Damaged Beauties (Romanced by the Damaged Millionaire (Erotic Romance)) (6 page)

“I haven’t seen him in a couple of years now. Then again, I’ve only been working here for eight years, which is a lot shorter than most of the staff here. He has been in a couple of incidents.”

“Incidents?”

“There was once, a couple of years back, when he brought in a woman to Emergency.” The doctor’s face grows solemn. “Ethan Greene is the kind of man you’d remember, you know, because he reminds you of someone you’ve seen before. You’d ask him, ‘Hey, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ And he’d say, ‘No’, and brush you off.”

I nod carefully, not revealing anything. Not everyone is a movie buff, especially in small towns where there is usually only one Cineplex, and they don’t have the luxury of shows being onscreen for as long as major cities.

The doctor continues, “He was extremely distraught when he came in. I was the resident on call that night. He brought in this woman, and she had been beaten up. Her lip was cut and swollen, and she had a black eye. She was young. Hispanic. Not from around here, and I could tell from her way of dressing that she was a high-class hooker.”

I wonder if this is the hooker who disappeared. The hairs on my arms prickle.

“I examined the girl and asked her what happened. She remained mum. Wouldn’t tell me a thing, other than she walked into a glass door. I knew that was bullshit, pardon the expression. Meanwhile, Ethan Greene paced out there in the waiting room like an anxious, expectant father. The girl had rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Her ass had new bruises, as if she’s been caned repeatedly. Her private parts had been invaded, no doubt, and roughly. She had even been sodomized.

“But she still wouldn’t say anything. And so I decided to question Ethan Greene.”

I suck in my breath. Ethan? I can tell immediately by the storyline that the doctor suspects Ethan of sexually assaulting the hooker.

“What did he say?” I ask, as if I’m not personally affected by the answer. As if we are talking about a case that happened in a newspaper report.

And I shouldn’t be personally affected. Why should I, right? I’m writing an article on this. I shouldn’t be personally affected by any of my subjects. Curious, yes, but not emotionally involved.

“He very politely told me that he’d picked her up from the street. Someone had hurt her, and he was being a good Samaritan.”

There’s that term again. A good Samaritan.

The doctor continues:

“‘You have to make a police report,’ I tell him.

“‘I will, later,’ he says to appease me. But I know that he won’t.

“I tried to get the girl, whose name was Marla Sanchez, I remember now, to make a police report. But she refused. She was keeping mum for a reason, and I don’t know what that reason is. But I reckon Ethan Greene is wrapped up in this whole thing. Maybe he’s paying her off. Maybe she’s not some random hooker to him. I don’t know.”

“I see,” I say, my mind churning with possibilities. I just cannot reconcile the Ethan Greene I just spent the whole morning with against this image of . . . well, the doctor is making assumptions, so what happened is anybody’s guess.

Still, there’s the troubled diary etching of:

I can’t contain him anymore. I can’t predict what the triggers are. All I know is that he is becoming more powerful.

*

I say goodbye to the doctor, who makes me promise to come back if I experience any dizziness or headaches. She’s a good sort, and if I were her, I’d be making the same assumptions about Ethan Greene.

Those assumptions trouble me.

As do Ethan’s diary entries.

I dial Ethan’s cellphone, and fifteen minutes later, he arrives to pick me up. As soon as I see his calm, beautiful face, my heart soars despite me telling myself over and over to get over my fan-girly crush.

Maybe it’s not a fan-girly crush anymore. Maybe I really do enjoy being with the adult and current persona of Ethan Greene.

I get into his car – a black Mercedes S-class with tinted windows.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“So how was your visit? Everything clear?”

I’m tempted to tell him the truth, but I want a reason to linger around him a while longer. “I’m not totally in the clear yet. There’s still some residual giddiness and headaches I have to be aware of. Once I’m clear, I can start preparing to get back to civilization.”

“You can stay as long as you like, until you get better,” he offers, as I knew he would. And immediately, he looks uncomfortable, as if he has said something he shouldn’t have.

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing.” He does not glance at me. He seems torn between good manners and asking me to do what he really wants me to do – leave.

“Ethan,” I say hesitantly, “are you all right?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Did someone say . . . something?”

“No. I just wondered.”

“Ah well.” He appears relieved.

“Ethan.” Out of impulse, I lay my hand on his arm.

He looks down at it, and then at me. There’s a stricken look in his eyes that I don’t expect to see. I withdraw my hand immediately. I didn’t mean any harm by it.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s all right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to react that way.” The Adam’s apple on his throat moves like running mice. He is extremely discomfited, and I don’t know whether to laugh or be alarmed. “It’s just that I . . . I’m not used to having company. I’ve been living mostly alone for a long time. With Jeffrey, I mean.”

“I understand.”

I wonder if I should press my advantage and ask:
Why do you choose to be alone?
But I decide that we both have had enough for the day, and give him a break from my mini-interrogation.

Does Ethan Greene scare me?

I don’t know. Certainly I am not afraid of him as he is. This wonderfully handsome, soft-spoken man in the driver’s seat does not give off a single sinister vibe that should make me pause. It is merely the rumors that surround him – the question marks that this community seems to have dangling above his head.

The suppositions. The assumptions.

Perhaps I am naïve. Perhaps I should be very afraid.

But I have an assignment to complete, and I’m determined to see it through till the very end. Yeah, that’s my official line – even to myself.

The truth is . . . I just want to hang around Ethan Greene for a little longer. OK, for a
lot
longer. For as long as he lets me.

Or for as long until I discover the truth.

9

I spend the next two days with Ethan hiking around Pine’s Lookout. Ethan is my personal guardian – looking out for the telltale signs of dizziness and nausea that I am expected to exhibit at any time, as though I’m in my first trimester of pregnancy. The hill is much larger than I thought. It’s amazing how much of it he owns. Although land is probably cheap here, its size is still considerable.

“You get a lot of trespassers?” I ask.

“Sometimes. Especially during Halloween,” he says. “A lot of people think the house is haunted.”

“Is it?”

I have never felt any vibes, but then, I never did have a supernatural radar.

“It does have a reputation. I bought it for cheap because the previous owner killed himself in it.”

This stuns me.

“Oh,” I exclaim, putting a hand on my mouth. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” His mud green eyes register concern.

We are both perched upon a cliff that looks down upon the valley from another angle. It’s a beautiful afternoon, with birds flitting through the canopy of trees and the sun beating down on our heads. The leaves are beginning to turn gold and red, and the scenery is so blissful that I simply cannot imagine anything haunting us.

I say, “No . . . I’m not scared. I’m just surprised.”

I am more than surprised. I’m stricken.

I think back to the entry in Ethan’s diary, the one that I haven’t had the investigative tenacity to revisit since – mostly because he’s been around so much, and I don’t want to be kicked out of the house for doing something as mundane as snooping around my host’s study.

I can’t contain him anymore. All I know is that he is becoming more powerful.
Suddenly, in light of Ethan’s revelation, that phrase takes on a whole different connotation.

Cold fingers run down my spine.

Stop it, Virginia. Stop it. You don’t believe in ghosts.

I take a deep breath and calm my nerves to the point where I can be objective again. Yes. Now where were we?

I’m getting to the stage where I am dreading the part where I have to reveal myself to be a reporter. Do I have to reveal myself at all? I mean, it’s not as if I’m exposing Enron. But Ethan Greene clearly has a dubious reputation in these parts, and there’s a story in there somewhere that would make for riveting reading.

Of course, he can sue me and my newspaper if the allegations are not true. That’s the fine line that investigative journalism treads upon. Right now, I’m just taking baby steps. Making sure that everything in my article will be verified by sources.

I’m supposed to remain impartial, of course. If Ethan Greene has done something wrong, and if he has not been brought to justice for it, then he should pay. But I can’t believe that this man can be capable of doing something heinously wrong. I pride myself on knowing people, of being able to size them up within moments. And Ethan Greene strikes me as . . . inherently
good
.

I have to report back to Sharon Contralto every two days, of course, which I do by phone. She was piqued when I told her about the hookers and the unsolved disappearance of one.

“OK,” she said. “Find out more.”

So here I am with Ethan, gradually building up his trust so that I can stab him in the back. Only I don’t really want to stab him. I already like his company so much, God help me.

His face clouding a little, Ethan says, “The previous owner killed himself in the study.”

The study I have been in only once, but of course I don’t tell Ethan.

“That’s awful.”

“Nobody wanted to buy the house for a long time. It was empty for a good twenty years. Until I came along.”

I take my cue. “Where did you grow up, Ethan?”

“New Jersey,” he tells me truthfully.

“Why did you move here?”

He pauses for a long time. “I had a different job. A different life. It wasn’t working out as I expected, and so I decided to get away from it all.”

“What sort of job?”

He waves his hand. “Oh you know,” he says vaguely, “projects. Here and there.”

So he doesn’t want me to know.

“You don’t have family?” I press on. “Married? Divorced?”

“No, I never married. My family lives back east. I don’t . . . see them very often.”

Back in the day, David Kinney was scarcely seen in the company of women. He was a notoriously difficult celebrity to track down. He was seldom papped because he was never seen in the usual Hollywood joints. Those, of course, gave rise to certain rumors, which he ignored.

I’m going to play one of those rumor cards right now. Not that I believe in them myself, of course.

“Ethan, I hope you won’t mind me asking you a personal question.”

He tenses, but does not stop me.

I clear my throat and try to look as innocent as possible. “Are you gay?”

He seems taken aback. The thought has obviously not occurred to him. Then he throws back his head and laughs.

I can’t help smiling myself. Ethan Greene laughing is a glorious sight to behold. His eyes crinkle and his mouth turns up at the edges, and he is so beautiful that my guts wrench at the spectacle of him.

“Am I gay?” he finally says, wiping tears out of his eyes. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“Well, are you?”

“Why does that thought even occur to you?” he says, still laughing. “I don’t have anything against gays, I just want you know, but it’s just so . . . so . . . ”

I know what he’s going to say. So ‘ridiculous’. Because the same questions surfaced about his sexuality twelve years ago when he didn’t jump at the bait to date the next starlet.

“Then are you attached?” I persist.

“Obviously not.”

I am bold. I’m an investigative reporter, for Chrissake. I thrive on the edge.

I say, “You’re single. I’m single. We’ve been spending a lot of time together. I’ve been told that I’m singularly attractive. Then why haven’t you made a pass at me?”

Even as I say that, I realize that I really, really want him to make a pass at me. I’m not a fan girl anymore, I swear. I just happen to find Ethan Greene remarkably, ludicrously attractive in every way. Even with the dark questions hanging above his neck like a proverbial sword.

He’s astonished.