“No,” he rasped, his heart and soul shredding. Dear God, he’d never thought he’d ever need to beg her—but right now, he’d get down on his knees for another single moment with her.
“I have to go, Tal! Don’t you get it?” she cried. “I can’t be Verity West and your wife—that can’t work for you. And I can’t stay home and wait for you any more than you could for me. I was a Nighthawk, too! Was, but it’s over for me, not for you…and even if I could stay with you without risking your life and cover, I’d watch you leave on missions and I’d ache and burn with wanting to be there. One day I’d resent you for always leaving me behind. And you’re a dedicated doctor—this offer is everything you’ve ever wanted. You’d resent me if I asked you to stay for me.” She gave a hopeless shrug. “I’ve loved you all my life—but it’s always been me waiting for you, me coming to you, me compromising for you. I can’t do it anymore. We love each other now. I couldn’t stand to watch it die.”
He wheeled away. There was nothing to say to that. She knew him too well. “If you ever change your mind…”
“I know my way to headquarters—but I’d need a pass to get in now.” The words were light, self-mocking, but with a quiver of emotion. “Tal, if…if you meet someone else—”
He wanted to puke at the thought of it. “It’s more likely to be you than me, Miss West.”
She turned his face to hers. “I’ve loved you for twenty-four years. You climbed that tree for me, even though you knew the eggs wouldn’t hatch. I knew then I’d found the love of my life. There will never be anyone else for me but you.”
“You think it’s any different for me?” He heard his voice, so rough and gravelly with pain. No, not a bit different—he’d loved her from that first day. He’d climbed the stupid tree to stop her tears—anything to stop the kid crying—and seeing her little freckled face so radiant with joy, her eyes so filled with shy admiration for him and the silly task he’d performed for her, something weird happened. It was as if he’d fallen inside her, body and soul, and he’d never found his way back out.
“If you do meet someone else…” she went on softly, her voice shaking. “If you ever want…want a divorce, send me the papers and I’ll sign them. Just…just don’t tell me you love her.” With a sudden, tiny cry, she collapsed into his chest. “Please, Tal, promise me that much. Just don’t tell me you love her!”
He had to say it; the wait was killing her. “Okay,” he said slowly, knowing he’d never have to fulfill the promise.
“Thank you. I—I can’t—” She grabbed her stuff, turned and bolted down the path to the waiting car.
He watched her leave, watched the car pull away from the curb and roll smoothly down the street, as if by fixing his gaze on it he could make a miracle happen and she’d come back to him, tell him she’d found a way for them to be together, forever.
When the car finally dwindled into the horizon on the long, unwinding road leading to Barcelona, he turned back to the hospital, his limp getting stronger as he allowed the physical agony to take him over, his exhaustion to win—and he made himself think of the upcoming autopsy on Burstall. He’d probably have to perform it himself.
A gross thought, but he’d rather think of that than go back a minute in time. Anything was preferable right now than the memory just burned into his brain, of watching her leaving his life.
“’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all…”
“What a load of crap,” he muttered, and slammed the swinging doors open and stalked back into the staff room to inject his leg pain into temporary oblivion.
But he didn’t have any relief, temporary or permanent, for the life-draining anguish inside his heart.
Chapter 19
Canberra, five months later
“Use the fins harder. Your patient’s going under! This is not a dress rehearsal, men. Swim for his life!” Flipper shouted from beside the pool. Artificial crashing waves and sounds of thunder filled the aquatic training facility. Flipper knew how to push the armed-service-recruited paramedics learning combat swimming/rescue techniques to the limits of endurance.
Tal, leaning on his cane beside Flipper, nodded. “This lot will make it. They’re almost ready to send out.”
“You’re rescuing the man, Jones, not breaking his neck! How many weeks do they have to go with the advanced medic’s course?” Flipper went from yelling at a recruit to asking Tal the question without skipping a beat.
“They’re finished. They passed the exams and practical stints with high credit to distinction.” He scrutinized the trainees carefully, looking for any signs of fear, of hesitation or loss of concentration that could cause a patient to lose their life. “If they pass the physical, they’re ready for their first assignments. Group two begins their course in three weeks.”
Flipper spoke the thought that came to his own mind at that moment. “You think West will make it through, Irish? I have my doubts. He’s strong and fit enough, but the stress is showing.”
Tal’s heart did the usual stop-start whenever West’s name came up. Nice guy, but he’d be glad when he was on assignment, he’d get a code name and his name wouldn’t be in his face and filling his ears every day. “I don’t know. The cracks are getting stronger. He’s got a big heart, though. He wants to do this so bad. I think he might get through.”
“If he doesn’t freak out when he faces the real thing out there,” Flipper returned with strong doubt in his voice.
Tal shrugged. “Didn’t you freak out the first time?”
Flipper turned to him, chuckling. “If I had, they’d have turfed me out on my ass. SEALs don’t tolerate wimps. No personal problems on the job. No fear. No excuses. Not ever.”
And without that attitude the past two months, without Flipper beside him on the survival skills course for the trainee Nighthawk Evacuation Rescue team, Tal would have fallen apart.
They’d come to know each other well. As field commanders of equal status, they had to thoroughly acquaint each other with their backgrounds and skills, to assess which team they needed on what field at any given time. A kid from the meaner streets of L.A., a former gang member turned pilot turned SEAL, Flipper was a complete man of action. He seemed almost as inhuman as Anson at times. Flipper didn’t just live for the job; he was the job. It defined him.
He wished he had that tunnel vision, that absolute one-hundred-percent-at-all-times dedication to the job. Then he’d sleep better at night, not waking up drenched in erotic or terrified sweat from one dream after another of her. Sometimes he thought he’d give anything for one night’s sleep—just sleep. No 0100, 0200, 0300 and 0400 heart, gut and body-punching wake-up calls that she was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. Loving her or losing her, every night was the same…he just couldn’t forget, not even for an hour. Not even in sleep.
“Irish. Flipper. Report to head office stat.”
The disembodied voice filtered through their earpieces and jerked Tal out of memories. “Right. Out, men,” he shouted. “Thirty-minute lunch break, then back into the jungle facility for simulation enemy territory training.”
Without a word, the men swam through the choppy waters to the side, vaulted out and headed for the change room. Meal and sleep times were their only breaks, and they didn’t waste time talking about it or complaining: they knew they’d be shown the door if they couldn’t handle any single part of the training course.
Tal and Flipper left the facility, hopped in the Jeep and headed north toward central Canberra and Anson’s office in silence. Neither man was the kind to waste words in speculation. They’d know why Anson wanted them soon enough.
“You’re on assignment,” Anson told them as soon as the doors to his office closed. “Both of you. Effective immediately.”
Tal blinked. “Boss, the course is almost done—”
Anson nodded impatiently. “No time for that.”
Intrigued, he asked, “Where are we going?”
Anson tur
ned to Flipper. “New Zealand for you. We’ve found a strong probable for both Delia de Souza Falcone and her son hiding out in the Bay of Islands in the north island.”
“New Zealand? She’s in New Zealand?”
Tal, hearing the strange note in Flipper’s voice, glanced at his friend. He was pale, yet his eyes burned. His fists were so tight-clenched he looked as though he’d break something any second.
So Flipper had an Achilles’ heel after all…
Anson nodded, seeming uninterested in Flipper’s reaction. “A town called Renegade River. She calls herself Elizabeth Silver. Fly in yourself—the N.Z. military’s given you clearance—and play the tourist. Try to get close—you met her on your first assignment, right? Check her reaction. Work fast—if we’ve found her, I doubt Falcone’s men will be far behind. He wants his son and everything she stole from him when she ran. Gain her trust and get that evidence. We want an affidavit, plus Mrs. Falcone and her son in protective custody, ASAP.” Anson held out a sheaf of papers. “Here’s what we know about her and the area. Get what you need and don’t hesitate. If this woman is Delia de Souza, she’s invaluable to us.”
“Yes, sir.” Flipper took the assignment sheets.
“This is stat, Flipper. I’ve already made arrangements for Tapper and Shadow to take over with the trainees for now.”
“Yes, sir. Consider me gone.” Flipper turned and stalked out of the room as though chased by his own private demons.
Tal could relate to that.
“I gather I’m not going to New Zealand, sir?”
“No. London,” Anson said briefly.
His heart jacked up into his mouth. That’s where Mary-Anne was now on the final week of her tour. He hadn’t seen her in over two months, since their last fifteen-minute reunion in New York to call their parents together. “What’s the deal, boss?” he asked bluntly.
Anson looked up then, with a small smile. “She used to say that to me all the time. ‘What’s the deal?’ were always her first words whenever I called her in on assignment.”
Tal gave a deep, harsh sigh. Another little trip down memory lane was more than he could stand right now. “Is this about Mary-Anne? If so, sir, we’d both appreciate it if you wouldn’t interfere with our personal lives.”
His face blank of emotion, Anson handed him a photo. “Now tell me I’m interfering.”
Tal took the picture, and stared at it. The world started tilting around him in slow, crazy arcs. “When was this?”
“Last night, just after the show,” Anson replied, his tone grim. “Get over there, Tal. She needs you.”
Anson’s use of his real name registered in a kind of vague, brief shock—but his other words hit him with the relentless force of a jackhammer. “I want the jet.”
“It’s fueled up and waiting for you at the airstrip.” Anson hesitated. “The disguise is waiting, too, if you decide you need it. I thought, with the press speculation—her career might suffer. She’s already lost enough.”
Tal nodded. “Thanks, boss.” He’d wear the goop—he’d do that and more—to make it to her. He knew what he had to do, whether she wanted it right now or not.
London
“Miss West. Miss West! Encore!”
Mary-Anne started as the urgent hiss penetrated her brain. She looked around the stage from the wings, almost bewildered, and slowly walked on to thunderous applause.
Was the show over? Had she actually gone through another entire show on autopilot?
Had it come to this, that her brilliant career could mean so little to her?
The cheers of the audience told her it made no difference to them. They didn’t know, couldn’t see the ice had reached right down to her heart—and if it did, it hadn’t changed her voice and looks, and that was all they cared about. They preferred her this way, fulfilling the legend they expected to find when they bought their tickets. Verity West was even colder than before, totally inhuman, the Iceberg sculpted into a perfect maiden of frost…but she could still sing, so who cared?
Distance was the only armor she had left, and she clung to it with the grim desperation of a drowning woman.
Verity West’s Secret Marriage Fails After One Week. Iceberg Freezes Her Husband Out, the headlines mocked.
She’d always thought she was a pro at the game—now she realized what a novice she’d been, protected by society’s innate respect for the widow’s mantle. As a woman separated from her husband after a week she’d become fair game: from socialites to journalists to photographers and interviewers. Men crowded her, touched her, propositioned her with greater impertinence than before. The challenge was back on: who would melt the Iceberg after she’d driven away her second husband?
The media constantly asked her about Tal’s disappearance. How could she lose her husband after only a week?
She couldn’t tell them. She was too busy breathing from one day to the next. Busy pacing her room at night, night after night after waking up reaching out to emptiness, her body aching for the release and love that it, and she, couldn’t have.
Visions of him smiling at her, with his crooked pirate’s grin. Taking her in his arms, kissing her mouth, and her body. Needing her touch when the pain hit him. You have healing hands, honey. Throwing her on the bed—
Wild, sweet loving, her body on fire, her heart filled with joy and love.
Tal, oh, Tal…
So she was alone again in her pretend world. Verity West, the glorious princess, immersed in her ivory tower like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty. Just breathing. Back in emotional slumber, waiting for the prince who would never ride in on his white horse to save her…
Deep silence recalled her to now. Slowly she looked around, feeling as though she was crawling through a thick murk. The quiet was so heavy it buzzed in her ears. The audience, the cast, even the stagehands blinked at her, slow and confused. Waiting for her to do something, say something.
And without warning the world did the kaleidoscope thing again, she couldn’t focus her eyes. What…what—
Her legs gave way. She felt herself crumple to the floor as darkness fell down on her.
Tal sat in the special box reserved for family in mounting horror. He’d only arrived in London in time to make the start of her performance. He’d asked the theater manager to keep his presence a secret—he wanted to surprise his wife after the show, and didn’t want to distract her.
Now, he wished he had. He’d seen her in live performances more often than she’d ever know…and watching this one felt as if he was getting a well-deserved kick in the guts.
She was reed-thin, her eyes hollow with fatigue and stress. She all but stumbled in her heels as she danced and strutted around the stage; her hands looked as though they needed something solid to hang on to. The tremors weren’t strong enough to hit headlines—maybe only he could see them because he knew her so well. But he suspected only her dauntless spirit kept her on her feet and her glorious voice from faltering.
Dear God, had losing him done this to her?
He saw the moment when she started losing it—at the encore call. Her eyes blinked a few times and she looked around as if she had no idea where she was. She swayed on her feet.
And he started running.
“Move! Get out of my bloody way!” He elbowed his way through the crowd milling in front of her dressing room. “Move! I’m Verity West’s husband, and if I don’t get in there someone’s going to be hurt!”
His tone, even to himself, was rough-edged and filled with danger. The crowd took one look at him, parted, and he stalked through them into the dressing room.
“You can’t come in here, sir.” A hulking security guy blocked his way in, his voice authoritative. “Miss West is unwell.”
He flipped out his ID. “Miss West is my wife. Now move or I’ll move you.”
The guy gave a glance back, then moved aside. “Of course, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”
Tal didn’t waste words. He pushed past
the guy and walked in.
She was on the bed in the corner, her bright hair a fiery slash against a face so pale, and still it scared him. As well as two men and a woman hovering around her, a man was checking her over. “Move,” was all he said.
The thin, middle-aged man checking her swiveled around, his face startled. “Who the hell do you think you are, ordering me to move? I’m her doctor—”
“So am I. And I’m her husband.” His voice was as taut as his emotions as he pushed past the guy to kneel beside her.
One of the men hovering around her came to him with his hand out. “Dr. O’Rierdan, it’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Michael Mathieson, Verity’s agent—”
“Verity doesn’t exist. Her name is Mary-Anne.” He checked her pulse, the condition of her skin. Too hot, clammy. “I’d leave now if I were you—all of you—before I belt the hell out of you for letting her get into this state. You’re supposed to bloody look after her, not work her into illness!”
Mathieson backed off—and no wonder, if he looked half as violent as he felt right now—but the doctor, though he had the grace to look guilty, stood his ground. “It’s Miss West’s right to decide who stays or goes.” He turned back to Mary-Anne’s inert form. “Miss West. Miss West!”
They all began chanting the words like mindless parrots, standing at a distance, as if they were scared of touching her. Miss West. Miss West.
Didn’t anyone in this crowd know who she was?
Gently he took her hand in his, felt the trembling and fever even in her palm. “Mary-Anne?” He lifted the palm to his lips, kissing her over and over. “Mary-Anne? Honey, it’s me.”
She stirred, with a tiny groan. “Tal?” she murmured, her soft voice touched with disbelief, with wonder.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Tenderly, using a nearby damp cloth, he wiped off the makeup on her face—a face so thin the angles showed in stark contrast to the soft fullness of her mouth. He checked her over. Stress and exhaustion had taken its toll, and she hadn’t been eating enough. She’d been sick for weeks by the looks of it, denying it and trying to work through it—but thank God, it was fixable—in time. “What have you been doing to yourself while my back was turned, kid?”
Can You Forget? Page 23
