Under Fire: The Admiral

by Beyond the Page Publishing

  Which was exactly what she wanted. She hadn’t wanted Daniel and Olivia to discover she’d been at their graduation or anywhere near that weekend.

  “I couldn’t recall seeing your face. All I had was your voice. Over the years I’ve heard it in my dreams. Thought I’ve heard it in crowded rooms or on the street. In the jungle with you up against me, I realized I had more. I had your scent.”

  There was a long awkward silence before he spoke again.

  “Why did you leave? Never let anyone know who you were?”

  She wasn’t about to answer that question. “If you knew that first night why didn’t you tell me?” The best defense is a good offense.

  “I wasn’t sure then.” The muscles in his jaw tensed. “I was already attracted to you.” His dark eyes locked onto hers. “The crash, the jungle, the tension, the whole situation could’ve been skewing my perception.” He pulled his arm back off the table and rested it in his lap.

  “The first night, in the darkness, your voice” —he gave her a little smile—“the way you said some things.” He paused and looked around at a woman pushing two children in a stroller. He took a deep breath and returned his gaze to her. “For twenty-two years I’d looked for you and then you save me in another crash? It was impossible, crazy.” He shook his head. “Pretty hard to believe.

  “As for knowing.” He looked down and wiped invisible crumbs from the table. “When you comforted the lieutenant I knew for absolute sure. The softness of your voice, the . . .” He looked up. “You said the same thing to me.”

  They were silent for several long moments until Gemma broke the silence. “Is that it?”

  “It?”

  “Have you said everything you came to say?”

  “No. You didn’t answer me. Why didn’t you meet me for dinner? Why did you come here to Paris?”

  So I wouldn’t fuck up your life. “You’re stalking me.”

  “Are you going to report me?” He gave her a sheepish look. She said nothing. “I hope not. Don’t want to wind up in a French prison. Tell me what I did that kept you from meeting me,” he said without missing a beat. “I don’t want to do it again.”

  She’d been right to leave. Come to Paris. There was no doubt giving into her emotions and desires would be disastrous. Disastrous for the both of them. Pushing people away that you loved or wanted to love was close to impossible, but she had plenty of practice. Now, before she lost control of her emotions, no matter how difficult, she had to do it again. The only way to save Ben and herself was to leave, again. “I’m going to leave now. Don’t follow . . .”

  “No, Gemma.” The leather of his jacket groaned as he reached out and grasped her arm.

  “Thank you for coming, Dr. Walsh.” She shook free of his grip. “I’m glad you went on to do good with your life. I didn’t want recognition then and I don’t want it now. I’m going back to D.C.” She stood abruptly, jarring the table hard enough to slosh coffee from the cup and startling customers at surrounding tables. “Where there are laws against stalking.”

  Jesus. He’d done it again. But what had he expected? Her to throw her arms around him and say I’m so happy you know that it’s me who saved your life and you want me. She didn’t want anything to do with him. Saying he was attracted to her was a big mistake. Fuck, if he and Sam were closer in age they might have known each other and . . . He whipped around to see her moving fast, stretching out her long legs. He had to be the most abso-fucking-lutely stupid man on the face of the earth. It was the age difference. He stood and dug a euro note from his pocket, tossing it on the table as she disappeared around the corner. He took after her, jogging. “Gemma,” he called out as he rounded the corner. She had half a block on him and was double-timing past the fire station, where five firefighters, pompiers, sat people watching. They saw Gemma, stood and spoke. He could hear the voices but couldn’t make out the words. She gave them the finger and began to run. “Gemma. Wait.” He broke into a run. The pompiers hooted and gestured as he passed. When he reached Rue St. Antoine she’d already crossed and was approaching her building. He held up an arm ran into traffic, dodging cars, and was treated to one-finger salutes, blaring horns, and cusswords bellowed in French. He caught up as she keyed in the apartment building’s code.

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Let me explain.” He put a hand on her arm. She was shaking like she’d been in a freezer. She turned and her eyes were moist.

  “Explain?” She looked down at his hand on her arm and shrugged out of his grasp. “You said you wanted to tell me something. You told me.” She pulled open the enormous gate. “You said you are attracted to me. I’m telling you forget it.”

  The look she gave him reached inside and caused his heart to lurch like he’d been hit with a defibrillator. Feelings exploded, leaving him gut-punched and breathless.

  “Give me a chance.” This was not how he envisioned it would go meeting the woman who had saved his life.

  “Leave me alone.” The hurt in her voice surprised him and woke up the man-protect-your-woman instinct.

  “I can’t.” He held the door, blocking her way instead of reaching for her. Which was what he really wanted. Wanted more than anything. “I have more to say.” Like, you are everything I ever wanted. I want to hold you, learn everything about you. What makes you laugh, what makes you mad. I want to kiss you, feel your warm body curl against mine. He held his tongue. He needed to take this slow. Give her time. He’d already mucked this up enough by thinking of himself and not her. For years she’d gotten away with keeping people out. She wasn’t going to do the same thing to him. At least he wasn’t going down without a fight. She shouldered her way past. Even through layers of clothing the contact was searing. The gate banged close, locking him out. “I’m not going away,” he called out. “I’m going to stand here until you let me in.” Into your apartment and your life. She shot him a look over her shoulder then rushed up the curving staircase. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the cold iron, listening to her boots echoing in the stairwell. Growing fainter until a door slammed.

  “Ouch.” A sharp jab in his side made him cry out. He jerked around and saw an elegant white-haired woman no more than five feet tall wearing a fur jacket who jabbed him again with her cane. “Ouch,” he said again, grabbing his side. With the weapon, she gestured for him to move. He realized he was blocking her entry. “Désolé,” he said and stepped aside while she punched in her code. When the lock released he held open the door. She looked up at him and in heavily accented English said, “Do you want to enter?”

  “Yes. Ehh. No.”

  Her eyebrows climbed her forehead, threatening to reach the edge of hair pulled back into a tight knot at her neck. She tipped her head to one side “Oui?” Then the other. “Non?” The pearls dangling from her ears bounced around.

  He smiled. “I say yes.” He hitched his chin in the direction of the stairs. “Madame says no.”

  “Ahh.” She pursed her red heart-shaped lips, giving him a knowing nod and a wave of a ring-encrusted hand. He closed the door behind the woman, watching her slow ascent on the stairs Gemma had rushed up. Ben leaned against the wall and thought about bumming a cigarette from the next smoker walking by. He hadn’t smoked in fifteen years but he sure as hell wanted one now. The only thing that could possibly make all this worse happened. A misty rain began. He pushed up the collar of his leather jacket to keep the rain from rolling down his neck and back, then dug out his phone to text, “Still here. Not leaving.”

  The heady aroma of fresh-ground coffee wafted on the damp air from the tiny market a few yards away. He considered making a mad dash for a cup of the brew but dismissed the idea. It would be just his luck Gemma would come to the gate, look out, and he wouldn’t be there. He would not risk that. He said he would stay until she let him in and stay he would. He’d text her every half hour to let her know he’d be holding up this building until she did.

  Chapter 13

  “Damn him.” G
emma peeled off her scarf and jacket, dumping them on the sofa. Ben Walsh was the most impossible man she’d ever met and his appearance rattled her. And when Samuel Carver’s sea duty was over she was going to meet him, wherever his ship came in, and cheerfully wring his neck for telling Walsh where to find her.

  Jesus. How could she not have recognized him? She’d seen his face the night of the accident. Her eyes closed as her brain replayed the events of that night, as it had done so many times before. Her flashlight playing on his, Ben’s, face. A slash in his hairline flapped open, exposing his skull. The right side of his face hideously swollen. Oh, yeah, she’d seen his face after his head hit the windshield and passenger side window. She wouldn’t have been able to recognize him from that night if she’d known him. Another shiver crawled her spine as she remembered the horror of wrapping her arms around his chest. Having her fingers disappear into the wide slash crossing his chest and feeling bone. How in the hell had he survived? She went into her tiny kitchen and opened the cabinet where she kept the liquor. A chill every bit as deep as the one like she felt that night in the water crept into every cell in her body. Maybe it was the icy fingers of fear worming their way through her. Fear of facing a man she was seriously attracted to and knew she couldn’t have? “Oh, for crap’s sake, get a grip, Gemma Hendrickson.” She poured a healthy amount of whiskey into a tumbler and went to the window overlooking Rue St. Antoine. Thick clouds and a light rain laid an early darkness over the city. The cold she felt was nothing more than the dampness seeping in. She downed half the contents of the glass, closed the drapes and went to the thermostat. The little red needle said the temperature was sixty-five degrees. Not all that cold. She jacked it up to seventy-two to chase the dampness away and glanced to the window. This change in the weather should also change Walsh’s mind and send him back to wherever he was staying.

  Her phone beeped the incoming text tone and she banged her shin on the coffee table as she went to retrieve it from her jacket. “Damn it!” She deleted Walsh’s message and tossed the phone to the sofa cushions. She downed the rest of the whiskey and went to the kitchen for a refill. How was she going to get rid of the man? Was he really downstairs? She returned to the window and peeked through the drapes. A light mist of rain coated the window. There was absolutely no protection from the elements at the front of the building. Oh. Hell. He wasn’t there. And what did it matter to her? No doubt he was at the neighborhood marché, dry and warm having a cup of coffee and something to eat. Good. He could stay there all night, she didn’t care.

  A long sigh escaped her. That was the problem, she did care. It was the reason she’d come here. Time to leave again. She dropped on the sofa and curled up with her iPad, searching the next day’s flights to D.C. No first-class seats and only a few in coach. All center seats. She’d have to think about that. A seven-hour flight in a center seat was not exactly appealing. Perhaps she should go to Dubai. Be with her friend. He had invited her. Her search for flights to Dubai was interrupted with another incoming text tone. She snatched the phone. Still here. “Go away,” she yelled as if he could hear her. “Leave me alone.”

  Damn it! The chill was seeping into her bones. She draped the scarf around her shoulders and checked the thermostat again. It was doing its job. The temperature had already climbed to sixty-eight. A gurgle and grumble from her stomach suggested she needed to stoke her own furnace. She looked at the almost empty glass in her hand. With something other than whiskey. A search of her fridge confirmed her fears. The food fairy hadn’t deposited containers of gourmet food while she wasn’t looking. The leftovers from yesterday’s Chinese delivery, four eggs, cheese, and pâté sat forlornly on the shelf. The Chinese didn’t trip her trigger and she didn’t feel like cooking. So cheese and pâté it was, along with a cup of tea containing a liberal splash of whiskey. While she waited for the teakettle to heat on her tiny stove, she sliced a baguette and the cheese, opened the tin of pâté and took the food to the living room. A ping against the window facing the street caught her attention. Then there was another and another. Oh, no. Oh, hell no! He was not throwing pebbles at her window. And how the fuck did he know which window belonged to her, or was he throwing at all the windows? She rushed to the window and swept back one side of the heavy drapes as lightning illuminated the sky. The pings against the glass came in a rapid staccato. Hail. Ben was out there in it. Her suspicious nature flared. Or was he? Only a complete fool would be outside in that. Someone foolish enough to get on a plane and follow her to Paris. A low rumble of thunder filled the quiet apartment. Another flash of lightning sent her running for the door.

  Sandwiched between the warm vestibule and outside cold air the glass entry door was completely fogged. Icy air slammed her as she opened it far enough to see if the fool was out there. To the left the sidewalk was empty. The only movement was pebble-sized hail bouncing on the sidewalk. Surely he was long gone. That would certainly solve her problem. She stuck her head out farther and peered to the right into Dr. Ben Walsh’s handsome face. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. He smiled and touched the bill of his cap.

  “Evening, ma’am. Nice weather we’re having. Reminds me of a night I recently spent in the jungle. Would you like to hear about it?”

  “Get in here.” Idiot. She held the door wide.

  “You sure?” he said, his grin widening, but he made no move to enter.

  “I’m sure right now, but if you wait another second the answer may very well be no.”

  He hustled through the door and Gemma secured it behind them. Ben removed his cap, shaking off the rain, scattering drops of water over the tiled floor. Steam rose from his head and shoulders. Water slithered down his leather jacket in rivulets and his jeans were dark with absorbed rain.

  “Upstairs,” she said, using her fingertips to give him a shove in the direction of the stairs. “Where it’s warm. My apartment is on the first landing, the door to the left.”

  When they reached the landing her elderly neighbor, Madame Lorraine, stood in the open doorway of her apartment watching. She gave them a smile. “Bonne nuit,” Gemma said as Madame surveyed Ben with a very obvious up-and-down appraisal followed with a thumbs-up to Gemma.

  Madame was a character. Perhaps a legend in the French resistance. Something Gemma had only recently learned. Over a cognac, a third-floor neighbor told her Madame owned the building. In the 1970s, her very famous bank robber boyfriend had given her the building as a token of his appreciation. Her neighbor’s eyebrows had wiggled comically when she said appreciation. Ben acknowledged Madame with a slight nod. She fluttered her thickly mascaraed eyelashes. “Oui,” she said, returning the nod before she retreated into her apartment. What was that about? A high-pitched squeal coming from inside her apartment caused them both to jump. Gemma rushed to quiet the teakettle.

  Chapter 14

  Ben had made a lot of mistakes with women. Mostly he’d been selfish. He was not going to do that with Gemma. He was going to be very careful here. Pushing her to allow him into her life, do what he wanted, was certainly self-serving. If the wall she put up was the age difference, he was going to methodically take it down brick by brick and convince her it would be okay. He shed his dripping jacket and held it over the mat outside Gemma’s door.

  “You want coffee or tea?” she called.

  “What are you having?” He leaned his head inside the door.

  “Tea,” she said, coming through a door on the right, presumably the kitchen.

  “Then I’ll have tea.”

  She tilted her head, giving him an odd look. “You can come in.”

  He held the jacket in her direction. “It’s dripping.”

  She came closer, stretching out her arm, fingers wiggling. “Give it to me.”

  He handed it over and she disappeared as he toed off his shoes. “Shoes are wet too,” he said when she poked her head out again. He bent to pick them up, and when he straightened he found Gemma gaping at him.

  “You
r jeans are soaked past your knees.” She touched his cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re freezing. Get in here.”

  He stepped inside and she closed the door, pointing down a corridor. “Keep going down the hall. First door on the left is the bathroom. The door beyond is the guest bedroom. Sam has clothes there. Jeans, shirts, underwear and socks. Get a shower. There’s soap, shampoo, and shaving gear in the bathroom. Get what you want.”

  He stared at her. Get what you want? You mean like you? Crap. This might not be a good idea. He’d fantasized about getting naked with her for days. He wasn’t exactly going to be naked with her but it was close enough to give him plenty of strong images. He did a mental head slap and blew out a long breath. There’d be plenty of time to think about sex later.

  “A hot shower will warm you faster than anything else,” she said, shaking him from his thoughts. “But then you know that being you went to medical school and even have a piece of paper that says you’re a doctor.” She gave him a wicked look. Was that her way of being funny or sarcastic? “Towels are in the cabinet. This is an old building. It takes the water a while to get warm, so let it run.” Her voice faded as she vanished into the kitchen. “I’ll turn the faucet on in here to get it moving,” she called out loud enough to be heard over the running water. “And here.” She reappeared, thrusting a bottle of water in his direction. “Drink it all. Being hydrated helps.”

  He shivered. Gemma was right. Ditching these wet clothes and getting a shower was the fastest way to get warm. He headed down the hall, opened the second door on the left and stepped into a small neat room holding a double bed, chest of drawers with a mirror over it, night table and lamp. He rummaged in drawers and found jeans, socks, a T-shirt and boxers. He rarely wore shorts but figured he shouldn’t go commando in somebody else’s clothes. In the closet he found a sweatshirt. He pulled it out and saw a Miami-Dade Police Department insignia on the left breast. Gemma’s murdered son had been a Miami-Dade officer. He put it back, exchanging it for a heavy button shirt. He didn’t want to bring up any bad memories tonight. A pair of moccasin like slippers was on the floor. He held one to the bottom of his foot and it looked like a fit. He gathered everything up, went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water as Gemma instructed, letting it run while he stripped. In the bathroom mirror he saw a man who needed a haircut and hadn’t shaved in twenty-four hours. Couldn’t do anything about the haircut but he could put a can of shaving cream and a razor to good use scraping the stubble off his face. Clouds of steam rose from behind the shower curtain, fogging the mirror. He stepped into the stream of hot water and rested his palms on the tile wall, letting the water run over his head and shoulders, down his belly, doing his best not to think of what it would be like to have her in here. Warm, wet, and soapy. Her incredible brown eyes staring up at him. Holy hell! To keep his hands busy he shaved. Then soaped up, rinsed and toweled off quickly. Sam was taller than him by a couple of inches. The jeans bunched at his ankles and he rolled the shirtsleeves several times. He cleared the fog from the mirror, finger-combed his hair, and took a good look at himself. “Do this right, man.”