Under Fire: The Admiral (16 page)

“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.” Gemma 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.