.”

The compliment sends flutters to my belly, while the promise sends a rush of unease through me that I do not understand, but have no time to analyze. Still holding my hand, Kayden is already leading me into the next room, and while he’s focused on our exit, my attention lands on the bed that has been my prison, straying further to the journal on the table, and suddenly I have to have it.

Tugging my hand free of Kayden’s, I dash around the bed before he can stop me, grabbing it and stuffing it into my purse, the one thing that belongs to me when I have nothing else. My goal achieved, I don’t linger or allow myself time to consider why I so needed this little detour. I rush toward the man I’d declared beautiful only days ago, about to take a huge leap of faith and put my life in his hands.

five

Date: 2016-03-03; view: 644