Page 20 of Hunter

No answer.

“Angry at me?”

The question got more reaction than her previous tries. He turned and stared at her, his features as tight as his knotted muscles. She started to lift her hand toward him but let it fall helplessly back to her side.

“I went out jogging a couple of times, hoping I’d see you,” she said, struggling to hold her voice steady.

He only stared at her, his features shuttered. The guarded look made her think of youngsters who had been abused. He had the same wariness in his eyes—signaling the same reluctance to trust anybody for fear of getting hurt. Well, she’d already figured that out.

“I’ve been wondering how you were doing, hoping everything was all right.”

“Why?” he asked, turning the question into a direct challenge.

“I didn’t like what happened the other day. It wasn’t what I intended when I came in to talk to you. Truly. And I’ve been worried that they might have hurt you,” she answered softly.

He gave a little shrug that tugged at her insides. This time she couldn’t stifle the impulse to reach out and lay a hand gently on his arm. Under her fingers, the muscles flexed. “What did the tranquilizer do to you?” she asked softly.

“My head hurt when I woke up. And my ribs. The ribs were from when they beat me.”

She fought for control but found she couldn’t prevent her eyes from filling with moisture. She felt a tear begin to run down her cheek.

He closed the distance between them, touched his knuckle to her face, stopped the downward flow of the droplet.

“You are crying,” he said gruffly.

“Because I feel so helpless.” Reaching up, she wrapped her fingers around his, holding tight, feeling the warmth of his skin and the slight tremble of his hand as she clung to him. Her hand was trembling, too. “I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t know that a security team was coming into the locker room.”

He stiffened, pulled away. “Why should I believe that?” His voice was pitched so low she could barely hear.

“Because it’s the truth, Hunter.” She saw him react to the name and added in a voice as low as his, “I promise I’m not like everybody else around here.”

He studied her face intently, his eyes darkening. And she wanted to exchange confidences with him—about his life, and hers. Get him to tell her how he felt. Talk again about being friends. Clasp his large hand between her smaller ones.

But there were more important things she had to know—things he might tell her if she asked. “We may not have much time,” she said.

“Time for what?”

“Will you answer some questions?”

He gave no assurances, yet she proceeded as if she had his cooperation. “When William Emerson told me about Project Sandstorm, he said you were a—a convict who volunteered for a dangerous assignment. He claimed they used an experimental technique to—to wipe out the memory of your past life. Is that true?” Her pulse raced as she waited for an answer.

His eyes narrowed. “Colonel Emerson said that to you?”

“Yes.”

“I have not heard it.”

She kept her gaze steady. “If you aren’t a convict, who are you?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t remember your family. Your mother? Your father?”

Something flickered in the depths of his dark eyes, then he shook his head. “Things drift into my mind. The memory of picking up a coin. Crumpling a piece of paper in my hand. Smelling the wind coming off the sea,” he said wistfully. “And . . .” He reached to touch her hair. “There is no one here with hair like yours, yet I keep thinking I remember it. I think I remember you. Stronger than the rest of the things.” He stopped abruptly. “But that is not possible.”

He had spoken earlier of remembering her, and she wanted to believe in it. Yet her own recollection was no help. “If we know each other, where did we meet?” she tried.

He didn’t answer.

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