White Lies by Linda Howard Page A

had already married him before she
began noticing that particular trait. He used his charm like a shield, so that
most people would have described him as outgoing and spontaneous, when in fact
he was just the opposite. He had held people away, not trusting them and not
allowing anyone close to him, but they never noticed, because he was such an
actor. Now she sensed that the shield was gone. People could take him as he was
or leave him; he didn't care. It was a hard attitude, but she found that she
liked it better. It was real, without pretense or subterfuge. And for the first
time, he was letting her get close to him. He needed her, trusted her. Perhaps
it was only because of the extenuating circumstances, but it was happening, and
it stunned her.
                  "Jay?" he prompted.
                  "I don't know exactly what
happened," she explained. "I don't know why you were there. They
don't know either."
                  "Who is 'they'?"
                  "Frank. The FBI."
                  "And whoever else he's working for,"
he added dryly. "Go on."
                  "Frank told me that you weren't doing
anything illegal that they know of. Perhaps you were only an innocent
bystander, but you have a reputation for sniffing out trouble, and they think
you might know something about what happened to their operation. They had set
up a sting, or whatever you want to call it, but someone had planted a bomb at
the meeting site. You were the only survivor."
                  "What kind of sting?"
                  "I don't know. All Frank has said is that
it involved national security."
                  "And they're afraid their guy's cover was
blown, but they don't know, because the players on the other side were
disintegrated, too," he said, as if to himself. "It could have been a
double double-cross, and the bomb was meant for the others. Damn! No wonder they
want me to get my memory back! But all that doesn't explain one thing. Why are
you involved?"
                  "They brought me here to identify
you," she said, absently stroking his arm as she had for so many hours.
                  "Identify me? Didn't they know?"
                  "Not for certain. Part of your driver's
license was found, but they still weren't certain if you were... you, or their
agent. Apparently you and the agent were about the same height and weight, and
your hands were burned, so they weren't able to get your fingerprints for identification."
She paused as something nagged at her memory, but she couldn't bring the
elusive detail into focus. For a moment it was close; then Steve's next
question splintered her concentration.
                  "Why did they ask you? Wasn't there
anyone else who could identify me?
                  Or did we stay close after our divorce?"
                  "No, we didn't. It was the first tune I'd
seen you in five years. You've always been pretty much a loner. You weren't the
type for bosom buddies. And you don't have any family, so that left me."
                  He moved restlessly, his mouth drawing into a
hard line as he uttered a brief, explicit curse. "I'm trying to get a
handle on this," he said tersely. "And I keep running into this
damned blank wall. Some of what you tell me seems so familiar, and I think,
yeah, that's me. Then part of it is as if you're telling me about some
stranger, and I wonder if I really know. Hell, how can I know?" he
finished with raw frustration.
                  Her fingers glided over his arm, giving him
what comfort she could. She didn't waste her breath mouthing platitudes because
she sensed they would only make him furious. As it was, he had already used up
his small store of energy with the questions he had asked her, and he lay there
in silence for several minutes, his chest rising and falling too quickly.
Finally