STOLEN MEMORY Read online

  "Mind will do," he said wryly. "Technically, amnesia is brain damage."

  "But you're still Mr. Wizard Genius Guy, right?"

  "I don't know," he said. His recent answer to everything. "I have journals, detailed journals, but recent ones appear to be missing. I can grasp the process, but I'm wasting time retracing my steps. And that could set my company back by months."

  "Don't you have other researchers working on the same projects? Do you really think you're that irreplaceable?"

  God help him, he did. His house might be devoid of family photos and childhood memorabilia, but there were enough clues to the scope and nature of his accomplishments to make him both profoundly proud and deeply uneasy. The past few days had taught him how much he had lost.

  And how much he had left to lose.

  He walked to the window, staring sightlessly out at the street. With his back to her, he said, "I dropped out of MIT when I was twenty. I took a stake from my father to finance my first foray into research, inventing a new technology that increases the amount of information that can be distributed via fiber optics. Before he died, when I was twenty-seven, I was already a multimillionaire. My stock started trading publicly five years ago and my company is currently one of the hottest tech properties on the market. I received a National Medal of Technology for my work on laser surgery. The Pentagon has expressed interest in a nonlethal phaser device we have in development. If we're going to accept a Department of Defense grant, we can't afford the slightest doubt about my company's security or my abilities."

  "You remember all that?" She sounded impressed. Too bad it wasn't justified.

  "No. I read about it on-line. From an ABC News special report and a profile in Newsweek."

  A Google search had yielded 1,378 pages of sources citing his education, inventions, patents and awards—and not a single personal fact beyond his birthdate. He was profoundly alone.

  Laura's eyes narrowed. "At least it wasn't your obituary."

  He couldn't tell if she was joking. He had a feeling—based entirely on his recent interactions with Quinn and his brother—that not many people teased him.

  "Not yet," he said.

  She frowned. "People are going to suspect something if I start hanging around asking questions."

  A flare of hope, of excitement, shot up inside him. She was going to do it. At least, she was considering it.

  Simon turned from the window, careful to keep his face and voice neutral. "Not if we give them a plausible reason for your presence."

  "What reason? I've been removed from your case."

  There it was. The sixty-four thousand dollar question.

  His pulse jumped, an annoying reminder he wasn't as much in control of himself or the situation as he'd like to be. "We could allow people to believe we have a relationship."

  "A relationship."

  She was back to repeating things. Simon refused to take that as a bad sign. "Yes."

  "A personal relationship," she clarified.

  "Yes."

  "A sexual relationship."

  Not good, he thought.

  "That was the idea."

  "Your idea. Not mine." She got jerkily to her feet. "I wouldn't even go out with you. Why would I agree to pretend to be your—your…"

  "Companion," he supplied. "And of course you would be compensated."

  Warning flags flew in her cheeks. "Do it for the money?"

  "You wouldn't have to do 'it.' Unless of course you wanted to."

  Mistake, he thought instantly. She was already suspicious of his motives. He had to reassure her. Persuade her. Not antagonize her further.

  "Please," he said. "This isn't simply a matter of questioning company employees. I need someone who might reasonably be expected to have an interest in my personal life. I need a woman."

  "You must know plenty of women."

  "No one I can trust."

  No one he could remember.

  No one else he wanted.

  He took a step closer, moving in on her carefully. He didn't want to spook her into saying no. The woman had scruples. Defenses. Pepper spray.

  "It won't work." Her voice was breathless and distracted.

  "What?" He was watching her mouth, distracted himself.

  "I can't help you."

  Another step. "Why not?"

  Her hair wasn't really brown, he decided, but bronze and gold and copper and rust, the colors running together like liquid metal.

  "Conflict of interest," she said.

  "What conflict? You're not investigating me. You're not even on the case."

  "For good reason."

  Her tension filled the air like static electricity, raising the hair on the back of his neck. "What reason?"

  She drew back her head and looked him straight in the eye. "The guard—the missing guard—the one who disappeared the same night as the rubies? He's my father."

  Simon went as rigid as a fighter absorbing a blow.

  No wonder, Laura thought bleakly. She'd just delivered a whammy.

  He didn't crumple. But he did move back a step. "When did you find out?"

  She curled her hands into fists to hide their trembling. "When you told me his name."

  "Good to know," Simon said.

  She was shaking with relief and anticlimax. In her experience, men did not respond to damaging personal revelations with calm acknowledgment.

  "That's it? 'Good to know'?" Her mimicry was savage.

  Simon raised his eyebrows. "It certainly helps explain why your chief removed you from the case."

  "Yes, it does," she said flatly.

  She didn't blame Jarek Denko one bit for yanking her from the investigation. She could accept his reasons. She could abide by his decision. But that didn't mean she had to like it. She couldn't shake the feeling that her chief ultimately hadn't trusted her to do her job. He'd placed a higher value on the appearance of propriety than his belief in her integrity. And it stung.

  "Did he do it?" Simon asked.

  She narrowed her eyes. "What?"

  "Your father," Simon said patiently. "Do you think he emptied the safe?"

  She didn't know what to think. But she felt, in her bones and her soul, that her father could not be guilty. "No. The man I remember was a hardheaded, ham-handed son of a bitch, but he wasn't a thief."

  "Fine," Simon said.

  "What do you mean, 'fine'?"

  He shrugged. "If you're right, there's no conflict of interest."

  "And if I'm wrong?" She couldn't believe they were even having this discussion. He should have stormed out by now.

  "Would you protect him?"

  "Protect my father?"

  "Yes. If you found out he was guilty, would you cover up for him or turn him in?" His odd, light eyes were opaque. Laura didn't have a clue what he was thinking.

  "I guess I'd try to talk him into turning himself in," she said slowly. "But I'd have to know. I want to know."

  Simon nodded. "Then we want the same thing."

  His brain was more rapid than hers. Or maybe, Laura thought with a flash of resentment, his mind was clearer because his emotions weren't involved.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "The truth." He gave her a thin smile which made her heart beat faster for no reason at all. "We both want the facts. As long as you don't let your hypothesis stand in the way of our reaching a logical conclusion, there's no reason we can't work together."

  "How can you trust me?" The words burst out of her.

  "Have you lied to me?"

  "No, but—"

  "No."

  "But Dan—the detective assigned to the case—is operating on the assumption that my father did it."

  "And you are operating on the assumption that he didn't."

  "Pretty much."

  "I can accept your assumption," Simon said slowly. "As long as you can accept the possibility of his guilt."

  Everything inside her recoiled.

  But Simon's offer was fai
r. More than fair. He trusted her to do the right thing. And that meant almost as much to her as the chance to clear the old man.

  "You do have one advantage over Palmer in this case," Simon said.

  "Because I knew my father?"

  "That, of course," Simon agreed coolly. "But also because, as the woman in my life, people will talk to you. You have the inside track."

  She was trapped. Tempted. Torn. "Nobody is going to believe that I'm the woman in your life."

  "My brother already does."

  "Your brother was trying to annoy you."

  He didn't deny it.

  Laura scowled. "Anyway, nobody else will."

  Simon's austere face never changed expression. But there was a brief flash of—something—in his eyes that made her shiver. Triumph?

  "Then we'll have to do our best to convince them." He bent his head.

  Her heart pounded. He was going to kiss her again. Unless she jumped out of range, unless she said no, unless she told him firmly and flatly he was out of his mind and she had no intention of going along with his schemes, he was going to kiss her.

  She didn't move.

  "This is a really bad idea," she said.

  Simon stopped, his mouth a whisper away. "It's a kiss. Just one kiss. To seal our bargain."

  She hadn't agreed to any bargain. But one kiss… She swayed toward him. How big a deal could one kiss be?

  His mouth brushed hers, softly, gently, warmly. He smelled delicious, like cool sheets and hot male, and he tasted even better. He pressed his lips to hers, still gently, still warmly, without urgency and with only a hint of tongue. And she realized, with an odd sense of abandoning herself to her fate, that one kiss wasn't going to be enough.

  Angling her head, she stood on tiptoe to kiss him back. His hands, his arms, gathered her close. She wasn't wearing her vest this time, and she felt all of him against all of her, chest, stomach, thighs.

  She melted. Just melted. Her bones dissolved, her brain turned to mush. All she could think was how amazingly good he felt, hot and hard against her. The heat of him set fire to her blood and blew her doubts and resolutions away like smoke.

  She kissed him again, longer this time. Deeper. His hands slid down to cup her rear end. Her palms glided up the long, smooth muscles of his back. Her brain was in flames, her body on fire. She clutched at him, learning him with her fingers, the silk of his hair, the shape of his skull, the hot bump above his ear…

  He flinched and hissed.

  She jerked and pulled away. "Did I hurt you?"

  His eyes were nearly black. "It doesn't matter." He reached for her again.

  "Yes, it does."

  Oh, God, what had she done? What was she doing?

  She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, struggling for control. For distance.

  "Okay." Her voice was shaky. "I guess we've established that an attraction between us is—isn't completely unbelievable."

  Simon's gaze never left her face. "We've certainly convinced me," he murmured.

  Blood flamed in her cheeks. She ignored it. "So you want me to pose as your—"

  "Companion."

  "—girlfriend, so I can investigate your case and help you hide your memory loss from your employees."

  "As well as hiding your involvement from your boss."

  Oh, help. She hadn't even thought of that.

  "You understand I'm only doing this to clear my father."

  "Understood."

  "I don't want any money," she said.

  He nodded slowly. "All right."

  She shoved her hands in her pockets. "Okay."

  "So we have a deal?" Simon asked.

  "I… Yeah, sure. It's a deal."

  His smile glinted. "Do you want to shake on it?"

  Her pulse leapt. Her throat constricted.

  Just one kiss. To seal our bargain.

  "That's okay," she said hastily. "I trust you. Your word is good enough for me."

  Simon laughed—the first time she had heard him laugh.

  And she wondered, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, if she was about to get a whole lot more than she'd bargained for.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  The morning was not going according to plan. Nothing was going according to plan.

  Simon had intended to spend the hours in his lab. But Laura, instead of waiting on his orders and convenience, had shown up twenty minutes ago in a rented Sunfish she'd sailed herself and tied to his dock. The boat bobbed beside his hulking white cabin cruiser, looking sleek and serviceable and out of place.

  Laura, her angular face pink from the sun, perched on a deck chair. "You need to have a party."

  Simon appreciated her enthusiasm. He did. But there was no way in hell he was going to surround himself with strangers.

  "I hate parties," he said.

  She tossed her braid over her shoulder. "How would you know? You can't remember anything."

  He stiffened. Was she mocking him? But her eyes were candid and bright, her smile without malice. He smiled back cautiously.

  How did he know he hated parties? He wracked his memory, but there was nothing, no record of social disaster or personal humiliation, only a faint antipathy and a brief, sharp image of lying on his bed, staring at the press-on stars on his ceiling while laughter and music floated up the stairs. His father was getting married again.

  Simon blinked, and it was gone.

  "Parties are a waste of time," he said.

  "Well, this one won't be," Laura said certainly. "How else am I going to meet people and ask questions?"

  He hadn't thought about it. "You could come with me to Chicago."

  She snorted. "Oh, yeah, like that'll fly. I have to work, you know."

  "So do I," Simon said, but she ignored him.

  "I have the Tuesday-Friday shift this week. So we could plan the party for this weekend. Saturday, maybe."

  "Saturday is too late. I need to at least put in an appearance at the office. My investors are already wondering where I am."

  "And when you can't find your own office, what will they think?"

  Frustration welled inside him. He struggled to contain it before it spilled over and swamped them both.

  "I'll figure it out," he said. He wasn't stupid. "I need to do something. The longer I'm out of the equation, the less I can control the results."

  "So your showing up at the office is a deterrent?"

  He nodded. "Or a catalyst."

  "It's a risk," she warned.

  "That's why I want you to come with me."

  "And do what? I can't wander around the building introducing myself as your girlfriend and expect everybody you work with to tell me how they really feel about you and what they were doing last Wednesday night."

  Put that way, she certainly had a point. Damn it.

  He'd asked for her help. He'd wanted her insight and experience. Was he really going to risk losing her because he didn't want to give up control?

  "Why a party?" he asked.

  Laura leaned forward eagerly. "People talk at parties. It's a chance to bring together a specially chosen group of people and—and observe them in a controlled environment."

  "Like lab rats," Simon said dryly.

  She grinned, not offended at all by his analogy. Or was she amused he'd caught her attempt to speak his language? "Yeah. You should love it."

  She was funny. He liked her teasing, her directness, her refusal to be intimidated by his intelligence and position. Would he have liked her before his bump on the head?

  "How do we decide who to invite?" he asked.

  "Ask Quinn to draw up a guest list. You can tell him I've been bugging you to meet the significant people in your life, and you don't want to be bothered right now."

  Simon grimaced.

  "What's the matter?" Laura asked.

  "You think I'd do that?"

  "Do what?" She was genuinely confused.


  "Make you organize your own meet-my-friends-and-family party. Don't you think that's kind of…" He hesitated.

  "Practical?" she suggested.

  "Cold," he decided. "It's cold."

  She shrugged. "You don't exactly have a reputation as Mr. Warmth, you know. Anyway, what does it matter? It's all a cover to make the right people available for questioning." She was right. He knew she was right. He still didn't like it.

  She touched him, her fingers warm and light on his arm. "Are you worried about your safety? Because there's a good chance whoever was behind the attack will be present."

  "Return to the scene of the crime?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. If I'm no use as a catalyst, maybe I can be rat bait."

  She scowled. "That's not funny. The person who slugged you could be standing right next to you and you wouldn't know it."

  The same thought had occurred to him. But he said, "Isn't that the idea? To see how people act and react around me?"

  "React, yes. Attack you, no."

  He shrugged. "So I'll be careful."

  "And stay close to me," she ordered.

  She was sitting on the edge of the deck chair, dressed in straight dark jeans and a plain white T-shirt that clung to her torso in the heat. There was nothing overtly sexual about her pose, her clothes or her suggestion. But just looking at her made his blood heat.

  How close did she have in mind? Side by side? Body to body? Skin to skin?

  "Yo, Ford." She was squinting at him, her brown eyes narrow with suspicion or annoyance. "Are you with me?"

  "All the way," Simon said.

  "Let E.C.I.P. know you want to lay on extra security for the party. Bodyguards."

  He was still distracted by the image of Laura, up-close and preferably naked. "A bodyguard didn't help me the last time."

  She winced, and he remembered, too late, that the bodyguard in question was her father. Way to go, genius.

  He struggled to recover. "Have you talked with him yet?"

  "My father? No."

  "He's still missing?"

  "Yeah."

  He searched for something appropriate to say. "Well, you can talk to him when he gets back."

  "Maybe."

  This was not going well. Simon studied Laura's averted face, trying to recall what she'd told him about her father. The man I remember was a hardheaded, ham-handed son of a bitch, but he wasn't a thief.