Forgotten (Shattered Sisters Book 2) (16 page)

Nothing. Not one damn thing. Joey Bradshaw was proof of that. He'd written her off the day he'd met her, and as it turned out, she was probably the closest thing to perfect he'd ever seen.

He slammed the fridge closed and fumbled in a drawer for a corkscrew. He felt things for Joey. Things he didn't want to feel. Hell, in all his big plans involving the wife of his dreams and the perfect nuclear family, he'd never given much thought to actual
emotions
being involved. He guessed he'd just assumed some deep, abiding fondness would come with the package.

What an idiot.

So he meets a woman who's as far from what he thinks he wants as was humanly possible, and starts wishing he can have her—wishing he can
always
have her. And it has to be a woman who's lying to him every time she opens her mouth. A woman who can't trust him. A woman who gives every indication of being mixed up in murder.

The cork popped and Ash threw it, corkscrew and all, onto the shiny white counter. "And she thinks she can read minds, to boot. It's crazy." He reached into the cupboard above for two wineglasses and filled them both. Then he set the bottle aside and just stared into the pinkish liquid, remembering the way she'd known little Brittany had fallen into the river, the way she'd known a lot of things she shouldn't have. Those thoughts made him uneasy. He gripped one glass and tipped it to his lips, draining it, then set it down and filled it again.

"Maybe I'm the one who's crazy."

"Ash?"

God, she was so afraid to let him out of her sight.

"Right here. I'm right here." Maybe now she'd come clean with him, tell him why she'd started this game, why she was pretending to be his wife, and what she knew about the Slasher.

He carried the two glasses back to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed and handed her one.

She gave him a wary look and took a sip. Then another. "This is good."

"Talk to me, Joey."

She nodded, taking a bigger gulp of wine. "You won't believe me. You'll think I'm a flake." He watched her, waiting. She cleared her throat. "Sometimes I
know
things."

"What kinds of things?" He wasn't going to help her. He needed to know if she would be honest on her own.

She averted her eyes. "Like when Brit fell in the river."

"You said you heard the splash."

"I wasn't...being honest. I didn't hear anything. I just...
felt
it. In my mind, I saw Brit fall in, and I knew." She took a breath, then rushed on. "That's how I help the companies that hire me as a consultant. If I'm around people, I sometimes sense their dishonesty and I..." Her voice trailed off.

"So you're a psychic."

She closed her eyes. "Don't laugh at me, Ash."

He took the wine glass from her hand and set it on the bedside stand, placing his beside it. "I wouldn't do that."

"I can't control it. I'm not sure I want to."

He wasn't sure he believed it, even now. "Is that how you knew someone had been in the house? You just
felt
it?"

She lifted her head and nodded

"And what you said about the gloves—"

"I saw the hands...the gloves."

"And what else have you...seen?"

Her eyes widened and took on an intensity he hadn't witnessed before. "Ash, you're in danger. You have to believe that. The Slasher wants you dead, and I can't let it happen."

"Because I'm your husband?"

Tears gathered until her emerald eyes glittered. "Because... I care about you. I don't want to lose you, and that's nothing but the truth."

It was some kind of pain that twisted inside him when she said that. Some kind of excruciating, wonderful pain. She was telling part of the truth, at least. Or what she believed to be the truth. But it was difficult to swallow. He'd never put much stock in farfetched claims of extraterrestrials, or Elvis sightings, or ESP.

"You don't believe any of it, do you?"

He reached out, brushing a single tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I believe you care." He shook his head. "Can't imagine why, but you do. And I think you're convinced of this...this mind-reading thing. I just..." His hand fell away from her face. He got up and reached for his wine, then paced the room, carrying it. "It's damned hard to buy into, Joey." He took a huge gulp and went on. "Maybe if you could
show
me—"

"I'm not a magician, Ash, and this isn't some parlor trick."

He turned to face her, seeing the anger rising in red blotches on her cheeks. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. You were going to ask me to read your mind, tell you what you were thinking while you evoked some unlikely image. It doesn't work that way. I told you, I can't control it. I can't just look inside your head and read your thoughts as if I was reading a book. God knows I've tried."

He felt his brows shoot up as her anger ran its course. "You have?"

She nodded, looking miserable.

"And you couldn't read me, huh?"

She shook her head, then paused. "Well, except..." She bit her lip and didn't finish the thought.

^“
Except what?'' Why did his voice sound so eager? Was he actually hoping she could prove her claims?

She sighed, reaching for her wine and finishing it in one big gulp. "You had a nightmare one night. A bad one. One you have a lot."

He stiffened, suddenly feeling as if someone was invading his most private hell. But it was silly. He'd probably tossed and turned, broken into a sweat, maybe muttered in his sleep. Anyone would know he'd been dreaming.

"I did, huh? I don
^’
t remember."

She looked at him, her anger vanishing. "You were alone in a very small, very dark place. You felt like you were suffocating, you couldn't breathe, and you were afraid you’d be left in there forever.”

"All right." He didn't mean to snap, but she was picking at an old wound. More gently he said, "All right, I believe you."

"I'm sorry." She got out of the bed and limped toward him. "I know it still hurts—"

"Well, your ESP is flawed, then, because it doesn't."

She stopped two feet from him. "You can tell me about it, talk it out—"

"It's not something I talk about." He finished his wine and looked down into the empty glass.

"Maybe that's the problem."

"My only problem is that my wife won't let me out of the apartment to buy food, and my stomach is empty."

She lowered her head and he knew that she would let the topic slide.

"Help yourself to the bathroom, Joey, and something to wear to bed. I'm gonna call a deli that delivers." He turned to go, then turned back. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be
sensing
any great hoagie joints that are still open, would you?"

His attempt at humor worked, he thought. She smiled, reaching back to the bed for the pillow and throwing it at him. "I suppose I'll be pummeled with ESP jokes for the rest of the night now?"

"You read my mind."

She couldn't eat. But he didn't seem to have any trouble. Nor was his sleep disturbed in any visible way. He'd been snoring loudly when she'd slipped out of his bed. He knew she was lying, keeping things from him. It was in his eyes whenever he looked at her. But she'd told him as much as she could. If he knew she wasn't his wife, he'd probably send her packing...and she couldn't protect him if she wasn't with him.

She stood on the balcony and stared down at the city lights below. The warm summer breeze played with the shirt she wore. His shirt. Though fresh from the dryer, it still held his scent. It wrapped it all around her, and she found she liked that sensation. Maybe too much.

She drank more wine and told herself she was stupid to get so attached to him. It wouldn't last. It couldn't, because his memory was coming back.

It hadn't hit her at first. Only as she lay in the bed beside him, watching him as he slept, wishing she had the nerve to reach for him, to kiss him, had the suspicion taken root. He remembered his nightmare, remembered its source. And he hadn't seemed at all unfamiliar with his apartment. His memory was returning, and when it did he would know she was lying about their marriage.

And then she would lose him. Even if she managed to keep up the charade long enough to save him from the Slasher, in the end she would lose him to her own lies.

Why did it hurt so much to know that? Why was she standing on a balcony, in the dark, sipping wine and silently crying?

"Couldn't sleep, huh?"

She stiffened, but didn't turn around. She didn't want him to see her foolish tears. "No."

"Neither could I." He moved up to the railing beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. He wore a short terry robe, untied, over the briefs he'd slept in.

"Liar. You were sawing timbers when I left.”

"
Until
you left." He turned her to face him and looked down at her. "What's this?" He wiped the moisture from her cheeks with his fingertips.

"Stress, I suppose." She reached for the wineglass. He did, too, bumping her hand with his and sloshing the wine onto her wrist. She drew her hand away, but he caught and lifted it. He brought it close to his face, his lips. Then he kissed it, drinking the wine from her skin, his mouth moving slowly over her wrist and forearm.

She trembled, and he straightened.

"Cold?"

She shook her head, unable to speak. She wanted him so much, wanted this make-believe marriage to be real...just for tonight And she knew he wanted it too. His eyes glimmered with desire for her.

She averted her gaze. This was insane. "The shirt will stain," she said to break the tension.

Then his fingertips were at her neck, and she realized he was undoing the buttons. And she stood there, not moving, with neither the will nor the desire to stop him.

He reached the lowest button and stopped. He looked into her eyes, not touching her, waiting for her to say no. She didn't. Instead she caught the front of the shirt in her trembling hands, parted it and let it slide down her shoulders to fall at her feet.

And there, in the moonlight, he looked at her...the way a lover of art must look at the work of a master. Awe and adoration glowed from his face, as he looked at her from head to toe. Then he blinked and met her gaze again, lifting a hand to caress her cheek.

"Ah, God, Joey." It was a whisper, hoarse, as if he was in some kind of pain. His hand drifted downward, over her chin, her throat. His fingertips skimmed her breast, then his palm closed over it.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back in reaction to his touch. His hand slid over the curve of her waist, around to the small of her back, and he pulled her to him. His free hand buried itself in her hair, and he brought her face level again, and then he kissed her.

It was slow, almost reverent in its tenderness, that kiss. As if it was the first one, as if he wanted to learn the shape and taste of her mouth, memorize it, savor it. She felt the roughness of a day's growth of whiskers razing her skin. She tasted the wine on his lips. His fingers kneaded at the base of her spine, hypnotic and wonderful.

She brought her hands up between them and pushed his robe open, wanting more, needing the brush of his chest over her breasts and the feel of his taut skin under her hands. He released her with only one hand at a time to shrug the robe off, never breaking the sweet, erotic rhythm of his kiss.

His head angled. His lips slid over her face, and he nibbled at her jaw, then moved lower, the damp warmth of his mouth bathing her neck and the hollow below her ear. Her heart raced, drowning out the sounds of traffic below. Her senses filled with him, with wanting him, needing him.

"Ash...we should go...inside," she managed, her voice sounding weak and shaky.

He kissed a trail back to her mouth, pausing in between as he spoke, not lifting his mouth from her skin, so that his words were warm caresses against it. "No, Joey. There have...been others...in there." His fingers tangled in her hair and he lifted his face slightly from hers, staring into her eyes. "This is different.
You're
different. I want you here, where there's never been anyone else."

Tears burned her eyes as she twined her arms around his neck to bring his lips to hers. He lowered her to the floor on a rumpled bed made by the shirt she'd worn and his robe. And he came down with her, his arm pillowing her head as his lips moved over her body. His mouth moistened her throat and chest, her breasts and her belly. His free hand roamed downward and her hips rose of their own will. She was trembling, and her desire encompassed her mind and soul.

When she felt his hardness touch her softness, she closed her eyes and pulled him closer.

Over and over his steely strength caressed her from within, and all the while he kissed her and whispered softly against her skin. Words that had no meaning for her then. Words like "You're safe, Joey...always safe with me."

Time stood still. There was nothing but the two of them, entwined like one being, rising together until they broke through the clouds and into space.

And then they slowly drifted back to earth together, coiled muscles began to relax into blissful fulfillment. Lying close to her, he wrapped her in his strong arms and let his chest be her pillow.