Lover, Stranger Part 6

"Look at the size of those headlights!" the parrot screeched. Grace jumped at the unexpectedness of his speech. At the crudeness of his words. She gaped at him in shock.

"What did you say?" The bird repeated the line.

"That's what I thought you said."

The parrot fluffed his wings.

"I don't think they're real," he said importantly.

"How would you know, you little buzzard!"

Grace's tone seemed to excite him. He raced sideways along the perch, squawking in a loud voice, "They're not real! They're not real! I should know, G.o.ddammit!"

"Why you" -- Grace made a menacing move toward the parrot, but he put up such a fuss, she instantly retreated.

Behind her, Ethan said, "What's going on? I thought I heard voices."

Grace quickly took several more steps away from the bird.

"Your little friend here and I were just having a rap session."

"That thing can talk?" Ethan walked toward the parrot. "I wouldn't get too close," Grace warned.

"He's a little... unpredictable."

But the enormous bird was on his best behavior for Ethan. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Ethan said, "What's your name, fella?"

"What's your name, fella?" the bird said in perfect imitation. Ethan laughed, a sound that sent a s.h.i.+ver sliding up Grace's spine. "All right, I'll go first. My name's Ethan. At least...! think it is."

The parrot blinked.

"My name's Ethan," he mimicked. Ethan glanced at Grace.

"This is getting us nowhere fast. You try." Grace shook her head.

"I don't think so. I don't care for birds." Not this particular bird, anyway.

Ethan turned back to the parrot.

"Her name's Grace." "Look at the size of those headlights!"

Startled, Ethan jumped, then his gaze flew to Grace. A spark of amus.e.m.e.nt--or was that curiosity? --flared in his brown eyes, and Grace's face flamed as his gaze dropped almost imperceptibly to her chest.

He turned back to the parrot.

"What else can you say?"

"I don't think they're real." The bird looked straight at Grace. Then he strutted and preened on his perch.

"Proud of yourself, aren't you?" she muttered. She a change? " As if he understood her every word, the bird c.o.c.ked his head and stared at Ethan.

"Hey, pretty boy."

Grace threw up her hands.

"That does it" -- She broke off when she saw the look on Ethan's face. He had grown very still, his expression grim as he turned away from the parrot.

"What is it? Did you remember something?"

Behind them, the parrot gave a long, shrill wolf whistle.

"Hey, pretty boy. Hey, pretty boy," he sang.

Ethan flinched.

"No, it's not that." His gaze didn't quite meet hers.

"I'm just tired. I think I'd like to get some rest now." Grace got his meaning loud and clear. He wanted her to leave. He wasn't about to invite her to spend the night here. But she was reluctant to let him out of her sight. He'd sustained a concussion, among other injuries, and probably shouldn't be alone. And, contrary to what he'd said, she was almost certain the parrot had triggered a memory for him. Why wouldn't he admit it? Why wouldn't he tell her?

"I'm a little worried about you," she said.

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone tonight."

He shrugged.

"You said yourself, this place is like a fortress. Now that I know how to arm the alarm system, I should be safe enough."

Grace bit her lip.

"Maybe. But I'm not just talking about that.

You've got some pretty serious injuries. A head trauma. That's nothing to take lightly. "

He looked at her then, his expression ironic.

"You don't have to worry about me. I'm a doctor, remember?"

His words did nothing to rea.s.sure her. But there was very little Grace could do, short of forcing him at gunpoint to let her stay. She fingered her purse strap, considering.

"If you're sure..."

"We can talk more tomorrow." His tone was final. "Well ... I guess I'll see you in the morning then," Grace said reluctantly.

They started down the stairs together, and he put his hand on her elbow to guide her. Grace was surprised that she didn't pull away, and even more surprised that she didn't want to pull away. The touch of his hand sent a s.h.i.+ver of awareness down her backbone. It should have frightened her, but instead, it reminded her that she was still alive. Still a woman. And it had been a very long time--too d.a.m.ned long--since any man had done that for her.

They paused in the foyer while Ethan turned off the alarm system.

Then he opened the door, and pressing another series of b.u.t.tons, disengaged the lock on the courtyard gate. He followed her outside, and they stood in the driveway to say their goodbyes.

It was nearing midnight. The air had finally cooled, and a lazy breeze drifted through the ancient trees, sounding like rain. The moon was still up, almost full. The freshly watered lawn glistened like diamonds in the milky light, and on a trellis outside the courtyard, a moon flower opened to her lunar mistress. The night was beautiful, clear and starry, but Grace knew the darkness could be deceptive. She peered into Ethan's eyes, wondering what secrets were hidden deep within those fathomless depths.

Moonlight softened his bruised and battered face, and for a split second.

Grace had a glimpse of what he really looked like. She caught her breath, remembering what she'd told him earlier. He was a good-looking man, but she thought his allure had little to do with his physical appearance, and everything to do with the man beneath. The mysteries he had unwittingly buried. She had the sudden and unexpected urge to kiss him, to see if it would stir his emotions enough to uncover those secrets. As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned and captured her gaze. Grace wondered fleetingly if he could tell what she was thinking. If he knew what she wanted at that moment.

She was almost certain that he did.

"I'd better be going," she murmured, realizing too late just how dangerous her situation had suddenly become.

But when she would have walked away, he caught her arm, turning her back to face him. Their gazes met again, his deep and mystical; hers, she feared, open and far too revealing.

"Thank you for bringing me home tonight," he said. His voice, deep and raspy, had an unnerving affect on Grace.

"You don't have to thank me," she said.

"I had my own reasons for doing so."

"Still" -- He broke off, his gaze moving away from her.

"I'm sorry about Amy. I hope you believe that."

At the mention of Amy, an image of Grace's sister came rus.h.i.+ng back to her, reminding her of exactly why she was here. What she had to do.

"If you really mean that," she said softly, almost regretfully, "then I shouldn't have to convince you to help me find her killer."

"I don't think we'll have to find him," Ethan said, his gaze suddenly alert as he searched the darkness around them.

"I think he'll find us. I wouldn't be surprised if he's out there right now, watching us."

Grace's gaze shot over her shoulder at his words. She s.h.i.+vered as her hand tightened on her purse, the urge to remove her weapon almost overpowering.

"Do you really think so?"

He shrugged in response.

Grace released a long breath.

"Look, you've really spooked me. Are you sure you'll be all right here alone?"

"He won't make another move tonight. It's too soon." She frowned.

"How do you know that?"

Ethan gazed down at her, bewilderment flas.h.i.+ng across his features.

"I don't know," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"I don't know how I know that."

ethan watched as Grace eased her car around the circular drive, then pulled onto the main street. Within moments, the taillights disappeared from his sight, and only then did he walk back into the house, locking the courtyard gate and resetting the alarm behind him.

He climbed the staircase again, and for several seconds, stood at the edge of the jungle like room, reluctant to enter.

A deep uneasiness came over him, but he tried to tell himself it was only natural. He had amnesia. He'd almost been killed tonight, and the sister of the woman he'd been having an affair with had all but implicated him in her murder. Why wouldn't he feel uneasy? But it was more than that. Something other than that. He wondered if his discomfort had more to do with Grace herself than with her accusations, or even the bizarre situation in which he found himself.

She wasn't telling him everything. He knew instinctively that there was more to Grace Donovan than she'd let on, but Ethan had no idea why he felt this way. He'd seen the grief in her eyes, the pain in her expression when she talked about her sister. He was sure her emotions were genuine, and yet his earlier doubts about her came rus.h.i.+ng back. Her reaction was not that of a woman who had just learned of her sister's murder. The guilt, the anger, the obsession to find a loved one's killer were emotions that would come much later.

So what was going on here? Why did Ethan have the feeling that he was a p.a.w.n in some very dangerous game?

Was Grace a player, or was she, too, a p.a.w.n?

She had explained her relations.h.i.+p with Amy. They hadn't been close.

A man had come between them, and they hadn't spoken in years until recently.

Until Amy had contacted Grace and told her of the affair with Ethan.

He foraged his mind for a memory of Amy Cole, some remnant of his feelings for her. But there was nothing, and for some reason he couldn't explain, he was almost certain that she'd never meant anything to him.

So was that the kind of person he was? The kind of man who would use a woman for whatever he wanted or needed from her and then discard her without, a second thought? Had he done that with his wife? The cloying scent of the orchids made his head hurt. Ethan hurried out of the room, seeking the shelter of the study he'd found earlier. He didn't want to think about his wife or Amy Cole, and since he didn't re member either of them, it was easy enough to put them out of his mind.

Grace Donovan, however, was a different matter.

At the thought of her, Ethan's uneasiness returned full force, and suddenly he realized where his discomfort was coming from, at least in part. He was attracted to her. He had been from the first. She wasn't beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, but she was attractive in her own way, and definitely intriguing. And those eyes. Those eyes could melt a man's soul.

He was sure of it. Her figure wasn't tall and thin, but lush and womanly, and when he'd grabbed her earlier in the hospital parking lot, he'd felt the hardness of her muscles, the toned grace of her body. If push came to shove, he knew she could hold her own, and that made her all the more alluring. She didn't need taking care of. She didn't need protecting, and that should have rubbed Ethan's male ego the wrong way, but instead it piqued his interest.

Made him wonder things he had no business wondering. He was still a married man, even if he couldn't remember his own wife.

He'd left the light on in the office earlier, and now as he entered the room, he tried to put Grace out of his mind and concentrate on his surroundings.

There had to be something in here that would trigger a memory for him.

Something that would give him a clue as to what he'd been involved in. What had gotten Amy Cole killed. Slowly, he walked around the room, studying the framed diplomas and certificates that he'd only taken the time to glance at earlier. He'd been educated at Harvard and Johns Hopkins. He was a board-certified plastic surgeon.

He'd received dozens of awards and citations, and had corresponded with dignitaries all over the world.

Among the framed letters on the wall was one from the president of the United States, commending him on his work with underprivileged children born with disfigurements.

Ethan studied his hands. Did he really have the ability to wield a scalpel, the power to change people's lives? Children's lives? Could that ability and power, all that training and instinct, be subdued by amnesia?

According to the letters and articles, Dr. Ethan Hunter was not only a brilliant surgeon, but a renowned humanitarian. But if he was such a great guy, why the h.e.l.l was someone trying to kill him? One whole side of the office contained dozens of framed newspaper articles written about him, but only one carried a photograph. For some reason he couldn't define, Ethan had been reluctant to do more than glance at the picture earlier. He knew it was a photo of him. In spite of the battered condition of his face now, he'd recognized the features.

The brown eyes, the dark hair, the angular jaw and chin were the same ones he'd seen in the mirror in Grace's car. And yet. The man in the picture was him and it wasn't.

He couldn't explain it any better than that. He didn't feel connected in any way with the image in the photo, and the moment he'd seen it earlier, a dark haze had descended over him. Try as he might, he hadn't been able to compel himself to take that picture from the wall and study it more closely.

He removed it now and carried it with him to the desk, snapping on a bra.s.s lamp as he sat down. Placing the picture before him, he fought off a wave of dizziness as he forced himself to look down at his likeness, to study and absorb his own features.