Forget Me Not (18 page)

Leila's face reflected sympathy. "Yes," she said. "I do. And I know exactly how you feel."

That was said on such a heartfelt note, that Helen cocked her head suspiciously. "You could have any man you want," she pointed out, giving her friend a quick inspection. Leila was a work of art—fine-boned, high-breasted, with long, elegant legs, a headful of coal-black hair, thanks to her Turkish heritage, and the face of a supermodel.

"Well, thanks"—Leila gave her a tight smile—"but when you've had the best, it's hard to settle for less."

Helen's eyes widened. "You never said Altul was that good."

Leila choked out a laugh and waved a dismissing hand. "Not Altul," she corrected, referring to her husband, the one who'd abandoned her.

Intrigued, Helen gave her friend a probing look. "Who?" she demanded, her curiosity roused.

Leila shrugged her shoulders and avoided eye contact. "It doesn't matter."

"Tell me," Helen wheedled. An incredulous smile seized her. Was it possible that Leila, Queen of Bitter Hearts, was actually infatuated?

"I can't," Leila said quickly. "You know him."

Helen gasped with surprise. "I know him?" she breathed. "Is he military?" She assumed so, since all the men she knew were Navy.

Leila pursed her lips together and considered Helen through her lashes. "Okay," she decided. "I'll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone, especially Gabe."

Why would she tell Gabe... unless...

"It's someone he works with," Leila admitted. "Sebastian León."

Helen straightened abruptly. "Oh, my God!" she cried. "He's perfect for you."

"What?" Leila scoffed. "No way. He was a one-night deal. I'd be crazy to want anything more."

"What are you talking about?" Helen argued. "He's handsome, single—"

"Stop," Leila commanded. "There are several reasons I won't see him again." She ticked them off on her scarlet-tipped fingers. "One, he's a SEAL. SEALs get up and leave whenever they're called, and they might never come back."

With a pang of understanding, Helen realized just how much that would devastate Leila, who'd been abandoned once already.

"Two, he's Mexican and therefore as chauvinistic and macho as Altul was."

Leila's ex-husband had been Turkish and dominated every aspect of his wife's life.

"And three," Leila added, "he's been a bachelor all his life, and he isn't interested in commitment."

Helen considered the cons as objectively as possible. Leila was right. She didn't need a repeat performance of her disastrous marriage to Altul. "But you'd look so good together," she lamented, picturing the striking pair.

"Oh, we're good together, all right," Leila said, fanning her cheeks and looking suddenly flushed.

Helen let out a laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Look at us," she said, shaking her head. "We're pathetic. We can't live with them and we can't live without them. You're going to have to tell me more about this one-night stand," she warned. "Right now, I've got to get going."

"Go," said Leila, waving her away. "Get those old folks up and moving," she said, smiling her rare smile.

Helen waved good-bye and pushed open the door, setting off an electric chime. She was off to the local nursing home to lead the geriatrics through stimulating exercises. Normally, she looked forward to her volunteer work on Saturdays, but today, she drove to the nursing home preoccupied by thoughts of Gabe. She'd avoided spending time with him all week, and now she felt guilty about it. Dr. Terrien had convinced her it was time to offer Gabe her unconditional support, if only to get him out of her life more quickly. One thing she couldn't stand was to see Gabe looking confused and wary of his own shadow.

It would do him good, she decided, to take him out tonight—with Mallory acting as escort.

When the old Gabe reemerged, she would know that she had done her job, and then she would release him, exactly as planned. But maybe she should let him love her one last time. A powerful yearning overtook her, forcing her to acknowledge that she still desired him; that he wielded the same tremendous power over her senses as he always had. Leila was right to have warned her.

If she was going to let Gabe claim her body, she'd better be prepared to face the consequences. Her heart would yearn for reciprocity, and if Gabe did again what he'd done in the past, transferring his focus to the team, it would surely kill her.

Hearing a car engine over the whine of his sander, Gabe snapped it off and set it on the deck rail, assessing the dark blue sedan as it approached the house. He peered through the tinted window at the driver, a cold sweat breaking out under his T-shirt.

It wasn't the steely-eyed cop that had tried to mow him down, assuming the man was even real. It was an older, heavyset man in a suit, reading house numbers as he drove by.

Gabe glanced at Mallory and Reggie, who were working on the rails at the rear of the deck squares of sandpaper. He looked back at the sedan, not at all surprised to see it pulling into his driveway. "Mallory," he called.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Come here a sec."

She dropped her sandpaper and joined him quickly.

"You see a car in our driveway?" he asked, hating to inquire about the obvious, but it never hurt to have a witness.

"Who is it?" Mallory asked.

As the driver emerged from the car, Gabe realized he could answer the question. It was Ernest Forrester, the Defense Intelligence officer who had grilled him at the hospital, the man who'd sent him into anxiety attack last week. He could feel a case of heartburn coming right now.

"Someone from the government," Gabe said vaguely. "Listen, if anything weird happens, get inside and call my master chief. I put his number on speed dial, number three."

"Okay," she said, giving him an uncertain look.

Not wanting to see the doubt in her eyes, Gabe trotted down the steps to greet his visitor.

"Mr. Forrester," he said, encountering the man at the bottom of the stairs. He extended a hand.

Forrester mopped his brow with a handkerchief while returning Gabe's handshake. "You remember me," he said, his handshake brief but sturdy. "You look a lot better."

Gabe gave him a tight smile. "What brings you here?" he asked, aware that he was being rude. He ought to offer the man a glass of ice water at the very least, especially if he'd driven all the way from northern Virginia to pay him a visit.

"I've come to see if you remember anything yet," Forrester said, squinting through fleshy eyelids.

Gabe's spine stiffened. He hated the fact that his memories were everyone's business. "I remember a little," he admitted reluctantly. "It's coming back to me piecemeal, mostly in my dreams."

"Care to tell me what you know?" the man invited, polite but unrelenting. He glanced longingly at the house.

Gabe noted the man's dark suit and decided to have mercy on him. "Why don't you come in?" he said.

Minutes later, Forrester was settled on the floral couch, a glass of water in his hand. "You were telling me what you remembered," he prompted, taking a sip of his drink.

Gabe felt a cinching sensation in his stomach. The instinct to guard his memories warred with the belief that Uncle Sam had his best interest at heart—or at least the best interest of his country. Here was a chance to warn the government of Norm Korea's quest for information—providing he hadn't invented that particular threat.

"All right," he said, occupying a seat opposite the officer. He related in detail what he'd told Dr. Terrien yesterday, explaining that the North Koreans fed information to terrorists worldwide in exchange for money. "They're desperate for food," he finished. He sat there, aware that his hands were curled into fists. He hoped Forrester wouldn't notice his inexplicable tension.

The officer's deep-set eyes probed Gabe's expression. "It's no less than we've suspected," the man admitted, putting down his drink, "but I appreciate the specifics." He whipped out a notepad and asked Gabe to repeat the types of sites that had been scrutinized.

"Their leader's name was Seung-Ki," Gabe added, when he was done.

Forrester looked at him sharply. "Tell me about Seung-Ki," he invited.

Gabe's throat grew tight. Images flashed through his mind, accompanied by ruthless recollections of pain. He took a deep breath, searching for his voice that seemed suddenly to have deserted him.

"What kinds of questions did he ask you?" the officer inquired gently. He seemed to understand that Gabe was locked in an emotional struggle.

Gabe swallowed down the bile bubbling up his throat. "They wanted to know about the Navy-Marine Corps Intranet," he rasped. "Configurations, passwords, firewalls— stuff I couldn't tell them even if they broke me. They grilled me on coastal security." He slid his tongue to the hole where his upper right cuspid had been, and doubt tugged at him anew. "I don't think I told them anything real. I made up a lot of lies." He looked down at his fisted hands.

"Did they catch you lying?" The man was relentless.

"Once or twice," Gabe admitted.

Forrester surprised him by giving him a commiserating look. "Don't beat yourself up about it," he advised, even as a bead of sweat rolled from his temple to his jaw. "The fact that you made it out alive says a hell of a lot for you."

"Thanks," Gabe choked.

"What about the mission?" the man added, all-business once again. "You have no recollection of falling into enemy hands?"

Gabe averted his gaze to look out the window at the endless ocean. SEAL missions were strictly confidential. He wasn't at liberty to discuss that memory, even if he did remember.

"You were sent to intercept the transport of four surface-to-air missiles," Forrester prompted, making it clear he already knew the objective. "Three of the SAMs were recovered. The fourth one presumably exploded, taking your life with it."

Gabe looked at him again, keeping quiet.

"You're alive, Lieutenant," the man pointed out on a note that made Gabe's scalp prickle. "My job is to find out if that fourth missile still exists. Ring any bells?'

"Bells" wasn't the right word. Sirens started screaming in Gabe's head, causing him to grip the arms of the chair. A vision streaked through his mind—that of brilliant lights piercing his eyes, of a noise so explosive it threatened to burst his eardrums. He sucked in a breath, searching past the noisy blast for a tangible memory. But all he saw was black.

"Lieutenant?" Forrester's face swam closer. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," Gabe replied, shaking from the top of his head to the toes of his tennis shoes. "I don't remember anything right now."

"You sure? You look upset, like something returned to you."

"Maybe it did. I don't know." Christ, he felt dizzy. He rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand.

"Tell me what you saw," the man implored, refusing to give up. It was this very tenacity that had sent Gabe into a nervous attack once before.

Gabe was determined to get this man out of his hair for good. He dared another peek into the past, and relived the blinding light, the deafening crash, then nothing, silence. "I think I remember an explosion, but nothing before or after," he replied, giving him a challenging glare.

Forrester nodded as if accepting that he'd pushed Gabe far enough. "Okay, here's what you do," he said, with gravity. "The minute you remember more, you give me a call. No one else, you got that, Lieutenant? I'm the only one you talk to." He handed Gabe another of his business cards.

Gabe looked at the card, then up at his visitor. "Why?" he demanded. "What's this about?" The officer's tone had sent; a cold shiver up his spine.

Forrester gave him an inscrutable look. "Just trying to pin down me fourth missile, that's all."

But that wasn't all—Gabe could tell there was more. The officer only confirmed Gabe's instinct by adding, "If you recall more of the mission, Lieutenant, kindly don't discuss it with anyone—not with your command, not even your psychologist. Give me a call immediately." He lowered his voice, adding conspiratorially, "We have reason to suspect an insider." He straightened to his feet, tugging down his wrinkled jacket. "So beep in touch," he added, sticking out a hand.

"Wait a minute." Gabe ignored the man's hand as he came to his own feet. "What are you saying to me?" he demanded.

Ernest Forrester sighed, fingering the notepad in his breast pocket. "You may know something about that fourth missile that someone out there doesn't want you remembering."

The blood slipped slowly from Gabe's face. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, feeling suddenly light-headed.

Forrester gave him an uncertain look. "You all right, Renault?"

Gabe turned away, pacing to the breakfast bar and back again. "What would you say if I said someone tried to kill me the other day?" he asked.

To his relief, Forrester didn't scoff at him. "When was this?" he wanted to know, pulling out his little notepad again.

Gabe related what had happened. Forrester jotted down the information. Glancing at the man's notes, Gabe saw that they were written in code. "My psychologist says I imagined it," he added. "He says paranoia is a side effect of PTSD."

Forrester pocketed his notepad and shrugged. "That may be," he admitted. "I'm not a doctor; I'm just an analyst. But if you ask me," he added, giving Gabe a dark look, "I wouldn't dismiss the incident as a delusion. There's too much here that doesn't add up."

With a shudder, Gabe recalled Sebastian's intimation that he'd been left behind. What if someone had wanted him to perish in the exploding warehouse? That same person wouldn't want him remembering now.

"You take care of yourself, Lieutenant," the officer added, intently. "Wouldn't hurt to get some of your friends to watch your back."

"Right," Gabe said, thinking of his platoon members.

"Well, better get going. I'd like to beat the rush-hour traffic," he explained, extending his hand a second time.

Gabe shook it and escorted him to his car.

Long after the sedan pulled away and disappeared from view, he stood at the bottom of the steps staring after it. Goose bumps moved across his skin in waves. Mixed feelings rolled within him. But the emotion that came across most strongly was relief.