she did every morning, tried to pretend she hadn’t just had the very foundation of her entire world rocked. Just stop thinking about it. Just don’t think . . .
It shouldn’t be that hard.
But the dream, it was like it was stuck on instant replay, right there in her mind.
Another life . . . I always remembered. But you’ve forgotten . . . haven’t you? Those dark eyes, locked on her face, so intent. So full of want, need, desire.
Love.
If I ever knew you, I’d remember, she’d told him. And yes. She knew that to be true. That man . . . Joss . . . he wasn’t a man she’d forget. Wasn’t a man she’d let go.
Unless he was taken from her.
He killed me . . . Remembering that was like a brutal, two-fisted punch to her heart, and she wanted to scream from it. Wanted to rage, to cry.
He hit you before . . . and he killed me. After that, I don’t know what became of you. But I think you do. If you’ll let yourself remember.
Let yourself remember . . .
Maybe I really am losing my mind.
There was a massive headache pounding behind her eyes, courtesy of the massive amounts of rum she’d taken in last night after Patrick had left. She’d feigned sleep until he locked the door and then she’d promptly made free with the liquor cabinet and tried to drown herself in a vat of rum, but it hadn’t done any good.
Neither had the blistering shower she’d taken.
Now she was stuck with a brutal headache, a brutal hangover, and crystal-clear memories of what she’d done.
She’d had sex with that monster. Again.
Granted, if she hadn’t had sex with him, he would have just raped her. Again. She’d much rather be in control than let him force her again, but in the end, she still felt dirty. Used.
Bruised.
It hadn’t bothered her quite this much before. Oh, it had bothered her, but now . . .
What had changed?
Except she already knew.
Don’t let him take you away again . . .
She met a man. She shared a stolen kiss.
And suddenly, the shadowy, insubstantial dreams that had haunted her weren’t so shadowy or insubstantial.
Let yourself remember . . .
She was either losing her mind . . . or she would wish she was, if she did let herself remember, she suspected.
SIXTEEN
HE heard her say his name.
Even as he lay there, more awake than asleep, Joss heard her say his name.
And he wanted to hit something.
They’d connected in that dream—finally, a real connection, not just those remnants of a dream.
But did he have time to track her down today?
No.
He was meeting Jones in an hour.
There was already somebody out there, lurking and waiting for him to vacate the premises—Joss could feel her presence, a tired, cranky bitch who just wanted to plant the “effin cameras and get her ass back to bed,” as she thought it. But no . . . she had to clean the fucking cabin, too, what in the hell did he think she was, a maid?
Her thoughts, high-strung and erratic, had Joss groaning. Rolling out of bed, he shuffled to the kitchen and got a cup of coffee. He’d hit the grocery store last night and gotten himself a fresh bag of coffee. He wasn’t touching anything his good buddy Hennegan had used.
He’d set the coffeemaker to brew before he went to bed, so there was already coffee waiting and the scent of it did something to wake up his lethargic brain.
Coffee in hand, he headed to the bathroom. Shower. Coffee. He just might wake up in time to meet with Jones and explain just what in the hell he needed to do. Convince the boss he had to do it this way. And wait for the shit to hit the fan. Listen to Taylor inform him in that very polite way of his that it wouldn’t happen.
And then Joss would tell him to fuck off, he had to do it this way, and then they could get down to business.
There were things he was meant to do . . . so those certain things could unfold as they needed to.
This sucked.
But first he had to wake up enough to face the damn day. Still clutching his coffee as if it were a lifesaver, he shuffled to the shower and turned it on. Hot. Enough hot water pounding down on him should clear the cobwebs from his brain. Between that and the coffee, he should