Under Fire: The Admiral (17 page)

“Upstairs,” she said, using her fingertips to
give him a shove in the direction of the stairs. “Where it’s warm.
My apartment is on the first landing, the door to the left.”

When they reached the landing her elderly
neighbor, Madame Lorraine, stood in the open doorway of her
apartment watching. She gave them a smile.
“Bonne nuit,”
Gemma said as Madame surveyed Ben with a very obvious up-and-down
appraisal followed with a thumbs-up to Gemma.

Madame was a character. Perhaps a legend in
the French resistance. Something Gemma had only recently learned.
Over a cognac, a third-floor neighbor told her Madame owned the
building. In the 1970s, her very famous bank robber boyfriend had
given her the building as a token of his
appreciation
. Her
neighbor’s eyebrows had wiggled comically when she said
appreciation
. Ben acknowledged Madame with a slight nod. She
fluttered her thickly mascaraed eyelashes. “Oui,” she said,
returning the nod before she retreated into her apartment.
What
was that about?
A high-pitched squeal coming from inside her
apartment caused them both to jump. Gemma rushed to quiet the
teakettle.

Chapter 14

Ben had made a lot of mistakes with women.
Mostly he’d been selfish. He was not going to do that with Gemma.
He was going to be very careful here. Pushing her to allow him into
her life, do what he wanted, was certainly self-serving. If the
wall she put up was the age difference, he was going to
methodically take it down brick by brick and convince her it would
be okay. He shed his dripping jacket and held it over the mat
outside Gemma’s door.

“You want coffee or tea?” she called.

“What are you having?” He leaned his head
inside the door.

“Tea,” she said, coming through a door on the
right, presumably the kitchen.

“Then I’ll have tea.”

She tilted her head, giving him an odd look.
“You can come in.”

He held the jacket in her direction. “It’s
dripping.”

She came closer, stretching out her arm,
fingers wiggling. “Give it to me.”

He handed it over and she disappeared as he
toed off his shoes. “Shoes are wet too,” he said when she poked her
head out again. He bent to pick them up, and when he straightened
he found Gemma gaping at him.

“Your jeans are soaked past your knees.” She
touched his cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re freezing. Get
in here.”

He stepped inside and she closed the door,
pointing down a corridor. “Keep going down the hall. First door on
the left is the bathroom. The door beyond is the guest bedroom. Sam
has clothes there. Jeans, shirts, underwear and socks. Get a
shower. There’s soap, shampoo, and shaving gear in the bathroom.
Get what you want.”

He stared at her.
Get what you want? You
mean like you?
Crap. This might not be a good idea. He’d
fantasized about getting naked with her for days. He wasn’t exactly
going to be naked
with
her but it was close enough to give
him plenty of strong images. He did a mental head slap and blew out
a long breath. There’d be plenty of time to think about sex
later.

“A hot shower will warm you faster than
anything else,” she said, shaking him from his thoughts. “But then
you know that being you went to medical school and even have a
piece of paper that says you’re a doctor.” She gave him a wicked
look. Was that her way of being funny or sarcastic? “Towels are in
the cabinet. This is an old building. It takes the water a while to
get warm, so let it run.” Her voice faded as she vanished into the
kitchen. “I’ll turn the faucet on in here to get it moving,” she
called out loud enough to be heard over the running water. “And
here.” She reappeared, thrusting a bottle of water in his
direction. “Drink it all. Being hydrated helps.”

He shivered. Gemma was right. Ditching these
wet clothes and getting a shower was the fastest way to get warm.
He headed down the hall, opened the second door on the left and
stepped into a small neat room holding a double bed, chest of
drawers with a mirror over it, night table and lamp. He rummaged in
drawers and found jeans, socks, a T-shirt and boxers. He rarely
wore shorts but figured he shouldn’t go commando in somebody else’s
clothes. In the closet he found a sweatshirt. He pulled it out and
saw a Miami-Dade Police Department insignia on the left breast.
Gemma’s murdered son had been a Miami-Dade officer. He put it back,
exchanging it for a heavy button shirt. He didn’t want to bring up
any bad memories tonight. A pair of moccasin like slippers was on
the floor. He held one to the bottom of his foot and it looked like
a fit. He gathered everything up, went into the bathroom and turned
on the hot water as Gemma instructed, letting it run while he
stripped. In the bathroom mirror he saw a man who needed a haircut
and hadn’t shaved in twenty-four hours. Couldn’t do anything about
the haircut but he could put a can of shaving cream and a razor to
good use scraping the stubble off his face. Clouds of steam rose
from behind the shower curtain, fogging the mirror. He stepped into
the stream of hot water and rested his palms on the tile wall,
letting the water run over his head and shoulders, down his belly,
doing his best not to think of what it would be like to have her in
here. Warm, wet, and soapy. Her incredible brown eyes staring up at
him. Holy hell! To keep his hands busy he shaved. Then soaped up,
rinsed and toweled off quickly. Sam was taller than him by a couple
of inches. The jeans bunched at his ankles and he rolled the
shirtsleeves several times. He cleared the fog from the mirror,
finger-combed his hair, and took a good look at himself. “Do this
right, man.”

He found Gemma in the small galley kitchen,
her back to him. She’d draped his jacket on one of the two kitchen
chairs and was wiping the rain away with a towel. “What do you want
me to do with these wet clothes?” She did one of those crazy
jerking things that people do when they’re startled and turned to
face him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, it’s . . .”

“It’s okay. I’m not used to having anyone
here and you were so quiet. What did you say?”

“My clothes.” He held the bundle out toward
her. “I didn’t want to leave them on the floor, they’re wet. Where
can I put them?”

She went to the end of the kitchen and opened
double doors, revealing an apartment-size washing machine and
dryer. “Bring them here and I’ll run them through.”

“Thanks,” he said, joining her. “I can do
it.”

She was wearing perfume and he liked it. He
backed up a step and looked away. Didn’t want her catching him
smelling her again.

“These two machines are ornery, and if you
don’t get everything just right they eat your clothes.” She took
them from him. “You get everything out of the pockets?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“I ditched the tea and poured you a whiskey.
Knob Creek, neat. I figured you being a Texan that would be your
drink. It’s in the living room”—she tipped her head—“on the coffee
table with a platter of bread, cheese, and pâté. If you want ice,
snag some from the freezer. It’s not fancy here.”

“You going to join me?”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “I am
and . . . and you’re going to tell me what all this is about.”

Her tone made him feel like he was a kid
being sent to the principal’s office. And he had plenty of
experience with that feeling. On the coffee table he found two
old-fashioned glasses half filled with a smoky liquid and a dish of
food. He picked up a glass, belting down a good portion, then
smeared a piece of the bread with pâté and popped it into his
mouth. It was good and he was beyond hungry. He did the same with
the cheese and walked the high-ceilinged room. He separated the
drapes on the huge window overlooking the Rue St. Antoine. It was
raining harder. Near the window a table and lamp stood next to a
well-worn dark leather chair and ottoman, positioned to give the
person sitting there a good view when the drapes were open. His
shoes were on the dark polished wood floor near a radiator. A pale
overstuffed sofa, matching chair and a coffee table were clustered
on a Persian-style rug. A small flat-screen TV sat on a desk
littered with papers that had an iPad as a paperweight. He finished
off his whiskey looking at black-and-white framed Paris city scenes
decorating her walls. Not what he imagined for her, but
comfortable.

“It’s small,” Gemma said from behind him.
“But it’s all I need.” He turned to see her coming toward him with
a bottle of Knob Creek in her hand. “I rarely have any visitors.”
She looked at him pointedly and held the bottle. He nodded and she
topped off his empty glass. “Sam comes occasionally. Ergo the
clothes.” She put the bottle on the coffee table and picked up her
drink, taking a sip. “Sit down, Doctor.” He eased into the chair
near the sofa and watched her move around the room turning on the
lamps. She settled into the corner of the sofa as far away from him
as she could get, kicked off her slip-ons and curled her legs under
her like a cat. She said nothing, just stared at him. “You mind if
I eat? I haven’t eaten since—”

“Not at all,” she interrupted. “That’s why I
put it there. Have at it. The pâté and cheese are very good.” He
smeared a slice of baguette with pâté and popped it into his
mouth.

“If you prefer wine, I have several bottles
of red and white,” she said, starting to get up.

He shook his head, held up the drink and
waited until he swallowed to answer. “The whiskey is fine.” They
said nothing for a long time. The only sounds in the room were the
occasional rumble of thunder and rain sheeting against the window.
He decided it was her place, her rules, and he’d wait for her to
start the conversation. He was on his fourth pâté and cheese and
growing nervous at her silence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw
her pinch her eyes close and take in a deep breath. He drained the
whiskey, put the glass down and wiped his mouth.

“You said you wanted to talk with me and
wouldn’t leave until you did. So talk.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his
thighs, his hands dangling near his knees. “I said some of it at
the café.” She nodded. “I would’ve told you all of this the night
we were going to have dinner in Baltimore. I would’ve told you
before that, if you would’ve talk to me.” Jesus, he was
rambling.

She shifted a little, straightened and
pressed back into the corner of the sofa.

“Why didn’t you meet me?”

“You came to Paris to find out why I wouldn’t
have dinner with you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement
said in a
you’ve got to be fucking kidding me
tone. Okay,
she wasn’t making this easy.

“Yes.” He took in a deep breath and swallowed
hard. “I did.”

“You came all this way even though I told you
I couldn’t . . .”

“The moment you stepped out of the Gulfstream
I was attracted to you.” Gemma’s expression was unreadable. “The
way you looked at me led me to believe there was something there on
your part. That is, until I introduced myself.” She studied him
carefully. “Then
wham
. It was done.”

“Umm” was the only response.

“I did everything I could. Was polite,
smiled, let you have my share of the grilled coconut grubs.” He
hoped the last would elicit a smile. Instead, her full lips became
a thin line. “Each time I handed out a dose of my world-famous
charm you smiled politely and shut me down so easily it was
embarrassing.” He sat back, planted his palms on his thighs and
rubbed. “I asked you to fly back by the coast because I knew it
would take longer. I hoped I could get you to lighten up and give
me a break.” Gemma sat like a stone.

“Every time I thought I was getting through
to you something happened. We get shot out of the sky. Navy SEALs
pull us apart. You go to Paris.” Thunder rolled like bowling balls
across the sky and Gemma glanced to the window. “When you called me
that night and said you weren’t coming it was like getting stomped
on by a bull.” She flinched.
Finally a reaction.

“On top of the feelings I have for you,
you’re largely responsible for who I am today. What I am today. I
wasn’t going to let you disappear from my life again.”

“You could have told me this in a letter. An
e-mail.”

“
I
couldn’t. The only way I could
express the way I feel about you and the gratitude . . .”

“So you thought you’d come here, tell me and
maybe get in a gratitude fuck?”

It was said so matter-of-factly, with no
emotion, that it took him a moment to process the words. “No.” The
talk with Sam had prepared him for this. She’d try to make him
angry and drive him away. Not going to work. He pushed to his feet
and went to her. She tilted her head to look up and for the first
time he understood that saying about eyes being windows to the
soul. Everything was right there for him to see. Her strength. Her
defiance. Most of all her vulnerability. All of it bringing every
one of his emotions to the surface. He reined himself in and
crouched in front of her, clasping his hands. There was a good
chance she was going to throw him out so he might as well say it
all. He took in a healthy breath and let it out slowly.

“I’ve had feelings . . . strong, love at
first sight, romance-novel feelings, for you before I knew it was
you who saved my life. And I think you feel the same way.”

Gemma shook her head.

“If you didn’t, you would have met me in
Baltimore, you wouldn’t have . . .” He almost said
run
. “. .
. come to Paris.”

“You’re wrong,” she said.

“I’m not.” He braced his arms on either side
of her to prevent her getting up and braced for a slap to his face.
“You do feel something. The age difference is holding you back. You
don’t want to open yourself up to me and risk I’ll hurt you.”