Internal Affairs. Jessica Andersen
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reached for her, grabbed on to her, his grip hard and hurtful.
Screaming, she exploded from the couch, but it was already too late. His hands covered her mouth and pressed her back down into the cushions, cutting off her air. Smothering her.
HE BORE DOWN while his enemy grabbed his hands, his wrists, her fingernails digging in as she fought, squirming and bucking against him. And yes, it was a woman, though that didn’t make her any less the enemy. Why else had she kept him bound as she slept? She was one of them. One of the ones who hunted him, who wanted him dead. One of the ones whose faces had haunted him in his nightmares and dragged him back to consciousness.
“Who are you?” he said, his voice rasping with the effort his weakened self was expending to hold on to her, as sharp pain flared in his shoulder.
She whiplashed against him, her legs kicking out and meeting nothing but air. Not a trained fighter, his brain cataloged, but he already could’ve guessed that from the way she’d bound him, with cords that had stretched easily under pressure.
He must’ve been weaker than he’d thought, though, because seconds later she got away from him, clawing and kicking. She hit the floor hard, scrambled up and bolted for the door, screaming.
“Damn it!” Heart hammering—and not just from the fight—he lunged and his legs folded beneath him. Landing hard, he reached out with his good arm, snagged her by an ankle and yanked, bringing her down with him. Strength failing, head pounding with a relentless beat, he went with expediency and lay full length atop her, pinning her with his weight.
She struggled, still screaming, though her screams had turned to words. A name. Romo.
He didn’t know the name, not really, but he was starting to remember the room. They had fallen halfway into a kitchen; a small night-light was on, allowing him to see more details of the homey, feminine space, and triggering the memory of coming to the house earlier in the day, knowing he’d be safe.
But if he was safe, why the hell had she tied him up? And why the hell was he practically naked?
Scowling, he glared down at his captive. She’d gone still and had stopped screaming, but her face was pale even in the diffuse light, her eyes stark and staring. And a hell of a face it was, too, even terrified.
He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes or hair, beyond knowing that they were both light-hued. But the dimness didn’t detract from the elegant lines of her face and swanlike neck, the sculpted arches of her eyebrows and the wide bow of her mouth. Beneath him, her body was lithe and strong—he could feel that strength in the sore places on his shin and arms, and the burn of his injured shoulder where she’d yanked against him in her struggles. But although she was strong, she was also wholly feminine, her curves pressing against him, bringing a stir of memory—this one older and more deeply buried.
As he lay atop her, he belatedly realized that he’d come here, to this woman, because he’d trusted her to help him.
Shame washed through him. Guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said, though he didn’t let her up. “I was dreaming. Nightmare. Then I woke up, not sure where I was, and my arms and legs were tied.”
She took a shallow breath and he thought she might scream again. Instead, she said, “Your note didn’t give me much to go on. I was trying not to be stupid. Apparently, the bungees were borderline on the stupid factor.” He gave her credit for guts, though even as she tried to play it cool, her voice shook.
A roil of memories he couldn’t pin down, couldn’t place, had him stilling and loosening his hold, then rolling onto his side, taking her with him. She was free to move away, but she didn’t. Instead, she lay there facing him, her eyes searching his.
“Where have you been?” she asked, her voice hitching on a suppressed sob. “What happened to you?”
I don’t know. I don’t even know who I am. Who you are. Who we were together. That was what he should’ve said. Instead, he found himself staring, filling himself with the sight of her. Though he was no longer touching her, he felt her curves as though they’d been imprinted on his flesh, creating new memories to replace the ones that were gone. A wellspring of loneliness surged from nowhere and everywhere at once—an ache of longing and a deep sense of loss.
He reached for her blindly, moving purely on instinct. Incredibly, she met him halfway in a kiss that started soft and gentle. Then her lips parted on a small moan of surrender and he slipped his tongue inside to touch hers, tangle with hers. He stroked her hair, her face. She cupped his cheek in her palm.
And, for the first time since he’d regained consciousness in the forest, he felt as though he was exactly where he belonged.
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