by Naomi Kryske
“You’ve had a rough go of it. Someone tried to kill you less than a week ago. You’ll not forget that so soon, but you’re safe now.” He’d held her until she calmed. When she slept, he caught a few himself then washed up.
Now he ran his fingers across the wrinkles the bedclothes had made on her skin.
Her eyes opened and rested on him. It had been a long time since a day had dawned like a promise. A smile played around her lips. “I thought you’d be running,” she teased.
“Not today, princess.”
“What would you like to do today?” Silly question, she realized. He had shaved and applied aftershave.
“Kiss your shoulder, your knee, and everything in between.”
She smiled again. “What would you like me to do?”
“The same.”
CHAPTER 45
Jenny and Simon stayed in Royal Tunbridge Wells all week, and as the days passed, the knife attack gradually lost its hold on her emotions. Only once did he see her trembling. She clutched him and cried briefly, then apologised, which wasn’t necessary.
“Simon, I wish you had a gun.”
“No need. I have other ways of subduing an aggressor.”
“Your Special Forces training?”
“Yes.” He reminded her to breathe the way he taught her, which seemed to help. He didn’t know what had triggered the episode.
One night he took her to Thackeray’s, a restaurant where the novelist’s home had once been. She was shocked by the prices, but he talked her into ordering the roast partridge soup and platter of lamb, explaining that he had quite a bit of money saved and he could provide for her in every way. He chose a starter with crab and avocado and the panfried sea bream for his main. They shared the dessert sampler.
On another evening they went to Sankey’s, a casual brasserie and oyster bar where she lost count of the number of oysters he consumed. “Did it ever occur to you that you’re eating the whole animal?” she asked. “All its little systems.”
“I’m not squeamish,” he laughed. “Are you? I see a few oysters in your seafood spaghetti.”
“Touché,” she answered. “Simon, we’ve both been through so much. It has taken us a long time to get here. Don’t you wish life could be easier? I need some time without crisis or trauma. A dull life.”
“No such thing,” he answered. “Life’s a series of challenges. Whatever happens – high tide, low tide – we have to push through. Sometimes we have a chance to catch our breath or get a second wind, but where life is concerned, we can only make things between us easier. We haven’t any control over the rest.”
Up and down the narrow streets they walked, exploring the shops and cafés and sometimes reaching for each other’s hand at the same time. In a jewelry store in the Pantiles, where the promenade was paved with tiles, he encouraged her to select something to remember their trip by. She chose a gold watch with a narrow band and a diamond chip to mark each quarter hour. “So I’ll know when it’s time to make love,” she teased. They didn’t visit any of the museums or galleries, but one afternoon they spent some time in an aviation bookstore. She watched him peruse the shelves and remove a volume. He opened it and ran his fingers down the table of contents. It seemed an intimate gesture, his fingers against the print. She thought about where he had touched her and how she’d felt and, wanting him again, she stepped closer and slipped her hand into his back pocket.
“What are you playing at?” he asked quietly, a bit surprised.
“I’m not playing.”
He looked up and saw her blushing. “Let’s go then,” he said with a smile, closing the book and taking her hand. They hadn’t gone far when the overcast sky opened up and a light shower began to fall. “We’ll run between the drops,” he said, not wanting to take the time to unfold the umbrella.
They dashed to the hotel, the rumbles from above making them increase their pace, the raindrops dancing around their feet and beading on his cheeks as well as hers. Had she felt less desire, she might have laughed at his moist freckles, but she had her arms around his neck almost before he locked the door. He kissed her there, standing up, and his breath in her ear excited her. They didn’t make it to the bed, and she was glad. She hadn’t wanted to wait. “You can go back to the bookstore now,” she said, and they both laughed.
He found a hospital nearby with an A&E where the doctor replaced the stitches in her arm with steristrips. “When it’s time, I’ll remove the sutures in your hand myself,” he said. “Just takes scissors and tweezers.” Then he kissed her still bandaged hand and confessed that he had been afraid he would lose her.
While she was basking in his love at night and his presence during the day, he seemed to have an agenda. Over dinner one evening he mentioned his work schedule and asked if she thought she had adjusted to it. On another he asked whether she wanted him to come to Hampstead each night when his work was done instead of waiting to see him at the weekends. She reached across the table to take his hand when she said yes. He always seemed to be touching her somewhere, her hand, her shoulder, her waist, as if to make up for all the times when he couldn’t. When she told him she loved him, he responded with physical expressions of love and closer approximations of the three-word phrase she hoped to hear but still stopped short of spelling things out exactly. As the days passed, the actual words became less important, because the tender tone he used when he called her “princess” seemed to say it all. Then one night in bed he whispered, “Ti amo.” In Italian it only took two words to say, “I love you,” but it was ten times more romantic.
All too soon, it was Sunday and time to check out. He closed his holdall. She put the last few items in hers and looked up at him. “I don’t want to go home,” she said. She had fallen asleep each night with his arms around her and woken each morning in his embrace. Her nightmares had abated. She felt loved, satisfied, and safe.
He had never been particularly attached to places. As a Royal Marine and later a Special Forces operative, he had always been on the move. “Home’s where you are,” he said.
She smiled. “But I don’t want this to end.”
Nor did he. He moved beside her and took her hand.
“Could we do this again sometime? Go away somewhere and make love the whole time?”
“Sounds like you want a honeymoon,” he said, holding his breath. “Would Italy do for you?”
Her eyes widened. He has thought about this. “But – honeymoons come – after – ”
“Weddings, yes. I can manage that,” he said carefully, watching her.
Her smile made her whole face light up. “Promise?”
“Prometto. I promise,” he said, bending to kiss her. Mission accomplished.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As Sergeant Casey would say, no mission is accomplished alone. Soldiers are trained, briefed, supplied, and transported. In my world I was advised, encouraged, and reassured as I put words on paper. My thanks to Phillip Hagon QPM, Commander (Retired) Metropolitan Police Service, who continues to be a source of information and inspiration. Bill Tillbrook, Chief Superintendent (Retired) provided positive feedback and support. PC Ian Chadwick (Retired) and PC John Eaton (Retired) gave me behind the scenes glimpses of firearms officer operations and lifestyles. Detective Inspector Heather Toulson added background and insight into the work of SOIT officers. PC Rob Jeffries (Retired) at the Thames River Police Museum shared his extensive knowledge of the history of the river police.
My family’s delight upon hearing that the story which began in The Witness would continue carried me through times of doubt. David and Joel Dunham of Dunham Books brought my mission to a successful conclusion. And as always, thanks to my readers (particularly my husband Larry and my son Jeff), whose constructive criticism made The Mission a better book. Any errors, whether intended or not, belong only to me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Naomi Kryske was educated at Rice University, Houston, Texas. She left Texas wh
en she became a Navy wife. Following her husband Larry’s retirement from the U.S. Navy, she lived on the Mississippi Gulf Coast until Hurricane Katrina destroyed her home and caused her relocation to north Texas. The Mission is the second of a series of novels set in London (The Witness is the first), involving the Metropolitan Police, and exploring the themes of trauma and recovery. In 2008 she was awarded a grant from the Melissa English Writing Trust for The Witness. She is an active Stephen Minister.
Visit Naomi on the Web at www.naomikryske.com and on Pinterest at www.pinterest.com/NaomiKryske.
