Magnum Force Man

She placed the gun on the counter within easy reach and was just debating on whether to offer him tea— which would hopefully keep him calm—when he asked from across the room, “What is chamomile?”

Slowly, she turned to face him. “Why did you ask that?”

Then out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the container of teabags by the stove and realized he must have read the side of the tin. Whatever else might be wrong with him, he obviously had excellent eyesight and hearing.

“You’ve never had chamomile tea?” When he didn’t answer, she muttered, “I guess you wouldn’t remember if you’ve been erased.”

Erased.

Good heavens.

“Chamomile is a member of the daisy family,” she said, striving for a conversational tone. The last thing she wanted to do was inadvertently set him off. There was a good possibility that instead of coming here to murder her, he could be just some troubled soul who’d stumbled into the middle of the road at an inopportune time. In which case, the best thing to do was try and keep him calm. “The tea is an acquired taste, but it’s wonderfully relaxing. Would you like a cup?”

She could do with a bit of stress relief herself, Claudia thought.

When he started toward her, she said quickly, “No, no, that’s okay. Just stay there. I’ll bring it to you.”

She got down a second cup and poured hot water over the teabag. When it had properly steeped, she mixed in a little lemon and honey, then grabbed the gun and carried the drink into the living room where she placed it on a table in front of the fire.

Returning to the kitchen, she fixed herself a fresh cup. By the time she came back into the living room, he’d settled himself on the floor before the fire.

“Make yourself at home,” she murmured.

He picked up the cup and took a tentative sip of the tea. “Tastes like flowers.”

“As I said, it’s an acquired taste.”

He drank some more. “It’s hot. Feels good.”

“You must have gotten a chill out there in the rain. It’s pretty cold tonight and your clothes were soaking wet.”

That was another thing about him that puzzled Claudia. His shirt, pants and lightweight jacket were hardly suitable for November weather in the Black Hills. Not to mention his canvas shoes, which were drenched all the way through. It was a wonder he didn’t have frostbite.

But maybe the inappropriate clothing wasn’t so strange after all. Before the storm, they’d been enjoying a warm spell in the area. The daytime temperatures had been so mild that Claudia had even been able to continue her morning hikes to enhance her cardio workout.

With the storm, the thermometer had dropped to a more seasonable chill, reminding her that soon enough the snows would come. She would be sequestered in the cabin for long days at a time, sometimes with no phone or power. Not a single, solitary soul to keep her company.

She shuddered in dread.

Better lonely than dead, she reminded herself.

But back to the stranger …

Perching on the arm of a chair, she rested the revolver on her thigh as she sipped her tea and watched him. He had the blanket wrapped around him, and the way he gulped the hot drink made him seem young and kind of endearing.

But in the glow of the fire, Claudia could see the muscle definition in his bare arms and shoulders. He was strong and probably anything but vulnerable. If she let down her guard for even a second, he could easily overpower her.

“Let’s talk about this memory loss of yours.” She set the teacup aside, but kept the gun on her thigh.

He put down his tea and gazed up at her, looking very mysterious and downright ethereal with the light flickering over his features. His dark hair was cropped short and Claudia had the sudden notion that if he wasn’t an escaped mental patient, he might be in the military or law enforcement. That could explain how he’d found her. Maybe someone was finally looking into the group responsible for Dr. Lasher’s murder. Maybe he had been sent to protect her.

Then again, for all she knew, he could have been sent by the people who wanted her dead. She couldn’t lose sight of the danger he potentially posed just because he had nice eyes and kept insisting that he’d come there to save her.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked. He blinked. “The woods. The road. You.” “In other words, you don’t remember anything before tonight?”

He sighed and seemed to settle more deeply into the blanket. “I don’t want to remember.” “Why not?”

He closed his eyes and shuddered. “… Pain …”

“You remember pain? Then maybe you were in some sort of accident. A car wreck maybe.” It was possible he’d been so dazed and confused, he’d wandered miles from the scene of the crash and then stumbled into the path of her oncoming vehicle.

“The needles hurt,” he said.

Something in his voice—a faint note of fear, nothing more—brought the image of a caged animal to Claudia’s mind. For a moment, she forgot about the possible threat he brought with him. She even forgot to breathe.

He turned to stare into the flames. “I don’t like memories.”

Claudia’s heart beat so hard against her chest, she could hear the echo in her ears.

I don’t like memories.

What on earth had happened to him?

And why did she have an irresistible urge to kneel beside him on the floor and wrap her arms around him?

Why, suddenly, did she want to save him?

This made no sense. She could feel compassion without chucking her common sense. He was still a stranger and she still had to protect herself.

And as for the needles … an escapee from a psychiatric ward might have such memories, mightn’t he?

She bit her lip. “I can understand why you may not like memories,” she said softly. “But if we’re going to figure out why you’re here and why you think I need saving, then we need to know if there’s anything else you can tell me.”

He stared into the fire for a long time, and then his gaze lifted. “Coronet Blue.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s what I remember,” he said. “Coronet Blue.” And then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled.

Chapter Eight

Claudia decided the best thing to do was call it a night and figure things out in the morning. Her interrogation had accomplished nothing. If the man really did have amnesia, he needed to be under a doctor’s care. There wasn’t anything she could do for him and her questions might just upset him.

Though he didn’t seem upset at the moment. Not with that smile he’d just flashed. It was a little sly, a little knowing, as if he were enjoying a private joke. At her expense.

Claudia didn’t care for that.

Which was yet another reason why she had no intention of closing her eyes while he was in her house. She would not rest easy until Jack Maddox—if that was his real name—was out of her life for good.

“I think—”

Before she had a chance to finish her thought, he said, “I’ll stay out here. If that’s permitted.” Permitted?

The way he spoke was yet another intriguing piece of the puzzle, as was his ability to anticipate the direction of her thoughts. She’d been on the verge of suggesting that he take the bedroom, but once again he’d interpreted her intention before she had a chance to say anything. His insight was uncanny. Disturbingly so.

“Maybe you should take the bed,” she said. “You need your rest.”

“Why? I’m not hurt or sick.”

Well, except for that amnesia thing.

But come to think of it, the bedroom door did have a lock on the inside, so maybe that arrangement was for the best, Claudia decided.

“If that’s the way you want it. Hopefully, by morning you’ll have remembered something else.” As she spoke, she moved around the room, gathering up the flashlight, her handbag with her cell phone and wallet inside, her laptop and, of course, the gun. The only thing left of any real value was her desktop computer, and somehow she didn’t see him grabbing that up and making a run with it through the rain.

His dark gaze tracked her every move. When she had everything she needed, he held out his hands. “Do you want to bind them again?”

She gave it serious consideration, but obviously it hadn’t done much good the first time.

“You don’t need to worry,” he said solemnly. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

He said it so convincingly, she almost believed him.

And she had to ask herself, Now who’s the lunatic?

At the bedroom door, she glanced back. He was sitting exactly where she’d left him before the fire, but rather than staring into the flames, he was still looking at her. His intense focus made her tremble, although she wanted to believe it was just the cold.

“See you in the morning,” she said.

“Good night …”

“Claudia.” Too late, she realized that she probably shouldn’t have told him her name, but if he worked for the men who wanted her dead—or even for the government—her identity was obviously no secret.

Back in Chicago, she’d gone by C.J. Her given name was Claudia Janelle, but she’d never used it until she moved here. Even after all this time, she still wasn’t used to it.

“It doesn’t suit you,” he said.

She frowned. “Why not?”

“It’s an old name.”

“I wouldn’t mention that to Claudia Schiffer if you happen to run into her.”

“I won’t,” he said solemnly.

She shook her head at his apparent oblivion to her pop-culture reference. “Whatever. The name suits me fine. I have an old soul.”

With that, she opened the bedroom door and went inside. Locking herself in, she leaned against the door, shivering in the cold.

This was so not how she’d planned to spend the night. Actually, her nights took very little planning because they were all the same. Dinner alone by the fire or, in warm weather, on the deck. Then she would listen to some music or watch a little television. Surf the ‘Net, read a book, work into the wee hours. Anything to eat up all those long, lonely hours.

If nothing else, tonight had been a break from the relentless tedium her young life had become.

Placing the gun and laptop on the nightstand and her handbag on the floor, she used the flashlight to locate spare linens in the closet. Then getting the bed all set up the way she wanted, she cocooned herself in the cover.

With the flashlight off, the room was pitch black. The night seemed to close in on her, and Claudia lay there for the longest time, staring into the darkness and willing her eyes to remain open, no matter how heavy her lids became.

Chapter Nine

The click of the lock sent a deep shudder through Jack. He knew that sound, and a claustrophobic dread descended over him as he threw off the cover and got to his feet.

He went first to the front door to make sure he wasn’t locked in. When he drew it back, a burst of cold, wet air rushed over him, and he stood for a moment, staring out into the dark and listening to the sounds of the receding storm.

Satisfied there was no imminent threat, he closed the door and went to each window, assuring himself that there were no bars caging him in. He was still free.

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