Chapter 3

I noticed one of the two tattoos documented in his file. The name Logan was scrawled in cursive writing along the inside of his bicep. My mind immediately jumped to figure out who Logan might be. Maybe Logan was his brother or a friend, but really, who tattooed a friend’s name to their body? Perhaps he was gay, and Logan was his lover. I pushed away the hypothesis that had no basis in reality.

His physical injuries had pretty much healed. His concussion was the only thing still lingering, along with a faint scar under his chin that was just barely visible.

The door opened behind me and I turned to give Dr. Andrews another earful about wanting to be left alone. Instead, it was a nursing assistant dressed in blue hospital scrubs carrying a tray with a plastic pitcher of water. I rolled my eyes. The doctor had sent this poor guy in to check on me, I was sure. The assistant set the tray on the bedside table and turned to leave. The man in the bed lifted his head from the pillow to survey what was happening around him. Perhaps uninterested in what was happening—or because he was drugged, I wasn’t sure which—his head fell back again and he shifted to his side, cradling his cuffed hands in front of him. He flexed his wrists against the metal bonds.

The assistant looked from the patient back to me, and I offered a nod, signaling to him that I was fine and he was free to go, though my heart pounded steadily against my chest and I felt anything but calm.

I hadn’t realized they had him handcuffed since his hands had been covered by the sheet when I first walked in.

“Wait.”

The assistant paused at the door and faced me.

“Remove his cuffs.”

For the first time the man in the bed opened his eyes and looked directly at me. I hadn’t realized such a brilliant shade of hazel could exist until his eyes fixated on mine. His eyes were beautiful. That was the only way to describe them. The man never stopped staring at me. And after a moment, I blushed at the obvious attention he directed only to me despite the aide hovering nearby.

Referring to him as John Doe didn’t seem right. I’m not sure why, but with that name tattooed on his arm, I started thinking of him as Logan.

“Miss, I can’t do that,” the assistant said, drawing my attention back to him.

“Do you have the keys?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” he admitted.

“Then yes, you can. Now unlock him.”

He shook his head, as if realizing he was in a room with not one crazy person, but two. “He gave Terry a nice gash on his face, and you’re too pretty, believe me, you don’t want him unlocked.”

I turned to Logan. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

He shook his head.

“See, he’s fine. Now uncuff him.”

My dad was ex-military and had taught me how to throw a punch. I rarely got intimidated, even riding the train through the sketchier areas of town, and I wasn’t about to back down now. I could take care of myself, and besides, I didn’t believe he would harm me. There was something about him, some nudging feeling that told me I was safe with him. Even as I decided all this, I knew it wasn’t logical. Clocking in at barely over five feet, he would tower over me by almost a foot, and if his muscular arms were any indication, he could take care of himself and anyone else in his general vicinity.

The assistant glanced at the door, seeming to wonder if he should go and check with Dr. Andrews regarding my request, or just do what I asked and get out of this room as quickly as possible.

I considered speaking up again, but he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and quickly unlocked the handcuffs before shuffling from the room.

Logan sat up in bed and rubbed at his wrists. “Thanks,” he croaked, his voice deep and rough from sleep.

“You’re welcome.”

I stepped closer and he drew the sheet up higher on his waist, concealing the trace of soft hair trailing down his belly. I felt mesmerized watching him. Studying him, a real, live human enigma was much more interesting than any of the text books I’ve read during the last four years.

Even so, my response to him was startling. Was I that starved for male attention that I was attracted to a good-looking prisoner? Damn, maybe my friend Liz was right—I needed to go out more, to get laid, instead of relying solely on my vibrator to do the job.

This certainly wasn’t the most professional of me. I needed to speak up, explain who I was, why I was there, just as I’d done countless times before during the other studies I’d been part of. Of course, those had always been led by Professor Clancy, and I’d just followed his lead, easily explaining that I was Ashlyn Drake, a Ph.D. student studying behavioral psychology and I wanted to ask a few questions. But my mouth refused to form the words, and instead I just stood there staring at him.

He seemed to have a question on the tip of his tongue, but he stayed silent as well, looking me over for a few long moments. “Do…do you know me?” he finally asked. His voice was soft, inquisitive and I immediately relaxed at the sound of it.

The meaning of his question took a minute to resonate. He thought I was here for a visit. Maybe as one friend checking on another. There was something innocent and sad in his eyes. Like they were filled with hope and wonder as he looked me over. Did he think I was his girlfriend? A relative? “No,” I answered.

His face fell, and he went back to rubbing his wrists.

I stepped toward him and went to the bedside table where the assistant had left the pitcher of ice water. I picked up the plastic cup and poured him a glass.

I held it out for him to take, but he didn’t react right away. He sat quietly, still meeting my eyes for another lingering moment before he reached out for the cup. His fingers brushed against mine. The warmth and solid feel of him startled me.

He took a sip without taking his eyes from mine. “Why are you here and why are you treating me humanely? They say I’m dangerous, that I murdered a man.”

I sucked in a breath of air, forcing my composure to return. “I’m a doctorate student, researching the effects of amnesia.”

“You’re here to study me,” he said simply. It wasn’t a question and his eyes flicked to mine, challenging me to disagree.