Breaking Point (34 page)

That was just a myth, that kind of love. What he really wanted was to be eternally laid.

“Shut up,” Jules said as he kept crawling, the sun now hot on the back of his head. “It is not a myth. And eternally loved comes with the bonus of being eternally laid.”

Yeah, right. He didn’t
really
believe that, did he?

“Stephen found it. Shit, I was going to tell Gina about Stephen, about going over to his place . . .”

After he’d gotten home from a recent trip to Los Angeles, Jules had finally gotten up the nerve to go over to Stephen-the-fabulous-but-no-longer-new-neighbor’s apartment and ring the doorbell.

“I was going to ask him out to dinner,” Jules said. “You know, on a date? Like, ‘Hey, how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in a while. I was wondering if you were free tonight . . .’ ”

Except Stephen hadn’t answered the door. Brian had. Brian the cop, who looked like a weird musclebound knockoff of Jules. Compact, cute, dark hair, brown eyes. Funny and friendly. And clearly head over heels in love with Stephen, who was so happy, too, that he glowed.

“So I stayed and had dinner with both of them,” Jules told Gina, except wait. She wasn’t there with him.

Regardless, she’d been right about Stephen. He
was
perfect.

It could have been Jules instead of Brian, packing to move up to Massachusetts to get married.

“I meant, he’s perfect for Brian,” Jules told the voices.

Jeez, it was hot. Why was he suddenly so freaking hot?

And why were the voices suddenly shouting at him, in a language he couldn’t understand?

There were lots of them, talking all at once, talking to each other—which was a pretty powerful parlor trick, since the voices were part of him. They were his dark side, true, but since when had his dark side gone and enrolled in a Berlitz class without his light side knowing about it?

“Hey,” Jules said to them, “if you don’t speak English, I’m just going to keep on ignoring you.”

But whoa, his voices suddenly had feet. Lots of them. Both bare and clad, in worn boots and sandals.

Feet and legs and . . . Jules tried to look up, but the sun was too bright.

One of the voices leaned down, turning from a shadowy shape into a blurred, doubled face. Asian—dark hair, dark eyes, killer cheekbones, Fu-Manchu mustache around a mouth that spoke.
“Sorry about your shirt.”
But like a badly dubbed movie, his mouth kept on moving.

“Okay,” Jules said. “You’re definitely not real.”

Another face—faces—appeared.
“Steer clear of that mean Peggy Ryan.”

“Not funny,” Jules said. This was very, very not funny. That was what Robin, whom he’d cared very much about, had said to Jules the last time they were together—instead of good-bye. “Go away!”

The first face was back.
“I hope we can be friends again some day.”

Enough was enough. “Get the fuck away from me!” Jules shouted, and they all backed off. He reached for his weapon, fumbling to pull it free from inside that oven of a leather jacket.

And one of the feet came toward him, like his head was a soccer ball. He couldn’t move, but so what. A hallucination couldn’t hurt him—

Crunch.

Jules both heard and felt the connection, felt himself flung back, his body following his head. Which was probably a good thing.

New pain blended with old. Stars sparked and faded. But before the grayness turned to black, Fu-Manchu came back into view, leaning close.
“Goal!”
he said, like the TV announcer of an international soccer game.

Jules fought to speak. “American,” he managed.
Embassy,
he tried to say, too.
In Dili.
But the world went black.

“This might hurt,” Jones announced.

Might hurt? Might?

Forget about the implication that everything that had come before this hadn’t hurt.

Max had his eyes closed, teeth clenched, sweat pouring off him.

Jesus H. Christ.

“On three,” Jones said. “Ready? One, two—”

“Hold up.” Gina’s voice. Softer now, but close to his ear. “Max, it’s really all right if you scream.”

“No, it’s not,” he ground out.

“Yes, it is. And open your eyes. I read somewhere that it hurts less if you open your eyes. With your eyes closed, you focus on the pain and—”

Max opened his eyes. Gina was right there—her eyes, her face. She was looking a little pale, sitting in the chair that Molly had dragged over, holding both of his hands in hers.

“I don’t need to scream,” he told her.

“I made a bet with myself,” she said, “that you wouldn’t. Don’t let me win.”

What?

He tried to loosen his grip on her hands. He was squeezing her too tightly, but she wouldn’t let him go.

He’d survived a lot in his life, and the past five minutes had been particularly hellacious. Still it was nothing—
nothing
—like the past few days.

“Three,” he told Jones. “Just do it.”

Mother
of God! Max closed his eyes—he couldn’t help it.

“Open your eyes,” Gina urged him. “Come on, Max,
scream.
”

“Come on, Max,” Molly chimed in from somewhere down near the source of that pain. “We’ll all scream with you.”

“Don’t want . . . to scare you. Ah, God, Gina . . .”

“No.” Gina’s voice shook. “You don’t want to scare
you.
You don’t scare me. Haven’t you figured that out yet? You don’t scare me at all.”

“Almost done,” Jones announced as the pain let up a bit.

Of course, then it was back, worse than ever.

“God,” Max gasped again.

“You know, you were the best friend I ever had, too,” Gina told him.

Still past tense. He opened his eyes and there she was. She had a scratch across her cheek that marred the smooth perfection of her skin, probably from their asinine flail through the jungle. It was mostly a welt—slightly pink and raised—although up this close, he could see several tiny beads of blood where the branch that had whacked her had broken the skin.

And even though she was fighting it, tears made her eyes luminous. One of them escaped and slid down her cheek.

Life—wonderful, abundant life. She was so filled with it, so beautifully alive, it was seeping from her.

It slipped through her lips as well.

“Although, I probably would’ve used different words,” she told him. “More like
the love of my life.
”

Maybe his confusion had something to do with the goddamn fire in his butt, but he had to ask because her tense wasn’t clear. “Were?” he ground out. “Or are?”

Gina held his gaze with that same determination that had so impressed him the very first time he’d talked to her, over the radio of a hijacked airliner. “What do you care?” she asked. “Didn’t you purposely not call and tell me that Ajay died so that I would leave you?”

“Almost done,” Jones said again.

“Don’t fucking say that unless it’s true!” It was more of a howl than a scream, and yes, Gina was right. It scared the hell out of him.

“I played right into your hand,” Gina told him. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Max said through gritted teeth. “Yes, all right? I’m a selfish asshole—I told you that right from the start!”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” She was pissed. “That you’re selfish? Is that easier to handle than the truth—that you’re scared?”

“Goddamn it!”

“What would’ve happened, Max, if you’d let me in? What would’ve happened, if you’d given yourself permission not just to grieve for Ajay, but to share what you were feeling with me?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he told her. “Jesus, Gina. Jones, what the fuck . . . ?”

“Almost done.”

“God . . .” Now he wanted to howl, but he fought it, and the words came out little more than gasps. “Damn . . .”

“Why are you so afraid to let yourself be human?” Gina asked. “That’s why I love you, you know.”

Present tense. Jesus, Jesus, present tense!

She didn’t take so much as a breath as she kept going. “Because even though you try to hide it, I can see you in there. You’re not perfect—no one’s perfect. Shoot, Max, don’t you know? I don’t want perfect. I want you. I want the little boy who watched Elvis movies with his grandfather. I want the man who put his fist through the wall because he couldn’t stop some bad people from hurting me. But you know what? I even want the man who makes himself so . . . cold and, and . . . distant, who blames himself for all of his so-called failures. I just wish you’d realize that human beings learn from failure. We learn and we grow and we let our mistakes go, because we know we’ll do it differently the next time. If we’re lucky enough to be given a next time.”

Still holding his hands, she wiped her cheeks on the sleeves of her T-shirt, then added, “Are. To answer your question directly. You
are
the love of my life. And guess what? I’ve learned. If you can forgive me for quitting on you, if you can give us a second chance, I will not let you scare me away again.”

Jesus.

“Got it,” Jones said triumphantly. “Sorry, there was this one little piece of shit or fabric or something, but I finally got it. Ready for a little 151 cleansing action?”

“Yeah,” Max rasped. Are. Present tense. If
he
could forgive
her
? Yet Gina was serious.

And, yes, he was ready for damn near anything now.

As Jones poured high octane rum onto his bullet wound, Max opened his mouth and roared. “Jee-zus Jee-zus
Jee
-
zus
!”

Just as they’d promised, Gina and Molly shouted and screamed right along with him, although Gina might’ve been laughing. It was a little hard to tell—she exploded into tears.

There was so much noise—even Jones was howling—they almost didn’t hear it.

A voice. Over a megaphone. “Grady Morant.”

Molly was the last to hear it, and both Gina and Jones hushed her.

“Grady Morant,” it came again.

“Oh, God,” Gina breathed as Max finally released her hands.

Jones quickly bandaged Max’s wound, and moved to the sink to wash his hands. Max pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. “Has anyone seen my pants?”

“They’re soaking wet,” Molly informed him. “I tried to get the bloodstains out, but . . .”

“I’ll get you something else.” Gina vanished.

“Grady Morant, you are completely surrounded,” the megaphone voice continued. “Surrender peacefully for the sake of your companions. Surrender peacefully, and no one will get hurt.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Gina ran an armload of clothes from what had to be Emilio’s closet back into the kitchen, as the man with the megaphone continued to ask for Grady’s surrender.

Molly and Jones had already gone upstairs to use Emilio’s binoculars to peer out the window.

Max was over at the sink, splashing water on his face. “It’s the moment of truth,” he said, shutting off the faucet.

Gina dumped the clothes onto one of the kitchen chairs, then handed him the towel that was hanging on the refrigerator door.

“Thanks.” He dried himself off. “This is where we find out who Emilio was working for. It’s possible the soldiers who tried to kill us weren’t acting on official orders. If not, whoever’s in command out there might be willing to let us surrender to a special contingency from the American Embassy in Dili. If I can set that up, we’re home free.”

Gina nodded. But if he couldn’t?

“If I can’t . . .” Max met her gaze. Smiled ruefully. “No one can. And that’s not just me being cocky.”

“I know.” She sorted through the clothes. “Do you mind wearing Emilio’s underwear?” She turned back to him with the two different styles that she’d found. “You’re about the same size. And they’re clean. They were wrapped in a paper package, like from a laundry service.”

Max gave her a look, because along with the very nice, very expensive pair of black silk boxers she’d pilfered from Emilio, she’d also borrowed one of his thongs.

“What?” Gina said. It was definitely a man-thong. It had all that extra room for various non-female body parts.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” she said, trying to play it as serious. “One, it’s been a while, maybe your tastes have changed. And two, these might actually be more comfortable, considering the placement of your bandage and—”

He took the boxers from her.

“Apparently I was wrong.” She turned away and started sorting through the pairs of pants and Bermuda shorts she’d grabbed, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. To make sure he didn’t fall over.

Right.

After he got the boxers on, he took off the bathrobe and . . .

Okay, he definitely wasn’t as skinny as he’d been after his lengthy stint in the hospital. Emilio’s pants probably weren’t going to fit him, after all. Although, there was one pair that looked like they’d be nice and loose . . . There they were. The kelly green Bermuda shorts.

Max gave her another one of those you’ve-got-to-be-kidding glances as he put the bathrobe over the back of another chair. “Do I really look as if I’ve ever worn shorts that color in my entire life?”

She tried not to smile. “I honestly don’t think you have much choice.” She let herself look at him. “You know, you could just go with the boxers. At least until your pants are dry. You know what would really work with that, though? A bowtie.” She turned, as if to go back to the closet. “I’m sure Emilio has a tux. Judging from his other clothes, it’s probably polyester and chartreuse, but maybe the bowtie is—”

“Gina.” Max stopped her before she reached the door. He motioned for her to come back.

She held out the green shorts, but instead of taking them, he took her arm, pulled her close.

“I love you,” Max said, as if he were dispatching some terrible, dire news that somehow still managed to amuse him at least a little.

Gina had been hoping that he’d say it, praying even, but the fact that he’d managed to smile, even just a bit while he did, was a miracle.

And then, before her heart even had a chance to start beating again, he kissed her.

And oh, she was also beyond ready for that particular marvel, for the sweet softness of his mouth, for the solidness of his arms around her. There was more of him to hold her since he’d regained his fighting weight—and that was amazing, too. She skimmed her hands across the muscular smoothness of his back, his shoulders, as his kiss changed from tender to heated.

And, God. That was a miracle, too.

Except she couldn’t help but wonder about those words, wrenched from him, as if it cost him his soul to speak them aloud. Why tell her this right now?

Yes, she’d been waiting for years to hear him say that he loved her, but . . .

“Are you . . . Did you say that . . . Do you think we’re going to die?” Gina asked.

Max laughed his surprise. “No. Why do you . . . ?” He figured it out himself. “No, no, Gina, just . . . I should’ve said it before. I should have said it years ago, but I really should have said it, you know, instead of
hi.
” He laughed again, clearly disgusted with himself. “God, I’m an idiot. I mean,
hi
? I should have walked in and said, ‘Gina, I need you. I love you, don’t ever leave me again.’ ”

She stared at him. It was probably a good thing that he hadn’t said that at the time, because she might’ve fainted.

It was obvious that he wanted her to say something, but she was completely speechless.

“Okay,” Max said. “Now I’m terrified that I, um, said it too late?”

His uncertainty turned his words into a question. “Am I too late?” he asked again, as if he actually thought . . .

As much as Gina enjoyed watching him squirm, she forced her lungs and vocal cords to start working again. “Are you . . . ?” She had to clear her throat, but then it really didn’t matter what she said, because the tears in her eyes surely told him everything he wanted to hear.

She saw his relief, and yes, he was still scared, she saw that, too, but mixed in with that was hope. And something that looked a heck of a lot like happiness.

Happiness—in Max’s eyes.

“Are you really asking
me
for a second chance?” she managed to get it all out in a breathless exhale.

He kissed her then, as if he couldn’t bear to stand so close and not kiss her. “Please,” he breathed, as he kissed her again, as he licked his way into her mouth and . . . God . . .

She could’ve stood there, kissing Max forever, but the man on the megaphone just wouldn’t shut up.

Besides, she wanted to be sure that this was about more than just sex.

“Do you
want
me in your life?” Gina asked him. “I mean, need is nice, but . . .” It implied a certain lack of free will.
Want
on the other hand . . .

“Want,” he said. “Yes. I want you. Very much. In my life. Gina, I was lost without you.” He caught himself. “More lost, or . . .” He shook his head. “Fuck it, I’m a mess, but if for some reason you still love me anyway . . . If you really meant what you said, about . . .” There it was again, in his eyes. Hope. “Loving me anyway . . .”

“I don’t love you
anyway,
” she told him, her heart in her throat. “I love you
because.
” She touched his face, his smoothly shaven cheeks. “Although now that you mention it, you
are
something of a mess, and I’m probably entitled to . . . compensation in certain areas. I mean, in any relationship, you need to negotiate a certain amount of compromise, right?”

He actually thought she was serious. “Well, yeah.”

“So if, say, I were to point out how incredibly hot you’d look wearing that thong—”

Max laughed his relief. “Shit, I thought you were serious.”

“Shit,” Gina teased, “I am.”

He cupped her face between both of his hands, and the heat in his eyes made her knees week. “I’ll wear one if you’ll wear one . . .”

He kissed her again, and this time it was pure sex. His lips were no longer soft as he claimed her mouth, as he dragged her close, closer, as she in turn clung to him, her fingers in his hair. She wanted to touch all of him—this incredibly healthy Max, with his muscular arms and broad back, with that hint-of-a-six-pack that had surprised her that very first time she’d seen him naked—in her motel room in Florida, what seemed like at least a lifetime ago.

Or if not quite a lifetime, it was—for Max—two bullet wounds ago. And Gina wondered, as she kissed him, if FBI agents actually measured the passage of time by their various injuries.

She wondered, too, if he knew that the hot bod so didn’t matter to her. Skinny or fat, buff or flabby, she didn’t give a damn. She wanted him healthy and alive, and preferably happy enough to smile at her—that was all she cared about.

Still, she couldn’t get enough of touching him. His back, his arms, his shoulders.

And oh, he smelled so good.

Gina lost herself in his kisses—desperate, hungry, possessive kisses that she answered in kind. She lost herself in the touch of his hands, in the feel of his chest, hard against hers, as he pushed between her legs—more hard against her soft.

She felt the kitchen table against the backs of her thighs, felt his fingers on the button at her waist, and then, God, she was helping him. Peeling off her pants so he could lift her up and onto the table, so there was nothing between them. She wrapped her legs around him and he . . .

God.

How she’d missed him, missed this, and she tried to tell him but he was kissing her as if he were trying to touch her soul with his tongue.

It was possible he succeeded.

And all she managed to say was, “More . . .” and “Please . . .”

He was holding her up, so her backbone wasn’t grinding against the hard wood of the table and it felt so good to be held like that—so unbelievably good as he kissed her and kissed her, as he drove himself hard, harder into her.

It was Max and it was sex, but it was unlike any sex she’d ever had with Max because he wasn’t being overly careful. Not of his broken collarbone that had long since healed. And not of her.

She wasn’t on top.

Gina knew he’d liked her on top because he knew she would be in control. Even when his injuries had healed enough to allow for other possibilities, he’d always been too tense, too hyperaware that she might feel pinned down if they had sex any other way.

Gina also knew he had been trying to make things easier, not more difficult, but unless she’d closed her eyes, more often than not she’d end up reminded of the hijacking, of the rape. It was there in his caution, in his constant checking to see that she was okay, in the way that he tried to hide the fact he was thinking of it. He was always thinking of it.

Always.

But it wasn’t there now, between them. There was nothing between them.

There was only Max. Not pinning her down. Instead, anchoring her, holding her safe.

“Gina,” he breathed as she strained against him, wanting him closer, even closer. “Are you . . .”

Don’t ask if she was all right. Please don’t ask . . .

“God,” he exhaled, the word ripped from him. “It’s too good. I can’t . . . not . . .”

His sudden release was an incredible turn-on, and Gina came, hard and fast. It was a rush of blinding pleasure, made even more intense with the knowledge that he was feeling it, too.

“I love you,” she gasped over the pounding of her heart, as he just held her there, still so tightly, as they both struggled to catch their breath. She couldn’t remember if she’d told him that yet.

“Shit! Sorry!” That was Jones’s voice.

Oh, God! Gina turned toward the very open kitchen doorway, the one that led to the hall, the one that didn’t even have a door to close, should privacy be needed.

Max leapt into action, trying to cover up her nakedness with the bathrobe, with his own body.

But Jones wasn’t standing there.

At least not anymore.

“Not looking!” he called from the hall. “Sorry, it’s just . . . we could really use you upstairs.”

The voice was still droning that same message over and over on the bullhorn. Funny how she’d stopped hearing it after a while.

“Although, Jesus, Bhagat, I better use some of that thread to stitch you up properly if you’re going to . . . What?”

Molly’s voice murmured, her words indistinguishable, as their footsteps faded away.

Gina started to laugh, completely, thoroughly mortified. “Oh my God,” she said. “Did we really just do that?”

And—holy shit—they’d also done it without a condom. It was such a totally non-Max thing to do.

It was possible that he’d been lying when he told her that he didn’t think they were going to die. Such things as protection and birth control were moot if they only had a few days—or hours—left to live.

As Max pulled on those hideous green shorts, he had both guilt and apology all over his face. He opened his mouth, but she stopped him.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry,” Gina said, “because I’m not. Yes, our timing was . . . off, and we probably should have—”

“I love you, too,” he said. “Is that okay to say? And yes, you’re right, I was probably going to add that I’m sorry—”

“Yes, it’s okay,” she said, “but I’m not listening to the rest. La la la—”

“—that it happened like this, instead of someplace more, I don’t know, romantic or at least private—”

“Are you kidding?” Gina said. “Doing it on the kitchen table is one of
the
big, all-time female romantic fantasies—right down to potentially being discovered by Fred and Ethyl. With the exception of actually being discovered, of course. Oh my God.” She had to laugh.

Max was laughing, too, but as he checked his bandage, he winced.

Crap, she’d actually forgotten all about his latest bullet wound. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asked anxiously.

“Not even close.” He kissed her as he grabbed one of Emilio’s shirts from the pile of clothes. “I’m not going to wait for you, okay?”

She nodded. She definitely needed to get cleaned up. It was amazing that he wasn’t freaking out about not having used protection—that postcoital shock and regret wasn’t kicking in. “I’ll be quick. I just have to . . .”

“Gina!” came a shout from upstairs. It was Molly. “I’m am
so
sorry, but we really need Max. Right now!”

Max kissed her again, and headed for the door. But before he went out of the kitchen, he turned back.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, “there was one other thing I was going to say. I want you to marry me.”

And with that, he was gone.

It was unbelievable.