Under Fire: The Admiral

by Beyond the Page Publishing

  He found Gemma in the small galley kitchen, her back to him. She’d draped his jacket on one of the two kitchen chairs and was wiping the rain away with a towel. “What do you want me to do with these wet clothes?” She did one of those crazy jerking things that people do when they’re startled and turned to face him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, it’s . . .”

  “It’s okay. I’m not used to having anyone here and you were so quiet. What did you say?”

  “My clothes.” He held the bundle out toward her. “I didn’t want to leave them on the floor, they’re wet. Where can I put them?”

  She went to the end of the kitchen and opened double doors, revealing an apartment-size washing machine and dryer. “Bring them here and I’ll run them through.”

  “Thanks,” he said, joining her. “I can do it.”

  She was wearing perfume and he liked it. He backed up a step and looked away. Didn’t want her catching him smelling her again.

  “These two machines are ornery, and if you don’t get everything just right they eat your clothes.” She took them from him. “You get everything out of the pockets?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “I ditched the tea and poured you a whiskey. Knob Creek, neat. I figured you being a Texan that would be your drink. It’s in the living room”—she tipped her head—“on the coffee table with a platter of bread, cheese, and pâté. If you want ice, snag some from the freezer. It’s not fancy here.”

  “You going to join me?”

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “I am and . . . and you’re going to tell me what all this is about.”

  Her tone made him feel like he was a kid being sent to the principal’s office. And he had plenty of experience with that feeling. On the coffee table he found two old-fashioned glasses half filled with a smoky liquid and a dish of food. He picked up a glass, belting down a good portion, then smeared a piece of the bread with pâté and popped it into his mouth. It was good and he was beyond hungry. He did the same with the cheese and walked the high-ceilinged room. He separated the drapes on the huge window overlooking the Rue St. Antoine. It was raining harder. Near the window a table and lamp stood next to a well-worn dark leather chair and ottoman, positioned to give the person sitting there a good view when the drapes were open. His shoes were on the dark polished wood floor near a radiator. A pale overstuffed sofa, matching chair and a coffee table were clustered on a Persian-style rug. A small flat-screen TV sat on a desk littered with papers that had an iPad as a paperweight. He finished off his whiskey looking at black-and-white framed Paris city scenes decorating her walls. Not what he imagined for her, but comfortable.

  “It’s small,” Gemma said from behind him. “But it’s all I need.” He turned to see her coming toward him with a bottle of Knob Creek in her hand. “I rarely have any visitors.” She looked at him pointedly and held the bottle. He nodded and she topped off his empty glass. “Sam comes occasionally. Ergo the clothes.” She put the bottle on the coffee table and picked up her drink, taking a sip. “Sit down, Doctor.” He eased into the chair near the sofa and watched her move around the room turning on the lamps. She settled into the corner of the sofa as far away from him as she could get, kicked off her slip-ons and curled her legs under her like a cat. She said nothing, just stared at him. “You mind if I eat? I haven’t eaten since—”

  “Not at all,” she interrupted. “That’s why I put it there. Have at it. The pâté and cheese are very good.” He smeared a slice of baguette with pâté and popped it into his mouth.

  “If you prefer wine, I have several bottles of red and white,” she said, starting to get up.

  He shook his head, held up the drink and waited until he swallowed to answer. “The whiskey is fine.” They said nothing for a long time. The only sounds in the room were the occasional rumble of thunder and rain sheeting against the window. He decided it was her place, her rules, and he’d wait for her to start the conversation. He was on his fourth pâté and cheese and growing nervous at her silence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her pinch her eyes close and take in a deep breath. He drained the whiskey, put the glass down and wiped his mouth.

  “You said you wanted to talk with me and wouldn’t leave until you did. So talk.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands dangling near his knees. “I said some of it at the café.” She nodded. “I would’ve told you all of this the night we were going to have dinner in Baltimore. I would’ve told you before that, if you would’ve talk to me.” Jesus, he was rambling.

  She shifted a little, straightened and pressed back into the corner of the sofa.

  “Why didn’t you meet me?”

  “You came to Paris to find out why I wouldn’t have dinner with you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement said in a you’ve got to be fucking kidding me tone. Okay, she wasn’t making this easy.

  “Yes.” He took in a deep breath and swallowed hard. “I did.”

  “You came all this way even though I told you I couldn’t . . .”

  “The moment you stepped out of the Gulfstream I was attracted to you.” Gemma’s expression was unreadable. “The way you looked at me led me to believe there was something there on your part. That is, until I introduced myself.” She studied him carefully. “Then wham. It was done.”

  “Umm” was the only response.

  “I did everything I could. Was polite, smiled, let you have my share of the grilled coconut grubs.” He hoped the last would elicit a smile. Instead, her full lips became a thin line. “Each time I handed out a dose of my world-famous charm you smiled politely and shut me down so easily it was embarrassing.” He sat back, planted his palms on his thighs and rubbed. “I asked you to fly back by the coast because I knew it would take longer. I hoped I could get you to lighten up and give me a break.” Gemma sat like a stone.

  “Every time I thought I was getting through to you something happened. We get shot out of the sky. Navy SEALs pull us apart. You go to Paris.” Thunder rolled like bowling balls across the sky and Gemma glanced to the window. “When you called me that night and said you weren’t coming it was like getting stomped on by a bull.” She flinched. Finally a reaction.

  “On top of the feelings I have for you, you’re largely responsible for who I am today. What I am today. I wasn’t going to let you disappear from my life again.”

  “You could have told me this in a letter. An e-mail.”

  “I couldn’t. The only way I could express the way I feel about you and the gratitude . . .”

  “So you thought you’d come here, tell me and maybe get in a gratitude fuck?”

  It was said so matter-of-factly, with no emotion, that it took him a moment to process the words. “No.” The talk with Sam had prepared him for this. She’d try to make him angry and drive him away. Not going to work. He pushed to his feet and went to her. She tilted her head to look up and for the first time he understood that saying about eyes being windows to the soul. Everything was right there for him to see. Her strength. Her defiance. Most of all her vulnerability. All of it bringing every one of his emotions to the surface. He reined himself in and crouched in front of her, clasping his hands. There was a good chance she was going to throw him out so he might as well say it all. He took in a healthy breath and let it out slowly.

  “I’ve had feelings . . . strong, love at first sight, romance-novel feelings, for you before I knew it was you who saved my life. And I think you feel the same way.”

  Gemma shook her head.

  “If you didn’t, you would have met me in Baltimore, you wouldn’t have . . .” He almost said run. “. . . come to Paris.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said.

  “I’m not.” He braced his arms on either side of her to prevent her getting up and braced for a slap to his face. “You do feel something. The age difference is holding you back. You don’t want to open yourself up to me and risk I’ll hurt you.”

  The windows to her sou
l flared in a full-blown accelerated fire. She palmed his shoulders and shoved, staggering him, but his grip on the sofa held him in place.

  “You. Are. An. Asshole.”

  Okay, but she didn’t say leave. They glared at each other silently and he waited for her next move. If she did tell him to leave, he would. But, he would be back. He meant what he said. He was not going to let her disappear from his life without a fight.

  The dryer buzzer went off. They both jerked and looked in the direction of the sound. Gemma uncurled her legs, planting her feet on the floor between his knees. “Let me up.”

  He stood, took a couple of steps back so she could get up without having to touch him. Which she did, and stalked to the kitchen without giving him a look. A moment later, the offending buzzer went silent.

  Ben followed her into the kitchen. Her back was to him, her head lowered, one hand on the dryer door, the other braced against the wall.

  “If my clothes are dry I’ll take them and change. Then I’ll get out of here.”

  She straightened but didn’t turn.

  “I’m sorry that you’re upset,” he said. “That wasn’t my intention. I wanted you to know how I felt. I want a chance with you. It was selfish. Sam said you run to keep from getting hurt.” She did a slow turn. Shit! Talk about terminal foot-in-mouth disease. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m tired. I haven’t had much sleep the last three days. I’m making things worse.” He took a step toward her. “My clothes, please.”

  “They aren’t dry,” she said quickly and reached behind her, slamming the dryer door. “You go out in this”—she glanced up—“you’ll be soaked in five minutes. It will take you twice that long to find a cab.”

  He said nothing.

  She shifted from foot to foot. “You can stay . . . here.”

  His knees actually wobbled. Thank you, gawd.

  “In the spare bedroom of course.”

  “Of course. Then tomorrow we can spend some time together?”

  “Don’t push it, Walsh.”

  “No, ma’am.” He gave her his best smile, and son of a bitch if she returned it. She had a smile that would bring a bull elephant to its knees.

  Gemma knew she’d either made the best decision of her life or the worst. His soft voice with traces of a Texas accent had captured and held her hostage. Thrilled and terrified by his words and sincerity she’d been unable to move. When she blurted out the shitty gratitude fuck remark and he got to his feet, her heart stopped. She expected him to leave. Wanted him to leave so she could start getting over him. Instead, he came to her, his dark sexy eyes putting her under a spell. It had taken every bit of self-control to keep her hands, and hell, her body, to herself. Yet, she was allowing him to spend the night here. Granted, it was in another bedroom. In another bed, steps away from her own. She imagined him naked between the sheets, her sliding in next to him. She shook her head. Ben took a step closer.

  “I meant what I said about being attracted to you before I knew you were the woman who . . .”

  “I believe you.” He came closer and she felt a flush travel her neck to her cheeks.

  “Another thing. Age is a number.” His hair was dry and a wavy cluster had fallen to his forehead.

  Another step and low in her stomach a warmth spread.

  “It means nothing to me.”

  His voice was low and husky. She tried to say something but no words came out. He was inches away now and all she could do was think about how his body would feel against hers. She watched, fascinated, as he moistened his lips with his tongue, wondered how those lips would feel against hers. The warmth became a throbbing heat spreading to her breasts. Another step. He grasped her shoulders and dipped his head. She closed her eyes as his warm breath misted her face. The full lips she’d been staring at rested on her cheek, then lifted, and she prepared to receive a full-on kiss to the lips. She leaned into him but he held her back.

  “I’m going to hit the mattress. Thank you for letting me stay tonight.”

  Her lids flew open.

  He stroked her cheek. “Not tonight, Gemma. I’m going to give you time to trust me.” He took a step back, turned and went for the door, then stopped and turned. “What you said before about a gratitude fuck.” She flinched and the blush on her face deepened. “When we get to the fucking part, I’d prefer to call it making love. As for the gratitude, there will be plenty on my part, and I promise I’ll do everything in my power to make you feel just as good.” With that he disappeared down the hall and her legs totally went lo mein noodle. Holy crap.

  She grabbed the counter to steady herself until her insides quit doing a happy dance. Oh, Lord. She wanted him. Wanted to do things to him. Wanted him to do things to her. Her senses were overloaded with him. Her skin burned each place he’d touched. Her nostrils were filled with his scent. His voice vibrated in her memory, tightening her nipples. Her temperature hit the danger zone. She opened the freezer and palmed a couple of ice cubes, putting them at her neck. She was more than attracted to Ben Walsh. She was in full-blown lust with him. But there was something else. This was more than attraction and lust. Lust was about sex and companionship. Uncomplicated. Whatever this was, it was complicated and felt very different. She circled the cubes on her neck as she worked out what was different about this. Easy to figure. He was fourteen years younger and she was afraid of being hurt. That sobering thought chilled her through and through. The half-melted cubes hit the sink.

  Ben closed the bedroom door with some force to let her know he was in for the night. Even so she popped her head into the hallway to make sure he wasn’t there before going to the living room to collect the plates and food. Well, plates anyway. Ben had scooped up what was left of the food. She carried the plates to the kitchen and removed his dry clothes from the machine, wondering if he’d caught her in the little lie about them still being wet. She left his folded clothes on a kitchen chair, then made the rounds in the living room turning lights off and the thermostat down. She preferred to sleep in the cool. She snagged her jacket and phone and headed down the hall. As she passed the guest room door she considered knocking and telling Ben where he could find an extra blanket. She thought better of it and hustled to her own room, closing the door very gently.

  Gemma normally slept in the raw, but with company in the apartment—more to the point, with him in the apartment—it didn’t seem like a good idea. She retrieved a pair of silk pajamas, went into her tiny bathroom and stripped, examining her face and body in the full-length mirror attached to the door. She was fit thanks to exercise and the physical work she’d done over the years. Her upper arms were firm and the lighthouse tattoo on her shoulder was in good condition. She turned sideways and ran a hand over a relatively flat belly. Still, the thought of Ben seeing her naked was a bit unsettling. Had he ever been with a woman her age? Doubtful. She leaned close to the mirror. The tiny lines around her eyes were barely visible. She ran a finger over the line rising from the bridge of her nose and the smile lines around her mouth. Her breasts were on the larger size, 34 double Ds, all her own, with minimal sagging. Had he ever been with a woman who wasn’t surgically enhanced? Even more doubtful. The women he’d been with were like the women she’d seen in the bar in Baltimore. Young, hard bodied, perfect. Fuck. She leaned to the mirror, examining her face again. She liked those lines. They were a part of the woman she was. A woman who’d done things, seen things. She straightened and raised her chin. She wouldn’t change even if she could. Besides, it may never get to the point of being with him. Yes, it would. Ben had said when not if, and had it been left to her they’d be naked in her bed right now. She shrugged into the silk top and took her frustrations out on her teeth, giving them a vicious brushing. As she turned out the bathroom light she heard the incoming text tone on her phone and scrambled across the bed to get it from the bedside table. The screen came to life with a message from Walsh, Good night. The thought of those two words going skyward for hundreds of miles, bouncing around
inside a satellite and coming back hundreds of miles to her when they were only a few feet apart plastered a smile on her face so big he could probably hear it across the hall. She keyed in Good night and hit send. Gemma snuggled under the comforter, returned the phone to the table and switched off the lamp. In the soft glow of the phone’s light she tried not to think of how close Ben was.