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Finally, he walks toward me, each step a loose-legged swagger, all confident, sexy male, every part of him lean, hot, and, right now, mean. He stops in front of me, towering over me, taller than I think I realized until this tension-laden moment. “You know,” he says, his voice a soft taunt, “since you’re so against putting clothes on, maybe I should just rip that blanket away and fuck you before you decide I’m him. Or maybe I need to fuck you to make sure you know I’m not him.” His lips thin. “Or maybe that’s exactly what he would do and why I need to just walk away.” He turns and leaves, crossing to the doorway, and disappears into the hallway. I straighten and consider going after him, but one look at my blanket and I turn toward the bathroom. It’s time to put clothes on and keep them on.

Coloring my hair requires that I let a messy mixture sit on my head for forty minutes, giving me plenty of time to replay every part of my conversation with Kayden. I also have a conversation with myself, in which my good ol’ voice of reason returns and I promise myself that it, not my hormones, will dictate my interactions with Kayden. Still, by the time I finish rinsing my hair, I decide Kayden gave me a gun as an offer of trust, which earns him the cautious benefit of the doubt.

Once I’m out of the shower, I bundle myself and my hair up in towels and kneel in front of the sink, opening the cabinet to find my clothes neatly folded, smelling of fabric softener, and nice and dry. With them is my Chanel purse, and a new toothbrush and toothpaste, both in unopened packages.

“He got me a toothbrush and washed my clothes,” I whisper, and I can’t imagine the man in my flashback being thoughtful enough to do these things. At some point, though, that man in my flashback had to have been good to me or I wouldn’t have been shocked when he tied me up. And I am certain that night was the night he’d shown me he was a monster. Monster. It’s a word I used with Kayden last night, and I don’t like what this connection implies.

Shaking myself, I grab the pile of my items, stand up to set them all on the ledge of the giant garden tub, and start to dress. I quickly tug on my jeans, only just now realizing a very slight heaviness in my skull, but it’s manageable for sure. I reach for the bra and stare at the label again, willing a memory of buying the fancy garment, but there just isn’t one. I put it on, and I’m pleased that even my tennis shoes have been dried. Fully dressed now, I give myself a once-over in the mirror and decide I’m too skinny. I need to eat, but I’m pretty sure, despite decent breasts, I’ll never be lucky enough to sport Beyoncé curves. I grimace. Right. I know Beyoncé but not my own last name. It’s infuriating.

“Ella, Ella, Ella,” I murmur, willing my last name to come to me as I squat at the cabinet again and locate the blow-dryer, doing the best that I can with my hair with no styling products, and when I find myself hating the dark brown color, I know the reality here. I don’t hate my body or my hair. I hate looking at a stranger in the mirror.

Giving up the struggle with my hair, I locate my purse, surprised at how well it survived the rain. Unzipping it, I set the ruined journal aside and freeze at the sight of the gun, not even sure how it and the journal fit inside in the first place. Wetting my suddenly dry lips, I remove the gun and set it on the counter, recalling the moment Kayden had drawn it and the blow it had been to believe he really was my enemy. I ran from Kayden last night because of Adriel, but if I’m honest with myself, I also ran from my fear that I’d trust him no matter what. A fear I still haven’t conquered.

Leaving the gun behind, I snatch up the purse and move back to my spot in front of the mirror, and do a fast job with my makeup. I slide my purse strap over my head, wearing it cross-body, and then I have to face that gun again. Dread fills me at the idea of touching it, and I don’t know why. I just had it in my hand, and, impatient with all these weird feelings, I reach for it, only to jerk my hand back and grab the sink as my mind thrusts me into the past. And Lord help me, I am back in that room. His bedroom. I can see myself from above again. I’m dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and I’m pacing, tears streaking my cheeks. And then I’m there. I’m in the past, living the hell all over again.

I stop pacing, my hand trembling as I shove my fingers through my long red hair, trying to calm myself, but I know that he’ll be back soon. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it now. “I have to do this,” I say, and my voice is strong and sure. I turn and stare at a tall mahogany dresser that matches the bed I so hate at my back. My chest expands on a huge breath, and I walk to the dresser and sink to my knees. I dig through lingerie, beautiful, delicate lingerie, and uncover a black box. And I don’t let myself think—I open it and display the gun I’m after.

The image fades, and I gasp with the impact of what I just felt, shocked to find I’ve sunk to my knees, as if I was in front of that dresser all over again. And I’m trembling, like I was that night. I remember that night. What I felt. What I thought I had to do. I shove off the sink and reach for the gun, checking the ammunition chamber to ensure it’s loaded, and I do it with the ease of someone familiar with weapons. Someone who would know how to use one to kill if she so chose. Or needed to.

I place the gun in my purse and zip it up, folding my arms in front of me, a burn in my chest as I look at the woman in the mirror, and I was right. I don’t know her. “What did you do, Ella?” I whisper, and then grab the sink again to yell, “What did you do?”

eight

I begin to pace the bathroom the way I had his bedroom that night, my hand pressed to my forehead. “I killed someone. I killed him.” I stop walking and face the mirror, reprimanding myself. “Stop saying that. You didn’t kill anyone.” I look to the ceiling. But what if I did? My knees go weak, and I sink to the edge of the tub and press my hand to my belly. It makes sense that it had to be something this bad for my mind to shut down as it has.

I bury my face in my hands and think of Gallo and the fingerprints. My hands drop to the ledge of the tub. How does Niccolo connect to this? Did he know the man I think I killed? Is he hunting me for revenge? Or is he the man and I didn’t kill him? I just tried? No. I wouldn’t be with a gangster. Unless . . . did I not know who, and what, he was? No. I didn’t kill him. My stomach rolls. I might have killed him. I have to tell Kayden. Now. Before the truth is exposed and Gallo finds some way to take Kayden down with me. I push to my feet and stand there. I don’t want to tell him. I have to tell him. I have to tell him.

Stiffening my spine, I face the door and start walking, and I don’t stop. I exit the bedroom and start down stairs that in daylight I can tell are some sort of frosted glass, the railing stainless steel. Reaching the bottom level, I step across shiny white tiles and enter a living area that feels modern and chic, with light gray furnishings. I step farther into the room, finding no one around, amazed to find a walkway running above my head and the entire length of the room, also made with the etched glass-looking material.

There is another stairwell leading up to that second level, but I choose a door to my left that I’m gambling leads to the kitchen. Once I’m there, I consider knocking, but it’s a kitchen, not a bedroom, and Kayden did tell me to come down when I was ready. I push open the door, and, holding it open, I bring another white and gray room into view, with three men gathered at a round, all-white island.

To my left, Nathan, Kayden’s doctor friend, sits on a high-backed gray bar stool, his brown hair styled neatly, his blue suit and tie obviously expensive. To my right sits a man who is his polar opposite, with wavy, longish dark brown hair, his features chiseled, the slogan on his obviously worn black T-shirt in Italian. And standing in the center, directly across from me and the only one of the three I truly care about right now, is Kayden.

My eyes meet his, and I feel the connection punch me in the chest. His expression is tight, his eyes hard, and everything that happened between us an hour before is in the air between us now. The kiss. His hand on my breast. Him naked in the shower. But mostly, his anger. “Can I talk to you alone, please, Kayden?”

“Nathan’s on a tight schedule,” he says. “He wants to check you out before he leaves.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “I feel a lot better.”

“Not for long if we don’t get some additional medicine in you,” Nathan assures me. “And I need to evaluate you before I give you additional drugs.”

That gets my attention, and I look at Nathan. “The pain is going to come back?”

“Not if we keep you medicated.” He pats the stool. “Come sit.”

My lips clamp together, and I bite back everything I want to say to Kayden and cross to the island, claiming the seat and giving Kayden my back in the process. “Let me get a few supplies out of my bag,” Nathan says, and I nod, glancing at the dark-haired man in the seat across from me.

“Ciao,” he says, giving me a two-finger wave, surprising me with a fleeting glimpse of a box-shaped tattoo on his wrist, with script up his forearm. “I’m Matteo.”

“Hi, Matteo,” I greet him, trying to figure out why he and Kayden have matching tattoos. And what do they mean? “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

“Always happy to help a pretty woman,” he assures me, motioning to Kayden. “And as a bonus, now Kayden owes me a favor.”

“You owe me at least ten,” Kayden reminds him.

“At least it’s not eleven,” Matteo rebuts, winking at me, and I like him. Actually, I like Nathan as well, but neither of them feels even remotely familiar the way Kayden does.

“Okay,” Nathan says, “I’m ready for you.”

I rotate to face Nathan, who’s now to my left, which means I’d be eye to eye with Kayden if Nathan wasn’t standing between us, us holding up a small light. “I just need to check your pupils.” He flips it on and tilts my chin up, giving each eye a check and popping the light into his pocket. “They look good,” he says, his hands sliding to his hips under his jacket. “On a scale of one to ten, what was your headache like yesterday versus today?”

“A ten yesterday. A one today.”

“Excellent,” he says. “Let’s get some vitals and I’ll give you some more drugs.”

“So as long as I take the drugs, I won’t relapse?” I ask, as he removes supplies from a leather briefcase.

“Not unless you run through a church parking lot in a thunderstorm,” he says, a smile ghosting across his lips.

I lean around him and point at Kayden. “Don’t even think about saying anything right now.”

Kayden lifts his hands in surrender, his lips curving, a hint of the tension between us slipping away. “I wasn’t even considering it.”

“Oh hell yeah, he was,” Matteo says.

Kayden responds to him in Italian, and they start talking back and forth as Nathan finishes checking my vitals. “You need to learn Italian,” Nathan observes.

“Yes,” I agree. “I do. Are you American too?”

“Canadian,” he corrects. “I came here for a woman and fell in love with the country, and out of love with her.”

“Ouch,” I say.

“Better to find out sooner than later,” he says, returning his supplies to his bag and retrieving a bottle, which he sets on the counter. “Take one now with a full glass of water and then four times a day for five days.”

“What are they?” I ask.

“The same anti-inflammatory I gave you by injection before you woke up. I use it often for patients suffering from migraines. You should be feeling pretty darn good by the time you run out. If for any reason it stops working, though, Kayden knows how to reach me. I’ll stop by his place to check on you in a few days.” He slips his bag on his shoulder. “And now, I am a day late for Valentine’s Day and therefore have a date I can’t miss.”

Valentine’s Day. The day for lovers, and I am pretty sure I killed the man Kayden called mine. “Thanks again,” I choke out, and then realize I haven’t asked about my amnesia, and he hasn’t brought it up. “Wait. Sorry, but how common is memory loss with a concussion?”

“Rare to the extent you’re experiencing it, but it happens. The important thing to know is that it’s not life threatening or debilitating.” I grimace at that, and he holds up a finger. “I saw that look. I wasn’t dismissing your problem. I was simply trying to ease your mind. And you’re already remembering small things. You’ll remember the rest.”

And I both wish for and dread that day.

His hand comes down on my shoulder, a friendly gesture that is missing all the fire of Kayden’s touch. “We’ll talk more about this when I stop by to check on you at Kayden’s place.”

I nod. “Yes. Thank you again, Nathan. I really needed help, and you were there for me.”

He smiles. “And now Kayden owes me a favor.” He glances at Kayden. “Or ten.” He lifts a hand and heads for the door. Matteo says something to Kayden in Italian and takes off after Nathan, and just like that, I’m alone with Kayden.

Desperate to get my confession over with, I rotate and say, “Kayden,” only to discover he’s already standing in front of me and I’ve just pressed our legs together. I tilt my chin up to look at him. “I . . . You . . .”

He arches a brow. “I what?”

The words don’t want to come out of my mouth. “About what happened upstairs—”

“Matteo is coming right back.” He opens the bottle and pops a pill onto his hand, holding it out to me. “You need to take this now before you end up in bed again.”

He’s right. The last thing I need right now is to turn into a mess like I was last night. I reach for the pill, my hand going to his palm, the touch electric, and his fingers close around mine. My eyes dart to his, and I try to read his still unreadable expression. I wait for him to say whatever he intends to, but he is silent. He just looks at me, his gaze probing, and I realize he’s waiting for me to say whatever I wanted to say.

“I know you’re not him,” I say, my voice hoarse, affected in a way that is all about this man and what I have yet to tell him.

The door opens behind me and Matteo enters, saying something in Italian to Kayden. Kayden responds and then refocuses on me. “Take the pill,” he orders.

Frustrated at the interruption, I pop it into my mouth, and then accept the bottle of water and chug several long swallows. Kayden takes the bottle from me and sets it on the table. “You need to hear what Matteo has to say.”

“I have to have a conversation with you first.”

“It has to wait.” He turns to his friend and orders, “Tell her what you found.”

I want to shout at him that no, no, it does not have to wait, but Matteo is quick to demand my attention. “Let’s talk about Ella,” he says as he reaches under the island and produces a file he sets in front of him.

“You mean let’s talk about me,” I correct.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk about you. Only you don’t exist. There is no missing ‘Ella’ that’s traveled from the United States, or anywhere else for that matter, in the past year.”

“I took your fingerprints when you were asleep,” Kayden adds.

I cut him an incredulous look. “You did what?”

“Gallo is going to be at my doorstep looking for you,” he says. “I had to know what we were dealing with.”

He’s right. I know he’s right, yet somehow those prints feel more private than the clothes he stripped off me. But I want answers, and I glance between the two men. “You ran them through the database?”

“I did,” Matteo confirms. “And there was no match.”

“That makes no sense,” I argue, convinced he’s made a mistake. “I’d have to have prints on file for a passport. How can you even run my prints? Isn’t it a government database?”

“The right hacker can get anywhere he or she wants to get,” Matteo replies. “You have no prints on file.”

My throat thickens. “Try again.”

“I always double-check myself,” Matteo adds. “You could be an Italian-American who lives here.”

“I don’t speak the language,” I argue.

“You don’t remember speaking the language,” Kayden corrects.

“I don’t speak the language,” I assure him. “I might not remember everything but I get strong feelings about things. I do not speak Italian.” I eye Matteo. “Do they fingerprint for driver’s licenses? Wouldn’t I be on file here if I lived here?”

“No fingerprints,” Kayden replies. “Just a signature.”

I look between them. “This is crazy. I have to have a passport.”

“You might have had one,” Matteo responds, “but you don’t now. You might have been erased.”

“What does that mean, ‘erased’?”

“It means,” Kayden explains, “that someone as talented as Matteo could have been hired to wipe out your records.”

“Are you telling me that even if I remember who I am, I don’t exist?”

Kayden holds up his hands. “Back up. We don’t know you were erased. We’re just talking through reasons you might think you have a passport but you don’t.”

“And if we find out who you are,” Matteo adds, “I can re-create your identity.”

I gape at him. “Re-create my identity? Forgive me if that isn’t comforting.”

Kayden rotates the bar stool around, his hands coming down on my arms. “You aren’t a stack of documents. No one can erase who you are.”

“They don’t have to. I did it for them. My fingerprints were my link to my past. My way of finding me.”

“We both know you can find you, when you’re ready.”

“I don’t have a switch the way you seem to think I do. I can’t just flip it. Why would someone wipe my identity?”

“For all any of us know, you had your identity wiped.”

My lips part in shock. “Why would I do that?” I ask, but even as the question leaves my mouth, I picture myself opening that box and revealing that gun.

He pushes off the stool, his hands settling on his hips. “You were running when I found you,” he reminds me.

“From the Italian mafia,” Matteo adds. “That’s a good reason to disappear.”

“And you colored your hair,” Kayden says. “You knew you were on the run before you lost your memory.”

Again, I see a flickering image of that box and that gun. “What now?” I ask, rotating to face the table again.

“We keep working on my plan,” Kayden says, motioning to Matteo.

Matteo responds by sliding the folder in my direction. “This is your new identity,” he announces. “It’s what Gallo will find when he pulls your fingerprints.”

“New identity,” I repeat, tension stiffening my spine. “I don’t even know my real identity.”

“That’s the point,” Kayden explains. “If you don’t have an identity, Gallo and Niccolo will keep focusing on you. We need you to become someone distinctive that shuts down all interest in you from all directions.”

It makes sense. I don’t like it, but it makes sense. “Yes. Okay.”

Kayden jumps on my acceptance, already moving ahead. “A few important details. Since you’re sure your name is Ella—”

“It is Ella,” I say, jumping on his hint of doubt. “My name is Ella.”

“Then we can be certain that anyone looking for you will be searching by the name Ella,” Matteo interjects.

“So no more Ella,” I say, knowing there is no other way. Not with a mobster after me.

“Yes and no,” Kayden confirms while Matteo announces, “Your new legal name is Rae Eleana Ward.”

Kayden’s hand comes down on my shoulder, and I look up at him as he adds, “We went with Eleana so you could use Ella as a nickname. It’s a bit of a stretch to turn your middle name into a nickname, but it’s still doable.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat thick with emotion, and I’m pretty sure I just lost all objectivity with this man, who seems to have understood my need even before I did.

His eyes soften, and I watch what’s left of his anger evaporate. “The hospital staff said you need stability and the familiar. Right now, that’s me and your name.”

My brow furrows. Is he trying to tell me I did know him before that alleyway?

He squeezes my shoulder, drawing my gaze to his. “No,” he says softly, for my ears only, as if I’ve spoken my question. “That’s not what I’m saying, and right now”—he releases me and taps the folder—“everything you need to know about your new identity is inside this. Study it and know it before you let Gallo trap you, because if you make a mistake, he will catch you.”

“And when he says everything,” Matteo interjects, “he means everything. I backtracked to make it look like you arrived here from the United States two weeks ago, including flight data. And since a passport allows you to be here for ninety days, no one will question you being here for quite some time.”

“Does this mean I’ll have an actual passport?” I ask, wondering if I can travel to the States and put distance between me and Niccolo.

“Not yet,” Kayden answers. “Gallo believes you were mugged and your identification stolen. Let him run your prints, figure out who you are, and then I’ll have to take you to the passport office to have identification issued.”

“I have amnesia,” I point out. “Won’t he want me to contact my family?” And the word family punches me in the chest, making me wonder about my real one.

“You have no family,” Matteo says, as if reading my mind. “I made sure of it. We don’t need anyone looking for your relatives to confirm who you are or aren’t and finding out they’re fake.”

“I understand the premise of your strategy,” I say, “but that leaves me alone in a strange country and I can tell you right now, Gallo will use that as an excuse to stick around. He wants dirt on Kayden, and he’ll use me to get it.”

Kayden responds unfazed. “I’ll make it clear to Gallo you’re with me. End of subject, and he can kiss my ass.”

I don’t have time to process how I feel about the nonnegotiable tone of his statement before Matteo announces, “Picture time,” and starts snapping pictures on a camera he has produced from who knows where.

Glowering at him, I hold up a hand. “Can you at least warn me or something?”

“I did,” he says, glancing at his watch and back at me. “And I’ll make the shots I just took work. The passport system is about to do its weekly security update in an hour that, ironically, allows an easy breach. Within an hour you’ll be Rae Eleana Ward, and no one will be able to say different.”

A knot forms in my throat. “I have a love/hate reaction to that news.”

“Make it all about love, sweetheart,” Kayden encourages, “because no one is going to look for Rae Eleana Ward. And we’ve made sure the hospital and police report have different dates and don’t include my name. Once we’re done, you can hide in plain sight, and no one will connect the Jane Doe that was taken to the hospital to you. We’re completely disconnecting you from that identity.”

“What about the hospital staff?”

Kayden dismisses my concern. “You were registered under an alias. We’re covered.”

My lips press together. “I’m still worried. What about the men who followed me? Won’t they keep asking around?”

“I paid a security officer to let me know if anyone is asking around at the hospital,” Kayden replies, apparently having an answer to everything.

“Those men that were following me will know what I look like,” I argue.

“They’re dead,” Kayden announces, not bothering with a preamble.

Stunned, I blanch. “What? How? When?”

“The details don’t matter,” he states, his words as cold as ice. “They would have killed you if they got the chance.”

I give him an incredulous look. “They were human beings that probably died because of me.”

“That would infer Niccolo is a human being,” he replies, “and I assure you, he is not. Moving on. Your passport will have a picture. We’re going to hack in and replace it as soon as it goes live.”

“That includes the police report as well,” Matteo interjects. “I’ve set up a notification ping. I’ll know the minute anything changes on the police report. Basically, then you’ll be a ghost.”

Only there is no “then” about it. I was already a ghost before this, wiped from existence, with no connection to a past I fear I’ll never remember. No one who cares about me will ever be able to find me, and if they did, they might end up as dead as I fear I will be soon.

nine

My eyes meet Kayden’s and his gaze narrows, telling me he’s read my reaction to the word ghost even before he says, “This is a good thing. You know that, right?”

I am suddenly angry at him, at me, at everything. “Like those men being dead?”

He doesn’t react to my attack, his expression hard, his eyes sharp but unreadable. “Yes,” he says tightly. “Like those men being dead.”

I open my mouth to ask if he killed them, but a flickering memory of me on my knees, staring at that gun, rushes through my mind and shuts me up. Suddenly needing out of this tiny space, I scoot off the bar stool, facing Matteo and in profile to Kayden, my hands flattening on my hips to hide the way they stupidly shake. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“There’s one off the living room,” Matteo offers.

“Thanks,” I murmur, already moving to make my escape, but Kayden isn’t about to allow it.

He shackles my arm, rotating me to face him, his touch a branding I both welcome and fear. Proof I need space to get my head on straight. “I didn’t do this to you,” he says, proving he’s read my anger, and the blame I didn’t even realize I was placing until this moment.

“That’s not the answer I want,” I say, afraid he’s a killer. Afraid I am, too.

“You didn’t ask a question.”

“You know the question without me asking it.”

“Did I kill those men?” he asks.

“Yes. Did you kill those men?”

“They attacked Adriel when he tried to leave the scene of your attack, and he made sure he was the last man standing. So no. I didn’t kill them, but I’m also not sorry they’re dead. They would have killed any of us in a heartbeat.”

It’s as good of an answer as I could want, considering people are dead and I’m at the root of the reason. “Can I please go to the bathroom?”

A muscle in his jaw tics, telling me he wants to push me toward acceptance, but he doesn’t. He releases me, and I don’t give him time to change his mind, darting for the door without daring to look behind me. Entering the living room, I make fast tracks toward the stairwell, intending to head to the bedroom, where I will be free to pace and perhaps indulge in pounding the mattress a few times. I’m already on the bottom step when I think better of being trapped in a room with a bed, with Kayden surely to follow me sooner rather than later.

Detouring, I cross to the second stairwell and boldly climb to the next level of the house. Once I’m at the top, I am beyond pleased to discover a wall of windows, and a door leading to a covered outdoor space. Somehow, watching a storm while one rages inside me is positively perfect. I reach for the gray wood door handle and open it, cringing as a buzzer goes off, alerting Kayden that I’m not in the bathroom. I don’t turn back. I need every second I can get to be alone and think, without Kayden distracting me by being an overwhelming presence.

I exit onto the concrete patio that extends the length of the narrow house, the cold, wet air rushing over me, the door slamming behind me. It’s shutting me outside, but then, I’m already outside every reality fathomable. Shivering, I fold my arms in front of me and walk to the waist-high concrete wall, rain and a grayish shadow draping a magnificent view of hills and rooftops. Knowing I have only a few minutes alone, I consider the situation. It seems evident that my issue is control, or rather lack thereof. I’m letting Kayden dictate everything that happens to me, and though I could give myself a pass while I was in so much pain that I was incapable of moving, I can’t anymore. It’s time to make decisions for myself, starting with what happens next.

Behind me the door buzzes, and already the little bit of freedom I have is being taken away. I know now that he allowed my retreat to simply relocate our conversation to a place with privacy. I face him, and while adrenaline radiates through me, the control I so want radiates from him. “I wasn’t looking for a way to run, if that’s what you think,” I declare, backing up as he stalks toward me, tall and broad, his longish hair framing his handsome features set in hard lines.

I hit the wall as he stops a breath away from touching me, and it terrifies me how much I want him to touch me, how much I want a hero, and anger surges in me at my weakness. “If you were afraid I was running again,” I lash out, “there was nowhere to go.”

Date: 2016-03-03; view: 590