His heart squeezed.
She was right there. Her thigh was nearly touching his because she was twisted on the stool to look at the necklace. Her hair flowed over her shoulder, gleaming red gold in the overhead light in the cabin.
It wasn’t candlelight or firelight or the glow of a sunset. It didn’t have to be.
Parris looked up at him. Her smile slipped. Did she feel it, too?
He kissed her. It wasn’t planned. He didn’t think about it, not in that moment. Later, when he reckoned up the size of the disaster, he would admit to himself that sub-consciously, he had wanted to kiss her for a long time.
The first touch of her lips was exactly as he imagined it would be. Softness and heat. A touch of chilled champagne and underneath, a taste that was purely her own. He couldn’t describe it, but it fit her perfectly.
Smooth softness under his fingers and silk sliding over the back of them. He’d pushed his hand under her hair, to hold her face.
She gasped against his lips. It was a soft sound.
And she leaned.
It was the smallest of motions but it was there. It shouted volumes.
Adán drew her off the stool and up against him.
The kiss deepened. It was heavenly. His body grew languid and heavy with a wanting more powerful than he’d ever experienced. This wanting had been years in the making.
He grew aware that he had pressed her up against the bar when she pushed against his chest.
“No,” she breathed into his mouth.
Adán tore himself away from her. Two staggering steps, then he made himself turn back to face her. His heart slammed against his chest. He was dizzy.
Parris bent, clutching the bar with white knuckles, her hair streaming to hide her face. She looked as though she would be sick.
“Goddamn it!” she cried in English. It was almost a scream.
It occurred to him that he should apologize. It wouldn’t fix things, though. Nothing would. Bitterness touched him. “This changes things…” He stuck with English. It felt safer using English, that anyone might overhear.
She flexed, standing upright in a balletic movement that spoke of her strength. She pushed her hair back. Her face was wet with tears. “It ruins things. Damn it, Adán, how could you?”
He drew in a deep breath. “We’ve known each other for four years,” he said. “In all that time you’ve never lied, until just now.”
Her gaze shifted away. She picked up a glass of champagne—his, hers, it didn’t matter—and finished it in two big swallows.
“You wanted it, too.”
Parris put her face in her hands, leaning against the bar. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice hoarse and muffled. “None of it matters, because I’m married and this will never happen again.”
His heart squeezed. “Of course it won’t,” he said quickly.
“It won’t, because I won’t see you again.” She sniffed and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands, in rough, quick movements.
Fear touched him. “You don’t have to stay away.”
Her gaze met his. “Yes. I do,” she said. “I figured everyone who warned me was wrong. I thought a man and a woman could be friends and nothing more. I wanted to believe it. But…” She licked her lips. “But I’m just lying to myself and that means I’m lying to you and to Stuart. It has to stop, don’t you see? I wanted to kiss you, too. More than that.”
Adán sank onto the nearest bench. He was shaking, which told him how deep this ran. Fear was slivering his nerves with sharp, silvered tines. “Telling you…swearing to you it will never happen again—it won’t be enough, will it?”
Parris’ smile was grim and small. “If you swore it, I would believe you. I trust you, Adán. It’s me I don’t trust and I only figured it out right now.”
He gripped his hands together. “I would refuse you, if you tried.”
She shook her head. “We can’t be friends anymore, Adán. I don’t think we’ve really been friends for a while now. It’s been something more than that and I can’t let us go there. I won’t.” She pushed herself off the bar.
She was leaving.
Adán hung his head, the depth of the disaster registering. He couldn’t breathe.
“Adán,” she whispered.
He made himself look up. Parris was standing right in front of him. He squeezed his hands together, fighting the need to touch her, to hold her there.
It was a measure of the size of the problem he had unleashed. He could barely contain himself. He wanted her with a power that thrummed like live current.
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up too much,” she said. “This would have happened, anyway.”
Adán took two tries to get it out. “What would?”
“Me leaving.” She dug in her back pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I report in tomorrow. Fort Jackson, South Carolina.”
His breath expelled in a whoosh. It felt as if he’d taken a kick to the stomach. “You signed up…”
She pushed the paper back into her pocket. “Two days after 9-11,” she said. “It took a while to process because there’s so many signing up right now. US Army Rangers is where I’m aiming.”
“You’re going to serve…”
She nodded. “In a way I never could, as a uniform cop. Military is what America needs most, now.” Her eyes glistened. “I was leaving anyway, you see. I planned to tell you tonight, after we celebrated your success.” She looked around the boat and sighed. “And you are a success.”
Adán closed his eyes. “Not where it counts.”
Her hand rested against his cheek. Her scent was the same as her taste, unique and suited to her.
“Do not tell me I’ll find someone,” he breathed, opening his eyes.
She didn’t smile. A single tear rolled down her face. “I’m sorry, Adán.”
“Me, too,” he breathed. “More than you know.”
“Maybe not,” she whispered. She pulled her hand away, is if she was tearing a plant out by the roots. Then she turned and left.
Adán gripped his knees, holding himself on the bench, forcing himself to silence. Acceptance was nowhere in his body or mind. Willpower was all he had to combat the need to chase her and bring her back. He gritted his teeth and watched her climb down to the deck, then up onto the dock.
She strode down the dock, her long legs swinging, moving fast.
Escaping.
Only when he could no longer see her did Adán let himself move. He bent and rested his head on his hands, shuddering.
Chapter Five
It had been way too long since he’d taken a boat out by himself. For the first few hours, while he navigated the marina and eased past the last of the familiar landmarks south of L.A., and set the sails for maximum speed, Adán was too busy to think.
Once he’d set the course and the boat cut through the water like the dolphins jumping in front of it, Adán had nothing to do but sit at the wheel and watch the compass—for a while, at least. Something always needed attention on a cruising boat.
The 30-foot blue water yacht wasn’t technically a one-man boat, although an experienced sailor could manage it. The Esmeralda had pleasing lines, although it was the one-man hacks built into the design that had made him buy her.
This morning he had handed Olivia the keys to the house and his car and told her to use them as if they were her own. Her eyes were zombie-like, although she nodded and took the keys. “The car will be useful,” she admitted.
“When you’re done with it, sell it and send the money to Nick, or use it yourself to help Vistaria.” Adán added the pink slip to the small pile of papers she would need. “There’s a security firm that watches the house. They know you’re in it. Tell them when you’re heading back to Washington and they’ll lock it up tight after you’re gone.” He added Stuart’s business card to the pile. He had sent a long email to Stuart late last night after returning from the hospital, while Olivia settled into one of the
spare bedrooms.
Olivia pushed him toward the door. “I’ll drop you at the marina on my way to the hospital,” she told him. “Is that all you’re taking?” She glanced at the duffel bag and laptop carrier piled beside the door.
“There’s more on the boat already. I’m not taking public appearance stuff. I won’t need it.”
“There’s media down there, too,” she pointed out.
“Then they must put up with me raw and undiluted,” he replied.
She smiled. It was ghostly.
He cast off an hour later, using the tiny motor to move the boat out of the marina, while checking the wind. Then he raised the dark blue spinnaker and watched it fill. The boat juddered and ran before the wind, slicing through the water.
Adán put the wheel on autopilot for the few minutes it took to make coffee. He took the cup out to the wheelhouse and settled back on the cushion and put the cup in the swing bracket and resettled his sunglasses.
The only sound was the shushing of the water along the sides of the boat, the slap and tinkle of pulleys and ropes and the snap of the sails when the wind gusted. Seagulls cawed, far overhead. Soon, even they would be left behind. Nothing but sparkling deep blue lay ahead, paler blue overhead and not a skerrick of cloud. Even the coastline, far to port, was a smudge on the horizon. Soon that would disappear, too.
It brought a profound quietness of the soul and the mind that could be found nowhere else on earth. With each mile Adán put behind him, mental shackles and restrictions dropped away with them.
He was doing it. He was going to help his country. It was way overdue, but not yet too late. He could still make a difference. It felt like the right thing to do, deep in his bones. A tiny touch of peace bloomed that had been missing for a long, long time.
He made himself face it.
Peace had been absent since Parris left.
* * * * *
It didn’t seem to matter to Hollywood that a huge hole was carved out of Adán’s heart. He spent three years moving through his days like an automaton. He was a good actor—no one spotted how little he cared.
Work came to him, a steady, spectacular river of roles and opportunities. He accepted everything that fit onto his calendar, moving from job to job with mechanical efficiency. Articles and posts marveled about how in-demand he was, how celebrated and wonderful he was. Ariella kept everything and forced Adán to look at the big folders from time to time.
He would nod and close the folders and ask her about new job offers.
After the fourth Smokey Silva movie, which broke first-weekend box office records, it became impossible for Adán to maintain a private life. He couldn’t drive his own car because the car would be swamped at traffic lights. He moved houses three times, to get away from fans and paparazzi. Finally, he resorted to the Hollywood cliché of hiring his own security so he might sleep at night. Ariella insisted upon chauffeurs and limos with smoked glass to get him to and from shoots.
Adán asked other A-listers for recommendations for security and the same name came up more than once. Stuart Wilson.
The name startled him the first time he heard it. It wasn’t an unusual name. It might be a different Stuart. Parris’ husband was a cop. Only, cop to security firm owner wasn’t a large leap at all.
When Adán sat in Stuart Wilson’s office, he knew this was the same man. A photo of Stuart and Parris sat on the table behind the man’s desk.
Adán shifted in his chair so the photo was out of range of his gaze.
Stuart Wilson was nondescript. That was the best word Adán could come up with to describe him. Medium build, average height, average appearance, brown hair, no remarkable features. He would blend in and be overlooked in a crowd. Adán found out later that the forgettable look was something Stuart cultivated, for he had experience disappearing into a crowd and not being noticed.
His eyes, though, were the pale blue of a summer sky and sharp with intelligence. “I’m surprised you didn’t go shopping for security long before this, Mr. Caballero,” he said. “I saw that fuss on San Vincente last week. Did they actually haul you out of the car?”
“Nearly,” Adán admitted. He’d shifted so the photo was out of sight, only it was burned onto his brain. “I should tell you that I know your wife, Parris. I knew her, years ago.”
Stuart nodded. “I remember,” he said, unexpectedly. “She arrested you at a party, or something. You helped her with her Spanish, in return.”
“She helped me, too. Parris was…is, a very real person.”
Stuart grinned. “I think what you’re trying to say is that she hates bullshit.”
Adán grinned, too. “I am. Is she doing well?”
Stuart grimaced. “She’s something in the Rangers. I don’t know what. It’s all classified crap. I’m just grateful she comes home every few weeks and leave it at that.”
Adán hired Stuart’s company and life became more restricted, although he was able to sleep at night. Sometimes.
He didn’t expect to like Stuart as much as he did. The man had an instinct for his work and a surprising empathy for the pressured life of a public figure. In a different way, Stuart and his company helped Adán keep his sanity, much as Parris had done. They propped him up, hauled him out of trouble and saved his ass at least once a quarter.
For the first year, the relationship was strictly business. Then it evolved into a genuine friendship. Adán was able to invite Stuart over for a beer or an at-home dinner or barbecue and not worry about hidden agendas.
The first time Stuart brought Parris with him, Adán was caught off-guard. He’d been wearing a mask for years already and nothing slipped. He kissed Parris’ hand the Vistarian way and invited them both to join him at the side of the pool where the barbecue waited.
While he kept up his side of the conversation, he stole glimpses of her.
Parris had changed…and had not.
She packed far more muscle now, although she wasn’t bulky with it, like a Russian on steroids. She had just enough body fat so the muscles didn’t bulge. When she relaxed, her body was lithe and lean.
The freckles on her face had faded. She had a healthy tan, so she wore sunscreen regularly. Her eyes sparkled with good health, too. They held a reserved and faraway look. Adán knew he wasn’t the reason for the distant focus. Her work put the distance there.
She spoke Spanish like a native, now. “I get lots of practice,” she told Adán, while Stuart looked baffled and tried to keep up. “Spanish got me into my unit.” Then she turned the conversation.
Her hair was as red as always. “You didn’t cut it,” Adán said. “I thought you would.”
“Long hair, tied back, is easier to manage,” she said. “Although I went for the Marine buzz cut for basics. Now it’s growing out again.”
Their friendship picked up as if the intervening years had never happened. They slid into the comfortable repartee they always enjoyed, only now Stuart was a third member of the conversation. He gave Adán a hard time about Hollywood egotism and he teased Parris about her almost feral independence in equal degrees.
“I give her shit, but I’m proud of her,” Stuart admitted while Parris was inside the house. “I just can’t show it the way most men can because she’d saw my balls off for being a chauvinist.” His smile was rueful.
“Here’s to strong women,” Adán said, lifting his glass.
Adán survived that first night of seeing her as he had survived the years in between—by smiling a lot and burying himself in work. When it came time for red carpet events, Adán would ask the most beautiful and single star he knew to be at his side. He never asked the same woman twice and he didn’t take them home afterwards. He wasn’t interested. The idea of sex for the sake of it was mildly repulsive, especially when he knew how often sexual favors lay at the bottom of deals in Hollywood.
The press speculated endlessly about his love life. Adán refused to comment.
Adán came to trust a small handful of friends
, in whose company he could relax. Stuart was one of them. When Parris was in town, she became another, although her visits were short and infrequent.
The first time Parris was wounded and flown to the military medical center in San Antonio, Stuart flew there himself. He returned a week later, subdued and reflective. It was only then Adán discovered where he had been.
That night, Adán blew off his dinner plans with a producer couple wanting to talk about TV deals and got drunk on two bottles of Vistarian Mescal, while floating in his pool.
It was bad enough that she had been injured but to not know about it until after was worse. Only, that was how it was supposed to be. That was the proper order of things and there was nothing he could do to change it.
Three weeks later, Parris returned to L.A., for recuperation. She walked slowly and sat heavily, her strength gone. Her face was colorless and she had lost weight. Her green eyes glittered with impatience for her disability, daring either Stuart or Adán to just try to help her.
Adán gritted his teeth and said nothing. Stuart cracked macadamias with one hand and didn’t speak, either.
Six weeks later, she shipped out again, another classified assignment.
There were other minor injuries over the years, never as serious as that first one. Adán marked all of them with a night of Vistarian Mescal before resuming the mask that was his life.
Only in hindsight could Adán pin the shift in Stuart and Parris’ relationship back to the first wounding. Stuart remained proud of his wife’s service, while the jokes about her mystery assignments developed a sour edge. It was the only hint, for Stuart was a private man and Parris never spoke to Adán alone.
Stuart’s announcement that he and Parris were divorcing was a genuine shock to Adán. He gripped his bottle of Perrier, staring at the top of Stuart’s head as the man recovered his composure. They were sitting on Adán boat—the first sail boat, which he had wanted all along. They were a speck on the ocean, twenty miles from shore.
“In God’s name, why?” Adán demanded. “I don’t understand. Is it because she is away so often? Surely you can work something out?”
Casualties of War Page 6