The gurgle became a moan and the rage became desperation. But soon that, too, eased, and his body sagged into the mattress. I’m sorry, so sorry, he thought he heard a woman mutter, and then he slept, knowing nothing more.

“Jaxon, baby. Wake up.”

Jaxon struggled through a thick cloud of lethargy, only to be dragged under again and again. Each time, he fought his way free. Had he ever been so tired? So weak?

Finally he managed to pull himself to full cognizance and stay. He rasped, “Just need a little more rest, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? The word rumbled inside his mind, foreign for some reason. He did not usually call women by pet names. That implied a closeness he always fought to avoid. Didn’t he?

He frowned, trying to recall where he was and who he was with. His mind was curiously blank. Then a single musing crystallized: You’re home. You’re with your wife.

He was married? No, couldn’t be. He would remember. Wouldn’t he?

Another musing suddenly claimed his attention, this one an image. A tall, dark-haired beauty with sun-kissed skin and bright blue eyes smiled up at him with absolute adoration. She had freckles on her nose. He remembered he liked to count them.

The image shifted, and the dark-haired beauty was straddling his waist, pumping up and down on his swollen shaft. Sweat glistened on her skin like fairy glitter. Her pretty lips parted, and a moan of pleasure slipped from her.

The image shifted yet again, remaining the same except for a few small details. The woman grinding on his cock had short blonde hair, pale-as-milk skin, and no freckles. There was a bloodthirsty glint in her dark eyes. She wore a black glove on her right arm.

“Jaxon?”

The blonde faded away, evaporating like mist and revealing the brunette again. The brunette was his wife. He knew it. He also knew she adored him. The realization shouted through his head, seemingly drilled there as it obliterated every other thought. What intrigued him most, however, was the sudden knowledge that she loved giving him blow jobs.

He found himself grinning at that. I’m a lucky man.

He stretched his arms over his head, losing his smile as his muscles screamed in protest. “What’s wrong with me?” His eyelids fluttered open. Bright light seeped from the windows and made him wince, made his eyes water.

“You don’t remember?” his wife asked, concerned.

Tabitha. Her name was Tabitha. How could he have forgotten her name, even for a second? He lived and breathed for Tabitha; he would be lost without her.

“No,” he said. “I don’t.” He turned his head until a murky figure came into view. He blinked once, twice, his vision gradually clearing. Dark hair, lovely face. Freckles. One, two, three…nine freckles on her nose. His chest tightened with a swell of emotion. She’s mine. This woman is mine.

She sucked in a breath. “Your eyes. They’re…lovely.” She sounded surprised, and a moment passed as her words echoed around them. “I just meant,” she added after a nervous laugh, “that I’m never sure if they’re going to be silver or blue. They change with your mood. Today they’re silver and that’s my favorite.”

Then he’d just have to find a way to keep them silver. Anything for his Tabbie.

Jaxon studied her, this woman who had captured his heart. Her head was propped on her gloved elbow—gloved, like the vision of the other woman, the blonde—and she was peering down at him. Concern bathed her, coloring her cheeks the prettiest shade of rose.

His memories were a pale comparison to the reality of her.

Sweet, sweet Tabitha. The long length of her dark-as-night hair cascaded down her shoulders and tickled his chest. Her skin was so luminous she practically glowed. Her eyes were blue, flecked with lavender and framed by feathered black lashes. Those eyes weren’t warm and inviting, though. They were a little cold, a little determined, and a complete contradiction to the concern she radiated.

That seemed important, but he couldn’t reason out why.

“Why are you wearing a glove?” he asked hoarsely.

“My poor baby,” she cooed. “That crack to the head must have done more damage than we thought.” She stroked his chin, her touch light, comforting. The scent of jasmine and female spice drifted from her and should have acted as an aphrodisiac. Did act as an aphrodisiac, and yet, it also chilled him to the bone. Why? “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

She hadn’t answered his question, he realized, but he didn’t press her. Something continued to grate in the back of his mind, something terribly wrong with this situation. Yet, at the moment, nothing seemed more important than simply enjoying Tabitha.

His gaze slid over his wife, past her neck where her pulse hammered wildly. Was she excited? Aroused? She wore a white lace nightgown with thin straps that revealed the creamy expanse of her shoulders.

For some reason, he couldn’t recall what her breasts looked like. Whether they overflowed in his palms or fit perfectly. Whether they were tipped by little pink berries or darker rosebuds. Flat stomach or curved? Lean legs or shapely legs?

He should know his own wife’s body.

The arm closest to her was wrapped in a cast, so Jaxon used the other to reach over to her, wincing in pain and trying to brush aside her hair. Before he made contact, she jerked away.

He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You startled me, that’s all.” Slowly she leaned toward him.

Contact. Sighing contentedly, he sifted several strands of those dark tresses through his fingers. Silky. That fit his memory. But her ear was bare, and he frowned again. He’d expected earrings, he realized. Lots of them, silver and round.

“What are you thinking about?” Her warm breath fanned his face, minty fresh and a little intoxicating. That, too, was familiar.

His arm dropped to his side, the muscles relieved. “You. I’m thinking about you.”

Slowly her lips lifted in a smile. “I’m glad.”

She only wanted to make him happy, he thought. She cared about him, would die for him. She’d even helped him pick up the pieces of his shattered life when Cathy left him.

Shattered life? His brows pulled together in confusion. What the hell? That wasn’t right. Cathy had left him, and he’d been grateful.

Cathy had been high maintenance to an unbearable extreme. “What are you thinking?” she’d asked a thousand times a day. “Why didn’t you answer my call?” “I didn’t want syn-chicken, I wanted syn-fruit!”

God, I was dumb, dating her so long. He liked to tell himself he’d stayed with her to build and fortify—and then refortify—his inner resilience. What failed to kill a man would only make him stronger and all that shit. But he knew the truth. Or at least, he thought he did.

Cathy hadn’t pushed for more from him than he’d wanted to give, hadn’t cared about his ungodly hours or his emotional distance. And, to be honest, a warm body was a warm body and a man had needs. So he’d tolerated her bouts of obsession until she’d left.

After that, there’d been no warm body at night, but he hadn’t cared. The only pleasure he’d experienced had come from his own hand, but he’d hadn’t cared about that, either. He’d been happy, not shattered.

“You were chasing a group of aliens,” Tabitha continued, petting his chest and shoving Cathy from his mind, “and they ambushed you. Beat you pretty badly.”

Yeah, he remembered fists flying at him, connecting, and booted feet pounding into his middle. He remembered laughter and taunts, blood and pain. And rape? He shuddered, not even wanting to delve down that path. Just in case. Some things were better off buried. “Damage?”

“A lot. Broken arm, broken ribs, broken ankle. Concussion.”

“How long have I been out?”

“You spent a few weeks in the hospital. When you were discharged, Dallas and Mia helped get you here. Here is home, by the way. You’ve only been here a few days, but already you look better.” She shivered in cold. And concern? “I thought I’d lost you. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

“I’m here. I’m fine.” He reached up again and caressed her cheek. For a second, only a second, panic filled her eyes and she flinched. Then her expression smoothed, and she was once again staring down at him, innocent, relieved.

Damn it, something wasn’t right. For the life of him, though, he still couldn’t pinpoint what. Maybe because everything seemed out of place, wrong. That scent, that glove. Why did they bother him?

“In your sleep, you were muttering about a virus,” Tabitha said.

Shit. Shit! “Was probably afraid I’d come down with a cold. You know a man in pain is nothing more than an overgrown baby.”

Her lush, red lips edged into a frown. He recognized that frown, though it had no place in his memories. “No. You also mentioned something about the…Schön. Yes, that’s it. The Schön. Who or what are they and what do they want with you?”

He never, no matter how sick, how drugged, would have mentioned a case so blatantly. He’d been trained to keep quiet, even under the direst of circumstances.

Actually, before he’d even been accepted as an agent, A.I.R. had tested his ability to keep quiet. He’d been given a folder and told to read it, which he’d then done. Afterward, he’d been questioned for hours. He’d stayed quiet and he’d been beaten. Still, he hadn’t revealed a single thing he’d read. He’d been drugged—nothing. Locked up—nothing.

Why would his wife lie? How would she know even those details?

The answer popped into place like a light had been switched inside his mind. And with the light, false shadows were chased quickly away.

She wasn’t his wife.

Genuine memories sprang to the surface, and he gasped in pain as the implanted ones were dislodged. Delenseans, the cell, the slaughter. No wonder he didn’t know this woman’s body. He’d never had the pleasure of sampling it.

She’d claimed to be an A.I.R. agent, as well as his partner. She’d drugged him, tried to trick him.

His lips peeled back from his teeth, and he scowled up at Le’Ace. His hand dipped to her neck. The action hurt, but he didn’t let go. He jerked her forward. He was growling low in his throat, unable to halt the sound.

All hint of emotion faded from her eyes. “Where’d I mess up?” she asked flatly.

“The happy-to-give-blow-jobs memory. Sweet, but not altogether realistic. Tabitha. Unless, of course, you want to prove otherwise.”

Her lids narrowed to tiny slits. “Fuck you.”

“That’s what I’m trying to get you to do,” he said cruelly. “We can play hubby and wife in truth.”

A look of hurt bloomed in her eyes, surprising him, nearly softening him. She’s still trying to pull my strings, damn her. That hurt wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. The woman was cold-blooded to the extreme.

Seconds later, she was scowling at him, solidifying his belief. “You should be thanking me for what I’ve done instead of complaining. I saved you when I could have killed you. I cared for you when I could have hurt you. I wiped your memory when I could have probed your brain in ways the Delenseans would have flinched at. Now, tell me where?”

Where’d she mess up, she wanted to know. “I wouldn’t have mentioned a case, even in my sleep,” he answered, then asked a question of his own. “Where are we? And don’t even think about lying. We’re exchanging information right now, but that will stop the moment you utter another lie.”

Her shoulders relaxed somewhat. “We’re in one of my safe houses.”

“How long?”

“I didn’t lie about that. You were hospitalized and kept in a coma for a little over three weeks. When you were stable, we brought you here.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“That, I can’t tell you.”

“Am I being monitored?”

Something dark flashed in her eyes. He studied them intently, only then seeing the round edges of the contacts where a hint of green lurked underneath blue. “Well?”

“Only by me,” she said, and he knew she was lying. Again.

He desperately wanted to question her further, but also knew he’d receive no more answers. A part of him recognized her for what she was: an agent to the core. She would be as closemouthed as he was. The only difference was, he knew what side of the law he worked.

“I guess our conversation is over,” he said.

“It had never really begun.”

True. “Take off the wig. I want to see the blonde.”

Surprise flashed over her expression, quickly masked. “That wasn’t my natural hair, either.”

Not blonde, not brunette. “Are you a redhead?”

“No.”

What the hell did that leave? “Show me the real you, for Christ’s sake. I want to see who I’m dealing with.”

Both of her brows arched. They, too, were colored black. “If I do, will you tell me what I want to know?”

“No.”

She slid one of her hands up his chest. Felt good. Too good. But he knew what she planned to do next. He released her neck to grab her wrist. She gasped, tried to pull away.

He held tight. Scowling, he ripped the ring from her index finger. “I’m not going back to sleep.”

“Fine.” She wrenched from his clasp and held both hands up, palms facing him and flat. “No nappie-poo. But you have to tell me about the Schön, Jaxon.”

Oh, really? “I don’t have to do anything.”

A muscle ticked under her eye as she moved to crouch on the end of the mattress. All of her body’s delicious warmth, gone. Her heady scent, weakened. He mourned the loss, and wondered if she would always affect him in such a way.