A Man Worth Remembering. Delores Fossen

was watching for something.

      Not something, she realized.

      Someone.

      After all, the person who’d try to kill her could return to finish the job.

      She didn’t have time to react to that terrifying realization. Her teeth began to chatter. Her body shook. She was cold and wet, and her head throbbed in pain. For that matter, the rest of her throbbed, too. But at least she was alive. Because of this man, she was alive. Too bad she didn’t have enough breath to thank him.

      He leaned over her to examine her forehead. It was dusk, but what was left of the filmy sunlight allowed her to see him and his resolute expression. Did she know him?

      No.

      He was a stranger.

      “You saved my life,” she managed to say.

      Water slipped off him and splattered onto her face. With the same gentle touch he’d used on her forehead, he wiped away the drops, letting his fingertips linger on her cheek. “Yes. I did.” He mumbled something else under his breath. Something in Spanish. And he shook his head. “I’d still like to have your butt for what you pulled, but we can get into all of that later.”

      She didn’t understand what he meant. Exactly what had she pulled? She hadn’t asked to be in that water. Had she? No, she was sure of that. This was no suicide attempt. She’d fought to stay alive.

      “Who are you?” she asked.

      Something she couldn’t distinguish rifled through his eyes. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

      “I’d like to know your name,” she clarified.

      He sat back on his heels and glared down at her. “Just what kind of sick game are you playing, huh?” She barely got out a denying shake of her head before he continued. “Believe me, it won’t work.” With each word he got louder. “I want answers. I deserve answers.”

      “I’d like some answers, too. For starters, please tell me who you are.”

      “Gabe,” he said, hissing it out like profanity. “But you know that.”

      No, she didn’t. She shoved her fingers through her hair to push the wet strands out of her eyes. Part of her thought she might recognize his name, the way he’d said it, but she couldn’t be sure. Mercy, if her head would just stop pounding, maybe she could sort through all of this.

      “Gabe Sanchez,” he added after a moment.

      Still nothing. But she should know him. Maybe she felt that because of his formidable expression and not because of any true recollection. “Well, thank you, Mr. Sanchez, for saving me. I thought I was going to die.”

      He sat there as drops of water slid down his face. He seemed oblivious to the water, to his drenched clothes. Oblivious to everything around them. Everything but her. He stared craters in her.

      “You would have died if I hadn’t been here,” he assured her. “Someone shot you. When that didn’t work, they clubbed you and threw you in the lake.”

      She gasped, horrified that someone would do such terrible things to her. “Someone shot me?”

      “Looks that way. It’s just a graze, but combined with that lump, you’ll probably have one heck of a headache.”

      She nodded. She already had one heck of a headache so there was no probably about it.

      “Who did this to you?” he demanded. “Who tried to kill you?”

      He seemed angry with her, and she didn’t know why. Worse, she didn’t know why things didn’t make sense. Who had done this to her? Why had she been in the water? And who was this stranger who expected her to have all the answers?

      “I don’t know.” She touched her forehead. When she drew back her hand, she noticed the watery blood on her fingertips. She was injured but didn’t even remember how it’d happened. God, how could she possibly not know that? “Did you see anyone before you jumped in after me?”

      “Just a car speeding away. I couldn’t make out the license plate.” Vigilantly, he looked around them again. “When I saw the air bubbles in the water, I dived in.”

      Thank God he had. If not, she would without a doubt be dead. “Where are we?”

      “Lake Pontchartrain.” His narrowed gaze came back to her. “Are you trying to make me believe you really don’t know?”

      She glanced around her. All she saw was the sun setting on an ordinary lake. Other than that, it didn’t look familiar. “Are we near Houston?”

      “Houston?” he spat out. “We’re just outside New Orleans.”

      Sweet heaven. Even with a multiple choice, she wouldn’t have gotten it right. What the heck was she doing here?

      “You honestly don’t remember?” he asked.

      “No.” It was the one answer of which she was certain.

      “All right, let’s try something easy. What’s the date?”

      Again, she tried to concentrate. “Is it June something?”

      He blew out a long breath. “Not quite. It’s August twelfth. Okay. Here’s a question that nobody gets wrong. What’s your name?”

      She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Absolutely nothing. Her mind was a complete blank.

      He stilled, his expression registering more than a little alarm. “You don’t know your own name?”

      She shook her head, trying to will away the dizziness that started to overpower her. “I have no idea.” And she didn’t. No idea whatsoever.

      She was ready to panic, when it occurred to her that this had to be a dream. Yes, a dream. It was the only logical explanation. A full-fledged, mind-blowing nightmare. All she had to do was wake up, and she’d remember everything. Heck, right now she probably wasn’t anywhere near this lake but in her own bed at home.

      Wherever home was.

      She blinked hard several times, trying to force a different scene to appear in front of her, but the nightmare was still there. And so was Gabe Sanchez. He stared at her, his dark, suspicious eyes filled with questions that she knew she couldn’t answer.

      So, with the taste of the muddy lake still in her mouth, she closed her eyes and let the dream take over.

      VOICES WOKE HER. She caught a word here and there, but much of what she heard didn’t make sense. Philip. Frank Templeton. Sanchez.

      Gabe Sanchez.

      The man who saved her. There were at least two other voices: a male and a female. All three used hushed tones, but they seemed to be arguing.

      She forced her eyes open, even though the overhead fluorescent lights made her wince, and pain stabbed through her head. She felt groggy, almost drunk, but she finally managed to see the trio near the doorway. Sanchez, an attractive woman with pinned-up dark hair and a tall blond man.

      The woman and the other man wore business suits in neutral colors. No suit for Sanchez. He had on faded jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a shoulder holster that had a pistol sticking out of it. There was a beeper attached to his belt loop.

      She glanced down at her own clothes. Someone had dressed her in drab green surgical scrubs. And she was on a gurney.

      “I’m not in ICU,” she said to herself. “Or in an emergency room.”

      It looked more like a huge supply closet. There were several metal shelves crammed with boxes. A single window graced the far wall, and the blinds were closed, so she couldn’t tell if it was night or day. Or if it was covered with bars. She was afraid it might have bars.

      “It’s what you have to tell her,” the woman insisted.

      Sanchez