Taking Fire

by Cindy Gerard

  Now they were getting down to the nitty-gritty. “He’s a sweet kid.”

  “And?” Brown prodded.

  Bobby leaned forward, legs spread, elbows on his knees, and rolled the cold beer bottle between his palms. “And . . . I don’t know what to say to him. How to act around him.”

  There. He’d admitted it. He was tongue-tied by a five-year-old.

  “Because he’s a kid? Or because he doesn’t know you’re his father?”

  “Yeah.” Bobby rose and walked over to the edge of the pool. “That.”

  It had been frustrating. And exhilarating. And his only choice in the matter was to follow Talia’s lead.

  “So when are you going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know. He’s been through a lot. Talia wants to give him a little time to recover. Get past the abduction.” He tipped up his beer, looked back at his friends. “I guess I agree with her. Has to have been a pretty traumatic experience for him.”

  “I get that,” Brown said, nodding thoughtfully.

  “He’s scheduled to see a child therapist tomorrow,” Bobby said. “We’ll have a better idea after the session of how this has all affected him.”

  “Sounds like it could have been a lot worse for him, if not for the kid who was watching out for him.”

  “Rami? Yeah.” Bobby looked back at the pool, watched the automatic cleaner move slowly back and forth. “He really came through for Meir. We’re lucky Amir didn’t kill them both. And Rami’s lucky to be back home with his mother. Has a couple broken ribs and a broken jaw, but he’ll be okay.”

  “What about Talia?” Brown asked, as Coop pronounced the steaks done, heaped them on a platter, and carried them into the house.

  “What about her?” Bobby followed them inside. The table was already set, salads waiting, so he sat down.

  “That’s what we want to know.” Coop made room for the steaks on the table. “What’s the story with you two?”

  “Which one’s rare?” Bobby asked instead of answering.

  Coop pointed it out and waited for Brown to fill his plate, too.

  “What I don’t get,” Brown said, “is how you kept quiet about her all these years.”

  “What, like I’m some cowboy who brags about the notches on his gun belt?” Bobby grumbled.

  “You know that’s not what I mean. It was pretty apparent that besides making a kid together, there were some seriously heavy vibes going on between you two.”

  Bobby looked at his plate. “We had a thing in Kabul, all right? I thought it was more. She thought it was less.”

  “Less how?”

  He glared at Coop. “Less as in she was Mossad, and I was her mark, okay? Less as in I got played, and she got gone. End of story.”

  Most men would have let it go at that point. Not his friends.

  “Until you ran into each other in Oman and you found out you have a son.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby gritted out. “Until then.”

  Coop shot Brown a concerned scowl, then got up and opened the fridge. He plunked another beer down in front of Bobby. “How many of these is it going to take to get the whole story?” he asked.

  Bobby twisted off the cap and took a deep, long swallow. “Keep ’em coming, and maybe we’ll find out.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Bobby stood under a hot shower in Coop’s guest bathroom, hungover and more than a little ashamed that he’d spilled his guts last night. He’d known going in that those two wouldn’t leave him be until he purged it all.

  Well, he’d purged more than his story. By the time he’d drunk the equivalent of a brewery, he’d lost most of the beer and all of his dinner. God, what a lightweight. He’d been in no shape to drive home, and even worse, he didn’t remember half of what he’d said.

  Maybe when his head quit pounding.

  Five minutes later, he stumbled out of the bathroom and dressed, hoping to avoid the walk of shame and sneak out the front door unnoticed.

  He made it as far as the foyer.

  “Robert Taggart, you turn around and march right back in here to my kitchen.”

  Rhonda. His shoulders sagged. He was in for it now. “Thanks for the bed. Gotta go.” He waved over his shoulder.

  “Like hell.”

  He heaved a deep breath and slowly turned around to face the music.

  “For God’s sake, I’m not going to beat you,” she said more gently. “I brewed a fresh pot of coffee. And if anyone can use some, it’s you.”

  Rhonda Burns Cooper was one of the most gorgeous women he’d ever met. Given that Coop had once made his living as a model, the two of them together looked like Ken and Barbie come to life. Only there was nothing plastic about either one of them. They were genuine and intelligent and had damn near as much integrity as the pope. He’d give his life for them, and he knew they’d do the same for him.

  He just wished they didn’t think they needed to look out for him. Especially where Meir and Talia were concerned.

  When the coffee she placed under his nose actually smelled good, he thought maybe he might recover.

  He huddled over the mug. “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything for this headache?”

  She opened and closed a cabinet door, then produced two tablets. “These should help.”

  God, he hoped so.

  “Coop told me about last night.”

  Of course he did. “Where is the canary?”

  She grinned. “Apparently, he didn’t indulge as much as you did. He’s out for a run.”

  Bobby nodded, then regretted it when a bomb exploded in his head. When the pounding settled down, he found himself slowly looking around the Cooper domain. It was a great house, and Rhonda had made it into a home. Classy décor. Potted plants. Grass. Pool. Neighborhood block parties. If the neighbors knew, however, that two of the world’s most elite covert operatives lived next door, they’d think twice about letting their dogs drop lawn bombs in their yard.

  “So,” he said, suddenly curious, “did you ever see yourself here? Ward and June Cleaver? Planning on having a little Beaver of your own someday?”

  “Never did.” Rhonda sat down across from him at the island with her own cup. “But I’ve got to tell you, I’m loving it.”

  He grunted and sipped his coffee. Coop loved it, too. Bobby could see it in his eyes. In the proprietary way he “owned” that grill. In the way he talked about his damn lawn mower, like it was as precious as his car, for Pete’s sake.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  He glanced up. “What about me?”

  “Do you ever see yourself here?”

  Ah. As in a Mr. to someone’s Mrs. As in a father to his child.

  There was no missing the subtext; she wanted to know about him and Talia.

  “Nope. Never have.”

  “And Meir . . . Talia? No chance they could change that?”

  A week ago, he’d have flat-out said no. But Meir’s existence meant he had to look at his lifestyle a little differently now. Talia? He mostly felt sadness and regret when he thought of her.

  I loved you.

  I still love you.

  No. He couldn’t let himself go there. If a dog licks a wound long enough, not only doesn’t it heal, but it gets more painful. He still felt like that dog. He wanted to make things better between them, but so far, he couldn’t make the festering wound of their past heal up. “It’s . . . complicated,” he finally said.

  “So I’ve heard.” She was quiet for a while, then cut straight to the chase. “Do you love her, Bobby?”

  He propped his elbows on the granite and dropped his head into his hands. “I did. Once. Then, for almost six years, I hated her. Now I honestly don’t know how to get past what she did to me.”

  He lifted his head, looked up into Rhonda’s sympa
thetic eyes. “She showed up in my life again a little more than a week ago. We survived a bombing together, rescued our child together—a child I didn’t even know existed—and . . . hell, I don’t know what to feel.”

  “Hatred?”

  “No.” He let go of a weary sigh. “I don’t hate her anymore. But I don’t seem to be able to forgive her, either.”

  “And if you somehow could? What then?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted honestly. “And if is a really big word right now.”

  The back door swung open then, and a very sweaty and winded Coop stepped inside, walked directly to the fridge, and downed about a quart of cold water straight from the pitcher.

  He wiped the sweat from his face with the hem of his T-shirt. Then, seeing Bobby slumped over at the counter, he laughed. “Wanna beer, buddy?”

  “Want me to trim that peach fuzz growing back on your bald head with your new lawn mower?”

  Coop feigned a blow to his heart. “Low, bro. Threatening me with my own lawn equipment.”

  “I’ve gotta go.” Bobby eased off the bar stool. If he stayed around any longer, Coop would gear up for a replay of last night.

  “Stick around. We can cool off in the pool.”

  “I might end up drowning you. And while your lovely wife looks good in everything, black isn’t her best color.”

  “Come on, sweetie.” Rhonda walked around beside him and linked her arm in his. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “Chicken,” Coop taunted.

  “Don’t mind him,” Rhonda said when they reached the foyer. “It’s his way of saying he cares about you.”

  Bobby gave her a weak grin. “I’d still like to drown him.”

  “Some days, so would I.” She leaned in and hugged him. “In the meantime, if you ever want to talk, I’m here—with or without the beer.”

  “I can see you out there,” Coop shouted from the kitchen. “Unhand my woman!”

  “Can I give you one piece of advice?” Rhonda said, ignoring her husband’s theatrical shout.

  He grinned. “And if I say no?”

  “Wouldn’t matter. Look. Anger is a burdensome emotion to carry. It’ll wear you down, heart and soul. If you have feelings for Talia, even if you can’t get past the pain or the betrayal right now, leave yourself open to at least consider the circumstances responsible for what she did, okay?”

  He let go of a deep breath. “I hear you.” And he had considered. He’d even set aside his feelings to help get Meir back. But now it was “real life.” Now he had the opportunity to think—really think—about the impact Talia’s lies had had on his life. Especially her lie of omission.

  He’d missed his son’s first five years. His first smile. His first steps. His first words. Those were things he could never get back. And when he let himself run with it, the old, familiar, churning anger that had fueled him for so long gnawed on his resolve to let it go.

  “Try to do more than hear me. Try to see and understand what she did, and why she did it, from her perspective.”

  He glanced at Rhonda. “You sound like her advocate.”

  “I hope I sound like your friend. Like someone who cares very much about you and doesn’t want you going through the rest of your life carrying a load of regrets over things you could have changed. You didn’t have the chance to make choices before. Now you do. I want to make sure you make the right ones.”

  37

  Bobby grabbed his keys from the counter and headed out the door. Uri and Miriam Levine’s longtime home was a grand restored row house close to Georgetown University, where they were both tenured professors. He could cover the nine miles from his apartment in McLean to the Levines’ doorstep in just under twenty minutes.

  So far, he’d made the drive exactly twice. Once to deliver Talia and Meir to her parents after they’d arrived back in the States and once for a brief five minutes to check on the two of them.

  The Levines had wanted him to stay for dinner that evening, but he’d begged off, saying he had to get back to Langley for a briefing. The truth was, he simply hadn’t had it in him to stay.

  Instead, he’d made good on the promise he’d made to himself. He’d driven to New York and visited his mother in the Bronx. He’d felt really good about that and had left with a promise to come back as soon as he could.

  Tonight, however, he’d accepted the Levines’ second invitation. They’d given him little choice.

  “Talia has told us so much about you,” her mother had said when she’d called yesterday. “We owe you so much for bringing her and Meir home to us. And we very much want to get to know you. You’ll be a big part of Meir’s life now. I hope that means you’ll be a part of our life, too.”

  How did he say no to an invitation as generous and kind as that? That the Levines, Talia included, had no plans to keep him out of Meir’s life was a gift. He’d been concerned that once the fog of fear had lifted and life started to return to some semblance of normal, Talia might have second thoughts. She might decide Meir was better off without him. Better off without the influence of a man who was still, for all practical purposes, the same man he’d been when she’d met him. So yeah. It had been a gift. Now he had to figure out how to accept it.

  He slipped behind the wheel of his black GMC pickup and backed out of his garage, his mind seeing Meir. And Talia. Put him in the front line against a swarm of tangos, and he’d feel fear, hell yeah. Anyone worth his salt would. But it was a fear he was used to. One he could control. He hadn’t yet gotten a handle on the fear that gripped him when he spent more than five minutes in a room with Meir and his mother.

  Oman no longer seemed real. Oman had been a nightmare of tension and frayed emotions and danger. So frayed he’d made love to a woman who had betrayed him. He’d temporarily let go of an anger that had simmered for years.

  But fatherhood—that was real. And it scared the hell out of him.

  Most men got nine months of prep time to wrap their mind around their new normal of fatherhood, though. He’d gotten the equivalent of a short fuse on a megabomb.

  He pulled into a strip mall and bought flowers and a bottle of wine.

  When he pulled up in front of the house, he was nervous as all hell. He made himself take three deep breaths, then walked up the sidewalk and rang the doorbell.

  He had it pretty much together—until Talia opened the door.

  Holy, holy cow. She looked . . . amazing.

  It was summer in Georgetown. Which meant it was hot. He’d left his collar open, but he started sweating in his white dress shirt and chinos, because she looked beyond beautiful in a long, lightweight teal slip dress. A dress that was a dead ringer for the one she’d worn in Kabul the night he’d taken her out to dinner. The delicate white shawl draped over her shoulders looked familiar, too. Both brought back the memory of that night, of how in love he’d been, and it was all he could do to keep from reaching for her.

  “For your mother,” he managed, extending the flowers and the wine.

  “How thoughtful. Come on in.”

  As he followed her inside, there wasn’t a question in his mind; she’d dressed that way for him. She’d known he would remember that night. It had been the first time he’d seen her in anything but her khakis. The first time they’d gone out in public together. The first time she’d worn her hair down for him other than in bed. They’d laughed and teased, and he’d kissed her in a lantern-lit alley.

  Later she’d made love to him as if he was the one man on earth she wanted to be with.

  Then, in the morning, she’d been gone.

  Now she wanted to fix things between them. She wanted him back in her life. A part of him wanted that, too, but how did he get one hundred percent past her betrayal? How did he get past five years of not knowing his son?

  Rhonda was right. Anger was a burdensome emotion t
o bear. But when a man carried it as long as he had, it became a part of him. He didn’t know how to be without it.

  “Robert.” Miriam Levine greeted him warmly as he followed Talia into the living room. “We’re so glad you were able to make it.”

  The house was very much like Miriam: understated, warm, sophisticated, and quite beautiful. It was easy to see who Talia favored.

  “Taggart.” Uri stood and extended his hand. “Welcome back. Let’s get right down to business. What can I pour you?”

  Bobby returned Uri’s smile. “Whatever you’re drinking is fine by me, sir.”

  “Whiskey it is.” Uri glanced back over his shoulder. “Neat or rocks?”

  “Neat.”

  “Open this lovely bottle of wine Robert brought, would you, dear?” Miriam said.

  “I can get that for you, ma’am.” Bobby took the bottle from Talia, aware of the brush of their fingers during the exchange.

  Miriam smiled. “Wonderful. Now, you three enjoy and relax. I’ll just be a moment in the kitchen and be right back.”

  “She’s a wonderful cook,” Uri said, with a twinkle in his eye.

  While he must be pushing retirement age, Talia’s father was trim and fit and exuded energy and goodwill.

  “I hope she didn’t go to too much trouble.” Bobby glanced at Talia, at the way her long dress hugged her slim hips and moved against her while she made herself busy selecting wineglasses.

  “Oh, she did, but she loves it,” Uri said, smiling.

  “I’ll go see if I can help,” Talia said.

  “No, dear.” Uri handed Bobby his drink. “You stay here and entertain our guest. I’m much more familiar with your mother’s kitchen than you are.” Whiskey in hand, he walked out of the room, leaving them alone.

  Bobby was suddenly grateful that he’d brought the wine. He set down his whiskey and went to work getting the bottle open.

  “How are you?” Talia asked, moving up beside him.

  She smelled like flowers. Something fresh and light and summery. “Good. All healed up.”

  “Even your head?” She was referring to the blow he’d taken at Ultramar when Amir’s shot had knocked him to the floor.