Authors: Lindsay McKenna
“I think you’d better leave, Captain Ramsey. He won’t be with us much longer. His pulse is failing.”
A powerful urge to scream settled over Morgan. He turned on his heel and jerked open the door, his breath coming in sharp rasps as he moved down the dreary hall toward the foyer. All he wanted to do was escape.
“Captain!” Young caught up with him in the foyer and gripped him by the arm.
Morgan wheeled around, wrenching out of the officer’s grasp. “Stay the hell away from me,” he breathed savagely. His trench coat hung in the closet, and he yanked it off the hanger.
Young’s face broadcast wariness. “What are you going to do now that you know what really happened?”
Shrugging into the trench coat, Morgan glared at Young. “Not a damn thing, General. I know that if I tried to clear my name, you’d make sure I was stopped at every turn.”
“You’re right. I think it’s best if you catch the next flight back to France. At least there you have a good life.”
The urge to punch the arrogant general in his flushed face was strong. “Good life!” he spit. “I have parents who grieve for me. I have a brother and sister I haven’t seen for years. You’ve not only hurt me—you’ve hurt them, as well.” Punching a finger into Young’s chest, Morgan whispered harshly, “If I didn’t have to involve them in clearing my name, I’d do it in an instant, Young. But I know the Pentagon and I know the military machine. You’d use the press to your advantage and put such ungodly pressure on my family that it wouldn’t be worth it.” His breathing was ragged as he straightened and tied the belt around his waist. “Don’t look so worried, Young. I’ll keep my cover. I’ve got reenlistment papers for another five-year stint waiting for me back in Marseilles. They want to make me a major if I sign over.” His nostrils flared. “I can live out my life in a dingy third world country, fighting wars I couldn’t care less about.”
Young backed off. “The limo will take you out to the airport,” he said stiffly. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re a pack of bastards,” Morgan snarled, opening the door. Outside, he felt the rain slash at his face as he walked down the brick path. The water cooled the hot frustration inside him. He lifted his face and deeply inhaled the wet springtime air.
Inside the limo, he snapped at the chauffeur, “Get me the hell out of here and back to the airport.”
Sinking into the gloom of the back seat, Morgan closed his eyes. Tears welled beneath his lids, and he swallowed against his constricted throat. The sky was crying. He was on U.S. soil for the first time in seven years and Clearwater, Florida, where his parents lived, was only an hour-and-a-half flight from D.C.
He dragged in a shaky breath, then opened his eyes and glared out into the gray light. The beauty of Georgetown escaped him as he focused on the pain in his heart. How was Noah? One week before Morgan’s company had been wiped out, Noah’s Coast Guard career had been in high gear. And Aly…Tears squeezed from beneath his short, spiky lashes. Groaning, he covered his face with his large, scarred hand. Had her dreams of getting an appointment to Annapolis been fulfilled? Had she graduated to go on to Pensacola? All she’d ever wanted was to fly.
It hurt to think of them like this. In France his life revolved around his men, a barracks and soldiering duty on Corsica, where the Legion had one of its forts. The men who were in the Legion came from around the world. Most of them had changed their names, never discussing their pasts with anyone.
Wiping his eyes, Morgan fought to get a hold on himself. The last time he’d cried was when his memory had returned. Over the years, he’d had dreams, seen faces, but had never been able to put them together. Then, on a cliff-climbing exercise in France, his rope had snapped and he’d plummeted thirty feet to the ground. When he’d regained consciousness, the memory of who and what he really was had started to come back.
The limo eased to a halt at a concrete island in front of Pan Am Airlines. The rain was worsening. Morgan muttered his thanks to the driver and got out. All he had was a small leather satchel containing one set of clean clothes. Cars were whizzing by, coming and going like frantic bees to a hive.
The rain was soothing, and Morgan stood on the concrete island, lifting his face to the cleansing power of it. The tormented desire to stay and see his family warred with reality. He couldn’t just walk back into their lives unannounced. If the press found out he was back, they’d have a field day. The mustache helped change the look of his face. So did the long scar that ran from his temple down his cheek and followed the square line of his jaw. No, it was unlikely that even his family would recognize the proud young marine captain of 1970 who’d posed with his company of men weeks before the tragedy.
Morgan opened his eyes, tasting the salt of his tears in the corners of his mouth. It was eight in the morning. The sidewalk was jammed with people, and hordes of businessmen were streaming into the busy airport facility. They were all dressed in dark trench coats and carried umbrellas and expensive briefcases. Suddenly the color pink caught his attention.
Directly across the four lanes of traffic, standing on the curb and trying to cross, was a woman in her late twenties. Morgan seized upon her; she was like a bright flower among the grays, browns and blacks of the business suits and coats. Small and slender, she reminded Morgan of a swan. Maybe she was one, he decided, trying to put his suffering behind him. There was a serenity to her oval face. Was it her large blue eyes? Or her delicate mouth that curved naturally upward at the corners? Her blond shoulder-length hair was dampened by the rain as she stood impatiently on first one heel, then the other, trying to time her crossing to where he stood.
Beautiful
wasn’t the word Morgan would have used to describe her.
Intriguing
, yes. The pink raincoat emphasized her slimness. Her eyes were a deep blue, and they sparkled with life. Morgan yearned to feel what the woman exuded. She was like a springtime flower—alive, young and filled with hope. He glanced up at the gray, turbulent sky, and realized he’d been staring at her. But just looking at her calmed him.
Laura watched the swiftly moving traffic with mounting frustration. Each time she tried to cross, another van or limo raced by, sending up sheets of rain in its wake. Something really ought to be done about this, she fumed. Checking the gold watch on her left wrist, she saw that time was running short. If she wanted to make that interview with General Cunningham over at McLean, Virginia, she was going to have to hurry!
Agitated with the arrogant Washington drivers, who never seemed to respect pedestrians, she looked across to the concrete island where she’d be able to catch a taxi. Her attention focused on one man standing among the others. His face was lifted to the rain, as if he were enjoying the sensation of water trickling down it. He was tall and powerful looking, even in the trench coat. Laura was drawn to his face: square, with harsh lines around his mouth and crinkles at the corner of each eye. He was darkly tanned, telling her that he wasn’t from this area. April in D.C. was cloudy and dreary with rain. Sunshine was at a premium. The black mustache emphasized the breadth of the man’s features. His gray eyes were sharp and intelligent.
The word
mercenary
sprang to Laura’s mind, and she chastised her overactive imagination. But there was nothing peaceful about the man’s face or his stance. Even from this distance, she could feel the tension in him. Despite his demeanor, Laura’s heart went out to him the instant his eyes met and held hers. There was incredible sadness and turmoil in them. He looked as if he’d just lost his best friend. The rain made his face glisten, but she could almost swear he was crying. Could that be? A scar ran the length of the right side of his face, giving his expression an impenetrable quality.
A gasp broke from Laura. She watched in sudden horror as the man stepped off the curb—and right into the oncoming traffic. Didn’t he see that gray limo?
Laura leaped from the safety of the curb, her hand raised in warning. “Look out!” she cried. Desperately she caught his attention, but he seemed dazed, perplexed by her warning. The limo bore down on him. It would be only seconds before he was struck. With a foolhardy lunge, she threw herself at him. Her hands connected solidly with his left shoulder, spinning him around and backward.
She heard the screech of tires on the pavement. Just as the man was thrown off his feet and out of the range of the limo, she felt the impact. One second she was on her feet; the next, she was flying through the air.
Morgan landed heavily against the curb as the limo screamed to a halt beside him. The smell of burned rubber filled the air. Wet and confused, he stumbled to his feet. The woman in the pink raincoat was sprawled ten feet in front of the limo. She had saved his life. The limo driver leaped from the vehicle, his face filled with terror. Cries and shrieks erupted around Morgan, but he ignored them as he ran to the woman’s side. Struggling out of his trench coat, he threw it across her to protect her from the downpour. He knelt, his hand going immediately to her small shoulder. She was unconscious, a large, bloody cut on the side of her head, near her left eye. She looked like a bird with a broken wing, so fragile and vulnerable. Dammit!
He looked up at a policeman who had worked his way through the gathering crowd. “Get an ambulance!” Morgan snarled. “Now!” More people ran over. Morgan’s hand on her shoulder tightened. My God, she looked dead, her skin waxen. Was she? Shakily he slid his wet fingers around her wrist. There was a pulse—a weak one. Numbed by the events, he stared down at her wrist. The bones of her hand were tiny in comparison to his. Her flesh was so white and smooth; his sun-darkened, with years of calluses built up on the palms.
The vigilant throng pressed closer. Morgan glared up at them. “Give her room to breathe!” he ordered and they enlarged the circle. He leaned over, gently cupping her cheek with his palm. “Hang on,” he begged her. “Just hang on, lady. Help’s coming….” He dared not move her. She might have broken bones. She could be paralyzed. And all because of his utter stupidity. God, why hadn’t he looked for oncoming traffic before he’d stepped off that curb?
By the time the ambulance arrived, some ten minutes later, Morgan was ready to explode at the cold-blooded curiosity of the people milling around. He hated passersby who gawked. Protecting the woman from the rain, he picked up her purse, tucking it beneath his arm. Anguish filled him as he stared down at her delicate features, now colorless. Why had she done such a foolish thing to save his worthless neck? Yet Morgan knew he’d have done the same thing.
Funny little swan, your courage isn’t any match for that tiny body you live within.
Her blond lashes lay against her high cheekbones; her lips were parted and slack. The paramedics raced over, bags in hand, carrying an oak body board with them. Morgan moved from his crouched position to stand to one side.
“You know her?” the chief paramedic asked, quickly examining her.
“No, but that doesn’t matter. I’m coming with you. She saved me from getting hit by this limo.”
The paramedic nodded. “Fine by me. Frank, let’s get her on the body board. She might have sustained a back injury.”
Numbly Morgan watched them transfer the woman to a thin oak board, then strap her snugly to it. Next came the blankets that would keep her warm. The policeman who’d been directing traffic around the accident came up to him.
“We’ll follow you to the hospital, mister. I need to make out a report on this.”
“Fine,” Morgan agreed tautly, walking toward the rear of the ambulance, where the doors had been thrown open. His mind spun with possibilities. He glanced around. So far no reporters were on the scene. If he was lucky, he’d escape the glare of the cameras. Although his face was altered, he couldn’t stand the thought that his family might recognize him, beginning their pain all over again.
Ducking into the ambulance, Morgan sat on the seat opposite the gurney where the woman lay, unconscious. Frank stayed in back with her while his partner drove. He worked quickly, taking a blood pressure reading.
“You got her purse?” he demanded.
Morgan produced it. “Yeah.”
“Look for ID. We’re gonna need some information for Admissions when we get her to the hospital.”
The purse was small and neat, just as she was. Morgan felt shaky inside, adrenaline making him tremble. He opened the wallet and looked at the driver’s license. Laura Bennett. Pretty name. Like her…. He searched the rest of the wallet for the name of a person to contact about the accident.
A frown formed on his damp brow. “Her name is Laura Bennett,” he muttered, glancing over at her. “Is she going to live?”
“Her pulse and respiration are slow. She’s in shock. Looks like a major head injury. Rest of her doesn’t show any broken bones. But she could have internal injuries—I just don’t know.”
Flinching, Morgan gripped the wallet. Head injury. That had been the cause of his amnesia. Desperation filled him, and he kept his eyes on Laura. How could someone so small and exquisite have such a brave heart? He reached out and pressed his hand to her shoulder.
“Fight back, Laura,” he told her. “Don’t give in. I’ll be here to help you.”
Thankfully, the ride to the hospital was a short one. The ambulance rolled up to the Emergency entrance.
Hurry!
Morgan thought, staying out of the way when the attendants flung open the doors. Grimly he climbed out, following the paramedics through the sliding glass doors. In his hand was Laura Bennett’s purse, her identity. And right on his heels were the police officers.
Chapter Two
C
haos reigned as the gurney bearing Laura Bennett was wheeled into the hospital. Morgan stared helplessly at the swinging emergency room doors. He had been pushed aside by a nurse, doctors and paramedics, who had disappeared with Laura’s gurney behind the sign that said No Admittance.
“Can we get your statement, mister?” the redheaded police sergeant asked him.