Out of Uniform (Wingmen Warriors 14)

Jacob pushed to his feet, snagging his remote control from beside the television. Extending his arm, he thumbed the remote, silencing Dr. Phil.

He might not be wearing his uniform, and the woman may not need his help. But that wouldn’t stop him from throwing himself in the middle of her problems when she came through the door. The only way to ensure she went out the door all the faster.

Fear seared her roiling stomach as she clutched the icy doorknob. She gripped the edges of her coat and burrowed inside to protect herself from the punishing winds.

Waking up alone in a run-down motel with nothing but sleazy clothes, a hundred dollars and no memory had been bad enough. Now, she would surely freeze to death before she discovered her name and why she’d had blood on her hands.

Crunching her heels into the ice for traction, she tugged on the door to Clyde’s Travel Lodge. She slipped anyway, her hand whipping off the knob. The woozy sensation she hadn’t been able to shake since waking threatened her balance. She grappled for the rail. Her sweaty palms bonded to the freezing metal. Or maybe it was blood residue, although she’d scrubbed and scrubbed until her hands were as raw as any Lady Macbeth pivotal moment.

Hang tough. Stay calm. She steadied her feet and breathing. There had to be a logical answer.

Only a couple more steps. She could manage that. The manager or clerk would have some record of her name, all the spark she would need to fire her memories.

She hoped.

The hundred dollars, hotel key and EpiPen on the bedside table hadn’t brought any recollections. The telephone book in her room had helped some, even if the phones were out of order. At least she knew she’d awakened in the small town of Rockfish, Washington, and that she could order carryout from Marge’s Diner until 9:00 p.m.

Great. Just what she needed, a blue plate special to erase what little she did remember—bloodred dress and hands.

She grasped the gold D initial necklace, the only thing that felt right in her whole insane morning. Inhaling a bracing breath that threatened to freeze her from the inside out, she grabbed the doorknob again and twisted. The wind ripped the door from her, banging it against the wall. She stumbled inside and slammed into a broad male chest.

“Steady there.” A strong hand gripped her arm.

“Oh, excuse me.” She winced, her own voice still sounding as unfamiliar to her as her face looked in a mirror.

“No harm, no foul.”

The deep voice rumbled over her, jarring along her ravaged nerves.

Nausea born of panic roiled again. Had she met this man earlier? If she glanced up, would he recognize her?

She scavenged for a smile and let her gaze travel up the chest in front of her. A T-shirt with an Air Force logo peeked between the parted fabric of unbuttoned blue flannel. His left arm was in a sling, but his large neck bespoke strength that sent a fresh blast of apprehension through her.

Her gaze upward seemed never ending, taking this guy to at least a few inches over six feet. Hmm…he had a dimpled chin. She found that reassuring, and she needed reassurance more than she needed an hour in front of that roaring fireplace.

Broad cheekbones stretched just below slate-blue eyes.

Brooding eyes stared without a flicker of recognition.

His hand dropped away. “Come on inside before we heat the whole state.”

“Sorry about that.” She sidestepped him and studied the breadth of his shoulders as he wrestled the door closed. Heaven help her if he wasn’t trustworthy.

He pivoted to face her, scratching a hand along his close-cropped black hair. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

That was it? All he had to say?

There went any hope of him knowing her. She wanted to pitch all her fears right at his feet, but feared she was more likely to toss her cookies.

That Air Force T-shirt seemed to hint she could trust him, but still. He worked here, so whatever connection he had to the military was over or through a friend. Maybe he was just an air show junkie, and God, her mind was rambling.

Bottom line, she was helpless to anyone who might take advantage of her.

A logical voice urged her to call the police, and she would, as soon as the phone lines were back in working order and she could unscramble her mind enough to think clearly. Meanwhile, she would follow her instincts, instincts being all she had.

Moving on to discovering what the register held. “I’m ready to check out.”

“No need. You’re already paid up. Just drop off the key.”