Three hours later she still wasn’t asleep. She’d tossed and turned so much she had to get out of bed twice to straighten the sheets and comforter. Every time she got close to sleep some impossibly sexy thought of him would pop into her mind. She thought of his scar and remembered how she’d pressed the ragged edges of the wound together beneath the water. She thought of lying next to him running her fingers along it, kissing it. Kissing her way lower until she took him into her mouth and heard him moan with pleasure. Her hand slid down her belly, beneath the edge of her pj bottoms to the wet slit between her legs. Her legs spread as if anticipating his body to settle between them. Her hips surged, matching the tempo of her strokes. She bit her lip to keep her own moan from escaping. To keep him from hearing as her muscles conducted the wave of pleasure through her body. The release broke the tension but her body felt cheated, deprived of his heat, his touch. His weight. His release. In a haze she curled around a pillow and drifted into sleep.
* * *
Jet lag had Ben in its grip. He was exhausted, but the thought of Gemma lying naked in her bed a few feet away across the hall kept him from sleeping. He’d only glimpsed her bedroom in passing. A big bed that took up most of the small room covered with a thick comforter and several sleeping pillows, none of those froufrou decorator things. More than anything he wanted to walk across the narrow hall, throw the covers back and slip in next to her. Fuck! He rolled on his side and pounded the pillow into submission trying to get comfortable. Staying here had not been a good idea. He said what he wanted to say. He should’ve left. He wasn’t used to restraining himself when it came to sex. Instinctively he knew one misstep with Gemma would shut him down and he would have to start at square one again. He couldn’t risk that. He could handle a few days without sex, even a few weeks. Gawd, that was an awful thought, but it would be worth it to have her in his life. To get his mind off sex and his twitching dick he began to mentally tick off surgical instruments required for different procedures. In the middle of the fifth procedure the door opened. A naked Gemma floated into the room to stand beside the bed. He held up the covers. Without a word, she lay against him and kissed his chest. Her fingers encircled his shaft, pumping until he was painfully hard. Soft lips kissed their way down his belly and closed around his swollen head, sucking. She released him abruptly. Her thigh brushed his erection as her silky leg crossed his belly and she straddled him. He gripped himself and stood up his erection. Gemma lowered her body slowly, taking him into her heat. He reached out to hold her hips and growled with pleasure. At the sound Gemma vanished and he woke up alone in the darkness with his dick in his hand. The dream was so damned real he sat up and looked around the room to make sure she wasn’t there. Confucius was right, man who go to sleep with hard-on wake up with solution in hand.
Fuck! Jerking off in her guest bed was not the thing to do. He threw back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. Huffing like he’d just run a three-minute mile, he gripped the edge of the mattress to keep his hands off himself. Rain or no rain he had to get out of here before he went to her bed and screwed everything up. He considered stripping the bed, washing the sheets and Sam’s clothes but quickly dismissed that idea, as the machine sounds would wake her. He didn’t need to see her coming down the hall warm from sleep and in some skimpy thing he’d want to take off her. He listened at the door a moment to be sure she wasn’t wandering the apartment trying to figure out where the groan came from, then cracked open the door and quickly streaked to the kitchen. She’d left an under-the-cabinet light on and he found his clothes folded on the chair where his jacket hung. Hopping on one foot then the other, he slid into his jeans. As he buttoned his shirt he backtracked into the living room to retrieve his shoes and paused at the window to check the weather. Water coating the streets glistened in the circles of light given off by streetlights, but the rain had stopped. He forced his feet into still wet shoes and made for the door, then stopped. He couldn’t just leave. He considered a text but the sound would wake her, and the warm and something skimpy image popped up again. Using the light from his cell he found paper and pen on her desk and returned to the kitchen table. Careful to use his best handwriting, not his normal work scrawl, he wrote then arranged the paper on the small table so she would see it the moment she entered. He shrugged into his jacket, went to the door, freed the chain and turned. Opening and closing the door could create a draft, sending the note off the table, maybe under the fridge. He went back and stood the note against a glass, securing it with salt and pepper shakers and checked the angle for optimum viewing from the hall.
It took several moments of inching the creaky door open far enough for him to squeeze through then pull it shut. Ben pressed his forehead and a hand to Gemma’s door. “Thank you, God,” he whispered. “Please help me do this right.”
Chapter 15
Gemma rolled over and snagged the phone to check the time, 8:09. She cocked her head, listening for any sounds in the apartment. Nothing. Walsh must still be asleep. She rinsed her face, changed into sweats and went to make coffee. The guest bedroom door was open. She rapped lightly on the door frame. “Walsh?” No response. “Ben?” She leaned in. There was no man-sized bump under the covers and Sam’s clothes were laid neatly on top. A quick look down the hall told the story. The chair that had held his clothes and jacket last night was empty and the door chain hung straight down. He was gone. She caved against the door frame as her mind explored a half a dozen possibilities. He went for food, milk, coffee, fresh air, a walk. All of which were highly improbable. The survey says—he changed his mind. Realized that an older woman wouldn’t fit into his life. She thumped her head against the frame. He’d meant what he said, been sincere, but here, now, the cold hard reality of it set in. He wouldn’t have left without . . . leaving a note. She pushed off the frame and bolted down the hall and into the living room. Nothing on the coffee table or desk. The kitchen. There it was, written in large bold script. Couldn’t sleep. Went back to my hotel. I want to spend the day with you. Text me the moment you read this. A mad dash to the bedroom, a dive across the bed and she had the phone in hand typing, I’m awake. She tapped send and it zuuped on its way. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she waited a minute, two minutes, five minutes, without the screen belching out a reply. As she was about to give up the phone rang, startling her, and she dropped the damn thing. It went sliding off the edge of the bed like a mouse running from a cat. It chirped four times by the time she pushed accept. “Hendrickson here,” she said breathlessly as she sat on the floor, her back against the bed.
“Ma’am, is everything okay?” her administrative assistant asked her.
She pinched her eyes closed. She hadn’t bothered to look at the caller ID, only assumed it would be Ben. “I’m fine. What do you need?”
There was hesitation. “Need? You asked me to call you at this time for a brief on the committee meeting.”
Holy hell, she’d completely forgotten. She was fucking losing her mind. “Was there anything out of the ordinary I need to know about?”
“No, ma’am. In fact, they adjourned early. Mitchell was ill and Jackson was delayed. With you gone, that made three and it was decided to postpone any conversation until the next meeting set in fourteen days.”
The incoming call tone beeped. “I have to go. You don’t need to call me again.”
“Hello.” She did her best to keep her voice casual.
“Gemma.” The way he said her name gave her chills. She put the phone on speaker. “Sorry it took so long to call back. I was in the shower and . . .”
“Why did you leave?” She drew her knees up to her chest.
“Meet me for a breakfast, brunch, lunch. I’ll explain. Does that café where we were yesterday have food?”
“Not really. Mostly bakery items for breakfast. If you want food you can come here and—”
“No,” he interrupted with some force. “Meet me someplace. Tell me when and where. I’ll be there.”
“Where are you staying?”
“A couple blocks from you at the Hotel Jeanne d’Arc.”
Gemma was surprised. She knew the place. It was a tiny, no-frills hotel a couple blocks from her apartment, a few steps off St. Catherine’s Square and the café where they’d met yesterday.
“Are you hungry?” she asked him. She sure as hell was. She’d hardly eaten anything the last three days.
“Starved. And I need a pot of coffee.”
“There’s a place a couple of blocks from where you are, near the Place des Vosges, that serves a full breakfast. They have wonderful omelettes and crepes and strong coffee.”
“How soon can you be ready?”
She looked at the time on her phone. “I can meet you at your hotel in forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll be at your place waiting downstairs in forty.” He disconnected the call before she could answer.
Gemma rushed through a shower and quickly dried her hair. Her hand shook with excitement as she put on makeup. Or was it fear? She decided it didn’t matter and checked the weather app before choosing what she would wear. Paris would be sunny but cooler than normal. She chose a black turtleneck and slacks, a light jacket with a colorful scarf. As she checked her image in the full-length mirror she wondered what she was doing. Old feelings bubbled up. Her stomach flopped. She felt slightly nauseous and she perched on the edge of the bed. It could be lack of food and coffee. She really didn’t function well without coffee in the morning. Who was she kidding? This was pure fear. Her cell buzzed in her jacket pocket. She didn’t bother to pull it out. It was Walsh. She was already five minutes late.
As she locked her apartment door Madame Lorraine came through hers, looking elegant in a fur hat and coat and ankle boots, shopping cart in hand. “Bonjour, Madame.”
“English, please,” Madame said.
Madame liked to practice her English and Gemma always obliged her. “Let me carry the cart for you,” Gemma said, reaching for the wheeled wire basket. The diminutive woman was in her eighties and an absolute treasure. She frequently shared stories of the German occupation of Paris during the Second World War. Two visits ago, she nonchalantly said she’d worked for the French resistance. She pulled her blouse away from her shoulder, exposing a large ugly scar. “I was shot,” she said proudly and held out her arm, twisting her charm bracelet. “My memento.” She tapped a dangling spent bullet.
At the foot of the stairs Gemma saw Ben peering through the door. Madame saw him also and stopped to give Ben a long look. When she was finished she turned her gaze back to Gemma, both eyebrows reaching to her white hair. She pointed a finger in Ben’s direction then turned the finger on Gemma. “This is a man,” she declared. “There are many out there with things between their legs”—she cupped her hand and jiggled it—“but not all are true men.” Gemma stood fixed to the marble floor as Madame took her cart, heading for the door and Ben. What would she say to him? Gemma caught up and opened the heavy door for her. Ben swung it wide. Madame tipped her head back to look up at him. “Oui,” she said with a tip of the head in Gemma’s direction.
Ben gave her a huge smile, nodded and replied, “Oui,” Madame put on her sunglasses and went toward the market.
“Good morning.” Ben turned that smile on her. “You were late, I texted you but . . .”
“I was helping Madame.” He looked rested and he’d found a barbershop. “What is that all about with her?” Gemma asked.
“One day I’ll tell you. Right now I’m starved. Can we go get something to eat?”
The café wasn’t crowded and Gemma chose a table by a window. “Two coffees. Strong,” she said to the waiter in French before he even got to the table. He returned quickly with cups of dark steaming liquid, cream and sugar. In surprisingly good French, Ben ordered a four-egg omelette with gruyere cheese, ham and toast. She ordered crepes and fruit and asked the waiter to keep their cups full.
Ben reached across the table to where her hand rested and touched his fingers to hers lightly. “You look beautiful,” he said, moving his hand slightly to break the contact.
“Thank you. Your French is very good for someone who’s never been to Paris.”
“French is spoken in a lot of countries I’ve worked in.”
The events in the jungle flashed uncomfortably in her mind. She moved her hand so they were touching again.
“Don’t think about it,” he said.
“Can you stop thinking about it?” she said softly.
“No.” His fingers threaded between hers. “Thing is, I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “Except for the lieutenant.”
Gemma looked away. Out the window across to the park in the Place des Vosges, trees wore their pale green spring leaves. Children played in sandboxes and locals enjoyed their community park. “You said you wanted to see some of Paris. Anything in particular?”
“What are your favorite places?” he said, stirring three spoons of sugar into his cup.
“Everywhere. When I’m here I wander.”
“Sounds good to me.” He sipped the coffee and made a face.
“Is it bad?”
“No, it’s fricking good. Next cup won’t need so much sugar. I’m used to hospital crap. Stale and overheated.”
The waiter brought their food. Ben leaned back in his chair, looking it over as the man arranged the plates in front of them. They shed their jackets, placing them on the extra chair. The waiter returned with fresh butter, jellies and jams and freshened their cups.
As they ate Ben entertained her with the tale of his men-in-black meeting, assuring her quite solemnly he’d told the truth. He looked relieved when she said everything was okay with her also.
The waiter removed their empty plates, and as they lingered over a last cup of coffee an awkward silence fell between them.
“Were you serious about wanting to see the city?” she asked as Ben paid the bill.
“Sure am.” He rose and slipped into his coat. “What do you suggest?”
“The Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, and Eiffel Tower are not to be missed.” She stood and he helped her into her jacket and casually ran his hands over her arms. She moved away, suddenly nervous. “We can take the Metro to the Louvre and walk across to the Orsay and catch the batobus to the tower.” She rattled on. “Of course we aren’t going to do complete tours. Just give you a look before you have to go back.”
“Gemma.” He took her arm. “I’m not going back until you do.”
“Ben, I . . .”
He looked across the street to the park. “Let’s go over there and talk.”
There was that word again.
They walked the gravel path and found an empty bench. He twisted and faced her, draping one arm on the back of the bench, laced the fingers of his other hand through hers and gave the back of her hand a soft kiss. “I’m not leaving here until I convince you the age difference means nothing to me.”
“It means something to me.”
“Why? And don’t BS me.” She pulled her hand away. “We’ve been through enough together to be honest. I’m doing my part but you’re holding back.”
She wasn’t used to being spoken to like this. Maybe this was why she loved him. She snapped back, shuddered. Loved?
A red and yellow ball came to rest at Ben’s foot. The owner, a little boy of about four, ran to them, halting a couple steps away, and gave them a shy look. Ben palmed the ball and held it out. The child looked over his shoulder to the woman with him and back again. “It’s okay,” Ben said in French. The child bit his lower lip, took the ball and ran like the devil was after him. “Cute kid,” Ben said, watching the boy run back to the woman.
Well, this was an opening if there ever was one. “That’s the reason.”
Ben turned to her. “The reason?”
“The reason the age difference is important.”
Ben gave her a puzzled look, looked to the boy and back again.
“Children.
”
He straightened.
“I’m past having them and I’m not interested in adopting. You’re young. A family is still an option. How’s that for no BS?”
ow that for no BS He said nothing.
“In Ecuador I saw how you took to the children, enjoyed being with them. When I saw you in the bar with those two women it hammered it home.”
“In Baltimore, you were at the restaurant?”
Hell’s bells. She closed her eyes. In for a penny. She let out a long breath. “Yes. I saw two women talking to you.”
“Jesus, Gemma. They mean nothing to me. I dated one a year ago for a few months. The other one I barely know. Why didn’t you give me the chance to explain?”
“I could see you weren’t interested.”
“Then why?” Exasperation filled his voice.
“Say we get serious and in a year you want children.”
He reached out and took her hand again. “I was married.”
She said nothing.
“It didn’t work out. My fault. I went into it because I thought it was time to settle down. Pat is beautiful and a talented musician. She wanted kids. We tried.” He smiled. “Tried a lot. It didn’t happen.”
Gemma tried not to look relieved.
“When she didn’t conceive, we saw a specialist. It was my problem.” He cleared his throat. “Not enough swimmers. The accident. High fevers, infections, and all kinds of crap medications.”
He’d shared something intensely personal and she didn’t know what to say. She said nothing.
“Pat left.”
Gemma eyes went wide.
“Not because of my swimmers,” he said hastily. “Because I wasn’t unhappy. She realized I didn’t want kids before I admitted it to myself. I had no desire to be a dad.” He was silent as they watched an older couple holding hands stroll by.
“I went over every minute you and I were together trying to figure out why you didn’t want to see me again. Believe me, I never considered the age difference.”
Under Fire: The Admiral Page 14