Two attractive young women in business suits, drinks in hand, flanked Ben. He stood attention straight as the raven-haired petite woman put her hand on his chest, went up on her toes, and kissed him on the lips.
Gemma retreated into the vestibule, bumping into couples waiting for a table. “Pardon me,” she said, edging around them, using them as a barrier between her and Ben. The second woman, a blonde, obviously knew him but didn’t attempt a kiss. The brunette used her thumb to wipe her lipstick from his lips. Ben grasped her wrist, moving her hand from his face, and he moved enough to collide with the blonde, who didn’t budge. Ben glanced at his watch and took a hard look down the hallway. Thank God another rush of people entering the bar blocked his view. It was easy to see he was uncomfortable and had no interest in these women. But these were the kind of women he should be interested in. A woman he could have a home and family with. Not her. Coming here tonight was a mistake. No matter how good he was for her, she certainly couldn’t be good for him. What had she been thinking? Entertaining the thought of having any kind of relationship with this man was a mistake of epic proportions. Icy spiders of reality crawled inside her veins. She couldn’t, wouldn’t hurt people she cared about. And she did care about Ben. She took one last look and fled.
The valet hadn’t moved the roadster. She exchanged a ten for her keys, slipped behind the wheel and gunned the engine, leaving rubber on the pavement. Two blocks from the restaurant her cell chimed, announcing an incoming call. Without looking, she knew it was Ben. She let it go to voice mail. Moments later, it dinged with a message alert. She pulled into the deserted parking lot of an office supply store and stared long moments at the words on the phone’s screen, Missed message from Walsh.
Halfway through the text response, she realized how crappy an I’m not coming message would be. He deserved a call. She pressed the recall button. He answered instantly. “Are you okay?” Before she could answer, he added, “Where are you?” The hum of conversation and bar sounds competed with his voice but couldn’t disguise the concern. Indecision flooded her.
“Gemma.”
If she didn’t put a stop to this now they’d both wind up being hurt. In a couple of months he’d realize the age difference was just too much and end it. She didn’t need that kind of hurt. She already cared too much about him. God only knows what it would be like in a couple of months.
“Gemma. Are you there?”
She pinched her eyes closed and flipped her internal switch from woman to admiral.
“I won’t be coming,” she said in the emotionless, more familiar voice.
“What?”
She wasn’t sure if he hadn’t heard her because of the noise in the bar or he was questioning her. “I won’t be coming,” she repeated.
“Tomorrow then?” The background noise subsided. She envisioned him standing in the hallway where she’d stood minutes before.
“No. I’m going out of town and don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“I’ll call you or you call me.”
“No.” She shook her head in resignation. “We won’t be talking again.”
“What? Why? What’s . . .”
“Good-bye, Ben.” Her thumb pressed the red strip, ending the call. The phone chirped seconds later with his call. She powered it off, watching the display go dark, and let it drop to her lap. He was probably upset, angry or both. No sense talking. Either way he’d get over it, same as she would. He’d find a friend with benefits, maybe even the dark-haired knockout in the bar, and by tomorrow he’d have written her off. Only difference was her friend was in Paris, and no matter how in control she was it would take some time for her to forget him.
* * *
Ben held out the phone and stared, waiting for the screen to come alive and tell him why she wasn’t coming, didn’t want to talk. He pressed recall and the call went straight to message. Shit! At the hostess station he pushed his way through a group waiting for a table and then through the doors. Outside he called again and again, like a stalker. Pacing in circles near the valet stand, he loosened his tie and freed the top button of his shirt. The fifth time he left a message begging her to return his call and looked up to see one of the valets giving him a you-are-pathetic look. Great! A pathetic stalker.
What had happened between noon and now? Enough of this shit. He’d go to her place. He double-timed it to his car, fumbling in pockets for car keys and . . . “Fuck.” He hammered the top of the Lexus. “Fuck. Fuck.” He had no idea where in D.C. she lived. He’d searched the Internet to send flowers and come up blank. Her cell number would be no help. He banged the top again. A man and his date glared at him and made a wide berth around the car. He dug Gemma’s business card from his wallet and checked his watch. Seven forty-five. He called her office number anyway and listened impatiently to the announcement and instructions to call a duty officer if it was an emergency. Hell yes it was an emergency, but some duty officer, whatever that was, couldn’t help him. Finally, he was able to leave his message. “My name is Dr. Ben Walsh. It is extremely important that Admiral Hendrickson call me.” He recited his number. “As soon as possible.” He had to tell her she was the one who saved his life. And then he was going to tell her how he felt and wanted to be with her.
He slid over the leather seat and dropped the phone on the console. He wrapped his hands around the wheel, resting his head on his arms. He’d thought she would give in to him like every other woman. Damn it! She wasn’t every other woman. He sat straight and released his grip on the wheel, opening his hands and flexing his fingers. He glanced at his cell. There wasn’t much chance she was going to call. Her voice had changed. She’d been all business, determined. Like in the jungle when the SEALs appeared. Some kind of switch got flipped. First things first. He had to find her. He might risk going to jail for stalking but there was no way he was letting her slip away again. And he knew just the person to help him find her. Sam. He jammed the keys into the ignition, slammed the Lexus into reverse and tore out of the lot. Medical plates would come in handy tonight.
Chapter 12
Paris
Ben leaned against a building across the street and a few doors down from Gemma’s Rue St. Antoine apartment in Paris. His flight had landed at seven thirty this morning, forty minutes early, at Charles de Gaulle. It had taken two and a half hours to clear customs, get from the airport and check into a hotel in the Marais arrondissement, one of twenty districts dividing Paris. The hotel would do. It had a bed and private bath. It was clean, and best of all it was a couple blocks from Gemma’s apartment. He’d been holding up the building between a Chinese takeout and tobacco shop for close to four hours waiting for her to either come or go. It had taken him an agonizing eighteen hours to get her son, Sam, on the phone. It seems talking to a guy on a Navy carrier in the middle of the Indian Ocean was not as simple as it appeared on TV and in the movies. Talking him into spilling where he could find Gemma had been equally as difficult. He’d refused at first, but when he heard the story of his accident and his mother’s role, he’d given in. To save Sam from Gemma’s wrath, Ben, at Sam’s suggestion, threatened to sue Guardian Air over the crash if her location was not disclosed.
Her office said she was on leave. He knew enough about the military to know that made the trip personal, not business. He could not figure the reason she bolted. More to the point, what he’d done to make her run.
Sam enlightened him on the why. A less than happy childhood as the daughter of dirt-poor, abusive and alcoholic parents taught her early on to run and hide when things became difficult. Her older brother was her protector. As a child, he would hide her in the house until it was safe. When she outgrew hiding places inside, her brother sent her out, taking the brunt of the abuse himself. Sam said to this day when she felt threatened by difficult personal situations she ran.
Unable to sleep on the flight, he’d gone over dozens of scenarios and come up empty each time. At Arlington she’d been upset he pressured her, but when
she agreed to meet him it had been genuine, at least he thought it had been genuine, not a brush-off. Could he be losing his ability to read people? Or was it Gemma was impossible to read? Whatever the fuck it was, he didn’t want to do it again.
Sam assured him her cell would work here. He didn’t dare call. The moment she saw his name in the caller ID she wouldn’t answer and possibly run again. e made up his minde H His best chance of getting to talk to her was a face-to-face confrontation and hope like hell she didn’t call the gendarmes and have his ass hauled away.
He checked his watch. Ten minutes later than the last time he checked. “Haaaamm.” He yawned and stretched. Being a surgeon gave him an ability to stand in one spot for long periods, but he had his limits. The sky was going gray. If it rained he’d need a better place to stand and watch. He stepped to the edge of the wide sidewalk and looked up and down the street for a better vantage point. The cheese shop across the street a few doors from her building would do. For now, he went back to supporting the building and processing what he’d learned about Gemma.
He tipped his head to the passing gendarme checking him out and wondered if the cop would believe his reason for being there. He’d better concoct something more convincing. Even a French cop would have trouble believing he’d come all this way to see a woman and do nothing but stand across the street and watch. He shifted his gaze to her apartment building and pushed off the wall. Gemma was coming through the glass and iron door. He put a hand to his chest. He knew it wasn’t possible but his heart pounded so hard it felt like it would break through.
She—looked—beautiful and very Parisian. Black turtleneck, gray jacket, a scarf swirled over her shoulders and gray slacks. For a moment she stood looking up and down the street, making a decision what direction she would go. She chose neither, jaywalking and heading directly for him. He froze. It took a moment for him to realize she hadn’t seen him. He ducked his head and slipped into the Chinese takeout place, perusing the overhead menu until Gemma passed. He gave it a moment, stuck his head out searching the crowd for a head with short brown hair. He located her and slipped into a stream of pedestrians exiting the St. Paul Metro stop moving the same direction. She went to an outdoor café in St. Catherine’s Square half a block from his hotel and sat at one of the two empty tables. The one with a single chair. Ben pulled the bill of his cap low over his face and sat with his back to her at the other table. The waiter came and she ordered a café and croissant in perfect French. He stole a glance over his shoulder and saw she was checking her cell. He pulled out his and texted, “I didn’t know you spoke fluent French.” When her phone pinged he rose, removed his cap, and pulled a chair to her table.
* * *
Gemma took an outside seat at the café even though the air was cooling and it felt like rain. She’d been cooped up in her apartment all day and the fresh air felt good. Her rush to seek comfort with her friend was ill timed. He was in Dubai on embassy business and it would be another week before his companionship would ease some of her pain. In the meantime, she was in Paris alone. She looked at the young couple a few tables over kissing, hands gliding over places better touched in private. She sighed. Paris was the last place a woman should be alone when she’s trying to get over a man. She took out her cell and began the unpleasant task of checking her messages. The only one of any importance was from her office assistant saying he’d rescheduled all her meetings. He’d call tomorrow as she’d requested with a report on a committee meeting she wouldn’t make. The missed calls log showed Sam called twice but left no message. And thankfully there was nothing from Walsh. She didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. What the fuck? She didn’t want to hear from him. An incoming text flashed across the screen. She read it once, then read it again. She jiggled the instrument, as if doing that would reset the words on the screen to make more sense. A man scraped one of the café’s heavy iron chairs across the paving stones, positioned it opposite her and sat. “I don’t want company,” she said in French, staring at the screen and not looking up. How the hell did Walsh know she spoke fluent French? When the man didn’t move she repeated it in English and looked into the face of the someone she’d spent most of the last five days thinking about. About being with in every sense of the word.
Walsh carefully placed his cap on the table and ran a hand over his hair, trying to make order of his hat head.
“Hello.”
She said nothing. He looked tired and nervous. As well he should be. A wariness flooded her brain. How the hell had he found her? She glanced down at the phone. Sam. That’s why he was calling. Wariness turned to anger. If Walsh thought her French was fluent, wait until he heard her profanity. She opened her mouth to blast him, only to close it when the café owner, Monsieur Duran, delivered her coffee and croissant. He asked Walsh if he’d like to order. Without taking his gaze off her, Walsh shook his head. The elderly Frenchman grumbled and shuffled off to take care of his other customers.
Ben threw her a smile.
“Leave.” The word came out as a low growl but it was all she could manage. He lowered his head, cleared his throat and looked back to her. She could see in his eyes he wasn’t going anywhere. He leaned across the small table and used his big warm hand to cover hers.
“Gemma.”
The way he said her name sent a shiver through her.
“I’m not going anyplace until you tell me why you wouldn’t meet me. Why you came to Paris.”
“That’s none of your business.” To prevent him from feeling her tremors she yanked her hand away, leaving the phone under his palm.
“It’s my business if I’m the reason you left.”
She held her hand out. “Give me my phone.”
He held it out of her reach. “Not until you tell me why you didn’t show up in Baltimore.”
Her angry act was going to be difficult to maintain if he kept using that soft voice and smile. “Why did you follow me?”
“I told you, I need to talk to you.”
What could be so important that he’d followed her to Paris? She folded her arms over her chest and flopped back in the chair. This had disaster written all over it. Face-to-face she might not have the courage to send him away if he said he wanted a relationship. “Go for it.” Ben hesitated and looked around at nearby tables, where men and women sipped their wine or coffee, read books and newspapers and engaged in conversation, and he looked at a young couple, foreplay. “Talk,” Gemma demanded. “They”—she scanned the tables—“aren’t paying us one wit of attention. Whatever you have to tell me you can say it here. Be quick about it.” Before I say something stupid like I want to be with you.
Ben shrugged and slid her phone across the table. Gemma made no attempt to retrieve it, fearful he would reach out and touch her again. She dropped her hands to her lap.
“Twenty-two years ago I was just home from college for the summer break. My buddy and I went out drinking. We were hammered. I don’t remember exactly what happened.”
“Doc, you may have forgotten but you told me all this in the jungle. I don’t need to hear it again. If this is what you chased me to Paris for you’ve wasted your time.” She reached for her phone and he covered her hand with his.
“There’s more. A lot more. Let me finish?”
Gemma looked from her hand to his face, glaring until he moved his hand. “Get on with it.” She palmed her cell and pulled her hands from his reach.
“An animal ran across the road—maybe. Anyway, we hit a utility pole head-on, flipped off it into a runoff ditch. There’d been a lot of rain. The car rested on its side in a few feet of water. My legs were trapped. I couldn’t get out.” He paused.
His dark eyes scanned her face in the fading afternoon light as the glimmer of understanding took hold. What the hell was he trying to pull? The man in that accident died.
“I was in and out of consciousness. My head slipping under the water flooding the car. Then you appeared.”
Gemma strug
gled to keep her rapid breathing under control. How dare he take what she told him and do this to her.
“That was me, Gemma. You saved me.” He gave her the date and time of his accident.
Gemma’s head rotated slowly from side to side. “No. The newspaper article.”
“It was my friend who died in the accident. He’d been thrown clear of the car and more than likely died on the initial impact. You didn’t read the whole article.”
It was true, she hadn’t. She’d only seen the little headline and read the first few lines from a discarded newspaper in the Dallas airport. “No,” she whispered. “Not me.”
“It was you.” He stretched out his arm, resting it on the table palm-up. “You had a flashlight and went under the water to free me. When you couldn’t, you wedged in behind me. My head was on your chest, here.” He raised his hand and put it on his chest where his head had rested on hers. “Kept my head above water.” He closed his eyes. “You said, don’t worry, baby boy, help is coming. I told you I couldn’t take the pain anymore. Begged you to let me go so I could drown.” He opened his eyes, placed his arms on the table, clasping his hands. “I remember your words exactly.” He leaned toward her. “You said, not a snowball’s chance in the middle of a fucking Texas summer. The Big Guy is giving you another chance.”
Dear God. It was her. All this time thinking that man had died. Her decision to stay with him and not go for help had killed him. A decision that in a very real way helped her form every lifesaving evaluation she’d made since that night. Gemma struggled to keep her expression free of emotion.
“You said, we’re going to take it second by second. You can do anything for a second. And you counted down the time by tapping the back of my hand. Just like you did with the lieutenant in the jungle.” He hesitated and shifted in the chair uncomfortably, his knee bumping hers. “I kept expecting you to appear at the hospital. When you didn’t, I began to question if you were real. I finally asked my mom and she assured me you were real. You disappeared the moment the rescue personnel arrived. No one could even give us your description.”
Under Fire: The Admiral Page 11
