Never had the sound of a man’s voice done more healing and more damage than Seth’s. Charlie had been excited, despite the anger she’d felt for months, when she first heard him and all he’d done was say hello.

Now he was being a jerk. How dare Seth act like he didn’t know who she was?

Charlie hadn’t been this close to tears since she’d been shot, and even then she’d steeled herself against the pain, but this was different. This was a pain that stabbed her in places no one could see and reverberated throughout her entire being, making her physically weak and psychically vulnerable, feeling as if she could trust no one, not even herself. And Charlie was nothing if not self-contained.

The sexy male voice on the other end of the line was the cherry on the cake of Charlie’s day.

First her captain had saddled her with a new partner, police rookie Julio Rodríguez, who had a bad case of glamour-cop-itis. He wore mirror-shaded sunglasses and sported thick, wavy hair that was too long on top and too short on the sides, and Charlie wouldn’t have put it past him to have had a life-sized poster of CHiPs star Eric Estrada on his bedroom wall. He’d done his best to charm her with his twenty-six-toothed smile and beefy arm muscles that he flexed at every opportunity. He’d talked her ears off all during their shift, and he’d chided her on the amount of coffee she’d drunk during the hours they were together.

“Green tea, Vargas. You need to treat your body more like a temple than a garbage dump,” he’d said at one point. “And feed it. You can’t subsist on coffee beans and water. You’re gonna give cops a bad name, those of us who like to take care of ourselves.”

She’d leveled him with her best go-to-hell stare, and he’d shut up for all of five minutes. Good thing. She’d been about to tell him the tight pants he wore must be cutting off the circulation to his brain if he thought his comments would win his new partner over.

Later, she’d discovered her favorite deli had closed, her bank had inadvertently overcharged her on a bank draft that wasn’t hers but someone else’s with a similar name, and now a former lover was calling, acting as if he didn’t know who she was.

She sat for a moment, stilling her racing pulse and reentering the conversation with Seth Taggart.

“Pardon me?” She knew she sounded edgy, and she’d have liked nothing better than to approach her ex-boyfriend with an air of confidence rather than one of indignation.

The man repeated his questions. “Who are you, and how did I get your number?”

Sputtering, she hung up on him, knowing that if she didn’t, she’d tell him where to go and how to get there as quickly as possible.

Fuming, she felt her face flame and was glad Rodríguez had left for the day. Nothing would mortify her more than to burst into tears like some sophomoric fluffball in front of him, and if she didn’t monitor her hurt and anger, crying was imminent.

She finished changing out of the sweats she’d worn while working out in the on-site gym after her shift and into her favorite pair of skinny jeans and a cotton V-neck sweater. Running tense fingers through her short hair, she bit her lips to keep them from trembling.

Who am I? You jerk. Just the woman you dated every night for two weeks solid and boldly—and probably insincerely—proposed to the last time you were together.

Charlie plopped to the bench in the dressing room and jerked on her sneakers. She stared at the cell phone beside her as it vibrated, scooting across the bench. Same number, one she hadn’t recognized, but she sure remembered the voice.

“Look,” she said, not giving the caller a chance to speak. “I don’t know where you get off with this attitude after all we’ve been through, but it’s been over a year, you are not funny and I am soooo over you, buster.”

She paused, listening, despite the instincts that told her to hang up on him again.

“Is that my name, or is buster what you’re calling me to keep from calling me bastard? Because I get the impression you want to rip my head off.” The man’s voice still sounded familiar, but it held a ring of uncertainty she hadn’t heard the first time he’d called, before she’d hung up on him.

Charlie blinked. He didn’t sound like a prank caller. What if it really wasn’t Seth? What if she’d dreamed of the day he’d phone for so long that this was wishful thinking? “Who is this?” she finally asked, horrified at the possibility that she’d been so rude to someone she didn’t know, someone who may have simply needed her assistance.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you once you explained who you are.”

“Say what?” Charlie did her best to recover quickly, but her heart beat rapidly, and her breath became shallow. Am I hallucinating? Maybe this is someone I’ve already helped or at least have spoken to, a man who has my business card.

Think, Charlie, think, she told herself. He wouldn’t have your personal phone number off your business card. But someone at the switchboard might have transferred him to her cell phone. Would that show up, though?

Taking her best cop tone, she asked, “What does the card read? Surely you didn’t just pull my name out of thin air.”

He appeared to be either concentrating or searching, because he was quiet a moment before speaking. Then that same sexy voice unnerved her again. “There isn’t a card.”

Well, that settles that. She tried picking up the fractured thread of conversation once again. “So why are you calling me?”

“I was in a car wreck some time back, and this number is the only thing I remember prior to the accident. Just the number. It’s been playing over and over in my head, like a movie I can’t forget, so I phoned.” Then he sounded agitated. “This isn’t a crank call—I really need to know who you are.”

Impatiently, and still thinking of Seth Taggart, she demanded, “No, you called me. Who are you and how did you get this number? I haven’t had it but over a year.”

“I-I don’t know. That is, I’m not sure. All I know is that it keeps playing in my head and that I can’t remember a damn thing else. I figured it had to mean something.”

She heard him take a deep breath, and she wondered at his serious tone. If this was Seth, he had a hell of a nerve. Sure, they’d only seen one another a few times, but those days and nights had been magical. They’d met at her favorite pub one night after she was off work. They’d talked for hours, and he’d walked her home…then kissed her.

She still remembered the feel of his arms about her, how well their bodies had seemed to fit, with her much smaller, shorter frame molding to his taller one. He’d smelled of a delicious aftershave. His lips had been firm but soft, and his breath had tasted of peppermint and wine. His natural scent was a masculine mix of woodsy testosterone and urban sophistication, as if he belonged nowhere and everywhere.

She groaned. Why hadn’t she kept from telling him the truth about her job that night? They’d both been reluctant to exchange more than names, wanting to get to know one another in other ways and leave the superfluous surface stuff for later. Their romance had been intoxicating, exciting, passionate and all-consuming. She hadn’t been that head-over-heels giddy since she’d been a college sophomore, but even then, the relationships she’d had seemed superficial compared to what she’d felt with Seth.

He finally spoke. “My name, or so they tell me, is Mason Aldridge, and…I think they’re lying to me.”

Was he kidding? Personal feelings warred with cop instincts. “When you called before, I thought you sounded like a guy I knew…well. That’s why I was mad at you and thought you were yanking my chain.”

“I’m not playing games with you.” His voice sounded troubled.

Charlie couldn’t help but take hope. “Where are you? Who is lying to you?”

“I’m in Houston now—and I know this sounds ludicrous. My sister and her husband, the doctors, all of them. I don’t think I’m who they say I am, but it doesn’t make sense that they’d help me live a lie.”

Charlie’s heart sank. Seth Taggart had been an only child. He’d told her as much that first week. But then he’d also not gone by the name Mason Aldridge. The only thing she really hadn’t known about Seth was his occupation. For some reason, they’d both been hesitant to talk business until that last night, when she’d come clean with him regarding her own.

She had a good reason. Every man she’d dated after she’d graduated from the academy had run like a rabbit once he discovered she was a cop, and she’d been one for the past ten years, ever since she was twenty-one.

Then she’d confessed to Seth, who had seemed fine, even intrigued, but they’d had to part before he divulged his personal information.

At the time, it hadn’t mattered because they had a date planned for later in the week after he returned from a business trip. Charlie had great people instincts and skills—they’d served her well as a cold case investigator. She knew he wasn’t involved in anything illegal or immoral. She just knew it.

“Are you originally from Houston, Mr. Aldridge?”

“Call me Mason, please. I think so. I’ve gone through all of my personal papers. My birth certificate tells me I was born here, but I actually live north of the city, closer to Alvin.”

More reason not to consider Seth, who had told her he hailed from Chicago, that his parents had been killed when he was ten and that he’d been raised by an aunt in Port Charles, Louisiana.

“I see.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” he interjected, “but I really need to know who I’m talking to and how we met. Does my name ring a bell?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Charlie struggled to maintain professionalism. “I’m a cop. Sometimes people think of something they’d forgotten after we talk, but your name doesn’t strike any cords. I’m sorry. I’ll check my files.” She had another thought. “How long have you had my number? Does the name Seth Taggart mean anything to you?”

“I don’t know. And, no. The name means nothing.”

Charlie latched onto his first response. “You don’t know how long you’ve had my number?” She knew she sounded incredulous.

Again, the momentary silence on his end before he spoke. The man’s caution while feeding her information piecemeal drove her nuts. His next words, however, weren’t confusing—they were shocking…and compelling, filling her once again with hope.

“I woke up in a Mexican hospital a year ago last December after a thunderstorm, and all I know is that the other driver didn’t survive the car crash and that I don’t recognize my face in the mirror, my name or anything about my life. Your number is the only thing that seems familiar to me, and now that I’m mobile, I want to meet you, to see if you recognize me and if you can help me.”

There it was, finally, the reason he’d initially called. Charlie had a knot forming in her stomach that didn’t dissolve, only grew tighter and bigger as possibility warred with doubt. She couldn’t help but wonder. Was it possible he was really Seth and just didn’t know it?

She searched her memory. The last time they’d been together, she’d just gotten the number. Her old phone had broken, and she hadn’t wanted the same carrier. Policy with the new phone company had dictated that she get a new number. She had definitely given it to Seth.

If he’d had a visit to Mexico planned, however, she hadn’t known because he hadn’t told her where he was going the last time she saw him, just that it was business-related. There was only one way to find out.

Charlie told him to get a pen, and she gave him the location of the first place they’d had dinner, a hole-in-the-wall, family-run Tex-Mex restaurant east of the city. It was about a mile from the local police station and not too far for either of them to drive.

“Great.” He sounded sincere, but his tone lacked enthusiasm. “What time?”

“Tomorrow, noon. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.” With that, he hung up, leaving her both devastated and excited.

If he was Seth, maybe he had a head injury—sure sounded like him. If it wasn’t the man she knew, she’d try remembering when she’d given this guy who’d just phoned her number. She’d need to search her files to see which case she’d been on from the previous January or February through summer, since he said he’d had it for some time, and with an amnesiac, “some” could be God knew how long.

Odds were that this was just a man she’d come across who may or may not have had information she needed pertaining to a case.

In the meantime, she’d get on the internet and call in some favors, and research car crashes in Mexico, not that she had much to go on. Aldridge hadn’t specified where or precisely when he’d been involved in the wreck.

Charlie finished dressing, grabbed her shoulder bag and left, deciding she needed a drink before going home to her empty apartment.

Mason walked about the house after he hung up. He hadn’t recognized the woman’s voice, and she certainly hadn’t seemed eager to speak with him. He was sure she knew him at first though, which raised his hopes, especially after that little catch in her voice when she’d indicated that she’d known him well. If he’d left such a bad impression, however, maybe it was a mistake to request a meeting with her, especially if she was a woman with a mad-on and a gun.

Every cell in his system screamed for parole from the self-imposed prison he’d constructed. What bugged him most was that he resented himself for being unable to express what he felt, and there were times when he truly had emotions that begged for release.

Granted, quite often what he experienced was confusion, anger, even rage, at not knowing precisely what he felt. Most of the time, though, what ailed him was the loneliness, because in his gut he knew there were missing pieces, people, and that those people had names he couldn’t recall.

Stupid, he surmised, to get irked simply because he didn’t have a soul to talk to that he trusted. There were probably millions of people who lacked opportunity for relationships, folks who didn’t have the financial means to secure what they wanted or needed.

Unlike me. The astronomical amount of money he had at his disposal didn’t comfort him, though. If anything, he considered it yet one more reason not to trust whoever tried getting close to him, which brought up another problem for him to mull.

If he didn’t trust himself and had no solid reason to rely on others to be with him for his wit, personality, charm or the usual social, philosophical, ethical or moral attributes most people were attracted to, what was the use of mingling, of going out, of attempting to get close to anyone else?

It had taken him months to convince himself to call the number that had played in his mind for so long. Logic dictated that the sequence of numbers was a mere random thought, nothing of consequence. It had seemed irrational to be so obsessed over it, but a thin thread of emotional attachment had wound its way into his psyche, ultimately overpowering him, urging him to call and get it over with, to put his mind at ease, even if whoever answered the phone thought he was nuts.

He’d intended to be apologetic when the owner of the phone answered, but the decidedly feminine voice had unnerved him, not in a bad way but definitely throwing his emotional state into one of unbalance and unease. He hadn’t meant to be so blunt, to force the issue the way he had. His problem shouldn’t be anyone else’s, but now that he’d reached out and sought help, the lady cop was involved. He wondered what she looked like.

“Snap out of it,” he muttered, turning down yet another long, winding corridor. “She could be old enough to be your mother.”

The mansion’s interior seemed cold, impersonal, pristine but unimaginative. He didn’t remember the house, not a single room in it. He couldn’t recall the faces in the pictures that stared back at him from photograph albums in the library and portraits lining various halls.

Now and then the cook would prepare a meal that resonated, but even then…not too deeply. It was if he’d remember the taste of the food she prepared but not necessarily the meal itself.

Mason didn’t even remember his sister, the woman with the pinched face and troubled eyes who seemed to both loathe and fear him. Her husband, Doug, was no better. Evidently, his father had left Mason the house with instructions that his sister was given license to live there if she so desired, and Dorinda definitely wanted. In fact, she’d been up his ass twenty-four/seven, and he couldn’t fathom why, because it certainly wasn’t because they enjoyed one another’s company.

He couldn’t call for take-out without her chiming in her order. Mason couldn’t go for a drive without her asking the staff where he was headed, then grilling the chauffer afterward.

It had taken him weeks after Dorinda and Doug had brought him back to the States before he realized the house was truly his and that he didn’t owe her the time of day, much less an accounting of his whereabouts. Didn’t stop the two of them from keeping tabs on him, though.

His hand reached into the soft chinos encasing his legs and felt for his cell phone. The metal felt warm against his palm, familiar and trustworthy, attributes he didn’t feel for any of the people in his life, and he wondered how long he’d been so jaded. Was he this way prior to the accident, or had he only since then developed an innate fear of living in his own skin? He hated feeling out of control and second-guessing his own personality.

Mason rolled his thumb over the small, smooth ball on the cellular device. Just knowing that someone—even if it was a woman who clearly held disdain for him—was out there, within a phone call’s reach and that she possibly held news that could enlighten him, gave him a small slice of comfort.

He’d come to realize he craved human contact yet felt as if it was foreign to his nature, which gave him more reason to wonder about the kind of man he must’ve been before waking up from the coma with a face he didn’t recognize. Who in their right mind could turn their back on connecting with others, especially if they sounded like the woman he’d spoken to tonight?

So many questions, so few people he could ask. The Mexican police had been no help. Of course, when he’d been in the coma, he’d been at his sister’s mercy and was lucky, if her demeanor was any indication, that she hadn’t pulled his life support plug. The police in Guadalajara had no interest in him. To them, he was merely a guest who frequently stayed at a villa offshore and attended business meetings with others in the same field.

Mason snorted. What field? The company with his name on it was strange, unknown to him. He didn’t remember any of the people there and had no clue how to run the damned thing.

Memory problems aside, he hoped—if not knew—that somewhere in the recesses of his brain, there was a much more interesting fellow than someone who simply oversaw the production of products that did nothing to further a living planet and whose contribution to the community was only to employ several hundred people to manufacture dishes with lids.

He’d spent several hours in the mansion’s library, going through Jasper Aldridge’s personal papers. He admired the old man’s spunk and ability to build a company from a warehouse to a complex of buildings with considerable staff by the time he died at age seventy. But while Jasper had carved a niche in an already burgeoning market, Mason didn’t identify with him on any level. Not on a personal one, nor a business one. He’d look at Jasper’s photo and feel only a hollow pit where he suspected a son’s grief should reside.

That was another thing. Who the hell was the woman in the other car, the one who had died? Her name, Marjorie Lawson, meant nothing to him, yet her face seemed familiar. The weird thing was that he could visualize her as if he’d been sitting next to her. For some reason, he kept seeing her profile when he’d close his eyes, trying to remember all he could of Mexico. But if she’d been the other driver, how was it possible that he could recall her profile?

Mason had researched, telephoned and written to various government offices in both Texas and Mexico to no avail. Nobody could tell him more than the woman’s name, and even that sounded contrived. Not that he’d have known her. She was just some woman who had apparently crashed into his sister’s car upon their leaving a business dinner. A nobody, the police had told him. None of your business, they’d added. Not his business? After all he’d been through, the surgeries, loss of memory? He had a right to know what and who had caused the accident.

He flipped through the hospital reports that the Mexican authorities had sent, the photographs he’d purchased from a travel agent, and the brochures he’d requested from the hotel where they’d stayed. All had left more questions than they’d given answers.

Maybe this is your life, he told himself. Maybe you’re not as interesting as you’d like to be.

Restlessly, he set aside the papers and walked across the hall to his bedroom suite. Something didn’t feel right—it hadn’t for weeks. He told himself it was the house, his room, and that he simply needed to hire a decorator. The thought nearly panicked him, though. If he didn’t know who he was or what he liked, what was the sense in spending money to have someone else tell him what he might enjoy?

His frustration built, and he threw open the double doors to his walk-in closet, which was really yet another room, one in which nobody slept, although God knew it was large enough to fit several beds comfortably. Four walls, row after row of suits, French-cuffed shirts, slacks. Floor-to-ceiling shelving with built-in shoe racks, jewelry drawers where watches and rings, tie clasps and cufflinks winked at him. Another set of sliding drawers lay open like a department store display, where silk ties lay neatly arranged by color, darkest at one end and lightest at the other.

Mason blinked, almost blinded by a headache that began at the base of his neck and peaked just behind his eyes. Instead of the pain making him tired, it jump-started his adrenaline. An overpowering feeling of being smothered, closed in or off, something he couldn’t pinpoint… What?

“Aargh!” He rubbed his eyes, forehead, cheeks, the back of his neck. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t even choose something to wear? Where would he go anyway? Why was it suddenly important for him to leave the house?

He looked…for something…he wasn’t sure what. Beautiful clothes all around. Expensive watches, leather shoes. Why couldn’t he find what he needed? The more he tried remembering, the weirder he felt, the more uncomfortable, unsure. He hated the feeling. Despised it.

Then he became frantic, searching, opening doors and drawers, shoving hangers aside, growling his frustration, growing angrier with each thrust of his arm against what felt like a concrete wall of well-crafted coats, jackets, suits, whatever his hands came into contact with—he just kept shoving, his voice rising, yelling until he was out of breath and weak with exhaustion.

He stopped, dropped to his knees in the middle of the large closet, then rolled to his back and closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing.

Instead of the impersonal closet ceiling above him, he imagined what he wanted, sunshine and fresh air, a countryside maybe, anything but this. He cocked his head, eyes still closed, listening for his memory to whisper the magic words he felt he was withholding from himself, and if not words maybe simply another sensation. That was it. Touch. Something soft, durable yet warm and inviting, comfortable.

When he opened his eyes, he recognized the cubicle of his self that felt empty, needing filling. His stood and reassessed his surroundings. His eyes raked the interior of the room, looking at the shambles he’d made of it. He finally knew something he must have liked…and missed. Clothing that made him feel comfortable in his own skin. Denim.

“I want to wear jeans.” Mason laughed, quietly at first then louder as he realized the breakthrough he’d just made.

Maybe in order to find his true self, he had to peel off the layers of what others had told him made up Mason Aldridge. Made him feel rather like some soulless onion, but he had to start somewhere. Shedding what didn’t work seemed the logical path toward finding what did.

Someone rapped softly on the door to his closet.

“Yes?” he called.

Phillip Pink, the butler, entered. “Mr. Aldridge, are you alright, sir?”

Mason nodded, feeling guilty. The old man looked frightened, disbelieving, as his eyes took in the sight.

“Mr. Pink, please tell Hector I wish to go out, but don’t let my sister or her husband hear you. Be discreet.” The chauffer and butler were two of the few people Mason trusted. He glanced at his watch. If he didn’t leave now, the mall would close before he got there.

Maybe while he was out, he’d have Hector drive past the restaurant where he was to meet…what was her name?

He placed his hands on his hips. Damn it, she hadn’t told him. He’d asked her two or three times, but the woman still hadn’t given him her name. He had no clue what to say when he entered the restaurant, nothing to give their staff to tell them who he was meeting. Well, hell. Maybe she’d recognize him. Otherwise, how would they connect?

Mason pulled out his cell phone. He could call her again, but the hour was late. She was already in a bad mood. Probably better for him if he just took his chances the next day.

“Mr. Aldridge.” The butler interrupted his thoughts. “Are you alright, sir?”

Mason felt a rush of chagrin. He stuffed the cell phone back into his pocket then grinned like a maniac, an expression he was certain Pink had never seen on Aldridge’s face. He walked over to the much older man, grasped him by the shoulders and did something that felt freeing but totally out of character. He hugged Pink.

“I will be, Mr. Pink. I will be.”