Blank Slate (3 page)

A
strangled cry of pain made him freeze. The girl didn’t move now, curled on her
side with her knees drawn up, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Her breath came
hard and fast, the puffs of cold air visible in the night.

Erik’s
anger drained away, and he got to his feet, grabbing the flashlight and
slipping it into his pocket. His eyes adjusted to the ambient glow from the
snow as he bent, pulling her unresisting body into his arms. She shook like a
leaf, her skin like ice and her clothes wet through.

Without
a word, Erik carried her into the log cabin.

T
he
inside of the cabin was cold, but not like it had been outside. Erik turned on
a lamp and put the girl down on the couch in front of the fireplace. She didn’t
speak or open her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together, and Erik got the
impression she was trying to not make a sound, though she had to be in pain.

He
shut and locked the front door before shedding his wet coat. The absent owner
had thoughtfully left a stack of wood in the corner, and Erik spent the next
several minutes building a fire in the grate. Once that was done, he searched
through the bathroom cupboards, turning up some rudimentary medical supplies,
and grabbed a blanket from the nearby bedroom before returning to the huddled
form on the couch. She hadn’t moved.

Now
he could see her properly and realized he’d been right about her injury. She
had a nasty cut on her forehead and a livid red mark that was already darkening
into a bruise. Dried blood crusted the wound and trailed down her starkly white
face. Erik saw he’d been wrong about her hair; she must have been wearing a wig
earlier, because the brunette locks were gone, replaced with deep, rich, red
strands pulled back into a haphazard bun.

Erik
reached down and pulled off her shoes. Her eyes flew open, the brilliant green
of her gaze pinning him.

“What
are you doing?” she asked. He could hear a touch of fear and panic in her
voice.

“You’re
hurt and soaked. The wet clothes have to come off so you can get warm and I can
see your injury,” Erik answered.

It
scared her, the matter-of-fact way in which the unknown man spoke about
undressing her. Did she know him? She struggled to remember, but drew a blank.

“Who
are you?” she asked, scooting away from him as he grabbed some scissors from
the nearby table and started cutting the hem of the dress she wore.

“Special
Agent Erik Langston,” the man replied, ignoring her attempts to get away from
him as he cut through the thick fabric.

“Special
Agent?”

He
looked up then, his eyes a clear, pale blue. “FBI.”

Her
eyes widened. FBI. That sounded ominous. What did he want with her? And he was
still cutting. “Stop that,” she ordered, pushing his hands away. The movement
pulled at the wound in her side, and she sucked in a breath at the stab of
pain. She was so cold. Part of her really wanted to get the icy dress off, but
she didn’t want to do it with this man watching.

The
self-proclaimed FBI agent wasn’t a little guy. The sweater he wore couldn’t
conceal his bulk. The thickness of his biceps was apparent even through the
fabric. The muscles in his thighs pulled the denim of his jeans taut as he sat
beside her on the couch, her nylon-encased legs pressed against the back
cushions. She felt uncomfortably small next to him.

“Despite
the fact that you hit me with a tree trunk,” Agent Langston said wryly, “I’m
trying to help you.”

“It
was a branch, not a tree trunk,” she corrected him, warily watching as he
handed her the blanket.

He
gave her a look, then resumed cutting. She pulled the blanket to her chest,
trying to get warm. Shivers were making her hands shake.

“You
were chasing me,” she accused. “What was I supposed to do?”

The
cold metal of the scissors slid against the skin of her hip as he cut the
formfitting uniform.

“If
you weren’t a criminal, I wouldn’t be chasing you,” he responded.

The
girl stared at him in shock before finally finding her tongue. “Are you crazy? I’m
not—”

A
cry of pain left her lips as he parted the cut uniform, the fabric pulling at
the bloody wound. The skin was torn, and blood still oozed sluggishly from the
gouge in her side. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, even as the image swam and
blurred.

Erik’s
lips twisted in a grimace as the girl passed out. Some deadly villain she was,
fainting at the sight of blood.

She
had collapsed against the cushions, her eyes rolling upward, and Erik took the
opportunity to get the wet fabric off her. His movements quick and efficient,
she was soon divested of her wet uniform and mangled nylons. After a brief hesitation,
he left intact the scraps of black satin and lace that preserved her modesty.

Erik
examined the wound, which looked like a bullet had caused it. The girl was
extremely lucky. It had just grazed her and taken a chunk of flesh from her
side. He cleaned and tightly bandaged the wound, though without stitches it
would leave a nasty scar on her soft, perfect skin.

Erik
shut down the trail those thoughts led to, uncomfortably aware of her
nakedness. Petite though she was, her body was perfectly formed to please a
man. Slim ankles led to curved calves, indenting sweetly at her knees. Her
thighs were smooth, flaring to hips that would fit nicely in his hands, before
yielding to the deep dip of her waist. A soft, flat abdomen begged to be
touched, and her breasts made his mouth water.

Abruptly
jerking the blanket, he covered her, feeling like a sick voyeur, ogling her
while she was unconscious.

Not
to mention that she was wanted by the FBI, he reminded himself.

Getting
a washcloth, Erik gently cleaned the blood from her face. She wasn’t
classically pretty so much as she had an interesting face. Her eyes had been
clear, intelligence shining from their green depths. Her nose, small and tipped
up at the end, was covered with a smattering of freckles. A strong, square jaw
led to a pointed chin that seemed to advertise a stubborn nature.

Telling
himself he was only making her more comfortable and not trying to ease his own
curiosity, Erik reached over, removing the pins holding her hair until it
framed her face in a fiery tangle.

Her
picture hadn’t done her justice.

After
bandaging the cut on her forehead, Erik decided he’d had enough of wet clothes.
He heaved a tired sigh as he got up. Taking his keys and gun with him, no sense
leaving temptation within her reach, he took a shower in the master bath. The
hot water went a long way to easing his mood.

Searching
the closet, he was able to find a pair of jeans that fit him, but the shirts
were too small. The closest he found was a T-shirt that was still tighter than
he usually wore, the material stretched to its limits to cover his shoulders
and upper arms. It would do while his clothes dried.

It
appeared the owner lived alone, as there were no clothes for a woman anywhere
to be had. Erik grabbed another T-shirt for her to wear and a pair of flannel
pants that would likely swallow her. It didn’t matter. At least she’d be
covered.

The
warmth from the fire had chased away the chill when he returned, though the girl
still appeared to be asleep. He searched the kitchen, unearthing a few bottles
of liquor. Choosing one filled with whiskey, Erik poured himself a healthy shot
and tossed it back. The liquid burned a welcome trail of fire down his throat.

“Can
I get some of that?”

Erik
turned, surprised to see she had awakened and managed to sit up. Grabbing the
bottle and a second glass, he took them into the living room and sank down onto
the couch, careful to avoid her legs. Although he noticed she’d pulled the
blanket to her chin to cover herself, he didn’t say anything. He poured her a
shot and handed her the glass.

She
took it and drank it quickly down, then handed it back for a refill. He eyed
her but poured more into the glass. Hopefully, the pain-numbing effects of
whiskey hadn’t been exaggerated, she thought, drinking the second helping down.

“You
should take it easy,” Agent Langston said. “You probably have a concussion.”

She
silently handed him her empty glass, raising an eyebrow until he poured more.

“What
happened?” she asked, sipping more slowly at the liquid now. “How did I get
here?”

“You
don’t remember?”

“Would
I ask you if I did?” she retorted, trying to ignore the pain in her side. She
wanted to bite back her words at the look he shot her. Schooling her features
into what she hoped appeared contrite, she said, “I mean, no, I don’t.”

Agent
Langston’s expression told her she wasn’t fooling him for an instant. He
snorted and took another drink before answering.

“After
you killed that guy — who was he, by the way? — I followed you, chasing your
car until you ran off the road and crashed. I picked you up, put you in the
back of my car, and ended up here.”

“Killed
a guy? What are you talking about? I didn’t kill anyone!” The thought was
absurd.

“Yes,
you did,” he said. “And judging by the fact that you’re alive with just a
bullet wound while he’s dead, you had better aim than him.”

“I
don’t know why you’d tell me these lies, but there’s no way I would ever kill
someone.” The man was crazy!

He
shrugged his shoulders as though bored with the conversation. “Save it for the judge.
I already know you’re guilty.”

A
knot of fear grew in her belly. This FBI agent thought he’d caught some
dangerous criminal. “This is ridiculous,” she spluttered. “I’m not a murderer! I’m
— ” The sentence cut off abruptly as realization struck. “Oh my God,” she
whispered.

Langston
looked at her, his cynical gaze sharp. “Is it all coming back now?”

She
ignored him. “I’m…I’m…” But the words wouldn’t come. They seemed like they were
right there, right on the tip of her tongue, but refused to come out.

“Guilty?
Don’t confess now, I don’t have any witnesses.”

“You
don’t understand,” she gritted out, her hands moving to clutch her head. “I
can’t remember.” She tried harder, her eyes squeezing shut. It had to be there.
No one just forgot their own name.

“You
hit your head,” he reminded her. “A concussion plus bullet wound plus shock. You’ll
be fine in the morning.”

“It’s
not that,” she said, dropping her hands and meeting his gaze. “I can’t
remember. Anything. I don’t even know my name.” The horror of saying the words
aloud made panic twist in her gut. This couldn’t be happening to her. Her. She
had no name to even refer to herself by.

A
shout of laughter made her jump, and she jerked her head up to see Langston was
finding great humor in her situation. She ground her teeth, her hands clenching
into fists so she wouldn’t hit him.

“You
think this is funny?” she accused him, ice in her voice. What a jerk. Typical
cop. Wait. Why had she thought that? Did she know a lot of cops? The fact that
she didn’t know the answer to that question scared her.

His
laughter trailed away, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s a
stroke of fucking genius,” he replied finally. “I must say, I didn’t see that
one coming.”

“I’m
not lying,” she insisted.

He
nodded his head, clearly not believing a word of it. “Sure you’re not.”

“You
asshole!” she yelled. “I’m telling you the truth! I don’t know who I am!”

The
fear in her voice must have gotten through to him, because his expression
turned hard.

“You
want to play this game?” he asked coldly. “Fine, I’ll tell you who you are. You’re
Clarissa O’Connell, daughter of Flynn O’Connell, sister to Daniel O’Connell,
and currently wanted by the FBI. You’ve been a criminal your whole life,
following in the footsteps of dear dad and big brother. You’re currently wanted
for multiple counts of fraud, money laundering, and racketeering, all crimes
you’ve racked up while working for a mob boss who goes by the name of Solomon. In
the past few hours, you added murder to that list. Shall I continue, or are we
done here?”

He
slammed his empty glass down on the table and got to his feet. Giving her a
contemptuous look, he said, “I suggest you get some sleep. We leave in the
morning.” He tossed a bundle of fabric at her and disappeared into the bedroom,
leaving the door open behind him.

Clarissa
stared after him, stunned at the avalanche of information he’d just poured on
her. A criminal? She was wanted for a list of felonies, including murder?

The
thought rattled around inside her head. Murder. According to the FBI agent,
she’d killed someone.

Her
hand went to her side, the pads of her fingers brushing the bandage. She’d been
shot, that much was true. Maybe she’d killed in self-defense.

Clarissa
released a pent-up breath of relief. Self-defense was different from outright
murder. It was Okay to defend yourself. She couldn’t feel guilty for something
she not only didn’t remember, but had been an act of self-preservation.

And
at least she had a name now.

“Clarissa
O’Connell,” she whispered to herself, letting the name roll around her tongue
like the whiskey had. The name had the warm feel of familiarity to it but
stirred no memories.

Clarissa
touched the bump on her head, wincing at the tenderness. She’d seen movies
where people hit their heads and lost their memories. It was usually temporary,
wasn’t it? She had to believe that. The possibility that it might be permanent
was too horrifying to think about, so she wouldn’t.

Suddenly,
Clarissa had a burning desire to find a mirror. It was an odd feeling, not
knowing what she looked like. Touching her hair, she saw that it was long
enough to pull a lock of it around to see the color. Red. Hmm. Not too crazy
about that.

Getting
up from the couch proved unpleasant, the bullet wound was painfully tender and
her head still ached. The blanket dropped, and cold air brushed her skin. Clarissa
cast a quick glance into the darkened bedroom but couldn’t see anything. Aware
that the cop might be watching her, she pulled on the T-shirt and pants as
quickly as she could. The pants were about six inches too long, and she had to
roll the waistband several times to get them to stay up.

The
cabin wasn’t terribly large, the main space given over to a large expanse of
windows along the back. The ceiling arched high overhead, and Clarissa could
see the snow still falling outside. Now that she was inside and warm, she could
appreciate the beauty of the scene, and paused for a moment to watch. The snow
clung to the already laden branches of the fir trees, weighing them down even
more. The drifts looked as though they’d been sculpted by an artist, rather
than the careless wind.