Bombshell: A BWWM Billionaire Amnesia Romance Suspense Novel Page 12

  Merrick got her assistant’s name. He’d put Linda on this. She was good with booking flights, and she could set up the free play and the suite as well.

  “Thank you so much—you don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

  “Merrick, are you coming—your food’s getting cold.”

  “Just a minute, Ma,” Merrick yelled over his shoulder, as he covered the phone with his hand. He took a breath and spoke in a normal voice. “Thank you again, Doctor…”

  “Before you go running to Mommy, can you tell me a little about my patient?”

  Merrick laughed. “Uh, yes, sure, Doctor—high level. She’s twenty-something, severe amnesia. Twice she’s freaked out like she’s under attack or really afraid. They just took a small piece of glass out of her head after an MRI gone bad—and she thinks I’m her fiancé, but the truth is, I don’t even know her real name or anything about her—I’ve only known her a few days.”

  Merrick couldn’t believe he was being that honest with the woman. What if she told the other doctor, and the insurance card was questioned? Then again, what did he care? He didn’t need insurance to pay for this. He had all the money in the world—he’d just been reluctant to spend it, until. “Deep pockets, short arms,” is what Tony always said about him. But, not anymore. For Bombshell and her health and wellbeing, money was no object.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry,” Merrick said. He’d forgotten he was on the phone. “Was there anything else you needed?”

  “Yes, one more thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “Be sure to invite me to the wedding.”

  Merrick hung up and shook his head. Hadn’t he told her that the engagement was fake? What was she implying?

  Over turkey lasagna, fresh bread and a tossed salad, Merrick told Mama G everything. Well, almost everything – he’d left out the erotic bits.

  Mama G was very understanding.

  “So, you say you’re not really engaged—but that’s just a formality, isn’t it? You do love her, don’t you?”

  Merrick blinked. Did he love her? Is that what that strange shrink had been implying? Was how he felt about Bombshell obvious to everyone in the world but himself?

  True, ever since he’d seen her on that stage, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, worrying about her, fantasizing about her. But was it love, or just an attraction and some hero/victim shit?

  He wasn’t about to admit anything just yet—not until he understood it himself.

  Chapter Twenty One

  The next morning, Merrick went back to the hospital and sat in the waiting room. Bombshell was expected to come out of her induced coma at any point, and he wanted to be there in case she asked for him. The psych doctor had texted that she’d be coming straight to the hospital after landing at the airport, and Merrick made sure Linda sent a limo. He did a little work while he sat around in the waiting room of the hospital.

  It was getting close to noon when he got a call from a number he didn’t recognize.

  “Merrick Flynn?” said a serious female voice.

  “Yes, this is Merrick Flynn.”

  “This is Special Agent Carson with the FBI. Can you tell me your current location? I’d like to have a chat with you, in person.”

  Merrick’s brain raced and his pulse quickened. Why does the FBI want to speak to me? Did I do something wrong? Had Bombshell done something wrong?

  “What’s this about?”

  “I understand you hired a Private Detective, a Mr. Giovanni Brunetti to look into a certain county sheriff. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about, but not on the phone. Where are you, Mr. Flynn? I’m in Atlantic City—but you weren’t at your hotel.”

  “I’m kind of in the middle of something right now. I have a friend in the hospital.”

  “Well, tell me where you are, I’ll drive over—we’ll meet for ten minutes —then you can go back to your friend.”

  Reluctantly, Merrick gave her his location. He hung up and called Tony. The call went to voicemail. He called Giovanni and got his voicemail. He didn’t bother to leave either a message. He paced the waiting room and checked his watch. He’d need to go downstairs soon.

  What if he was going to be arrested? What if they put him in jail and he’d never see Bombshell again.

  She’d been placed in a recovery room, but the nursing staff on that floor did not allow any visitors, she he hadn’t been able to see her.

  Well, he wasn’t going to let some bossy nurses stop him from at least saying goodbye. Making himself as small as he could considering his almost seven feet of height, he walked decisively past the nurses’ station. No one tried to stop him, so he hurried around the ward, peering quickly into each until her found Bombshell’s.

  As soon as he saw her, his stomach fluttered and his heart gave a lurch. It was so good to see her alive. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her. A tear ran down his cheek. It had been almost twenty-four hours since he’d last seen her.

  There was no one around so he moved into the room. She was still in a coma, her breathing steady, her chest rising and falling in even motions. Her eyelids twitched as if she was having a dream. Her face seemed relaxed, so he hoped it was a sweet dream.

  “Bombshell,” he said, whispering as he crouched closer. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  She didn’t respond.

  His throat closed and his words became thick with emotion. “Please come back to me soon. Please be okay. I-- I love you.”

  He kissed her forehead softly. Then he went downstairs to face the music.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The girl lying in the hospital bed came out of her coma. First her eyes fluttered open, and she realized she was smiling about something. Why am I happy? Something was itching on her forehead. She brought a hand up to rub it, but something was blocking her from moving it freely. She opened her eyes wider and tried to figure out where she was.

  “Good morning. I’m here to take some blood,” she said.

  The girl in the bed knew that she was in a hospital. She held out her arm.

  The phlebotomist held up the vial. “You’re Mona Lisa Van Dyke? Is that correct?”

  The girl in the bed shook her head.

  “No, I’m Jana Peters.”

  The young Filipina wrinkled her nose. “You are? I don’t think so. Look, here’s your chart—it’s got your picture and everything. You’re Mona Lisa Van Dyke, age twenty-four—see?”

  Jana Peters cocked her head; this was interesting. She stared at the chart. There it was in black and white—her name, her birthdate, a copy of her driver’s license with her picture. This was so weird. Even the birthday was incorrect. She wasn’t twenty-four, she was twenty-five. And she wasn’t born June 15th, she was born September 29th.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not right. What happened to me? Why am I here? Is this Linton General?”

  “I don’t know what happened to you, miss. I’m just supposed to take your blood samples. But, if you’re not the right patient, then I go.”

  Jana Peters reached a hand out to stop her. “Please tell me what hospital I’m in. I need to call my friend Holly to come pick me up.”

  “You’re at Scripps, Mercy.”

  “In Litton?

  “No, I’ve never heard of Litton before, you’re in Manahawkin.”

  After the women left, Jana Peters got up to use the bathroom, as she wondered where the hell Manahawkin was. After washing and drying her hands she went back into her private room and started searching for her purse. If she could find her ID, then they’d believe her. She found a purse, next to her bed, inside a wicker basket. But it wasn’t her purse, she’d never seen it before. Clearly, they put her in the wrong person’s room.

  She cleared her throat, pushing away her reluctance about going through someone else’s purse. If she could prove that they’d made some kind of a mix-up, then it
would be justified.

  She picked up the purse and sighed. It was buttery soft. She held it to her nose and breathed in the sent. Real leather. She’d always dreamed of having a real leather purse. She turned it around, and her heart thudded.

  Oh my God. I’m holding a Badgley Mischka purse in my hands. I’ve been switched with a rich person. She gaped at the purse, turning it around and looking at all sides. It was fantastic, and easily cost thousands. Listening for sounds of other people, she herd none. She pulled opened the other woman’s purse and looked inside.

  Inside, she opened the wallet, and gasped. There was that same picture again. A picture of her. She peered at the name. Mona Lisa Van Dyke, 51 Reed Channel Road, New Jersey.

  New Jersey?

  Still staring in disbelief at her face on someone else’s driver’s license, she sat back on the bed. It was all too weird. That was definitely her—down to the scar across her right eyebrow, the one her dear daddy had given her as a going-away present, the last time she’d performed in front of an audience.

  Her mind reeled as another memory flashed. She’d been on a stage recently. That’s right. The talent show. She was back at the nightclub in Misty Falls, singing Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend. For the first time in her life, she’d been able to perform without any stage freight. Just the opposite, she’d been killing it. The audience has loved her. Did she win?

  She tried to remember the performance. She was dancing her way through the floor. There’d been a man in the audience. She’d been drawn to him. Those eyes, the way he looked at her.

  Then another memory flashed. That same man not at a table while she stood above him, but in a bedroom, below her, between her legs, bringing her to ecstasy. No. That can’t be right. I remember him from the show – that’s all. She closed her eyes and tried to return to that moment. She was leaning towards him, poking him playfully in the chest. He was smiling at her. And then she was off, singing for the others in the audience—killing it, winning the prize.

  Another memory flashed hard against her brain. Her breath quickened at the vision of Harold yelling at her, calling her those horrible names. She remembered being frozen to the spot—so afraid, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t run. He was going to get her, kill her for sure this time, and she had no way of stopping him.

  Jana Peters closed her eyes tight, trying to force away the memory. But instead, more memories flooded back in a rush. The handsome man pounded on Harold. Then he was dragging her out of the bar, into this car. Harold was shooting at them, at her. But he missed—and the man took her to his cabin—no, not a cabin—a chalet. And he had friends, no, not friends—employees—people who did things for him—because he was rich.

  Jana Peters touched her throat with her hand as she tried to still her beating heart. It was all too much. She’d been rescued by a knight in shining armor, a rich knight in shining armor. Now she was in New Jersey – another state. He’d taken her away from where Harold couldn’t touch her. She was safe. She lay back in the bed and tried to take it all in. Somehow, she’d lucked out. She’d better forget all about Jana Peters, because at the moment, being Mona Lisa Van Dyke had a lot more appeal.

  She tried again to remember everything about being with that man. Damn, why couldn’t she remember his name? Then she remembered the chart. She got up carefully, not wanting to set off any alarms, and walked to the foot of the bed. She lifted the chart and read another section. Responsible party: Merrick Flynn, fiancé.

  She gasped. Fiancé? They were engaged already? But it had only been a few days. How was that possible?

  She tried to remember their first kiss, or when he had proposed, but she was drawing a blank. But, even as those other memories alluded her, a powerful memory returned. Merrick Flynn, lifting her naked, wet body out of a bathtub, laying her on a giant bed, and parting her legs with his lips.

  She groaned as more memories returned. She didn’t need to see it in her mind because she could feel it in her body. His lips, his fingers. And then he was inside her, filling her, stretching her, loving her so deeply he had to be real. Moisture flooded between her legs, and her sex convulsed with need. Her hand moved from her neck to her hospital gown and her fingers slipped inside and batted a hardening nipple, as her mouth fell open. Her breath quickened as she remembered every sensation, every moment of bliss. At the sound of approaching voices, she pulled her tongue back in her mouth and put her arms up above the sheet.

  The phlebotomist returned with a nurse. The nurse picked up the chart from the end of the bed and examined it.

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  Jana Peters didn’t hesitate. Memorization was one of her skills. “Mona Lisa Van Dyke,” she said.

  “And your address?”

  “51 Reed Channel Road, Atlantic City, New Jersey.”

  “And your date of birth?”

  “Nine twenty-nine eighty-seven.”

  The senior nurse scowled at the dumbfounded phlebotomist, who shrugged her shoulders and shot Jana a hostile glare before taking her leave.

  The nurse was apologetic. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Ms. Van Dyke. I’ll let the doctor know you’ve come around. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m starving.”

  “Fine, then I’ll order you some dinner. Please try not to lie down on the back of your head—it’s still healing.”

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Merrick walked into the parking lot of Scripps, Mercy, and spotted the FBI agent immediately as she was parked in the red zone and standing next to the open passenger door of her sedan, motioning him to get inside.

  Relived that he wasn’t being placed into the back seat of the FBI agent’s car, Merrick’s got inside and waited for her to join him. When she took her seat and refrained from starting the car, he expelled a breath and said. “So, how can I help you, Agent Carson?”

  “I understand you hired a Private Investigator to look into to Sheriff Buck of Placid County. I’m curious as to why?”

  Merrick’s first thought was that his cousin Giovanni had a big mouth, but then he realized who he was talking to. The FBI had reach.

  “Yes,” he answered, “I wanted to know more about him?”

  “Why?”

  “He put some bullets in my car the other night. I wanted to make sure I knew where to send the body work bill.”

  “Last Friday night at the Double XX near Misty Falls?”

  “Yep, that would be the time and place.”

  “But, why hire a Detective Agency – if you already know who he is, why not send the bill straight to the Sheriff’s station?”

  Merrick was tired of playing games. “Look, I’ve got a friend up there in a coma – can you cut to the chase? What do you want?”

  The FBI agent pulled a fed file from the side of her seat and opened it. “We’re looking for this girl,” she said. “Have you seen her?”

  Merrick held the picture of Bombshell in front of him. It was a slightly grainy photograph, clearly shot at night. Her shoulders were slumped and her face was hidden by her hair, but even with all the photographic imperfections, he could still sense the fear in her posture. She was taking out a heavy bag of what looked like trash, and walking across what looked like a covered driveway between a house and a garage.

  Merrick wanted to say No, in case Bombshell was in some kind of trouble with the law, but he doubted that Special Agent Carson had played all of her cards.

  “Why do you think I’d know about some girl?”

  “Because, she’s apparently the Sheriff’s girlfriend, and he shot bullets into your car.”

  Hearing confirmation that Bombshell had been with that man, had a relationship with him, made Merrick’s fist tighten in his lap. “Alright, yes, I’ve seen her.”

  “Can you tell me where she now?”

  “Upstairs, but she’s still in a coma.”

  “That’s too bad. What’s her name?”

  Merrick blinked. “You mean, you don’t know her
name?”

  “No, we haven’t been able to find her identity. She’d only been seen with the Sheriff for about two weeks, before she disappeared. It’s good to know that she’s alive. Did he put her in the hospital? Can you tell me why she’s in a coma?”

  “Yeah, he did. I mean, not at first. When he shot at our car, he broke the window near where she was sitting, and a piece of glass got lodged in her head. They took it out – I mean a doctor took it out, but he missed a sliver and … well,” Merrick had to stop and compose himself. “It could have killed her, so they operated. That’s why she’s in a coma now.”

  “Sorry, to hear that. What’s the prognosis?”

  “Good, at least they’re hopeful. Look, you don’t think she has anything to do with that guy, do you?”

  “I don’t know – I do need to speak with her, however. What’s her name, I’d like to speak with her doctors.”

  Merrick reluctantly gave the Special Agent her name. He hoped he wouldn’t be getting Tony in trouble when they realized that her identification was all fake. He didn’t know her real name, otherwise he would have gladly given it. He tried to press the Special Agent for details about their case against the Sheriff, but she wouldn’t tell him squat. Only that he was corrupt and dangerous and that Merrick and his Private Investigator needed to cease and desist all of their investigations and stay out of the FBI’s way.

  Merrick took the stairs two at a time, wanting to make sure she was still okay. If they intended to question her, then maybe she did know something. Was she safe, even here? He wanted to get her out of the hospital.

  After the FBI agent left, Merrick took the stairs to the sixth floor, to burn off some of the nervous energy. The fact that the FBI was looking into the Sheriff, made Merrick sick. He wasn’t just some lunatic, he was on the FBI’s short list of people to stay away from. What if he’d been involved in something big – what if he’d got Bombshell wrapped up in it. If the FBI was that dead set on questioning her, maybe she knew something that could put her in danger. Maybe that’s why the Sheriff had come after her? Was she safe? Even two states away? He wanted to get her out of the hospital as soon as possible. But, mostly he wanted to be the first one to talk to her, before the FBI showed up.