Under Fire: The Admiral (21 page)

“Olivia knows?”

“I had the impression that Sam told her
recently.”

Her expression softened. “I had no idea.
Thank you for telling me.” She chewed on her lower lip, something
he was learning she did when considering what she would say next.
“Tell me about your scar.”

“My scar?” He glanced down and his hand rose
to his side reflexively. “Why?”

“You know a lot about me, now it’s my turn to
learn about you. I can’t help wonder why a reconstructive surgeon
would keep a scar like that when he didn’t need to.”

Okay. At least she was talking, not about
herself but it was better than nothing.

“I keep it to show patients what can be
done.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

He blew out a breath between clenched teeth.
Talking about the scar and what happened after the accident wasn’t
any easier for him than it was for her to talk about her life.
“Those five inches of scar is less than one fourth of the original
scar. There are also surgery scars that have been erased.”

“I’m sorry. I . . .”

“It’s okay. I told you, that accident changed
my life. That night when you said the Big Guy had plans for me, He
did. When I have a patient who is hesitant or doubtful about what I
can do for them, I hand them a picture of what my scars looked like
before surgery and take off my shirt. They know I’ve been through
what they have and they can be helped.” He reached across the table
and covered her hand with his. “What you did that night. I can’t
begin to tell you the far-reaching ramifications.”

The hand under his turned and twisted and for
a moment he thought she was trying to escape his grasp but she
wasn’t. She laced her fingers between his and squeezed.

“It did for me too. I thought you had died
that night. I thought I’d failed. That by making the decision to
stay with you and not go to the first house for help I’d caused
your death. Killed you. It consumed me. I thought about Coast Guard
rescue crews making those kinds of decisions every day. I developed
a training program to evaluate the most effective and safest way to
reach the point of rescuing a person. Make the approach as
important as the rescue. And it makes a difference for the crews
knowing that they absolutely are doing their best.”

Talking about her job was a beginning.

Gemma’s heart and soul felt light, free. It
was like stepping out of a suit of armor.

Sam and Olivia knew why she’d left them with
her brother. And Danny knew. He didn’t die thinking she’d left
him.

They weren’t angry.

She was released from thinking a bad decision
she’d made caused a man’s death. These things had held her captive,
yet they’d formed who she was.

This man across from her was being patient
and caring. Everything she knew about him said he was a good man. A
good doctor. It couldn’t have been easy telling her what he’d
learned from Sam. Each passing moment with him worked to erode her
fear and give her the courage to trust. Stop running. Her pulse
picked up. Her breathing turned to short gasps as she fought tears.
Madame was right about Ben. He is a real man. “What would you like
to do now?”

Ben looked surprised but only for a moment.
“I want to see Notre Dame. Then I want to take one of those dinner
cruises on the Seine I read about on the plane and drink way too
much good wine.” He reached across the table and stroked her cheek
with the back of a finger. “Or anything you want to do. I just want
to be with you,” he said softly and moved his hand to cup her
cheek. She turned into it and kissed his palm.

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

They took a cab to Pont Neuf and strolled
across the bridge, then along the Seine. The afternoon turned cool
and Ben insisted on buying her a shawl from a vendor stall. The
grizzled man repeatedly assured them it was cashmere, although it
clearly wasn’t, showing them the label sewn at the hem. She and Ben
dutifully looked unable to contain their laughter when they saw
that cashmere had been spelled
casahamere
. Ben paid the man
full price even though Gemma thought the vendor would’ve taken half
his asking price.

At the cathedral they walked the outside
before entering. Ben bought a brochure describing the exterior.
A brochure written in French
. After several obviously
incorrect translations, Gemma took it from him. Her descriptions of
the façade, gargoyles and flying buttresses were interrupted every
few feet by Ben asking if the
cash-a-mere-a
was keeping her
warm. It was. More to the point, he was. His smile, his humor, his
gentle touches that graduated to holding hands when they entered
the grand cathedral made her very warm.

The cathedral was dark, cold and smelled of
candle wax and incense. They took a few moments for their eyes to
adjust.

“How long has it been here?” Ben said.

“Eleven something when it was started.” She
scanned the brochure. “1163.”

“Why did Germany let all the buildings of
Paris stay while they damn near destroyed London?”

“You’re not much of a history buff, are
you?”

“Got me there. Never much cared for the past,
only the present.” He squeezed her hand.

“To make it brief, the French government
capitulated. They put out the welcome sign for the Germans so the
country would be protected. The people didn’t like it so much. One
reason the French resistance was so strong. As for London”—she
shrugged—“the English told the Germans to stick it up their bright
and shiny hiney and they paid dearly.”

“What would you have done?” he asked, taking
his gaze from a stained-glass window to look at her.

“It’s really a moot point. While I love the
French and the city I would have done what the British did and then
some,” she said, walking toward the next window.

“Yeah, I kinda figured that’s what you’d do,”
he said, followed by, “Oouph.”

Gemma turned in time to see Ben and a man in
a black cassock, arms filled with bundled pamphlets, doing a dance
to stay upright. They succeeded but several bundles fell to the
floor, sliding across the tiles.

“I’m really sorry, Father,” Ben said,
crouching to retrieve the shrink-wrapped packages. “I wasn’t
watching where I was going.”

“Then we are both at fault,” the priest said.
“I left my glasses someplace and can’t see where I am going.”

Ben stood, his arms filled with small
bundles. “Let me help you with these. Where are you going?”

“Just there.” The priest hitched his head in
the direction of a door a few feet away.

Gemma marveled at the ease Ben had with
others. She’d seen in Ecuador how he’d spoken to adults and
children alike.

Since she was the only one with a free hand
she hustled ahead to open the door. The pamphlets were soon stacked
on a small desk. Ben stuck out his hand. “I’m Ben Walsh.” He looked
over at her. “This is Gemma Hendrickson.”

The priest took Ben’s hand. “Pere Mitterrand.
Thank you for the help.” He nodded to Gemma. “It is a pleasure to
meet you.”

“Mitterrand?” Gemma said.

The priest sighed and rolled his eyes. “No,
Madame. No relation to the French prime minister. The only thing we
share is a name. If I didn’t have on my name tag I would have made
up a name to tell you.”

“But, Pere, there is no name tag on your
cassock.”

The priest patted the right side of his chest
then the left. “Ah, I have one.” A smile spread across his face.
“But it’s attached to my shirt.” He hunched his shoulders and
reached inside his cassock, withdrawing a pair of glasses. “And I
have glasses,” he said, putting them on. He peered at them and
flung out his hands. “It is a miracle. I can see!”

They stared at him. “It’s a joke. You can
laugh,” he said, looking back and forth between them.

Gemma’s eyes went wide. Ben smiled and winked
at her. “My first visit to Notre Dame and I’m witness to a
miracle.”

“Your first visit to my beautiful Notre
Dame?” the man said as he locked the office door.

“For me, yes,” Ben answered first.

“I’ve been here many times but every time I
enter I’m in awe,” she added.

“Ahh.” He nodded. “Be sure to show him the
chapels and the organ. The organ is magnificent. Tell him the story
of the windows.” He pointed up. “Did you know that here,” he said
and pointed to the floor, “is the very center of France from which
all distances in the country are measured?”

Ben shook his head. “I didn’t.” He and Gemma
exchanged glances and smiles. Pere Mitterrand checked his watch.
“If you’d like I can walk with you.”

Gemma couldn’t believe their luck. “Of
course. We’d love to have you tell us about your Notre Dame.”

For the next two hours they were given a tour
filled with love and trivia Gemma had never heard. Ben was
enthralled with the
past
, listening carefully to the priest
and asking questions. By the time they left, Pere Mitterrand felt
like an old friend. For their good-bye they did the two-cheek kiss
thing and Ben pressed a euro note into his hand, insisting he keep
it, and thanked him profusely for his time.

As they left the cathedral Ben linked his arm
in hers. “I could get used to this.”

So could I, Gemma thought.
So could
I.

The dinner cruise was spectacular. The food
was excellent but they hardly ate. Ben pulled his chair alongside
of hers, and with his arm draped around her and her head resting on
his shoulder they watched the lights of Paris slide by. On the way
to her apartment they stopped at a café across the river from the
brilliantly lit cathedral and sat where they could see the Eiffel
tower in the distance. Gemma could not ever remember feeling this
way. She’d had many lovers. It had been for companionship when she
was lonely and sex when she needed it.

At the entrance to her apartment building she
took Ben’s hand and pulled him inside the entry. “See me safely
upstairs.”

He hesitated. “Safely?”

She leaned into him and put a hand on his
chest. “Gargoyles,” she said in a loud whisper, her gaze darting
side to side. “They may have followed me home.” She glanced down at
her shawl. “They love
cash-a-mere-a.
” The day had been
wonderful and she didn’t want it to end. She wanted him to kiss
her. She wanted him to come in. She wanted him in her bed and to
stay forever.

Ben laughed. “I’ll protect your
cash-a-mere-a
and
you
.” His voice went deep,
hoarse.

They walked up the stairs silently, arms
linked around each other. He took the key, unlocking her door.
“Mission accomplished. Home safe. No gargoyles and you still have
your shawl.” He gave a little bow. When he straightened she went up
on her toes and kissed him. He didn’t pull away, and taking that as
a good sign she slipped a hand inside his jacket, rubbing her palm
over his very warm chest.

“Gemma, I . . .” To quiet him she kissed him
again. She didn’t want to hear him talk unless it was to say let me
help you out of your clothes. This time he kissed back.

He eased back and fear that he’d changed his
mind forced its way into the cracks in her self-confidence. He
cupped her head with both hands, fanning his thumbs along the edge
of her jaw, then bent and gave her a slow, deep, soul-melding kiss
that went on forever. His tongue met and danced with hers and she
tightened her arms around him as much to stay steady as to feel his
body. He broke the kiss and a voice said, “You must keep this man.”
Gemma blinked to bring things back into focus and looked over Ben’s
shoulder to see Madame Lorraine standing in her doorway in a
bathrobe, a turban on her head. Ben turned his head. “That”—she
pointed her cane their direction—“is the way a man kisses a woman
when he loves her. Do not let him escape.” She waved the cane as if
it were a wand and she was granting them a wish. She smiled,
retreated into her apartment, and with a wave of her hand and
looking for all the world like a fairy godmother wished them bonne
nuit and closed the door. They laughed and Ben took up where he’d
left off kissing, touching, raising her blood pressure and
temperature until her blood felt like molten steel.

“Stay with me,” she said.

Ben went still and the low guttural sound he
made turned her insides to a raging fire.

“You’re killing me.” He shook his head as his
eyes searched her face. “You have no idea how much I want that.
Want you.” His breath was coming in short bursts.

“Then stay.” Her own voice was low and husky
with desire.

“I promised you.” He shook his head. “I
promised myself we’d take it slow.” He blew out a breath between
clenched teeth.

“What if . . . I don’t want to take it slow?”
She rubbed against him. Against the bulge in his jeans. He stepped
back like he’d been burned.

“I don’t want this to just be about sex. I
want you to be sure this is what you want. We’ve had one day
together. One day without car accidents, drug cartels shooting at
us, plane crashes, tramping through a jungle. One day without Navy
SEALs, and military types. Let’s give it a couple more days. In a
week I don’t want to become a mistake you made.”

“No chance of that.” Her voice quivered.

“I have to leave.” His voice lacked
conviction. “I have to make calls and go over patient records with
the doctor who’s covering for me. Then, I need sleep.” He smiled.
“I go in there,” he hitched his chin in the direction of her open
door, “neither of us will get any sleep for days.” Which was
exactly what she wanted.

“If you’re trying to make me fall in love
with you . . .”
There, she’d said the L word.
“It’s
working.”

Ben closed his eyes for a long moment when he
opened them they were misty. He turned his face into the hand she
ran over the stubble on his jaw. “Tomorrow?” she asked, brushing
his lips with her finger. Thinking about what those lips could do
to her.