Lover, Stranger Part 16

Ethan frowned.

"I still have a lot of bruising on my face, and my voice is still a bit hoa.r.s.e." 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 rea.s.suringly.

"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 gla.s.s 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 that 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 b.u.t.ton 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 mirror like 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. s.h.i.+fting into gear, he gave the car gas, then heard the satisfactory burn 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 freckles 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 pa.s.sion. Ethan was sure of it.

He'd glimpsed that pa.s.sion 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 s.p.a.ce of two short days. Grace Donovan had gotten under his skin in a way he knew no other woman had before her. But a relations.h.i.+p 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, polis.h.i.+ng the gla.s.s. 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 s.h.i.+rt with pearl b.u.t.tons 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 gla.s.s 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 asking' 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 suspicion.

"Looks like your father-inlaw--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 s.p.a.ce. 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 ent.i.ty 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 a.s.sa.s.sin, 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?" d.a.m.n, 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 h.e.l.l 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.

Grace could tell Rosa didn't like her, and therefore, didn't trust her.

Grace had run up against the problem before. She sometimes came across as too abrupt, too impatient, too hard. Women didn't like that.

Neither did some men, for that matter.

She forced a softness in her tone.

"Look, I don't mean to be such a nuisance, but I need to tell Dr. Hunter about the funeral this afternoon."

"Funeral?"

Grace bit her lip and nodded.

"You heard about Amy Cole? Dr. Hunter's a.s.sistant?"

Rosa crossed herself.

"Yes. Such a shame. So young and so bella."

Grace nodded.

"Amy was my sister, Rosa. I came to tell Dr. Hunter about the memorial service this afternoon."

Rosa's.e.xpression changed dramatically. The wariness and suspicion vanished, leaving her features set in gentle lines of compa.s.sion. ' "Lo siento." She reached for Grace's hand and pulled her inside.

"Please. Come in out of the heat."

She led Grace upstairs, saying over her shoulder, "I'll fix you something cool to drink. Then you can tell me about your sister." Her soothing tone made Grace want to do exactly that. For the first time in years, she found herself wanting to tell someone about Jessie, about her goodness and purity, and about her unfailing conscience.

Jessie had been one of those people who had truly been a blessing to this world, while Grace-The parrot's harsh squawk brought her abruptly back to the present'.

She glanced across the room, where the magnificent yellow-and-blue bird strutted with supreme confidence on his perch. When he saw Grace watching him, he flapped his wings and screeched, "They're not real!