Rose Tattoo.” He hesitated for less than a second. “I’m tending bar there part-time.”
“FBI pay is that bad?”
He laughed as he turned on East Bay Street. “No. I know one of the owners. I needed a cover for a personal matter, so I tend bar. Here we are,” Matt said as he turned down an alley and parked between a large home and a smaller building.
“Where’s here?” she asked, uneasy when she counted four other cars in the crushed-oyster-shell lot.
“The Rose Tattoo.”
“It looks more like a private residence.”
He turned and offered a smile. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth and she experienced a strong, brief and inappropriate millisecond of desire.
“It hasn’t been a private residence since just after the Civil War,” he explained. “It sat empty for a while, then it was a speakeasy during prohibition. The previous owners renovated it as a bar and lived on the second floor. Then Rose Porter bought it and was on the verge of bankruptcy until Shelby Tanner bought in.”
Reaching across her to grab the door handle, his forearm brushed her belly and Kresley felt a quick zing of excitement spread through her body. His hair smelled like the ocean, but the woodsy scent of cologne still lingered on his skin.
“Hang on, I’ll come around and help you.”
When Kresley stepped out of the car, her knees buckled and if Matt hadn’t been there to catch her, she would have folded like an accordion.
His hands grabbed her waist. Leaning back against the Jeep, she took several deep breaths to fend off the rapid pounding of her heart. Not an easy task with Matt’s square-tipped fingers resting lazily on her skin.
“I’m good,” she said, placing her palms on his chest. Her intention was to gently push out of his grasp. But the feel of solid muscle and the thump of his heart beneath her touch only served as a greater enticement.
Am I always this aware of a man? she wondered. Or is it just this man? And could my timing be any worse? Not having a memory was inconvenient, to say the least.
“C’mon,” he said, wrapping one hand around her waist to lead her to the door marked Deliveries Only.
Together, they entered the kitchen. A woman wearing chef’s whites with the name DeLancey embroidered on the left side of her jacket didn’t even look up from chopping carrots. “Hey,” she said casually, as if a strange woman with tangled hair, wearing ill-fitting scrubs was an everyday occurrence.
“Hi,” Matt said as they walked the length of the sparklingly clean kitchen.
The smells had Kresley’s mouth watering. The scents of garlic, onions, smoky bacon and herbs surrounded her as she neared the exit.
The dual doors were stainless steel with round windows at eye level. Kresley stopped dead in her tracks as an image flashed in her mind. Portholes. Her steps faltered and she put out a hand to brace herself on a nearby countertop. She’d looked out a porthole and seen…something.
She started to shake and perspiration coated her body.
“You’re whiter than pale,” Matt said, grabbing a kitchen towel to blot the sweat from her face and neck. “Are you in pain?”
Kresley shook her head. Her chest was tight and her throat had turned into a vise.
“What is it?” he asked, concern etched in the lines by his eyes.
“I wasn’t supposed to go near the portholes.”
“What do you remember? What triggered the panic attack?”
“The round window.”
“That’s all you got?”
“Yep. A flash. A snippet. I could see the porthole. I moved forward to look out, then nothing.”
Matt’s splayed fingers at the center of her back urged her through the doors. In the wood-panelled dining room there were ornate carvings on the molding and the edge of the horseshoe-shaped bar. More than a century’s worth of varnish polished the bar to a bright sheen. Kresley guessed the worn knotty-pine floors were original to the building. More than three dozen tables in varying sizes were arranged around the room. Each place setting included a charger, a plate and a pink napkin folded into a triangle and secured with a silver ring embossed with a rosebud.
They passed a flight of stairs guarded by ficus trees. Several ferns hung from baskets suspended from the low ceiling.
Matt helped her up on one of the leather barstools, then went around behind the bar and took out a menu.
“Let me get you some water. Then pick whatever you’d like,” Matt said. “DeLancey will whip it up in minutes. I know Kendall gave you that IV but it’s been some time since you ate.”
“But the restaurant isn’t open,” she said, glancing at the closed sign in the window.
“We open for lunch in thirty minutes. Besides, DeLancey lives to cook.”
“Tuna salad,” Kresley said, selecting what she thought would be the easiest of the mixture of traditional southern dishes and trendy cuisine for DeLancey to prepare.
Matt poured her a glass of water, placed a lemon on the rim, and then asked, “Will you be okay for a minute while I take your order to the kitchen?”
“Sure.”
Kresley rolled her neck around on her shoulders, fighting the fatigue that was quickly replacing the adrenaline. Folding her arms and resting them on the bar, she felt the sutures pull. Ignoring the mild discomfort, she placed her head on her arms and closed her eyes.
She must have dozed off for a second because she jerked upright when she felt a poke on her shoulder.
“Sorry.”
Spinning on the barstool, Kresley found herself looking at a stunning woman with black hair, piercing blue-gray eyes and a warm smile. “I can explain,” Kresley said on a rush of breath.
“No need. I’m Shelby Tanner,” she said. “Matt spoke with my husband while you were getting stitched up. How do you feel?”
There was something awfully familiar about Shelby. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so. Is Matt getting you something to eat?”
Kresley nodded. “He’s been very kind.”
“He’s a good guy,” Shelby agreed. “Looks like you could use some proper clothes.”
Kresley looked down at her too-tight scrubs and sighed heavily. “It was these or naked.” Kresley said.
“You look exhausted. There’s a bed in my office upstairs,” Shelby offered.
Kresley found it odd that the woman would have a bed in her office and it must have shown on her face because Shelby qualified, “Sometimes I bring my kids into work when we’re between nannies and my husband is out on a case.”
“A case?”
“He’s with Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Dylan doesn’t work regular hours.”
Great the ATF and the FBI. No memory, but apparently Kresley was making herself known to every law-enforcement agency in existence. “How many children do you have?”
“Three,” Shelby said with unfettered joy in her voice.
“Time for another one,” came a voice from the direction of the stairway.
Suddenly a woman with bleached platinum hair appeared. She was a tribute to the eighties. Big hair, animal-print leggings, wide leather belt and mules with three-inch heels. Class and polish tempered by loud and gaudy.
Her green eyes fixed on Kresley like lasers. “So you’re the one