“It’s all right,” she said at once. Her voice wasn’t even sleepy. “You okay?”
“Yes.” Becauseshewas the one beside him instead of the brunette.
Thank God this was real, and the nightmare wasn’t.
Only . . . what if that was wrong?
What if the nightmare was a real memory and his existence here with Remy was a passing dream?
Two days later, just when Remy was congratulating herself on her outstanding amateur nursing skills, her patient started coughing.
The two of them were cleaning up after dinner. Remy paused in the act of doing dishes, one hand holding a plate, one hand gripping a scrub brush, water running. “What’s with the cough?”
“It’s nothing.”
She gave him a look like, It’s not nothing.
“I think I’m allergic to something in the air today. It’ll pass.”
What if it didn’t? Her brain spun.
She’d gathered enough information on rib fractures to know every possible complication. Foremost among those?
Pneumonia.
ChapterSix
“Jude? May I have a word with you?”
Jude looked up from his desk at the FBI office in Bangor. “Sure.” Supervisory Agent Dixon Martin had spoken, and Jude always made time for the guy. For one thing, Jude liked and respected him. For another, Dixon was his boss.
He followed Dixon into his office and saw that Shannon Bailey was already inside. Jude took the chair next to hers.
Dixon lowered into his desk chair across from them. He was fifty-five with brown skin, an oval head, and short, graying hair. His long nose and recessed chin made him look like what he was, a person of patient intelligence. “We’ve received approval to move forward with a new op. Shannon will be Case Agent.”
Shannon was a tough veteran who'd been on the job for fifteen more years than Jude. Jude nodded at her, and she nodded back.
Morning sun was brightening the office, which made the room seem even plainer than usual. Dixon wasn’t much for decorating. Nothing hung on the walls except for a painting of a mallard in flight that looked like it had cost $5.99.
“Two wealthy executives from France,” Dixon said, “have been putting out discreet feelers to see if they can find a buyer over here interested in their employer’s trade secrets.”
The feelers had not been discreet enough, apparently, to escape the notice of the FBI’s network.
“The executives work in the perfume field. Have you ever heard of a perfume called Rhapsodie?” Dixon tried to pronounce the word with a French accent but ended up butchering it.
“I have,” Jude answered. “I’m not a perfume person myself but my mother is, and she told me about it once.”
“What do you know?” Shannon asked.
“I know a perfumer began making it in a French convent hundreds of years ago.”
“Right,” Shannon said. “The nuns invited an herbalist to move her business into their apothecary in the 1600s. Legend has it that either the space and quiet of the convent or divine inspiration enabled her to create Rhapsodie soon after she arrived there.”
“And ever since,” Jude said, “the business has been in the same family. Right?”
“Exactly.” Shannon tapped her armrest twice for emphasis. “It’s one of the most exclusive fragrances in the world. The company’s notoriously protective of the recipe and method. Those things aren’t written downanywhere. They’re saved in memory and at any given time, only two family members know the recipe and method. Each one who’s given that honor has to swear a vow of silence regarding it in a church packed with family members and employees.”
“So one of the French executives you mentioned is a family member?”
