He held the mug out to her. Watery yellow broth with pale noodles and tiny flecks of carrot and diced, anemic white meat swam nearly to the brim.
“What’s this?”
“Breakfast. I know from living with Ned that humans are in the habit of eating in the morning. Unfortunately, all that’s left in the cabinets are some of his old staples. I found a can of soup that wasn’t going to expire for another few weeks. I don’t expect it will give you botulism.”
Gee, after a rave review like that, how could she refuse? But his deadpan offer of canned chicken noodle for breakfast was in earnest. He had actually cooked something out of consideration for her, even care, if his solemn expression were any indication.
Still, she had places to go. People to reassure that she wasn’t lying in the middle of the Mojave with a bullet in her head. Poor Michael was probably out of his mind with worry now that it was morning and she still hadn’t returned home or checked in to let him know she was okay.
God forbid he get so concerned he would call in a missing person’s report.
The last thing either of them needed was to invite the police to start sniffing around.
That thought only renewed her need to get out of there and back to Las Vegas as soon as possible.
Gently pushing away Asher’s offered mug of soup, she shook her head. “Thank you for the thought, but I’m really not hungry.”
She dislodged Sam’s snoring bulk from her lap and forced herself to stand. Not so bad this time. She just had to take things easy.
“So, about that phone,” she said to Asher. “I’ve got someone waiting to hear from me and I really should be going before he sends a search party. He tends to worry when I’m out of touch for an hour, let alone all night.”
Asher’s face darkened the longer she rambled. “Sit down. You should rest some more. It’s too soon for you to be on your feet.”
“No, it’s not.” She spread her arms as if to show him how much better she felt, even did a little jig despite the woozy feeling that followed. “See? Ninety-nine percent back to normal.”
“I said sit down, Narumi.”
She went stock-still, every muscle in her body seizing up, every cell clanging with shock at the sound of that name on his tongue.
Her oldest name. The one she had refused to use since her mother’s death when Naomi was eight years old.
“What did you just call me?”
He set the mug of soup down on the nightstand. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Not Zoe. Narumi.”
“No.” Her head shook side to side. “No, that’s not my name. But you’re right, it’s not Zoe, either. My name is Naomi. I haven’t used that other one for a long time. I don’t like to hear it. In fact, only one person other than my mother even knows that name, and it sure as hell shouldn’t be you.”
“You’re talking about Michael?”
As if the first bout of shock wasn’t staggering enough, now this? “How do you know so much about me? What the hell is going on here?”
“You talk in your sleep, for one thing,” he replied calmly. “Which isn’t surprising considering how much you talk when you’re awake.” At her small scowl, he went on. “You mentioned your man’s name several times while I was tending you overnight. And in your daze before you lost consciousness out in the desert.”
Part of her felt compelled to correct him about Michael being “her man” but that was just one more fact about her life that was none of his business. It was the other insight he seemed to have that troubled her the most.
“How do you know my given name? Do you . . . did you know my mother?”
“No.”
“Do you know Leo Slater?”
His brow creased even deeper. “No. I do not know him, either, but I am familiar with his name.”
“Everyone in a two hundred mile radius of Las Vegas knows his name,” she bit back icily.
“Yes,” he agreed, holding her in a suspicious, narrowing gaze. “Is he the casino boss you attempted to steal from last night?”
He must have taken her silence for the confirmation it was. A curse hissed out of him and he scoured his hand over the whisker-darkened grizzle of his jaw. “What does Leo Slater have to do with your mother?”
