“Oh, thanks. Everything’s locked up for the night, so I’ll be in my bedroom if you need anything else.”
She could think of quite a few things she’d want from Rob, but none was appropriate for a crash survivor who didn’t even know her own identity. She squeezed past him out of the kitchen. “Thanks.”
When she made it to the bathroom, she stripped off her clothes and dropped them to the floor. Facing the mirror naked, she studied her body for any more tattoos or identifying marks.
She discovered tan lines from a bikini, and a few more bumps and scratches from the crash. Her toes sported purplish polish, and although no such color tipped her fingernails, they looked neat. So, she probably wasn’t a homeless person. She skimmed her hands over her forearms and wrists—no needle tracks.
She twisted around to try to get a look at the Rosalinda tattoo. She caught the tail end of a flourish with a rose. She’d have to get ahold of a hand mirror to see it completely.
She cranked on the water and stepped into the warm spray, wincing as it hit her sore body. Did she want to reclaim the identity of a person who had people out to kill her?
Those guys believed she’d died in the crash, or at least the fire. She’d be safe as long as they maintained that belief.
She couldn’t have Rob or anyone else plastering her picture anywhere or looking into any missing persons reports—not yet, anyway. She needed more information before she could step back into what was obviously a dangerous existence.
She might just hang out in Paradiso while she investigated. If Rob had friends here, she could get a job without ID. She had to support herself until her memory returned.
And if it never did?
She could forge a new identity. She could start life anew in Paradiso...with Rob Valdez as her first friend.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Rob plunged his hand into the pockets of Jane’s pants. Empty. Why had she had a knife in her pocket? It must’ve been in her pocket, or she’d grabbed it when she escaped from the car. But why grab a knife and not a purse with your ID and money?
To protect herself against the violent ex?
He tossed the olive green pants into the washing machine and then shook out the torn T-shirt. He fingered the label that claimed its origin as Mexico. Lots of clothes were made in Mexico.
He dropped the shirt in the machine with the pants. That was all she had.
He added a few more clothes to the wash and strolled into the kitchen. He’d let Jane sleep and put on some coffee.
He had other reasons for letting her sleep in. He grabbed a plastic bag from a drawer and picked up the water bottle she’d drunk from last night, pinching the neck between two fingers. He dropped the bottle into the bag.
It might be a little late to check Jane’s fingerprints, as she could’ve stabbed him in his sleep last night, but he deserved to know whom he had in his house. If she’d committed a crime anywhere, she’d be in the database. If not, he’d be back to square one—housing a woman who was lying about her identity.
If she had a violent ex-husband after her, he could understand her hesitance, but if she trusted him enough to stay here, she should be able to trust him with her real name.
He sealed the bag and stuffed it into his backpack. Pulling a chair up to his kitchen table, he dragged his laptop in front of him. When he launched a search engine, he entered Rosalinda murder.
He clicked on a few promising articles but, after fifteen minutes, gave up on finding a murder case involving a girl named Rosalinda. He’d need a last name, a city.
Jane would never give him that info. The only reason she’d told him about her friend was because he’d spotted that tattoo. He dragged a hand through his hair and hunched over the laptop.
Why did he care? She’d be gone this morning, and he’d chalk it up to a strange encounter—one of many in his life. He’d keep it to himself. He should’ve reported that crash and burned-out car, but he understood and sympathized with people who wanted to stay beneath the radar, especially women on the run from domestic violence.
As he heard the water run in the bathroom, he wiped out his search history and brought up his email. He pushed back from the table and stuck his head down the hallway.
He called out. “How are you doing this morning?”
She shouted over the running water. “I feel okay. I appreciate the water and ibuprofen you left on the nightstand. Are my clothes done?”
He edged closer to the bathroom door and placed a hand against it. “Not yet. Wash is almost done, and then I’ll put them in the dryer. I’ll get some breakfast together.”
Without waiting for a reply, he returned to the kitchen and broke some eggs in a bowl. He mixed them with some milk, dashed some pepper in there and dumped them into a frying pan sizzling with butter.
“Smells good.” Jane wedged her hip against the counter, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt, which—even though it hit her midthigh—had never looked so good.
“Just some scrambled eggs and coffee.” He stirred the eggs. “Toast?”
“I can do the toast.” She took two steps into the kitchen, and he immediately felt her presence engulf him.
For a petite woman, she had an overwhelming presence. At least for him.
Still prodding the eggs in the pan, he reached across the counter, flipped up the lid on the bread box and grabbed a loaf of wheat. “You can use this. Do you take cream or sugar with your coffee? I don’t have cream, but you can dump some milk in there.”
“Black.”
He tapped the spatula on the edge of the pan. “You can help yourself to the coffee.”
She reached around him and poured out
