Breaking Point

by Suzanne Brockmann

  It soon became his favorite part of the week. Gina. Atop him.

  It was interesting, too, to see how quickly sex moved from its position as an occasional luxury to a deep-rooted necessity.

  An addiction.

  The truly dangerous thing was that Gina knew it.

  “Good morning, Debra.” Max heard her greet the nurse out in the hallway.

  Just the sound of Gina’s voice was enough to get his blood pressure rising. Jules wasn’t with her today, which meant now was the time he should reach for the telephone and tell Ajay to drop over for a game of cards.

  Except he didn’t move. He didn’t want to play cards today. He just sat, listening to the two women discuss the weather.

  “. . . few snowflakes and everyone starts driving like my Great Aunt Lucia.”

  Actually, Gina discussed. Debra gave noncommittal responses. “Yeah.” “Mmmm.” “Uh-huh.”

  “I have a cousin who’s a fifth-grade teacher just outside of Boston. He told me they don’t close school for anything less than a blizzard. Is Max in his room?”

  “He’s napping.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be quiet.”

  “Hmph.”

  It was then that Gina did it. Apparently, she’d had enough. “What do you have against me?” she asked. Just point-blank. Pow.

  Her voice was low. The only reason he could hear them was because they were standing right outside his partly open door.

  Debra let out a nervous laugh. Yes, Debra. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Gina could be a pit bull. She was not likely to walk away without an answer that satisfied her.

  And Debra didn’t have the option of distracting her with sex.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I have nothing against you.”

  Not even close. Max could picture Gina crossing her arms. Sign number one that she had gone into battle.

  Surrender was no longer an option—for either opponent.

  “Oh, come on. We both know you’re not being honest. I know exactly what you’re thinking every time I come in here.” Gina did a pitch perfect imitation of the older woman’s voice. “Well hello, dear. Time for Mr. Bhagat’s shagging, is it?”

  Now Debra’s voice was tight. “Do you deny—”

  “No.”

  Ah, Christ.

  “Sex is an important part of our relationship. I’m not going to deny that,” Gina said. “I’m not ashamed of it—why should I be? I love him.”

  This wasn’t news, still to hear her say it aloud . . .

  She wasn’t done: “Can’t we start over? Or at least can’t you be civil to me? You were wrong about the whole panties on the floor thing, right? He hasn’t had a stream of women coming in here—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment. You’ll have to ask him about that.”

  “You are such a bitch,” Gina said, and the nurse gasped her outrage. “Why do you insist on insinuating—”

  Debra’s voice got louder, talking over her. “I don’t need to tolerate—”

  “And I don’t need to tolerate your narrow-minded assumptions one second longer,” Gina shot back. “You think younger woman, older man—that I broke up his happy home, don’t you? Well, guess what? Max has never been married, you’ve got it entirely wrong. Nobody wants him but me! I’m the only one crazy enough to hope for a long term relationship with him, and I’ll tell you right now that it already sucks!”

  Ouch.

  Gina wasn’t done. “Just because your husband left you for someone younger—”

  “Where did you hear . . . My personal life is of no—” Debra sputtered.

  But Gina steamrolled over her. “Deb. I’m sorry that your ex is a prick, that he hurt you that way, but Max is nothing like him. He’s lived in this total hole of an apartment, all by himself for years. He’s married to his job and if that makes me his mistress, well all right. That’s what I’m willing to be. Hey, don’t you walk away from me! I’ve endured your silent disapproval for too many weeks now! If you have something to say to me, say it!”

  “You’re not the only woman who comes to see him,” Debra said tightly. “It’s not my place to tell you who goes in there and closes the door, but if you had any brains, you’d know that every guest who visits signs in at the front desk.”

  “Peggy Ryan, Deb Erlanger, his assistant Laronda,” Gina listed them. “Frannie Stuart . . . These are all women who work for him, period, the end, and you know it. You know what? Forget it, Debra, okay? You can just go back to ignoring me. I’m not interested in making friends with someone as incredibly toxic as you.”

  Max shut his eyes as he heard Gina open his door, then close it behind her. “Shit,” she said. “Shit. Why do I even bother?”

  She was silent for a moment then, just watching him, and he made his breathing slow and steady.

  As if he were sleeping.

  She’d told him she was bringing over lunch, and he finally heard her move and set at least two paper bags on his desk.

  She sat down, not on his bed, but on the chair nearby. And she sighed. “I know you’re not asleep. I know you heard every word of that.”

  Max opened his eyes and looked at her. The blinds were closed in such a way as to throw a pattern of light on the ceiling. It lit her face with the softest glow, making her sadness seem to shine. He found himself wishing for her camera.

  “When I said that it sucks,” she tried to explain, “what I meant was . . .” She faltered.

  “That it sucks?” he finished for her.

  She laughed, but there was still so much unhappiness in her eyes. His heart broke because he didn’t want this for her.

  She had to be crazy to want him. It was good that she knew that. Because the next step was for her to realize that she wasn’t quite crazy enough.

  As for what he wanted . . .

  “I just . . .” Gina started. “I thought . . . I don’t know what I think anymore, Max. I just . . . I love you, but . . . God.”

  She gazed at him and for once he couldn’t read her. She was usually filled to overflowing with hope and optimism. With confidence. But now all he could see was sadness.

  Maybe this was it for them. Maybe she was going to stand up and walk out of his room.

  Out of his life.

  It was then that he watched himself do it. He knew he shouldn’t, that he should just sit still and let it happen.

  Instead, he held out his hand to her. His message was clear: Come here.

  He’d never made the first move before. She was always the instigator, so to speak.

  And if the sadness in her eyes changed to something else, if she got a little misty as she took his hand, he didn’t see it. He closed his eyes and tugged her into his bed.

  She was usually naked when she slipped in with him, but this time she had all of her clothes on. It was sexy in a backwards kind of way.

  Of course, he thought Gina was sexy when she greeted the nurses in the hall. When she played gin rummy with Ajay. When she made a face at the pink snowball cupcakes that Ajay thought were the ultimate dessert food. When she laughed, when she spoke, when she breathed . . .

  He’d intended just to hold her, to let her rest against him, in the circle of his arms, but when she drew her leg across him, she encountered his . . . enthusiastic response to her presence.

  She laughed and reached up to lock his door with the remote. “Well, at least now I feel a little less unwanted.”

  She kissed him, but he pulled back to meet her eyes. “I’ve always wanted you, Gina. That’s never been the issue.”

  “So what is the issue?” she asked. “And if you give me some crap about how you don’t deserve me, I’m going to scream.”

  “What I deserve doesn’t play into it,” he told her. “I just don’t think . . .” He corrected himself. “I know that I can’t give you what you need.”

  “You want to bet?” She kissed him again and as always, he was lost.

  He helped her remove just enough of her clothing, his fingers gli
ding against the smoothness of her skin as she reached for a condom and . . .

  Yes.

  “Max.”

  He opened his eyes to find her gazing down at him, hair tousled, shirt half unbuttoned, black sheen of her bra barely restraining the fullness of her perfect breasts.

  Face serious. Eyes filled with a question.

  “Is this really just sex for you?” she whispered. “Is it all just . . . some game that we’re playing?”

  He hesitated, and in the silence he could hear the earth come screeching to a halt in its orbit, as the entire universe waited on his reply.

  The two obvious options were A, no and B, yes. Max chose C. He closed his eyes and kissed her, praying that she both would and wouldn’t understand something that he himself couldn’t begin to comprehend.

  And apparently, even if it wasn’t the absolute right answer, it was close enough for jazz.

  KENYA, AFRICA

  FEBRUARY 23, 2005

  FOUR MONTHS AGO

  “Everyone,” Gina said as Molly finished preparing the tent for Dave Jones’s visit, “okay, almost everybody in our line of work has had some kind of tragedy in their past.”

  Molly straightened her bedspread, then checked to see if the water had started to boil. It had. She poured it into her teapot.

  “Sister Helen,” Gina said. “She told me she gave her life to God after her sister was murdered right in her living room.”

  Gina was still upset with Molly. It had been something of a shock for her this afternoon—finding out about Molly’s . . . extracurricular activities helping runaway girls.

  “And Sister Double-M carries some pretty heavy baggage,” Gina continued. She was still trying to talk Molly into letting her help.

  “I know,” Molly told her. “And I wouldn’t ask either of them to help me get Lucy to Marsabit, either.” She made sure nothing ugly had crawled into any of the tea mugs, holding them up to the flickering light from the lantern.

  In Molly’s opinion, Gina would not benefit from putting herself at risk. It had only been a few short years since she’d survived the hellish experience of being aboard a hijacked airplane.

  “Besides,” Molly added, “I’m not going to make the trip north myself. I have a contact who’s reliable.” She held up her hand to stop the questions she knew would come. “You don’t need to know who, you just need to know that Lucy will be taken care of.”

  “So . . . What?” Gina said. “I’m just supposed to forget that I know anything about this? How about when the next girl shows up?”

  “You do what you did today and you tell me. And I’ll take care of her, too,” Molly said. “Gina, look, I’m sorry. I should have told you about this a long time ago.”

  “Yeah,” Gina said. “You should have.” Molly knew Gina wasn’t just angry because Molly wouldn’t let her participate. She was angry because Molly had kept a very major secret from her for the entire length of their friendship.

  But now Molly had another secret. An even bigger one. But if she had anything to say about it, she’d be sharing it with Gina in just a few minutes.

  After Jones arrived.

  It was such an obvious solution—to tell Gina that Leslie Pollard and Dave Jones were one and the same. Then there’d be no awkward curiosity as to why Molly was painting her toenails rather than overcome with grief. And Molly wouldn’t have to bear the guilt of keeping yet another secret from her best friend.

  Best of all, Jones could visit their tent for tea and it would all seem very proper to the outside world—except he and Molly would have the chance to speak openly.

  In front of Gina, of course. Camp rules required a chaperone.

  But it would be far better than the occasional whisper as they passed in the mess tent.

  Surely Jones would agree.

  “Come on,” Molly told Gina now. “Help me.”

  Gina halfheartedly finished cleaning up her side of the tent. She took a pair of socks off their clothesline—socks she’d washed out and hung to dry days ago.

  “You don’t really think Leslie’s going to show up tonight, do you?” she asked, tossing the socks into her trunk.

  Molly didn’t just think it, she knew it. “Why wouldn’t he?” she asked.

  Gina shook her head.

  And Jones knocked on the frame of the tent.

  Molly’s heart leapt. Except this was supposed to be a wake. She made herself look properly subdued as she opened the door. “Mr. Pollard. Please come in.”

  “Thank you.” He met her eyes only briefly, but it was enough to make her want to grin foolishly. Don’t smile.

  He was wearing one of his awful plaid shirts, buttoned at his neck as well as both wrists. His sun hat adorned his head, even though it was dark outside. He didn’t smile at her, either. But he did manage to brush against her as he came into the tent.

  Dear Lord. “Tea?” she asked, her voice coming out unnaturally high.

  “Please,” he said, giving Gina a nod hello as he lowered himself into one of their two chairs.

  Molly could feel him watching her as she poured. Suddenly it was quite warm in here.

  Gina cleared her throat. “So, uh, Leslie,” she said, awkwardly—which was odd. When was Gina ever awkward with anyone? “How well did you, um, know David Jones?”

  He cleared his throat, too. “Not very well, I’m afraid,” he said.

  Molly gave him his tea mug and an imploring look. “I really think we should tell Gina the truth about—”

  The look he gave her in return was pure warning. “The truth is that Jones incurred the wrath of some very dangerous men back in Indonesia,” he said in that Merchant-Ivory accent. “If he hadn’t died when he did, some very bad men would have caught up with him eventually—because he wasn’t cautious enough.”

  And, in case, she hadn’t received his message loud and clear, he leapt immediately into a long-winded story about his journey here from Nairobi with that busload of priests.

  Her back to Gina, Molly made a face at him.

  He didn’t so much as break stride, describing the bus in painfully precise detail, and then starting in on his fellow passengers.

  “Father Dieter—well, you met him, of course. He has really quite a lovely singing voice . . .”

  Molly would’ve been happy just to sit, sipping tea, and listen to him recite the phonebook. Watching his hands as he held that mug, just basking in the memory of his touch . . .

  How long did they have to play this game?

  He surely knew what she was thinking, because he purposely avoided her gaze.

  He just kept on with his story. “Father Tom told us he lived in Manila as a child. He was seven years old when the Japanese attacked.”

  Across the room, Gina was unnaturally quiet. She was sitting on her bed, as far from Jones as humanly possible, her body language completely closed. She was turned slightly away from him, her arms tightly crossed.

  “Tom’s mother was killed,” Jones continued, “Rather brutally, I imagine. His older brother, Alvin, escaped with him into the jungle.”

  As Molly watched, Gina examined a worn spot on the sleeve of her shirt. It was as if she’d rather look at anything else other than Jones.

  Who was still talking. “They were quite the pair of guerrillas, responsible for a serious bit of sabotage during the war.”

  Was it possible Gina was uncomfortable with him being in here? It wasn’t as if they had men in their tent every day. And, when they did, those men were usually priests. Or kindly Triple Fs as Gina called them: fifty, friendly, and faithfully married.

  “They blended with the locals and were never captured.” Jones kept going. “No one expected children to be responsible for such major disruptions in the supply line. Remarkable men. Alvin is still alive and living in San Francisco. He was only eleven at the time.”

  He moved on to a detailed description of Father Jurgen.

  Maybe Jones had the same height and build as one of the men who’d take
n Gina hostage and held her at gunpoint. Or maybe it was his ridiculous fake accent that was similar to that of one of her captors.

  Gina seemed to have come to terms with her ordeal rather easily, despite the fact that it had happened just a few short years ago. She seemed mentally healthy and well adjusted.

  Of course, the keyword there was seemed. Molly couldn’t get inside of Gina’s head.

  It was entirely possible it was all just a big, fat act.

  Bottom line, Molly and Gina had to talk.

  “I don’t quite remember,” Jones was saying, “whether it was Father Dieter or Father Jurgen who sang Balthazar’s verse of “We Three Kings” as we pulled into Nakuru, although I believe it was Father Jurgen.”

  He took a breath, and Molly interrupted him. “More tea, Mr. Pollard?”

  He glanced at his watch. “No. Thank you. It’s late. I should go.”

  Was he kidding? He’d barely arrived fifteen minutes ago. Molly couldn’t help herself—she made a sound of dismay.

  Which made Gina lean forward. “We’re supposed to be sharing our memories of Dave Jones. I never met him, so I’m not much help, but you did. What was he like?”

  Jones glanced at Molly. “Well. He was . . . tall.”

  “Tall,” Gina shot Molly a look, too. Except hers was loaded with Can you believe this idiot?

  “Very tall,” Jones told her. “Taller than me.” He stood up. “I really must go.”

  He handed Molly his mug, making sure their fingers touched, albeit too briefly, then thank-you-ed and good-evening-ed his way out of the tent.

  Molly didn’t wait for his footsteps to fade away before turning to Gina. “Are you all right?”

  “Are you all right?” Gina countered, sotto voce. “Brother, could this guy be any more clueless? You wanted to talk about Jones and . . . Best he can manage is that he’s tall? And did he really think I was interested in whether the fourth seat or the fifth seat behind the bus driver had more of its original padding?”

  Molly covered her smile with her hand. That had been excessive. “Some people talk when they’re nervous,” she suggested. And some people talked when they wanted to make sure other people wouldn’t talk.

  Gina flopped back on her cot, arm up over her eyes. “Oh, my God, Molly, what am I going to do? The fact that he came here tonight at all is . . . He’s so clearly interested, but that’s probably just because he thinks I’m a total perv.”