“Right.” His hand leaves his face, and he grips the railing at the foot of the bed. “That was lucky.” His gaze lands on Kayden. “Not often a real hero comes along.”

“If you have something to say to me, Gallo,” Kayden says calmly, “then say it and let’s move on.”

The detective’s steely eyes fix on Kayden, and the hate radiating off him is so fierce. I’m clearly in the center of something very personal, and very bitter.

“Detective—” I say, intending to ask for the help he swears he’s here to give me.

“You and I need to chat for a few moments alone,” he says, his hard stare returning to me.

“Let’s cut to the chase, Gallo,” Kayden interjects. “You’re here to badger me by badgering her, and I’m not going to let that happen. Especially while she’s fragile.”

“I’m not fragile,” I insist.

“I can assure you,” the detective replies, ignoring me, “this is about her, not you.”

“If ‘her’ is me,” I say, certain this one-on-one is going to happen, “I’ll talk with you alone.” I glance at Kayden. “I get that there are two agendas here. I can handle it. I just need to solve the mystery of who I am.”

The detective’s approving gaze falls on me. “At least two of us are on the same page.”

Kayden’s lips thin, but he accepts my answer. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”

I give him a nod, and he meets the detective’s stare, the two of them exchanging what I’m pretty sure are some heated silent words, before he strides out of the room.

Detective Gallo claims the stool Kayden favors and scoots closer to me. “It really was lucky that he just happened to be at the right place, at the right time, to rescue you.” His tone says he doesn’t think it was a matter of luck at all. “And talk about dedication to a stranger. Forty-eight hours later, he’s not only still here, he’s paying your bills.”

Already he’s attacking Kayden, but I’m not foolish enough not to find out why. “What are you getting at?”

“That maybe, just maybe, he knew you before he found you.” He holds up a finger. “And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t in the right place at the right time by chance.”

My mind flickers with an image of Kayden’s hand on my back, and I can almost feel the familiar sensation of his touch spread from my shoulders down my spine. “He says I didn’t know him.”

“Do you believe him?”

“You know I have no memory.”

“You have instincts.”

“Which could suck, for all I know.”

He rests his arms on the railing, the position eating away much of the space between us. “I’m trying to help you—you know that, right?”

“You are here for him, not me.”

“I’m here because of him, but for you.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say, “and I honestly don’t care. I have to find out who I am, before I’m discharged and on the street.”

“You won’t end up on the streets. There are programs—”

“So that’s the help you’re giving me?” I interrupt. “You’ll stick me in some government program and I’ll cease to exist before I landed in this hospital room?”

His lips tighten and he leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I ran a general check on all missing persons reports, including anyone traveling from outside the country.”

“And?” I ask, holding my breath, almost as afraid to hear the answer as I am desperate for it.

“At this point there are no active reports that match your description locally.”

“What about internationally?”

“Or for anyone traveling by way of a passport,” he adds.

I’m shell-shocked, trying to figure out what this means for me.

“However,” he adds, “there tends to be a slight delay in reports filed for a missing person who lives or travels alone.”

“Alone.” The word carves a hole in my soul, taunting me with the idea that no one’s looking for me because no one cares about me. “No,” I say, rejecting that idea. “I might not know who I am, but I know I wouldn’t live here without learning the language, which means that I’m visiting. And I wouldn’t visit a foreign country alone.”

“And as you said, your instincts might suck.”

Infuriated at his lack of help, I say, “I don’t need instincts to know that I can’t wait for a missing persons report that might not come, to deal with my situation.”

“And you don’t have to. If you are indeed an American citizen—”

“I am. I know I am.”

“Well then,” he says, “you’d be traveling with a passport, and there will be fingerprints on file.”

A ray of hope replaces my anger. “You mean we can cross-check my records?”

“Exactly. I’ll pick up a fingerprint kit, and we’ll run them through the database. If we get a hit, then we’ll know your name, home country, and even your parents’ names.”

“Why wouldn’t we get a match?”

“There are any number of reasons,” he says, “but let’s cross that bridge if we come to it.”

“No. No, I want to know the reasons.”

“It’s really—”

“I want to know.”

He sighs. “You could have crossed the border illegally.”

“Why would I do that?”

“There’s a black market for American women in the sex trade. Normally they’re drugged, and you have no marks on your arms. But—”

“Enough,” I say, not needing anything else to freak me out. “I get the point: there are reasons. What happens next?”

“I’ll bring in a fingerprint kit.” He glances at his watch. “It’s nearly five now, and visiting hours end at eight. So most likely I’ll have to bring it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d like to get a photo that I can show around the neighborhood where we found you. Maybe someone knows you.”

A photo—good God, I don’t even know what I look like! “I . . . Yes. Okay.”

He pulls out his phone. “I’ll take a few now, if that works for you?”

“Of course.” I’ve barely issued the approval before he snaps a few shots and is inspecting them.

“Looks good,” he says. “Do you want to approve it?”

He offers me the phone and I hold up a hand again. “No,” I say quickly, irrationally panicked at the idea of seeing myself, especially when seeing myself, finding me, is exactly what I’m after. “I really don’t want to know how I must look right now.”

“Far better than you might think,” he says, a hint of warmth in his tone as he slips his phone back in his jacket and stands, his hands settling on the railing as he stares down at me. “There’s a reason he told them you’re his sister.”

“What do you mean? You said he did that to be able to be in my room with me.”

“A decision he made the moment he brought you to the hospital. That doesn’t add up to being a stranger to me.”

“Why can’t he simply be a good guy helping someone in need?”

“Because this is Kayden Wilkens we’re talking about, and Kayden Wilkens doesn’t do anything, including you, without an agenda.” He’s looking at the doorway now.

My gaze follows his, my lips parting with the impact of finding Kayden standing there. If Detective Gallo demands attention, Kayden just plain claims it. He is power, control, beauty, and, right now, anger. The air crackles with its intensity, and when his piercing blue eyes shift from Gallo to me, I have a sense of a wolf who doesn’t bother with sheep’s clothing, with his sights set on me.

And I’m certain that it’s not protectiveness or obligation I see in his face. This time, it’s one hundred percent possession.

three

Iam his.

That is the unapologetic message in Kayden’s gaze I know he intends for both myself and Gallo to see. And I do. I see it. I understand it and I feel it in every part of me. Possession. Demand. Control. He wants it all, but I do not know why. Nor do I know why I am not afraid of him or these things. I only know that Kayden Wilkens is one hell of a man, and that it’s become necessary to my survival to admit that the woman in me is drawn to him, deeply, completely. To the point that I’m not even close to objective where he’s concerned, vulnerable in ways that could be dangerous if his intentions toward me are not as honorable as he claims. And the truth is, my strong sense of my familiarity with Kayden both supports the detective’s claims that he might be more to me than he admits and drives my need to believe he is honest, the true light in the tunnel of darkness I cannot escape.