Shadow Woman: A Novel (33 page)

“Don’t feel responsible for me,” she murmured, knowing that whatever it was they had, she didn’t want him to feel bound to her for that reason.

He tensed beside her, the muscled arm under her head turning to iron. A few beats of time passed. “You said that before.” His voice was sharp as he pulled his arm free and jackknifed to a sitting position.

“Before?” She frowned at him as she propped herself up on an elbow, tugged the sheet over her breasts—not out of modesty, but because she was a little chilly, with the air conditioning blowing across her. “I did? When?”

“Before you let them wipe your memory,” he said curtly. “I was against it. There were … problems, but nothing I couldn’t have handled. You sent me off on a wild-goose chase, and by the time I got back, it was too late.” The black look he gave her said that he was still more than a little pissed about it, too.

“Wait a minute.” She wiggled to a sitting position beside him, staring at him in astonishment. “I
chose
this? I agreed to it?” That couldn’t be right; she couldn’t imagine willingly letting someone wipe out a huge part of her personal identity. Never mind that it had been very skillfully done; she’d been living a perfectly normal life, with her earlier memories intact, until that morning less than a week ago. My God—less than a week, and her life had been completely turned upside down.

“Nothing I could do after that except take steps to keep you safe.”

Damn it, this conversation was going in two different directions, and she wanted to follow both of them. “What steps?
Keep me safe? And why did I choose to have my brain tampered with? What the
hell
was going on?”

He threw back the cover and got out of bed, stalking naked to the sitting area and coming back with a bottle of water. He twisted the cap off and drank deeply, then silently offered the bottle to her. She took it, sipped, then gave it back. “Tell me what happened. I don’t want to be kept in the dark any longer, no matter what happened.”

“You want to take the risk that not letting your memory recover at its own pace could cause some real damage?”

“I don’t see how it could. Brain damage is a physical thing.”

“How about emotional damage?” he demanded angrily. “I don’t know what could happen. Telling you stuff might prevent you from ever really remembering.”

This felt oddly familiar. She got the feeling that he seldom got angry, but that she’d always been able to push his buttons. She liked that; she didn’t enjoy making him angry, but she did like that she could get to him when no one else could.

“Let me ask you something. Exactly what are you planning to do about this situation?”

His expression was instantly veiled, all anger wiped away. It was as if his face had been turned into stone. If he knew her as well as she thought he did, he probably already knew where this was going—and he didn’t like it at all.

“Are you going back?” she prodded. “To D.C., or wherever you have to go to take care of this little problem of people trying to kill you?”

“Yes.” Just that one word, his lips barely moving, his gaze narrow and hard. “This isn’t something we can run from. It has to be handled.”

“What were you planning to do with me? Stick me somewhere, come back to pick me up when it’s all over?”

“Exactly.” He said it without a hint of apology in his tone.

“What if something happened to you? I’d never know, would
I? You wouldn’t come back, and I’d be a sitting duck, because sooner rather than later I’d need a job, a place to live, and then they’d have me.”

“You’d be taken care of. I have people who’ll make sure of that.”

“How would I know them? C’mon, you know that isn’t going to work. The odds are, more of my memory is going to come back and if you think I’d let it slide that someone had killed you, then you’re full of shit.”

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he snapped, then glared at her because he was doing what he’d just told her he didn’t want her to do. “Fuck!” he said explosively.

“If I know what’s going on, I’ll make smarter decisions.”

“Damn it all to hell and back, you never could just let something go, could you?”

“Beats me. I don’t remember.” She gave a little shrug, knowing how much it would annoy him.

“We’re in this situation because you couldn’t handle it before.”

Okay, now
she
was annoyed. “Say what?” Exactly what couldn’t she handle? Yeah, she’d been terrified a couple of times since her memory had started coming back, but all in all, hadn’t she done okay? She’d escaped an attempt to kill her. She’d shaken the people who’d been spying on her, and if Xavier hadn’t been such a smart-ass and planted
three
trackers on her, she’d have shaken him, too. And as scared as she’d been, it was nothing compared to the downright terror she’d felt when he was riding the Harley across the field at her. She still owed him for that one.

His lips set in a grim line, he got back into bed and stuffed the pillows behind his back. “You let your emotions get the best of you. The decision was that you couldn’t be trusted, so the options were the memory wipe, or a bullet.”

“Wow, some choice.” She didn’t like what she was hearing.
She didn’t like that she’d evidently been weak. She’d handled some tough situations in her job, made some hard calls, and she’d lived with the results. What could have so upset her that she’d been judged unstable enough to be a threat to … whoever they were? “So when I started getting my memory back …”

“You were a threat to everyone.”

“Including you?”

“Including me.”

She was horrified that anything she’d ever done had been a danger to him. She had never thought of herself as a weak person, not even these past three years when she’d been such a dulled-down version of herself. What had been so bad that she’d broken under the strain?

“Tell me,” she said brusquely.

“All right.” He made the decision as incisively as a surgeon would wield a scalpel, though the scowl on his face made it obvious he didn’t like it. “You do need to know. But if you freak out on me, I’ll drug you and keep you locked up somewhere. Got it?”

He would, too. She didn’t doubt him for a second. “Got it.”

He picked up his phone from the bedside table, slapped the battery in, and turned it on. He began tapping the screen; from where she sat on the bed she could see a web page loading. “Remember what I said,” he warned, and turned the phone toward her so she could see the screen.

Lizzy frowned, startled, as she instantly recognized the image. It was a picture of herself, the way she used to be before she’d been given this new face. “That’s me. Why are you showing me a picture of myself?”

“Because that isn’t you. That was First Lady Natalie Thorndike.”

“Get out,” she said, disbelieving. She took the phone and stared at the image, trying to make the connection. Something tickled in her brain, a sense of repulsion, as if she wasn’t supposed
to go there. Pain stabbed at her temples and she caught her breath, laid the phone down.

“What’s wrong?” he asked sharply, picking up the phone again.

“Headache,” she managed, trying to breathe deeply and focus on something else. She thought about him, about the years he’d spent protecting her, and before that when he’d trained her for—

Well, that didn’t work. She put both hands to her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “Sorry. It happens every time a new memory tries to come through. It isn’t as bad as it was the first few times.” Forget the Oscar Mayer wiener song; she had something much better to think about now, which was Xavier naked. Different kind of wiener. She almost laughed at the thought, and the pain ebbed. Opening her eyes, she smiled at him. He was watching her closely, not trying to help, gauging how well she handled the situation.

Deliberately she held out her hand for the phone, and was gratified when he gave it to her. She made herself look again—and felt another one of those clicks of memory. She examined the photo, and now she could see that this was an older version of her former self. The First Lady had looked extremely good for her age, whether from very good facial work or from genetics. Regardless, except for the hint of age on the First Lady, and the hairstyle, she and Lizzy had been identical.

Had been
.

Was the First Lady dead? Lizzy didn’t remember anything about her dying, but when she thought about Mrs. Thorndike, it was in the past tense.

“Is she dead?” she asked uneasily.

“Yes.”

“When did she die?”

“Four years ago.”

Four years, which put her death in the middle of Lizzy’s two missing years.

Don’t go there don’t go there don’t go there
.

Despite the warning echoing through her brain, she swallowed and said, “What happened to her?”

“I shot her.”

Lizzy went numb with shock. She stared at him, unable to say a word. He took the phone from her nerveless fingers, turned it off, and removed the battery. She focused on that because it was easier than thinking about what he’d just said. Even though she thought his phone was probably as secure as any phone that could be devised, he still took the precaution of removing the battery. His expression was as remote and cold as the Arctic landscape, and that scared her.

“Does the name Tyrone Ebert mean anything to you?” he asked, breaking the thick silence.

After a minute’s thought, she slowly shook her head.

He reached out and tugged her close to him, settled her with her head once more on his shoulder. “That was the name I went by when I was transferred to the Secret Service.”

This was too huge for her to comprehend, yet she sensed this was just the tip of the iceberg. Because it was so big, she seized on a detail, frowning up at him.

“Your name isn’t Xavier?”

“It is. Tyrone Ebert was a carefully built alias. It stood up to a deep background check.”

An alias like that wasn’t easy to build, and only an agency like the CIA, FBI, or NSA could pull it off, build a background so solid that they couldn’t detect their own work. There were compartments within compartments in any intelligence agency, some unknown to even the people who worked there.

“You were in the Secret Service,” she said, feeling her way through the maze.

“For a while. I was assigned to Mrs. Thorndike’s detail.”

“But … why?” Why was he given an alias? Why was he inserted into the Secret Service? She didn’t have to detail all the “whys,” because he knew each and every one of them.

“We called it a code-black situation.”

“Which is …?”

“When the President is committing treason.”

The President … President Thorndike. Try as she might, Lizzy couldn’t put a face to the name. She tried to think who had succeeded him. After him had come … President Berry, who had fulfilled the remainder of President Thorndike’s term when—

She breathed deeply through the pain in her head, forced it away. She could get through this.

“Treason.”

“We were investigating him.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“I’ll tell you who we aren’t. We aren’t the FBI. This was too deep, and the FBI is hampered by all kinds of laws and shit.”

She started to protest that it was the FBI’s
job
to investigate domestic threats to the country’s security, but then bit it back. He was right; the FBI was hampered by laws and shit. That was why there were people like him, who would do the dirty work and then, when it was all tied up beyond doubt, “arrange” for the FBI and others to get the evidence practically dumped in their laps, so their hands were clean and they broke no laws in getting said evidence, which would have made it inadmissible in court. Some things were too important to let someone skate on a technicality.

“But where did I come in? The last I remember, I was working for a security firm in Chicago. I do remember some of the training with you, and … other stuff … but not any investigation or even how I met you.”

“Other stuff, such as the fact that we were all over each other almost from the day we met?”

“We were? That fast?”

“Damn close.”

Well, hadn’t she known it, deep down? She’d even had the thought that she’d always been easy for him. She didn’t even
mind, because the attraction hadn’t been one-sided; they got to each other then, and they got to each other now. She could push him further than anyone else would dare—and have fun doing it.

She cleared her throat. “Back to the story.”

“The story is, when we started investigating Thorndike, we contacted someone who worked at the same place you did, for some technical assistance. He brought you to our attention. Except for your hair, you were a dead ringer for the First Lady. Do you remember anyone ever mentioning it to you?”

Lizzy shook her head. “No. But until Thorndike was elected, no one knew anything about her. If anyone said anything about it afterward … I just don’t remember.”

“We brought you in on the investigation, trained you. The idea was that, with the help of a couple of senior Secret Service agents, we’d be able to get you in and out of the President’s private quarters without anyone thinking about it.”

“Surely to God he wasn’t stupid enough to keep incriminating stuff lying around the White House! Think of the staff, the aides—there’s no privacy.”

“Lying around, no. But everything leaves a trail, if you know how to look. And we weren’t actually thinking about inserting you into the White House; it was on campaign stops, holidays, things like that, where the First Lady would act as a go-between for her husband and the Chinese.”

The Chinese
 … something teased at her memory, but it was so vague, so deeply buried, that nothing solidified.

“Long story short, we were in San Francisco, and we slipped you into their hotel suite to search for intel on the payoffs. Thorndike made himself a huge fortune, selling the country out to the Chinese. Money has to be kept somewhere, and we were almost certain the First Lady was handling the transactions. With her family background, she knew almost all there was to know about the ins and outs of international banking.”

“And she had this information
with
her?”