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Lover, Stranger
Lover, Stranger [070-4.7]
By: AMANDA STEVENS
Synopsis:
to the mysterious Ethan Hunter; he was the one man who could identify her
sister's killer. A man whose touch ignited in Grace a burning Attacked and
left for dead, Ethan awoke to no memory, an unresolved murder and a tempting
redhead. Something in Ethan urged him to protect Grace from the killer she
sought--but the more they investigated, the more he feared he might be
protecting her from himself. (I may not remember what I've done, but I
don't think I'm the only one with secrets. "
Grace's heartbeat quickened.
"What do you mean?" Ethan gazed down at her.
"I don't know who you are any more than I know who I am. We're strangers...
and yet, we seem to have some kind of connection. Even you can't deny that."
"Our connection is my sister," Grace tried to say calmly. He shook his head.
"I don't think so. I can't help but wonder if you're holding something back
from me. Did we know each other before?"
"No." Grace's heart pounded. He was getting too close. If he found out who
she was. "Then what is this connection we have?" he asked almost urgently.
Grace shrugged.
"Attraction. Chemistry. Call it what you like."
"Why do I feel as if it's something more?" Ethan grabbed her arms and
pulled her to him.
"Please don't," Grace said breathlessly.
He drew her close, so close their lips were only a heartbeat apart.
"You want me to kiss you," he murmured against her mouth.
"Tell me to stop..."
Lover, Stranger AMANDA STEVENS ^SILHOUETTE INTRIGUE AMANDA STEVENS knew at
an early age she wanted to be a writer and began her first novel at the age
of thirteen. While studying English she was encouraged to write a romance by
one of her tutors. Amanda lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband and
their twins.
Chapter One His lungs were bursting as he thrashed his way through the
jungle, trying to elude his predators. Over the lacy treetops, the moon rose
full and majestic, illuminating the path of broken limbs and trampled grass
he left in his wake. It was only a matter of time before they picked up his
trail.
The sky was clear and inky black, like a giant, obsidian bowl that had been
turned upside down and painted with thousands of tiny, white stars. Pausing
to catch his breath, he searched for the brightest star among them, Polaris,
the north star that would guide him toward the village. There he would
hopefully find a phone, or at least transportation to take him out of this
godforsaken place. If he could somehow make it to the border. Off to the
west, he heard the rumble of an engine, distant at first, but drawing
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Lover, Stranger
steadily near. A beam of light from a high-powered searchlight arced over
the terrain just missing him, and then moments later, he heard shouts.
Laughter. His trail had been discovered. The killers were closing in, and
they were enjoying the hunt. Heart pounding, he plunged through the lush
foliage.
Low-hanging branches slapped at his face and arms while man-sized roots
tangled with his feet. Amber eyes, ruby eyes, emerald eyes glowed, from the
trees and from the darkness all around him. Every step was a new danger, a
new terror. God, how he hated the jungle!
Finally stumbling into a clearing, he found himself on the edge of a jagged
precipice. Mist rose from the raging river that sliced its way through the
limestone cliffs a hundred feet below him. Ahead, the ravine sprawled into a
yawning gap of nothingness. Behind him, the shouts of his pursuers rose in
excitement as they spotted him in the moonlight.
There was nothing to do but head back into the jungle for cover. But before
He could run, gunfire echoed through the stone canyon. The noise was so
muted by the mist, the scene so surreal, that for a moment, he hovered at the
edge of the precipice, unsure what to do.
Then he felt the sharp blast of pain in his side, looked down and saw the
blood and realized he 'd been hit. Realized he wasn 't going to make it to
the village, much less to the border.
As if in slow motion, he fell backward into nothing but vapor and air. "dr.
hunter? Can you hear me?"
He opened his eyes and saw a woman's face leaning over him. Dressed all in
white, she looked radiant. Other-worldly. An angel, he thought. So he
hadn't made it after all.
"Dr. Hunter?"
He blinked as the angel spoke again. Was she talking to him? She was gazing
down into his eyes, smiling, but that name she kept calling--who was Dr.
Hunter?
"He's coming around, Dr. Kendall," she said over her shoulder. A man
appeared beside her. He wore the same look of concern on his face as she
did, but he wasn't smiling and his eyes were dark with something that might
have been suspicion.
"Well, well," he said.
"Glad to see you've decided to rejoin the land of the living, Ethan. You
certainly gave us all a scare tonight."
Ethan? Who was Ethan?
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his head. Obviously he was
in a hospital somewhere. These people seemed to know him, but he'd never
seen them before in his life. Nor had he ever heard of anyone named Ethan
Hunter. It had to be a case of mistaken identity, but-- A tiny bubble of
panic floated to the surface of his consciousness.
If he wasn't Ethan Hunter, who the hell was he?
He searched his mind and found no answers.
"How are you feeling, buddy?" Dr. Kendall peered down into his face.
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Lover, Stranger
Buddy? Did that mean the two of them were friends?
But Kendall didn't look particularly friendly. In spite of his easy bedside
manner, there was something about his eyes, a glimmer of hostility that was
faintly unnerving.
The man they called Ethan stared up at him, frowning.
"I feel sort of... out of it." The sound of his own voice shocked him. It
was raspy and coarse, and the effort to speak hurt his throat. He put a hand
to his neck and winced at the pain. The skin was bruised and tender.
Dr. Kendall must have glimpsed the fear in Ethan's eyes for he said,
"Take it easy. Your vocal cords and larynx have been stressed. Don't try to
talk any more than is necessary." Ethan tried to swallow past the pain and
the panic.
"What happened?" "We're hoping you can tell us."
He thought for a moment.
"I had this strange dream about running through a jungle... Someone was
trying to kill me." Kendall's shrug was dismissive.
"I'm not surprised, You've sustained a concussion.
You look like hell, but you're damned lucky to be alive. "
You look like hell. The realization hit him suddenly that he had no idea
what he looked like. He put his hands to his face. The skin was bruised
there as well, and a thick bandage wrapped around his skull. Scanning his
surroundings, he searched for a mirror but didn't see one. Which was
probably just as well. If the pain in his face was any indication, he wasn't
at all sure he was ready to see his reflection. "What were you doing at the
clinic tonight, anyway?" Kendall asked suddenly, his tone edgy.
"I'm... not sure." Ethan squeezed his eyes closed, trying to remember what
had happened to him, but nothing came to him. He tried to fight back the
suffocating panic that threatened to engulf him. Who the hell am I?
Stay calm, a little voice warned him. You have to figure this thing out.
Your life could depend on it.
He drew a long breath. Okay. He just needed a few minutes to get his
bearings. There was no cause for alarm. He had a concussion.
Short-term memory loss was common enough with head injuries, wasn't it?
Maybe they could even give him something-But wait a minute. If he was a
doctor--Dr. Ethan Hunter--he would know that, wouldn't he? He would know
how to treat a concussion and temporary amnesia. He would know how to cure
himself. But he didn't.
He didn't know anything at the moment, and his panic came rushing back.
Dr. Kendall touched his arm, and Ethan flinched. Why didn't he like this
man? And more importantly, why didn't he trust him enough to confess his
amnesia to him?
As if reading his thoughts, Dr. Kendall's eyes narrowed.
"The police are outside, Ethan. We've stalled them as long as we can, but
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there's a detective who's been champing at the bit ever since you were
brought in. Are you up to talking with him?"
About what? Ethan wanted to know. But he remained silent. For some reason
he didn't understand, it seemed imperative that he not give himself away.
That he remain calm and as much in control as he could be under the
circumstances.
But just what the hell were the circumstances? Why couldn't he remember who
he was?
The door of his hospital room opened, and a man wearing an ugly green suit
walked in. He was in his early fifties, stoop-shouldered, with
salt-and-pepper hair slicked straight back and plastered with hair cream.
His face was deeply creviced, his eyes shadowed with years of hard service
and even harder drinking, He walked over to Ethan's bed, pulled up a stool
and sat down.
Removing a yellow number-two pencil and a black notebook from his inside
jacket pocket, he licked the lead of the pencil, then scribbled a hasty
note. Without looking up he said,
"So you're Dr. Hunter." Ethan said nothing.
"I'm Sergeant Pope, HPD."
HPD. Ethan searched his mind. Honolulu Police Department? Harrisburg?
Hartford? Houston? Where was he?
Wait. There was an unmistakable twang in the detective's easy drawl.
Okay, so they were probably in Houston, but why? Did he live here? He
glanced up, and as his gaze met Pope's for the first time, Ethan sensed a
keen intuition and intellect that belied the faint air of ennui that settled
like an old blanket over the aging detective.
Watch yourself, Ethan thought, though why he should fear the police he had no
idea. Was it because in his dream, the Mexican authorities had been chasing
him through the jungle? Was that why an almost innate sense of wariness had
surfaced the moment the detective had walked into the room?
"I've heard a lot about you," Pope was saying.
"My wife showed me an article about you in the paper a couple of months ago.
Had a real nice shot of you in your downtown office, but I can't say you look
much like that now."
Ethan thought about the thick bandage wrapping his skull, the raw bruises on
his face and neck.
"No, I guess not."
Pope thumped the pencil eraser against his notebook. The sound was barely
audible, but for some reason it grated on Ethan's nerves.
"The article told all about that free clinic you built in the Mexican jungle,
and how you spend several weeks a year down there, operating on
underprivileged kids. They gave you quite a write-up. The wife was real
impressed." The thumping stopped suddenly.
"Hey, I'll have to tell her I met you tonight."
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Lover, Stranger
"Sure, why not?" Ethan said, because he didn't know what else to say.
His throat still hurt. He reached for the glass of water on the stand
beside his bed. The nurse--Nurse Angel, he now thought of her--was
instantly at his side, helping him to drink. Her hand wrapped around his on
the glass. Her touch was soft, caressing.
Intimate. When Ethan lay back against the pillows, he saw that Pope was
watching him. The detective had seen the encounter. Ethan was sure of it.
Pope said.
"She was thinking about calling you. My wife, that is." He put a finger to
his nose and pressed it to one side.
"She has a deviated septum like you wouldn't believe. She's been wanting a
nose job for years."
So. he was a plastic surgeon? Somehow Ethan would never have guessed that.
Almost inadvertently his gaze dropped to his hands, resting on top of the
sheet. There was dried blood caked beneath his nails and a wedding band on
the third finger of his left hand. His heart raced when he saw the ring. If
he was married, where was his wife? Had she been contacted? Shouldn't she
be at his bedside at a time like this?
As if on cue, Nurse Angel moved back into his line of vision and gave him a
knowing wink.
Pope, momentarily distracted by the nurse's dazzling smile, said, "Listen,
will y'all excuse us? I'd like to speak to Dr. Hunter alone."
Dr. Kendall nodded tightly, then turned to Ethan.
"Dr. Mancetti said she'd be back tonight to check on you. In the
meantime, if you need anything, I'll be around for a while."
"Great," Ethan said, though he didn't have the faintest idea who Dr. Mancetti
was, nor did he have any intention of calling on Dr. Kendall's services.
Nurse Angel bent over Ethan's bed, fluffing his pillow and patting his arm.
"I'm pulling a double shift tonight," she confided in a throaty whisper.
"If you need anything. Dr. Hunter, anything at all, you just call me."
"Thanks," he murmured, his gaze lingering on the sway of her hips beneath her
snug uniform as she turned and walked out of the room.
Sergeant Pope seemed mesmerized by the movement, too. For a moment, neither
man spoke, then the detective mentally shook himself.
"The staff here seem pretty concerned about your welfare, doctor. You must
be a popular guy." There was a mocking glint in his eyes as his gaze dropped
to the wedding ring on Ethan's finger.
Ethan resisted the urge to hide his hands, caked blood and all, beneath the
sheet.
For a moment, Pope busied himself with his notes. Then, his voice edged with
a weariness Ethan didn't trust, he said,
"We may as well get this over with. I'd like to file my report and get home
before midnight, and you look like you could do with some rest." He paused.
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