Under Fire: The Admiral (19 page)

It took several moments of inching the creaky
door open far enough for him to squeeze through then pull it shut.
Ben pressed his forehead and a hand to Gemma’s door. “Thank you,
God,” he whispered. “Please help me do this right.”

Chapter 15

Gemma rolled over and snagged the phone to
check the time, 8:09. She cocked her head, listening for any sounds
in the apartment. Nothing. Walsh must still be asleep. She rinsed
her face, changed into sweats and went to make coffee. The guest
bedroom door was open. She rapped lightly on the door frame.
“Walsh?” No response. “Ben?” She leaned in. There was no man-sized
bump under the covers and Sam’s clothes were laid neatly on top. A
quick look down the hall told the story. The chair that had held
his clothes and jacket last night was empty and the door chain hung
straight down. He was gone. She caved against the door frame as her
mind explored a half a dozen possibilities. He went for food, milk,
coffee, fresh air, a walk. All of which were highly improbable. The
survey says—he changed his mind. Realized that an older woman
wouldn’t fit into his life. She thumped her head against the frame.
He’d meant what he said, been sincere, but here, now, the cold hard
reality of it set in. He wouldn’t have left without . . .
leaving a note.
She pushed off the frame and bolted down the
hall and into the living room. Nothing on the coffee table or desk.
The kitchen
. There it was, written in large bold script.
Couldn’t sleep. Went back to my hotel. I want to spend the day
with you. Text me the moment you read this.
A mad dash to the
bedroom, a dive across the bed and she had the phone in hand
typing,
I’m awake.
She tapped send and it zuuped on its way.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she waited a minute, two minutes,
five minutes, without the screen belching out a reply. As she was
about to give up the phone rang, startling her, and she dropped the
damn thing. It went sliding off the edge of the bed like a mouse
running from a cat. It chirped four times by the time she pushed
accept. “Hendrickson here,” she said breathlessly as she sat on the
floor, her back against the bed.

“Ma’am, is everything okay?” her
administrative assistant asked her.

She pinched her eyes closed. She hadn’t
bothered to look at the caller ID, only assumed it would be Ben.
“I’m fine. What do you need?”

There was hesitation. “Need? You asked me to
call you at this time for a brief on the committee meeting.”

Holy hell, she’d completely forgotten
.
She was fucking losing her mind. “Was there anything out of the
ordinary I need to know about?”

“No, ma’am. In fact, they adjourned early.
Mitchell was ill and Jackson was delayed. With you gone, that made
three and it was decided to postpone any conversation until the
next meeting set in fourteen days.”

The incoming call tone beeped. “I have to go.
You don’t need to call me again.”

“Hello.” She did her best to keep her voice
casual.

“Gemma.” The way he said her name gave her
chills. She put the phone on speaker. “Sorry it took so long to
call back. I was in the shower and . . .”

“Why did you leave?” She drew her knees up to
her chest.

“Meet me for a breakfast, brunch, lunch. I’ll
explain. Does that café where we were yesterday have food?”

“Not really. Mostly bakery items for
breakfast. If you want food you can come here and—”

“No,” he interrupted with some force. “Meet
me someplace. Tell me when and where. I’ll be there.”

“Where are you staying?”

“A couple blocks from you at the Hotel Jeanne
d’Arc.”

Gemma was surprised. She knew the place. It
was a tiny, no-frills hotel a couple blocks from her apartment, a
few steps off St. Catherine’s Square and the café where they’d met
yesterday.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him. She sure as
hell was. She’d hardly eaten anything the last three days.

“Starved. And I need a pot of coffee.”

“There’s a place a couple of blocks from
where you are, near the Place des Vosges, that serves a full
breakfast. They have wonderful omelettes and crepes and strong
coffee.”

“How soon can you be ready?”

She looked at the time on her phone. “I can
meet you at your hotel in forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be at your place waiting downstairs in
forty.” He disconnected the call before she could answer.

Gemma rushed through a shower and quickly
dried her hair. Her hand shook with excitement as she put on
makeup. Or was it fear? She decided it didn’t matter and checked
the weather app before choosing what she would wear. Paris would be
sunny but cooler than normal. She chose a black turtleneck and
slacks, a light jacket with a colorful scarf. As she checked her
image in the full-length mirror she wondered what she was doing.
Old feelings bubbled up. Her stomach flopped. She felt slightly
nauseous and she perched on the edge of the bed. It could be lack
of food and coffee. She really didn’t function well without coffee
in the morning. Who was she kidding? This was pure fear. Her cell
buzzed in her jacket pocket. She didn’t bother to pull it out. It
was Walsh. She was already five minutes late.

As she locked her apartment door Madame
Lorraine came through hers, looking elegant in a fur hat and coat
and ankle boots, shopping cart in hand. “Bonjour, Madame.”

“English, please,” Madame said.

Madame liked to practice her English and
Gemma always obliged her. “Let me carry the cart for you,” Gemma
said, reaching for the wheeled wire basket. The diminutive woman
was in her eighties and an absolute treasure. She frequently shared
stories of the German occupation of Paris during the Second World
War. Two visits ago, she nonchalantly said she’d worked for the
French resistance. She pulled her blouse away from her shoulder,
exposing a large ugly scar. “I was shot,” she said proudly and held
out her arm, twisting her charm bracelet. “My memento.” She tapped
a dangling spent bullet.

At the foot of the stairs Gemma saw Ben
peering through the door. Madame saw him also and stopped to give
Ben a long look. When she was finished she turned her gaze back to
Gemma, both eyebrows reaching to her white hair. She pointed a
finger in Ben’s direction then turned the finger on Gemma. “This is
a man,” she declared. “There are many out there with things between
their legs”—she cupped her hand and jiggled it—“but not all are
true men.” Gemma stood fixed to the marble floor as Madame took her
cart, heading for the door and Ben. What would she say to him?
Gemma caught up and opened the heavy door for her. Ben swung it
wide. Madame tipped her head back to look up at him.
“Oui,”
she said with a tip of the head in Gemma’s direction.

Ben gave her a huge smile, nodded and
replied,
“Oui,”
Madame put on her sunglasses and went toward
the market.

“Good morning.” Ben turned that smile on her.
“You were late, I texted you but . . .”

“I was helping Madame.” He looked rested and
he’d found a barbershop. “What is that all about with her?” Gemma
asked.

“One day I’ll tell you. Right now I’m
starved. Can we go get something to eat?”

The café wasn’t crowded and Gemma chose a
table by a window. “Two coffees. Strong,” she said to the waiter in
French before he even got to the table. He returned quickly with
cups of dark steaming liquid, cream and sugar. In surprisingly good
French, Ben ordered a four-egg omelette with gruyere cheese, ham
and toast. She ordered crepes and fruit and asked the waiter to
keep their cups full.

Ben reached across the table to where her
hand rested and touched his fingers to hers lightly. “You look
beautiful,” he said, moving his hand slightly to break the
contact.

“Thank you. Your French is very good for
someone who’s never been to Paris.”

“French is spoken in a lot of countries I’ve
worked in.”

The events in the jungle flashed
uncomfortably in her mind. She moved her hand so they were touching
again.

“Don’t think about it,” he said.

“Can
you
stop thinking about it?” she
said softly.

“No.” His fingers threaded between hers.
“Thing is, I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” he said, his eyes
boring into hers. “Except for the lieutenant.”

Gemma looked away. Out the window across to
the park in the Place des Vosges, trees wore their pale green
spring leaves. Children played in sandboxes and locals enjoyed
their community park. “You said you wanted to see some of Paris.
Anything in particular?”

“What are your favorite places?” he said,
stirring three spoons of sugar into his cup.

“Everywhere. When I’m here I wander.”

“Sounds good to me.” He sipped the coffee and
made a face.

“Is it bad?”

“No, it’s fricking good. Next cup won’t need
so much sugar. I’m used to hospital crap. Stale and
overheated.”

The waiter brought their food. Ben leaned
back in his chair, looking it over as the man arranged the plates
in front of them. They shed their jackets, placing them on the
extra chair. The waiter returned with fresh butter, jellies and
jams and freshened their cups.

As they ate Ben entertained her with the tale
of his men-in-black meeting, assuring her quite solemnly he’d told
the truth. He looked relieved when she said everything was okay
with her also.

The waiter removed their empty plates, and as
they lingered over a last cup of coffee an awkward silence fell
between them.

“Were you serious about wanting to see the
city?” she asked as Ben paid the bill.

“Sure am.” He rose and slipped into his coat.
“What do you suggest?”

“The Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, and Eiffel Tower
are not to be missed.” She stood and he helped her into her jacket
and casually ran his hands over her arms. She moved away, suddenly
nervous. “We can take the Metro to the Louvre and walk across to
the Orsay and catch the batobus to the tower.” She rattled on. “Of
course we aren’t going to do complete tours. Just give you a look
before you have to go back.”

“Gemma.” He took her arm. “I’m not going back
until you do.”

“Ben, I . . .”

He looked across the street to the park.
“Let’s go over there and talk.”

There was that word again.

They walked the gravel path and found an
empty bench. He twisted and faced her, draping one arm on the back
of the bench, laced the fingers of his other hand through hers and
gave the back of her hand a soft kiss. “I’m not leaving here until
I convince you the age difference means nothing to me.”

“It means something to me.”

“Why? And don’t BS me.” She pulled her hand
away. “We’ve been through enough together to be honest. I’m doing
my part but you’re holding back.”

She wasn’t used to being spoken to like this.
Maybe this was why she loved him. She snapped back, shuddered.
Loved?

A red and yellow ball came to rest at Ben’s
foot. The owner, a little boy of about four, ran to them, halting a
couple steps away, and gave them a shy look. Ben palmed the ball
and held it out. The child looked over his shoulder to the woman
with him and back again. “It’s okay,” Ben said in French. The child
bit his lower lip, took the ball and ran like the devil was after
him. “Cute kid,” Ben said, watching the boy run back to the
woman.

Well, this was an opening if there ever was
one. “That’s the reason.”

Ben turned to her. “The reason?”

“The reason the age difference is
important.”

Ben gave her a puzzled look, looked to the
boy and back again.

“
Children.”

He straightened.

“I’m past having them and I’m not interested
in adopting. You’re young. A family is still an option. How’s that
for no BS?”

ow that for no BS He said nothing.

“In Ecuador I saw how you took to the
children, enjoyed being with them. When I saw you in the bar with
those two women it hammered it home.”

“In Baltimore, you were at the
restaurant?”

Hell’s bells
. She closed her eyes.
In for a penny
. She let out a long breath. “Yes. I saw two
women talking to you.”

“
Jesus, Gemma
. They mean nothing to
me. I dated one a year ago for a few months. The other one I barely
know. Why didn’t you give me the chance to explain?”

“I could see you weren’t interested.”

“Then why?” Exasperation filled his
voice.

“Say we get serious and in a year you want
children.”

He reached out and took her hand again. “I
was married.”

She said nothing.

“It didn’t work out. My fault. I went into it
because I thought it was time to settle down. Pat is beautiful and
a talented musician. She wanted kids. We tried.” He smiled. “Tried
a lot. It didn’t happen.”

Gemma tried not to look relieved.

“When she didn’t conceive, we saw a
specialist. It was my problem.” He cleared his throat. “Not enough
swimmers. The accident. High fevers, infections, and all kinds of
crap medications.”

He’d shared something intensely personal and
she didn’t know what to say. She said nothing.

“Pat left.”

Gemma eyes went wide.

“Not because of my swimmers,” he said
hastily. “Because I wasn’t unhappy. She realized I didn’t want kids
before I admitted it to myself. I had no desire to be a dad.” He
was silent as they watched an older couple holding hands stroll
by.

“I went over every minute you and I were
together trying to figure out why you didn’t want to see me again.
Believe me, I never considered the age difference.”

She had a hard time believing this. “What did
you think it was?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t have a clue. In
Esmeraldas I told you my name and you shut down. I can be a
world-class asshole. Thought maybe something I did preceded
me.”