Lover, Stranger Page 12

  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 assistant?”

  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 expression changed dramatically. The wariness and suspicion vanished, leaving her features set in gentle lines of compassion. “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! They’re not real! They’re not real!”

  “Shut up, Simon, you stupid bird!” Rosa scolded. To Grace she said apologetically, “He’s a terrible creature. He picks up everything he hears on the televisión.”

  Grace wondered which programs he’d been watching. Jerry Springer? Howard Stern, maybe?

  She followed Rosa into the kitchen and watched while the housekeeper prepared two glasses of iced tea. They both sat down at the breakfast table—Rosa obviously having dispensed with any formalities—and sipped their drinks.

  After a moment, she said, “You came to tell Dr. Hunter about the funeral?”

  Grace nodded. “It’s at four o’clock this afternoon at the Chapel Hill Funeral Home. I... thought he might like to be there.”

  Rosa looked as if she wanted to comment but kept silent

  Grace took another sip of her tea. “How long have you worked for Dr. Hunter?”

  Rosa shrugged. “A long time.”

  “You must know him pretty well.” Grace studied the older woman’s face.

  “Dr. Hunter is not an easy man to know. He’s very...” Rosa struggled for the right word. “Complicado. Complex. There are some who consider him a saint.”

  “Are you one of them?”

  A slight hesitation. “He’s no saint. He has his faults, quite a few of them. But he is, in many ways, a very good man.”

  “You’re referring to the work he does at his clinics here and in Mexico.”

  Rosa nodded. “Especially the one in Méjico. The children who come there would break your heart. Many of them have been horribly disfigured since birth. They’ve become outcasts in their own villages. They’ve never known anything but ridicule.”

  Grace wondered how he could possibly be the same man who changed criminals faces for money. Was Ethan some sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a man with two very distinct personalities? The notion made her shiver. “How did you meet Dr. Hunter?”

  Rosa shrugged, but her expression suddenly became very sad. “It was a long time ago, in Mexico City. When my daughter was young, I worked in a barra in a very bad part of town. Marta and I had a little one-room apartamento on the second floor, little better than a hovel, but it was all I could afford. Sometimes when I worked late, Marta would get lonely. She would sneak downstairs to be near me. I didn’t want her to. She was already starting to look like a woman, and she was so beautiful that men were already starting to notice her. One night a fight broke out, a drunken brawl. In the confusion, a man grabbed Marta and pulled her outside. He tried to—” Rosa’s eyes closed briefly, as if the memory had become too painful to relive. Grace understood that feeling all too well.

  “What happened?” she asked gently.

  Rosa shuddered. “Marta fought him off as best she could and started screaming. He pulled a knife and cut her. The whole side of her face was...mutilated.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Rosa shrugged away Grace’s pity. “She was horribly scarred. People would stare at her on the streets, and children would run away from her. Marta withdrew completely into herself. She was very...ashamed of her face. Years passed, and then one day I heard about Dr. Hunter. That was before he had his clinic in the jungle. He use to come to Mexico City twice a year and work in one of the hospitals. People there spoke of him as a god. It was said the handsome young doctor could perform miracles, that he could transform the most hideous monster into an angel. Marta was no monster. She was a badly scarred and frightened child. But Dr. Hunter was my only hope.”

  “Was he able to help her?” Grace asked, caught up in the story in spite of herself.

  “Eventually. Marta was frightened of him at first—frightened of every man who came near her—but Dr. Hunter spoke to her so gently that she soon forgot her fears. He told her it might take several operations, but when he was finished, she would be beautiful again. And she was.” A tear trickled down Rosa’s cheek, and she quickly brushed it away.

  Grace was more affected by the story than she wanted to admit. It was hard enough to do what had to be done, but when she thought of Rosa’s daughter and of all the children Ethan had helped, Grace couldn’t help asking herself if ridding the world of a man like Trevor Reardon was an equal exchange for depriving it of a doctor as talented as Ethan.

  Not daring to ponder the question, Grace rose. “I’d better be going. I still have a million things to do.”

  Rosa nodded sympathetically and stood, too. Just as she started for the kitchen door to show Grace out, the phone rang.

  Grace held up her hand. “Go ahead and get that. I can let myself out.”

  In the living room, she couldn’t resist stopping by the parrot’s cage. The two of them had formed some kind of strange bond, Grace decided. A sort of mutual disrespect for one another. Besides which, she needed something to take her mind off Rosa’s story and the doubts it had created for her.

  “So your name is Simon, huh? As in Simon Says?”

  The bird cocked his head and stared at her.

  Grace cocked her head and stared back. “Well, why don’t you say it, Simon? I know you’re dying to.”

  Simon blinked, but remained silent.

  After a moment, Grace crooned, “They’re not real, they’re not real, they’re not real. Come on, what do you say, Simon?”

  The bird fluffed his wings importantly and squawked, “I say we get rid of the bastard once and for all.”

  SINCE AMY COLE had no family, Grace, in keeping with her cover, had taken care of all the funeral arrangements. She’d kept the service simple, ordering an elegant spray of white roses to rest atop the mahogany casket while a framed picture of Amy, the one from her apartment, was displayed on a nearby pedestal.

  The small chapel was surprisingly crowded. Grace glanced around the room, trying to sort out who was who. Several people clustered around the apartment manager from Amy’s complex, and Grace decided that most of them were probably Amy’s neighbors. Some of the others were undoubtedly from work. But aside from the manager, Grace didn’t recognize any of the mourners.

  She glanced at her watch, wondering what was keeping Ethan. He’d been incommunicado with her all day, and although he’d been under surveillance for most of that time, Grace had yet to be given a report on his movements.

  When ten more minutes had gone by and he still hadn’t shown, she began t
o worry. Could something have happened? Had Reardon somehow managed to slip through the trap they’d set for him?

  A sour taste rose in Grace’s mouth at the thought. She wanted Reardon, but at what price? Two days ago, she would have said any price, but that was before she’d met Ethan. Before she’d allowed him to get to her.

  Now she wasn’t sure what she would do if the choice came down to Reardon or Ethan.

  You’re a fool, a little voice whispered inside her. You don’t know this man. You don’t owe him anything.

  True, but in the last two days, he’d awakened something inside Grace she had thought forever dead. Feelings. Attraction.

  Need.

  She closed her eyes briefly as a wave of doubt rolled over her. She didn’t want to need anyone. She couldn’t afford to. Need was synonymous with vulnerability. Weakness. And Grace had to remain strong. She had to remain focused. If she didn’t, she might not be able to save herself or Ethan.

  But what if Reardon does manage to penetrate the screen? that same voice taunted her.

  Grace told herself it was impossible. The plan would work.

  But would it? Hadn’t this operation already been full of surprises? Amy Cole was never supposed to die. In fact, she shouldn’t have been anywhere near the clinic that night. Her cooperation with the FBI had been critical in formulating the plan to capture Trevor Reardon, but because Grace hadn’t been honest, Amy had gotten scared. If Myra’s hunch was right, Amy had gone to the clinic to warn Ethan that the Feds were on to him. And she’d gotten herself killed in the process.

  Grace blamed herself for that. Though she wasn’t a mind reader, she should have interpreted the signs. Amy was crazy in love with Ethan. When she suddenly realized what her cooperation with the authorities would mean for him—and for herself—she’d panicked. Grace should have seen it coming, but she’d never been the best judge of what love could do to you. What it could make you do.

  In fact, she had been the very worst judge.

  Not wanting to start an avalanche of memories, she turned her attention back to the crowd. A man had come in and gone straight to Amy’s picture. He stood staring at it for a long moment, then walked over to the casket, running his fingers along the smooth surface of the lid. He began to sob quietly.

  Uneasy, Grace watched him. Who was he? How had he known Amy? She’d told Grace she had no family or close friends, other than Ethan, but this man had obviously been deeply affected by her death.

  Someone touched Grace’s arm and she whirled. The chaplain, Bible clutched to his chest, stood at her side. He looked to be in his mid-forties, tall and thin with arrow-straight posture. His cheekbones were classically high, giving what would have been an otherwise plain face an almost regal look. His lips were thin, his nose a bit broad and his dark brown hair was streaked with gray. Grace thought he had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen, but even as that notion flitted through her mind, trepidation swept over her. Had she met him before?

  He held out his hand to her, and Grace reluctantly took it. His handshake was warm and firm, not in the least offensive, but a shiver racked her just the same. As soon as she deemed it appropriate, she withdrew her hand from his.

  The chaplain smiled. “You’re Amy’s sister, I understand.”

  Grace hesitated. Lying in the service of her country was one thing, but deliberately deceiving a man of God something else. “We weren’t close,” she said carefully.

  “That often happens in families. A rift occurs, time passes, and before anyone can imagine, it’s too late. But take comfort in the knowledge that it never is really too late. You will see your sister again.”

  Grace’s gaze fastened on the man’s clerical collar. She realized suddenly why he seemed so familiar to her, why he made her so uneasy. She had not been around a clergyman since her family’s funeral, but now she had a vivid recall of that day, of the minister from their church holding her hand, offering her comfort in the knowledge that she and her family would someday be reunited in the hereafter.

  It was only later that Grace had decided her only comfort would come here on earth, when she put Trevor Reardon away forever.

  The man at the coffin was still crying. The chaplain smiled sadly. “If you’ll excuse me...”

  Grace watched him approach the casket and put a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. The chaplain spoke to the weeping man softly, and after a bit, his sobs subsided. He turned and walked away from the casket, his gaze brushing Grace’s before he seated himself at the back of the chapel.

  It was nearing on four o’clock. Rosa came in and nodded to Grace before finding a seat near the front. The group of people from Amy’s apartment complex settled near the middle. Others scattered about the remaining pews. Just as the chaplain took the podium, two last-minute arrivals started everyone whispering among themselves.

  Grace recognized the woman at once. Pilar Hunter had looked exquisitely beautiful in the pictures Grace had seen of her, but in person, the woman was breathtaking.

  Unlike almost everyone else in the chapel, she’d refused to wear black, choosing instead a sleeveless dress in dusky blue linen that did incredible things to her dark hair and eyes. The hemline was short, her heels high, and her bare legs went on forever. Grace couldn’t help glancing down at her own attire—a simple silk jersey dress that she had once thought flattering. For the first time that afternoon, she was almost glad Ethan hadn’t shown up.

  The man with Pilar took her elbow and guided her toward a pew. They settled directly behind Grace, and she caught a strong whiff of Pilar’s perfume—a heavy, exotic scent that seemed to capture the essence of the woman herself.

  As the chaplain started the service, Grace became increasingly aware of Pilar’s presence, as if the woman was staring at the back of Grace’s head. She remembered what Ethan had said about his wife, that she seemed like a woman capable of throwing acid on his car or in his face. Grace understood what he meant. In the brief glimpse she’d had of Pilar, Grace had sensed an undercurrent of suppressed violence that was almost as tangible as her perfume.

  I say we just kill the bastard and be done with it.

  Could she and Myra have been wrong? Grace wondered suddenly. What if Trevor Reardon hadn’t been behind the attack in Ethan’s clinic? What if someone else wanted him dead?

  Grace tried to put the notion out of her head. She couldn’t afford to get sidetracked or to let down her guard. That was exactly what Reardon would want For all she knew, he might be in this very room now, watching her from a distance and laughing. Laughing...

  Grace looked up and her gaze met the chaplain’s. He smiled at her and nodded almost imperceptibly before he bowed his head to pray for Amy Cole’s immortal soul.

  Chapter Eight

  Ethan stared at the pile of shoes on his bedroom floor as a headache beat a painful staccato inside his brain.

  What the hell was going on here?

  Why didn’t any of these shoes fit him?

  His movements almost frantic, Ethan tried on another pair, and then another. Every shoe in his closet was too small for him. The only pair that fit him were the ones he’d been wearing the night he woke up in the hospital, the ones he’d been wearing ever since.

  The loafers had been fine with casual clothes, but today, getting dressed for Amy’s funeral, he’d found a black suit, white shirt, and somber tie in the closet. When he’d brought out the appropriate shoes, he’d discovered they were too small for him, as was every other pair of shoes in the closet.

  He didn’t understand why. Granted, the clothes he’d been wearing were loose, but that could be explained by weight loss following surgery. And he knew he’d had the appendectomy because he had the scar to prove it. The dreams of being shot, of falling off a cliff were just that—drug induced visions. The memory loss was due to the blow to his head. His wariness of the authorities—well. Grace had explained that to him as well.

  Clearly, everything that had happened to him had a logical, if disturbing,
explanation.

  Except for the fact that none of his shoes fit.

  Ethan picked up the black dress shoe and studied it. Why would he—why would anyone—buy dozens of pairs of expensive shoes in the wrong size? It made no sense—

  Without warning, the pain in his head became razor-sharp, blinding. Dropping the shoe, Ethan put his hands to his head, pressing tightly as he squeezed his eyes closed.

  An image shot through him. He could see someone running for his life through a jungle. He could smell the dank scent of the vegetation, feel the cloying heat, hear the sounds of pursuit behind him. He knew the man’s fear. But the man’s face was not the one Ethan stared at in the mirror.

  And yet...

  The man in the vision was him and it wasn’t.

  Unlike the picture that Ethan had seen of himself downstairs in the study, he felt connected to the man running through the jungle. He knew him in a way he did not know the stranger staring back at him from the mirror.

  But... why?

  Why was he having another man’s visions?

  Why did none of the shoes in his closet fit him?

  Why was he in possession of a gun that may well have been issued to someone in one of the special forces of the military? Someone like an elite Navy SEAL? Someone like Trevor Reardon?

  Why did a plastic surgeon know how to use a weapon like that?

  An explanation came with another blinding flash of light.

  Pain exploded inside Ethan’s head, and for a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.

  WHEN THE SERVICE was over, Grace looked up to find Ethan standing in the doorway of the chapel. As his gaze met hers, she felt a physical jolt. It was almost as if a bolt of pure adrenaline had ping-ponged between them.

  He looked pale, Grace thought with sudden anxiety. Shaken. What had happened to him?

  She got up and started toward him, but was waylaid several times by well-wishers—first by the apartment manager, then by a neighbor, and then by Rosa, whose initial frost toward Grace had thawed. The housekeeper squeezed Grace’s hand comfortingly, then, her glance moving over Grace’s shoulder, she pursed her lips in stern disapproval.