Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(18)
Author: J.R. Ward

Guess fate had other plans.

Sitting beside her, he was dressed in black, a big, super-lean male who gave off a tough-to-the-core vibe with his narrowed eyes and his strong jaw…and yet nonetheless appeared ashamed of his scars and his handicap.

Looking back down at the driver’s license, she frowned. The picture seemed legit, the holograms where they should be, height, weight, and DOB okay, the address right here in Caldwell—not far from her mother’s house, as a matter of fact.

He’d probably been on his way home when she’d hit him. Just like her.

Refocusing on the man, as opposed to the image, she had the sense that he was swallowing his pride big-time by coming to her. This was not someone who liked to rely on others, but clearly his life had put him in a place where he had no other choice.

No memory. Few resources.

And with his haunted stare and patched-up body, he had to be a serviceman, back from the war only physically, not in spirit or mind or emotion.

Naturally, the reporter in her liked nothing better than a good mystery—and the fact that she had some culpability in this amnesia he had going on was another reason to jump in feetfirst. But she wasn’t stupid. She didn’t want to get sucked up into some kind of drama, especially if he was delusional or paranoid.

The picture was him, no doubt.

“I hate putting you in this position.” His long, sure hands stroked the cane that he balanced on his thigh. “But I don’t have anyone else, and the house at that address? It’s not mine. I can’t tell you where I do live, but I’m damn certain it’s not there. And I checked the mail when I went over.” He leaned to the side, grimacing while he took out a rolled-up magazine. “I found this. Name’s right, except I’m not over fifty-five. Why would this be in my mailbox, addressed to me?”

She unfolded the thing, the AARP logo looming over a picture of a gracefully aging model in athletic gear. The name on the address was Matthias Hault, and the number and street were the same as what was on the license…except he could have lived with his father and shared the same name.

Although wouldn’t dads have been glad to see his son show up on the front doorstep?

“I could go to a private investigator,” he said, “but that costs money, and right now, I’ve got two hundred dollars to my name—well, one eighty after I paid the cabdriver.”

“Are you sure there isn’t someone looking for you?” When he remained quiet, she assumed he was searching that void of memory she’d saddled him with. “What did the doctors say? Again, to be honest, I’m shocked you’re up and around.”

“So will you help me?” he countered.

That firm line in the sand was something to respect. But she walked over it. “If I do, you’re going to have to talk to me. What do the doctors think?”

His good eye traveled around, as if he were looking for an out. “I left AMA.”

“What? Why?”

“It didn’t feel safe. And I can’t give you any more than that. It’s all I have.”

PTSD, she thought. Had to be.

Maybe if she confirmed his identity, it would set his mind to rest, and help with the recovery.

“Okay, I’ll do what I can,” she said.

He hung his head, like turning to someone else was a kind of defeat. “Thank you. And all I need is a search on this name. A starting place.”

“I can go back inside and do this at my desk right now.” She nodded off to the right. “There’s a diner down by the river, about two blocks away. You can get yourself something to eat and I’ll meet you there ASAP. Ah…assuming you can—”

“I can make it,” he gritted out.

Or he’d die trying, she thought, measuring the straight angle of his jaw.

Which happened to be very Jon Hamm, as a matter of fact.

The man shoved himself off the bench with the help of his cane. “I’ll see you when you get there—and don’t worry about rushing.”

As he looked down the street, the light got in his eyes, both the one that he could obviously see out of and the one he couldn’t.

“Would you like my sunglasses?” she asked. “They’re Ray-Bans, about as unisex as you can get. No prescription, either.”

She didn’t wait for him to tough-guy it and tell her no. She took the case out of her purse and put it forward.

Matthias Hault stared at what she offered for the longest time, as if the simple gesture was a foreign language to him.

“Take them,” she said softly.

His hand shook a little as he accepted the case, and he didn’t look her in the eye again. “I won’t scratch them. And I’ll give them back at the diner.”

“No hurry.”

When he put the shades on, they transformed his face into something…undeniably dangerous.

And unrelentingly sexual.

A shaft went through the center of Mels’s body, hitting her in a place that hadn’t been alive for the longest time.

“Better?” he said roughly.

“I think so.”

He was still refusing to look at her, his shoulders and spine set straight, the lines of his mouth tight. Such a proud man, trapped in a position of weakness…

She was always going to remember this moment, she thought for no apparent reason. Yes, this moment now, as the sunshine fell upon his harsh, handsome face.

This was a rabbit hole, she realized. This seemingly random intersection between the two of them was going to change things forever.

“There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you,” he said.

“What,” she whispered, caught up in a moment she did not understand.

“Where did the accident happen?”

Shaking herself, she pulled her brain back to reality. “It was, ah, just outside of the Pine Grove Cemetery. Close to where I live—not far from the neighborhood your house is in.”

“A cemetery.”

“That’s right.”

As he nodded and started walking in the direction of the restaurant, she could have sworn he said, “Now, why is that not a surprise.”

As dives went, the Riverside Diner was right out of central casting. Naugahyde booths, gingham curtains, waitresses with aprons and attitudes. Food was greasy but in a glorious way, and as Matthias cut into his yellow scrambled eggs with a stainless fork, his stomach grumbled like it had been years since he’d had solid food.

It was late for breakfast, but nothing went better with coffee than eggs and bacon.