The Fatherhood Factor
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Diana Whitney
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14
Chapter 1
“You’re closing the office?” Stunned, Deirdre O’Connor set the platter of fresh-baked shortbread on the doily-draped credenza. Her heart shuddered, skipped a beat. Her palms iced in fear.
“’Tis only for a few months, child, a single semester at university.” Across the quaint, antique-studded parlor smiled Deirdre’s mentor for the past five years and her friend for as long as she could remember. Cotton-haired, wreathed in wrinkled wisdom, Clementine Allister St. Ives eased out a breath, rolled her thick shoulders with an apologetic shrug. “Time will pass before you know it.”
Panic swelled quickly, trembled through a voice Deirdre no longer recognized as her own. “It’s sorry I am about Professor Owani’s health problems, but surely someone else can absorb his course work, someone who doesn’t have to close down a thriving law practice to move halfway around the world.”
Clementine’s soft cluck of reproach made Deirdre cringe. “Listen to yourself, child. ‘Tis not the wilds of Borneo, after all.” Easing herself into the old rocker from which she had greeted clients for nearly five decades, Clementine absently massaged her swollen knuckles. She sighed, gazed out the mullioned windows trimmed with authentic Irish lace. “Honolulu is lovely, they say. I’ve always wanted to visit. ’Twas never enough time.”
“There still isn’t! I mean. . .” Embarrassed by the unintended edge in her voice, Deirdre cleared her throat, coughed away a trace of brogue that tinted her speech at vulnerable moments. “Your calendar is full through spring, with clients and court dates—”
“On my desk, dear, there’s a list of colleagues who will be taking over for me.” At seventy-two, Clementine’s gait had slowed, but her crafty mind was still sharp, and she juggled a daunting schedule with amazing vigor. The quirky, wonderfully spry woman had once served as legal advocate for Deirdre’s immigrant parents and their eight children. She’d since become Deirdre’s dearest friend and confidante.
The thought of losing her even for a few months was devastating. “You’ve a speech scheduled for the San Francisco Family Law Association meeting next month. You can’t be leaving them in the lurch like that.”
“Geoffrey McIntyre has a whole drawer full of driedup speeches. Nothing that old coot loves better than a captive audience.”
“But...counseling sessions! They can’t possibly be rescheduled in time—”
“Already done, child.”
Deirdre’s heart closed like a fist. “Your genealogy courses at City College?”
“Did I mention my assistant just received his credentials? Fine lad, that one. Full of vigor and enthusiasm, he is. He’ll do fine on his own.” A tubby tomcat leapt up to rub its furry forehead against the age-dimpled chin of its mistress. Clementine stroked the purring animal with obvious affection. “Ah, ’tis worried, you are? Not to fear, my pet. You’ll not be left behind.”
That the cat would not be abandoned was no surprise to Deirdre. Animals were precious, like children. She still missed her own beloved calico, a sweet-natured feline whose death had grieved her deeply. When she’d also lost the husband she’d adored, Deirdre’s world had gone black. It was Clementine who’d eased her back into the light, who’d offered solace and friendship, and had kept the dragon of loneliness from devouring her whole.
Once again she felt the dragon’s breath on her back. And it frightened her.
Loneliness was a state of mind, Deirdre supposed, a weakness to which she had refused to capitulate by enmeshing herself in a career that was more a vocation than a job. Intellectually she understood it. Emotionally she was unprepared for the shock of it, the fear of being alone again. Totally, completely alone.
“’Tis time you took a bit of life for yourself,” Clementine said, as if reading Deirdre’s thoughts. By any standard, Clementine was an amazing woman, with a leprechaun grin and lilting Irish chuckle, eyes twinkling with humor and warm with ancient wisdom. “A beautiful world out there, lass. A world of beauty and excitement, all waiting for you to take it for your own.”
A question bunched in Deirdre’s throat, caught by a wave of emotion. She didn’t want time for herself, didn’t want to venture beyond these protected walls. This was her world. This was her life.
Deirdre’s gaze circled the familiar room. Brocade wing chairs accented by crocheted doilies, an antique sideboard on which fresh pastries and beverage were served to “guests,” as Clementine referred to her clients, and the old-fashioned floral wallpaper studded by framed diplomas from the prestigious universities from which her uniquely brilliant employer had garnered a wealth of post-graduate degrees. Old-world charm scented by sweet lavender and potpourri filled the stately Victorian manor that had been a home to Deirdre, a respite from the emptiness of life without the husband she’d adored.
“Your salary will of course remain in effect while I’m gone.” Shifting in the chair, Clementine inspected her with unnerving acuity. “You work too hard, my dear. I can’t remember the last time you took a vacation.”
Deirdre absently smoothed the rolled edge of a crocheted place mat on which the platter of fresh shortbread cooled. “Two weeks is a vacation. Six months is—” she sucked in a breath “—a long time.”
“’Tis but a blink of God’s eye, child.”
That offered little solace. “Perhaps you could use an assistant in Hawaii, someone to help organize the paperwork.”
“The university has already seen to it.”
“A personal secretary, perhaps, someone to keep your schedule, scrub your bathroom, take your clothes to the cleaner, anything.” She hated the desperation in her voice, but was helpless to suppress it. “Clementine, please, I have to keep busy, to be of some use to somebody—”
“Santa Barbara is lovely this time of year.”
That took her aback. “Santa Barbara?”
“’Tis a magnificent place, where the ocean shines blue enough to shame the sky, and sunsets blaze with such magnificence that grown men weep with joy.” A sly gleam flickered in the woman’s eyes, then was gone. “My friend Horace lives there. Have I ever mentioned him?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Horace P. Devlin. Crusty old codger, but his wife is a lovely person.” Chuckling, Clementine tickled the cat’s chin as it batted at the half-moon granny glasses dangling at her matronly bosom. “Going through a difficult time, they are, trying to care for sweet twin grandbabies and run a law office at the same time.”
“Twins are a handful.” The acknowledgment was heartfelt and born of experience, since she’d helped her weary mum raise two sets of twin siblings in her own expansive family.
Heaving a sigh that was only a tad theatrical, Clementine shook her head. “At wits’ end, they are, needing someone to help with the babes, and keep up the office, as well.” She gazed out the window with feigned befuddlement that didn’t fool Deirdre for a moment. “But where could one find a person with such experience, someone with the warmth of an angel, the patience of a saint and the mind of a scholar, someone who just happens to be available for. . .oh, the next six months or so? ’Tis a puzzlement indeed.”
Deirdre was intimately familiar with her beloved boss’s mode of operation, and recognized a setup when she saw one. “Ah, so that’s the plan.”
Clementine managed to look appropriately startled. “Why, whatever do you mean, child?”
“You’re wanting me to assist your friends in Santa Barbara.”
“What a splendid idea!”
Deirdre’s head was spinning. This was all going much too fast Instinctively she knew there was considerably more to the story than she’d thus far been told. “I don’t understand. Why are the Devlins raising their grandchildren? Where are the twins’ parents?”
“The mother rests in God’s arms.”
“I’m so sorry.” A twinge of sadness twisted her heart. “And the father?”
“A wee custody dispute.” Clementine flicked her wrist as if batting an annoying insect. “Nothing you can’t handle.”
The sly woman’s clandestine agenda became crystalclear, much to Deirdre’s horror. “Oh, no, I’ll not be involving myself in such a thing.”
Before Deirdre could turn away, Clementine leapt from her chair with surprising agility, disrupting the snoozing cat, unceremoniously dumping it from its warm napping spot. “Think of the babes.” Clementine touched her arm, pleading. “Those dear, sweet innocents so desperately in need of stability in their lives. ’Tis for the children, Deirdre. They need you.”
She wavered, caught by the sad image of tiny toddlers thrust in the midst of a crisis between people they loved most. She knew then that she would go, that she must go. She also knew on some level that the decision would change her life forever.
For the children, of course. It was always for the children.
“Dublin?” Crouching, Deirdre peered beneath the bedframe on which a bare boxspring and mattress had been dumped by a team of inefficient movers. She stood, checked a closet packed with a tumble of unpressed clothes straight from the packing crate. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
She blew out a breath, swiveled around a stack of half-unpacked boxes to the living area of the small, one-bedroom duplex. “Dublin, sweetie. . . meow, meow? Not nice to hide from Mommy.”
She tilted her head, listening for an answering mew that never came. A twinge of real panic needled into her chest. The kitten, barely six months old, had been a gift from Clementine before she’d left for Hawaii last week. Dublin was a gray-and-white bundle of brimming curiosity and whiskered mischief that had pounced, bounced, darted and dashed its way into Deirdre’s heart from the moment she’d laid eyes on the tiny creature as it peeked out from a gift-wrapped kitty carrier.
During the chaos of moving Deirdre had kept the kitten safely tucked in that carrier, releasing it to explore its new environment only after the movers had left. Now she frantically tore through the small living space, calling and searching until her gaze fell on the front door, which had been left open to catch a wafting sea breeze through the screen. The screen door was locked in place, although there were claw marks in the fabric where the tiny animal tested his climbing prowess.
There was another flaw, one that nearly stopped Deirdre’s heart. A corner of the protective screening had been torn away, pushed outward as if something small had crawled through it onto the front porch shared with the neighboring unit. An ominous tuft of white fur stuck to the metal frame.
“Oh, no.” In less than a beat Deirdre was out the door, and down the porch steps. “Dublin? Here kitty, here kitty, kitty!”
Pausing in the driveway, she shaded her eyes to study the unfamiliar area. Mature oaks lined the rural street on which a few small homes were situated on large lots. The duplex itself was a homely rectangular building divided lengthwise into two separate apartments.
A covered porch along the entrance revealed twin doors flanked with identical windows, and porch steps on each side leading to the pair of driveways abutting both the right and left side of the narrow property.
Deirdre’s dusty old coupe was parked in her driveway. On her neighbor’s side an older-model sedan sat with its hood up, surrounded by a scattering of tools.
Across the street, perhaps two hundred yards from the duplex porch, stretched the railroad tracks upon which trains rumbled with unnerving frequency. In the three hours since her arrival, four of the metal beasts had roared past like seismic claps of thunder. A wilderness of weeds studded the railroad property, along with a few pitiful eucalyptus trees clumped along the tracks. The salty tang of ocean freshened the air, lifted the fine hairs fringed above her brow. The sea was close by, as Clementine had promised, less than a quarter of a mile beyond the undeveloped acreage abutting the tracks.
A blur of movement caught her attention. A man sprinted through the weeds with contagious tension.
Deirdre heard the telltale rumble at the same moment she saw a flash of white on the tracks. “Oh, God, Dublin!” Terror and nausea nearly doubled her over. A gasp, an adrenaline surge, and she sprinted forward, screaming her kitten’s name.
Not that it mattered. All sound was drowned out by the deafening roar of the oncoming train, and the shrill blast of its whistle.
A pair of perky eyes peered over the metal track rail. Feline ears twitched. The earth trembled. An air horn shrieked. “Dublin!” A hot-metal stench burned her nostrils. She ran faster, faster. The ground rolled beneath her feet. Yellow cat eyes widened. “Dublin!”
The train sped closer, so close she could see the engineer’s frantic expression, feel the blast of hot air from the engine.
Too late. It was too late. “Dublin!” she shrieked, a moment before the sprinting man suddenly dove and rolled right in front of the speeding engine.
Deirdre jerked to a stop, frozen with fear as the ground vibrated beneath her feet, and boxcar after boxcar clattered past. Her stomach lurched, her knees nearly buckled. She was certain that neither her beloved kitten nor the brave soul who had tried to save it could have possibly survived.
Tears spilled over, dust whipped her face. Hot wind and horror, numbness and shock. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Boxcars whizzed past. Time stood still.
When the faded old caboose finally zoomed by, a gasp caught in her throat. She nearly fainted with relief.
On the other side of the tracks, a dark-haired man cuddled the terrified but apparently unhurt kitten in his arms.
Man and cat were so completely absorbed with each other that neither noticed they were being watched. The man stood slightly askance, a profile of strength that seemed paradoxical to his tenderness with the tiny animal.
Deirdre couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but could tell by the gentle way he brushed his cheek against the kitten’s head that he was soothing the animal’s fear, speaking in gentle tones. The little cat responded by butting its forehead against his chin, a gesture of affection that elicited a masculine smile so unexpected and dazzling that it took her breath away.
As the train rumble faded, she caught a shrill mew, followed by a mellow voice, a whisper of tenderness that sliced straight into her heart. “Shh, little guy, I know that was scary, but you’re okay now.” He paused, smiling as the kitten laid a soft paw on his face in a gesture that looked very much like a grateful feline caress. “You’re very welcome.”
Dublin gazed up adoringly, and mewed.
“Is that so?” The man chuckled. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Railroad tracks are not good for kitties.” Still cradling the tiny animal as if it were something precious and fragile, he turned to cross the tracks.
The moment he saw Deirdre, his entire demeanor changed. His eyes widened in surprise, narrowed quickly as he arranged his expression into one of nonchalance. Squaring his shoulders, he shifted his grasp on the kitten, balancing it in his palm rather than hugging it to his body. “Your cat?”
She nodded, struck mute for some reason she chose not to explore.
He shrugged, moved forward in a distinctive don’t-mess-with-me swagger that Deirdre recognized instantly. Her own five brothers had used a similar change of stance as a protective mechanism when they felt threatened or embarrassed, or to conceal vulnerability. Clearly this man wished to distance himself from the softhearted alter ego that had hugged a panicked kitten as if it had been a frightened child.
As he approached, she noticed that he studied her without looking, also another habit her brothers had displayed, that unique male ability to inspect people from the corner of their eyes without attracting attention.
Deirdre, however, regarded him directly. Not a tall man, he was nonetheless sturdily built, with muscular shoulders rippling beneath a sweatshirt smeared with black grease, and dusted with loose dirt and gravel from his gymnastic shoulder roll. A few dried leaves and weed stems clung to the sleeve, and to the tousle of coffee-brown hair shagging around his ears. She suppressed an urge to brush them away.
But it was his eyes that drew her, a speckled tone of hazel and gray fringed with thick, dark lashes that were incredibly erotic. Although her own lashes were also dark and longer than his, they were too sparse to accent the faint blue of her irises, and tended to poke up in little spikes that made her look perennially surprised.
This man had eyes to die for.
And those eyes were now focused directly on her. “Keep a better watch on him.”
“Excuse me?” It took a moment for her to yank her gaze to the mewing kitten he held out. “Oh, of course.” Gathering the furry little animal to her breast, she breathed a sigh of relief, smiling as it nuzzled beneath her chin. Tiny whiskers tickled her throat, a cold nose brushed the edge of her jaw. “Dublin, my sweet, sweet boy, you scared the life out of me.” The kitten trilled softly, massaged her shoulders in a feline version of a claw hug. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. . . .?”
Apparently he hadn’t expected her to look up so quickly, because she caught the warmth in his eyes a moment before he blinked it away. “No problem.” He spun and strode toward the street fast enough for his boots to spit gravel.
Tightening her grip on the kitten, she hurried after him. “It’s truly grateful I am. I’ve just moved in, you see, and am not familiar with the area.” Breathing hard, she was nearly running to keep up with him. “I’m not usually so careless, but there was this wee hole in the screen, and Dubby found it, and—”
When he stopped at the street, she nearly ran into his back. She skidded, stumbled, had barely righted herself when the man crossed the pitted asphalt, heading straight for the duplex without so much as a backward glance.
She stood on the weed-encrusted curb, feeling a bit slighted. Dublin mewed as if to console her. “Hmm? Yes, quite right. Not a particularly social type at all.”
A soft squeak made her smile. “Ah, your hero, is he? A very brave man indeed, although I suspect he’s a touch embarrassed at having been caught playing kissy-face with a kitten.” The cat widened its eyes. “The male ego is a fragile thing,” she murmured, glancing for traffic as she crossed the street. “You’d not be knowing that, wee one that you are. Aren’t you glad you won’t be plagued with such hormonal nonsense?” Dublin hissed. “Hmm? Still perturbed about that little operation, are you? Well, it was for your own good. Doesn’t make you any less of a cat.”
Chuckling, she hugged the kitten fiercely, so grateful for its safety that she could have wept with joy. As she crossed the patchy grass toward her side of the duplex porch, she saw her kitten’s rescuer appear from the neighboring driveway carrying what appeared to be a roll of duct tape in his left hand.
He entered the porch from his side, barely glancing at Deirdre as he strode to her front door, which was barely five feet from his own. He squatted to inspect the torn screen.
Deirdre’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Can it be fixed? I mean, if it can’t I’ll have to leave the solid door closed, but it seems a shame to waste that lovely ocean breeze.” He ripped a sticky length of tape, used his left hand to tear it off after notching the edge with his teeth. Undeterred, Deirdre chatted on. “I’m told the shore is close enough to walk in less than a verse.”
Still crouched, he angled a glance upward. “Less than a verse?”
“Oh, my mum judged distance by the number of canticle verses one could recite on the journey. A habit from her own childhood in the Irish countryside, where feet were the primary mode of transportation, and folks considered walking time an opportunity for the devout to catch up on daily prayers.” Something flickered in his gaze, but clouded over before she could identify it. As she stood over his crouched form, she noticed a thin scar running from the base of his jawline to just below his ear. When he turned back to his work, she saw the scar also extended to his nape, where it disappeared into the ragged neck of his sweatshirt. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to long walks on the beach at sunset. Perhaps you could show me the best route.”
He didn’t look up. “A block north, cross at the intersection, follow the path down the embankment until your feet get wet.”
“Oh. Well, that sounds simple enough. Have you lived here long, Mr. . . . ?”
A twitch of annoyance rippled the small scar at his jaw. Clearly he wasn’t prepared to introduce himself, nor did he enjoy small talk. “A couple of weeks.”
“Really? So you’re new in town yourself. Perhaps we could find our way around together. I’d be pleased to fix you supper sometime. As a reward,” she added quickly when he shot her a suspicious look. “For saving dear Dublin. I’m ever so grateful.” She hadn’t expected him to reply, and he didn’t. Deirdre was nothing if not persistent. “So where is it you’ve come from, Mr. . . . ?” She waited a beat, then moved on. “Ah, guessing games. I love them. Let’s see, you’ve a touch of sun on your face and hands, red but not tan, as if you’ve come from a place where sunning oneself is not a community pastime. Thrifty with words, you are, so I’d be thinking the northeast if you displayed the distinctive accent of those hardy souls. The northwest then... Seattle, perhaps.” She shifted the kitten, feeling proud of her powers of observation. “Am I getting warm?”
“Not even close.”
Deflated, she shrugged. “Would your powers of observation be better then?”
“I’d say so.”
“Prove it.” The conversation was inane, she knew, but she was reluctant to end contact with this intriguing man.
“Okay.” Taking her challenge, he glanced up, allowing his gaze to linger on her face for a beat longer than comfortable before sliding the length of her with an unhurried leisure she found unsettling. “San Francisco,” he announced, then returned to his task while Deirdre gaped in astonishment.
“How did you know that?”
The hint of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Pale skin, dewy from foggy mornings, a Golden Gate sparkle in your eyes—” his gaze dropped to her hips, slipped slowly to thighs revealed by the cling of khaki slacks a bit too snug, thanks to her indulgence of sampling her own home-baked treats “—lush thighs, soft but well-muscled by hiking hills and valleys. Shoes worn more at the toe than the heel, soles ground away by concrete, hence the observation of city sidewalks rather than rural landscape. Steep city terrain equals San Francisco.”
“Go on with you,” she murmured, as astounded by the effect his leisurely inspection had on her heart rate as she was by the accuracy of his observation. “Blarney, it is, straight from the leprechaun’s lying stone.”
“Am I wrong?”
“You know you’re not wrong.” The knowing gleam in his eye had told her that. “But I’m not buying those tall tales about worn shoes or foggy mildew on my earlobes.” She crouched to his level, nudged him with her shoulder. “C’mon, now. Tell us the truth. How did you really know all that?”
A wisp of amusement touched his gaze as he swallowed a smile, then offered a brusque nod toward her driveway. “I read your car.”
“My car?” She followed the gesture to her dusty old coupe, where her focus fell first on the parking sticker for the underground lot across from Clementine’s Victorian law office, then slipped to the license plate holder that proudly announced the San Francisco dealership from which she’d purchased the car years earlier. “Ah.”
“You sound disappointed.”
To her horror, a strained giggle rolled from her throat before she could stop it. “Truth be told, I rather enjoyed your flights of fancy.”
“Reality is always a letdown.” The edge to his voice caught her by surprise, as did the flash of pain a moment before his eyes went blank. Hunching over, he continued his work as if she no longer existed, smoothing one strip of tape on the base of the torn screen, then ripping off another strip for the side. He flinched slightly as the tape roll slipped from his grasp.
Earlier Deirdre had noticed him favoring his right hand, which seemed to be stiff and inflexible. “Have you hurt yourself? Your hand,” she explained when he gave her a disbelieving stare. “It seems to be bothering you. Did you injure it when you rolled over the tracks?”
“No.”
“It should be X-rayed, just to make sure. I’ll pay of course—”
“No.” The word was issued with enough force to make her blink.
Deirdre felt her smile tighten, but was determined to remain friendly. This man was her neighbor, after all, and had saved her kitten’s life. “My name is Deirdre,” she said cheerfully. “Deirdre O’Connor.”
He stood so suddenly, she took an involuntary step back. “Needs rescreening. Call the landlord.”
“The landlord? Ah, and who might that be?”
He regarded her with mild suspicion. “Marc Rosenblum, the man you pay rent to.”
“I don’t pay rent.” She felt the telltale prickle on her cheeks, and knew she was blushing. “That is, the rent is being paid, of course, but not by me.”
He hiked a brow.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” she blurted, certain she was glowing like neon. The combination of nerves and embarrassment loosened her tongue, and thickened her Irish brogue until it was dense enough to slice. “’Tis strictly business, don’t you know, and not a bit of the hanky-panky you’d be guessing.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Ethan.”
Her breath slipped out all at once. “Ethan,” she repeated, enjoying the feel of it on her tongue. “A strong name. It suits you.”
He shifted the roll of tape to his left hand. “I’ll call the landlord and have it seen to.”
“That’s kind of you.” When he turned away, she touched his arm to stop him. He froze, staring at her fingers on his wrist, then flicking a startled glance upward. There was something stunning in his gaze, something profound and compelling.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Only when Dublin shifted suddenly in her arms did Deirdre retrieve her hand to steady the restless cat. “Could I offer some refreshment, a sip of something cool perhaps, and a bite of pastry—?” He shook his head, which for some inexplicable reason made her talk even faster. “It’s the least I can do, what with you saving poor Dubby here from such a fierce fate. I don’t know how else to thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Perhaps another—” his apartment door shut in her face “—time.” Deirdre stood there a moment, clutching her cat and feeling silly. Finally she called out, “It was lovely meeting you, as well,” then returned to her own side of the duplex to continue her unpacking chores.
Safely ensconced in self-imposed isolation, Ethan shrugged off a pang of regret for his gruffness. He heard movement through the separating Sheetrock, the scruff of something heavy being dragged across the hardwood floor, the lilting murmur of her voice as she spoke aloud, either to herself or to the tiny animal he had first seen scampering across the road toward the railroad tracks.
A burst of melodic laughter filtered through the thin wall, startling him. It was a lovely sound, bubbling with a delight that penetrated his cynical shell. He couldn’t afford any distraction, not even the pleasant diversion of a beautiful woman with hair like shining midnight, and eyes twinkling like brilliant stars.
He flipped on the television to drown out the sounds from next door, then retrieved a beer from the fridge, using the crook of his arm to steady the can while he popped the top.
Holding the beer in his left hand, he settled into an easy chair, automatically scooping up the rubber exercise ball that was always within reach. He palmed the ball in his right hand, flexing his numb fingers around the hard rubber. His gaze focused on the flickering television screen, but his mind was lost in thought, memories of the past, visions of the future, thoughts of a wounded warrior preparing for the most important battle of his life.
He willed his numb fingers to tighten their grip on the rubber ball, was pleased when they offered slight response. It was a small improvement, not nearly enough.
Sweat beaded his brow, slipped down to sting his eyes. He blinked it away, concentrating as his hand curled with enough force to stimulate the damaged nerve along his wrist. A sharp pain skewered up his forearm, as if a hot poker had been inserted beneath the skin. Ethan didn’t blink. He didn’t mind the pain. In fact he reveled in it Pain was life. Life was hope.
His hand was responding, his strength and control increasing every day. The process was slow, tedious. Time was his nemesis. Ethan’s time was running out. The past circled like a sworn enemy, concealing a future rife with uncertainty. Years of blood, sweat and tears had prepared him for this quest. Losing was not an option.
He moved to the window, eased an opening at the side of the drapes. It was there again, the dark sedan with tinted windows. It slowed, veered to the curb across the street and parked.
Ethan flexed his jaw, curled his fingers around the rubber sphere and squeezed. He needed control, he needed strength. He needed to retrieve all that had been stolen, to replace the ball with a gun and take back what was his. No one would stop him.
No one.
