Forget Me Not (24 page)

"We heard from Pandora yesterday," Ingrid added, sticking her head into the oven to read the meat thermometer. "She and Derek are coming for Thanksgiving with the kids. I told her you and Gabe would be here, too. Another half hour on this ham," she determined, closing the oven and straightening to her full height.

Whether from the heat in the kitchen or the pure ecstasy of seeing Gabe again, Ingrid's Scandinavian skin glowed. Taller than her daughter, the statuesque Swede looked nowhere close to her sixty-three years. Seeing Gabe alive after believing him dead had led her to prepare an elaborate celebratory feast.

Helen hesitated over the silverware she was pulling from the drawer. Would she even be with Gabe at Thanksgiving? Her heart grew heavy at the thought. It all depended on whether his memories returned and how much he changed as a result. Her parents would be crushed, of course. She heaved a sigh. What the hell. The only time she'd ever met their expectations was when she'd married Gabe.

"What's Pandora up to these days?" she asked, not having spoken to her perfect, older sister in a couple of weeks. Conversations with Pandora, who had married a lawyer and begotten two beautiful children, left Helen achingly aware of her shortcomings.

It was ridiculous at her age to feel inferior. She'd done well for herself, despite her rough start. She was the Fitness Coordinator at Dam Neck, for heaven's sake! Even if her marriage to Gabe suffered the ending she predicted, she had nothing to apologize for.

Moving to the connecting dining room, Helen laid the sterling silver about the china plates. They were eating in the formal dining room. The cherry-wood table gleamed in the sunlight coming through the front windows. A bouquet of long-stemmed roses made Helen think about her wedding day.

If only Gabe could forget his memories permanently. If only he could stay the way he was, she'd be willing to take a chance on him.

Coming to the end of the table, she raised her eyes to gaze across the living area. Gabe sat with her father in the glassed-in sunroom at the end of the house. Through the large panes beyond them, the immaculate lawn of the Georgian home swept down to the Potomac River. In a mirror's reflection, she could see his face as he followed her father's words. By now she had expected he would assume what she thought of as his military demeanor—a narrow-eyed, thin-lipped look her father never failed to inspire in him.

But Gabe wasn't wearing that look just yet. The expression on his face was one of solemn respect. As her father droned on and on, Gate's gaze strayed toward Mallory, who sat in the living room, staring glumly at the television.

A frown depressed Gabe's forehead as he pondered the reason for Mallory's long face. Helen already knew that Mallory hated coming here. Her grandfather's strictness kept her on pins and needles. There were no other teens in the area to play with.

From where he was seated, Gabe hadn't even noticed Helen's regard. His concern for Mallory was as genuine as she'd already guessed. And given the way he looked at Helen, he probably loved her too.

She took a sharp breath at the realization. What would happen to his feelings when his memories returned? Could he remain pure of heart while recalling the atrocities perpetrated on him? Could he think of anything beyond a blinding need to seek revenge? Even memories of their life before his mission were sure to have a negative impact. It was futile to hope that his memories wouldn't change him.

She turned away, wishing he could stay this way forever.

Gabe discovered the commander to be well informed about the North Korean situation. In the same oratory style Gabe recalled from his years at the Academy, Commander Troy brought Gabe up-to-date on U.S. foreign policy with that country.

The decision to curtail humanitarian aid, Oliver Troy explained, was instigated by an international trade scandal— millions, of yen belonging to a Japanese-based company had disappeared during a computer transaction. All fingers pointed to North Korea as the culprit Soon after, the U.S. caught wind of shipments of arms to Malaysia and the Middle East, to countries well known for their support of terrorism.

"It's a damn shame," the commander added. "The country is too cold and rocky to grow their own produce. Without humanitarian aid, the population will starve to death. The one thing they do have is technology, and they're using it to eke out a living, ferreting out vulnerabilities on the Web and selling their information to terrorist groups worldwide."

And didn't Gabe know it. Without realizing it, Oliver Troy had summarized Gabe's personal experience. His captors had been ruthless in their quest for information, working him over thoroughly to try to get what they wanted. He rubbed his right temple, wondering what exactly had prompted that side of his head to ache again.

"What happened to you, Gabriel?" the commander suddenly inquired. "Your base commander, Admiral Johansen, told me personally that he believed you were dead. Yet here you are, sitting in front of me. I'm more than amazed. I'm astounded."

Meeting the man's blue eyes, Gabe shook his head, wishing that he had an answer. "I don't remember, sir."

"They blamed your death on faulty equipment. Your headset wasn't working, or some such thing."

Gabe caught himself lifting a hand to his ear, prompted by a vague memory.

Oliver Troy narrowed his gaze at him. "I wouldn't be surprised if the committee takes another look into the matter, now that you're alive. Too many loose ends," he added, shaking his head.

Gabe shifted uncomfortably at the thought He'd have to
remember
first, if he was going to testify, and the thought of remembering still made his palms sweat.

The commander hitched up a pant leg and leaned closer. "I've always wondered if your disappearance didn't have to do with the weapons being stolen," he admitted sotto voce.

Gabe eyed the commander closely. "What do you know about that?" he asked. Jesus, did the whole world know what SEALs were up to these days?

Troy lifted his silvery eyebrows. "Everyone knows someone was beating the SEALs to the interdiction sites. You, yourself, were furious about it," he added. "Before your disappearance, you told me you were going to cast some nets. Next thing I knew you'd disappeared."

Goose bumps scrambled up Gabe's arms and stabbed at his scalp. Maybe he'd stumbled on the identity of the weapons' thief, and he'd confronted him! He sat, riveted by the sudden certainty that he had. Somewhere, then, in his repressed memories was the name of the culprit, the mother of all crabs.

"Suppose you confronted him," the commander proposed, giving voice to Gabe's thoughts. "Suppose you scared him enough to do something."

Adrenaline stormed Gabe's system, making him want to jump out of the chair and prowl about the room. "Then I was targeted," he said quietly. Sebastian and Forrester had already intimated as much. Confirmation from this man was all he needed to be convinced.

Troy nodded deeply, his mouth firming with the gravity of Gabe's situation.

Gabe sucked in a deep breath. He knew who the traitor was—someone on his own team, possibly. Jason Miller sprang to mind. The man would have access to the necessary information, and yet... he was a coward, a follower. He lacked the backbone to instigate his own operation.

Who, then?

"Son of a bitch," Gabe muttered, overcome by an uneasiness that had him scanning the trees beyond the large-paned windows. There could be a sniper out there right now, ready to take him out. "Are shipments still disappearing?" he wanted to know as he assessed potential hiding places. No assassin in sight, yet die Glock 23 was strapped to his calf, loaded and ready, just in case.

"Johansen admitted to me that we lost a nuke last week," the commander admitted. "It was being transported via tanker to Yemen. When the SEALs from Team Two interdicted in the Indian Ocean, all they found was a torn up cargo hold."

Gabe swallowed uneasily. A nuke—dear God! What would the traitor in their midst be doing with a nuke? Selling it on the black market, where it could fall into terrorist hands? Did he have no brains, no common sense? The last thing this volatile world needed was weapons of mass destruction up for sale!

"You always were a lucky son of a bitch," the commander commented out of the blue. "You were meant to make it out of that warehouse alive, son. Just as you're meant to catch this wild card and eliminate him before he does any lasting harm."

Ah, the call to duty! Gabe smiled, remembering Troy's remarkable ability to motivate the seamen in his classes, filling their minds with future glory and ambition.

The man had changed Gabe's life. He remembered it well. But he couldn't remember escaping from the warehouse. Or could he?

In that instant, a memory crystallized, providing him with a crisp image of what had happened to him. His arms and legs were bound. His head felt like it'd been crushed. He was tossed into the bed of a pickup truck. A brilliant light flashed before his eyes, blinding him. At the same time a deafening crash shook the metal bed beneath him and drove a spike into his head.

Dazed by the unexpected memory, Gabe fought to hold it in place, searching through the smoke and noise for a face. Two small men shut the tailgate at his feet and leapt into the cab, carting him quickly away. "Some of the locals found me," Gabe admitted hoarsely. "They got me out of there right before the place blew."

The commander frowned at him. "Did you just remember that?"

"Yes, sir," Gabe admitted. A film of sweat dampened his back, making his shirt cling.

"Keep it to yourself awhile," the man advised, frowning.

"Wait until you remember everything. Then nail the son of a bitch that sold you out."

Gabe nodded, his brain seething with possibilities. He was starting to remember; it wouldn't be long now. There was no more denying what his instincts were telling him: he'd been targeted that night in Pyongyang. If not for the locals who'd pulled him from the burning warehouse, he wouldn't be alive today.

"Hey!" the commander shouted, startling Gabe from his heavy thoughts. He realized that the man was addressing Mallory, who snatched her hand from the chessboard on the coffee table. "How many times have I told you not to touch that?" he berated.

Noting Mallory's chagrin, Gabe rallied to her defense. "Excuse me, sir. Do you mind if I play a game with her?"

Troy colored faintly beneath his weathered complexion. "Not at all," he blustered. "Go ahead." He waved Gabe toward the living room.

"You know how to play, Mal?" Gabe inquired, stepping across the threshold into the living room. A game of chess would be just the thing to take his mind off his preoccupations.

Mal's eyes sparkled with relief. "Sure," she said.

He settled on the sofa across from her, pausing to take note of the commander's glowering expression. "Care to join us, sir?" he called. "This has the potential to get ugly. Mallory has inherited her grandfather's genius."

To his satisfaction, Oliver Troy rolled to his feet, looking mollified. "Don't mind if I do," he muttered.

Half an hour later, with Mallory's queen poised for a checkmate, Helen ventured into the living room to announce that lunch was ready. The announcement stuck in her throat as she beheld her daughter on the brink of toppling her grandfather's miniature kingdom.

"Checkmate," Mallory said with commendable humility.

"By God, I don't believe it!" Oliver Troy thundered in appreciation. "She's a chip off the old block. Did you see that, Ingrid?" he asked as his wife also peered into the living room, startled by the noise. "Your granddaughter just bested me at chess."

"Well, well," Ingrid exclaimed, surprise etched on her lovely face. "It's time for lunch now," she announced. "Kindly wash up and head to the table."

"Aye, aye," the commander replied.

Mallory quirked a smile at him and received an answering grin.

From the other side of the coffee table, Gabe met Helen's gaze with a small, satisfied smile of his own. Somehow he'd conquered the generation gap that kept Mallory and her grandparents on formal terms. To Helen's complete disorientation, he followed the smile with a slow, suggestive wink.

It was the wink that did it. With a curious sense of relief, Helen accepted that her plan to bring out the old Gabe wasn't working. Hope beat like the wings of a fledgling leaping from the nest.
Just let him stay this way,
she found herself praying.
Please don't let his memories take him away.

A
t ten o'clock that night, Helen faced the inevitable. She was going to have to share a bed with Gabe. The situation was entirely of her own making. She'd given her parents no indication that she and Gabe didn't sleep together. God knew it was nobody's business but hers. She had planned to slip into Mallory's bed the moment her parents retired, only no one had warned her that Mallory's bedroom had been transformed into an office.

Her daughter was sleeping on the sofa in the living room. Helen could hardly join her there. There was no way around it; she would have to share the double bed, half the size of her bed at home, with Gabe.

She dawdled in the shower, wondering how to get around this hurdle. Her body tingled with traitorous anticipation. As she lathered every inch of her skin with scented soap, she berated herself for her ritual preparations. Nothing was going to happen if she could help it. She simply wasn't ready to take that leap of faith.

It was one thing to entertain the thought of Gabe forever in her life. It was entirely another to let him in her bed and in her heart.

They'd gone jogging in downtown Annapolis earlier this evening. Gabe, whose stamina was usually far greater than hers, lasted about as long as she did. They'd run four miles and called it quits. He'd showered before her and was presumably waiting for her beneath the sheets.

Helen took the time to dry her hair, brushing it so that it fell in silky layers down her back. She scrubbed her teeth until they sparkled.
Enough already,
she told her image firmly.
You're sharing a bed, that's all. You are not going to have sex with him.