Authors: Maggie Shayne
Tags: #romantic suspense, #crime fiction, #witness, #muder, #organized crime, #fbi agent, #undercover agent, #crime writer
No eyes had ever been that green. She had to
be wearing tinted contacts. Didn’t she?
"Don't ever let me hear you talk that way
again,” she told him. “I was just taken by surprise. I didn't
realize they'd let you go so soon with a head injury this serious.
I figured..." She shook her head fast and her crazy curls swung
back and forth over her face. "Of course I'm taking you home. I
wouldn't have it any other way."
He frowned, wondering how she managed to seem
so genuine when she was lying though her teeth. Damn, she was good.
"Are you sure?"
Her shoulders squared and her spine
stiffened. Determination lit her eyes. "Get dressed, Ash. I'll go
and see about getting your release forms and we'll get out of
here."
He nodded and watched the sway of her hips,
as mesmerizing as a hypnotist's pocket watch, as she turned and
left. When the door closed, he shook himself, got out of the bed,
went to the door and cracked it, just to be sure she wasn't
standing outside. Then he grabbed his phone.
When he heard his editor's voice on the line,
he didn't waste time with preamble. "There's a drop-dead gorgeous
woman here claiming to be my wife, Rad. She wants to take me home.
I'm going."
Radley Ketchum chortled. "You? Married? Ash,
maybe they’d better x-ray your head one more time, huh? What's
going on?"
"I'm serious." Ash darted a glance toward the
door and rushed on. “She has a certificate that says I married her
in Vegas on Saturday."
"And she expects you to buy it? You? The most
dedicated bachelor in the state of New York?"
"Well, she probably figures I don't know
that, don't you think?"
Rad was silent for a long moment. "Look, you
better not go with her. This whole deal was supposed to keep you
alive, not get you killed."
He thought about the look in Joey Bradshaw’s
eyes when he'd pretended emotional agony. "I don't think it's
her."
"Oh, no? What makes you so sure?"
Ash shook his head. "I don't know. Gut
feeling, maybe."
"Does she smoke?"
"How the hell do I know if she smokes? Look,
I'll let you know where I am when I get there, okay?"
"She lights up a cigarette, my friend, you
get the hell out. You have any urge to stick around, you just think
about those butts with the coral-frost lipstick stains on them that
the cops found at the scenes of all three murders."
"Yeah. Don't worry, I'm not suicidal."
"One more thing. Get her address on record
somewhere before you leave the hospital, just in case you can't
call with it later. Phone number, too. Give me her name right now
and I'll see what I can find out about her."
"Her name, she says, is Mrs. Ashville
Coye."
"Very funny."
"The marriage certificate reads Josephine
Belinda Bradshaw. Calls herself Joey."
"Got it. Take care of yourself. And,
Ash?"
"Yeah?"
"Just in case she
is
our slasher, you
be real careful not to let on that the amnesia is just a
cover."
He disconnected and got dressed just in time.
She was back at the speed of sound and, moments later, pushing him
through the corridors in a wheelchair that was completely
unnecessary, but required. Probably by the hospital’s lawyers. She
seemed nervous. Her eyes darted around, seemingly watching
everyone. Ash steered himself toward the nurse’s desk, taking her
with him. He asked the nurse on duty for a pad and a pen and turned
toward his "wife."
"What's your address?"
"Eight twenty-nine Gaskin, in Clay. Why?"
He jotted it down. "Just in case anyone tries
to reach me here, I want to let them know where I am."
Her eyes widened. She reached past him to rip
the top page from the notepad and then crumpled it in her fist. "I
don't think that's such a good idea."
Ash got up out of the wheelchair and leaned
negligently against the desk so he could see every expression that
crossed her face, eye to eye. There was heightened color to her
cheeks. Her full lips were parted slightly in agitation. She was
one hell of an attractive woman. "Why not?" he asked.
"I just...I don't like my home address
being...readily available to any nut case who happens to ask for
it, that's all." She tugged the pen from his hand, leaned over the
pad and wrote something down. She shoved it across the desk to the
nurse. "If anyone tries to reach Mister—my husband—give them this
number."
"So during my sentence, will I be allowed
visitors?"
She whirled to face him, her hair flying.
God, she was jumpy. He smiled so she'd know he was kidding. He
wasn't, but it wouldn't pay to let too much show. His "wife's"
expression eased slightly, and she picked up a large zippered bag
from the desk, offered him a shaky smile, and started for the
elevators.
Ash caught up within a second or two, waving
off the nurse who started yelling about the mandatory wheelchair.
"What’ve you got there, Joey?”
"What?" She thumped the down arrow
repeatedly, gaze raking the halls.
"The bag."
Her brows lifted, but she handed him the bag.
"Your personal effects. The stuff they took off you when you were
admitted. You know, wallet, loose change." She averted her eyes.
"Wedding ring."
Oh, man, she didn't miss a trick, this phony
wife of his. If there was a ring in that bag, she’d put it there,
just now. And he hadn’t seen a thing.
"Wouldn't want to go too long not wearing
that," he muttered. "Feel naked without it."
"Are you being sarcastic or making a joke?"
She searched his face, her own worried, wary. He shrugged. The
doors slid open and she shot a nervous glance at the people inside.
It took her a few ticks, as if she had to study each face
individually before she made up her mind. About what, he had no
idea. Ash caught the doors before they slid closed again.
"We're holding people up, Joey. And here
comes that wheelchair Nazi nurse,” he said, nodding toward the
nurse pushing the ridiculous chair their way. “Something
wrong?"
Shaking her head, she stepped into the
elevator. She stood very close to him as the doors slid closed, he
noticed. Her attitude was damned strange. Not like someone who was
pulling a scam just to get him in the sack—if that was what she was
up to. God knew, it wasn't necessary. He'd have obliged her in a
New York minute if she'd simply asked. One time and one time only,
of course. She was not his type. She was his anti-type, in fact.
Qualification number one for the future Mrs. Ashville Coye was that
she not be promiscuous enough to have sex on the first date. He'd
prefer she not be promiscuous at all.
But looking at her, all tight fitting leather
and centerfold hair, he thought she was a walking advertisement for
a good time. That’s why he figured he'd have known Joey Bradshaw
was no wife of his, even if the amnesia had been real. It was in
those bedroom eyes that seemed to look right through him, to his
hidden fantasies. And it was in those luscious lips, so full and
plump that they made a man want to taste them.
He scoffed at his own train of thought.
Probably collagen.
The doors slid open and she was the first to
step out. She gave a quick glance around the lobby, following it
with one over her shoulder to be sure he was right behind her. Then
she started for the exit. No less than seven male heads turned as
she passed, he noted.
She didn't seem to notice, just strode
purposefully across the parking lot while Ash followed. The July
sun rebounded from the pavement, making the asphalt feel like an
oven. There was no hint of a breeze, and the air was heavy and
stifling. She stopped beside a monster-size, glistening black
motorcycle. Grabbing a black helmet with an angular, tinted face
shield, she pulled it over her head. When he stopped right behind
her, she held out one that matched.
"You're kidding, right?"
She thumbed her visor back, tilted her head
to one side. "If I'd known you were being released today, I'd have
brought the car."
"That's not what I—"
"Look, why don't you go back to that coffee
shop off the lobby? I'll ride home and get the car." She frowned,
and rushed on. “No, no, that won’t work. Can’t leave you alone.”
Then she she snapped her fingers. "I know, we'll call a cab and
leave the bike–"
"You talk too much, you know that?" He
grabbed the helmet and pulled it on, wincing as it slid past the
bandaged wound on his head. The amnesia might be phony, but the
damned concussion was real enough. "I'm fine. I was just wondering
about you." He looked doubtfully at the bike as he fastened the
strap under his chin. "Looks like a lot for a little thing like you
to handle. Mind if I drive?"
"The last time you drove, you wound up in the
back of an ambulance." She flipped her visor back down with a snap
and swung one leg over the seat. Well, he'd managed to tweak her
temper. He'd been wondering if her concern for his health and
happiness would have any bounds.
The Harley was low slung despite its size.
Still, her feet barely reached the pavement. She kicked the motor
to life and revved it. Ash caught a whiff of gasoline and exhaust,
sighed in resignation and climbed on behind her. He slid forward on
the slanting seat until he was pressed to her backside. Putting his
arms around her waist, he decided he might not mind the ride so
much.
She caught his hands in hers and moved them
until they just rested on her sides, above her hips. Again the
visor was thumbed up. She twisted her head and shouted above the
roar of the motor. "Move 'em and lose 'em...darling."
He thumbed his visor back, too, and tried for
a pained expression. "I'm sorry."
Her anger vanished. Her huge eyes softened
and she almost pouted. "It's just less distracting this way, Ash.
That's all."
He nodded, a little surprised at how easily
he could skirt her anger by acting hurt. A con artist centerfold
with a heart of gold. He could hardly wait to find out what she was
up to.
And whether it had anything to do with the
Slasher murders.
He pushed his visor down. She did likewise. A
second later they lurched forward and shot into traffic.
Find
FORGOTTEN
on
Smashwords
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Standalones
The Fairies of Rush
Shayne’s Supernaturals
The Immortal Witches
Eternal Love: The
Immortal Witch Series
The Texas Brands
The Oklahoma All-Girl Brands
The Brands Who Came
for Christmas
Wings In The Night: Reborn
Edge of Darkness
And MAGGIE’S NON-FICTION
Magick and the Law
of Attraction: A User’s Guide
New York Times bestselling author Maggie
Shayne has published more than 60 novels and 23 novellas. She has
written for 7 publishers and 2 soap operas, has racked up 15 Rita
Award nominations and actually, finally, won the damn thing in
2005.
Maggie lives in a beautiful, century old,
happily haunted farmhouse named “Serenity” in the wildest wilds of
Cortland County, NY, with her husband and soul mate, Lance.
They share a pair of English Mastiffs, Dozer & Daisy, and a
little English Bulldog, Niblet, and the wise guardian and guru of
them all, the feline Glory, who keeps the dogs firmly in their
places. Maggie’s a Wiccan high priestess (legal clergy even)
and an avid follower of the Law of Attraction
Connect with Maggie