My Sweet Isabella (The Ambassador Trilogy #3) (14 page)

“You shouldn’t have sent her home. You’re a mess. I smell the vodka and you look like hell. You need to get yourself together, son. Get back to Washington and see her. If that’s what it takes for you to live, then don’t throw her love away. You have a job you were appointed to and you need to take your position seriously.”

I shook my head in agreement. I was embarrassed he noticed how bad I looked. “It’s not just that. I was horrible to her. My depression and anger were something she didn’t need to be around.” I looked down not wanting to show the torment in my face.

“Fabrice, she would have put up with you. She loved you. Love looks past flaws. Love looks past obstacles. You know that. Look how you loved Celeste. Look how I love your brother no matter what he did to me.”

“This is not the same. She is a beautiful, young woman who has a whole life ahead of her. Plus, there are other things I can’t tell you right now.” I looked back up at him. Our gazes caught and I hoped he would understand.

“A life she wanted with you. You have to know how much she loved you. I saw the way she looked at you. It’s the way your mother looks at me. It’s a love you won’t find again. I knew when I met your mother as soon as I saw her. Nothing would keep me away from her.” I heard him. I knew. God, I knew.

M
y
reflection in the mirror was almost unrecognizable. I was thirty-eight years old and looked older, damaged, and unlovable. I wish I could turn back time and do that day over, when I was shot. Of all the days in my life that was the one. That day that not only took my pride and strength, but the love of my life was now gone. That day had taken a toll on my mind and my body. A toll I was afraid I would never get back. I was sure this day had taken my Isabella from me forever. How could she love me now, after I hurt her so severely.

I recognized many features of the naked thirty-eight year old body in front of me – tall, dark eyes and hair, broad chest and tapered waist. But the reflection in the mirror staring back at me also showed a man who wasn’t there before. That man stood strong and proud. This man was nothing short of broken. And not just the fucked up leg that was looking better than it had, but the hollow, sunken eyes, the prominent cheekbones, and new wrinkles were that of a weaker man than stared back at me a few months ago.

The shock of what I saw in the mirror traveled through my gaunt body. I wanted so badly to go back to my bed and hide. I didn’t have the strength to face the world and my responsibilities. I closed my eyes and tried to will time to go back to the day I was shot. That horrific day that I could not get past. I had never been a man scared of anything. I’ve looked terrorist in the eye and shot them in the head without blinking. I’ve flown helicopters into gunfire and not thought twice about the danger or the fear. I shuddered at the thought of being weak, of not being the man I used to be. I was in an abyss of depression. Darkness embraced me with a grip so tight I feared I would not see light again. I couldn’t seem to fight my way out. Everyone told me how lucky I was. I survived an AK 47 gunshot. The bullet hit my leg, not my head, my chest or anywhere else that could have killed me.

I was ready to go to my office and pretend to be the man appointed to this position. My clothes no longer fit me, and my overly big suit made me look as if I was dying. I’ve lost a lot weight since Isabella left. I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t’ care about myself. I was a walking dead man.

I shoved my hands into my pocket and felt the ring. It’s there. It’s there every day with me. The ring promising my love to the one woman I needed. I made sure I had it with me every day. I kept her ring with me in case. In case what? That she would come back to me? Why would she? I told her to leave. I broke her heart. The ring was a little piece of Isabella I still had. Every now and then when I would put my hands in my pockets, I would feel the diamond and think of her. Somehow, having her ring with me, gave me what little strength I had.

I had a duty to serve my country as the Ambassador. As depressed as I was, tired, and in pain, my obligation to my country had to be fulfilled. I went to work every day and continued to do as was expected of me. General Morou was with me and helped me to get through as much as she could. I confided in her one afternoon and told her what had happened. She, like everyone else, told me I was crazy and needed to get back with Isabella. Because of my current physical condition, she suggested I see a psychiatrist. That was something I couldn’t do. No one could see I was weak, not even a psychiatrist. I had to let things be and work out my problems myself.

I met with the President of the United States, and he and I had a long talk about terrorism. I had not met with him personally since the Correspondence dinner. He asked if I had been sick. I was a little embarrassed and quickly informed him that I had not fully recovered from the gunshot and was healing slower than I expected. It nearly killed me when he asked about Isabella. He wanted to know how she was doing. I didn’t know what to say other than she was fine and she and I would be coming to the dinner that year. Yet another lie. I went over the issue with my brother’s girlfriend. If anyone could be trusted with this information, it was the President. He agreed the information needed to be kept secret and offered to let some of his men find out more. I agreed that would be fine and didn’t mention I had my own men. Once again he promised to have my safety top priority while I was in Washington. He offered more security, but I declined for myself. I was fine and could handle it. I did ask for a little extra protection for Isabella and her family. Since he seemed intrigued by Isabella from the dinner, he quickly agreed. President or not, he was still a man and Isabella was a woman he found extremely attractive, and I used that to my advantage.

I met with my defense team at the Embassy and was informed my country was going to begin airstrikes targeting known cell groups in Syria. The Defense Ministry thought they had pinpointed their primary base of operations and were ready to strike. I sat through the meeting with as much poise and grace I could muster. I kept the image of being ruthless, strong, and unhinged. Everyone was buying the fake persona I put forth except for a few people close to me. I kept my head cleared and trudged on.

The nights at home without her nearly did me in. When I would get home at night, I’d go directly to my room with a bottle of vodka. The chef would prepare dinner for me, but the food would sit until the next day. Since I kept my comments to mostly a few grunts and groans, the chef thought it would be a good time to engage me in a conversation one night. I was in no mood to talk.

“Where has your beautiful girlfriend been, Ambassador?” The question was unwelcomed and irritating. I stopped pouring a glass of water and slammed the glass on the counter. My temper hit a nerve. The chef jumped and looked away. My avoidance of speaking told him the answer to that question.

“Accept my apologies for intruding, Ambassador. I’m not used to my kitchen being so clean every day.”

“Well, get used to it,” I grumbled, as I walked out leaving his dinner to sit untouched.

I had been back for a while and settled into my life as the Ambassador in D.C. Things were back to usual at work. I kept my personal life separate from my work life, and I made everyone aware my issue was not open for discussion. The only one I would talk to about my life with was, my long time office manager, Fran. I confided in her as a friend. She was the only one I trusted. I would not tolerate anyone asking me about the day I was shot. I made this perfectly clear to Fran that she needed to address the office staff and inform them my personal life was not to be discussed. I was strictly business at all times and the best thing they could do was not speak to me. I got through the days knowing I could escape some of my torture by drinking at night till I passed out. My nights would be sleepless if it weren’t for the vodka.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The flight to D.C was perfect. I was making love to the most beautiful woman on earth. I haven’t been up to par since the gun shot and it was a week ago that I was able to satisfy her in the way I knew she needed as well as myself.

As we flew above Europe and headed towards home, my face was buried in her luscious sweet pussy. Dear God. The most wonderful place to be was either my face or my dick inside her. Today she got both. Fuck she was wet. She was always wet but today something about today was different. She was warmer and tasted sweeter. I could stay in her cunt forever and be happy.

“Oh, Fabrice. Oh God. I’m so close.” That was her favorite thing to say to me when she was teetering over the edge of an orgasm. She didn’t realize it I’m sure. But, she said that every time. That’s when I ease up and make the need build up even stronger. I love to get her right at the edge and then pull her back. Let the orgasm build up even stronger so that when she did come, it shredded through her. It’s the most beautiful sound and feeling. I love having her quiver on my mouth and my cock. I love the sounds she makes. Her moans are incredible. They are what I live for.

“I know baby. I know you are close. Not yet. I want you to hold back. Relax.” I whispered to her as I let my mouth stop sucking on her clit.

Since the accident, I had done a lot of reading while I regained my strength. Most had been for work, but some has been for pleasure. I wanted to try new things with Isabella. I wanted to see where else I could take her.

“Fabrice, let me come.” Kissing her pussy lips, I felt her shiver under me. Another sign she was close to an orgasm.

“I will get you there, baby. Hold on. Enjoy this.” I coaxed her.

She faded away. No. Come back. I was waking up. Being back with Isabella was a dream. Making love to her was a fucking dream. I reached over to where she used to sleep. I was still living in hell without her. The quietness of my loneliness took over. Trying to take in the fact she was not coming back in my life brought back the dark solace of my life. Only thoughts of Isabella could upset me so much. I had worked through the attack on my life. I got past those sounds, smells, and memories. Each day they were farther away from my mind. Each day I was without her, Isabella grew stronger in my thoughts. I woke up hard and in need of her. The dreams were so real.

As I did most mornings after I dreamt of her, I showered off my sweaty, bony body. I tried so hard to get up every morning to start a new day with a better attitude. However, the despair could not be washed away as easily as the sweat covering me. The sight of her face when I told her we couldn’t get married was forever ingrained in my memory. The pain I caused her that day could not be taken back. In the darkness of my misery, I whispered her name. No one would hear me, but maybe she would feel me saying it. Wherever she was at that moment, maybe she knew how much I needed her. As if she was in the other room I said the one thing I wanted to say.

“I love you.”

T
here’s
was a knock at my door. Why the fuck couldn’t people leave me alone. Every morning my day starts out like this.

“Fabrice?” It was Gustan. The only person in my life I hadn’t told to go away. I tried, believe me. I tried hard as hell to get him the fuck out. He wouldn’t go.

The door opened, and he looked inside.

“Are you ready to go?” I didn’t answer him. I never did. We went through this every day, and every day I responded the same, by not answering. I grabbed my suit coat, straightened my tie, and walked to the door.

His eyes went from my face and over to my bed where an empty vodka bottle lay on its side. He knew what was going on with me. “You need some new clothes or you need to eat.”

I needed to be Fabrice again, not this fucked up piece of shit.