three
I am his.
That is the unapologetic message in Kayden’s gaze I know he intends for both myself and Gallo to see. And I do. I see it. I understand it and I feel it in every part of me. Possession. Demand. Control. He wants it all, but I do not know why. Nor do I know why I am not afraid of him or these things. I only know that Kayden Wilkens is one hell of a man, and that it’s become necessary to my survival to admit that the woman in me is drawn to him, deeply, completely. To the point that I’m not even close to objective where he’s concerned, vulnerable in ways that could be dangerous if his intentions toward me are not as honorable as he claims. And the truth is, my strong sense of my familiarity with Kayden both supports the detective’s claims that he might be more to me than he admits and drives my need to believe he is honest, the true light in the tunnel of darkness I cannot escape.
“Take my number in case you need it,” Detective Gallo orders, bringing my attention back to him.
I face him to find him extending a card to me. I accept it, murmuring an appropriate “Thank you,” but I am not pleased with the glint of satisfaction in his eyes that tells me he knew Kayden was at the door when he issued that crass warning. That also tells me I am indeed a token in a game he’s playing with Kayden, rather than someone he is truly here to help, making me question his motives for being here at all.
He glances at his watch. “I’m going to gamble on making it back here tonight with the fingerprint kit.”
“I thought it would be tomorrow,” I say.
“He can’t wait to see me again,” Kayden says, claiming his self-assigned place by my side.
The two men tune me out then, facing each other, both placing their hands on the railing. Their gazes collide in an explosion of silent hatred. Gallo spits something at Kayden in Italian, and I don’t have to understand the language to know it’s downright foul. Kayden, who radiates absolute control, does not reward him with an equal reply but rather with a rumble of deep, masculine laughter that is as musical as it is hard. Gallo’s teeth clench and he says something I am certain is even fouler than his prior remark, and most likely far from professional, as his job dictates he should be. Kayden smirks and offers a clipped reply that earns him Gallo’s glare and a motion to the door that is nothing short of an order. Gallo heads toward the door, assuming Kayden will follow. Kayden glances at me, giving me a wink before casually sauntering after Gallo, apparently pleased with the reaction he’s evoked from the other man.
And then both men are gone. The shift in the air is immediate, leaving me huffing out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, hating how I am helplessly at the mercy of two men I barely know, one of whom has seduced me since the moment I woke up and called him beautiful. All because I can’t remember who I am.
I glance down at my hands where they rest on the bedcover, and at least they are familiar. They are me—but this bed is not, and neither is my letting these men use me as the rope in a game of tug-of-war. It is a relief to know this about myself. To know I am strong, and a person of action, not inaction. A person who gets up and looks in that mirror. Yes. I have to face myself, and maybe, just maybe, if I see me, I’ll fully know me, and Kayden’s motives, innocent or not, will be revealed along with my past.
The idea spurs me into action, and I throw off the blanket and lower the railing. Shoving the skimpy gown down my legs the best I can, I rotate to let my feet dangle off the edge of the bed, grimacing at the buzz in my head, a weakness that forces me to pause to let it pass. The instant it eases, I scoot farther to the edge of the mattress, trying to make the step to the floor as small as possible.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Jolting at the sound of Kayden’s voice, I stretch my legs down to the ground to make my escape, only to have my head spin and my body sway. Gasping, I start to tumble forward, saved as Kayden catches me, dragging me forward, my body landing flat against his larger, harder one.
“What are you doing?” I demand, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath my palm where it now rests on the solid wall of his chest. Or maybe it’s my heart pounding so hard that it feels like his.
“Keeping you from ending up inside another MRI machine. What were you thinking?”
“That I need to go to the bathroom,” I say, his touch humming through my body just as the detective’s warnings hum in my mind. “I’m fine now.” I try to twist away from him but he holds on to me, and I shove against him. “You can let go of me, Kayden.”
“That’s not going to happen,” he promises, his voice low, as seductive as everything else about this man is, and when I look at him, that wolf is back in his eyes as he adds, “In case I didn’t make that point already.”
“You have, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.” I try to push away again, yelping as he scoops me up and starts walking.
“I can walk,” I insist, appalled that my bare backside is hanging out of the gown, and pressed to his forearms. “Put me down, Kayden. Put me down.”
He complies in front of the bathroom door, and when I would escape, his arms cage me as he opens the door. I try to turn, but his hands come down on my shoulders, and he begins walking me inside the bathroom. The instant the mirror looms in front of me, adrenaline surges through me, giving me the extra fierceness I need to twist around to face him, only to cause a collision of our bodies.
Stunned, I freeze, my hands on his chest, my legs intimately aligned with his, and when our eyes meet, the look in his is unbridled passion, as possessive as it is hot. I’m scorched in every place he touches, and every place I suddenly want him to touch. Desperate to maintain what objectivity I have left with this man, which I’ve already determined is not much, I shove back from him, hitting the sink, catching myself on the cold surface.
He doesn’t move. He just stands before me, power and sex wafting off him like a seductive drug that if tried once would surely become a dangerous addiction. A second passes. Then two. On three, the tension between us is palpable and I can take it no more. “I can’t use the bathroom when you’re here. You’re hovering like you think I’m going to escape through some secret passageway.”
He arches a brow. “Escape? Is that what you want? To escape?”
Not from you, I think, but good sense prevails and I instead reply with, “Should I?”
And as if he’s read my mind, he says, “Not from me,” and just like that, he’s backed out of the room and shut the door, leaving me stunned and staring at the spot he’s left empty. What did that mean? Not from him? From who, then? Was he being literal? Surely he wasn’t. The longer I try to figure out the answer, the more the silence around me grows, and so does my awareness of what I’m avoiding. The mirror. I’m avoiding the mirror.
“Turn around,” I whisper, but just thinking about doing it stirs a flutter in my belly that’s darn near painful, and I know then that the doctor was right. I’m suppressing my memories. I’m afraid of what is in my own mind, and it’s a terrifying realization. What could be so bad that I’d rather leave myself behind than face it?
Inhaling against the pressure building in my chest, aware that I have to get past my fear, I mentally prepare myself to just get it over with. Another deep breath and I whirl around to face myself, but chicken out, clutching the sink and letting my head drop forward, my hair draping my face. Brown hair. A deep mahogany brown that falls to my breasts, and yet I hadn’t even noticed the color until now. I pant out a few more breaths and force myself to lift my chin, bringing my image into view.
And then I wait for the eruption that doesn’t happen. And I wait some more. Still nothing, and I begin analyzing myself like I’m some sort of a lab specimen. My face is heart-shaped, my eyes a deep green. My skin ivory. There’s a smattering of freckles on my nose I’m not overly fond of, but none of this helps me. I’m completely disconnected from the image in the mirror.
Frustrated, I curl my fingers into my palms where they rest on the sink, squeezing my eyes shut and promising myself that when I open them, my reaction will be different. Instead, my mind rewards me with one single memory, and I find myself standing inside what looks like an apartment, laughing with a pretty brunette. And there is no disconnect from her. Just seeing her softens a hard spot inside of me, easing the tension along my spine. She’s a friend. Someone I love. I slip deeper into the memory, and the images play like a silent movie. I watch in wonder, reveling in every second. She begins to fade, and I try to pull her back but fail, only to realize that I don’t know her name any more than I know mine.
Frustrated again, I open my eyes and stare at myself, feeling as if I know the woman in that memory far more than I know the one in the mirror. “Who are you?”
Leaning closer to the mirror, as if that might actually help me in some way, my eyes catch on a red strand of hair near my nape, and then another, and another, all hidden in the under-layer. Shifting my attention, I examine my eyebrows, and sure enough, I locate several strands of red. Heart racing, and I’m not sure why, I grab my gown, and tug it upward and confirm that I’m either shaved or waxed, but whatever the case, it hides the proof of my coloring. Hiding. The word plays in my mind, echoed by another. Running.
I drop the gown and lean on the sink, staring at my image again, and I am now officially freaked out. I am running. I know it in some deep part of me. The question is—from whom or what?
“Oh God,” I whisper, thinking of the fingerprints. What if I’m in trouble? What if I broke the law and I’m giving the proof to a man who can arrest me? I don’t feel like a criminal, but how does one feel when one breaks the law? I just . . . don’t know.
Or maybe it’s not the law that’s my problem. Maybe it’s a person I’m trying to escape. What if it’s Kayden? What if that is why he’s familiar?
A knock echoes on the door and I jump, whirling around to face it.
“You okay in there?”
At the sound of Kayden’s voice, the detective’s words play in my head. Kayden Wilkens doesn’t do anything, including you, without an agenda. And I remind myself that I don’t know Kayden, so I don’t know if I can trust him. The same applies to the detective, which leaves me with a devastating conclusion. I can’t lean on anyone but myself until I retrieve my memories—which means I can’t stay here. I have to leave, now, tonight, and do it with no money or help. And go where? Think. Think. Think. And then it hits me. Italy is rich with religious culture. I’ll go to a church. Surely one of them will have a place for me to stay and hide.
Abruptly, the door opens, and I gasp as Kayden steps into the room, his big body claiming the small space, his presence sucking all the air from my lungs.
“What are you doing in here?” I demand.
He shocks me by kicking the door shut. “Opening your eyes.”
With dread in my belly, I grab the sink behind me, holding on for the blow that I sense is coming. “What are you talking about, Kayden?”
“It’s time for you to remember.” He closes the small space between us, crowding me, the spicy, warm scent of him with hints of vanilla teasing my nostrils and stirring a flicker of a memory I can’t place.
“I was right,” I accuse, my chin tilting upward to challenge him. “We aren’t strangers, are we?”
“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.”