Forget Me Not (9 page)

There he was, a head above the rest of the men, posing for the camera with a possessive hand about Helen's shoulders. Curiosity prompted him to turn the page, and there they were, kissing.

Gabe's breath caught. He leaned toward the close-up shot, lured by the thought of kissing his wife. The expression on her face ignited a fierce heat in him. Her lashes were weighted with desire, her eyes glazed, lips softly parted. Jesus, she was beautiful like that!

Staring at her picture, he realized she'd tried purposefully to mislead him today. She'd told the doctor that she had married Gabe to give Mallory a father. But that wasn't the whole story, was it? These pictures made it obvious that she'd fallen head-over-heels in love with him. For a second, he reveled in the realization. But then he recalled his current physical condition, and his spirits sank. He wasn't the man he used to be; he was literally hatched with scars. No wonder she wanted nothing to do with him now.

Pushing to his feet, Gabe crossed to his chest of drawers and fished out fresh clothing. Resigned to a "cold" shower, he crossed the hall to Mallory's bathroom, more than ready to put this trying day behind him.

As it had last night, the sun and moon motif cheered him. He tossed his dirty clothes into the laundry basket, wondering when Helen had the time to do laundry. Maybe he'd help out while she was at work tomorrow. He'd also fix the brass hook that was coming off the wall.

Having assigned himself those tasks, he felt moderately better. If he made himself useful, Helen would be less eager to pawn him off. And if he played his cards right, he might even get to sleep with her one day. Not that he trusted himself to actually spend the night in her bed. He'd mistaken Master Chief for one of his captors. God knew what he might do to his unwitting wife.

But he was putting the cart before the horse. Step number one was to get Helen to appreciate him. To do that, he'd have to make himself indispensable. He'd take care of all the little odd jobs that needed doing. He'd be the perfect father to Mallory, who'd punched half a dozen holes in her ear for no apparent reason.

Refreshed from his shower and feeling better for his plan, Gabe donned his clothes. He was heading for the study when he noticed Helen at Mallory's door. He offered her a smile, which made her frown at him suspiciously.

She twisted Mallory's doorknob. "Honey, what are you doing?" She peeked inside.

"Reading." Mal's voice sounded like it came from the ceiling. She was up on her bunk bed.

"Really." On that skeptical note, Helen disappeared inside.

Gabe had peered in Mallory's room earlier. He pictured it in his mind's eye now: a sturdy white bunk bed drowning in stuffed animals, pink walls, white furniture. The innocent-little-girl setup was ruined by posters of pop stars, rap musicians, and bumper stickers with slogans like all stressed out and no one to choke plastered at intervals along the wall.

He pictured Helen approaching the bed.
"That
is not a book," she said. There came the sound of magazine crinkling.

"Hey, you lost my page!" Mallory protested.

"You want to read, get started on your summer reading list," her mother retorted.

"I hate those books!"

Seeing an opportunity to invoke his new plan, Gabe cruised down the hall and poked his head through the door.

"You haven't even tried them. How can you say you hate them?" Helen reasoned. She was bending over, searching through the bookcase, oblivious to Gabe's presence.

He sure as hell noticed her. Forgetting all about Mallory, Gabe ogled Helen's perfect—er, perfect assets. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts—so short, in fact, that when she leaned over to scan the bookcase, he was treated to two inches of sculpted buttocks—no panties in sight, unless she wore a thong. The possibility electrified him.

Mallory gave a snicker, and he ripped his gaze away. Helen looked around sharply. She straightened, clutching a book to her chest. "Don't sneak up on me," she scolded.

Gabe raised his hands in the air. "I thought I could help," he offered, his face hot.

"I've got it covered." Helen turned toward her daughter and thrust a book up at her.

"Not the biggest one!" Mallory wailed.

"What is it?" Gabe inquired.

"Les Miserables."
Helen held it insistently up to her daughter. "She should start on it now so she finishes it by the beginning of school."

"I agree," he said, looking pointedly at Mallory.

Mallory gaped at them."Well, I don't," she said, "and I'm the one who has to read it!"

"You'll read it," said Helen firmly, "or you won't leave the house this week."

Gabe stepped forward. "I'll handle this."

"Excuse me?" She turned disbelieving eyes at him.

"I will," he said. "I'll get her to read the book."

"How?"

"I'll read it with her. It's a great book."

Mother and daughter stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown horns on his head. "Okaaay," Helen said faintly. "I'm going to take a shower." Then she sailed by him, handing off the book. Seconds later, her bedroom door clicked shut.

Was that a victory?
he wondered.

Mallory propped her chin on her hand and smirked at him. "You were checking Mom out," she accused, her smile like a Cheshire cat's.

Gabe didn't bother to deny it. He shrugged instead, making light of his one-sided attraction, "You come down here"—he pointed to the bottom bunk—" 'cause there's no way I'm going up there."

She made a sound of complaint but started toward the ladder.

Gabe ducked into the dark space and switched on the reading light "You're going to like this book," he said, putting his back to the wall. "I read it in high school and college." Déjà vu sacked him again, and he held still a minute, unable to escape the feeling that he'd sat like this, with his back to the wall, for many, many hours.

A now-familiar urgency niggled at him anew. He
knew
something. Something he had to tell the others. Something fraught with danger, that made him suddenly light-headed and damp with sweat

Mallory leapt to the floor, and the feeling evaporated. She grabbed a pillow off her bed and settled in next to him. "It's more than three hundred pages," she complained.

With a shudder, Gabe focused on the present "Take your shoes off," he said, seeing her sneakers. "You wore your shoes in your bed? That's gross."

Her shoes thumped to the floor. "You smell like strawberries," she answered, shifting the focus deftly from herself.

He'd helped himself to her Berry Bouquet body wash. "Wear your shoes in your bed again and they'll disappear," he warned, not falling for her ploy.

"Okay," she said lightly, straightening away from him.

He opened the book. "You want to read first, or do you want me to read."

"You." Her decision was immediate.

Clearing his voice, Gabe launched them into the novel. Soon they were both absorbed in the story.

As interesting as Victor Hugo's narrative was, Gabe didn't fail to notice when Mallory rested her cheek against his shoulder. A soft warmth stole through him, filling him—not with terror as he might have guessed it would—but with contentment. The feeling made him think that his prickle of danger earlier was just in his head. Being the world's most indispensable dad had its subtle rewards.

"Can I read to the end of the chapter?" she asked, reaching for the book.

"Yeah, sure." She'd taken the bait.

He knew a moment's regret when she shifted away from him. But her quick words and lilting voice reminded him again of just how clever she really was. He was taken aback by his sense of pride. She wasn't even his kid—not biologically, barely through marriage—but, damn, she was bright

At some point, he was aware that Helen was listening to them out in the hallway. Only a faint shadow and the scent of flowers alerted him to the fact that she was there. Suddenly Gabe wasn't listening to the story so much as he was wondering why she was hiding in the hallway.

Mallory's voice died on the chapter's final word. "Cool," she pronounced. "Let's read some more tomorrow."

Helen chose that moment to sweep into the room.

She wore silky white boxer shorts with a matching pajama top. Her hair was hidden by a towel twisted into a turban. Her neck looked incredibly slim and vulnerable. He knew a desperate urge to put his mouth on it.

"I'm going to bed," she announced with forced brightness. "Mal, you need to take a shower." She ducked her head under the bunk bed to kiss her daughter. Because of the turban, she had to bend low enough to clear the top bunk. Her pajama top gaped, and Gabe got a glimpse of her perfect breasts, dangling like ripe fruit.

Sweet Jesus.
It was all he could do not to grab her and drag her to him.

She kissed her daughter on the cheek, then turned her head his way—probably by force of habit—and froze.

He didn't give her the chance to change her mind. On impulse, he planted his mouth squarely on her lips. Her eyes flared with surprise, and for a split second, they stared at each other.

A memory crystallized. He recalled, with the same shuddering pleasure of the moment, pushing himself inside her, only he'd made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Panic came out of nowhere, drowning him, pulling him down into a place where emotion ruled him. He remembered squeezing his eyes shut, willing the feeling away. Love was dangerous. It could make him hesitate before pulling the trigger; make him balk before jumping from a plane. He couldn't be a SEAL and feel this way.

Gabe drew back with a start. Helen stared at him, looking nonplussed.

Shaken by his memory, Gabe lurched out of the small space and left the room. He found himself heading for the front door, needing to clear his head.

He paced the length of the deck, sucking in deep breaths of salty air. Trailing the balcony around the side of the house, he saw that the crescent moon had cast a silvery blanket on the sea. He gripped the deck rail, finding it rough, in need of sanding.

Once his heart beat steady again, he allowed himself to relive the memory a second time. He was grateful for it, despite the disturbing emotions that accompanied it. The memory proved what he sensed already, that he belonged with Helen—that their lovemaking had been as incredible as he'd imagined it would be. So incredible that it had scared him to death.

He closed his eyes and relived the pleasure of loving her body, devouring every inch of sweetness, savoring every one of her responses.
For a while, she struggled to remain aloof, resisting his call to abandonment, but he wasn't satisfied unless she yielded herself completely. He sabotaged her self-control, licking, stroking, and probing her, until she thrashed in his arms and cried out her surrender.

He was surprised to feel moisture on her face. He paused, gazing into her eyes to see why she was crying.

Her eyes were pools of amber. He made a point never to look in them when they made love. This night, he forgot. Instantly emotion clutched his heart. He couldn't look into her eyes and not feel her pain, not feel his overwhelming need for her.

Frightened by the power she wielded, he rolled abruptly away and stared at the ceiling, denying himself fulfillment, running from the fragments of love floating in her eyes.

The ocean wind blew across Gabe's bare arms and legs, rousing him to the present. Now he understood Helen's reluctance to have him back. He'd refused to give her the love he demanded in return. He'd feared his feelings would make him less of a warrior. And when he sensed her love fracturing, he panicked and ran, not wanting to see what his coldness was costing them.

With a groan for his own stupidity, Gabe put his face into his hands. What an idiot he'd been! Was he different now? He couldn't say. Possibly. He only knew that he would die of bliss if Helen welcomed him into her arms again. And then he'd take great pains to ensure that she kept him there!

But would she ever want him, scarred as he was, a man on disability?

Feeling defeated, Gabe moved to a lounge chair and collapsed upon it, like a patient in a hypnotist's lounge. The doctor had advised against hypnosis. In some patients it evoked memories so real it was like enduring the trauma all over again.

Minutes elapsed, but nothing happened. Only the one memory remained, torturing him with its sensuality, twisting his gut with the unavoidable truth that he'd disappointed her.

He threw an arm over his eyes, exhausted, but also achingly aroused. He thought of going back into the house, admitting to the memory and asking for another chance. But what would that accomplish? As she'd said this afternoon,
Paying attention to us now won't change the past.
She didn't want to relive her disappointment. She couldn't wait to be alone without him.

On top of that, she was getting up early tomorrow to go to work. He owed it to her to get a good night's rest.

While the wooden lounge wasn't exactly comfortable, Gabe's body didn't seem to mind. The air was tangy-sweet, as the perfume of wildflowers mixed with ocean brine. The warm wind ruffled his hair like a mother putting her son to sleep.

He drifted toward unconsciousness, vaguely aware that he hadn't taken his sleeping pill.

The first half hour's sleep was restful. But then images began to flicker through his brain like a terrifying slide show.

Shadows descending on him. A cold barrel pressed against his temple. He was yanked to his feet.

Dragged down a long hall. Blinded by halogen lights.

Shoved through a door into a dimly tit chamber.

Pushed into a chairlike contraption.

Strapped into place.

All the while, the awful recurring terror that this time,
this time
they might get something out of him.

A hand on his shoulder.
Not my mouth,
he silently beseeched as sweat poured off him in rivers.

The whispery footfalls of his chief tormenter.

His face gliding through shadows.

The man never spoke above a whisper. The others, those who manhandled him, never spoke below a shout. Gabe dreaded the whispered commands that floated from Seung-Ki's lips. He dropped his carrying case on a table and opened it lovingly. Metal scraped over metal. These were Seung-Ki's instruments of torture—like he needed them. The man's fists and feet had come close to killing Gabe already.