Deep red color flushed the woman’s face and neck. But was her reaction in embarrassment or anger?
What had happened the last time Jane hadn’t had on the restraints? She hadn’t simply fallen out of bed…if that was what he was trying to imply.
Jane doubted the bruise on her head had come from a fall since she had no other corresponding bruises on her shoulder, arm or hip. At least not recent ones. But she had a plethora of fading bruises and even older scars.
More than likely the bruise on her face had come from a blow. She glanced again at the holster and the gun visible through Mr. Centerenian’s open jacket. The handle of the Glock could have left such a bruise and bump on her temple. It also could have killed her.
From the loss of her memory and her strength, she suspected it nearly had. This man had attacked a pregnant woman? What kind of guard was he? He definitely wasn’t there for her protection.
The nurse’s hands trembled as she reached for the restraints that were attached to the bed railings.
“Sandy, please…” Jane implored her.
But the nurse wouldn’t meet her gaze. She kept her head down, eyes averted, as she attached the strips of canvas and Velcro to Jane’s wrists.
“Tight,” the man ordered gruffly.
Sandy ripped loose the Velcro and readjusted the straps. But now the restraints felt even looser. The nurse snuck a quick, apologetic glance at Jane before turning away and heading toward the door. Sandy couldn’t open it and leave though. She had to wait, her body visibly tense, for the man to unlock it.
Mr. Centerenian stared at Jane, his heavy brows lowered over his dark eyes. He studied her face and then the restraints. She sucked in a breath, afraid that he might test them. But finally he turned away, too, and unlocked the door by swiping his ID badge through a card-reading lock mechanism. The badge had his intimidating photograph on it, above his intimidating name.
Jane Doe was hardly intimidating. What the hell was her real name?
Once the door closed Jane was alone in the room, and she struggled with her looser restraints. She tugged them up and down, working them against the railings of the bed, so that the fabric and Velcro loosened even more. But she weakened, too.
Panting for breath, she collapsed against the pillows piled on the raised bed and closed her eyes. Pain throbbed in her head, and she fought to focus. She needed to plan her escape.
Even if Jane got loose, she didn’t have the ID badge she needed to get out of the room. But then how could she when she didn’t even have an ID? of course she was a patient here—not an employee.
But the slightly sympathetic nurse didn’t have one, either. The only way Jane would get the hell out of this place was to get one of those card-reading badges off another employee.
The guard was armed, and Jane was too weak and probably too pregnant to overpower Mr. Centerenian anyway. So whatever employee or visitor stepped into her room next would be the one she ambushed.
Images flashed behind her closed eyes, images of her fists and feet flying—connecting with muscle and bone, as she fought for her life.
Against the guard?
Or were those brief flashes of memory of another time, another fight or fights?
Who the hell was Jane Doe really?
Chapter Two
A sigh of disappointment came from the man standing next to Aaron. “It’s not Charlotte,” he said.
The guy wasn’t Whit Howell. Aaron had managed to leave him behind on St. Pierre Island. But this man had met him at the airport in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Once Aaron had dealt with his anger over the guy flagging his passport to monitor his travel, he had made use of him…for the fake credentials that had gotten Aaron on staff at Serenity House. Problem was that the U.S. Marshal had insisted on coming along.
Jason “Trigger” Herrema pushed his hand through his steel-gray hair. “Damn, I’d really hoped she was still alive.”
“You and me both.” The only difference was that Aaron wasn’t entirely convinced that this woman wasn’t Charlotte. Through the small window in the door of hospital room 00, he couldn’t see much more than her perfect profile: slightly upturned nose, delicately sculpted cheekbone, heavily lashed eye.
Charlotte’s partner didn’t think it was her because Charlotte Green hadn’t had a perfect profile…until she’d taken on the job of protecting the princess and had plastic surgery to make herself look exactly like the royal heiress. Because they had already shared the same build and coloring, it hadn’t even taken much surgery to complete the transformation.
Aaron had seen a before photo of Charlotte; she’d had one of her and her aunt on the bedside table in her room in the palace in St. Pierre. She’d had a crooked nose from being broken too many times and an ugly, jagged scar on her cheek from a wanted killer’s knife blade. It was no wonder her old partner didn’t recognize her now.
But it had to be Charlotte.
Aaron couldn’t look away from her; he couldn’t focus on anyone but her, which was exactly how he had reacted the first time he’d met the tough female bodyguard. Even more than her beauty, he’d been drawn to her strength and her character. And even lying in that bed, she was strong—she had to be to have survived the attack in the hotel room in Paris.
“I need to talk to the princess,” Aaron said. Obviously Charlotte hadn’t told her old partner about her surgery, so neither would Aaron. If she had wanted the U.S. Marshal to know about her physical transformation, she would have informed him already. Maybe she hadn’t trusted this guy. And if she hadn’t, Aaron didn’t dare trust him, either. “Someone needs to keep an eye out for the goon that was guarding her door.”
They’d waited until the muscular man had slipped outside for a cigarette. “And maybe check around to see if Charlotte’s been visiting her.” He doubted it. If this was the princess and Charlotte knew she was here, she would have broken her out of this creepy hospital long ago.
Unless Charlotte wasn’t who Aaron had thought she was. Unless she was the one keeping Gabriella here…
The Marshal nodded in agreement. “I can ask some of the nurses about her visitors and keep an eye out for the big guy.”
“The princess knows me,” Aaron said, “so I’ll talk to her.”
Trigger glanced inside the room again. “Just because she knows you doesn’t mean you’re going to get any information out of her.”
“Maybe not,” Aaron agreed. “But maybe she can shed some light on what happened in Paris—”
Trigger interrupted with an urgent whisper, “And what happened to Charlotte!”
“Exactly,” Aaron said with a nod. “I have to try to find out what she knows.”
Trigger’s shoulders drooped in a shrug of defeat, as if he was already giving up. “Don’t expect much. I doubt that girl knows anything. I worked with Charlotte for four years, and I never knew what was going on with her.”
“I had a partner like that, too,” Aaron muttered beneath his breath as the U.S. Marshal headed toward the nurses’ station.
Was it possible that Whit had sold out? Was he the one behind what had happened in Paris?
And what about Charlotte? Had he been wrong about her, too? Maybe she’d had her own agenda where the princess was concerned.
Only one way to find out…
He clutched his fake ID badge and swiped it through the security lock beside the door.