More Than Friends (The Warriors) (4 page)

"Gaps?" She laughed, the short sound filled with incredulity. "You’re not listening to me. I definitely have gaps. Thirty years worth of gaps, according to the date of birth on this driver’s license. We are not just talking
spotty
. We’re talking amnesia, or some form of it, because I can’t remember
anything
," she insisted, her tone as brittle as the temper she didn’t even know she had flared to life.

"I thought you meant you didn’t remember the trip, but you’re…" His voice trailed off.

"I’m talking about my life, not a trip. What if I never remember who I am?" Fear underscored each word.

"You will."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I just am. I’ve seen this kind of thing before."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Of course, not!"

Her hand went to her temple. "Don’t shout at me."

Brett muttered an ugly, totally self–directed oath under his breath. "You’re a little confused right now. It’s not surprising. You really smacked your head when you fell."

"Tell me about it, please."

"Leah, this conversation can wait. You’re tired and hungry."

"But not deaf or stupid! Tell me what’s happened. Now," she insisted as she struggled for calm. His obvious reluctance to talk to her simply heightened her tension. "I’m frightened.
You
are frightening me."

Brett started to pace. "You don’t recall any aspect of your life?"

"That’s what I just said."

"Christ! Nothing at all?" he clarified. He caught himself before he asked,
you don’t remember our son?

He watched her shake her head, which sent her long golden hair on an evocative journey across her shoulders and down her back. Brett slowly approached her, his body language as unthreatening as he could make it. Going down on one knee in front of her, he smoothed his hand up and down her arm with the same gentleness he would’ve used on a small, injured animal.

When she looked at him, he saw tears of pain, confusion, and fatigue welling in her eyes, but he managed not to draw her into his arms. He needed to quickly set the tone of their relationship, he reminded himself. Nothing more. He’d re–entered her life to protect her when an informant had alerted him to the death threats against Leah and her child, not to beg for a second chance at what he’d so stupidly abandoned.

Six years ago, he’d told himself that he was protecting her by not exposing her to the jeopardy of being married to a man who worked covert military ops across the globe. He’d done the honorable thing then—at least, that was the lie he’d told himself—but it hadn’t lessened his loneliness or his desire for her during their years apart. And in spite of his best efforts, the very people who intended to kill her had finally found her and had succeeded in harming her. And he knew they wouldn’t stop until she and the boy were dead.

Brett’s thoughts raced. Although he knew he couldn’t keep her ignorant indefinitely about the terrorist threat, he realized that the task of protecting her would be far less complicated if he had the power to insulate her from the reality of their situation during their stay in San Francisco and while in transit to Seattle.

He knew, too, that Leah deserved his help as she tried to regain her memory. He intended to aid her in restoring it, but slowly and with great care.

What remained crucial in his mind was the fact that she deserved his protection from an enemy she didn’t even know she had, an enemy intent on directing his wrath against innocents like Leah and her five–and–a–half–year–old son. All this thanks to a terrorist’s discovery of her link to both Brett Upton and Micah Holbrook, the two men who’d dedicated years of their lives to his downfall. With any kind of luck, as well as with the able assistance of several of Israel’s top Mossad agents, Micah had already begun to orchestrate the arrest of other members of the terrorist faction.

Brett also felt reluctant to increase her anxiety about the well–being of a child she didn’t remember at the moment. He knew the boy and Leah’s parents were on their way to a safe house, thanks to the security personnel he’d ordered to Seattle, where her son was spending his Easter holiday.

He would protect Leah while her older brother, Micah Holbrook, his closest friend and the commanding officer of a second covert counter–terrorism team operated by Naval Intelligence, handled the round up of the terrorist group responsible for the multiple bombings at various U.S. embassies and military installations across the globe, not just the vengeance–inspired death threats against Leah and her child.

"Please talk to me," she whispered.

He exhaled and refocused on her. "Shall I start at the beginning?"

"Please."

"I had just arrived at your place. I saw you putting your luggage into the trunk of your car. It was dark, and you must’ve tripped on the curb. I wasn’t close enough to catch you before you tripped, fell, and hit your head on the cement," he lied.

Two men were trying to wrestle you to the ground,
he remembered
, but you tried to fight them off. I was running toward you, shouting your name like an escapee from an insane asylum. I couldn’t use my gun, because I was afraid you’d get caught in the crossfire. One of the men shoved you when he spotted me coming at him, and you fell. I heard you cry out just before your head hit the pavement. At first, I thought they’d killed you. I wanted to die, too, but only after I made them pay for what they’d done to you.

Brett gripped her hand, unaware that he was on the verge of crushing her fingers. "You scared the hell out of me when I couldn’t wake you up."

"You took me to the clinic?"

"Of course."

"You were holding my hand then, too," she remarked. "I felt safe when you held my hand."

"Why didn’t you tell the doctor you couldn’t remember anything?" he asked.

"Would it have made a difference? Doubtful. And I don’t think a prescription is going to solve this situation. Besides, I hardly even remember the clinic, let alone the doctor, although I’m almost positive I said something to you after we got into the Jeep."

"You were mumbling in your sleep," he recalled. "I should have paid more attention to what you were saying."

"That’s alright. You couldn’t have known." She paused and glanced down at their entwined fingers. "Who exactly are you?"

"Brett Matthew Upton."
Commander, United States Navy, attached to Naval Intelligence. The man who loves you. The father of your son. The fool who walked out on you and forced you to face the birth of our child alone, because my work came first in those days.

"That’s it?"

"Long–time… friend."

She chewed on that for a long moment. "Since we’re taking a vacation together, I guess we must know each other fairly well."

Brett almost smiled when he heard the speculative tone of her voice. Although he longed to tell her that they’d once shared a rare emotional and passionate bond, he restrained himself. "We’ve known each other for several years, Leah. We met in D.C. when you were working as a congressional aide. I was stationed at the Pentagon."

"What are we?"

"To each other?" he asked quietly.

Leah nodded, her gaze sweeping across that hard–looking face for some clue about their relationship.

"I’d like to think we’re friends."

She frowned. "Friends? That doesn’t sound right."

"Why?" he whispered.

She shrugged. "We seem like… more."

"We’ve been… more than friends, Leah. In the past," he said with care.

"And that’s why you’re helping me now? Because we have a shared past?"

"You… we were headed up to the Pacific Northwest for a vacation," he said, modifying the truth somewhat. He knew this wasn’t the time to tell her that he’d intended to follow her at a safe distance, stepping in only if she needed his help to defend herself against an unexpected attack. "Our game plan was to end the trip by visiting your family in Seattle."

Leah sighed in obvious frustration and slumped back against the sofa cushions. Brett released his hold on her hand the instant she started to tug free of him.

"I don’t remember anything. Not a trip, not my name, not my life or my family, and not you. This can’t be happening."

"I’ve seen men with head wounds temporarily forget their entire lives, but their memories almost always return. The key is not to rush the process. I guess you’ll need to be patient."

"I don’t feel patient," she grumbled. "I feel disconnected. Are we really friends? Or are you just doing a job of some kind?"

He met her troubled gaze. Despite his desire to draw her into his arms and simply hold her, he conquered the impulse. "You aren’t a job, Leah. You never could be."

"You carry a gun. At first, I thought I might be a criminal or something equally awful."

He recalled her past aversion to weapons of any kind, even though he and Micah had taken her target shooting when they’d all lived in the Washington, D.C. area. "I’m in federal law enforcement," he said, stretching the truth to accommodate the situation.

"It suits you somehow. The gun, I mean."

All the expression left his face. "Carpenters carry hammers." Brett would never forget the heated discussions they’d once had about gun control. "I carry a weapon, but I’ll keep it out of sight if it bothers you."

"Oddly enough, it doesn’t bother me, but it might under normal conditions. Whatever the hell
normal
happens to be." She frowned again. "Are you going to take me back to Monterey now?"

"Is that what you want?" He kept his voice level, hoping he could conceal his concern that she might insist on returning to her home. Protecting her would be far easier if they remained on the move.

"Not really. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stick with our vacation plans. Then, if I don’t remember anything by the time we reach Seattle, maybe seeing my family will jog my memory."

She absently trailed her fingertips across the top of his large hand and then up his forearm. He tensed, her light touch sending charged currents of heat into his flesh. His muscles bunched beneath her fingertips and desire for her thundered through his entire body.

"I don’t want to be alone right now," she admitted in a small, vulnerable voice that made his heart lurch in his chest.

"I don’t intend to leave you alone, so no worries there," he promised.

She met his piercing gaze. "Thank you."

"For what?"

He pushed up to his feet as he waited for her reply. He felt too tempted by his craving to reacquaint himself with the curves and hollows of her body to remain in such close proximity to her. So hungry for a lingering taste of her, he clenched his fists as he moved into the center of the room. His body, awash in arousal and tension–filled, fought him and briefly denied him the control he sought.

Turning away from her, Brett drew in an unsteady breath. Her silence prompted him to repeat his question. "Why did you just thank me?"

"For everything you’ve just done to help me, but especially for being my friend. I obviously need one right now."

Surprised by her obvious sincerity, he pivoted to look at her. He started to speak just as a knock sounded on the door. His hand strayed to his gun. Pure instinct. Brett stopped in mid–reach when he saw the startled look on Leah’s face.

"Force of habit, I’m afraid," he said, trying to explain reflexes too ingrained to abandon. "Stay put."

His order made her laugh. "Yes, sir."

He grinned at her then, the change in his facial features provoking a stunning transformation. His dark eyes twinkled, white teeth flashed, and the upward curve of his lips seduced. Neither pretty nor handsome, Brett Upton personified the classic raw–boned, barely civilized male—the same kind of male who rarely questioned his own prowess when dealing with women or dangerous situations. None of the desire, self–doubt, or guilt he felt showed, but all of those emotions and more thrived within his heart and mind.

"I definitely like the sound of that. Want to try it again… just for practice," he teased in spite of his own inner turmoil.

Leah scowled at him, although amusement lingered in her eyes. "Don’t hold your breath. Besides, it might be totally out of character."

Brett nodded, his expression growing pensive as he gave her a final probing look. "It has been… in recent years."

As he walked to the sitting room door, Brett resigned himself to the fury she would feel when she regained her memory. He didn’t want her amnesia to last too long, but he intended to savor her unguarded behavior and her willingness to depend on him. This was the old Leah, the Leah able to be vulnerable when she trusted a man, the Leah he still wanted day in and day out. Once, she had been
his
Leah.

Until she rejected him, he intended to watch over her with the vigilance of an avenging angel. No one, he vowed for the hundredth time that night, would be permitted to harm her. No one.

Once the current threat ended and her life returned to normal, Brett intended to resume his role as distant protector. He had long ago given up the right to expect anything more of this woman or of a child who didn’t even know him. It was a role necessitated by his counter–terrorism work. A role he’d grudgingly accepted during the last six years. And a role aided by Micah Holbrook, Leah’s brother, who administered the trust fund Brett had created for the woman he still loved and the little boy he had fathered.

Clad in an old thigh–length, Naval Academy t–shirt that doubled as a nightgown, Leah lingered in front of the bathroom mirror and studied her reflection. She saw a tangled mane of golden hair that cascaded over slender shoulders and down a narrow back, large eyes rimmed by thick, dark–gold eyelashes, and a flawless complexion that looked as pale as ivory parchment paper.

The smudges beneath her eyes emphasized the fatigued condition of her body, and the bump on her head still throbbed. But she felt fortunate that her earlier, mind–numbing pain had been replaced by a dull ache that no longer frightened her.

Frustrated by her lack of recognition and desperate to make some kind of contact with her real self, Leah searched her reflection. She stood very still. Hoping for a miracle, she waited. She hardly dared to breathe.