Chapter One
The stranger paused on the threshold, his angular face
turned in her direction, his eyes shielded by sunglasses. A
wide, silvery scar sliced across his cheek from his left eye
to his chin, a snug–fitting T–shirt barely
contained his muscular chest and a long coat hung open from
his shoulders, the leather as black as his
military–style crew cut.
Lori expelled a soft sigh, her appreciation tempered with
disappointment. Everything about the man screamed dangerous
male, his status acutely clear.
Passing through and not looking back.
Not interested in repeating past mistakes, Lori ducked her
head and scrubbed spilled syrup off the gleaming–white
counter, her actions deliberately casual, as though million
of strangers sauntered across the small town diner's
black–and–white checkered floor, their leather
coats flapping around bodies as hard as honed steel.
He perched on the stool in front of her, and linked his
fingers before him, the tanned skin striped with scars. His
scent, an intriguing combination of leather and burned
matches, teased her nostrils.
"Coffee, black, five sugars," he rumbled.
"Sure thing, sweetness." Lori poured the steaming–hot
java and plucked five sugar packets out of the holder, using
routine to settle the fluttering of desire. "Here you go."
She set the mug, sugar packets, and a teaspoon before the
stranger, careful not to touch him.
He ripped the packets open, added the sugar, and slowly
stirred the coffee. "No comment about the sugar?" A corner
of his mouth lifted into a semblance of a smile. There was
no reflection, not even a shadow, in his dark lenses as he
curled his hand around the white ceramic mug.
"We like our sweet stuff here." Lori returned to her
scrubbing of the syrup spill, vividly aware of his proximity.
"Hmmm..." His lips flattened once again into a grim white
line. "Is that so?" He removed his sunglasses, his eyes the
blackest black, his irises lit with a flicker of
red–and–blue flames.
"Name's Trake." He dropped his gaze to her nametag. "Sit
down, Lori." He patted the seat beside him, his palm
smacking the red vinyl. "And tell me about your Pearl
Falls." His command was barely audible above the buzz of
conversations around them.
"I'm working." She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of his
sudden interest in her small town. "And there's not much to
tell, Detective."
"I'm not a detective." He rejected her wild guess.
She tilted her chin upward. "But you are a customer and
waitresses don't socialize with customers."
Trake looked at her and then at the empty stool. "You're
refusing me?" He frowned and rubbed his chest, the stench of
burnt cotton rising from his body. "You're refusing me," he
repeated. "What does that mean?"
"That I'll get fired if I sit down on the job. That's what
it means." Lori rolled her eyes, amazed at the man's
arrogance. "You're not my only customer." A hand waving from
two tables away caught her attention. Reality break's over.
She nodded at Big Rig Gerry, a truck driver notorious for
his impatience. "I have to—"
"No." Trake caught her wrist, his hand moving quicker than
her gaze could follow. "You don't. They won't remember you
neglected them." He held her easily, his grip firm, yet gentle.
She glared at him. An angry retort dangled on the tip of her
tongue.
"And you won't remember me," Trake stated with a quiet
certainty, the bone–deep loneliness she felt reflected
in his scarred face.
He's been forgotten.
"I'll remember you," she promised him, wishing someone would
offer her the same assurance. "You're not the type of man
anyone forgets."
He searched her countenance as though seeking verification.
Yep, he's been left behind too. Lori's remaining resistance
melted into a puddle around her practical white sneakers.
"No, you won't remember, Lori." Trake shook his head sadly,
weariness weighting each word. "Every human forgets me."
Human? "I'm not every human." She eased onto the stool and
he released her wrist, his calloused fingertips lingering
over her skin, directing waves of bliss up her arm. "I
remember everything, too much, I sometimes think." She
summoned a smile. "So talk to me."
The request hung in the air. He stared across the room at
the door and she watched him warily, wondering when he'd
leave and why she cared.
Trake shrugged. "It won't be a breach of protocol, not if I
phrase it correctly, and you'll never remember."
Breach of protocol? She blinked. "Phrase what correctly?"
He fixed his unusual gaze on her. "I'm looking for my
brother. I have nine Earth days left to find him."
His brother forgot him. Damn. I hate being right. "And if he
doesn't want to be found?" She covered Trake's hand with
hers, his skin abnormally hot. "Some people don't want to be
found, you know."
"Why?" Lines appeared between his dark eyebrows.
Because she's starting over with a new family, a new
daughter. Because a small town girlfriend doesn't fit into
his big–city plans. "There could be any number of
reasons," Lori murmured.
"I have to find my brother." His jaw jutted, determination
written all over his handsome face. "I gave my vow and I
don't—"
The brass bells above the diner door tinkled. Trake lunged
to his feet, reached inside his coat and whipped out a gun.
A beam of bright blue light shot from the flared muzzle and
spread outward, expanding to fill the room.
Time stopped. Everyone froze. Coffee hung from the pot in
Shirley's hands. Officer Penny paused in mid–bite, her
mouth stretched to accommodate a giant piece of sausage.
Mayor Jim's beefy fingers hovered an inch above Rob's
flannel–covered shoulders.
"Trake," Lori whispered, the quiet eerie. "What just happened?"
He pivoted on his booted heels, his long leather coat
swirling around his calves. "Why aren't you immobilized?"
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