Double Impact

by Tess Gerritsen

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I had a ‘vulnerable’ aspect to my past, remember?”

  “You’re clean, Guy. Even with your past, you’re cleaner than any flag-waving patriot in Washington.”

  “How would you know?”

  Hamilton shrugged. “You’d be amazed at the things we know about you. About everyone.”

  “But you couldn’t predict what I’d do! What Willy would do. What if she’d told me to go to hell?”

  “It was a gamble. But she’s an attractive woman. And you’re a resourceful man. We took a chance on chemistry.”

  And it worked, thought Guy. Damn you, Hamilton, the chemistry worked just fine.

  “At any rate,” said Hamilton, sliding a few bills onto the bar, “you’ll be rewarded with the silence you crave. I’m afraid the bounty’s out of the question, though-budget deficit and all. But you’ll have the distinct pleasure of knowing you served your country well.”

  That’s when Guy burst into unstoppable laughter. He laughed so hard, tears came to his eyes; so loud, a dozen heads turned to look at him.

  “Have I missed the joke?” Hamilton inquired politely.

  “The joke,” said Guy, “is on me.”

  He laughed all the way out the door.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HER FATHER, once again, was leaving.

  Early on a rainy morning, Willy stood in the bedroom doorway and watched him pack his suitcase, the way she’d watched him pack it long ago. She’d had him home such a short time, only a few days since his release from the hospital. And he’d spent every moment pining for his family-his other family. Oh, he hadn’t complained or been unkind, but she’d seen the sadness in his gaze, heard his sighs as he’d wandered about the house. She’d known it was inevitable: that he’d be walking out of her life again.

  He took one last look in the closet, then turned to the dresser.

  She glanced down at a pair of brand-new loafers that he’d set aside in the closet. “Dad, aren’t you taking your shoes?” she asked.

  “At home, I don’t wear shoes.”

  “Oh.” This used to be your home, she thought.

  She wandered into the living room, sat down by the window and stared out at the rain. It seemed as if a lifetime of sorrow had been crammed into these past two weeks she’d been home. While her father had recuperated in a military hospital, in a civilian hospital a few miles away, her mother had lain dying. It had been wrenching to drive back and forth between them, to shift from seeing her father regain his strength to seeing her mother fade. Ann’s death had come more quickly than the doctors had predicted; it was almost as if she’d held on just long enough to see her husband one last time, then had allowed herself to quietly slip away.

  She’d forgiven him, of course.

  Just as Willy had forgiven him.

  Why was it always women who had to do the forgiving? she’d wondered.

  “I’m all packed,” her father said, carrying his suitcase into the living room. “I’ve called a cab.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got everything? The kids’ toys? The books?”

  “It’s all in here. What a delivery! They’re going to think I’m Santa Claus.” He set the suitcase down and sat on the couch. They didn’t speak for a moment.

  “You won’t be coming back, will you?” she said at last.

  “It may not be easy.”

  “May I come see you?”

  “Willy, you know you can! Both you and Guy. And next time, we’ll make it a decent visit.” He laughed. “Nice and quiet and dull. Guy’ll appreciate that.”

  There was a long silence. Her father asked, “Have you spoken to him lately?”

  She looked away. “It’s been two weeks.”

  “That long?”

  “He hasn’t called.”

  “Why haven’t you called him?”

  “I’ve been busy. A lot of things to take care of. But you know that.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “Well, he ought to know.” Suddenly agitated, she rose and paced the room, finally returning to the window. “I’m not really surprised he hasn’t called. After all, we had our little adventure, and now it’s back to life as usual.” She glanced at her father. “Men hate that, don’t they? Life as usual.”

  “Some men do. On the other hand, some of us change.”

  “Oh, Dad, I’ve been around the block. I can tell when things are over.”

  “Did Guy say that?”

  She turned and gazed back out the window. “He didn’t have to.”

  Her father didn’t comment. After a while, she heard him go back into the bedroom, but she didn’t move. She just kept staring out at the rain, thinking about Guy. Wondering for the first time if maybe she had done the running away.

  No, it wasn’t running. It was facing reality. Together they’d had the time of their lives, a crazy week of emotions gone wild, of terror and exhilaration, when every breath, every heartbeat had seemed like a gift from God.

  Of course, it hadn’t lasted.

  But whose fault was that?

  She felt herself drawn almost against her will to the telephone. Even as she dialed his number, she wondered what she’d say to him. Hello, Guy. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I love you. Then she’d hang up and spare him the ordeal of admitting the feeling wasn’t mutual. She let it ring twelve times, knowing it was 4:00 a.m. in Honolulu, knowing he should be home.

  There were tears in her eyes when she finally hung up. She stood staring down at the phone, wondering how that inanimate collection of wires and plastic could leave her feeling so betrayed. Damn you, she thought. You never even gave me the chance to make a fool of myself.

  The sound of tires splashing across wet streets made her look out the window. Through pouring rain she saw a cab pull up at the curb.

  “Dad?” she called. She went to her father’s bedroom. “Your taxi’s here.”

  “Already?” He glanced around to see if he’d forgotten anything. “Okay. I guess this is it, then.”

  The doorbell rang. He threw on his raincoat and strode across the living room. Willy wasn’t watching as he opened the door, but she heard him say, “I don’t believe it.” She turned.

  “Hello, Maitland,” said Guy.

  The two men, both wearing raincoats, both holding suitcases, grinned at each other across the threshold.

  Guy shook the raindrops from his hair. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. I’d better ask the boss.” Maitland turned to his daughter. “What do you think? Can the man come in?”

  Willy was too stunned to say a word.

  “I guess that’s a yes,” her father said, and he motioned for Guy to enter.

  Guy stepped over the threshold and set his suitcase down. Then he just stood there, looking at her. Rain had plastered his hair to his forehead, lines of exhaustion mapped his face, but no man had ever looked so wonderful. She tried to remind herself of all the reasons she didn’t want to see him, all the reasons she should throw him out into the rain. But she couldn’t seem to find her voice. She could only stare at him in wonder and remember how it had felt to be in his arms.

  Maitland shuffled uneasily. “I…uh…I think I forgot to pack something,” he muttered, and he discreetly vanished into the bedroom.

  For a moment, the only sound was the water dripping from Guy’s raincoat onto the wood floor.

  “How’s your mother?” Guy asked.

  “She died, five days ago.”

  He shook his head. “Willy, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  “How are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m…fine.” She looked away. I love you, she thought. And yet here we are, two strangers engaging in small talk. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she repeated, as though to convince him-to convince herself-that the anguish of these past two weeks had been a minor ache not worth mentioning.

  “You look pretty good, considering.”

&n
bsp; She shrugged. “You look terrible.”

  “Not too surprising. Didn’t get any sleep on the plane. And there was this baby screaming in the next seat, all the way from Bangkok.”

  “Bangkok?” She frowned. “You were in Bangkok?”

  He nodded and laughed. “It’s this crazy business I’m in. Got home from Nam, and a week later, they asked me to fly back…for Sam Lassiter.” He paused. “I admit I wasn’t thrilled about getting on another plane, but I figured it was something I had to do.” He paused and added quietly, “No soldier should have to come home alone.”

  She thought about Lassiter, about that evening in the river café, the love song scratching from the record player, the paper lanterns fluttering in the wind. She thought about his body drifting in the waters of the Mekong. And she thought about the dark-eyed woman who’d loved him. “You’re right,” she said. “No soldier should have to come home alone.”

  There was another pause. She felt him watching her, waiting.

  “You could have called me,” she said.

  “I wanted to.”

  “But you never got the chance, right?”

  “I had plenty of chances.”

  “But you didn’t bother?” She looked up. All the hurt, all the rage suddenly rose to the surface. “Two weeks with no word from you! And here you have the gall to show up unannounced, walk in my door and drop your damn suitcase in my living-”

  The last word never made it to her lips. But he did. She was dragged into a rain-drenched embrace, and everything she’d planned to say, all the hurt and angry words, were swept away by that one kiss. The only sound she could manage was a small murmur of astonishment, and then she was whirled up in a wild maelstrom of desire. She lost all sense of where she ended and he began. She only knew, in that instant, that he had never really left her, that as long as she lived, he’d be part of her. Even as he pulled back to look at her, she was still drunk with the taste of him.

  “I did want to call you. But I didn’t know what to say…”

  “I kept waiting for you to call. All these days…”

  “Maybe I was…I don’t know. Scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of hearing it was over. That you’d come to your senses and decided I wasn’t worth the risk. But then, when I got to Bangkok, I stopped at the Oriental Hotel. Had a drink on the terrace for old time’s sake. Saw the same sunset, the same boats on the river. But it just didn’t feel the same without you.” He sighed. “Hell, nothing feels the same without you.”

  “You never told me. You just dropped out of my life.”

  “It never seemed like…the right time.”

  “The right time for what?”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He shook his head in irritation. “You never make it easy, do you?”

  She stepped back and gave him a long, critical look. Then she smiled. “I never intended to.”

  “Oh, Willy.” He threw his arms around her and pulled her tightly against his chest. “I can see you and I are going to have a lot of things to settle.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as…” He lowered his mouth to hers and whispered, “Such as who gets to sleep on the right side of the bed…”

  “Oh,” she murmured as their lips brushed. “You will.”

  “And who gets to name our firstborn…”

  She settled warmly into his arms and sighed. “I will.”

  “And who’ll be first to say ‘I love you.’”

  There was a pause. “That one,” she said with a smile, “is open to negotiation.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said, tugging her face up to his.

  They stared at each other, both longing to hear the words but stubbornly waiting for the other to give in first.

  It was a simultaneous surrender.

  “I love you,” Willy heard him say, just as the same three words tumbled from her lips.

  Their laughter was simultaneous, too, bright and joyous and ringing with hope.

  The kiss that followed was warm, seeking, but all too brief; it left her aching for more.

  “It gets even better with practice,” he whispered.

  “Saying ‘I love you?’”

  “No. Kissing.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. She added in a small voice, “Then can we try it again?”

  Outside, a horn honked, dragging them both back to reality. Through the window they saw another taxi waiting at the curb.

  Reluctantly Willy pulled out of Guy’s arms. “Dad?” she called.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Her father emerged from the bedroom, pulling on his raincoat again. He paused and looked at her.

  “Uh, why don’t you two say goodbye,” said Guy, diplomatically turning for the front door. “I’ll take your suitcase out to the car.”

  Willy and her father were left standing alone in the room. They looked at each other, both knowing that this, like every goodbye, could be the last.

  “Are things okay between you and Guy?” Maitland asked.

  Willy nodded.

  There was another silence. Then her father asked softly, “And between you and me?”

  She smiled. “Things are okay there, too.” She went to him then, and they held each other. “Yes,” she murmured against his chest, “between you and me, things are definitely okay.”

  A little reluctantly, he turned to leave. In the doorway, he and Guy shook hands.

  “Have a good trip back, Maitland.”

  “I will. Take care of things, will you? And, Guy-thanks a lot.”

  “For what?”

  Maitland glanced back at Willy. It was a look of regret. And redemption. “For giving me back my daughter,” he said.

  As Wild Bill Maitland walked out the door, Guy walked in. He didn’t say a thing. He just took Willy in his arms and hugged her.

  As the taxi drove away, she thought, My father has left me. Again.

  She looked up at Guy. And what about you?

  He answered her unspoken question by taking her face in his hands and kissing her. Then he gave the door a little kick; with a thud of finality, it swung shut.

  And she knew that this time, the man would be staying.

  NO WAY BACK by Debra Webb

  First, I would like to thank Harlequin Books and my editor, Denise O’Sullivan, for affording me the opportunity to bring my stories to life. I would also like to convey a very special thanks to you the reader. Thank you for reading my stories…for taking this journey with me. Finally, this book is dedicated to the one and only Fran Woodard, a lovely lady, a compassionate human being, a true champion of the written word and one heck of a secret agent-the latter, of course, is only in my very vivid imagination.

  PROLOGUE

  PARIS…it never changed.

  He watched from the third-story window of the shop he had seized in the middle of the day along boulevard Saint-Michel. Outside, pigeons fluttered and squawked. Nearby, a waiter moved between the tables of a crowded open-air café. Natives and tourists alike chatted over drinks, never suspecting or caring what nasty business was taking place only a few meters away. He studied each face before moving on. To this day he could not stop himself from looking for her.

  He shook his head. It had been two long years. She was gone. And even if she were here, her fate would be like that of the traitors bound and gagged downstairs. He turned his attention back to the sidewalk below and the pedestrians strolling along completely oblivious to anything other than the beauty of the day…of the place.

  But here, where he was, there was no beauty…no good. Only the evil that men could do.

  He closed his eyes and blocked the images that haunted him day and night. When would this nightmare end?

  “Pardon,” came from the door behind him. “Nous sommes prêts.”

  He opened his eyes. His men were ready, but he needed another moment. “Dans un moment.” A vague smile tugged at his lips. He had trained them well.
Without thought, they spoke the language of those around them. In Paris they were Parisians, speaking the language as well as the natives.

  As the messenger returned downstairs to those waiting patiently, their leader braced himself for the inevitable. It was time. He could not wait any longer. There would be no last-minute salvation. His orders stood.

  Mentally preparing himself for the next step, he left the room. His footfalls echoed in the expectant silence as he descended the three flights of stairs. Supplications for forgiveness would be pointless. So he didn’t bother. Whatever awaited him at the end of this existence would not be pleasant. His crimes were far too great. But, unfortunately, necessary.

  “What do we do with them?” One of his men, Carlos, gestured to the four bound men lying on the floor in the middle of the boulangerie. The scent of freshly baked bread did little to mask the smell of fear, of death looming.

  As he, their respected leader, the one who must show no weakness, moved down the final step, he glanced at the frightened faces of those anxiously awaiting his decree. He turned his attention back to Carlos. There was no room for hesitation or remorse. “Kill them.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  “BLOOD PRESSURE?” Dr. Roland yelled above the organized chaos of the trauma room.

  “One hundred over sixty-five,” Ami Donovan, R.N., reported. “Pulse is seventy and thready.”

  “Where the hell is Mason?” Roland demanded.

  “Dr. Mason’s on his way,” Jane, another R.N. on duty, told him as she shoved the X rays onto the viewing box.

  Frowning, Roland took a moment to scan the views. “Let’s get this guy typed and crossed,” he barked, his attention refocusing on the patient and the two leaking wounds where the bullets had entered the upper left area of his chest.

  “Doing that as we speak,” Lonnie, the lab tech, advised as warm, red blood filled the tube in his hand.

  “Seventy over fifty,” Ami cut in, her own blood pressure rising with a new surge of anxiety. Internal bleeding was taking its toll on their patient.

  “Get that second IV in now! Sixteen-gauge,” Roland ordered. “Let’s get this guy’s pressure back up.”