A few quick turns took them away from the stiflingly busy emergency overflow hall—there was no sense in pretending it was a room of any sort—and they were alone. A few more turns, and they were standing in front of an unmarked door.
Celia turned her head to look at Remo, and was surprised to see that he had his free hand on the back of his neck and a strange expression on his face. Not quite sheepish. Not quite embarrassed. Something else. Something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. And when he spoke, his voice had a matching timbre. A little rough, a little awkward. A little indefinable.
“So...” he said, gesturing toward the door. “This is it.”
“This is it?” Celia echoed, puzzled by the fact that he seemed to have chosen somewhere specific rather than just a promised quiet spot.
She eyed the door again. It was literally just plain. The same tan color as the walls. A brushed steel handle. Nothing else. She turned back to Remo. And then it struck her. His look was boyish and shy. It was the same expression her son got on his face when he wanted to show Celia something he was kind of proud of, but not utterly confident in. And she almost gasped.
“This is it,” she repeated, but this time, she knew what the words meant—this room was the one where he and his mother had hidden out.
Remo nodded, then released her hand and twisted the handle. The door opened easily, and an automatic light flickered on overhead, revealing a room as nondescript as the exterior. There was a bunk bed—no sheets or pillows—and a sink. The walls were beige, and devoid of decoration. And it wasn’t any bigger than a closet.
Celia’s throat constricted, and time seemed to slow as she thought about what it would be like to live in the space. It was all too easy to relate to. She could almost feel the quiet desperation. The circumstances that would drive Wendy DeLuca to see this tiny room as a haven rather than as a trap. And as she stood on the threshold, not quite ready to step inside, she realized it was more than empathy. If she hadn’t chosen to break free when she did, her own life—hers and Xavier’s—might’ve paralleled this exact trajectory.
She could see her son, sitting on the top bunk with his game console in his hand.
She could picture herself, lying awake at night, fearing that any moment she’d be caught and flung back out into the world.
Not just the world, she thought. Back at the mercy of the man from my recurring dream. Back into my nightmare.
Because he was real. Quite abruptly, she knew it. He was Xavier’s father, and now she could picture his face.
A salt-and-pepper-haired man with dark eyes and deceptively friendly crinkles around his lids. The friendliness masked his true temperament. And his quick fists. Celia wished the last bit didn’t come to mind so vividly. But it made her understand why her mind sought to block it out. Who would want to remember the way those fingers and their cruelty felt? What lesson did it serve?
Just a warning to outrun his smooth voice and expensive suits.
Feeling light-headed and nauseous, Celia braced herself against the door frame. And Remo immediately came toward her, his shy little-boy side gone and his confident paramedic side taking its place.
“Here,” he said, guiding her into the small room. “Sit down.”
Celia sank gratefully onto the lower bunk, and even more gratefully leaned against Remo when he joined her. He slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer, supporting her until her head cleared and she straightened up again.
“Thanks,” she said. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he replied. “I’m just not sure if I should hope that you’re not woozy from blood loss, or if I should worry that it’s something worse.”
“I don’t think it’s blood loss. My leg feels okay.”
“I should still probably take a look.” He smiled. “And this isn’t some clever ploy to get your pants off, either.”
Celia’s face warmed, but she stood up and loosened the drawstring on the borrowed scrubs anyway, then pulled them down like it didn’t bother her. As if Remo—the man who’d given her the best kisses she’d ever had—wasn’t about to get up close and personal with her bare skin for a decidedly unsexy reason. But as he took charge, his expertise quickly wiped away any bit of awkwardness. In moments, he had her lying flat on her back, the pants off completely, and the first aid supplies out.
“So...” Remo said, as he dabbed the wound with an antiseptic. “You wanna talk about it?”
Celia exhaled at the slight sting. “You caught that, huh?”
He gave a small shrug. “I’m well acquainted with what fainting from physical trauma looks like. Your particular shade of pale seemed different.”
“I wasn’t going to faint,” she protested. “But you’re right about it being mental. I remembered something about Xavier’s dad, and it overwhelmed me for a second.”
“His name?” Remo asked hopefully, as he continued with his attention to the cut.
She shook her head. “No. Just the way he looks.”
“Tell me.”
“He’s older than I am. Maybe early to midforties? And he looks like the kind of man who people like, if that makes sense.”
“Puts on a good front.”
“Yes. Exactly that. And well-dressed, too. So maybe he has money?”
“Or wants people to think he does,” Remo suggested.
Celia considered it for a moment, then shook her head again. “I don’t know why, but I don’t think so. I can picture his hands.” She closed her eyes to do it, then opened them with a shiver. “They’re manicured. And not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s kind of an indulgence, isn’t it?”
“A man can’t have nice hands?” Remo replied, then leaned back and lifted his own up and held them a couple feet from her face.
Celia could see that they were clean and well-groomed. His nails were short, and there was no sign of dirt anywhere. But it wasn’t the same. Celia reached up and grabbed his fingers, running her thumbs over his nails.
“You’ve got cuticles,” she told him.
He raised an eyebrow. “People generally do.”
“It’s often one of the first things to go during a manicure. And he doesn’t have any. Plus, his nails are too perfect.” She sighed. “I know that’s not very helpful.”
“Of course it is. We’ll just go around demanding to see everyone’s hands.” Remo winked.
“Ha-ha.”
“But seriously. It is good. Your memories are coming back.” He pulled his hands free and gave one of her bare knees a squeeze. “And in more good news, your leg is looking okay.”
“Does that mean I’m not dying of blood loss?”
“Nope. It was just a loose stitch on one end. Might not even have bled at all if we weren’t so busy orchestrating all the narrow escapes. But I cleaned you up, put on a bit of tape stitch, and you’re good to go. So if you’re done sitting around in your underwear...” He trailed off with a cheeky grin.
Celia felt the blush creep back up as the reality of their current pose set in again. She was still lying down, the T-shirt she wore barely covering her rear end. Remo was seated beside her, his hip resting against her thigh. And in spite of the patchy memory issue, Celia was sure it’d been a very long time since she’d been this close to naked with a man.
She cleared her throat and shot for sounding as casual as possible. “Do you, uh...have the pants in question?”
His grin didn’t fade in the slightest as he reached across her lap, snagged her folded-up scrubs, then held them out. “Here. I won’t even watch you put them on.”
“So helpful,” she muttered, her cheeks not cooling in the slightest, even when Remo dutifully stood up and turned away as he’d said he would.
Trying to move in a not-frantic, not-horrifically-embarrassed way, Celia swung her legs over the bed and sat up and shook out the pants. There was something strangely sexy about the soft, crinkly sound of getting redressed. Something intimate. And it was far too loud, and far too obvious in the small space, and Celia felt a sudden need to say something to cover it up.
“You know what?” she said. “I’m not actually convinced that getting my memory back is what I’d call a ‘good’ thing.”
“Haven’t you ever heard someone say that knowledge is power?” he replied.
“Sure. Unless you know too much.” Celia cinched up the drawstring on the pants and exhaled. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Remo turned, his mouth quirking up. “Is finding out a bit more about Teller going to fall into the ‘too much’ category?”
Celia made a face. “No. Let’s see the wallet.”
He reached into his pocket, but before he even had the palm-sized item all the way out, she knew it wasn’t exactly what he’d thought it was. It was a wallet, all right. But the kind meant for holding a police badge.
As the front of the wallet flapped open, Remo was a bit startled to see the shiny, gold-tinted piece of metal come into view. After the briefest moment of staring down at it, though, he realized it made sense. It lined up with Celia’s adamant need to not contact the police. Teller’s comments about making things “official.” His lackeys’ comments about dirty money.
“‘Detective Quentin Teller, Vancouver Police Department,’” Remo read aloud, then looked up at Celia. “I guess this means you’re off the hook for being involved in some kind of criminal activity.”
She smiled weakly. “Unless I’m a dirty cop, too.”
“Or the mastermind behind a whole ring of dirty cops.”
“Or the ex-wife of one.”
Remo met her eyes. “It could be true. Does that description feel right?”
She cast a quick glance down toward her left hand, then brought her gaze back up and shook her head. “No. But none of this feels right. And it doesn’t make sense, either. If Xavier’s father is so dangerous—and if he’s a policeman, or even had strong police ties and resources—then why would I be anywhere near him? Why wouldn’t I stay as far away as humanly possible?”
“I can’t answer that any better than you can, but I do know that if coming to the city where he lives was a choice, then I’m damned sure you must have a reason. You wouldn’t put Xavier in harm’s way if you could avoid it.”
She let out a frustrated sigh. “No, I wouldn’t.”
He pulled her in for a quick, reassuring embrace, then said, “We’ll figure it out, Celia.”
She pulled back and looked up at him. “But I guess we can’t do it very well from in here.”
“Not so much.”
He slid his fingers to hers, noting that it already felt like second nature to hold her hand at any given moment, then moved toward the door. He inched it open and took a peek out into the hall.
“Clear,” he said softly.
“Ready when you are,” she replied.
Together, they stepped out of the small room, and Remo guided her through the hospital, careful to once again maintain a purposeful stride while also not looking too rushed. Slow, steady, and unobtrusive was the name of the game.
“Tell me what else you remember,” Remo suggested after a few silent moments.
“About anything in particular?” Celia asked. “How much I like Chinese food, maybe?”
He laughed. “Yeah, that works. It’ll help me narrow down the choices when I ask you out for dinner.”
“Are you going to do that?”
“Provided I don’t get shot first.”
She stopped so abruptly that he almost slingshot forward.
“Not funny, Remo,” she said.
“You’re right. Not funny.” He released her hand, stepped closer, then tipped up her chin and planted a kiss on her lips. “Forgive me.”
“Forgiven,” she said immediately. “But just in case...you’d better ask me out now.”
He smiled and kissed her again. “I thought it wasn’t funny.”
“It’s not. It’s very serious.”
“Then I guess I’d better do it.”
“And fast.”
Remo started to ask lightly—to make a joke about dating under pressure—but he found himself quickly becoming earnest instead. “Miss Celia Poller, when we’re done with this very unusual, very dangerous situation, I would really love it if you’d let me take you out for Chinese food. Or for any food, really, so long as it’s you and me and that kid of yours.”
She stared up at him, her gray eyes full of so much intensity that they pinned him to the spot. “Thank you.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Of course it is.”
He bent to kiss her once more, but stopped when he realized that a fresh tear was making its way down one of her cheeks. He ran a thumb over the damp path it left behind.
“Hey, now...why you crying?” he said. “That wasn’t part of my plan, dammit.”
Her hand came up to cup his. “It’s not on purpose. And it’s not in a bad way. But I just asked you to ask me out, and you invited my son to join us.”
Remo frowned. “Was that wrong? I just assumed—”
“No,” she said vehemently. “It wasn’t wrong. It was perfect.”
“Oh, great. Now the bar is going to be way too high.”
“You’re right.”
“I am? Aren’t you going to argue with me? Tell me I don’t have to worry about messing up the first date? Maybe point out that it can only go up from here?”
She shook her head. “No way.”
“Dammit. Always setting myself up for failure,” Remo joked, then took her hand so they could resume their walk.
They made it smoothly to the other side of the hospital, and then without incident to a heavy door that was blocked off with caution tape. Remo took a quick glance around, and when he found no one in view, he reached through the tape to push down the handle.
“It’s blocked off for the construction site,” he told Celia. “Fortunately, the tape’s enough of a deterrent for most people, and locking it would be a fire hazard.”
He stepped back, and Celia crouched down to climb effortlessly under the strips of yellow.
“I’m guessing you’d win if we went head-to-head in a limbo contest,” he said dryly as he followed behind her with far less grace, taking out two pieces of tape in the process.
She smiled. “Maybe we can put that on our to-do list. Right after Chinese food.”
“Request noted. But if karaoke comes into play, prepare to be bested.” Remo smiled back, then pointed to the stairs. “One floor up, and we’ll be almost home free.”
“Do you think he’s worried?” Celia asked as they started their climb.
“Your son?” Remo replied.
“Yes. We’ve been gone way longer than we said we’d be. And he already worries more than a five-year-old should.”
“I’m sure he’s anxious to see you. But probably not as anxious as you are to see him. Which I’m pretty sure is a mom thing.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said, then groaned and added, “But it means I should actually be asking if you think your mom is worried.”
“My mom? Worried?” Remo scoffed good-naturedly. “She’s probably having the time of her life. She’s had toys and games stashed away since I was a kid, and she’s been silently dying for someone to come and use them. I think she asks me every second week when she can expect some grandchildren.”
“That’s a mom thing, too,” Celia told him.
“Oh, I see. You regularly ask Xavier when he’s going to meet a nice girl and settle down?” he teased.
She snorted. “No. But I can’t say I don’t think about what it’ll be like when he grows up.”
They paused on the landing then, and Remo pulled the door open for her. She stepped out, then stopped, her eyes on the mess of construction material. She swallowed audibly, and Remo followed her gaze. The wall across from where they stood had been ripped away and temporarily replaced with heavy plastic sheeting. Through the slightly opaque material, the walkway itself was visible. It spanned from the second floor on the hospital side down to a winding ramp on the long-term care facility side. When it was done, it was going to be a contained bridge—glass sides and metal ceiling—and it was already wide enough to wheel at least two hospital beds past one another. But right now, it was just a precarious-looking piece of floor with a rail and some scaffolding on each side. It was enough of a barrier that no one would be able to see them as they crossed, but to say it would offer a feeling of security would be a gross exaggeration.
“Didn’t you say it was almost done?” Celia asked in a small voice.
“I guess it’s not quite as far along as I thought,” Remo replied.
“I think I might’ve forgotten to mention my fear of heights.”
“I won’t let you fall.”
“That’s all well and good, but what if you fall?”
“Then I’ll make sure I land in a way to break your fall.”
“You just said you wouldn’t let me fall.”
“I won’t.”
“But it can’t be both ways,” she pointed out.
Remo put his hand in the small of her back. “You can do this.”
“I think you’re going to have to distract me.”
“Okay. What should we talk about?”
She inched forward. “Tell me why you don’t have kids.”
Remo almost stumbled, but caught himself before she could notice. “Not pulling any punches, huh?”
She took a full step. “You’re the one who brought it up a second ago. And I figure if I’m going to plummet to my death, I might as well know the gory details.”
“No one is plummeting.”
“Says you.”
They reached the walkway and stepped onto it, and even though it was utterly solid beneath their feet, Remo felt Celia start to shake.
“Maybe I never met the right woman,” he announced quickly.
Her body relaxed marginally. “That’s a cop-out.”
He nudged her forward, and her feet kept going. Slowly, but moving nonetheless.
“Why is it a cop-out?” he replied.
“Because it’s the thing guys say to make a girl feel ‘special.’ And I don’t think you’re that kind of guy.”
“No? Hmm. Then maybe no self-respecting woman would put up with me long enough to figure out what an awesome husband I’d be.”
“I have a hard time believing that,” she said.
Another glib reply slipped to the front of his mind—yes, a cop-out, he acknowledged—but when he opened his mouth, something else came out instead. “When I told you that my mom asked about grandkids every second week...that was a bit of a lie.”
“What?” Celia sounded surprised and a little confused, but she didn’t stop walking. “Why would you lie about that?”
“Because—if every other thirtyish, childless single man is to be believed—that’s what mothers do. You even said yourself that it was a mom thing.”
“So you were doing what? Caving to peer pressure? Trying to fit in with all the other thirtyish dudes hanging around here?”
She swept her hand out over the empty walkway—they were smack-dab in the middle—then drew in a sharp breath and stopped walking abruptly as her gaze followed her hand. There was a gap in the scaffolding, and a cordoned off area—full of power tools and bits of wood and steel bars—loomed threateningly below.
“Have I mentioned that I really don’t like being up here?” said Celia, her voice weak.
“We’re halfway,” Remo told her. “All downhill from here.”
“Poor choice of words.”
He slid his hand from her back to her hip, then pulled her a little closer and started walking again, gently forcing her to move, too.
“There’s a reason my mom doesn’t ask me about having kids,” he said, trying to distract her again. “And it’s probably the same reason I don’t have any. You remember I was telling you about Indigo?”
“Yes. Your wild and crazy sister.”
“After that stuff with the car, she calmed down a lot. And for three years, things were pretty normal. We lived at my mom’s apartment. I got a job as a building maintenance worker, Indigo decided to finish her high school diploma online...she told me she wanted to help me get back to school.” Remo paused, his throat tightening a little at the hard memories, and he had to clear it before he went on. “But a little while after her seventeenth birthday, she came to me with another problem. She was pregnant. Four months along already. The father was a twenty-year-old drug dealer who she said had no interest in sticking around.”
They’d made their way fully across the walkway now, and were starting their descent to the care facility. Remo’s heart was squeezing in his chest, nervous about what he was sharing. But Celia’s hand held his tightly, and he knew that in spite of her silence, she was listening intently. It was enough reassurance—the exact right thing, actually—to make him keep going.
“It turned out to be a lie,” he said, his words full of rough emotion. “The drug dealer was very interested in sticking around. Not for the baby. For Indigo. She owed him money. Quite a bit of it, I guess. Enough that he spent two months tracking her down. He broke into the house. And when she wouldn’t pay—or couldn’t—he attacked and left her to die. And she did die. She and the baby both did.”
He finished just as they got to the bottom of the ramp, and Celia turned to him, her face full of sympathy and heartbreak.
“I’m so sorry, Remo,” she said.
He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and told her the final piece. “They caught him. The scumbag told the police that he was so high that he thought Indigo’s pregnancy was a hallucination. He said he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known. He must’ve known that didn’t make it any better, because he committed suicide while he was awaiting trial.”
Celia stared up at him for another moment, then threw her arms over his shoulders and tugged him into a hard embrace. And even though he probably had eighty pounds and a good foot on her, strength flowed from her body into his. It dulled the powerful hold the bad memories had on him, and he drew in a deep breath—like he could suck in more of the feeling.
“Celia,” he said, her name a strangely reverent plea.
He didn’t know what he was asking for, but when she inched back and lifted her face to meet his eyes, he saw a matching desire in her gaze. He opened his mouth to say something else, but her attention was abruptly stolen by something over his shoulder.
“Remo,” she said. “We have to run. Right now.”