LITMIR.BIZ

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door didn’t budge. “How did you get here?”

      “Quinn brought me. In the boat.”

      He could tell from Quinn’s reaction that that had been a mistake. But by the time Simon realized he knew how to pilot the boat, it had been too late.

      “Well, I didn’t think you walked on water.” Laura’s smile erased the sting from her words. The security chain rattled. “How did you know where I live? I’m not listed in the phone book.”

      He shrugged. “My computer’s working.”

      She didn’t cite antihacking statutes at him or protest his invasion of her privacy. Instead she swung open the door. “As long as you’re here, you might as well come in.”

      Relieved, he stepped inside the cramped and airless apartment. “Nice place,” he said, even though it wasn’t. The stingy light from overhead barely illuminated the scarred woodwork and worn carpet.

      Laura shrugged. “It’s a dump. But it’s convenient. I wanted to be close to the station. And it’s got good bones.”

      He looked at her, her narrow face and straight shoulders, the way she stood with her fingers tucked into her back pockets, and the knots that had been twisting tighter and tighter in his gut relaxed. “Yes.”

      Did she color faintly in the dim light?

      “You want something to drink?” she asked, walking away from him into the living room.

      Throws and bright pillows failed to disguise the shabby furniture. The plant hanging by the window needed water. An empty glass decorated the coffee table, and a pair of sneakers lay kicked off by the couch. But Laura’s home was still warmer, or at least more personal, than his luxury mausoleum.

      “No drink. Thanks,” he said.

      She pivoted, her hands still in her pockets. The angle of her arms thrust her breasts forward. “Why are you here?”

      He looked her carefully in the eyes. “I need a favor.”

      Her expression shuttered. What would it take, how would it feel, to have her look at him with openness? With warmth? “Yeah, I figured,” she said.

      “You said you wouldn’t work for me,” he reminded her.

      “That’s right.”

      “And you don’t want us to be involved—romantically involved,” he clarified.

      The tilt of her chin was a challenge. “So?”

      He wanted her. He wanted her mind and her mouth and her attitude. Simon had rehearsed his reasons on the way over and decided to his satisfaction that they were rational, viable and persuasive. But faced with that chin, he stumbled.

      “I told you I couldn’t remember anything from the time of the attack.”

      She nodded. “Short-term retrograde amnesia.” He must have revealed his surprise, because she smiled. “I can look things up on the Internet, too. You want to sit down?”

      “Thank you.” He waited politely for her to drop into a chair and then folded himself on her couch, trying not to feel like a psychiatric patient.

      “You know, if your memory’s coming back, you should talk to Detective Palmer,” Laura said.

      “My memory’s not coming back.”

      “No?”

      “No. In fact…” Could he afford to tell her? Could he afford not to? “There’s a lot I don’t remember.”

      “Define ‘a lot.’”

      He drew a deep breath. “Quite a lot.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “Was there a reason you decided to track me down at my apartment on my day off? Or do you just like yanking my chain?”

      “Are you always this direct?”

      “Yes.”

      He smiled. “Good.”

      She didn’t smile back. “Are you always this evasive?”

      “I don’t know,” Simon said. His heart jackhammered in his chest. “Or maybe I should say… I don’t remember.”

      Her eyes jerked to his. She held his gaze for a long, slow moment.

      Her breath hissed in. “You don’t. You don’t remember…anything?”

      She believed him.

      Simon’s mouth went dry with relief. Or terror.

      “I know enough to function,” he said stiffly. “I think in time—”

      “What about people?” she interrupted. He was grateful she didn’t take out her notebook. He would have felt even more like a psychiatric patient. “What about your brother? You introduced him.”

      “Did I?”

      Her eyes widened. “Quinn announced him. And then he introduced himself.”

      Simon nodded. “God knows what I would have done if he’d walked in without warning.”

      “Wow.” She slumped back. “I bet you’re having a hard time.”

      She understood. For a second, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

      “Yes,” he admitted. “That’s why I need your help.”

      She shook her head. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t. You need a professional.”

      They’d been over this before.

      “You mean a doctor,” he said flatly.

      A shrink.

      “A doctor would be good,” she agreed. “But actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a private investigator. Somebody attacked you. Not only can’t you identify whoever it was, you can’t identify the people around you who might have a motive. You need someone who can make inquiries within your company and investigate your personal life.”

      He was pleased she understood his requirements so precisely. “That’s why I need you.”

      “You need a security firm that specializes in executive protection or industrial espionage or something. Not me.”

      “I have a security firm that specializes in all those things. And they failed to do their job.”

      “But if you confided in them… If you explained…”

      He stood. “E.C.I.P. has over three hundred employees working for almost twenty corporations. How long do you think I could keep my memory loss a secret if I confided in them?”

      “They’re not amateurs. Nobody’s going to send out a company memo saying you’ve lost your mind. Memory,” she corrected, blushing.

      Trust Laura to put his worst fear into words.

      “Mind will do,” he said wryly. “Technically, amnesia is brain damage.”

      “But you’re still Mr. Wizard Genius Guy, right?”

      “I don’t know,” he said. His recent answer to everything. “I have journals, detailed journals, but recent ones appear to be missing. I can grasp the process, but I’m wasting time retracing my steps. And that could set my company back by months.”

      “Don’t you have other researchers working on the same projects? Do you really think you’re that irreplaceable?”

      God help him, he did. His house might be devoid of family photos and childhood memorabilia, but there were enough clues to the scope and nature of his accomplishments to make him both profoundly proud and deeply uneasy. The past few days had taught him how much he had lost.

      And how much he had left to lose.

      He walked

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