Protecting Her Royal Baby - Beth Cornelison

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wrapper from his breakfast sandwich and shot it at the trash can across the room. The crumpled paper bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. When he stood to retrieve the trash, he stretched his back and gave her a considering glance. “Tell ya what. I’ll go to your house now, feed your cat and have a look around for anything else that might jog your memory or indicate where your family is. Assuming there’s not an anxious roommate or husband at the address the cop gave us, waiting for news of what happened to you.”

      She rested her cheek against Ben’s tiny, warm head. The milky, clean scent of him filled her senses and even soothed the ache at her temple. Love for her baby swelled bigger in her chest every time she looked at him, until she thought she’d burst. Yet, impossibly, her heart grew to hold even more awe and affection for the tiny life she’d created.

      But the limbo of her amnesia loomed over her. Not having a full picture of who she was and what had happened in her past was a liability she couldn’t afford if someone was trying to hurt Ben. An urgency to fill in the blanks raked through her, and she gave Hunter a decisive nod.

      “Yes. Break into the house if you have to. I have to piece together my past, my relationships, and figure out why Chris—Prince Cristoff—resonates so strongly for me. I need information if I’m going to protect Ben.”

      “All right.” From his pocket, Hunter pulled out the keys he’d taken from her car’s ignition the day before. The I ♥ Cape Cod key ring dangled from his finger, taunted her. Why couldn’t she remember Cape Cod?

      “I’m guessing one of these keys is for your front door. I shouldn’t have to break in.” He gave her a wink as he left. “Back in about an hour.”

      An odd jittery sensation shuddered through her as he disappeared out her door. Hunter’s presence gave her a reassurance she’d come to depend on in the short time she’d known him. From the scary moments after coming to in the wrecked car, through her delivery and confusing memory loss, Hunter had been a port in the storminess and uncertainty in her life.

      But she knew she couldn’t continue monopolizing Hunter’s time and counting on his help indefinitely. Even if she didn’t have any family and whether or not she regained her memory, soon she’d have to figure out how to take care of herself and Ben alone. Scary though that thought was, she had to face the truth.

      She nestled her son under her cheek, and a fierce maternal instinct raked through her. If someone was trying to hurt Ben, they’d have to kill her to get to him, because she’d fight to her last breath to defend him.

      * * *

      Hunter used his phone’s GPS program to find Brianna’s house in a small subdivision on the outskirts of town. The quiet street of modest houses and grassy lawns looked like an idyllic place to raise a little boy. In his youth, he and his two older brothers had raced bikes and played hours of baseball in a neighborhood similar to this one. When he reached the address Sergeant Wallace had given them, Hunter eyed the house but saw no signs of life, no vehicle in the driveway, no glowing porch light waiting to welcome her home. Just the same, he knocked loudly on the front door and listened for footsteps inside. No one came to the door, but when he cupped his hands around his eyes to peer in the glass panel beside the door, a fuzzy black cat stood in the foyer swishing her tail impatiently.

      Hunter keyed open the front door and gave Brianna’s living room a cursory glance. “Hello? Anyone home?”

      Sorsha answered with a loud meow and trotted over to rub against Hunter’s legs. He squatted and held his fingers out for the cat to sniff. “Well, some watchcat you are. Are you this friendly with all strangers or just the ones you hope will feed you?”

      The cat answered with another loud meow, then turned and headed to the next room, glancing back as if to see whether Hunter was following.

      He chuckled. “Your food bowl is this way, I take it?”

      Sorsha led him to the pantry door, where she pawed and meowed plaintively. When he opened the pantry, the feline showed him which container to open by head-butting the large storage bin and purring excitedly. He dutifully scooped a large cupful and followed Sorsha, who clearly had the routine down, across the kitchen to an empty bowl. The cat gave a merp of thanks as she started chowing greedily.

      After giving the cat a few strokes and marveling at the silky softness of her fur, Hunter left to investigate the rest of the house. The first thing he spotted was a set of papers on the kitchen table. He bent to read the page on top with the heading Sales Agreement. The document spelled out the terms of the sale of Brianna’s 1988 Honda Civic to someone named Phil Holtz. Phil had yet to sign the sales agreement, and beneath the sales agreement was the title, also waiting to be signed over to Phil Holtz, and a file of maintenance records. On the other end of the table was a brochure for a new Honda minivan. Clearly Brianna was in the process of upgrading her vehicle in preparation for motherhood. Which explained why he hadn’t found any identifying papers in the car at the accident scene.

      As he walked through her living room, he scanned her bookshelf, trying to get a sense of who Brianna was, where her interests lay, what her tastes were. In a word, her shelf was eclectic. She had everything from old cookbooks to nature journals, romance novels and bestselling mysteries to scientific textbooks. Nonfiction works about the human genome, epidemiology and chemistry sat next to a tattered family Bible and biblical-study books.

      Moving on to her bedroom, he found her purse with her cell phone and wallet inside. The fact that she’d left the house without her purse or phone told him she’d left in a hurry. The bullet holes in the back of her Civic flashed in his mind’s eye.

      Next, he checked her bathroom, including her medicine cabinet to determine if she was currently taking any prescriptions her doctor might need to know about. Other than a bottle of prenatal vitamins, some antacids and a bottle of acetaminophen, he saw nothing of note.

      Beside her bed, her answering machine was blinking, indicating new messages. He punched the button to listen, then added the romance novel on the bedside stand to the items he would take back to the hospital.

      “Ms. Coleman, this is Henry’s Dry Cleaning,” the female voice on the answering machine said. “Your clothes are ready for pickup at your earliest convenience. Thank you.” A beep.

      Hunter scanned the room and spotted an old family portrait on her dresser. He walked closer to get a better look. Based on her parents’ hairstyles and his estimate that Brianna was about twelve in the picture, he judged the photo to be approximately fifteen years old.

      “Brianna, it’s Aunt Robyn. Just checking to see how you are doing. Any more Braxton Hicks? Call me if I can do anything for you, honey. Bye.”

      Hunter jerked his attention to the answering machine. Aunt Robyn? So Brianna did have some family checking in on her. After getting a fresh set of clothes from her closet for her to wear home from the hospital, he took the family portrait from the dresser and stuck it in the top of her purse. An old picture and an aunt Robyn. Not much to go on, but maybe they’d be enough to trigger something in Brianna’s memory.

      * * *

      Brianna studied the photograph Hunter handed her, and something warm and familiar tugged at her heart. “Obviously they’re my parents. I mean, look at my dad. I’m a female version of him.” She grinned, seeing the similarity in smiles beaming at her from the picture, but she still had so many blanks about her past. “It feels right. The picture seems familiar, but I still can’t remember their names or specific events. Whether they’re still alive or if they live across the country. Were they planning to come into town for the birth of their grandson? I need to call them and tell them I’m okay, but...” She shook her head.

      “Oh, speaking of calls...” Hunter rubbed his hands on his jeans and gave her a guilty glance. “I listened to your phone messages. I hoped there’d be something useful there.”

      She turned her head and blinked at him. “Was there?”

      “Well, sort of. Someone calling herself Aunt Robyn called to check on you. She didn’t sound worried or upset to have missed you, though, and

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