Midnight Caller Read online

  She saw him swallow. “I think the two of us already answered that question.”

  She studied his eyes. He was trying hard not to reveal any emotions that would make him vulnerable to her, and she realized that was how he probably lived his life—blocking his feelings. She guessed that someone or something had hurt him terribly, and she longed with all her heart to heal him, to change the very fabric of the way he lived. But she was afraid he wasn’t going to let her get close enough to do it, unless he knew who she was and that she hadn’t come here for nefarious purposes.

  A shiver went through her.

  “What?”

  She might have ducked the question, except that the only thing she could give him was her honesty. “I’m scared.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, you don’t. I’m scared that when I find out who I am, I won’t like that person. I mean, what if your macho chief of security turns out to be right? What if I came here to…to hurt you in some way?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, and she heard her own doubts reflected in his voice.

  Somehow, that was the worst part—the fear that she had the power to damage him.

  She swung her legs to the side of the table and lowered herself to the floor, testing to make sure that her knees would support her. She stood only a few inches from him, and it would be so easy to reach out and pull him close, to lean into his strength the way she had a few minutes ago. But she couldn’t afford the luxury. Until her memory came back, they couldn’t have anything meaningful together.

  That should have made perfect sense. But how could it—in a world where the only truths in her short memory were the feelings that drew her toward this man? He was her protector and her captor, yet the relationship was a lot more complicated than that. In the short time they’d known each other, something out of the ordinary had transpired between them.

  She couldn’t stop herself from raising her face toward his. He stood unmoving, warning her with his eyes that she’d better not overstep the boundaries again. Yet she felt the heat coming from his body, felt her own body heating, felt the awareness simmering between them like a flow of charged particles. If she moved only a fraction, her breast would be pressed against his arm. Her pulse quickened as she imagined the intimate pressure of his flesh on hers.

  “What if Claymore has it wrong?” she asked, her voice thick and husky. “What if I was sent here because I’d be attracted to you?”

  She saw him swallow, saw his gaze drop to the front of her top where her nipples rose against the knit fabric. “Do you like to engage in sexy little sparring matches with men? Is that part of your personality?”

  She considered the question honestly. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? That’s certainly a provocative question.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “It is. But I’m doing things and saying things that embarrass me. I don’t seem to be able to stop myself. It’s a strange feeling. The lack of control is scary, but it’s exciting, too. Maybe it’s the only freedom I have at the moment.”

  “You’ve picked a dangerous game.”

  “Have I?”

  His gaze remained steady. “What do you think?”

  “I think danger is better than fear.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  One part of her mind was amazed at what she was doing—pushing and provoking him this way. The other part understood that the verbal provocation wasn’t basic enough. Before she could consider the consequences, she rose up on her toes and brushed her lips against his. He didn’t move, and she accepted that challenge, as well.

  She didn’t kiss him the way he had kissed her earlier. She closed her eyes and rubbed her mouth back and forth against his, marveling at the softness of his lips and at the instant fire she could generate with such a simple caress.

  It was a risky experiment—one that spiraled out of her control in the space of a heartbeat Flames licked at her nerve endings, making her breasts ache and sending urgent messages traveling downward to the center of her body. And she was only touching him at one contact point.

  Was it the same for him?

  She heard him make a strangled sound deep in his throat, which told her that he was trapped by the fire. Yet his hands stayed stiffly at his sides. And she kept hers the same, partly to prove to herself that she could refrain from touching him, partly to prove that they didn’t need more than this mouth-to-mouth contact to excite each other beyond endurance.

  She wasn’t sure how long they stayed that.way, lips brushing, nibbling, grazing. She only knew that the kiss deepened by slow degrees until they were tasting each other, taking huge delicious mouthfuls the way one might gorge on the sweetness of a ripe peach. Yet this was so much better—because the taste was of Glenn Bridgman.

  She wanted more. She wanted his hands on her, touching, arousing, driving away all the uncertainties that hovered at the edge of her mind. When his palm clamped over her shoulders, a small sigh of wanting eased out of her. His fingers dug into her flesh, and she thought for a moment that he would pull her heated body against his. Instead he lifted his mouth from hers and gently widened the gap between them.

  “You know this has to stop,” he said hoarsely.

  She knew it—in some part of her brain. As she stared into his eyes, she saw that the warm blue had deepened, overwhelming the cool gray, and she knew he wanted the same things she did, even if he couldn’t tell her yet.

  “I think we’re a lot alike,” she said.

  “How?”

  “Afraid to ask for what we need. But here we are, in never-never land together—where none of the rules apply.”

  His eyes took on an almost-innocent eagerness, before he masked the look of longing. “You’re making too many assumptions. This isn’t a fairy tale. It’s my reality.”

  “Of course that’s true. But it’s not like everybody else’s reality. You’re a sorcerer who’s hidden himself away in a magic castle.”

  He gave a bark of a laugh. “Is that how you see me?”

  She nodded gravely.

  “Don’t get too wound up in fantasies. You don’t know what I want. You don’t even know yourself.”

  “I know a lot about you.”

  “From some dossier you read?”

  “Do you really believe that?” Before he could answer, she went on. “Your eyes give you away. And the way you kiss me. You wish this were never-never land. Just for once, you want to lay down the burden you’re carrying around on your shoulders. But you can’t admit it, even to yourself.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Am I? I don’t think so. Strange as it sounds, I think that in one way amnesia can be an advantage. I don’t have a lot to go on besides feeling and intuition. About myself—about the man who saved my life.”

  He made a dismissive sound.

  Ignoring him, she continued. “I’m getting to know who I am. Not the facts,” she said quickly, “but the emotions.”

  “The facts are relevant,” he argued.

  The harsh reminder jerked her back to reality. Suddenly they were playing by his rules again. She raised her chin. “Okay. When a person has lost her memory, what does she do to get it back?”

  “You can’t force it. It just has to happen.”

  “There must be something.” She swallowed. “What about hypnosis?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. For the same reasons I wouldn’t recommend a lie-detector test until you’ve had a little time to get your equilibrium back.”

  “Catch-22,” she whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “So what are my other options?”

  “Familiar surroundings can help.”

  “What else?”

  “Pinpointing the reason for the condition.” He looked like a man balanced on a razor’s edge, a man who could fall off either side and topple into an abyss. “Memory loss can be associated with a blow to the head. It can also be t
riggered by a shock. Something could have happened that your mind wants to block. A frightening incident. Or—”

  “Or what?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

  Chapter Six

  His gaze remained steady, and she had the feeling that he was still waiting for her to give him answers.

  She had none, so she plowed ahead on the only course open to her. “Okay. Let’s work with what we’ve got. If I can’t step into my familiar environment, I can have a look at the car I was driving.”

  He thought about it for a second, and she held her breath, wondering if he was going to refuse.

  When he said, “All right,” she breathed out a little sigh.

  “Will you take me there?”

  His hesitation made her chest tighten.

  He looked at his watch. “I have some things I have to do. Give me an hour.”

  After murmuring her thanks, she let him show her back to the room where she’d spent the night. Slipping off her shoes, she lay down with her clothes on, expecting to spend the interval staring at the far wall. In fact, she quickly drifted off to sleep.

  Sometime later, a noise from the doorway made her eyes flick open. Bridgman was standing there watching her.

  She swung her head in his direction, trying to read his mood, but his expression was shuttered.

  “You found out more about me?” she asked.

  “No.” His face hardened. “I found out that Lipscomb, the guy who was guarding your car, got a powerful dose of a hallucinogen combined with knockout spray.”

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  “I don’t suppose you know if the vehicle was boobytrapped,” he said evenly.

  “No. I’m sorry,” she added ineffectually, then pushed herself up. “I guess you’re not going to let me examine the car after all.”

  “You’d be taking a chance.”

  “You don’t know it had anything to do with what happened to the man!”

  “That’s right,” he retorted. “Maybe it was a colossal coincidence.”

  Obviously he didn’t think so.

  “Let’s go see if we can find out,” she returned evenly, swinging her legs to the floor. God, was this another test? she wondered as she slipped into her sandals and followed him out of the room. Every time she thought things might be going all right, something else happened.

  “The vehicle’s in the garage,” he said, as they crossed the lounge area where they’d eaten—where they’d kissed. Watching the rigid set of his shoulders, she wondered if any of that had really happened.

  She felt as if the walls were closing in around her, and yet she managed to ask, “Can we get there from outside?”

  He gave only a tight nod. Then, opening a door, he stepped aside to let her pass and gestured toward a flight of stairs. At the bottom of the steps was a wider hallway with a vaulted ceiling and dark paneling. Probably the original medieval-style interior, she thought, as they passed through a stone archway where a young man in khaki sat at a wooden desk.

  “Sir.” After snapping to attention, he hurried to open the door.

  “Thank you.”

  She felt the guard’s eyes on her. He was curious; she could tell that. And hostile. What had he heard about her?

  It was a relief when Bridgman marched her out the door and into waning afternoon sunshine. She trailed several paces behind him, wishing that they weren’t in such a hurry as they crossed the wide lawn and skirted a rock outcropping.

  What if the car triggered a memory, and she didn’t like what she uncovered?

  Bridgman turned to give her an inquiring look. The expression on her face must have given her away. “You’ve changed your mind?” he asked.

  “I—” She cleared her throat. “No.”

  His eyes never leaving her, he came slowly back to where she’d stopped in her tracks. Unable to meet his gaze, she glanced down, studying the lawn. Up close, it was spotted with patches of crabgrass and clover.

  A memory ticked at her brain as she stared down at the small shamrock shapes. Sinking to her knees, she ran her hand through the closest patch, moving the low stems, making the leaves ripple against her fingers. It felt good, familiar. Comforting, even. Closing her eyes, she tried to go deeper into the tactile sensation, letting it lead her where it would.

  She was close to something—a memory that tickled her brain cells the way the leaves tickled her fingers.

  “What are you doing?” Bridgman asked, breaking into her trance.

  “Looking for a four-leaf clover,” she answered in a husky voice, keeping her face turned toward the green carpet.

  “For luck?” he asked, coming down beside her, his own hand beginning to comb through the mass of greenery.

  “I need some,” she whispered, trying to recapture the feeling of connection to her past that had snapped when he’d spoken. She wanted to ask him to give her time to do things in her own way. But she didn’t even know what that way was. Almost frantically, she shifted the low-growing plants, searching for but not finding what she wanted.

  “Here,” he said, startling her with a small surge of hope. “No,” he quickly amended. “I thought I saw four leaves, but one of them is from another plant.”

  The disappointment was palpable. “That happens,” she murmured. “You think you’ve found one, and it turns out to be an illusion.”

  “You remember that?” he asked.

  “I…don’t…know.” She made a low sound of frustration in her throat. “I have this image in my mind of a little girl looking through a clover patch. I don’t know if it’s really me—or a scene from a book or a movie.”

  “Are you alone?”

  She might have said yes. At the moment she felt so totally alone that tears blurred her vision. Yet, in the tantalizing snatch of memory—if that was what it was—there were other people. “My father is with me. And my brother,” she whispered, keeping her face tipped down so he couldn’t seen the pain in her eyes.

  “Can you see their features?”

  “No. They both have their heads turned away. Probably a psychiatrist could make something of that. It’s not real. Or I’m blocking the important part.”

  “What color is their hair?”

  “Blond,” she managed in a husky voice. “But the father’s is getting thin on top. He doesn’t like it, so he combs his hair to the side.”

  “No mother?”

  She shrugged, turning back to the clover, her hand moving faster as she searched for a magic set of four leaves. Surely, on the grounds of a place called Castle Phoenix, there should be magic. “I don’t know. But the father’s the one who takes the kids into the woods and teaches them stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Camping. Fishing. Hiking. Do you think it’s true?” she persisted, wanting him to give her that much. If he were kind, he would do it, she thought, willing him to reassure her.

  Instead he asked, “Do you?” And she understood that he was being ruthless—with both of them.

  “I wish I knew. I wish I knew it would all come back—or even if I’d ever found a four-leaf clover.” In frustration, she tugged at the ground cover, pulling the leaves free and then letting them drift downward. Unable to cope with the sense of loss, she pushed herself up and looked around. Aware of her surroundings again, she felt a stab of embarrassment as she saw a group of men about fifty yards away, watching her. She couldn’t really see their faces, but she imagined disapproving, narrowed gazes.

  “They probably think your uninvited female guest is wacko,” she muttered. “She’s crossing the lawn and all of a sudden she sits down and starts playing with the clover.”

  Her hand swept toward the watchers. When Bridgman shot a glance in their direction, the group immediately began to disperse—either hurrying into the gray stone buildings or drifting across the lawn. “It must be nice to have that kind of authority,” she observed.

  “What kind?”

  “You turn your head toward them, t
hey jump.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” he retorted.

  “How would you put it?”

  He shrugged, looking uncomfortable, and she gathered that he didn’t particularly enjoy being the leader of a paramilitary force, or whatever you called the squad of men who guarded his castle.

  “You’d live your life differently if you could, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

  An unfocused look came into his eyes, but he banished it before she was sure she’d seen it. “There’s no point in answering hypothetical questions. We should go to the garage. If you still want to do it.”

  She studied his set expression, but he made no further comment. Apparently he wasn’t going to discuss his lifestyle with her.

  “After you,” she murmured.

  They crossed the lawn and descended a flight of stairs to a paved area flanked by six garage doors.

  Rock music drifted through a smaller door to the right. Just inside the entry, another guard sat at another desk—positioned beside a rack of rifles.

  Meg studied them. Winchesters, she decided, then wondered where that piece of knowledge fit into her background. Somehow, she didn’t think she was going to share the insight with Bridgman. Not this time.

  The music was coming from a small radio that sat on the blotter in front of the guard. When the young man saw Bridgman, his face went rigid and his hand shot out to lower the volume. “Sorry, sir.”

  “It’s all right. As you were, Shipley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Meg glanced around the garage. There were no other guards, only an assortment of jeeps, vans, cars and other vehicles.

  “Over here,” Bridgman called, his voice hard-edged, and she realized that he was as nervous about this inspection as she.

  When she slid him a sideways glance, she saw his face was carefully neutral. Determined to prove something to both of them, she followed him toward a black Volvo. Her palms grew damp when she saw the caved-in driver’s door and the damage to the front end. It looked as if the vehicle had plowed into the side of a mountain—and she’d been inside when it had happened.