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  “Can I get some of that?”

  Erik turned, surprised to see she had awakened and managed to sit up. Grabbing the bottle and a second glass, he took them into the living room and sank down onto the couch, careful to avoid her legs. Although he noticed she’d pulled the blanket to her chin to cover herself, he didn’t say anything. He poured her a shot and handed her the glass.

  She took it and drank it quickly down, then handed it back for a refill. He eyed her but poured more into the glass. Hopefully, the pain-numbing effects of whiskey hadn’t been exaggerated, she thought, drinking the second helping down.

  “You should take it easy,” Agent Langston said. “You probably have a concussion.”

  She silently handed him her empty glass, raising an eyebrow until he poured more.

  “What happened?” she asked, sipping more slowly at the liquid now. “How did I get here?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Would I ask you if I did?” she retorted, trying to ignore the pain in her side. She wanted to bite back her words at the look he shot her. Schooling her features into what she hoped appeared contrite, she said, “I mean, no, I don’t.”

  Agent Langston’s expression told her she wasn’t fooling him for an instant. He snorted and took another drink before answering.

  “After you killed that guy — who was he, by the way? — I followed you, chasing your car until you ran off the road and crashed. I picked you up, put you in the back of my car, and ended up here.”

  “Killed a guy? What are you talking about? I didn’t kill anyone!” The thought was absurd.

  “Yes, you did,” he said. “And judging by the fact that you’re alive with just a bullet wound while he’s dead, you had better aim than him.”

  “I don’t know why you’d tell me these lies, but there’s no way I would ever kill someone.” The man was crazy!

  He shrugged his shoulders as though bored with the conversation. “Save it for the judge. I already know you’re guilty.”

  A knot of fear grew in her belly. This FBI agent thought he’d caught some dangerous criminal. “This is ridiculous,” she spluttered. “I’m not a murderer! I’m — ” The sentence cut off abruptly as realization struck. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  Langston looked at her, his cynical gaze sharp. “Is it all coming back now?”

  She ignored him. “I’m…I’m…” But the words wouldn’t come. They seemed like they were right there, right on the tip of her tongue, but refused to come out.

  “Guilty? Don’t confess now, I don’t have any witnesses.”

  “You don’t understand,” she gritted out, her hands moving to clutch her head. “I can’t remember.” She tried harder, her eyes squeezing shut. It had to be there. No one just forgot their own name.

  “You hit your head,” he reminded her. “A concussion plus bullet wound plus shock. You’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “It’s not that,” she said, dropping her hands and meeting his gaze. “I can’t remember. Anything. I don’t even know my name.” The horror of saying the words aloud made panic twist in her gut. This couldn’t be happening to her. Her. She had no name to even refer to herself by.

  A shout of laughter made her jump, and she jerked her head up to see Langston was finding great humor in her situation. She ground her teeth, her hands clenching into fists so she wouldn’t hit him.

  “You think this is funny?” she accused him, ice in her voice. What a jerk. Typical cop. Wait. Why had she thought that? Did she know a lot of cops? The fact that she didn’t know the answer to that question scared her.

  His laughter trailed away, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s a stroke of fucking genius,” he replied finally. “I must say, I didn’t see that one coming.”

  “I’m not lying,” she insisted.

  He nodded his head, clearly not believing a word of it. “Sure you’re not.”

  “You asshole!” she yelled. “I’m telling you the truth! I don’t know who I am!”

  The fear in her voice must have gotten through to him, because his expression turned hard.

  “You want to play this game?” he asked coldly. “Fine, I’ll tell you who you are. You’re Clarissa O’Connell, daughter of Flynn O’Connell, sister to Daniel O’Connell, and currently wanted by the FBI. You’ve been a criminal your whole life, following in the footsteps of dear dad and big brother. You’re currently wanted for multiple counts of fraud, money laundering, and racketeering, all crimes you’ve racked up while working for a mob boss who goes by the name of Solomon. In the past few hours, you added murder to that list. Shall I continue, or are we done here?”

  He slammed his empty glass down on the table and got to his feet. Giving her a contemptuous look, he said, “I suggest you get some sleep. We leave in the morning.” He tossed a bundle of fabric at her and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him.

  Clarissa stared after him, stunned at the avalanche of information he’d just poured on her. A criminal? She was wanted for a list of felonies, including murder?

  The thought rattled around inside her head. Murder. According to the FBI agent, she’d killed someone.

  Her hand went to her side, the pads of her fingers brushing the bandage. She’d been shot, that much was true. Maybe she’d killed in self-defense.

  Clarissa released a pent-up breath of relief. Self-defense was different from outright murder. It was Okay to defend yourself. She couldn’t feel guilty for something she not only didn’t remember, but had been an act of self-preservation.

  And at least she had a name now.

  “Clarissa O’Connell,” she whispered to herself, letting the name roll around her tongue like the whiskey had. The name had the warm feel of familiarity to it but stirred no memories.

  Clarissa touched the bump on her head, wincing at the tenderness. She’d seen movies where people hit their heads and lost their memories. It was usually temporary, wasn’t it? She had to believe that. The possibility that it might be permanent was too horrifying to think about, so she wouldn’t.

  Suddenly, Clarissa had a burning desire to find a mirror. It was an odd feeling, not knowing what she looked like. Touching her hair, she saw that it was long enough to pull a lock of it around to see the color. Red. Hmm. Not too crazy about that.

  Getting up from the couch proved unpleasant, the bullet wound was painfully tender and her head still ached. The blanket dropped, and cold air brushed her skin. Clarissa cast a quick glance into the darkened bedroom but couldn’t see anything. Aware that the cop might be watching her, she pulled on the T-shirt and pants as quickly as she could. The pants were about six inches too long, and she had to roll the waistband several times to get them to stay up.

  The cabin wasn’t terribly large, the main space given over to a large expanse of windows along the back. The ceiling arched high overhead, and Clarissa could see the snow still falling outside. Now that she was inside and warm, she could appreciate the beauty of the scene, and paused for a moment to watch. The snow clung to the already laden branches of the fir trees, weighing them down even more. The drifts looked as though they’d been sculpted by an artist, rather than the careless wind.

  The warmth of the fire was at her back, and despite her current predicament, Clarissa smiled to herself. She liked the snow. Maybe she always had? Or maybe not. Regardless, it made her feel less like a stranger in her own skin.

  Speaking of which…Clarissa resumed her search for a bathroom, and consequently, a mirror. Easing through one of the two closed doors, she found an office space, complete with a heavy oak desk. A computer monitor stood on top of the burnished wood’s surface, and Clarissa stopped to stare at it. She felt drawn to it, almost an itch in her hands to sit down at the keyboard. How odd. Resisting the urge to satisfy her curiosity, and seeing as there was no attached bath, she retreated. Only a closet full of coats, boots, gloves and other assorted winter paraphernalia lay behind door number two.

&nbs
p; Which left only one option.

  A clock above the fireplace showed a half hour had passed since the cop had gone to bed. Surely he’d be asleep by now? He’d seemed exhausted, with lines of fatigue around his eyes. Not that Clarissa should care if he was tired. Sure, he’d saved her, but he’d been chasing her in the first place, accused her of lying, and was going to turn her in to the FBI.

  She’d have to do something about that part.

  Pausing inside the doorway, Clarissa let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The glow from the fireplace wasn’t much, but enough so she could just see the outline of the bed. An inky rectangle to her left seemed to promise an open doorway to the bathroom.

  Clarissa carefully skirted the bed, on which she could now make out a lumpy form that could only be Agent Langston. Her gaze caught on a slight metallic reflection on the table next to the bed.

  Keys.

  Okay, change of plan. Apparently, she was adaptable. Forget the mirror, she had keys. Keys that would get her inside the car outside and take her far away from this man who’d hunted her, seemed to know way too much about her misdeeds, and wanted to put her in jail.

  Clarissa stood very still, barely breathing, just listening. She could hear Langston breathing too, slow and deep. Her steps on the thick carpet were silent as she reached for the keys, her fingers brushing the cold metal.

  A hand clamped down like a vice on her wrist. Clarissa cried out in surprise, the metal keys pressing sharply into the palm of her hand as she reflexively clenched them.

  “Going somewhere?”

  The cop’s icy voice sent a shiver of alarm up Clarissa’s spine. She fought for nonchalance as she said, “The thought crossed my mind.”

  Keeping a tight grip on her arm, Agent Langston reached out and flipped on the bedside lamp. Clarissa blinked in the sudden glow, though it wasn’t very bright.

  Despite her attempts to resist him, Agent Langston turned her hand palm up and pried the keys from her grip.

  “Not going to happen,” he said, pushing the keys into the pocket of his jeans.

  Clarissa swallowed hard. Agent Langston had taken off his shirt to go to bed, and the light from the lamp revealed a broad expanse of male skin. The muscles in his chest and arms were flexed as he held her captive.

  It really was too bad he was a cop, Clarissa thought.

  “You can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said sweetly, pulling at her arm until he released her. She rubbed her wrist, not that it hurt, but for something to do so she wouldn’t stare at him. Her heart was racing so fast she was sure he could hear it, though she hoped he attributed it to her botched escape attempt rather than him.

  How absurd, her reaction to him. You’d think she’d never had a boyfriend before.

  Had she?

  The thought sobered her. She had bigger problems than a sexy, half-naked FBI man.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” Agent Langston said.

  Clarissa watched with too much nonprofessional interest as he got up and grabbed something off the bureau. When he turned around, her eyebrows shot upward.

  “Oh no,” she said, backing away. “You are not going to use those.”

  Agent Langston opened the metal handcuffs with a quick flick of his wrist. “You don’t leave me much choice.”

  “I swear I’ll be good,” Clarissa offered. “I won’t try to escape.”

  “You’re right. You won’t.”

  He had her cornered now.

  “Wait!” she said.

  He paused.

  “I have to…you know…” She jerked her head toward the bathroom.

  “Fine,” Langston said. “You’ve got five minutes. Don’t make me come in after you.”

  Clarissa disappeared into the bathroom, flicking on the light before closing the door. It was a windowless room; no help there. Turning on the faucet to cover any noise she made, she began searching.

  “Time’s up,” Langston called through the door a short time later.

  Clarissa briefly contemplated putting up a fight, but he was a lot bigger than she was and she’d probably end up being the one hurt. She decided to bide her time. The more she cooperated, the more off guard he would become, the easier it would be to escape. She opened the door.

  Langston was waiting, cuffs in hand. The cold metal locked around her wrist. She looked up at him, but he was looking down, concentrating on making sure the handcuff was secure. He was so close she could see the thickness of his eyelashes and catch the scent of his skin.

  It wasn’t a bad smell at all. In fact, she rather liked it.

  “Come on,” he said, tugging the cuffs so Clarissa had no choice but to follow him. When he approached the bed, Clarissa’s brows climbed.

  “You’re handcuffing me to the bed?” she asked, glancing at him. “If I’d known this was standard operating procedure, I would’ve gotten arrested sooner.” To her surprise, the quip caused a faint red to tint his ears. How adorable was that?

  “I have to keep my eyes on you, and I need some sleep.”

  The urge to see the cop get even more embarrassed was too strong to resist. “You sure you don’t want to keep more than your eyes on me?” Clarissa asked with a mischievous grin. So he was an FBI agent who believed her to be a criminal, thought she was lying to him about her memory, but turned red at her teasing innuendos. He was a bit of a contradiction. How interesting.

  Erik clenched his jaw, trying to hold on to his temper. He was tired, pissed off at how this whole thing had gone down, and irritated that he was stuck in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado, riding out a snowstorm with a woman who looked more like a college girl wearing her boyfriend’s clothes than a hardened criminal and murderer.

  “Sit down,” he ordered.

  She looked down, then back up at him.

  “Sit,” he repeated.

  “On the floor?” she asked, her tone bewildered.

  “Yes, the floor.”

  O’Connell’s forehead puckered. “No.”

  Erik’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me? ‘No,’ did you say?”

  “It’s cold and hard on the floor,” she pouted. “And I’ve been hurt. You shouldn’t make me sleep on the floor.”

  “The carpet’s thick; you’ll be fine,” Erik said, ignoring the niggle of guilt in the back of his mind.

  For a moment, he didn’t think she was going to do it, which left him wondering how exactly he would make her, but she finally gave in, sitting down with a dignity and grace that belied her overlarge clothes. After locking the other handcuff around the bedpost, he gave it a jerk to make sure it was secure. He was turning away when he saw a quick wince cross her face. Erik hesitated.

  “You all right?” he asked before he could think better of it.

  O’Connell gave a stiff smile of long-suffering that made Erik wonder how many times she’d had to practice that in front of a mirror.

  “If it wouldn’t put you out too much for a pillow and blanket?” she asked.

  As Erik grabbed the requested items, he had a quick flash of what his mother would say if she saw he was making an injured woman sleep on the floor, handcuffed to the bed. She wouldn’t care that said woman was wanted by the FBI. Erik grimaced at the thought of the lecture he’d get.

  “Here,” he said, depositing the pillow and blanket next to her on the floor. He watched as she awkwardly struggled to position the pillow with one hand before arranging the blanket. When her breath caught and she froze, her face draining of color, Erik’s conscience reared its head.

  Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d unlocked the handcuff and picked her up. After depositing her on the bed, he snagged the metal again, quickly locking it around the iron bars at the head of the bed. They were topped by a thick piece of wood, making an interesting headboard and a very convenient spot to cuff O’Connell.

  She caught his eye and lifted a delicately arched brow. “Is this your side or mine?”

  “Yours,” he bit ou
t between clenched teeth. His tone didn’t seem to faze her, the tiny smile she wore making him want to curse his mother for ingraining chivalry into his very bones.

  O’Connell shook the handcuffs, causing an irritating clanging noise, which Erik ignored as he rounded the bed. It wasn’t a big bed, but she wasn’t that big either, so it would be fine. He certainly wasn’t going to sleep on the floor.

  “Thank you, Agent Langston,” she said as he lay back down, keeping a good distance between them.

  “Whatever,” Erik sighed, closing his eyes. God, he was tired.

  It was blessedly quiet for a few moments before, “So where are we?”

  Erik didn’t bother opening his eyes. “A cabin. In the woods.”

  “I see that,” she said tartly. “I meant what country? State?”

  Erik cracked an eye, glancing at her. “Still going with the memory thing?”

  She did not look amused. “Just tell me.”

  “Colorado,” he replied, turning away again. “We were near Vail. Now I don’t know where the hell we are.”

  O’Connell seemed to process this, and Erik thought he’d finally be able to sleep. She quickly disabused him of that notion.

  “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

  “We’re going to get out of here,” he replied. “I’ll drop you off at the office in Denver.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “DC.”

  Silence.

  “You said I had family. Where are they?”

  “They’re both in prison.”

  That shut her up, but only for a moment.

  “What did they do? How long have they been in prison?”

  “Armed robbery. Your dad’s been in for fifteen years. Your brother’s served two years of a twenty-five-year sentence.”

  “What am I doing in Colorado?” she asked. “How did you know I was here?”

  Erik’s temper flared. He abruptly sat up and leaned over O’Connell. She flinched backward in surprise.