Tess Gerritsen - Double Impact

“I did want to call you. But I didn’t know what to say…”

“I kept waiting for you to call. All these days…”

“Maybe I was…I don’t know. Scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of hearing it was over. That you’d come to your senses and decided I wasn’t worth the risk. But then, when I got to Bangkok, I stopped at the Oriental Hotel. Had a drink on the terrace for old time’s sake. Saw the same sunset, the same boats on the river. But it just didn’t feel the same without you.” He sighed. “Hell, nothing feels the same without you.”

“You never told me. You just dropped out of my life.”

“It never seemed like…the right time.”

“The right time for what?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t.”

He shook his head in irritation. “You never make it easy, do you?”

She stepped back and gave him a long, critical look. Then she smiled. “I never intended to.”

“Oh, Willy.” He threw his arms around her and pulled her tightly against his chest. “I can see you and I are going to have a lot of things to settle.”

“Such as?”

“Such as…” He lowered his mouth to hers and whispered, “Such as who gets to sleep on the right side of the bed…”

“Oh,” she murmured as their lips brushed. “You will.”

“And who gets to name our firstborn…”

She settled warmly into his arms and sighed. “I will.”

“And who’ll be first to say ‘I love you.’”

There was a pause. “That one,” she said with a smile, “is open to negotiation.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, tugging her face up to his.

They stared at each other, both longing to hear the words but stubbornly waiting for the other to give in first.

It was a simultaneous surrender.

“I love you,” Willy heard him say, just as the same three words tumbled from her lips.

Their laughter was simultaneous, too, bright and joyous and ringing with hope.

The kiss that followed was warm, seeking, but all too brief; it left her aching for more.

“It gets even better with practice,” he whispered.

“Saying ‘I love you?’”

“No. Kissing.”

“Oh,” she murmured. She added in a small voice, “Then can we try it again?”

Outside, a horn honked, dragging them both back to reality. Through the window they saw another taxi waiting at the curb.

Reluctantly Willy pulled out of Guy’s arms. “Dad?” she called.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Her father emerged from the bedroom, pulling on his raincoat again. He paused and looked at her.

“Uh, why don’t you two say goodbye,” said Guy, diplomatically turning for the front door. “I’ll take your suitcase out to the car.”

Willy and her father were left standing alone in the room. They looked at each other, both knowing that this, like every goodbye, could be the last.

“Are things okay between you and Guy?” Maitland asked.

Willy nodded.

There was another silence. Then her father asked softly, “And between you and me?”

She smiled. “Things are okay there, too.” She went to him then, and they held each other. “Yes,” she murmured against his chest, “between you and me, things are definitely okay.”

A little reluctantly, he turned to leave. In the doorway, he and Guy shook hands.

“Have a good trip back, Maitland.”

“I will. Take care of things, will you? And, Guy-thanks a lot.”

“For what?”

Maitland glanced back at Willy. It was a look of regret. And redemption. “For giving me back my daughter,” he said.

As Wild Bill Maitland walked out the door, Guy walked in. He didn’t say a thing. He just took Willy in his arms and hugged her.

As the taxi drove away, she thought, My father has left me. Again.

She looked up at Guy. And what about you?

He answered her unspoken question by taking her face in his hands and kissing her. Then he gave the door a little kick; with a thud of finality, it swung shut.

And she knew that this time, the man would be staying.

First, I would like to thank Harlequin Books and my editor, Denise O’Sullivan, for affording me the opportunity to bring my stories to life. I would also like to convey a very special thanks to you the reader. Thank you for reading my stories…for taking this journey with me. Finally, this book is dedicated to the one and only Fran Woodard, a lovely lady, a compassionate human being, a true champion of the written word and one heck of a secret agent-the latter, of course, is only in my very vivid imagination.

PARIS…it never changed.

He watched from the third-story window of the shop he had seized in the middle of the day along boulevard Saint-Michel. Outside, pigeons fluttered and squawked. Nearby, a waiter moved between the tables of a crowded open-air café. Natives and tourists alike chatted over drinks, never suspecting or caring what nasty business was taking place only a few meters away. He studied each face before moving on. To this day he could not stop himself from looking for her.

He shook his head. It had been two long years. She was gone. And even if she were here, her fate would be like that of the traitors bound and gagged downstairs. He turned his attention back to the sidewalk below and the pedestrians strolling along completely oblivious to anything other than the beauty of the day…of the place.

But here, where he was, there was no beauty…no good. Only the evil that men could do.

He closed his eyes and blocked the images that haunted him day and night. When would this nightmare end?

“Pardon,” came from the door behind him. “Nous sommes prêts.”

He opened his eyes. His men were ready, but he needed another moment. “Dans un moment.” A vague smile tugged at his lips. He had trained them well. Without thought, they spoke the language of those around them. In Paris they were Parisians, speaking the language as well as the natives.

As the messenger returned downstairs to those waiting patiently, their leader braced himself for the inevitable. It was time. He could not wait any longer. There would be no last-minute salvation. His orders stood.

Mentally preparing himself for the next step, he left the room. His footfalls echoed in the expectant silence as he descended the three flights of stairs. Supplications for forgiveness would be pointless. So he didn’t bother. Whatever awaited him at the end of this existence would not be pleasant. His crimes were far too great. But, unfortunately, necessary.

“What do we do with them?” One of his men, Carlos, gestured to the four bound men lying on the floor in the middle of the boulangerie. The scent of freshly baked bread did little to mask the smell of fear, of death looming.

As he, their respected leader, the one who must show no weakness, moved down the final step, he glanced at the frightened faces of those anxiously awaiting his decree. He turned his attention back to Carlos. There was no room for hesitation or remorse. “Kill them.”

“BLOOD PRESSURE?” Dr. Roland yelled above the organized chaos of the trauma room.

“One hundred over sixty-five,” Ami Donovan, R.N., reported. “Pulse is seventy and thready.”

“Where the hell is Mason?” Roland demanded.

“Dr. Mason’s on his way,” Jane, another R.N. on duty, told him as she shoved the X rays onto the viewing box.

Frowning, Roland took a moment to scan the views. “Let’s get this guy typed and crossed,” he barked, his attention refocusing on the patient and the two leaking wounds where the bullets had entered the upper left area of his chest.

“Doing that as we speak,” Lonnie, the lab tech, advised as warm, red blood filled the tube in his hand.