“What?”
Grace tensed. Her hand clutched the tiny cell phone. “You don’t think he killed Amy, do you? Because he found out she talked to us?”
Another pause. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. I think he was followed, probably all the way from Mexico, and ambushed at the clinic. I think you and I both know who killed Amy Cole, Grace.”
Grace closed her eyes, dredging up a name from the past. A face from her nightmares. Trevor Reardon. A man who had changed Grace’s life forever.
“By the way,” Myra said softly. “That was a brilliant stroke on your part—pretending to be Amy’s sister.”
More like an act of desperation, Grace thought. Aloud she said, “Actually, it was Amy’s idea. She introduced me to one of her neighbors as her sister. Then she later told me she didn’t have any family, but no one in Houston knew that about her because she didn’t like to talk about her past.”
When Grace had arrived at the clinic earlier to learn that Amy was dead and Ethan Hunter had been severely beaten, she knew she had to come up with a reason that would put her in close contact with him. And if everything Amy had told her about him was true, Grace was fairly certain Ethan would be wary of the authorities. She couldn’t tell him the truth because he would never trust her, never agree to cooperate with her, and so she’d impulsively devised the cover of being Amy’s grieving sister. A woman who wanted to find the killer just as badly as Ethan did.
Grace wondered if the ruse had worked, or if like her, he had suspicions.
She ran her fingers through her bangs. “Look, there’s another contingency we hadn’t counted on. Dr. Hunter now claims he has amnesia.”
“Yes, I know,” Myra said. “According to his chart, he’s suffering some short-term memory loss due to a rather mild concussion.”
Grace should have known Myra would have done her homework thoroughly. She’d probably been over Ethan’s hospital room with a vacuum.
“I’m afraid it’s a little more severe than that,” Grace said. “He claims he doesn’t remember Amy. Or even his own name, for that matter.”
She heard Myra suck in her breath sharply. “You mean he doesn’t remember anything?”
“That’s what he says.”
Grace could almost hear the wheels turning in Myra’s brain. After a few moments, she said, “Do you think he’s faking?”
Grace thought about the darkness and confusion in Ethan’s eyes earlier, the desperation that had flashed across his features. Had that been a reaction to what had happened to him in the clinic? Or because he genuinely couldn’t remember?
Grace found herself wanting to believe him and that scared her. It was imperative she remain objective. Dispassionate. A consummate professional.
She wondered suddenly what Myra would think if she knew how attracted Grace was to Dr. Ethan Hunter. Would she pull her off the case?
“Well, so what do you think?” Myra’s impatient tone brought Grace out of her reverie, and she realized she’d lapsed into silence for a few seconds too long.
She took a deep breath, willing her tone to remain even. “I thought he might be faking at first. I mean, it seemed a little too coincidental, if Amy did tip him off that we’d be waiting for him. But after spending some time with him tonight, I’m inclined to believe him. He seems genuinely distressed.”
Myra’s tone was pensive. “So maybe this doesn’t have to change anything. Let’s think about it for a minute. Whether he’s faking or not, your cover should hold up. If Amy told you the truth and she really had no family, there won’t be anyone coming out of the woodwork to dispute your claim. And if he does have amnesia, it could even work to our advantage. Make him easier to control.”
An image of Ethan’s bruised and battered face materialized in Grace’s mind, and something fluttered in her stomach. Was it pity? Guilt?
Maybe it was just plain old fear, she thought, although for her, that could be the most dangerous emotion of all.
“You aren’t having second thoughts about using him, are you?” Myra asked casually, but Grace was immediately on her guard. Was she being tested?
She gripped the phone with grim determination. “Not at all. Ethan Hunter is a means to an end, nothing more.”
“Good,” Myra said, satisfied. “Because we’re getting close, Grace. Can you feel it?”
Grace’s stomach knotted with excitement. Or was it dread? “Yes.”
“This amnesia thing could be a blessing in disguise, exactly what we need to gain Hunter’s cooperation. But we still have to be careful,” Myra warned. “Don’t do or say anything that will tip him off. I don’t have to remind you that one false move and this whole thing could still blow up in our faces.”
“Don’t worry.” Cradling the phone against her shoulder, Grace removed the SIG-Sauer from her purse and released the magazine, pulling back the slide to make sure the gun was unloaded. Then methodically she reloaded the weapon and looked through the sights, relieved to see that her hand was steady, her nerves steeled. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
“I know you have,” Myra said. “But just remember, this can’t become a personal vendetta. Once you allow your emotions to get in the way, you become a walking dead woman.”
“I understand. You don’t have to worry about me. You taught me well.”
“I hope so,” Myra said softly. “I hope so...”
After they ended the call, Grace poured herself a whiskey over ice and walked out to the tiny balcony of her room. It was still hot. At Ethan’s house, the lush tropical foliage, both inside and out, had at least given the illusion of coolness, but here, the heat clung to the concrete and mortar like a desperate lover.
Grace lifted the glass to the back of her neck, letting the cool condensation slide against her skin as the events of the night and remnants of her former life played themselves out in her mind. Funny how one tragic moment, one careless decision could change a person’s life forever, could mold you into someone you didn’t even recognize anymore.
But tonight she’d glimpsed a bit of the old Grace. Tonight she’d remembered what it was like to be attracted to a man. She’d felt something, standing outside with Ethan.
Downing half the contents of her glass, Grace shuddered as the liquid caught fire in her throat and stomach. Myra’s warning seemed to reach out from the darkness and taunt her.
Once you allow your emotions to get in the way, you become a walking dead woman.
Chapter Four
The sun streaming in through the tall windows in the third-story master suite awakened Ethan the next morning. He’d tossed and turned for hours the night before, sleeping sporadically, dreaming about running through the jungle and then falling. As in most nightmares, he never remembered hitting the ground but instead would awaken abruptly in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, adrenaline still rushing through his veins.
He sat up now and looked around, slowly letting the events of last evening filter back in. He’d hoped that by morning his memory would have returned, but his mind was still pretty much a blank. He still had no idea who Ethan Hunter really was, what he might have done, or why someone wanted to kill him. All he knew for sure was that he had to somehow keep it together. He had to remain sharp until he could find out what the hell was going on.
His body aching, he pulled himself out of bed and headed for the shower. Like the bedroom, the master bath was huge and luxurious, with lush, green carpeting, intricate tile mosaics, a step-up marble bathtub, and a shower stall that could easily accommodate two.
Turning on the water in the shower, Ethan stood staring at his reflection in the mirror over the double vanity. The bruises on his face were still prominent, but the swelling had gone down, and the pain wasn’t quite so severe. He almost looked human this morning, although his face was still one he didn’t recognize.
Stripping away the last of his clothing, he examined the appendectomy scar on his lower right side. The wound was surprisingly large, about four
inches long, and still tender to the touch. Ethan stared at the scar, trying to remember the surgery, but nothing came to him. Nothing but the fleeting memory of being pursued through the jungle. The echoing sound of gunfire. The lingering unease that Dr. Ethan Hunter was a man he wasn’t sure he wanted to get to know.
Ignoring the twinges of pain from the cuts and bruises, he stepped under the hot water, washing briskly, trying to elude the questions whirling inside his head by concentrating on the mundane. Showering. Getting dressed. Finding something to eat.
Back in the bedroom, he gazed at the clothing hanging in the massive walk-in closet. The expensive suits and custom-made shirts were as unfamiliar to him as the face he’d studied in the bathroom mirror.
Finally, randomly, he grabbed something casual, a pair of charcoal pants and a cotton knit pullover. The pants were loose in the waist, and he wondered if he’d lost weight after his surgery. The shirt fit fine, but the shoes he pulled from the closet were a little snug. He started to find another pair, but then froze when he heard a noise. Somewhere downstairs a door opened and closed.
It occurred to Ethan that Rosa might have come back, but she’d said last night that today was her day off. She planned to spend the time with her daughter. So who was downstairs then?
Ethan scanned the room for a weapon. His eyes lit on the nightstand next to the bed, and he crossed the floor to search through the drawers. If he kept a gun in the house, he reasoned that would be the logical place for it, but his search was fruitless.
Removing the shade from the heavy brass lamp on the night stand, Ethan jerked the plug from the wall and picked up the base. As a weapon, it was cumbersome at best, but he didn’t have time to look for anything else. Whoever was in the house might even now be slipping up the stairs to ambush him.
Heart thumping, his senses on full alert, Ethan left the bedroom, making his way toward the stairs. He paused on the landing, peering over the railing into the jungle-like living room below him. Nothing moved. No sound came to him.
In sock feet, he slipped silently down the stairs, his gaze searching every nook and corner of the room. There were any number of places an intruder could hide, but the most obvious place seemed to be the study. The door was ajar, and Ethan was almost certain he’d closed it last night before going to bed.
He crossed the room and flattened himself against the wall outside the study, listening. From inside, he could detect shuffling sounds, as if someone was going through his papers.
Nerves pumped, Ethan glanced inside. And tensed.
A woman stood before an open safe, busily removing what looked to be bundles of cash. He recognized her immediately from the picture he’d found in the desk last night. The intruder was his wife.
She didn’t see him at first. Ethan watched her for several seconds as she stood at the safe. The red suit she wore was so short and so tight that she didn’t appear to be armed, but the thought crossed Ethan’s mind that she was probably extremely dangerous anyway. A woman scorned could be deadly.
He set the brass lamp on the floor, then stepped into the room. Her head jerked toward the door, her hand flying to her heart when she saw him. She blinked once, then twice before she finally managed to get her shock under control. “Ethan!” Her voice was lyrical and very feminine, traced with a Spanish accent. “I didn’t know you were home.”
Ethan glanced at the bundles of cash. “I can see that.”
She made no move to close the safe door, nor to hide the money she’d stacked on top of his desk. Instead she took one of the bundles and brazenly thumbed through the bills. “I heard you were in the hospital.” Glancing up, her gaze flicked over his bruised features. Something flashed in her eyes, an emotion Ethan couldn’t define. “You look and sound terrible,” she said.
“Thanks.” He returned her perusal, taking a long moment to study her features, and decided that the photograph in his desk, as spectacular as it was, didn’t do her justice. She was even more beautiful in person. The deep V-neck of her jacket revealed a magnificent cleavage while the impossibly short skirt highlighted impossibly long legs.
But what drew Ethan’s attention more than her grace and sultry beauty was the fact that she appeared to be stealing him blind.
As if reading his mind, she glanced down at the money and shrugged. “It’s not like you don’t owe me.”
When he didn’t protest, she gave him an odd glance, then turned back to the safe. Her hair cascaded down her back, almost to her waist, gleaming like ebony when she tossed it over her shoulder.
“What are you doing here anyway?” she asked, her voice muffled as she reached inside the safe. “Bob said you’d been beaten up pretty badly. He thought you’d be in the hospital for several more days.” She withdrew another packet of bills, then turned to face him, her dark eyes challenging.
“Bob who?” Ethan asked, without thinking.
She arched a perfect black brow. “Bob Kendall. Your ex-partner, remember? Who else would I be talking about?”
Ethan was immediately on his guard. Kendall was his ex-partner? If the hostility in the man’s eyes last night had been any indication, the arrangement had ended badly. Ethan wondered what had gone wrong, in his business and in his marriage.
He stared at his wife, trying to dredge up a memory, some leftover emotion, but nothing came to him. Nothing but a faint uneasiness as he watched her.
“When did you talk to Bob?” he asked.
Something that might have been guilt flashed over her features. She began stuffing the money into a large black tote bag. “He called me last night He was at the hospital when you were brought in, and he thought I’d want to know what happened.”
Ethan remembered what Rosa had told him last evening, that Pilar had called here at the house because Kendall had told her Ethan was returning. Why? he wondered. There had been none of her clothing in the closet upstairs, no makeup or feminine toiletries in the bathroom. It was obvious she no longed lived here, so why had she called Rosa to find out when he was returning?
And why wait until he got back to rob his safe? Unless, of course, things hadn’t gone according to plan—
Had Pilar and Kendall been behind Ethan’s attack last night? Had they somehow arranged for him to go to the clinic before coming home? Had they wanted to kill him?
Ethan studied his wife and wondered why that notion didn’t seem preposterous to him. Was it because Pilar Hunter struck him as a woman who would get what she wanted no matter who she had to hurt in the process?
But she was also a woman Ethan had married, must have once loved. He wondered how he could feel nothing, not even anger, toward her now.
Her task completed, she closed the bag and slung the straps over her shoulder. She walked around the desk and started by him, then paused. “Bob told me about Amy. I guess I should say I’m sorry.”
Ethan said nothing.
For the first time, he sensed an uncertainty about his wife, as if she didn’t know whether to say more or end it here and now. Then she smiled. “I never believed you loved her, you know. Not like you once loved me.” Gazing up at him, she lifted a hand to his face.
Ethan resisted the urge to step back from her. Instead he held his ground, letting her place a cool palm against his bruised skin. For one long moment, he stared down at her perfect features, her incredible beauty, and wondered again why he felt nothing.
And she knew. Like a lightning bolt, anger whipped across her features. “Cabrón,” she muttered as she turned and brushed by him. Outside the doorway, she glanced back. “You do look terrible, you know. Besides the bruises, I mean. You’ve lost weight. Your eyes...” she trailed off, studying him.
“What about my eyes?” he asked sharply.
“They’re cold. Even colder than I remembered.” She shuddered. “You are not the man I married, Ethan. You haven’t been for a very long time.”
WHEN GRACE ARRIVED at the house a little while later, she was amazed to see how much better Ethan looked.
Even though the bruises hadn’t faded, the swelling in his face had gone down so that his features were no longer distorted. She could tell more clearly what he looked like, and when he’d first opened the door, she’d caught her breath in surprise.
“I...hope I didn’t get you up,” she said, her gaze slipping over him. He was dressed, but his hair was mussed and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. His casualness made her feel stuffy in her beige pantsuit, silk shell and brown flats.
“I’ve been up for a while,” he said, his voice still hoarse. He stood back so she could enter. Grace stepped past him into the foyer, then waited while he closed the door and reactivated the alarm.
“Have you remembered anything?” she asked anxiously.
He gave her a look. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
Grace shrugged. “Why should I? Someone out there killed my sister last night, and he may come back to finish you off. Who has time for formalities?”
“I get your point,” he said dryly. “And the answer to your question is, no. I haven’t remembered anything.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing that makes any sense.”
Grace glanced up at him, trying to read his expression. “Well, if it’s any consolation, you look much better today. Almost like a different man.”
“So I’ve already been told.” He turned and started for the stairs.
“By whom?” Grace asked quickly. “Has someone been here this morning?”
He paused on the bottom step, turning to glance over his shoulder. “My wife was here earlier. I caught her taking money out of the safe in the study.”
Grace frowned. “What do you mean, you caught her?”
“Just that. Apparently she no longer lives here. But I guess she decided to come back and help herself to whatever cash I might have left lying around.”
Grace took a moment to assess this new information. So Ethan had met Pilar Hunter face to face. Grace couldn’t help wondering how the meeting had gone, or what he’d thought of the woman. What he’d felt for her. From the pictures Grace had seen, Pilar was an incredibly beautiful woman.
Lover, Stranger Page 6
