Of course, he had been nothing but kind to her, for as long as she could remember.
Yes, but that was only a few hours, she reminded herself ironically.
In any event, she didn’t see any downside in telling him the truth. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not, but I don’t remember anything.” To her horror, her voice broke.
He studied her for a moment, and she wanted to shrink from his intense gaze. She didn’t, though. She pulled her hands away and forced herself to sit up just a little straighter.
He finally said, “All right. I’ll assume it’s real, for now at least. And if so, there are some things you should know.” He sighed. “But most will keep until tomorrow. We’ll talk then about how long it will take to get your memory back. We need for you to remember what happened.”
“To catch whoever did it?”
He nodded, and she had a feeling that there was a lot hinging on solving this crime.
Solving the crime…why did that seem so crucial to her? The idea seemed—well, familiar. But she couldn’t remember why.
“We have to catch the murderer,” she said out loud.
“That’s for certain,” he said grimly.
Suddenly questions bubbled up inside Sara, insisting on spilling out. She blurted the first. “Who was the man who died?” She knew, somehow, that the answer was vital.
“If you really don’t remember, then this isn’t the time to get into that.” His voice was gentle but firm. “Tomorrow, we’ll—”
“Tell me now,” she insisted.
“But—”
“Please.” She steeled herself, realizing, after his dissembling, that what she would hear would be painful.
“He was your father, Sara.” The man gathered her into his arms while she stiffened in shock. “He was Casper Shepard, Chief of Police of Santa Gregoria.”
“No-oo—” Sara heard her own keening as though it were issued from someone else. Her father? Even seeing him on the floor that way, lifeless, she hadn’t remembered him. Still couldn’t. But the ugliness of having lost him, coupled with her inability to recall, finally drove her into a frenzy of emotion. She tried to push against the strong, hard chest of the man who still held her. She wanted to stand. To run…somewhere. Anywhere.
“I’m so sorry,” the man whispered in her ear, his accent slightly more pronounced with emotion. “It was partly my—Never mind. I’ll find the murdering SOB.” The man who held her seemed as upset as she, and she pulled back. She stared at him.
Despite the hardness that turned his deep blue eyes to steel, his hollow cheeks were damp.
“You cared about him, too,” she said brokenly.
“Yes. I cared about him. And I care about you. Sara. Do you remember yet who I am?”
She hated to admit it—especially since she believed that for her to tell him the truth would hurt him. And though he had doubted her veracity, she didn’t want to hurt him. He appeared to be hurting more than enough already.
But even if she lied, it was not a lie she could sustain. She couldn’t answer the simplest question about him, such as where he worked or lived.
And so she said, “I’m sorry. I truly am. But, no, I don’t.”
“My name is Jordan Dawes. Yours is Sara Shepard Dawes. We were married today, Sara—just before you were hit on the head and your father was killed.”
Chapter Two
Sara awoke with a start. She had the strangest feeling that someone…was watching her.
She opened her eyes slowly and let them focus on a white ceiling with acoustical tile. Her insides churned for a moment, as she felt disoriented. Where was she?
She moved her head to look around and a wave of pain shot through it. Her head. The pain. Oh, yes. She was in a hospital.
“You’re awake,” said a familiar male voice. “How do you feel?”
Someone had been watching her. She turned slowly to see Jordan Dawes sitting in a chair near the window.
“Better than yesterday,” she replied. “How long have you been here?”
“All night, more or less. I only went home for a quick shower and some fresh clothes. I wanted to keep an eye on you.”
An unexpected feeling of well-being in a dangerous world curled through Sara. She found herself smiling in gratitude.
His return grin revealed a set of perfect teeth. It did nothing to hide the tiredness around his eyes, though. Lines radiated from their edges and a bruised darkness underscored each. His light brown hair looked as though he had run his long fingers through it rather than a comb.
“I should be asking how you feel,” Sara said. “You look like you need a good night’s sleep.”
“Maybe tonight,” he said. He had a slight hook to his nose that she hadn’t noticed yesterday. It gave his face a little extra character that she found charming. “Or at least as soon as I’m certain there’s no way anyone can get to you.”
Get to her. Not that she had forgotten what had happened yesterday. As appalling as it had been, it was, after all, the only memory she had. But the horror of the day had not been at the forefront of her mind during the few minutes she had been awake. Until now.
“Are there any leads?” she asked, trying to keep the fear from her voice. She touched the bandage at the side of her head.
“Sure.” His tone was confident, but his expression suggested he was just trying to make her feel better. “We’re following up on a bunch.”
We? Sara hadn’t yet inquired what Jordan did for a living. If things were normal, she undoubtedly would know. Now, though, she asked, “Are you a policeman, Jordan?”
His expression contained surprise and a hint of exasperation. “Then you really don’t remember anything? Despite our conversation yesterday, I’d hoped—Well, never mind. I’m a detective with the Santa Gregoria P.D., Sara. I was recently hired by your father, who, as I said yesterday, was chief of police.”
Her father. Casper Shepard, the poor, bloodied man who had been killed yesterday beside her…And she couldn’t even remember him. She couldn’t remember a blessed thing that Jordan hadn’t told her. A small sob shook Sara.
“I’m sorry.” Jordan sat beside her on the bed and held her close against him. “I’m so sorry, Sara. I’d do anything to have prevented Casper’s death. Our plan—” He stopped talking. The hands that had been moving soothingly over her back stopped, too. “We’ll find the murderer,” he finished. “I promise.”
Sara was certain he’d been about to say something else. Before she could question him further, though, a hospital worker came in with her breakfast. She wasn’t hungry but allowed the food to be placed on the tray beside her bed. She made herself take a sip of cold, sweet orange juice and a bite of overcooked eggs. She needed energy—didn’t she?—to get her memory back.
Jordan returned to his seat near the window. This morning he wore a black knit shirt that molded to an all-male body with the broadest of shoulders above thick, substantial biceps. She watched as he crossed one of his legs, encased in tight blue jeans, over the other.
Why on earth was she noticing all that?
The answer came to her very quickly. Her mind had raced over a lot of territory before she had finally succumbed to exhaustion the night before. Though not as urgent as some of the other matters she reflected on, one that had troubled her was where she