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“I feel like hell.”
He chuckled. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sunny personality.”
“Never.” Forcing her gaze to his, she said,“Who are you? And don’t—” she lifted her sore right arm, holding out her palm so that he wouldn’t immediately start giving her pat, hospital-approved answers “—don’t give me any bull about being my husband.”
His lips twitched and showed a hint of white teeth against his dark jaw, but he didn’t argue with her.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I work for an insurance company.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “You—a suit? No way.” She would have bought a lumberjack, or a cowboy, or a race-car driver, but an insurance agent?
“Why not?”
“Give me some credit, will you? I may not be able to remember much, but I’m not a total moron.”
“Believe what you want.” His grin was smug and mocking and she would have given anything to be able to wipe it off his face.
“Oh, now I get it,” she said, unable to stop baiting him. “You’ve spent the better part of the last week camped out here on the off chance I’d wake up and buy term life insurance or accident insurance—”
“I’m an investigator.”
“That’s more like it.”
“For an insurance company. Fraudulent claims. Arson, suicide, that sort of thing.” Cocking his head to one side, he said, “But the company would probably appreciate it if I could sell you some term—”
“Enough already. I believe you.” She tried to sit up, couldn’t and motioned toward the crank at the end of the bed. “Would you—”
Trent, dropping his feet, reached over. Within a minute she was nearly sitting upright. “Better?”
She rubbed the back of her hand where the needle marks from her recent IV were turning black and blue—to match the rest of her body. “Yes. Thanks.”
He seemed less hostile today, and the restlessness which usually accompanied him had nearly disappeared. As he propped his boots on the mattress again, settling low on his back, he actually seemed harmless, just a concerned husband waiting for his bride to recover. She decided to take advantage of his good mood because she couldn’t believe it would last very long.
“How did we meet?”
“I was working for the insurance company on a claim from someone who worked with you. Connie Benson.”
“Connie?” she repeated, shaking her head when no memory surfaced. But the name seemed right. “Connie Benson?”
“You were both reporters at the Observer.”
“I don’t—”
“The Seattle Observer. You told me you’ve worked there for about six years.”
A sharp pain touched her brain. The Observer. She’d heard of it. Now she remembered. Yes, yes! She’d read that particular Seattle daily newspaper all her life…. She remembered sitting at a table…sun streaming through the bay windows of the nook…with…oh, God, with whom? Her head snapped up.
“You remember.”
“Just reading the paper. With someone.”
He held up his hands. “Not me, I’m afraid.”
She felt a niggle of disappointmen
t. For some reason she’d hoped that his story could be proved or disproved by this one little facet of information.
