Cybele understood him. He knew she did. But she still didn’t move.
“What about Joe?” Charles asked, near desperate now. If she touched him, he wasn’t sure he could be so strong. If she touched him, she would know the truth. He didn’t love Jenny. He’d married her because she was having his baby, because she was the kind of woman that men watched and he liked being the cause of all that palpable envy. He’d wanted Jenny, he’d lusted after her, and he’d even thought he’d loved her, but he didn’t. He’d had no idea what love really was, what love could be.
“You should be up in Joe’s room right now,” he told Cybele. “He loves you, you know. He’s free to love you, completely.”
“You want me to go to Guiseppe. You want me to be with him tonight. Not you.” Tears of disbelief were brimming in her eyes, and he knew the next thing he said would matter the most.
She hadn’t asked a question, but he answered it anyway. “Yes.” He could barely choke the word out, but choke it out he did. God help him. “Go to Joe. Because I can’t give you what you need.”
“I see.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, drew in a deep breath. And then she turned and left his room.
The door closed behind her, and Charles wanted to run after her, to stop her, more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.
But he sat still, sick down to his very soul. He heard the stairs creak as she started to climb them, and still he didn’t move. Her room was to the right of the top of the stairs, Joe’s to the left. Her footsteps passed directly over his head, going up, and then he heard her pause.
Charles closed his eyes, praying, though for what he wasn’t sure.
But when the floorboard in the upstairs hallway creaked as she went left, he knew. He hadn’t been praying for that.
Charles opened his eyes and gazed out at the ocean. Last night’s physical pain had been nothing compared to the pain he’d felt that night, nearly sixty years ago, when he’d pushed Cybele into his best friend’s arms.
He’d spent a sleepless night, hating himself for being weak enough to want her, and yet not weak enough to have her. All night long, he’d seethed with jealousy and frustration, imagining Cybele in Joe’s room, in his bed, lying there beneath him, and . . . God. He hated himself, hated Joe, hated Jenny. Hated Cybele. How dare she come to his room, tempting him to be unfaithful simply because she wanted someone—anyone—to hold her. And that surely was the case if she could go from Charles’s room to Joe’s with hardly any hesitation. Apparently his arms had been interchangeable with Joe’s. . . .
But hating her hadn’t made it any easier to bear. Especially not the next morning, when Joe had appeared at breakfast with a lilt in his step and the unmistakable light of heaven in his eyes.
Joe had that same soft, faraway look in his eyes now, nearly sixty years later, as he sat next to Charles on the deck of this multimillion-dollar house, overlooking the prettiest piece of property and the most beautiful view of the ocean in the world.
And nearly sixty years later, Charles was still jealous of Joe.
Joe turned and looked at him. “I think there’s something going on between Tom and Kelly.”
Charles fought to return to the present. Tom? And Kelly? Well, well, maybe the girl had actually made a move.
“You think there’s something going on,” he said crossly to Joe. “Suddenly, after all these years of living like a monk, you’re the local expert on romance?”
Joe gave him one of those long, steady, patient looks that always made Charles feel like some kind of legless larva.
“I know enough to recognize a kiss when I see one,” he said evenly. “And to tell at a glance who’s on the giving and who’s on the receiving end. I know Kelly’s been lonely.”
Kelly’d kissed Tom. Charles’s first reaction was to laugh. His daughter’s life was her own, but he’d never particularly liked those pasty, bespectacled, self-important blowhards she’d brought home from the hospital. But Tom Paoletti—now there was a man. But probably way too much man. The reality was sobering. He’d never expected her actually to try for him. “They’re completely wrong for each other.”
“I don’t agree with you,” Joe said, “but I suspect Kelly does. I was thinking it might be a good idea for you to talk to her, so she doesn’t end up hurting Tom too badly.”
Kelly hurting Tom. Now there was a twist on the old sad story of love gone wrong. But sure, it was possible. Why not? After all, she was an Ashton, and Ashtons were known for having hearts of stone.
Thirteen
“EVERYTHING LOOKS REALLY good.” Gary didn’t waste time with small talk as he breezed into his office. “No trace bleeding, no swelling, nothing at all to indicate that there’s any kind of problem. It’s healed nicely.”
Kelly closed her eyes as he gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Thank God.”
Tom didn’t seem to be as happy at the news. He sat forward as Gary slid into his seat behind his desk. “So what’s going on, then? What’s with the headaches and dizziness? The paranoia?”
“I found no physiological explanation, other than that of the injury and surgery.” Gary looked tired, older, lines of strain giving his handsome face a pinched, anxious look. “The symptoms you’ve been having are probably related.”
“No kidding.” Tom looked at Kelly, his frustration evident. “Am I asking the wrong questions here?”
“I think what Gary’s trying to say is that he doesn’t really know why you’re experiencing these things,” she told him.
“There’s a great deal we’re still learning about injuries to the brain, Lieutenant,” Gary admitted. “And ten individuals with similar injuries will have ten entirely different recoveries, varying from death to complete return to preaccident condition. The problems you’ve been having are insignificant compared to, say, paralysis or damage to the speech center of your brain. And as for the feelings of paranoia and the slight personality change regarding your lack of control with your temper—these aren’t outside the realm of normal for the type of injury you’ve had. Although, again, since we know so little, normal tends to be a pretty broad band.”
“Is there any way to know whether or not the paranoia’s going to be permanent?” Tom asked. But when Gary took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, Tom held up his hand. “That was a yes-no question. I’m kind of hoping for a single word response.”
Gary closed his mouth. He looked at Kelly, and she lifted her eyebrows, waiting. He sighed. Single word answers weren’t his forte. “No.”
Tom nodded, his face impassive. It was not the answer he’d been hoping for, and Kelly ached for him. She wished she were sitting close enough to take his hand. She wished, when they walked out of here, that she’d have the courage to put her arms around him and hold him close. And she also wished that her comfort would be enough to sustain him.
“Can you give me any statistics?” he asked Gary. “Percentages of people with this type of injury who do achieve complete recovery?”
Gary straightened the files on his desk into a neat little pile. “Since I don’t have your medical records, I can’t be absolutely certain, but from what you’ve described—the severity of your injury plus the length of time between being injured and getting medical attention . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know the exact number, Lieutenant, but most people would not have survived. Statistically, you’re way ahead of the game.”
Tom was silent.
“If these side effects are permanent,” Gary tried to reassure him, “there are steps you can take to make them easier to live with. There’s medication that will help relieve feelings of anxiety. It may also help with any vague feelings of paranoia you might be having. If you want I can—”
Tom shifted his weight, giving Gary a big body-language no. “That’s not an option. Not if I want to stay in the SEAL teams.”
“Maybe it’s time to consider retirement,” Gary said as gently as he could. “Return to civilian life. T
ake a year or two off—relax. Play golf, do a little gardening. Let yourself heal.”
Tom stood up. An even less subtle rejection. “I’m not ready to quit yet. I’ve got a few more weeks. Any suggestions on what I should be doing to speed along any kind of additional recovery?”
“Rest,” Gary recommended, “lots of sleep. Keep life low-stress. Take everything slowly, avoid upset, don’t push yourself physically. Lots of massage and other tension-relieving, ahem, activities.”
Kelly didn’t dare look at Tom. It was too bizarre—sitting here with this man she wanted to sleep with, listening to her ex-husband recommend he use sex to relieve tension. It was all she could do not to giggle. She stood up, too. “Well, that sounds good to me.”
Both Gary and Tom looked at her, and she carefully kept her face perfectly straight, her eyes wide. Little Miss Innocent.
Gary didn’t give her a second glance, but Tom kept one eye on her, even as Gary stood and the two men shook hands.
Tom was, no doubt, remembering the whipped-cream comment she’d made back in the car. Well, good. About time he caught on.
Kelly took Gary’s hand and air-kissed his cheek as Tom moved tactfully out of the office, giving them at least the illusion of privacy.
“How’s your father?” Gary asked.
“Pretty frail. How’s Tiffany and the baby?”
He forced a smile. “Fine. Great.” Very unhappy with his workaholic schedule, she knew. Tiffany had called Kelly to find out if Gary’s eighty-hour workweek was normal. It was. Kelly gave their relationship five years, tops. Tiffany was too smart to take his oh-so-important-me crap for longer than that. Yes, he was a good doctor, but he wasn’t Albert Schweitzer.
“Thanks again for seeing Tom,” she told him.
He was still holding her hand, and he lowered his voice. “He seems nice, but . . . a Navy SEAL? Aren’t you a little young to be having a midlife crisis?”
“He’s an old friend from high school.” Kelly pulled her hand free. “Whom I still happen to find very attractive. There’s no crisis. I’m single, he’s single. He’s going to be in town for a few weeks. . . .”
Gary smiled. “So it’s purely physical. I can understand that. Use birth control, sweetheart, or it might become permanent.”
The five years with Tiffany shrank to less than two, and Gary morphed into her father, richer than God, but dying alone and bitter after a string of failed marriages.
“Good-bye, Gary.” Kelly closed his office door behind her, more glad than ever that she had escaped when she did. Tom was already out of the waiting room, standing in the hall. “Sorry about that.”
He glanced at her. “No problem.”
They started toward the bank of elevators. “Are you okay?” she asked.
He met her gaze, sighed, and then, to her surprise, shook his head no. “I’m pretty disappointed.” He laughed. “I don’t know what I was hoping for. Some kind of low level internal bleeding, maybe. Something that we could all point to and say, ‘Aha, there’s the cause of the problems.’ Something that could be fixed.”
He jabbed the down call button for the elevator.
“Through surgery,” Kelly pointed out, trying to speak clearly even though her heart was securely lodged in her throat. She’d never expected him to be so honest about what he was feeling, although it was clear that disappointed was an enormous understatement. “Through the doctors drilling a hole in your skull and . . . God, Tom, Gary’s a good doctor, but brain surgery involves certain high risks. We’re talking about someone poking around in your brain. Even if the surgery goes well, there are chances of infection and—”
“Right now I’d take the risks. Gladly.”
The doors slid open, and Tom stepped aside, letting Kelly into the empty elevator first.
“Of course, the point is moot,” she said.
“Right.” Discouraged, he rubbed his forehead as the elevator took them to the lobby.
“I was a little surprised you didn’t go into more detail about your . . .” She wasn’t sure what to call it. “Your suspected paranoid episodes.”
Tom looked at her and smiled ruefully. “Tactfully put.” He shrugged. “I just didn’t feel as if I wanted him to know.”
And yet he’d told her, in complete detail.
“Do you think I’m nuts if I continue to act as if my seeing the Merchant was anything besides a paranoid delusion?” He laughed again. “Okay, let’s see you answer that one tactfully.”
That wasn’t so hard. “I think you should do whatever you need to do in order to feel most comfortable with this situation—make it as stress free as possible. I think you should follow Gary’s advice and relax.”
Tom was leaning back against the elevator wall, just watching her. She could see his unhappiness in his eyes, his frustration at this “wait and see” advice. She tried to imagine what it might be like. What if she were told there was a chance that she couldn’t be a doctor anymore? That everything she’d worked for, everything she’d strived to become would be gone? And, oh, she had to wait a month to find out her fate.
Her anxiety and stress levels would be pretty high, too.
“Maybe you should go to some tropical island for a few weeks, just drink strawberry daiquiris on the beach all day,” she said, knowing as the words left her lips that even if Tom could walk away from this ghostly terrorist he’d thought he’d seen, her own father’s failing health made the option impossible. Tom wouldn’t leave Joe until his convalescent leave was up. “I’d give just about anything to go with you.”
There it was. She’d just served him a nice, fat, slow pitch. If he wanted to, he could step up to the plate and hit the ball clear out of the park.
He didn’t pretend to misinterpret or misunderstand. He just smiled that little half smile that always made her knees feel weak. “What am I going to do about you? You should be running away from me.”
“Why should I run away,” she said, her heart pounding, “when what I really want is for you to kiss me again?”
He pushed himself up and off the wall, and Kelly knew that he was going to do just that. She’d seen that same look in his eyes last night, and in Joe’s car, all those years ago. Her pulse kicked into quadruple time, and her mouth went dry, and . . .
The elevator doors opened.
A half-dozen people were standing there, staring at them, waiting to get on. Tom stepped back to let her off first, ever the gentleman.
“Come on,” she said, leading the way through the crowded lobby, trying her hardest not to be embarrassed. He had been about to kiss her, hadn’t he? “I’ll take you to the train.” When they got into her car, dammit, she’d kiss him.
But Tom caught her hand, stopping her before she pushed open the door that led to the parking garage. “I can get myself to the train. It doesn’t make sense for you to drive me to North Station and then drive all the way back here to the hospital to see Betsy.”
“Oh,” she said. “No. I don’t mind. In fact, I’d feel much better if I could actually take you into the station and get you onto the right train.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t need you to do that. I’m not a child.”
“What if you get dizzy again?” she worried.
He laughed. “I’ll sit down. I’ll wait for it to pass. If I do get dizzy, I promise I won’t run several miles at top speed, like I did last night, all right?”
She gazed at him, unconvinced, and the amusement in his eyes changed to something softer, something warmer as he laced their fingers together and pulled her toward him.
“I like that you care about me, Kelly,” he said. “It makes me feel good. But you know what?”
She shook her head, aware that he was moving even closer, aware that she wanted him even closer—their legs touching, their stomachs, her breasts against his chest.
“I’m a highly trained professional,” he told her. “I think I can probably get from the hospital to the train station and back to Baldwin’s Bridge
on my own, even if I get a little dizzy on the way.”
His mouth was now mere inches from hers. He paused, though, gazing down at her before he closed the gap and kissed her, sweetly covering her lips with his own.
It was a see-you-later kiss, but it was unlike any other see-you-later kiss she’d ever received in the middle of a crowded hospital lobby.
He took his time with it, making a point to nestle her body against his, to slowly drink her in. He was all solid muscles, and yet, somehow, his arms managed to feel so soft.
His mouth was soft, too, and beautifully gentle. He tasted like coffee and chocolate, like everything that was good and right with the world.
When he finally stopped kissing her, when he lifted his head, she was the one who was dizzy. But it was okay, because he still held her tightly.
More tightly than she’d ever been held before in a hospital lobby.
But Tom didn’t seem worried about the fact that they were standing there in public. He didn’t seem to care that there were dozens of people around them. He surely saw them, but from the way he was looking at her, he didn’t give a damn about anyone else. Gary and her father both would’ve frowned at such a display of affection, but to Kelly, it was as good as she’d always dreamed it would feel. And if this was the way he’d kiss her in public, how would he kiss her when they were alone? The thought was heart stopping.
“You trust me, remember?” he said softly.
Kelly nodded. Oh, yes.
“Then trust me to be able to take the T to North Station. Trust me to get to Baldwin’s Bridge. I’ll see you back there. Believe me, I wouldn’t miss having dinner with you tonight for anything in the world.”
He kissed her again, but just briefly. Just long enough to make her lips tingle and her pulse surge.
And then, with a wave, he went out through the revolving doors and onto the street.
Kelly watched him from the window as he crossed to the aboveground T stop that ran down the center of the city street. Although the platform was crowded, he stood out, unique and splendid in his uniform.
The Unsung Hero Page 24
