A Man Worth Remembering
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Delores Fossen
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Chapter One
Leigh realized she was being murdered.
She regained consciousness in the water. Cold, deep, dark water. It was above her, beneath her, around her on all sides. Smothering her.
Terror shot through her. She frantically tried to swim but couldn’t. Her hands and feet were tied together. Water gushed into her nose and mouth. Her throat clenched. It hurt. She hurt. Her chest pounded as if it might shatter.
Someone had put her there. But who? She could just make out a milky image on the bridge above the water’s surface. No face. No name. Just someone who obviously wanted her dead.
Inch by excruciating inch, she sank lower. She fought against the urge to surrender, to close her eyes and just give up so the pain would stop. No. She wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t. God, she didn’t want to die.
Leigh twisted her body, using the last of her breath to try to stop her downward slide. She didn’t succeed. The water coiled around her and sent her into a dizzying spiral until her feet dipped into the clotted mud at the bottom.
She didn’t see the man before his arm snaked around her waist, but she felt his firm grip. It was a lifeline. Hope. Right now, hope and this man were all she had.
He stopped the mud from swallowing her up and began to haul her toward the surface. Leigh tried to help, but her wrists and feet were still bound. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t free herself.
Somehow, he got them out of the water, dragging her onto a muddy embankment. And then he kissed her. At least she thought that’s what he was doing until she felt the air gust into her mouth. No. Not a kiss. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
“It’s okay,” the man said. “You’ll be all right.”
He knelt beside her, his movements jerky but somehow controlled, and he got the ropes off her hands and feet. Every few seconds, his gaze darted around them as if he was watching for something.
Not something, she realized.
Someone.
After all, the person who’d try to kill her could return to finish the job.
She didn’t have time to react to that terrifying realization. Her teeth began to chatter. Her body shook. She was cold and wet, and her head throbbed in pain. For that matter, the rest of her throbbed, too. But at least she was alive. Because of this man, she was alive. Too bad she didn’t have enough breath to thank him.
He leaned over her to examine her forehead. It was dusk, but what was left of the filmy sunlight allowed her to see him and his resolute expression. Did she know him?
No.
He was a stranger.
“You saved my life,” she managed to say.
Water slipped off him and splattered onto her face. With the same gentle touch he’d used on her forehead, he wiped away the drops, letting his fingertips linger on her cheek. “Yes. I did.” He mumbled something else under his breath. Something in Spanish. And he shook his head. “I’d still like to have your butt for what you pulled, but we can get into all of that later.”
She didn’t understand what he meant. Exactly what had she pulled? She hadn’t asked to be in that water. Had she? No, she was sure of that. This was no suicide attempt. She’d fought to stay alive.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Something she couldn’t distinguish rifled through his eyes. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
“I’d like to know your name,” she clarified.
He sat back on his heels and glared down at her. “Just what kind of sick game are you playing, huh?” She barely got out a denying shake of her head before he continued. “Believe me, it won’t work.” With each word he got louder. “I want answers. I deserve answers.”
“I’d like some answers, too. For starters, please tell me who you are.”
“Gabe,” he said, hissing it out like profanity. “But you know that.”
No, she didn’t. She shoved her fingers through her hair to push the wet strands out of her eyes. Part of her thought she might recognize his name, the way he’d said it, but she couldn’t be sure. Mercy, if her head would just stop pounding, maybe she could sort through all of this.
“Gabe Sanchez,” he added after a moment.
Still nothing. But she should know him. Maybe she felt that because of his formidable expression and not because of any true recollection. “Well, thank you, Mr. Sanchez, for saving me. I thought I was going to die.”
He sat there as drops of water slid down his face. He seemed oblivious to the water, to his drenched clothes. Oblivious to everything around them. Everything but her. He stared craters in her.
“You would have died if I hadn’t been here,” he assured her. “Someone shot you. When that didn’t work, they clubbed you and threw you in the lake.”
She gasped, horrified that someone would do such terrible things to her. “Someone shot me?”
“Looks that way. It’s just a graze, but combined with that lump, you’ll probably have one heck of a headache.”
She nodded. She already had one heck of a headache so there was no probably about it.
“Who did this to you?” he demanded. “Who tried to kill you?”
He seemed angry with her, and she didn’t know why. Worse, she didn’t know why things didn’t make sense. Who had done this to her? Why had she been in the water? And who was this stranger who expected her to have all the answers?
“I don’t know.” She touched her forehead. When she drew back her hand, she noticed the watery blood on her fingertips. She was injured but didn’t even remember how it’d happened. God, how could she possibly not know that? “Did you see anyone before you jumped in after me?”
“Just a car speeding away. I couldn’t make out the license plate.” Vigilantly, he looked around them again. “When I saw the air bubbles in the water, I dived in.”
Thank God he had. If not, she would without a doubt be dead. “Where are we?”
“Lake Pontchartrain.” His narrowed gaze came back to her. “Are you trying to make me believe you really don’t know?”
She glanced around her. All she saw was the sun setting on an ordinary lake. Other than that, it didn’t look familiar. “Are we near Houston?”
“Houston?” he spat out. “We’re just outside New Orleans.”
Sweet heaven. Even with a multiple choice, she wouldn’t have gotten it right. What the heck was she doing here?
“You honestly don’t remember?” he asked.
“No.” It was the one answer of which she was certain.
“All right, let’s try something easy. What’s the date?”
Again, she tried to concentrate. “Is it June something?”
He blew out a long breath. “Not quite. It’s August twelfth. Okay. Here’s a question that nobody gets wrong. What’s your name?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. Her mind was a complete blank.
He stilled, his expression registering more than a little alarm. “You don’t know your own name?”
She shook her head, trying to will away the dizziness that started to overpower her. “I have no idea.” And she didn’t. No idea whatsoever.
She was ready to panic, when it occurred to her that this had to be a dream. Yes, a dream. It was the only logical explanation. A full-fledged, mind-blowing nightmare. All she had to do was wake up, and she’d remember everything. Heck, right now she probably wasn’t anywhere near this lake but in her own bed at home.
Wherever home was.
She blinked hard several times, trying to force a different scene to appear in front of her, but the nightmare was still there. And so was Gabe Sanchez. He stared at her, his dark, suspicious eyes filled with questions that she knew she couldn’t answer.
So, with the taste of the muddy lake still in her mouth, she closed her eyes and let the dream take over.
VOICES WOKE HER. She caught a word here and there, but much of what she heard didn’t make sense. Philip. Frank Templeton. Sanchez.
Gabe Sanchez.
The man who saved her. There were at least two other voices: a male and a female. All three used hushed tones, but they seemed to be arguing.
She forced her eyes open, even though the overhead fluorescent lights made her wince, and pain stabbed through her head. She felt groggy, almost drunk, but she finally managed to see the trio near the doorway. Sanchez, an attractive woman with pinned-up dark hair and a tall blond man.
The woman and the other man wore business suits in neutral colors. No suit for Sanchez. He had on faded jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a shoulder holster that had a pistol sticking out of it. There was a beeper attached to his belt loop.
She glanced down at her own clothes. Someone had dressed her in drab green surgical scrubs. And she was on a gurney.
“I’m not in ICU,” she said to herself. “Or in an emergency room.”
It looked more like a huge supply closet. There were several metal shelves crammed with boxes. A single window graced the far wall, and the blinds were closed, so she couldn’t tell if it was night or day. Or if it was covered with bars. She was afraid it might have bars.
“It’s what you have to tell her,” the woman insisted.
Sanchez shook his head. “I won’t.”
The woman folded her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “It wasn’t a request. Now, what part of it didn’t you understand?”
“The part where you started spouting Justice Department garbage, that’s when, Teresa.”
“You’d rather have her dead? Because that’s what’ll happen. Heck, it almost did, or have you forgotten that already?”
“I haven’t forgotten anything. I’m the one who pulled her out of that lake.” Sanchez mumbled something under his breath. Leigh only caught the Jesucristo part. “Hell, she almost died in my arms.”
She lifted her head off the gurney. “Who are you people?”
The three rifled their gazes toward her, but they didn’t say anything. She studied each one, trying to interpret their expressions and the snippets of conversation she’d heard.
She definitely didn’t trust the blond man, and yet she couldn’t say why. The woman was no ally either. She didn’t know what to make of Sanchez, but since he’d saved her from drowning, she would cast her lot with him if it came down to choosing sides.
It would, she feared, come down to choosing sides.
“Better yet,” she amended when none of them answered her, “who am I?”
Gabe Sanchez walked toward her with an almost graceful ease. He was tall, over six feet, and muscular. His biceps strained against the cotton T-shirt. He had chocolate-colored hair that was short and neat. Efficient. Low maintenance.
When he got closer, she saw that his eyes were a deep blue. They, too, seemed efficient—his gaze swept over her with a minimal amount of effort. However, she had no doubt that he’d just given her the once-over.
The others trailed behind Sanchez, stopping when he did. They were friends. No, more than that. Or less than that. Maybe much, much less.
God, why was it so hard to figure out things?
“You still don’t remember who you are?” Sanchez asked her.
“No. Why is that? What’s wrong with me?”
“You took a hard hit on the head. It might take a while for everything to come back.”
She touched the bandage on her forehead. There was indeed a lump under the gauze swatch, but she hadn’t needed to feel it to know it was there. That was no doubt the source of her vicious headache.
“I have a concussion?” she asked.
Sanchez nodded. “And a few stitches in your forehead and on your ankle where the rope abraded your skin. The doctor examined you, but he doesn’t think your memory loss has anything to do with the head injury. In other words, no brain damage. He said it was brought on by emotional trauma.”
“Disassociative amnesia,” she softly added. “How long will it last?” But she already knew. Like her aversion to the blond man and the woman, she just didn’t know how she knew it.
It was Sanchez who answered. “The doctor’s not sure. It could be hours. Or days.”
“Or I might never regain my memory,” she provided.
She lowered her head and tried to absorb that. She couldn’t. It was impossible to understand anything while her thoughts whirled around like a tornado.
God, what she was going to do? She didn’t know who she was, not her name, not her age. Nothing. She didn’t know if she was still in danger or if she could trust anyone. She didn’t even know what these people had to do with her.
But they knew.
They likely knew everything about her.
“What’s my name?” she asked Sanchez. She wanted answers, and by God, she wanted them now.
“Leigh O’Brien.”
That didn’t mean anything to her. Only the water and Sanchez saving her meant anything. For all practical purposes, her life had begun the moment she realized she was drowning. That wasn’t a comforting thought. “Where am I?”
“A private clinic near New Orleans.”
So, they hadn’t left the area. But it wasn’t an ordinary clinic. She was sure of that. “Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“Am I a cop?”
The room went deadly silent. “No,” the blond man finally answered.
Leigh didn’t like that hesitation. It sent a wave of panic through her. “Am I a criminal then?” And she braced herself for the answer.
These people might be here to arrest her for something she’d done wrong. Had someone tossed her in that lake because of a drug deal gone bad? An organized-crime housecleaning? What awful thing had she done to make someone want to murder her?
The blond man took a step forward, placing himself slightly ahead of the others. “You’re not a criminal.”
She allowed herself a short breath of relief. Just one. And got down to business. “Since these questions could go on forever, why don’t you just tell me who you are?”
The three glanced at each other before the blond man said anything else. “I’m Wade Jenkins. People call me Jinx. Special Agent Sanchez and I are with the FBI. Agent Teresa Walters is an agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms—the ATF.”
“FBI. ATF,” Leigh repeated. “What about me? Am I some sort of agent, too?”
“You’re a concerned citizen.” The blond man burrowed his index finger into his eyebrow. “A concerned citizen with a rather large problem.”
“Obviously,” Leigh snapped. “Believe me, after everything that’s happened, I can guess there’s a problem. Now, other than a concerned citizen, who am I? If I don’t work for an agency with initials, where do I work?”
“At a bookstore in Austin, Texas,” Jinx answered.
“A bookstore?” A bookstore. That couldn’t be right. Nothing about that felt right.
He didn’t elaborate. “Exactly what do you remember about being in the water?”
A good question. Too bad she didn’t have a good answer. “Not much other than Agent Sanchez saving me. Before that, all I remember is struggling and sinking deeper.”
“Any idea who put you in the lake?”
She tried to force the answer to appear in her mind. It didn’t work. She had no more answers about that now than she had when Sanchez had first asked her. “No. I have an image of someone on a bridge, but I can’t make out any of the features. Someone wearing light colors. I don’t suppose that helps you any?”
“No,” Teresa Walters answered in a frustrated huff. “But your amnesia is only part of the problem. This might not be over. Someone might make another attempt to kill you.”
Leigh swallowed hard. She hadn’t considered that. Yet. However, after her adrenaline fatigue wore off, it would no doubt have occurred to her. Amnesia or not, she still had common sense.
She hoped.
Leigh turned her gaze to Sanchez. “Who wants me dead?”
He lifted his shoulder. “We don’t know.”
“Can you at least tell me what it involves? What—”
“The less you know, the better,” Jinx interrupted.
“Maybe that’s your way of looking at it, but I see things from a little different perspective than you do. Someone tried to kill me, and I think I have a right to know why.”
“Jinx is right about this, Leigh,” Sanchez spoke up. “Even if we told you everything, it wouldn’t make you safer. That’s why we’ll provide you with protection.”
She shook her head, already objecting. “Now, wait a minute. I don’t even know any of you, and you want me to place my life in your hands? How do I know you’re not the people who tried to kill me, huh?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Sanchez answered. “If we wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have pulled you out of that lake.”
“But those two didn’t pull me out.” She pointed to Wade Jenkins and then to Teresa Walters. “The way I see it, I’m in a real mess here. What if some secret’s trapped in my head, and you want me around just long enough to get it? What if you kill me the minute I tell you what you want to know?”
Agent Walters threw her hands in the air. “I give up. Let me know when you can talk some sense into her.”
Leigh was about to tell the woman exactly what she thought of her when Sanchez broke in. “You can trust me, Leigh.” The offer had not come effortlessly. It came with a scalpel-sharp glare.
“Why? Because you saved my life?”
He didn’t answer, but after a moment Jinx did. “Not just that. You can trust him because Gabe Sanchez is your husband.”
