Blank: Alpha Billionaire Romance (3 page)

Then again, what would anybody have to gain by lying? If I’d been someone special, wouldn’t I have had more people looking for me? More people noticing that I was gone? Only one girl had come forward, and unless there was some seriously weird explanation about who I was and why I was here, there really wasn’t any reason to disbelieve what I’d been told.

According to the doctor, there was no guarantee that my memory would ever resurface, so rediscovering myself would have to be a learning curve. What other choice did I have? I had no memories to fall back on, and a sorry excuse for a clue in the form of a friend I wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup. She might be able to tell me some things, but there would be other parts of myself I might never know. I just couldn’t give up hope.

I flipped through the TV stations, eager to find an escape from the questions plaguing my every thought, but each channel showed unfamiliar faces and networks with acronyms that were indecipherable from the next. Did I have a favorite show or movie? Would I recognize it if I saw it? Doubtful.

I wanted to throw my hands up in fury and frustration, to let the tears come and feel sorry for myself, but that was as useless as wracking my brain for memories that were clearly blocked, maybe forever. The entire night was spent restless and wanting, beating myself up for coming up blank on the questions I’d tortured myself with. Who was I? What state was I in? Hell, what did I even look like? That last one was almost enough to get me to drag myself from bed and search for a mirror, but my lethargic muscles had other ideas.

By morning, I was exhausted and irritable. I groaned out loud when yet another nurse came in, flitting about, joyfully humming, so happy I could’ve strangled her. She was just the first. A parade of nurses bustled in and out of my room all morning, grating on my nerves as they asked useless questions and wrote all their little notes. I’d finally closed my eyes when the annoying squeak of the door alerted me to yet another visitor. I cracked one eye open, crossing my fingers they’d hurry up whatever they had to do so I could try to get some sleep.

“Preslee, you have a visitor,” a sugar-sweet voice oozed with a bit of a southern accent. The honey blonde nurse smiled wide, as if I was her favorite person in the world instead of just another pain-in-the-ass patient.

I sat up, ready to tell the nurse that I didn’t want to talk to anyone. A massive man, nearly six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders, and a lean build was already there. His neatly trimmed platinum blond hair and flawless tan masked his age, but judging from the lines on his face, he was probably pushing sixty. His green eyes crinkled deceptively as he flashed a pearly white smile my way, but there was no warmth in that gaze.

Whoever this man was, I didn’t trust him.

I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to look intimidated.

“Miss Keats, my name is Quaid Fields, and I’m an attorney,” he boomed. He reached out to shake my hand, and I returned the gesture warily. “I heard about your tragic situation and thought I’d come speak with you. May I have a seat?”

As he took the chair next to my bed, his eyes scanned my body in a cold, calculating kind of way. I tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, but couldn’t do anything to stop the butterflies in my stomach. And they weren’t good butterflies.

“Miss Keats, you’ve had a pretty bad run of luck.” His smile still didn’t reach his eyes.

“So they tell me,” I replied, trying to remain neutral. “I guess I should just be grateful to be alive.”

“You don’t actually remember anything about what happened to you?” He leaned forward, as if my amnesia was the true reason for his presence.

I weighed my answer, unsure why he was here. Was he some sort of ambulance chaser? Or one of those cheesy infomercial attorneys who hunt for the slightest whiff of malpractice? I’d seen enough of those shady commercials last night to last a lifetime.

“Why do you ask?” I asked cautiously.

“That’s what we lawyers do. We ask questions to help those who’ve had a bit of bad luck. You don’t remember anything?” He repeated his question, softening his tone, no doubt attempting to convey sympathy that rang entirely false.

I took my time replying. “I was told that I suffered acute brain trauma and that it could take some time before everything comes back.” He nodded sagely, as if in total agreement. On instinct, I added, “But the doctors seem to think that I should get my full memory back eventually.”

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I got the impression that this Mr. Fields wasn’t nearly as concerned for my welfare as he was trying to make me believe. I might not have had my memory, but it looked like my instincts were working just fine.

“Miss Keats,” he said with another of those fake smiles, “you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. I can only imagine the hospital bills you’ll incur as a result of this, not to mention the cost of a new car. I would imagine that you have a job or, at least, that you had one prior to your accident.”

I frowned. I’d thought of that, of course, and even though I couldn’t remember what exactly I did for a living, I was sure that four months of not being able to work meant that I’d been replaced, no matter how understanding my employer might’ve been of my situation.

Quaid reached into his leather briefcase, and I waited for the pitch about how I needed to secure his services to sue whoever had hit my car. For a modest fee, of course.

Instead, he pulled out a thick manila envelope. “I represent someone with an interest in seeing you able to move on with your life. This is how you can do just that.”

I hesitated as he held out the envelope. I had a good idea of what the envelope contained. When he simply looked at me and waited, I slowly reached out my hand and took it. He watched as I looked inside, confirming my suspicions. Benjamin Franklin peered stoically at me from the front of one of the wrapped stacks. I might not have my memories, but I was pretty sure I’d never seen so much money in my life.

“It’s one hundred thousand dollars, Miss Keats,” Mr. Fields said without waiting for me to ask. “And in addition to the money in this envelope, your hospital bill will be taken care of.”

A real, but still unpleasant smile curved around his mouth. I could tell by the easy curl of his lip, and the way his shoulders relaxed that he thought he had me, hook, line, and sinker.

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. A hundred grand. He knew how to hit the right buttons, I’d give him that. I dreaded seeing what sort of bills I’d racked up after four full months of tests and medication and who knew what else. With this money and all of that taken care of, I could focus solely on putting my life together, with or without my memories.

It was an easy way out.

And yet…none of this felt right. A complete stranger sent his lawyer in to offer me a wad of money for no good reason?

“What’s the catch?”

“Catch?” he raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocence.

From the way he shifted subtly in his seat and averted his eyes, I knew I’d asked the right question. My instincts warred with my urge to throw caution to the wind and accept the money, consequences be damned. At least then, I’d have a way to start getting my life back.

But, still...

“Yeah, the catch,” I said. “I might have lost my memory, but I wasn’t born yesterday. If you’re willing to come here, without invitation, and offer me this money…there’s no way there aren’t any conditions. So what are the strings?”

He smiled tightly. “Miss Keats, there are no strings. My client has his reasons for wanting to help you. Reasons, which I unfortunately can’t disclose. You know, attorney-client privilege. I assure you there’s no catch. But if you’d prefer to hand it back over...”

There was a split second in which I thought twice – I mean, all that money – but I knew that I had to return it. I didn’t trust him. How could I? Nobody hands out thousands of dollars to strangers without expecting something in return.

I tossed him the envelope. Mr. Fields stood quickly and shoved it violently back in his briefcase. Anything remotely pleasant about him had vanished.

“When you come to your senses, Miss Keats, please contact me or my associate.” He handed me a thick, glossy card with his name embossed in heavy letters.

“Your associate?” My fingers traced the letters on the card.

“My son, Kris, is also an attorney.” He headed for the door. “You’re making a big mistake, Miss Fields. Huge.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said dryly.

He left without so much as a goodbye.

I sat in bed for a long time, turning his card over and over in my hand. I had more questions than ever now, thanks to Mr. Fields and his unexpected visit. Exactly who had hit my car? Clearly, it was someone important and with a lot to lose. Was Mr. Fields or his client somehow involved? It would explain a lot about the visit. The lawyer clearly knew at least the basic details of my case since he’d mentioned I needed a new car, but that could’ve been because he or his client had a friend in the police department. Except, according to Dr. Edwards, the police were clueless. No one had been brought in for questioning. It was like the other driver disappeared into thin air.

I felt restless, and unplugged my IV pump from the wall. Using the stand as an anchor, I slowly worked my way out of bed. My legs were still extremely weak, but Dr. Edwards had told me to get out of bed when I could. I was allowed to visit my en-suite bathroom on my own, but needed assistance if I decided to take a walk through the hall.

I didn’t feel like company at the moment, so I settled for taking a seat in one of the chairs by the window. If my situation hadn’t been so dire, I might have actually liked this room. It was nice, as far as hospital rooms went.

I looked out the window at the world outside. There were acres and acres of trees, still bare, and in the distance was what looked like an interstate. I’d missed an entire season while I’d been unconscious. Several holidays, though I’d been told Ava had been here for all of them.

I saw my reflection in the glass, but didn’t recognize myself, didn’t recognize anything about me. I didn’t even know if my ash-blonde curls had been short before the accident or had been cut when I’d been brought in. My gaze traced my features, but there was no spark of familiarity in my ultramarine eyes. I might as well have been looking at a stranger.

I had no idea who to trust.

Hell, I didn’t even know if I could trust myself.

Chapter 4

Kris

“I thought you said you’d be able to get her to take the deal.” I tried to reign in my temper, knowing how unprofessional it looked for a man with my public image to lose it.

“Kris, I laid things out, told her that it’d be in her best interest to just take the money and go, but she wasn’t interested.”

I swore under my breath as I started to pace across my office. I had the speakerphone on for this exact reason. I’d always had a bit of nervous energy, even as a kid. It’d driven my parents crazy. They’d always been giving me extra things to do. Fencing lessons. Horseback riding. Track. Lacrosse. You name it, I played it.

I ran my hand through my hair and made a mental note to have my assistant set up an appointment with my barber. The last article I’d given an interview to had described me as ‘casually rakish.’ I wasn’t sure if that was even a real thing, but the reporter had seemed a bit overly interested in the fact that I didn’t have some boardroom-chic style. I didn’t usually care what anyone else thought, but I knew there were those who had a problem with me having so much responsibility at only twenty-five.

“You still there?”

I jerked my head back toward the phone. I’d almost forgotten I was on a call. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

I ran my hand over my face and caught a glimpse of myself in my window. Dark hair, light eyes. I was built like my father, tall and athletic, but I looked more like my mother’s side of the family.

“Does she want more money?” I asked. “I’m assuming you didn’t offer her the max I was willing to give.”

The chuckle that came was a familiar sound, but not one I was entirely fond of. I didn’t tend to find the same things funny that he did.

“Hell, no. You should know me better than that. I tried to give her a hundred grand, but she handed it right back to me.”

“Dammit!” I crossed back to my desk and plopped down in the chair.

“You didn’t really think she was going to go away that quietly, did you?” he asked. “I mean, we both knew it was a long-shot. If she tries to push this...”

“She could make my life very uncomfortable,” I finished the thought. “What was I thinking, getting involved with her?”

“Well, she’s not bad to look at.”

I glared at the phone. “She also didn’t present herself as ‘hi, my name’s Samantha and I’m a psycho.’”

“Wouldn’t life be easier if all of our ex’s did that?”

“You’re not kidding,” I muttered.

I supposed I’d been fortunate that, out of the women I’d dated over the years, only one had ended up being a stalker.

“Does she want more?” I asked. “Or do you think she’s going to force me to get a restraining order? I really don’t want to have to go that route.”

“I know you don’t,” he said sympathetically. “But I think it might be your best bet.”