But then Myra lowered the weapon, Reardon was taken away, and Grace collapsed in the agent’s arms. Grace promised herself that the tears she shed that night would be her last. That she would never again allow herself to be vulnerable. To be a target.
Within a month, she made the life-altering decision to follow in her father’s footsteps at the FBI. When she was accepted so quickly, she suspected that Myra had pulled some strings, but Grace didn’t care. She was completely focused. She knew exactly what she wanted from life. While Trevor Reardon was confined to a maximum security prison some seven hundred miles away, Grace began and completed the rigorous training at Quantico, Virginia.
She became an agent as dedicated and single-minded as any who had served before her. If she was lonely at night, she tried not to think about it. If she had difficulty making friends, she told herself she didn’t have time for relationships anyway. If she shied away from serious involvements, she knew that was the way it had to be. There was no room in her life for anything but justice.
For Grace, her emotional isolation had become a normal way of life.
But then three months ago, news had come to her of Trevor Reardon’s second escape. She hadn’t been surprised. Or frightened. In fact, there had been a certain sense of inevitability about it all. She’d always known he would come back for her. She was the one loose end that would torment him.
But it would be different now, Grace thought, lying in the bright glare of the bathroom light. This time, she would be ready for him. This time, she was the hunter.
And when they met again face to face, she and Reardon, this time, only one of them would walk away.
Chapter Seven
The aroma of frying chorizo awakened Ethan the next morning. He sat up in bed, wondering at his ability to identify the scent of the spicy Mexican sausage when he still had no recall of his past life.
The enticing smell drew a rumble from his stomach, reminding him that he’d skipped dinner the previous evening. He got up from bed and hurriedly showered and shaved. Staring at himself in the mirror, he noticed that the bruises were fading, the swelling had gone away, and the cut was starting to heal.
He studied his features dispassionately. Ethan supposed his appearance would be considered above average by most standards, but to him, there was still something disturbing about his face. Something that wasn’t quite right.
Not wanting to dwell on the possibilities, he left the bathroom and hurriedly dressed, letting the spicy aroma lead him downstairs and into the kitchen.
Rosa stood at the range, stirring the cooked chorizo into a batch of fluffy scrambled eggs. She turned when she heard Ethan enter the room.
“Buenos días, Dr. Hunter.” She gave him a critical once-over. “You’re looking much better this morning.”
“Thanks. I feel better.” He walked over to the breakfast table and sat down at the place she had set for him.
“I made your favorite today. Chorizo and eggs.”
“Smells great.” Ethan watched as she dished up a plate of the sausage and eggs, then brought it to him. She waited while he sampled a bite, then beamed when he almost choked on the peppery food.
“A little extra Tabasco sauce this morning,” she explained. “It’ll get your blood flowing, speed up your recovery.”
Ethan’s blood was flowing all right. He felt as if it were about to explode out the top of his head. “Do you think I could have a glass of orange juice?” he managed to gasp.
Rosa stood with her hands on her hips, watching him. “Since when do you like orange juice?”
“Since I found a pitcher in the refrigerator yesterday.”
“That was for me,” Rosa said accusingly. “You don’t like orange juice, not even fresh squeezed. You drink jugo de tomate. ”
Tomato juice didn’t sound the least bit appealing to Ethan, but if it would put out the flames dancing on his tongue, he was willing to give it a shot.
“All right, tomato juice then.”
Rosa still hesitated. “That cut on your head, Dr. Hunter. It still makes you strange, no?”
“Strange is a good word for it,” he muttered.
Rosa turned and hurried over to the refrigerator. She brought him back a tall glass of chilled tomato juice. Ethan took a quick drink, then another. It wasn’t half bad.
He set down the glass and glanced up at Rosa. “You were right. Jugo de tomate hits the spot.”
She nodded in satisfaction, then circled the air with her finger near her ear. “Extraño.” She started to turn away, then stopped. She stared down at him, her dark eyes clouding. “I read in the paper about Amy Cole. Dr. Hunter, why didn’t you tell me what had happened to you the other night?”
“I didn’t want to worry you, Rosa.”
She bit her lip, twisting her hands in her white apron. “That poor child. I only met her once, when she came here to the house looking for you, but she was very nice to me.”
Ethan nodded, not wanting to encourage a line of conversation to which he had nothing to contribute. He didn’t remember Amy. He didn’t remember anything about her, only the sound of her scream before she’d died.
He glanced down at his plate, willing away the image.
Rosa must have mistaken his silence for grief. She murmured something comforting in Spanish, then turned and went back to her work.
Ethan took a few more bites of his food, then shoved his plate away. At the thought of Amy, his appetite had deserted him. After several minutes of strained silence, he said, “By the way, how’s your daughter and her baby?”
Rosa turned at that, her look one of astonishment.
“What’s the matter?” Ethan asked in alarm. “Did I say something wrong?”
Rosa’s amazement turned to discomfort. Her dark brows knitted into a frown. “No. It’s just that...why do you want to know about my daughter, Dr. Hunter? It’s been a long time since you ask about her.”
“It...has?”
Rosa hesitated. “We don’t talk about our personal lives to each other. That was the agreement we had when I first came to work for you. You said it would be better that way.”
“Better for whom?”
Her shrug seemed ominous somehow. She came back over to the table and stood staring down at him. “Dr. Hunter, are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you should go back to the hospital.” She pronounced it “ohs-pee-tahl.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Ethan tried to shrug away her concern. “I told you it might take several days for the effects of the concussion to wear off.”
“I know, but it’s not just that.” Rosa paused again. “You don’t act the same. You don’t talk the same. You don’t even look the same...” She trailed off, one hand creeping to her chest as if she had the sudden urge to cross herself.
Ethan frowned. “I still have a lot of bruising on my face, and my voice is still a bit hoarse.” He wondered why his tone suddenly sounded so defensive.
“Maybe,” Rosa agreed, but she didn’t look convinced. “I still think you should go back to the hospital.”
Ethan tried to smile reassuringly. “Just give me a few more days. I’ll be back up to speed in no time.”
Rosa muttered something he couldn’t understand as she turned back to the stove.
Ethan got up and carried his plate and glass to the sink. “Do we have a phone book around here somewhere?”
“In the cabinet next to the door,” she said, watching him. Ethan thought she was probably dying to ask him who he wanted to call. In spite of the agreement about their private lives, he could see the curiosity—or was that suspicion?—simmering in the black depths of her eyes.
He retrieved the Yellow Pages directory from the shelf, and carried the two heavy volumes back to his place at the table. Thumbing through the A-L volume, he located the page he wanted, then quickly scanned the entries underneath Guns. He memorized the name and address of a store on the Katy Freeway that looked promising, but he had no idea how to find it. All he knew was t
hat his house was somewhere off Memorial Drive.
Checking the map at the front of the book, he discovered that the Katy Freeway was the name of the feeder road that ran alongside Interstate 10, and that the gun shop was not far from where he lived. He was fairly certain he could find it.
Closing the book, he put both volumes back in their places and turned to Rosa. Her expression was still dubious.
If you only knew the whole story, Ethan thought. Aloud, he said, “Do you happen to know where my car keys are?”
“No. But I know where you keep your spares.” She opened a drawer, pulled out a key, and tossed it to him. Ethan decided the Porsche emblem on the key ring was a good omen.
He pocketed the key. “By the way, I think it would be a good idea to get the alarm code changed. I’d like for you to contact the security company as soon as possible.”
Following the covered walkway to the garage, Ethan opened the side door and pressed the lighted button on the wall to activate the automatic garage door opener. The heavy door slowly lifted, letting in sunlight, and Ethan, getting his first look at the Porsche, whistled softly.
Black and sleek, with a mirrorlike finish that was almost blinding, the sports car looked ready and able for action. But almost equally impressive was the vintage candy apple-red Corvette that sat alongside the Porsche, and the white 1964 T-Bird that was parked next to the Vette.
Ethan took a moment to admire all three cars before climbing into the Porsche and backing it out of the garage. Shifting into gear, he gave the car gas, then heard the satisfactory bum of rubber as he headed down the driveway.
A Porsche, a Corvette, and a Thunderbird, he thought admiringly. For the first time since he’d awakened in the hospital, he considered the possibilities—and the privileges—that came with being Dr. Ethan Hunter. Maybe there were certain aspects of his personality that he could admire after all. He apparently had fantastic taste in cars.
And in women.
If the picture he’d seen of Amy Cole yesterday was any indication, she’d been as beautiful as his wife, Pilar, but for some reason Ethan couldn’t explain, neither woman seemed real to him. They were almost too perfect, as if he had chosen them—or created them—to be admired rather than loved. In spite of their great beauty, both women left him cold.
Ethan supposed he could attribute his lack of an emotional response to his amnesia, but how would that explain the exact opposite reaction he had to Grace? Her imperfections—the cleft in her chin, the frekles across her nose, the tiny mole beneath her right eyebrow—were infinitely more appealing and more seductive than flawless features could ever be.
She was a real woman and she would know real passion. Ethan was sure of it. He’d glimpsed that passion in her eyes yesterday, before he’d kissed her. Before she’d fled Amy’s living room in a vain attempt to run away from their attraction.
But the chemistry had still been there when she’d come back. Still there when he’d gazed into her eyes outside the apartment, and later, when she’d dropped him off at his house that evening.
It had still been there when he’d fallen asleep last night, thinking about her...
In the space of two short days, Grace Donovan had gotten under his skin in a way he knew no other woman had before her. But a relationship with her was impossible, for any number of reasons. He had no memory. He had no idea what he might have done in his past. And the one thing that did seem certain was that he was a married man. He may have had an affair with Amy Cole, but he wouldn’t do that to Grace.
What about Pilar? a little voice taunted him. Aren’t you the least bit concerned about your wife’s feelings?
Ethan tried, he really tried to feel something for his estranged wife, but nothing came to him. Nothing but an uneasy feeling that Pilar might have been behind his attack two nights ago, that she might have been the one who had wanted Amy dead.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. The streets weren’t crowded this time of day, and Ethan had noticed a white sedan pull out of the neighborhood behind him and trail several car lengths away. But just when Ethan began to think he was being followed, the sedan signalled and turned into the parking area of a large office building.
Just to be on the safe side, Ethan circled the block. When he came back around, the car was still in the parking lot and no one was inside.
A few moments later, Ethan pulled into the shopping center off the Katy Freeway. The gun shop was located between a dry cleaners and a sporting goods store. He parked at the far end of the lot, near the sporting goods store, then removed the unloaded gun from the front seat of the car and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
At this time of morning—a few minutes after ten—stores had just opened. There was no one inside the gun shop except for a clerk who stood behind the counter, polishing the glass. He buzzed Ethan in, and when he entered the store, he could hear another worker in the back, moving inventory.
“Mornin’,” the clerk at the counter greeted. He was a tall, lanky man of about fifty, dressed in a white western shirt with pearl buttons and Wrangler jeans that rode low on lean hips. “What can I do you for?”
The store was filled with weapons of varying makes and caliber. Ethan wondered why he didn’t feel the least bit intimidated by all that firepower. The thought crossed his mind again that he was no ordinary doctor. Far from it, if what Grace had told him was true.
He stepped up to the counter and pulled the gun from his pocket, laying it carefully on the glass counter. The clerk whistled softly, much as Ethan had done when he’d first seen the Porsche.
“Ain’t that a little beauty? What’s your askin’ price?”
“I’m not here to sell it. I wondered if you could tell me something about it My father-in-law left it to me when he died,” Ethan improvised. “I think it’s custom-made.”
“Oh, it’s custom all right.” The clerk picked up the weapon and studied it almost reverently. “It’s a 1911 Colt revolver that’s been specially modified. See these night sights? Those set your father-in-law back a pretty penny.”
Ethan watched the clerk handle the weapon with an expertise that seemed oddly familiar. “Do you have any idea where he might have gotten these modifications?”
The clerk sighted an invisible target, squinting one eye as he took aim. “There’s a gun shop over in Arkansas that does this kind of work. They modify weapons of this caliber—guns that can easily be concealed—for police SWAT teams, the FBI Hostage Rescue Units, and even for some of the elite units of the military.”
That caught Ethan’s attention. “Elite units of the military? You mean like the Navy SEALs?”
The clerk palmed the weapon and tested its weight. “Was your father-in-law a military man?”
“Not in recent years.”
“You mean that you know about” The clerk gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Some of those guys are mighty secretive, you know. They don’t talk about their work.”
Ethan paused. “This gun shop in Arkansas would probably keep records of their custom orders, right?”
The clerk scratched his head. “More than likely. But if it was ordered through a police department or the military, they wouldn’t have a record of the individual the gun was issued to. They might be able to track down the particular law enforcement body or branch of the service that owned the weapon, but I doubt they’d be able to give you that information. And even if they did, it wouldn’t do you any good.”
“Why’s that?”
“See this?” With his index finger, the clerk traced along the side of the gun barrel. “The identification number has been filed away.”
Ethan took the gun from the clerk’s hand, holding the weapon to the light. He could barely detect the faint imperfection in the barrel where the number had been removed. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to conceal his handiwork. The metal had been polished until the scratches in the finish were all but invisible.
The clerk’s eyes narrowed with what might have been s
uspicion. “Looks like your father-in-law—or someone—wanted to make sure this piece couldn’t be traced back to him.”
“Well, thanks for your help.” Ethan gathered up the weapon, said his goodbye, then hurried out of the shop. He was glad he’d had the foresight to park away from the store. He’d seen the suspicion in the clerk’s eyes, and wondered if the man might even now be calling the police. But if he was, he’d have to come outside to get the license plate number from Ethan’s car.
Sliding behind the wheel, Ethan quickly started the Porsche and backed out of the space. No one had come out of the gun shop, and he couldn’t see anyone at the window. Still, he headed down the street in the wrong direction just to avoid driving by the store.
And all the while, the gun was almost a living, breathing entity in the seat beside him.
He’s an ex-Navy SEAL and an explosives expert who sold his services to the highest bidder. He became a mercenary, an assassin, sometimes a terrorist.
Was it possible he had somehow come into possession of Trevor Reardon’s weapon? Had Ethan brought it back to the States with him, put it in his safe for—what? Protection? Because he knew Reardon might someday come after him?
Ethan lifted a hand to wipe the sudden beads of sweat from his brow. That had to be it. That had to be the reason he was in possession of such a weapon.
Because the other explanation that came to mind was almost too terrifying to contemplate.
“HE’S NOT HOME?” Grace repeated. “Where did he go?”
The housekeeper shrugged, giving Grace a cool appraisal. “He had errands.”
“He didn’t give you any indication where he was going?” Damn, Grace thought. Why would he just leave like that? He’d known she was coming over this morning. Why hadn’t he waited for her?
And why the hell hadn’t someone called her to warn her that he was roaming around out there somewhere, making a target of himself?
Rosa eyed her with open disapproval. “I don’t ask where he goes. It’s none of my business,” she said pointedly.
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