Kidnapped Hearts by Cait Jarrod Page A

room.
    Jake sat in the chair Paul vacated
earlier. With his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward. “Pamela, do you
remember when we saw the motorcycle?”
    Afraid of his next words, her lower lip
started trembling, and tears stung her eyes. She nodded.
    “He came back.”
    The nasty black spots jumped, her skin
grew clammy, and her breathing became shallow. Whoever wrote the notes made
good on their threats.
    “Actually, several Black Scorpions drove
by your restaurant.”
    Paul already said that someone shot into
her café, but she wanted details. “In my nightmare, my café had exploded.”
    His lips flattened, and his shoulders
drooped. He picked up her hand and rubbed his thumb over her skin. “It didn’t
explode.”
    Pamela forced herself to concentrate on
what he was saying, instead of his soothing touch, but it was hard.
    “The Café is intact.” He cleared his
throat. “However, there are several holes in the plaster, and the front windows
need to be replaced.”
    “Holes?” she repeated, her brain not able
to wrap around the concept of her café being shot up.
    “Yes.”
    Her eyes fluttered closed for a split
second. The terrible sound from that night echoed in her brain. She had visited
the firing range with Steve enough to know the sound came from guns being
fired.
    “Was anyone critically hurt?”
    The stroking on her hand never eased up.
“Only one person in the café, Marge.”
    Pamela stared at her hand in his. She had
caused this. Closing her eyes, she sucked in her lips, trying to ward off the
guilt that plagued her. Paul had already told her about Marge, but hearing the
news a second time didn’t lessen its impact.
    “It wasn’t your fault,” Jake said softly,
reading her thoughts. “You can’t go down this path. Marge wouldn’t want it.”
    Pamela gazed at the man who seemed to
know her so well. His oval face didn’t have any visible lines, except for the
one scar on his forehead, yet he looked worn. She remembered the night of the
storm in the café, how she thought the expression on his face resembled Marge’s
sons. He had seen war too, just not in the military.
    She moistened her dry lips.
    Jake rose from his chair and handed her a
cup of ice water with a straw. Her mind muddled, she looked down at the blanket
and fingered its edge. One question seesawed in her head, similar to the way
the ball does in a Ping-Pong game. Were his lips the ones that touched hers?
Her head started to throb, and the ball pushed images of The Memory Café to the
forefront. People running frantically, men dressed in suits rushing inside the
café shouting orders, loud noises booming. At least she knew now, that the
noises were gunshots and not a bomb. Somehow, that knowledge didn’t comfort
her.
    Just before the loud noise, she
remembered a body shielding hers. A space of time lapsed where all recollection
vanished until something warm covered her lips, then nothing. Her eyes closed,
remembering lips pressed against hers.
    “Pamela?”
    She heard him say her name, but she
didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to hear any more bad news. She wanted to
retain the warmth she felt before everything went black.
    “Should I get the doctor?”
    “No.” Her eyes slowly rose to his arms
resting on his jean covered knees. He stared at his twisted fingers. He had
fine hands, she thought, strong and capable. Her eyes traveled higher. His
shirttail hung out, hiding whatever hung on his belt. The shirt pulled taught
over his well-developed chest muscles. With the top button undone, a thick neck
flashed at her. Continuing the journey, her eyes stopped on his face.
    Jake appeared to be a genuine, decent
person. Undeniably, he was not anything like the man who’d attacked her. Sam
would never have come to her rescue.
    Her mother unjustifiably told her to stay
away from Jake a decade ago. Would Vivian say the same now, considering Jake
had rescued her not once, but twice?
    Refocusing, she scanned his blue