True Shot (18 page)

She had. How could she not? How could she possibly remember training when
that
was going on in her head?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

M
ac jerked awake, heart pounding and eyes blinking to adjust to the darkness of the motel room, the vague impression of a loud noise ringing in his ears. What the hell? Had someone walked by the door of the motel room and coughed loudly?

He checked the red glow of the alarm clock. Four A.M. They’d checked in to a Charleston motel—a nicer one than in Front Royal—and sacked out only an hour ago.

Sitting up, he flicked on the lamp between the two double beds and squinted at the resulting bright light. The realization that Sam’s bed was empty cleared his disorientation in less than a second.

Then he heard the noise again. It didn’t come from out in the hall. Sam was in the bathroom, vomiting.

“Shit.” He tossed aside the covers and got up to drag on his jeans. He left them unbuttoned, more worried now about the silence from the bathroom than the fact that he hadn’t finished putting his pants on.

Outside the bathroom door, he lightly knocked. “Sam?”

“I’m okay.” The toilet flushed, followed by water splashing against porcelain.

“Do you need anything? I can get some ice or ginger ale or something.”

Instead of answering, she opened the door.

He stepped back in surprise and took in her white bra and bikini briefs. If it hadn’t been for the pallor of her face and the stark whiteness of the bandage at her shoulder, his brain would have gone right to sex, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not stop until the world ends in bright, explosive color.

It took him a moment to grasp that she stood just as frozen as he did. Her gaze had fastened on his chest, and as he watched, fascinated, her eyes slowly dropped over his abdomen and down to the unbuttoned fly of his jeans. A pleasant pink began to flush her cheeks.

Well, hello. Either partial nudity embarrassed her, or she’d just gotten the same electric charge seeing him half-naked as he’d gotten seeing her.

But then he wanted to knock himself upside the head for being such a dolt that he was more focused on sensual curves and lust than helping the poor woman sit down after tossing her cookies.

When he stepped back, her eyes widened, as though she realized she’d been staring.

Join the crowd, baby.

“Sure you don’t want some ginger ale? The machine’s just down the hall.”

She shook her head, chafing her arms as though chilled.

Mac snagged the shirt she’d left at the foot of her bed and helped her into it, careful to avoid jostling her sore arm. Damn, how sexy was it that his flannel shirt smelled like her? Like caramelized sugar and something exotic that he couldn’t identify. Not cinnamon. Maybe nutmeg or allspice?

Ah, shit, she was trembling. He really needed to focus.

“Here, sit on the bed.” He led her over, and as she did as he bade, he pulled the thick, dark beige blanket off his bed and settled it snugly around her shoulders, careful to not make contact with any skin. “How’s that? Better?”

She nodded, burrowing her chin down against her chest. She looked as small and vulnerable as a little kid wrapped in a blankie.

“Talk to me, Sam. What happened? Did you remember something?”

Her teeth chattered. “I had a . . .”

“A bad dream?” He sat across from her on his bed, so intent on her pained expression that he bumped his knees against hers. “Oops, sorry.”

“S’okay.” She went on shuddering.

“How about some coffee to warm you up?”

“It’ll pass in a minute.”

“How do you know?”

She furrowed her brows. “I guess I don’t. Sure, make some coffee.”

Eager to do something, anything, to help, he pushed off the bed and got to work tearing into the prepackaged coffee filter and tucking it into the basket of the coffeemaker. When his hands jittered, he shook them out, telling himself to chill. She was fine. No harm, no foul. It was just . . . Jesus, she was sick. Wounded. Stricken by amnesia. Traumatized by other people’s memories. Hunted by a ruthless madman.

The woman couldn’t catch a break.

He filled the glass carafe with water from the bathroom then dumped the contents into the maker. “Should take just a few minutes.”

He turned to face her, starting to plunge his hands into the front pockets of his jeans only to discover they were still unbuttoned and barely hanging on at his hips. “Oh, damn.” He fumbled with the buttons, flashing her a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”

Her lips quirked, and she glanced away.

That tiny smile did more to lift his spirits than a 50-yard-line seat at a Super Bowl pitting the Dolphins against the Eagles. “So . . . do you want to talk about it? The bad dream, I mean.”

“Not really.”

“Maybe it’ll help.”

“Help what?”

“I don’t know. Help . . . something. It obviously freaked you out enough to make you hurl.”

One eyebrow ticked up. “Hurl?”

“Barf. Puke. Blow burrito chunks.”

She winced at the graphics. “Yeah, I got what you meant. I just hadn’t heard it put like that in a while.” Her forehead creased, and she added, “I don’t think.”

“I think you should talk to me about the dream. What if there’s something in it that doesn’t make sense to you but does to me? I’m a newshound, you know. I know the odds are a long shot, but you never know.” He stopped, feeling like an idiot for all the words he’d managed to cram into his argument. It was just . . . she made him nervous.

She seemed to think it over for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was low. “I don’t think it was a dream. I think it was a flashback.”

Oh, wow. There’s something new. “What makes you think that?”

“It was . . . so real.”

His heart started to thump harder as he got up to pour the finished coffee into a foam cup for her. “Creamer or sugar?”

“Black is fine.”

He turned to hand her the warm cup and watched her cradle it in her hands as though savoring the heat it gave off.

“If it was a flashback,” he asked, “then does that mean your memory is coming back?”

“Possibly.”

“That’s great.”

She simply nodded without saying anything. Decidedly unenthusiastic.

“It’s not great?” he asked.

She shrugged her right shoulder.

A chilled finger of realization trailed up his spine. The flashback had made her violently sick to her stomach, so it couldn’t have been a happy one. “Oh.”

He lowered himself back to the bed across from her. A long minute of silence went by in which he noticed she had yet to sample the coffee. “You’re not drinking.”

“I don’t think my stomach can take it.”

“I thought you wanted . . .”

She shrugged that one shoulder again. “You seemed to need something to do.”

“Wow. Am I a lame bastard or what?”

“You’re not lame at all. You’re very . . . sweet.”

He smirked at her. “Sweet. Just what every guy wants to hear.”

Every time a woman had told him he was sweet, she’d dumped him soon after. Not that he thought he would ever get romantically involved with this particular woman. But still. Who could blame him? Sam Trudeau was the most beautiful, most perfectly made woman he’d ever met. She also made him feel . . . things he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protective and curious and energized . . . and way too warm. He couldn’t help but think of seduction and sex when he was near her. And, hell, he wanted to pound that Flinn Ford fucker into the ground. Such violent urges were so not like him.

“I was at a party.”

His attention turned outward as she burrowed deeper into the blanket. He didn’t say anything, just waited for her to go on.

“It was a test. My assignment was to find a particular man at the party and . . . and . . . mine his memories.” Her eyebrows drew tightly together. “I don’t remember that specifically from the flashback. The terminology, I mean. But I recall Flinn saying something about that, about mining memories.”

“Maybe that’s what you do for the FBI? Use your empathy to mine bad guys’ memories to find out what crimes they’ve committed?”

“Maybe.”

“So, what happened?”

She didn’t respond right away, as though gathering herself. “I saw a man kill a woman while he was raping her.”

Mac felt as though she’d thrown a brick at his chest full force. “Holy God.”

“It was . . . awful. I felt . . . everything. He was enjoying it, and I felt it. The blood . . . was . . . it was everywhere. Oh, God.” Her voice broke, and she covered her mouth with one shaking hand.

Mac moved fast to rescue the teetering cup of coffee from her other hand. After setting it aside, he sat beside her on the bed and gathered her to him, wrapping both arms securely around her. The quivering of her body just about did him in. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. That guy is probably in prison now, right? If he was your assignment, then you must have helped put him away.” “I don’t think I can do this, Mac. I’m not strong enough.”

“Yes, you can. I’m here to help you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

She let go of the handful of blanket she’d been clutching to her chest and dug her fingers into his bare arm. Instantly, she stiffened, and her breath caught.

He stilled, realizing she must have flashed on what he was feeling and thinking. He hoped whatever she glimpsed didn’t include an image of her naked and under him.