Guarding Jane Doe

She smiled tightly at him, holding on to the last of her composure, and turned to leave. Behind her she heard him speak.

“Dammit, Sister. You’ve got absolutely no intention of letting me go to hell in my own way, have you?” His words were quietly bitter and Jane looked back at him, startled. She almost expected to see someone else at the table with him, his voice had been pitched so low, but it was her eyes that Quinn McGuire met. “You’re wrong, lady. I owe you, all right. I’m guessing one of my old debts just got transferred.”

“I don’t understand.” She hesitated. For the first time, he seemed to be looking at her as if he was really seeing her, and his scrutiny caught her off-balance. She flushed a little, wishing suddenly that she presented a more pre-possessing sight—and that desire itself was totally unlike her.

She knew she wasn’t the type to turn heads. There just wasn’t anything so special about her, which made what had been happening to her that much harder to understand. Her hair was about as ordinary a brown as it could get. Her eyes were standard-issue blue. She weighed less than she had a few weeks ago, but she had an average figure for her average height. Her skin, a warm ivory tone, was her best feature, and her mouth was a little wider than she thought attractive.

Men didn’t usually look twice at her. She wanted to keep it that way.

“The Star of the County Down,” Quinn murmured, confusing her further. “Irishmen write songs about women like you.” The pewter eyes darkened and then cleared. “I wasn’t at a party tonight. I was holding a private wake for a friend.”

An explanation was the last thing she’d expected from him, and that particular explanation disarmed her completely. Jane caught her breath in swift compassion. “I’m sorry.” She fumbled with the strap of her purse awkwardly, knowing how inadequate her response sounded. “I—I had no idea. You must want to be alone—”

“I want you to sit down, but I’m damned if I know how to get you to do it.” Under the T-shirt the massive shoulders lifted slightly, as if he was attempting to shrug off the burden of his earlier mood. One corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “Why don’t we start all over again?”

Maybe she was projecting her own feelings onto him, Jane thought slowly, but behind the easy manner she could have sworn there was an edge of desolation in that incongruously soft voice. Still holding his gaze and clutching the strap of her purse, she lowered herself cautiously back onto the chair, her posture rigid as she tried to keep as much distance between them as possible.

“I called Sullivan after I spoke with you this afternoon,” Quinn said, frowning slightly. “He said you think someone’s watching you. He told me there’ve been some incidents—and that these incidents have been escalating.”

“Escalating?” A jagged little bubble of laughter escaped her. “That’s one way to put it. Except when I told the police about this, they said the situation hadn’t escalated to the point where they could justify an investigation. When they can spare the manpower they send a patrol car cruising by my apartment, but I’m still walking around alive and unharmed, which means that my case isn’t high priority—yet.”

“So whoever’s targeting you is still at the skirmishing stage,” Quinn continued. “He hasn’t officially declared all-out war. He must have some kind of battle plan that he intends to follow.”

Her head jerked up, her features pinched “Skirmishing? Battle plan? We’re not playing soldiers here.”

He stared at her impassively, seemingly unfazed by her outburst. Smoke-filtered light from the bar beside them gleamed palely on his hair, and his eyes, silvery and reflective, betrayed no hint of his inner thoughts.

“What exactly have you been told about me?” he asked.

“Just that you were a friend of Terrence Sullivan,” she answered, taken aback. “I went to Sullivan Investigations to hire someone to find out why I’m being stalked—and to keep me alive in the meantime. I—I assumed that’s what you did.” Her voice trailed off. “I’m wrong, aren’t I? Just what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a professional soldier,” he said shortly.

She frowned. “You’re in the military? Are you on leave right now?”

“I put in my time for Uncle Sam.” In the first extraneous gesture she’d seen him make, Quinn raked back a short strand of sun-bleached hair. “Now I choose my own wars, Ms. Smith.”

“You’re a—a mercenary?”

Dear God, she thought. She’d expected an ex-cop, or maybe a private eye who could hold his own in a physical confrontation, and instead she’d gotten some kind of hired gun. He was a soldier of fortune, for heaven’s sake!

“I told you—I’m a professional soldier. It’s what I was trained for.” He picked up his glass and drained most of it, setting it back down on the table with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t work for just anyone, and I never take on an assignment that could conflict with my loyalties as a citizen of this country. But there’s always trouble somewhere in the world. Right now it appears that someone’s waging war against you.”

She stared at him, her thoughts chaotic. Quinn had just voiced the feeling she’d had for weeks now. She had felt like some unknown person had declared war on her—a very private, very personal war, but war nonetheless. And from the start she’d had the conviction that her enemy wasn’t interested in taking prisoners.

With Quinn McGuire on her side there was a possibility that she might be able to turn the tide of this one-sided battle, Jane thought slowly. But before they came to any definite arrangement he had to know just what she was up against.

As a soldier, he would want as much information as he could about both his enemy—and his ally. How was she supposed to tell him that her adversary wasn’t the only participant in this war whom she knew nothing about?

“You said earlier that tonight was a bad night for stirring up old memories, McGuire.” Her voice was barely above a murmur, but his eyes narrowed in response. She went on, knowing that she was picking her way through a minefield. “You sound like a man who’s got too many of them.”

“Everybody’s got something they wish they could forget,” Quinn said harshly. His eyes seemed almost silvery. “Everyone’s got a few too many memories.”

“Not me.” Jane stared back at him, her own eyes shadowed. “I don’t know anything about my life up until the time when I came to in a hospital bed eleven weeks ago—not even what my real name is or where I come from or if I have a family.”

Her voice cracked. She fought to keep it under control. “And the only person who can fill in the blanks for me is my stalker.”

Chapter Two

Quinn shook his head. “You can’t remember a thing about your life. That’s quite a trick. Could you teach me, do you think?”

His tone was tinged with admiration. She stared at him. “It’s called amnesia,” she said shortly. “It’s not a trick, it’s a medical condition. When I came to in hospital I was told I’d been hit by a car. I had head trauma.”

“Head trauma, was it?” His attitude wasn’t exactly mocking, but there was something off-kilter about the way he was responding. He shoved his glass to one side, his elbow on the table. “What happened next? When did you first figure out this fella was followin’ you?”

His accent had thickened, and again the impulse to get up and leave crossed her mind. But even drunk, the man’s very appearance would provide some protection. He was physically intimidating just sitting there, half-slumped across the table.

“It was a few days after I left the—” She drew in a sharp breath. Looking down at the strong tanned fingers that rested idly on her forearm, she forced her voice to remain even. “We’re not on a date, Mr. McGuire. Please remove your hand.”

“It’s Quinn, as I told you before. And the hand stays. It’s for your own good.”

“What do you mean, for my own good?” Her jaw was so tight she could hardly get the question out.

“I keep a low profile, but who I am and what I do isn’t a complete secret to those in the business,” he said softly. His thumb moved up the length of her forearm in an unobtrusive stroking motion. Her fingertips curled against the smooth surface of the table. “Our conversation was beginning to look too much like what it was—a business negotiation. And there just might be a curious soul or two around who would find it interesting to question you later, to find out what new project I’m considering.” He smiled. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Let’s throw them a bone to keep them satisfied, and try to blend in with the other couples in the room.”

“Pretend this isn’t—this isn’t business? If you think it’s necessary, I’ll play along, but not to this extent. Being touched—” Her gaze slid away from his. “Being touched makes me nervous. I don’t like it.”

“I’m not about to start groping down the front of your dress, lady.” The thumb that had been stroking her forearm stilled. “We’re making the barest of human contact.”

“I still don’t like it.” Her voice was firmer this time, she noted with shaky relief. “Please let me go.”

This last request was unnecessary. Already he’d released her, but although there was now a space of a few inches between her arm and his hand, her flesh still retained the heat of his touch.

“I’ve gotten the message—there’s a no-man’s-land around you and I won’t be trespassing again. Let’s hear your story.”

His soft voice was as emotionless as if he were asking her for the time of day, and suddenly Jane knew she’d made a mistake. There’d been no need to fear any blurring of the barriers between herself and this man. Even if she’d involuntarily let her own down, they were nothing compared to the wall that she belatedly perceived around him.

For reasons she didn’t understand, there was a part of her deep inside that was frozen. But Quinn McGuire was ice through and through—glacial ice. He wasn’t like other men. She had nothing to fear from him in that respect.

Except it wasn’t him you were afraid of a moment ago, was it? a small voice in her head asked. It was yourself—and the way you felt when he touched you.

She sat up straighter. “Three days after I was released from the hospital I found work with a cleaning company.” Her shrug was a taut lifting of her shoulders. “It was all I could get. I was a non-person, officially at least, but the rest of the night cleaning crew were in the same situation as I was—no papers, no legal status.”

“Already this doesn’t make sense,” he said carelessly. “Tell me this—why didn’t the doctors contact the authorities when they learned you were suffering from amnesia? Why didn’t they run a check with missing persons?” He lifted his glass and looked at her through the golden liquid, as if he were examining her through a microscope. “You’ll have to shore up the gaps in your fairy tale, darlin’. It’s still a little shaky.”

“You think I’m lying? Why, in heaven’s name? What would I have to gain?”

“Like I said, what I do for a living isn’t a total secret to certain people.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “A couple of years ago a woman tried to spin me a story about needing her husband eliminated. I found out she was a reporter hoping to do an exposé on murder-for-hire.”

“I’m not a reporter—” Jane began, but he didn’t let her finish.

“I’ve had the odd head wound myself, angel. I’ve seen men who’ve totally forgotten their names, what country they were in, what year it was. But they all regained their memories within a day or two.”

“I know it’s rare.” She pushed a stray strand of hair away from her face distractedly. “I’ve gone to the library and read everything I could on it. But it happens. It happened to me, whether you believe it or not.”

“The rest of it doesn’t hang together either.” Folding his arms on the table, he lowered his voice. “Here’s how it would have happened in real life…. The police would have written up a description of you and gone back to the station to file a report. From then on it would be a matter of matching you up with someone who’d been listed as a missing person.” He shook his head. “What wouldn’t happen is that a woman in your supposed condition could just be discharged without any question. You’ve lost your audience, darlin’. Go home.”

“They were going to contact the police. When I learned that I ran.” Jane looked away. “I didn’t even know why I was running. All I knew was that I didn’t want to talk to anybody about who I could be or where I might have come from. I just wanted to be left in peace. But that didn’t happen.”

The broad shoulders shifted slightly, as if he was restless and getting ready to leave. “I could ask you where a penniless woman found the change for the phone calls to prospective employers. I could ask how you got bus fare those first few days. For God’s sake—I could ask what the hell you were wearing while you trudged around the city looking for work—you said you’d been in an accident, so presumably your clothes were a write-off.”

“And I’d tell you. But you don’t want to hear it.” Slowly she shook her head at him, her eyes never leaving his. “Soldiering is what you do, McGuire, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you seem to be at war right now. What I haven’t figured out is who you’re supposed to be fighting…because it can’t be me. You haven’t let yourself learn enough about me to count me as an enemy.”

“That’s right, I haven’t.” A muscle at the side of his jaw might have moved, but it was hard to tell. The rest of his face remained immobile. “And you know just as little about me, but you keep making these off-the-cuff assessments. Why don’t you finish this last one? If I’m not at war with you, who the hell is this mysterious enemy I’m supposed to be fighting?”

A moment ago she wouldn’t have had an answer for him. But at the unnecessary harshness of his tone, it was suddenly clear what her only response could be.

“No mystery, Mr. McGuire,” she said softly. “It’s you. For some reason you’re at war with yourself.”

“That’s crazy.” His answer was as immediate as a burst of gunfire. Then he took a deep breath. “When I take up arms, darlin’, I’m facing a real foe, not some unresolved Freudian conflict with my inner child.” His shrug was mocking. “Sorry to blow your theory out of the water, but I’m a simple man. What you see is what you get. Sure, I’ve made some mistakes in the past, but in my business you can’t afford to lose your focus. Believe me, I don’t waste a whole lot of time in soul-searching.”

“Then why did you bring up the subject of past mistakes, McGuire? I didn’t say anything about that.” She searched his features curiously. “I don’t think what you see is what you get with you at all. I think there’s a very different man underneath that hard exterior—maybe a better man than you realize. Maybe he’s the man you’re at war with.”

Quinn stared at her—but not the flat, angry stare he’d directed at her earlier. With a start Jane saw raw pain film his eyes, before all expression was quickly veiled as the thick dark lashes came down. As if he had a headache, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“Dammit, Sister, if I’d known you’d turn out to be this persistent, I would have told you to let me die the first time we met. Is it an emissary you’re sending me now instead of letters?”

His words had been barely audible, but she caught the gist of them. They didn’t make any sense, she thought, confused. “I may not know who I am, McGuire, but one thing I’m sure of is that I’m not your sister. You’ve got me mistaken with someone else.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting hers. “That must be what I’m doing, darlin’,” he said heavily. “But when you quote her almost verbatim, you can’t blame a man for feeling a little beleaguered.” He saw her lack of comprehension. “Just someone I knew once. She’s dead.”

She still didn’t understand what he was talking about, but what did it matter now? she thought in defeat. She hadn’t convinced him to help her, and when she left this place she’d be walking out alone into the night. He’d made up his mind about her. Nothing she’d come up with had persuaded him to change it.

Maybe only his own words could, she thought with sudden hope.

“I’m your unpaid bill, Mr. McGuire,” she said, taking a shot in the dark. “I’m the debt you referred to earlier—the debt that got transferred. She saved your life, didn’t she?”

Jane was just piecing together fragments of his own incomprehensible remarks, not even knowing if they would make any sense to him, but Quinn’s reaction told her that one of those fragments had found its mark. His head jerked up, the pale gaze a little out of focus, and when he spoke his voice was low and strained.

“Dammit, yes—you saved my life. I never denied it, and I never tried to get out of repaying you, Sister. But now you’re trying to save my soul—and to do that, you want me to turn my back on the rest of them. I’m telling you once and for all I can’t do it!”

Jane felt as if she’d just pulled the pin on a grenade and had it blow up in her face. She scrambled to bring some semblance of normality back to this suddenly chilling conversation.

“She’s dead, Quinn. Whoever she was, she’s dead and gone.” Needing only to assuage the naked pain that etched his features, she placed her hand lightly on his clenched fist. “I’m not her, and I’m not her emissary. And whatever debt you feel you owed her, she sounds like the kind of woman who wouldn’t ask more of you than you could pay. I should go now.” Her eyes sought his. “I should have gone before I reminded you of all this. I’m sorry.”

Slowly his hand relaxed. He looked down at it, and at hers, pale against his own tanned skin. “I’ve just come off a bad assignment,” he said softly. “The way things have been going lately, I’m sure the next one will be much the same. I know you’re not her, darlin’. I’m not that far gone. Chalk it up to a slip of the tongue, will you?”

It hadn’t been, she knew. For a moment he hadn’t been seeing her in the seat opposite him, but a ghost—a ghost who, for reasons she’d never know, had some kind of loving hold over him.

“You’re touching me.” His low comment interrupted her thoughts. “I thought you said you didn’t do that.”

“I don’t.” With a jerk she drew her hand back, flustered. “I mean—I didn’t know…I didn’t realize I’d—”

“It’s okay, I won’t report you this time.”

He was actually smiling, she saw with a slight shock. The expression took some of the harshness from his features, and all of a sudden she realized that he was a devastatingly good-looking man. Trust Quinn McGuire, she thought shakily, to keep the most dangerous weapon in his arsenal concealed until he really needed it. With an effort, she brought her attention back to what he was saying.

“The police are right. If a stalker’s determined enough, sooner or later he’s going to accomplish what he sets out to do—unless he loses your trail or someone puts him out of action permanently. And that’s illegal. They call it murder,” he added dryly. “But tell me what’s been happening to you, and I’ll see if I can come up with any kind of strategy.”

At his words, she almost sagged with relief. She was well aware that just making that concession went against the man’s ingrained wariness. They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, and he was still making no promises. But his cautious acceptance of her was a start. She had a ghost to thank for that, she thought.

“I couldn’t sleep at night in the hospital. At first it was just because of the—the pain. But my physical injuries weren’t that bad, and after a few days that wasn’t what was keeping me up.” She swallowed. “I’d lied to the doctors. I’d given them a false name, the most common one I could think of, and told them I was a street person so they wouldn’t ask me too many questions. But I knew they didn’t really believe me.”

“Why did you lie right from the start? If you knew your memory was a blank, wouldn’t you have wanted them to investigate?” Quinn was still playing devil’s advocate, but this time with no edge to his voice.

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t an adequate answer, but it was the only one she had to give him. “I realize how crazy it sounds, but as soon as I regained consciousness and found that I couldn’t remember a single thing about myself, I felt like—” She stopped, her eyes squeezing shut for a second. Opening them, she took a deep breath and went on, feeling his gaze on her. “I felt like I’d been given a second chance. I didn’t want to know who I’d been before. I just wanted to slip into this new, empty life and start fresh.”

“That doesn’t sound so crazy.” His expression was unreadable. “Go on.”

She looked at him. “Anyway, at night the cleaning crew would come through the wards. One of them was an older woman—Olga Kozlikov. She would stop by my bed and talk to me sometimes, when the nurse on duty wasn’t watching. She said she was Russian, and had come here to make a new life for herself.”

“So you had a common bond.” He raised his glass and drained it. “Two refugees, right?”

Jane was startled into an unwilling smile. “I hadn’t thought of it in that way, but you’re right. One night I told her a little about my situation, and she seemed to understand how I felt. She said she’d lived for so long fearing the authorities under the old regime in Russia that she herself still didn’t trust the police, even though she knew it was very different here in America. She told me she’d help me.”

“So she set you up with some clothes and some money and helped you find a job?”

She nodded. “Three or four days after I was admitted, the doctor who’d been monitoring me suggested it might be a good thing if I talked to the police about the accident. That scared me, because there really wasn’t much to tell—a dozen witnesses had given statements saying that I’d run right out into the road, and there’d been no way that the woman who’d hit me was responsible. And although no one knew that I had complete amnesia, I’d told them I had no recollection at all of the accident.”

“And that’s true? You don’t remember it?” He gave her a searching look. “Whatever you’ve told anyone else, it’s important that you don’t lie to me, do you understand? If I think you are, then this meeting’s over.”

“I haven’t lied to you.” She sighed. “I’ve just left something out. When I was brought into emergency, apparently I was as high as a kite. They couldn’t give me any medication for twenty-four hours, because my system was full of drugs already. For the next couple of days I went through withdrawal—not as bad as if I’d been a longtime user, but bad enough.”

“What had you been on? Did the doctors tell you?”

“They rattled off some pharmaceutical names at me, but as far as I was concerned they could have been talking another language. I didn’t know what they were. But since I walked out of the hospital I swear I haven’t taken so much as an aspirin, Quinn. Whoever I used to be, the person I am now doesn’t take drugs.”

Unwaveringly, her eyes met his, and finally he gave a curt nod. “I believe you. If you were a junkie you’d be out trying to score, not sitting here talking to me.”

“And if I were an addict, then no one could help me but myself. But drugs aren’t my problem, and I don’t think I can handle this on my own anymore.” She felt the prickle of tears behind her eyelids, and forced them to remain where they were. “The night before the police were supposed to come and talk to me, I just walked out of the hospital. Olga had arranged for me to be hired on by the same firm she worked for, with a crew that cleaned an office building downtown, and at first everything was fine. Olga’s niece Carla was a nurse at the same hospital, and Olga persuaded her to help me get a small apartment in the rooming-house where she lived. I had a home, I had a job, and the new life I’d wanted was beginning to become a reality. Then he left the first sign for me to find.”

“What do you mean, the first sign?” Quinn frowned.

“Just that.” She clasped her hands tightly together on the table. “I was teamed up with another woman and we cleaned the same area each night. Everyone worked in teams of two or three, and the area that Martine and I cleaned was a secretarial pool. On my third night there, we walked in and all the computers were on. All the monitors displayed a single line of type, sized large enough so that I could see it from the doorway, and they all said the same thing—I Know Who You Are.”