Blackout

by Annie Solomon

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Romantic Times Book Club Magazine calls Annie Solomon "a powerful new voice in romantic suspense." A champion of smart, feisty heroines who are ready to take on all comers, Solomon administers equal doses of seduction and thrills in her rousing fiction. Margot Scott doesn't remember who she is, but someone definitely wants her dead. Enter secret agent Jake Wise to help her- but it might just be him who needs saving.

Release date: November 25, 2008

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 376

Sample

3

A scream ripped her awake. Her eyes snapped open. Saw shadows in the corner of the ceiling. Dark room. No light.

Sweat. She was sweating. Something had woken her.

Noise? Blood thudded in her ears. Was that it? She remembered dream images. Darkness blurred. Faces smeared. People? Person. Was someone screaming?

She listened hard. All was quiet.

Street light filtered in through a window. One by one she ticked off furnishings in the gloom-filled surroundings: dresser, mirror, rocking chair in corner. Clothes over the chair arm.

Hers. Of course, hers.

She was home. In her bedroom.

Yet… was it her bedroom?

It was dark. Why was it dark?

She snapped on the light, and it stabbed through her eyes into her brain. She turned it off, collapsed back down, stared up at the ceiling again.

A hammer pounded her skull.

Headaches were unusual. At least… she thought they were.

Why wasn’t she sure?

She sat up, groaning. What time was it?

The clock on the nightstand blared 12:00 A.M. in digital green.

She ran two fingers over her brow, pressed in the sides. Aspirin. She should take some aspirin.

She put her feet on the floor and stood. A wave of dizziness gripped her, and she stumbled to the chair for her robe. A pair of running shorts and a tank top were draped over the arm, sneakers stuffed with athletic socks sat on the floor.

Running. Fresh air, outdoors. The call was fierce and compelling. She could no more resist it than she could resist breathing. Aspirin forgotten, she slipped the clothes on. Immediate relief poured through her.

Pulling her tangled hair into a rough ponytail, she staggered down the stairs and let herself out the front door.

The night washed her with cool, gentle air. She gulped it in, feeling better, much better.

Setting off down the street, she started off slow, gradually increasing the pace until her legs pumped strength into the rest of her. At the end of the block she turned the corner. It was automatic, unthinking. Down the block and around the corner. What she had to do. Was meant to do.

Another three blocks and the park loomed to the left, the entrance a black mouth waiting to gobble her up. She headed for it unerringly, breathing easy, legs sure. Dumbarton Oaks Park. It closed at dark, the sign said, but she plunged past it, unable to stop even if she wanted to.

Here and there the city had put up a light, but for the most part the trail was dim, lit only by the moon. But her feet were steady, the path as familiar as the way home. She’d been here before.

At the second bend she headed right, and the first prickle ran over her. She listened hard. Heard nothing but her own steps.

She slowed, then picked up the pace. Branches brushed by, naked and bony against the moonlight. An owl screeched.

Was someone following her?

But when she turned, there was no one. Only the dim shade of the path behind her.

She plowed on, turning into the track that bordered the creek. The name drifted into her head. Rock Creek.

Water gurgled, swooshed and fell like dark music. Shaking off the jitters, she pounded over the wood bridge. Her feet had just hit the trail again when she sensed him.

She checked behind, saw no one, turned back around. Ahead of her, a man had appeared on the trail, bent over one knee and blocking the way. Too late, her foot slammed into him and she went up and over, landing with a thud.

She grunted with the impact, but in the next instant, she’d sprung back up, crouched, ready. A distant part of her mind wondered how she’d done that. The rest focused on the man as he stood and backed away, limping.

“Whoa. It’s okay. I’m harmless.” He held his hands up. They were empty, unthreatening. “Sorry. New shoes.” He pointed to his runners with one of his hands, keeping the other still raised. “Twisted my damn ankle.”

She watched him warily, not moving.

“I… uh… didn’t see you coming.” He smiled tentatively. “Didn’t know anyone else was crazy enough to run this time of night. You all right?”

Slowly, she straightened, unclenched her fists. “Fine.”

“Good.” He ran a hand over his head with a sheepish expression. “Look, I, uh… don’t suppose you’d give me a hand? My car is at the bottom of the trail, but my ankle’s pretty messed up.”

He was tall and wiry, with long athletic legs under loose, knee-length basketball shorts. His shirt was tied around his waist, so she could see his upper body. No weapons. Why did she even notice that? Better to notice that he was trim, muscled, a fine specimen who obviously worked out or was used to physical labor. His hair, clipped tight to his skull, didn’t hide much.

Military, came the word in her head, and instantly she felt less threatened.

Why was that?

“Sure,” she said, and a voice inside her head said, You could take him if you had to.

Take him where? How?

He untied his shirt, slipped it on, winced as he limped toward her. Gingerly, he wrapped an arm over her shoulder. “Thanks.” They started off, him using her body to offset the pressure on his bad foot. “I’m Jake, by the way. Jake Wise.”

“Margo Scott.” The name came to her easily. Why shouldn’t it?

“You looked pretty scary back there, Margo. For a minute I thought you were going to take my eyes out. You some kind of karate expert?”

The question echoed in her head, and for half a second she didn’t know how to answer it. Then, as though it had been there all along, the response came.

She shook her head. “A bookseller. I own a store in Old Town. You?”

“Lawyer.” He grunted the word, stumbling over a branch. “Here. Georgetown.”

Neither construction worker nor soldier. She was vaguely surprised. “You should stick to a track.”

“Don’t I know it. Friend told me about this place. Was working late. Thought I’d try out my shoes.” He smiled grimly. “I’ve had better ideas.”

His car was parked on the street just outside the park entrance. She helped him to the driver’s side, and he fished out a set of keys from a pocket inside his shorts. He opened the door, propped himself against it, and hopped around to face her. “Can I give you a lift? I owe you.”

“That’s okay. I only live a couple of blocks away. I’ll run back.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He slipped into the seat. “Appreciate the help.”

“No problem. Take it slow going home. Ice down that ankle.”

“Will do.” He closed the door, rolled down the window. “Thanks again.”

She nodded and watched him drive away. Her headache was gone.

4

Margo Scott shrank in Jake’s rearview mirror. A left turn, and she disappeared altogether. He hooked right, pulled into T Street, and stopped.

Didn’t look like he’d need the knife sheathed on his thigh. The homes loomed close here, row houses tightly scrunched together, but dark. Everyone cozy. Everyone asleep.

Snapping open the glove compartment, he removed a cell phone and a palm-sized device that looked like a GameBoy. He punched a number into the phone and flipped open the device. A map of the area dissolved into view. In the middle, a flashing green dot progressed steadily over the streets heading away from the park.

The phone on the other end picked up. The voice of the man who answered was deep and smooth and very familiar. Jake didn’t introduce himself.

“Done,” he said.

“You’re sure it was her?”

He pictured the woman. Tall and solid, she’d shown muscular legs underneath her running shorts. Her toned arms and lithe body had little trouble holding his weight. She had a remarkable face, more arresting than lovely. Wide, mobile mouth, slashing cheekbones, strong nose, large dark eyes. Not a conventional face, but interesting. “I didn’t ask to see her ID, but she bore a striking resemblance to her pictures. And she introduced herself as Margo Scott.”

“Good. Condition?”

Idly, Jake watched the flashing green dot. It turned a corner and headed up a street two blocks away. “Normal as far as I could tell.”

“No disorientation, slurred speech, dizziness?”

He recalled her voice. Nothing frail about it. Deep and smoky as the night. “Why? Should there be?”

“You know better than to ask that.”

He did, but that wasn’t going to stop him until he got the whole story. “Her instincts are sharp, I’ll give you that. She wanted to take off my head.”

“I gather you’re still in one piece,” the man said dryly.

“Oh, yeah. Though if anyone asks, I’ve twisted my ankle.”

“Clumsy of you.”

“I’ll make a miraculous recovery.”

“And then?”

“As planned.”

“Good. Don’t lose her.”

Jake lifted his gaze from the monitor and stared at the blackness outside his windows. It seemed as thick and impenetrable as whatever truth the other man was keeping from him. “When are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“When it’s no longer necessary.”

“Well, that’s fair.”

The man laughed. “No one ever said it would be.”

Jake pursed his lips. Useless to pursue this further. He’d have to wait a day or two and try again. “You’re the boss.”

“And don’t you forget it.” There was mock severity behind the admonition and a hint of affection.

Jake returned it. “Not likely to.”

“Tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.” He disconnected, twisted the ignition. The sense of the woman lingered as the car came to life. Like a scent dimly remembered.

Danika.

The name sprang out of the backlog in his head, a distant ache he rarely let himself think about anymore. It came at him out of the blue, a sucker punch. Sharp, pungent.

When he could think again, when he could breathe without the slap of remembered pain, he wondered, Why now? It had been seven years since Dani’s death. A good five since he’d buried his grief.

Well, he was working for Frank again. Maybe that’s why.

He took one last look at the palm-sized monitor with its flashing dot.

Or maybe it was the woman and her taut, dark, interesting face. Nothing like Dani’s towheaded mischievousness, but with the same… what? Self-possession? That isolationist, I-can-take-care-of-myself constraint?

Christ, he hoped not.

In the monitor, the dot stopped, then continued. He pressed a button, and a location appeared on the small screen. He smiled.

Welcome home, Margo.

5

The sun blared through the bedroom window. Margo groaned. How could she sleep so late? Eleven-forty-five and still in bed. Not like her.

Or was it?

Something knocked at the back of her mind.

What?

A quick mental inventory: no grogginess like the night before. No headache. Her mouth was dry.

She went into the bathroom, swished water around her mouth, then swallowed a palmful. Then another. And another. God, she was thirsty.

She showered, dressed, dried her hair. All the usual routine. But sluggish. Like she was underwater. She stared at a tube of toothpaste. Colgate. Her brand, right? It wavered, came back into focus.

Whoa.

She grabbed it, her fingers latching on to the solid shape. There. No problem. She was fine. Safe. Home. The home her great-aunt Frances had built.

The name conjured up an image, though it was distorted and hazy over ten years’ time. It had been that long since her aunt had died and left Margo the house and bookstore. Tall and beak-nosed was what came through. How much longer until Margo couldn’t remember her at all?

She squeezed toothpaste out, brushed, and spit. She should call St. Louis and have her sister, Barbara, fish around their parents’ attic for pictures.

Downstairs, the house had the dusty charm of old wood and hulking furniture. Aunt Frances had been an antique seller’s dream. Every surface was covered in old quilts or afghans or fussy lace Margo hadn’t had the heart to throw away, though the clutter drove her crazy.

Bypassing the kitchen, she grabbed her purse and left. Outside, the sun banished all shadows. It was a gloriously bright day, warm and sunny and blue-sky perfect, and it made her stop short at her front door. The deep pink of a Japanese magnolia greeted her in the yard. Across the street, cherry trees fluffed white and baby pink.

Overnight the world had bloomed into color.

How was that possible? Yesterday the branches had been bare, naked sticks. Today…

Uneasiness settled over her, like a crack in the earth. Yet the day was bright. The view calm. Nothing but front porches, latticed foundations. Rockers. Shrubs.

And blossoms. Lots of pink and white blossoms. Flowers that hadn’t been there yesterday.

She headed for the shuttle, unwilling to fight traffic in her car. Under her feet, she tramped over dead blooms.

Her skin grew icy, nerves jangling.

The jumpy feeling chased her from the shuttle into the metro station at Foggy Bottom and onto the train. Was someone watching her? She shoved on a pair of sunglasses and examined the faces of her fellow passengers.

A man in a suit reading USA Today. A student with a backpack and iPod headphones. A woman holding a baby. No one paid her any attention.

And yet the shaky feeling stayed with her all the way in to Alexandria and her stop in Old Town.

Ordinarily she liked the long walk past the boutiques and bistros down King Street to the river. Today, she felt exposed and wished she’d opted for the car, traffic or no.

She stopped at Starbucks and bought a cup of coffee. On the way out, she saw a copy of the Post. For some reason, her heart quickened, and she picked it up. Headlines loomed. She stared at them without really seeing the words, then got distracted by the other papers nearby. Impulsively, she stacked a copy of the City Paper, the Business Journal, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Times-Daily on top of the Post, paid for them all, and hurried out.

Anxiety gnawed at her. Something in the paper. Something she needed to find.

She searched her memory, couldn’t recall what it was. But the nagging feeling kept her company through the cut over to Prince Street. Tourists flooded the way. They strutted out of Silverfoil with their jewelry boxes and into Ben & Jerry’s. The smell of cheese and oregano wafted by from Marghetti’s Pizza. She tramped down another block to the corner of The Strand.

From there, the decaying mustard brick of Full Metal Jacket Surplus blocked the view of the river. To her left, Waterfront Park dappled green and white with ice-cream-eating tourists strolling along the quay and sitting on benches in the sun. In the corner of the park closest to her, another cherry tree puffed pink. A ripple of disquiet went through her. She turned the corner, uncomfortable with the abrupt arrival of spring.

Like most of Old Town, her building dated from the early part of the last century, though the purple-painted brick was only a few years old. Once the home of a company that sold parts to shipbuilders, it now housed three: a vegetarian restaurant called Eggplant—hence the deep aubergine brick—Retro, a vintage clothing store, and her own Legacy Books.

Margo dropped the pile of newspapers with a splat, set the coffee on top, and dived into her purse for her keys.

To her right, a blur of movement snagged her attention.

Half a block away a woman in sharp-toed boots seemed to be eyeing her.

Margo’s pulse jammed upward, but the woman checked her watch and hurried away.

Margo swallowed. Was she being followed? Or was she being paranoid?

Why even think someone was following her?

Her heart slowed, and she found herself gazing at a belted cotton shirtwaist in Retro’s window display. The dress would have looked good on June Cleaver. Couldn’t get more real than that.

Paranoid. Definitely paranoid.

Dismissing the incident, Margo returned to her purse for the keys to open the bookstore. While she was digging around, Suzanne, Retro’s owner, came out.

“Hey, Margo! How was the trip?”

At twenty-two, Suzanne was ten years younger than Margo, a college dropout with a trust fund who cared more about the clothes she could play in than the business she did. She’d been Margo’s business neighbor for three years.

Her platinum hair was short and spiky, and she wore a dress similar to the one in the window. A wide black patent belt cinched her tiny waist, and patent stilettos added four inches to her height. Although the dress blossomed outward over the curve of her hips, the top was tightly fitted. She’d left the first three buttons of the shirtwaist undone and hiked the collar up. Around her neck was a string of white balls that looked too roundly perfect to be pearls. With her wired hair and the old-fashioned dress, she looked like an eerie blend of past and future. June Cleaver, meet Jane Jetson.

The comparison made Margo forget about the weirdness of the morning. She smiled. “How do you walk in those things?” She nodded toward the heels.

Suzanne shrugged. “No pain, no gain. One of these days I’m going to get you out of those”—she grinned and looked Margo up and down, taking in her comfortable shoes, navy slacks, and blazer—“what do you call that stuff you’re wearing anyway?”

“Clothes.”

“For a meter maid maybe.”

Margo laughed. An old argument. “When’s Halloween? You can dress me then.”

“You got a deal. And don’t think I won’t hold you to it. Here—look at my latest find. This is so cool.” She pulled at her necklace and it came apart with a loud “pop.”

She giggled and showed the beads to Margo, performing the trick again. “Poppit beads. Is that ever neat? I found a whole bag of them at a yard sale over the weekend. You can make them short, or long, or put two colors together. God, why don’t they make stuff like this now?” She replaced them around her neck, popped the beads in place. “So… besides the awful getup, how are you?” She frowned. “Wait a sec—aren’t you supposed to be away until next week?”

Margo was still fishing around in her purse. “Next week?”

“Yeah, next week. At least… well, I don’t know.” Her voice turned uncertain. “Maybe I misunderstood. Soooo…” She dragged out the word expectantly. The smile was back in her voice. “How was it?”

Confused, Margo looked up from her purse. Where were the damn keys? “How… how was what?”

“You know…” Suzanne made a dramatic circle with her hands. “The great European buying adventure. The elusive Don Quixote, Gypsies, flamenco. Those gorgeous men. Come on… give.”

Margo frowned. What was Suzanne talking about?

“Oh, babe, you haven’t had your coffee yet, have you?” Suzanne picked up the coffee and the pile of newspapers, and dragged Margo into her store. “What are you doing?” she said as she plunked down the stack of papers, “opening a library now?”

Margo looked at the pile uneasily. Why had she bought them? “I—”

“Here, sit down.” Suzanne plunked Margo onto a stool in front of a jewelry case stuffed with brooches made of diamonds and emeralds too big to be real. She pried the lid off the coffee. “Drink,” she ordered.

Margo rolled her eyes, and Suzanne slid the cup closer. “Drink,” she ordered again, then propped her head in her hands and leaned in. “And then tell me about your trip.”

“I think you’re the one who needs the coffee. I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Suzanne looked at her in amazement. “Really? You didn’t go to Spain?” Her face fell. “What happened? Where’ve you been the last month?”

Margo stared at the younger woman. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? If you didn’t go to Spain, where were you?” Suzanne peered at her closely. “Is everything all right?”

“Absolutely. I just…” She shook her head. “I’ve been here. Right here.”

“Margo.” Suzanne spoke as if to a two-year-old. “The bookstore’s been closed. You were definitely not here.”

Margo’s heart began to thud. The morning came back with vivid swiftness. Her thirst. The trees. The invisible presence stalking her. “We had lunch together yesterday. Greek salads from Tabouli’s.”

Suzanne frowned and shook her head. “The last time we had lunch together was the day before you left.”

The pounding in Margo’s chest grew louder. “All right, very funny, you got me.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“Yes, you are.” Suddenly, Margo wanted desperately to get away. But she needed her damn keys. “You’re trying to drive me nuts. And you know what? It’s working.” She ravaged her purse again. PDA, pen, cell phone. Frantic, she dumped the entire contents out and scrambled through it.

“Not if you’re already there, girlfriend.” Suzanne paused to watch what was turning into an insane hunt. “Margo, what are you looking for?”

“My keys.” There was desperation in her voice, and she worked to eradicate it. “I can’t open the store.”

“Well, you could just go through the connecting door.” Suzanne pointed to the west wall, where a doorway was framed by racks of clothes. “Or”—she tapped a key on the old-fashioned cash register and the cash drawer opened with a ring—“you can go through the front with these.” She held up a set of keys, her face lit with a mischievous grin. “Don’t you remember? You gave them to me when you”—she gulped—“left.”

A pulse beat in the back of Margo’s head. The headache returning. Ignoring it, she swiped her keys, thanked Suzanne, and stuffed everything back in her purse.

Suzanne laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe you should take another day off.”

Margo forced a smile and swept up her papers and coffee. “Nothing a little caffeine won’t cure.” She started for the front door.

“I’m eating late today,” Suzanne called. “Puccio’s. I’ll bring you back a calzone if you want.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

She scurried out and began to breathe easier only when she’d unlocked her own door and was sitting behind Aunt Frances’s huge leather-topped desk.

6

Margo sucked in a breath, driving down the rattle of her heart. She clutched at the smooth cordovan leather. The vines, leaves, and flowers embossed around the edge gave her world solidity and, to keep it going, she focused on the store.

Narrow and compact, it was divided by the desk in front, which acted as a bookish reception area. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books swept above, around, and behind her. Used books mostly, some rare, most not, some nonfiction, most not.

The bookstore’s real net worth were the rare, first editions. These one-of-a-kind books were encased in a glass cabinet that had two separate locks requiring two separate keys, both of which hung on the key ring Suzanne had just returned. She glanced at the books fondly. An 1843 Christmas Carol with hand-colored illustrations in original cloth. A first-edition House on Pooh Corner, signed by the author. A first-edition Madeline. And all the Arthur Rackham illustrated books: Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales, The Temp. . .