From the Beginning
Tracy Wolff
Okay, life has been tough recently. Dr. Amanda Jacobs is finally ready to admit that–and do something about it. Stateside again, she's focused on reestablishing her medical career. Sure, it's not the stop-your-heart stress of working in war-torn countries. But right now she needs a little less stress.And that means she doesn't need the distraction of Simon Hart. The way Amanda sees it, their on-again-off-again relationship can stay off. Even though he's more charming than ever, is there too much between them to get over? Still, a part of her wonders if this is their chance to be together…forever.
He’s determined to make amends
Okay, life has been tough recently. Dr. Amanda Jacobs is finally ready to admit that—and do something about it. Stateside again, she’s focused on reestablishing her medical career. Sure, it’s not the stop-your-heart stress of working in war-torn countries. But right now she needs a little less stress.
And that means she doesn’t need the distraction of Simon Hart. The way Amanda sees it, their on-again-off-again relationship can stay off. Even though he’s more charming than ever, is there too much between them to get over? Still, a part of her wonders if this is their chance to be together…forever.
What was Simon doing here?
Amanda’s stomach tightened. There was no way Simon would fly this far to see her after the way they’d last parted. She’d almost convinced herself that she was mistaken—that it wasn’t him standing over there. She’d even managed to quiet the instinctive, involuntary response that took over her body every time she’d seen him in the past ten years.
Then the man turned. It was him. His bright green eyes met hers as he scanned the crowd.
Amanda wanted to look away, but she was caught. He was the one person in the whole world guaranteed to make the soul-crushing pain she felt even worse.
He stopped a couple feet in front of her, reached a hand out to stroke her cheek. “Oh, sweetheart, look at you.”
She stiffened. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to take you home.”
“I’d rather take on an entire shiver of sharks than spend one second in your company.”
“Well, then, I guess we’re both in for a bumpy ride—because this time you aren’t getting rid of me.”
Dear Reader,
Every once in a while, an author gets the chance to write the book of her heart. For me, From the Beginning is that book. It’s an idea that I’ve had for over four years, one that I had hoped would be my second Everlasting Love novel, and one I’m thrilled to finally be bringing to you as a Harlequin Superromance.
Early in my writing career, Amanda Jacobs took up residence in my head, and no matter what I did, she wouldn’t leave. She was smart and sarcastic, strong and selfless, and she kept talking to me. So when my fabulous editor gave me the go-ahead to write this book, I was thrilled. Not much compares to telling the story of a character you’ve lived with for so long, and one you admire as much as I do Amanda.
Now, being me, I had to take Amanda on an emotional roller coaster. I tested her limits and wrenched every ounce of emotion from her. In doing so, I think I made her a better character and firmly believe I made myself a better writer. I hope you agree.
I love, particularly, that this book is coming out at the end of winter, just when things here in Texas, where I live, are starting to come back to life. Starting to bloom, as that rebirth is so important to both Amanda and Simon in this novel.
Thanks so much for giving From the Beginning a try. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I love hearing from my readers, either at my email, tracy@tracywolff.blogspot.com, or at my blog, www.tracywolff.blogspot.com. If you get the chance, please stop by and say hello!
Happy reading!
Tracy Wolff
From the Beginning
Tracy Wolff
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks, and has been known to forget where—and sometimes who—she is when immersed in a great novel. At six she wrote her first short story—something with a rainbow and a prince—and at seven she ventured into the wonderful world of girls’ lit with her first Judy Blume novel. By ten she’d read everything in the young adult and classics sections of her local bookstore, so in desperation her mom started her on romance novels. And from the first page of the first book, Tracy knew she’d found her life-long love. Tracy lives in Texas with her husband and three sons, where she pens romance novels and teaches writing at her local community college.
To Beverly Sotolov and Wanda Ottewell,
for giving me a chance to tell this story and
for making me a writer worthy of telling it
Acknowledgments:
As always, to my amazing agent,
Emily Sylvan Kim, who is as fabulous a person as she is an agent. Thanks for always being there.
To Wanda Ottewell, who is never afraid to tell me when I’ve gone too far—or not far enough. Having you as an editor has made me a better writer.
And to my three boys, who put up with a
not-so-great summer as I was writing this book.
Thanks for understanding and for being such amazing people. I love you very much.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#ubcd9ab2a-aef4-5a7e-ab31-1da55f0fdae3)
CHAPTER TWO (#u76191820-3e4e-532f-af5b-262466cbd4db)
CHAPTER THREE (#u833d6627-8ab8-513e-b430-27597e99cd36)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u77c44ad2-0169-56ac-a0a8-ffd7bec6c314)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u4636cd7e-c139-55cc-bc9b-bb64b050b052)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
Somalia, 2011
HE WAS GOING TO DIE and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Five presses, one breath.
Even knowing that it was over, she continued the chest compressions on his frail and bloated body.
Five presses, one breath.
All around her the nurses shook their heads, their expressions sad but accepting.
Five presses, one breath.
His mother looked on with hopeless eyes.
Five presses, one breath.
Outside, the howling wind stopped as if the very desert itself was holding its breath as it sensed him slipping away.
Five presses, one breath.
But she couldn’t let him go. His eyes had implored her when he first came into the clinic so many hours ago. She couldn’t just let him die of the ache in his belly. Not when everything inside her raged at the unfairness of allowing a six-year-old child to slip away, when all of her training taught her to fight harder and longer. After all, malnutrition could be countered, as could starvation and most of the diseases found here.
But it was too late for Mabulu. Too late for high- protein drinks from the States, too late for peanut-butter sandwiches or fresh bananas. Too late for the vitamins and shots that could so easily have saved him a few weeks before.
Sometimes it felt as if everything she did in this godforsaken country was too little, too late.
Five presses, one breath.
It was time to stop. Her intellect knew it, but her heart was already so cracked that she feared one more loss might shatter it forever. So she continued pressing down on his small chest, long past the time her medical experience told her to stop.
Sweat ran down her face, and her arms trembled from the strain.
Five presses, one breath.
Tears blurred her eyes—an appalling lack of professionalism she could do nothing about.
Hundreds of thousands of deaths she could do nothing about.
She railed at the unfairness of it, at the complete and utter hopelessness of this battle she had been fighting for eleven years now. What good was a medical degree if she couldn’t save anyone?
Five presses, one breath.
“Time of death—11:42 a.m.” The deep voice boomed across the impromptu operating room, and Amanda Jacobs glanced up, startled, into the face of Jack Alexander—head doctor of this particular clinic and a close personal friend since they’d done their first year of medical school together fifteen years before.
“He’s my patient,” she said, continuing CPR. “I say when he’s dead.”
“How long has he been down?”
She bit her lip, knowing that the answer would damn Mabulu—and herself. “Twenty-seven minutes.”
Jack’s eyes cut to hers, narrowed in disbelief. “Stop the CPR—now,” he roared when she ignored him.
Her hands trembled and her shoulders slumped as she slowly let her arms drop away from her patient. He had been a beautiful little boy, even with his belly bloated and his bones all but sticking through his skin. His eyes had been bright, inquisitive, and his ongoing stoicism made her own sudden emotional instability even more humiliating.
Sobs choked her and she could barely stop the scalding tears from falling.
“Call it,” Jack ordered.
Her gaze met his. “You already—”
“Call it.” His voice was implacable, his look compassionate as he stared her down. “As you said, he was your patient.”
She glanced at the clock, then cleared away the lump in her throat. “Time of death—11:44.” Her breath hitched and she felt—actually felt—her heart break wide open. She’d been right. Mabulu’s death had been one too many, Somalia one country too many in a list so long she’d learned years ago to stop counting.
“I want to speak with you in my office,” Jack said, his voice uncompromising.
“My patient—” Their eyes locked in a battle of wills she didn’t have the strength to win—at least not today.
“Nola will take care of him.” He nodded toward the head nurse, then turned, without waiting to see if Amanda would follow, confident of his power and leadership even here, in this hospital composed of a series of olive-green tents and overstressed generators in the middle of the desert.
Amanda followed slowly, trying to steady herself for the confrontation she knew was coming. Her behavior was growing more and more erratic, her inability to let Mabulu go just the latest in a series of bad judgment calls. She was exhausted, overemotional, burned out. She knew the symptoms well, had witnessed them in others time and again in the past decade.
She’d simply never expected it to happen to her. Then again, she could say that about so many of the things in her life lately.
“What exactly was that?” Jack asked, closing the curtain on his makeshift office.
Her spine stiffened at his strident tone. “That was me trying to save my patient’s life.”
“That was you completely out of control, Amanda, and we both know it.”
“That’s not true,” she protested, but her voice wasn’t as solid as she would have liked.
“Yes, it is. I’ve worked with you off and on for fifteen years and I’ve never seen anything like that from you.”
“It was a rough one.” She tried—and failed—to shrug off the incident. “I’ll be okay.”
He studied her, and she knew his blue eyes were taking in the strain around her mouth and the cloudiness of her usually clear gray eyes. Telltale signs she’d noticed herself. “I’m not so sure about that.”
She stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sighing, he gestured to one of the two chairs in the room. “Sit down, Mandy.”
“Are you firing me, Jack?” If so, she would prefer to stand.
“Of course not,” he snorted. “You know more about practicing medicine in these conditions than most of my staff put together. But I do want to examine you.” He put his stethoscope in his ears and motioned her to sit.
“Absolutely not!”
“I’m not arguing with you about this. Before you go back on duty, I’m going to make damn sure you’re all right.”
She started to protest more vehemently, to tell him her health was none of his business. But she had enough self-preservation to realize that doing so would only reinforce his beliefs about her fitness for the job.
Plus, for the first time in her life, she just couldn’t summon up the effort to fight.
“I told you I’m fine,” she said as she sank into the chair reluctantly, but she could hear the shakiness in her voice.
“Which is obviously a falsehood.” He put the stethoscope to her chest. “Take a deep breath.”
“Jack—”
“Do it.”
Amanda sucked in air as loudly as possible, before letting it out slowly. “I’m just tired. We all are.”
“But we’re not all in tears when one of our patients dies.”
“Sometimes it gets to me. You know what it’s like.”
He reached for her wrist to check her pulse. “Sometimes it does,” he agreed. “But this isn’t you, Mandy. Tired or not.”
“Well, who is it, then?” She laughed bitterly. “Please, tell me. If this isn’t my life, whose hellish existence is it? Believe me, I’d love to give it back to her.”
Jack didn’t respond and she regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“I think you did.” He checked her reflexes and she took a childish delight at the involuntary kick that landed in the middle of his shin. “You need a break.”
“Not now.”
“Yes, now. You’ve been going hell-for-leather for eighteen months straight—more if you count everything that happened before you came back here. Is it any wonder that you’re burned out? You need to get away from here for a while and remember that there’s more to life than suffering.”
“I can’t.” She stood and walked over to the crude window near his desk. “We’re understaffed as it is.”
“We’ll manage. We always do.”
“I’m overtired. A couple of nights’ sleep and I’ll be fine.”
His smile was sad. “Not this time. You need to step back for a while, go home, live a normal life for at least a year.”
“A year?” She whirled to face him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious. You’re the best doctor I’ve got, one of the best I’ve ever worked with, but even you can’t keep going at this pace indefinitely. You’re strung out, stressed-out and you’re going to make yourself sick.”
He paused, stared at her for a long minute as if debating with himself. Finally he quietly commented, “You can’t hide from what happened to Gabrielle, Amanda. And you can’t bring her back.”
The words hit her like an out-of-control freight train, had her fists clenching and her blood pounding even as they flattened her completely. “You think I don’t know that?” she demanded, unable to look at him. “You think I don’t wake up every morning, wishing that my daughter was alive?”
“I think you do.” His tone was compassionate, his voice matter-of-fact. “Which is part of the problem. It’s been a year and a half, and you haven’t even begun to deal with what happened.”
“I deal with it every day.”
“No, you hide from it every day. Here, and in Uganda. In Mozambique. You’ve been running from the truth since the funeral, and all it’s gotten you is one step away from a nervous breakdown.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?” She sounded like a sulky four-year-old, but couldn’t help herself. If he kept pushing, the emptiness yawning inside of her would completely overwhelm her.
“It is.” He sighed, then reached out to cover her hand with his. “I know what I’m asking of you, Amanda.”
Her laugh was bitter. “You couldn’t possibly know, Jack. If you did, you wouldn’t have the nerve to ask.”
He squeezed her hand, letting the silence build until her eyes—once again—met his. “You can’t save her. No matter how many children you help, no matter how much you punish yourself, you still can’t bring her back.”
“It’s my job to save these children.” She yanked her hand away, then ran it carelessly through her short, dark hair. Her fingers snagged in one of the many curls, but she barely felt the pain. These days, she rarely allowed herself to feel anything at all. “They became my responsibility the day I signed up to come here.”
“I know.” His voice was soothing.
“This has nothing to do with Gabrielle,” she insisted. But her voice broke and Amanda rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes as the tears began to flow. “It’s about there never being enough. Enough food, enough medicine, enough doctors. Enough time. Nowhere on this whole damned continent is there enough of anything.”
She gave a watery, sarcastic laugh, then corrected herself. “Except the bad stuff. There’s plenty of that. Corruption. Famine, drought, poverty.”
Glancing out the screened-in window, she watched a trio of vultures circle above the camp, impatient to get their claws into Mabulu’s frail, bloated body. She wouldn’t let that happen.
“And death. There’s always enough death.” Her voice cracked, and the sobs she’d been trying to hold in for months finally broke free.
“Oh, Mandy.” Jack sighed, then pulled her into his oversize embrace. “That’s it, honey. Have a good cry.”
She tried to stop the meltdown—she really did—but she was too exhausted, and her emotions overcame her iron will. A small part of her stood back, untouched, watching in horror as her professional demeanor crumbled like clay left too long in the vicious African sun.
This wasn’t what they’d taught her in medical school. This wasn’t who she was. The Amanda Jacobs she knew was cool, professional, in control at all times. That Amanda Jacobs had graduated top of her class at twenty-four, had worked eleven years in the world’s battle zones with barely a grimace. She’d sat by her daughter’s bedside, dry-eyed and composed, doing everything she could to comfort Gabrielle as she suffered a slow and painful death from cancer.
That Amanda hadn’t shed so much as one tear at the funeral.
Where was that woman now? she wondered hysterically. She wanted her back. Living like this, her emotions an open, aching wound, was too hard.
Jack continued to rub her back soothingly as she sought to pull herself together. It took a few minutes, but when she’d finally managed it, he drew back and asked quietly, “Do you feel any better?”
Was he kidding? Her head throbbed, her eyes burned and her mouth felt as if something had crawled inside it and died. How could she possibly be feeling better when she’d never felt worse? But she nodded as she reached across his desk for a tissue. There was only so much humiliation a woman could stand in one day.
He watched silently as she wiped her face and blew her nose, struggling for the composure that was still a little out of reach. Finally he said, “You know I’m right. If one of your patients came in like this, you’d tell her the same things I’m telling you.”
“I can’t, Jack.”
“You mean, you won’t. But this time, you don’t have a choice. I run this place and I say you go.”
She studied him with narrowed eyes for a minute, then shrugged even as unease crawled up her spine. “There are other clinics.”
“And you won’t get a job at any of them. Not with this organization or any other.”
“You can’t do that!”
“You’d be surprised what I can do.” He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “You’re on the edge, Amanda. No reputable clinic will take on a doctor who is so obviously going to blow. And I won’t give you a recommendation—not right now.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I care about you.” He ignored her snort of derision. “Because you’ve been here too long.”
She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him accusingly. “You’ve been here as long as I have.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I know when to draw the line—for myself and others. You don’t. You never have. It’s what makes you such an incredible doctor, but it’s also what brought you to this point. You’re used up, Mandy.”
The hell of it was that he was right. She knew it, had recognized the signs for a while now but had ignored them. Because to admit to them meant she’d have to go home. She’d have to face what she’d been running from since Gabrielle’s pediatrician had delivered her death sentence.
She didn’t know if she was strong enough to do it.
“Do I have a choice, Dr. Alexander?” Her voice was stilted, her hands ice-cold.
“Mandy.” He sighed. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”
She eyed him steadily. “Oh, I think it does.”
He stared at her for long moments, before shaking his head sadly. “Then no, you don’t have a choice. The supply truck comes in four days. You can ride back to town with Josh and catch a flight from there.”
CHAPTER TWO
“FOUR DAYS?” HER WORLD imploded, even as she told herself that there had to be a mistake. No way could Jack find someone to replace her on such short notice. “You expect me to be ready to leave Africa in four days?”
“Yes.” His tone was implacable.
“That’s not enough time.”
“To pack one suitcase of clothes?”
“To deal with my patients. To find another—”
“The patients aren’t your problem anymore—and neither is my staffing shortage. In fact, I’m taking you off rotation, effective immediately.”
“Jack! You can’t.”
He crossed the room, scribbled something on the schedule that was always hanging by the door. “It’s already done.”
“Who will take care of my patients? You can’t do everything—”
“That’s no longer your problem.”
It was as if he’d slapped her, her entire body recoiling with pain and betrayal. “We’ve been friends too long for you to treat me like this. How can you do it?”
“Because we are friends.” He crossed the room and took her hand in his own, ignoring her sudden stiffness. “Because I want to work with you for another fifteen years, at least.” He reached up and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her left ear. “This isn’t forever, kid. Only until you get yourself rested and back in fighting form. I can’t hold the fort indefinitely, you know.”
But that was exactly what she was afraid of—that he would have to hold the fort alone, forever. It was why she’d worked her way past exhaustion, beyond burnout. Because she feared if she ever left this place, she would never come back. Not just here, to Somalia, but Haiti or Cambodia. Bosnia or Sierra Leone. Chechnya, Afghanistan, Lebanon, Palestine. So many places. So much pain.
“Well, that’s it, then.” Anger and fear came through in her voice, despite her struggle to regain her professionalism. Amanda didn’t mind if Jack saw her anger, but she would be humiliated if he knew how afraid she was to return to the easy, civilized life most people took for granted.
“For now. Go back to your room and lie down. Get some rest and I’ll check on you later.” He paused, shot her a guilty look. “Three days ago, I emailed—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. Didn’t want to hear him admit that he’d ratted her out to the administrators of the program. Instead, she turned and left, walking briskly through the clinic, despite the calls of nurses and patients. They weren’t her responsibility anymore.
The thought cut like a knife.
So, what happened now? she wondered, dazed. What on earth was she supposed to do?
It was crazy, really, how completely unprepared she was for life away from here. How could an intelligent woman of thirty-five be so frightened of living a normal life? And how was she supposed to get past the gut-clenching, palm-dampening fear?
She headed outside, toward the tents pitched to the left of the clinic. She’d lived in them for almost a year, never leaving this stretch of desert since she’d arrived, fresh from Mozambique, ten months before.
She’d run here, one more stop in the headlong flight that kept her from thinking about—
Amanda shut the thought down before it could form. She wasn’t ready to go there yet. She wasn’t strong enough to examine her feelings about Gabby. She’d buried them for one year, six months and twenty-three days. She could bury them for a few more days or weeks or months—whatever it took for her to feel strong enough to deal with them.
But even as she mentally repeated the too-familiar sentiment, she knew it was a lie. She would never be strong enough to accept Gabby’s death. She’d failed her daughter, and that was not something she could get over.
Shaking again, Amanda paused for a moment and looked around the camp and surrounding desert that were as familiar to her as her own face. It was hot, the sun high in the sky as it roasted this part of East Africa. Drought and famine, AIDS and Ebola, tuberculosis and cholera, more diseases than she could count had taken their toll, year after year, until some weeks bodies actually piled up in the villages, waiting to be buried or burned.
But despite everything that had happened here in the past three decades, Africa was beautiful. The landscape was empty, barren, but there was an elegance in its stark simplicity. Endless miles of dirt and sand and desert brush as far as the eye could see, the sun reflecting brightly off the hard, arid ground. It appealed to something primitive inside of her, this country with its harsh truths and frightening realities.
There was beauty in its complete and utter devastation.
At a loss for what else to do—knowing only that she couldn’t go back to her tent and stare at the four canvas walls without losing what was left of her control—she began to walk. Without her patients, without her job, it wasn’t as if there was anything else to do out here but wander for a while, saying goodbye to this continent that had such a huge impact on her life. If things went as she was afraid they would, then it didn’t matter what Jack said. She was done here.
She walked for a long time—through the village and beyond, oblivious to the heat that was so much a part of Somalia. It was harvest time for the meager crops that this poverty- and drought-stricken nation could produce, and the men were few. Between the wars, the famine and the harvest, the village was almost a ghost town during the day. Many of the children were in the fields with their mothers; the others were in the hospital or at the government-run school that was built on the east side of the village. It was here that they learned math and history and how to read and speak English—at least until they had to give up their education to help feed the family.
She shook her head. Somalia had so many languages. Somali and Arabic were the two main ones, but each village in the line sweeping through the nation’s interior had a variation of its own. Her village, Massalu, spoke Chimbalazi, but most of the children who lived here were almost illiterate in the language of their parents. The language of their blood.
Her fatigue—a soul-deep weariness—caught up with her, and Amanda slumped onto a large rock. Her thinking rock. She’d used it so much in the past ten months that she could swear she’d worn a flat spot on it. Or maybe she wasn’t the only one who came to this desolate stretch of land to brood. God knew, there was more than enough to think about…
The sound of a faraway engine caught her attention and she looked up in time to see a Learjet coming into view. She watched it for a few minutes, until it passed over her, but she grew alarmed when the plane slowed as it approached the village.
Who could it be? Only the top government “officials”—Samatru and his crew—had access to planes like that. But even they usually arrived by car. Fuel and airplanes were hard to come by and saved for very special occasions.
The plane coasted in for a landing on the dusty road that ran about a thousand yards in front of the hospital, and though it was officially no longer her business, she couldn’t help worrying. Nor could she stop herself from running toward it as she tried to figure out what new threat the clinic was in for.
Despite the famine ravaging the country, it had been almost impossible for their organization, For the Children, to gain access to Somalia—the government frowned on outside interference. Even reporters and tourists had very restricted access to the small besieged nation—which made running a clinic here that much more difficult.
Add in the fact that the government had decided the doctors were ripe for exploitation, and it was a miracle that the hospital managed to hold on to any supplies to treat their patients.
As she ran, Amanda wondered what official had gotten a sudden “concern” about their presence here? And how much money it would take for his “attack of conscience” to be mollified.
How many people had to die so that he could wear his expensive suits and fly in his little plane? How many children had to starve?
Concern whipped through her, making her run faster despite the heat and the exhaustion. Making her incautious, when her life and the lives of the other doctors and patients at the clinic often depended on keeping a delicate balance with the current administration.
But what did she have to live for?
Gabby was gone.
Simon, the only man she had ever loved, had disappeared from her life, for good this time.
She had shut out everyone who cared about her until she was alone, isolated.
And now that Jack had stripped her of the only reason she had to get up in the morning, maybe she was better off dead.
Despair swamped her—black and overwhelming—but her long strides didn’t falter. Jack was a good doctor and a hell of an administrator, but even after ten years in these war-ravaged conditions, he had no tolerance for the way the country—and its corrupt officials—worked. If he lost his temper, he could bring everything they’d accomplished down around their heads.
Not that she blamed him. Every dollar he paid the rulers was one less to buy medicine and food for the people who desperately needed it. All the money he’d paid through the years meant days and weeks off the lives of Mabulu and all the other boys and girls like him.
But as Amanda approached and got a glimpse through the small crowd that had gathered when the plane landed, she realized that this was no government official. Dressed in jeans and a clean, white Aerosmith T-shirt, the newcomer stuck out like a sore thumb among the impoverished villagers who had come to observe the landing.
The sun glinted off too-long wheat-blond hair, but it wasn’t until she caught sight of the worn leather backpack over the visitor’s shoulder that the truth occurred to her.
She stopped breathing, shock holding her lungs and rib cage immobile.
Still, she told herself that she was wrong. It couldn’t be him.
He was in Haiti, putting together a documentary about earthquake victims.
In Colombia, investigating the cartels and their negative influence on the indigenous population.
In Cambodia, uncovering shady CIA deals. Anywhere and everywhere but here, where she’d been safe from thinking about him, insulated against her past by the immediacy of the present.
But the build was right—tall and rangy with a lean, long-legged frame that was deceptively strong. The shaggy blond hair worn too long—more from carelessness than fashion. Even the T-shirt advertised his favorite band.
Her breath caught in her throat, but her brain refused to accept what her eyes were seeing. That Simon was here—here—when years ago he’d decided that he’d had enough of Africa’s endless suffering.
But if it was him, what was he doing here? There had been no coup, no newly reported human-rights violations, no recent massacres. Only the ongoing famine that was neither glamorous nor seedy enough to attract the Western press here.
To attract Simon here.
For a moment, Jack’s guilty expression flashed into her mind, his warning that he had contacted someone. She’d ignored him at the time, but now, as her stomach constricted, she wished she’d let him have his say. At least then she would have been prepared.
Even as the idea formed in her mind, she told herself that she was being paranoid. There was no way Simon would fly this far to see her after the way they’d parted. She’d completely ignored his existence—and his pleas—in the days after they’d buried their daughter.
The argument was a good one and she’d almost convinced herself that she was mistaken, that her mind was playing tricks on her. She’d even managed to suppress the instinctive, involuntary response that took over her body as it had every single time she’d seen him in the past ten years.
Then the man turned and everything within her stilled. It was him. She was sure of it, especially when his bright green eyes met hers as he scanned the crowd, looking for something. Looking for someone. At first, he looked right past her, but then he froze. His gaze returned to her. Clung.
Amanda wanted to look away, but she was caught. Ensnared. A rabbit in a trap. And she’d do anything to escape. Because he was the one person she didn’t want to see her like this, the one person in the whole damn world guaranteed to make the soul-crushing pain she felt even worse.
SHE LOOKED LIKE HELL. Jack hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d emailed three days before. Even from this distance, Simon could see that she was much too thin. Tall and naturally slender, Amanda always lost weight when she was on location, refusing to take time to eat when so many people needed her help. Refusing to take any more of the essential supplies than she absolutely needed to stay alive.
“I can eat when I’m home,” she used to tell him. “I’ll curl up on the couch with a loaded pizza and a gallon of ice cream and eat it all.”
“But you never go home,” he would answer. “It’s been two years.”
She’d smile at him, her smoky eyes twinkling silver in the moonlight. “Soon,” she’d promise. “I just need to do a few more things here.”
It hadn’t taken him long to realize that soon almost never came. There was always one more country, one more disaster, one more person who needed her. In that, she was very much like him—except, Amanda had spent the past decade of her life getting her hands dirty, while he’d done exactly the opposite.
But he couldn’t do that anymore, couldn’t hide behind his camera lens and maintain his objectivity. Not with her. Not when she so obviously needed him. For a man who’d built a career around making sure no one got too close—even his lovers or, God forgive him, his daughter—it was a frightening state of affairs.
But what else could he have done? He hadn’t been able to walk away, not after reading those few heart-stopping lines.
Close to a breakdown, Jack had written. Strung out. Making herself sick.
He had been in an open-air market in the middle of the Andes when he’d gotten the message. Jack wasn’t prone to exaggeration, so Simon had literally forgotten everything but Amanda, had dropped his story and his deadline without a qualm, to get here before it was too late.
In the end, it had taken him three hellish days of travel by everything from donkey cart to airplane to reach this small, secluded village. But looking at Amanda now, almost as frail and sick as the patients who waited in a long line outside the clinic’s canvas doors, he couldn’t help thinking that he was already way too late.
Weaving his way through the curious onlookers, he walked toward her—his gaze still glued to hers. But the closer he got, the more concerned he became. Her beautiful eyes—usually so filled with life—were bruised and sunken. Her cheekbones were razor sharp, her skin pale and waxy despite the strong African sun. And whatever small amount of color she’d had in her face had drained the moment she realized he was here for her.
She looked like hell. Anger began to churn inside him. How had she gotten herself into such a state? And why had Jack waited so long to tell him about it?
He stopped a couple of feet in front of her, reached a hand out to stroke her cheek and maybe push one of her short corkscrew curls out of her face. But she flinched away before he could touch her, freezing him in midmotion.
So, she hadn’t forgiven him. But then, why should she, Simon asked himself viciously, when he hadn’t even begun to forgive himself? Most days, he brushed his teeth in the shower because he couldn’t stand the sight of his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Doubts assailed him for the first time since he’d gotten Jack’s missive, and he let his hand drop to his side. Maybe he shouldn’t have come, no matter what the surgeon had said. Maybe he was destined to make things worse for her.
But as he stood there, his eyes locked on her red-rimmed ones, the truth was a no-holds-barred punch to the gut. She had been crying. Amanda, who had never shed a tear in the twelve years he’d known her, had cried hard enough—and recently enough—to make her eyes bleary and bloodshot.
“Oh, sweetheart, look at you.” The words tangled up on his tongue and he could barely get them out. “What have you done to yourself?”
She stiffened even more. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just passing through…” He recited the old cliché in the hopes that she would call him on it—which she did.
“Yeah, right. You hate Africa.”
“No. I hate the suffering here, when I’m so ill-equipped to do anything about it. That’s a totally different thing.”
“Is it?” If possible, she looked even more disgusted, and he felt the familiar shame start to creep up his spine.
“Absolutely. Besides, I’m not here for a story.”
She didn’t move, didn’t betray her emotions by so much as an eyelash flicker, yet her entire being somehow, impossibly, grew even more wary. “So, once again, why are you here?”
“I think you already know the answer to that, Amanda, or you wouldn’t be looking so upset.” He watched her steadily. “I’m here to take you home.”
The look she gave him was a mixture of disbelief and dare—with enough repugnance thrown in to let him know she ranked him in the same category as pond scum. “Are you, now?”
“I am. Amanda, you can’t—”
“Oh, no.” Her voice sliced like a whip. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do. You’ve never wanted that right and you don’t suddenly get to change the rules just because you don’t like the final score. Besides, I would rather swim back to the States under my own power than go anywhere with you.”
He grinned. “It’s a big ocean, baby—and filled with sharks.”
“That’s rather telling, then, isn’t it? That I’d rather take on an entire shiver of sharks than spend one second longer than I have to in your company.”
“Well, then, I guess we’re both in for a bumpy ride—because this time you aren’t getting rid of me.”
“Since when have I ever had to get rid of you?” Her smile was as sharp as her cheekbones. “I’ll just wait five minutes until a better opportunity comes along. You’ll be in the air before I even get my suitcase packed.”
CHAPTER THREE
WITH THAT PARTING SHOT, Amanda turned away and headed toward the sleeping tents. And though every instinct he had demanded he follow her, Simon chose instead to stay where he was and simply watch her walk away. He’d known her long enough to recognize when she needed some time alone.
But the hollow feeling that had haunted him for the past eighteen months grew stronger with each step she took in the opposite direction.
Was this how she’d felt, he wondered, all those times when he’d been the one to walk away? When he’d chosen a story over her—and over their daughter? If so, he had even more to feel guilty about than he’d imagined.
He watched her until she disappeared inside one of the small tents set aside for the doctors, then watched some more—waiting, he supposed, to see if she was going to come back out and finish their discussion. It wasn’t likely, of course, but hope hung around—for a little while, anyway.
Right when he’d decided that he was going to have to go after her, he felt a large hand clap him on the shoulder. He turned to see the man who had started them down this path so many years before—and who was also responsible for this latest detour—standing in front of him with a definite scowl on his face.
“I had decided you weren’t going to come,” Jack said as he shook his head. “If I’d known you were due in today, I might have gone a little easier on Amanda earlier.”
Simon thought of Amanda’s red-rimmed eyes and felt every muscle in his body tighten. Jack was one of his closest friends, as well, but no one had the right to turn Amanda inside out like that. “What did you say to her?”
Jack eyed his clenched fists with interest, and Simon could feel himself flush. There was nothing quite like laying all your cards on the table for the world to see.
“I told her the same thing I told you. That she was exhausted and had to go home for a while.”
“She’s not going to want to go. That house—” His throat started to close up, so he stopped and took a few deep breaths. “That house is filled with memories of Gabby.”
“Hence the reason I didn’t sideline her sooner. She needs a reason to get up in the morning, and without her work, I don’t think she has one anymore. That’s why I emailed you.”
Simon wanted to think that Jack was exaggerating, but he couldn’t now that he’d seen Amanda himself. “I’m not that reason, never have been. Besides, it’s pretty obvious she can’t stand the sight of me.”
“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to find a way around that.”
Simon snorted. “I’m sorry. Have you met Dr. Amanda Jacobs? She’s not exactly the easiest person to get—”
“Listen to me, Simon. I know what I’m talking about. She can’t be on her own right now. If she goes back to the States by herself and rents some small apartment somewhere because she can’t deal with the memories, I don’t think she’s going to make it.”
Everything inside of him went cold at Jack’s assessment—so cold that he actually shivered, despite the harsh rays of the sun beating down on him. “You think—” Simon’s voice broke for the second time in as many minutes and he had to clear his throat a few times before he could force any words through. “You really think she’s suicidal?”
Jack paused, looked past him to the barren desert that surrounded them. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“It isn’t that difficult. Either you think she’ll try to kill herself or you don’t.”
“It’s not that simple. Do I think Amanda will actively try to kill herself? No. But—” he continued, before Simon could relax “—I don’t think she wants to live, either. I think she’s gotten to the point where she’s too apathetic to do anything about it, one way or the other.”
Simon tried to read between the lines. “So what are you saying? You don’t think she cares enough to kill herself? Is that even possible?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, Simon. I’m not sure what’s possible or what isn’t in this case. I’m just telling you what I think, what I’ve observed over the past few months. Amanda gave up caring about what happens to herself a long time ago. That’s why I let her stay here this long, even though I’ve known almost since she got here that she was eventually going to break.
“I tried to get through to her, tried to keep her busy. Let her work almost exclusively with the children—the only thing that brings her around is when she’s working toward healing a child.” He shook his head. “But it’s not enough. Things are dire here and getting worse every day. She lost a patient today—the third this week—and she didn’t handle it well.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she almost had a nervous breakdown in the middle of the O.R. And I believe, really believe, that if she could have crawled onto that gurney with Mabulu and died alongside him, she would have. I’ve never seen her like that before, not in all the years we’ve known each other, and it scared me—so much that I relieved her of her duties and told her I’d block any application she made to work with another clinic. At least for a while.”
Simon was having a hard time getting his mind around what Jack was saying. The picture the other man was painting was of a woman so far removed from the Amanda he knew that she was almost unrecognizable. Amanda was the one everyone turned to in a crisis—she was the one who never fell apart, who always knew what to do.
That had obviously changed, and he was suddenly at as much of a loss as Jack was. How the hell was he supposed to fix a woman who’d never been broken before, especially when she couldn’t stand the sight of him?
What was he supposed to do?
He hadn’t been aware that he said the last aloud, until Jack grimly responded, “My best advice? You get her out of here—tonight. You get her home, get her to a doctor and to a counselor. And then you wait.”
“For how long?” Waiting wasn’t exactly Simon’s strong suit.
“For as long as it takes. It took her at least a year and a half to get into this state. She isn’t going to come out of it overnight.”
Simon thought, briefly, of the stories he had lined up. Of the exclusive access he’d managed to finagle behind the Israeli wall after six years of pulling in favors.
Of the upcoming Middle East peace talks in Europe that he was supposed to cover.
Of the story he had started investigating in South America, and of the documentary he had already gotten footage for in Afghanistan. He’d been putting that story together, off and on, for months now, and it had Edward R. Murrow Award written all over it. He could almost taste the award and so could his director.
He closed his eyes and with a sigh let them all go. For more than a decade, Amanda had taken second and third and sometimes even two hundredth place to his work. This time, everything else was going to have to wait.
DESPITE HIS BEST INTENTIONS, the sun was setting before Simon finally caught up to Amanda again. Wanting to give her some space, he’d spent part of the afternoon shadowing Jack in the clinic. But by the time he went to the tents to find her, she’d been long gone and he’d spent much of the early evening searching the clinic and village for her—and cursing himself for letting her out of his sight. Especially after what Jack had told him.
In the end, he’d had to ask the other doctor where Amanda might have wandered off to—which had grated, since every time he opened his mouth it felt as if the other man was condemning him for his callous treatment of her through the years.
Then again, maybe it was his own conscience doing all the condemning.
The surgeon had pointed him toward the desert, and Simon had followed his directions until he’d happened upon her, about a mile and a half away—in the middle of an empty stretch of dry, cracked sand.
She was sitting on a large, flat rock, her knees drawn up so that she could rest her chin on them, and she looked so young, so vulnerable, that it was hard for him to imagine it had been so many years since he’d first met her.
Five years since he’d last held her, loved her.
And before today, eighteen months since he’d so much as laid eyes on her.
Part of him wanted to rush up to her, to wrap her in his arms and pretend that everything was the same. That they were still lovers, still friends.
Still parents.
But another part, the one that was buried under guilt and pain and his own anger, couldn’t help wondering how much more rejection he could stand.
At Gabrielle’s funeral, Amanda had frozen him out so completely that he still hadn’t thawed a year and a half later. It had been a defense mechanism, a way to bury her own pain—but knowing that hadn’t made it hurt any less.
They’d stopped being lovers not long after Gabrielle was born. Amanda had feared that what they’d had together wasn’t stable enough to raise a child and he’d gone along because he hadn’t wanted a relationship that would tie him down. But they’d remained friends, right up until their daughter had died.
Then Amanda had excised him from her life with such brutal efficiency he swore he could still feel the blade.
But this wasn’t about him, he reminded himself fiercely as he struggled for something to say. This was about Amanda, about getting her well again.
“If you’re going to spend all evening skulking in the shadows, don’t be surprised if someone mistakes you for a rebel and shoots you.” Her words were cool and collected, a marked difference from their earlier meeting.
“I didn’t want to disturb you—I figured you might shoot me yourself if I did.”
“I’m not the bloodthirsty type.” She still hadn’t bothered to look at him. “I would have thought you’d know that by now.”
“Yeah, well, people change.”
“More like circumstances change them.”
There was an underlying bitterness to her tone that had him moving forward and sinking down beside her on the rock. She didn’t protest as he expected her to. Instead, she scooted over to make more room for him. He wanted to think of it as progress, but Jack’s words haunted him—especially when he got his first glimpse of her blank face. It was as if the Amanda he’d known had simply disappeared, leaving only this shell of a woman behind.
She didn’t say anything else, and for the longest time, neither did he. He was too caught up in how strange it felt to be near her again, yet how eerily familiar, as well. She smelled the same as she always had—like lavender and peaches and cool spring evenings— despite the heat and dust of the surrounding desert. Strange how nothing could change that, not even years in this drought- and famine-stricken land.
Yet she felt different sitting next to him—skinnier, frailer, more delicate than he had ever seen her. As different from the warrior he once knew as Somalia was from the cozy home she’d made for herself and their daughter in Boston after Gabrielle had gotten sick.
The silence stretched between them, fraught with everything they didn’t want to say. No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to say it—it was that he didn’t know how.
How did you apologize for all the mistakes you’d made, when some of them stretched back over a decade?
How did you tell the mother of your child that you still cared about her even though she’d cut you out of her life?
How did you reach past the cool reserve to tell her that you wanted another chance? That, this time, you weren’t going to disappear?
In the end, he didn’t have to say anything, because she broke first. “I’m not leaving with you, Simon.”
“Jack says he’s put you on sick leave. That you have to go.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a big world out there. There’s no reason our paths should have to cross again.”
“They’ve been intersecting for over twelve years now, Amanda. Do you really think it’s possible to keep that from happening again?”
She shrugged. “I don’t see why not. The world’s on fire—as usual. I’m sure there are a million places you could be right now, taking pictures. Reporting the news. America—with its stable government and abundant resources—isn’t exactly your speed.”
“Is that where you’re planning on going?” he demanded. “To America? Back home to Boston?”
She didn’t answer, but then he hadn’t really expected her to. At a complete loss as to what to say—or how to reach her—he dug into his backpack and came up with the last Twix bar. “You want half?” he asked as he broke open the wrapper. It was her favorite candy.
She glanced to see what he was offering her and stiffened, the blood draining from her face and her body turning to granite. When she spoke, it was in a rush and he had to struggle to understand. “I don’t want that!”
He pushed himself up, staring at her in bewilderment. “What’s wrong? I thought you liked these.” But even as the question formed in the air between them, the answer came to him and he wondered how he could have been so stupid. Again.
Twix had been Gabrielle’s favorite candy bar, too. She and Amanda had shared one at least once or twice a week—even when Amanda had been on assignment. She’d always carried a bunch of them with her, to help Gabrielle settle as they moved from one clinic—and country—to the next.
Shit, how could he have forgotten that?
He dropped the candy into his backpack. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“Like that’s a surprise,” she said as she got to her feet. Her voice was level, but her hands were squeezed into fists so tight that her knuckles were white. “Go away, Simon. Go back to wherever you came from. I don’t need or want you to take care of me.”
“Yeah, well, have you looked in a mirror lately? Because you may not want to be taken care of, but you definitely need to be. And, no offense, but it looks like I’m the only candidate for the job.”
She whirled on him. “Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me? Can’t you see that I don’t want anything to do with you?”
He could see it—and it was killing him. “Look, I’m not suggesting we jump into bed together—”
“Glad to hear it, because that part of our lives is long over.”
He ignored her, and the pinprick of hurt her words caused. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been expecting them, after all. “I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you suddenly feel responsible for me?” she demanded, her silver eyes steady on his. “You never have before.”
He started to deny it, to tell her that he’d always wanted to take care of her, but it would be a lie and they would both know it. One of the things that had originally attracted him to Amanda was how self-sufficient she was. How she could take care of herself and whatever came along. How she had never needed a man—never needed him—to lean on.
Diabolically, that same self-sufficiency was what had caused their relationship to end—just when he’d wanted most for it to continue. But then, he’d always had a gift for impossible relationships.
They stood there for long seconds, staring at each other as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to say. In the end, he did what he usually did—told the truth, even if it was guaranteed to get him into trouble. “Because for the first time since I met you, you need me.”
SIMON’S WORDS, DELIVERED IN the crisp British accent that had once sent shivers down her spine, worked their way through Amanda and she had to fight not to show her incredulity. There was so much wrong with what he’d said that she wasn’t sure which part to take exception to first—his assumption that she’d never needed him, or his idea that she suddenly did?
Could he really believe what he was saying? she wondered incredulously. Could he really think that in all the time they’d been together she’d never needed him before? That she’d done everything alone because she’d liked it that way?
She’d managed by herself because she’d never been able to count on him to do anything for her. For that, he would have had to be around for more than a few days at a time. He would have had to show an interest in something besides sex and that damn camera of his.
Part of her wanted to say something, to throw his words back in his face. But doing that would mean admitting that he’d had the power to hurt her, and she couldn’t see letting herself in for that. Not now, when simply standing here looking at him was taking more strength than she had. Besides, what they’d had—whatever it was— had been over long before Gabby had gotten sick. Her funeral had been the final death knell for a relationship that never should have happened.
“Simon—” She cleared her throat. Tried again. “I don’t need you to feel guilty about me. I’ll go home and get some rest. I’ll be fine in a few weeks.”
But even as she said the words, she knew he wouldn’t believe them. After eighteen years as a journalist, Simon’s bullshit meter was finely tuned.
Sure enough, one of his eyebrows shot up the way it always did when he was about to call her on a fib. “Really? You think rattling around in that house by yourself is what you need right now?”
“I don’t have the house anymore. It sold a few months after…” She cleared her throat again. “After.”
His eyes darkened until they were the color of the storm-tossed Atlantic. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
Sometimes so did she. The house held so many memories of Gabby, good and bad. That was why she had sold it to begin with—she hadn’t been able to contemplate the idea of ever crossing the threshold, knowing that it was where her child had died.
But now, a year and a half later, she would give anything to walk through the halls and remember what it had felt like when her daughter had been alive. Even the pain that came with the memories would be better than this yawning emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole.
“Yeah, well, it seemed stupid to hold on to it, when I would only be in town every once in a blue moon.”
“Stupid?” he demanded. “That was your home. Our home.”
Anger sparked. “Just because I let you stay there when you passed through town didn’t make it your home, Simon. To be that, you need some kind of emotional investment in the place.”
“I had an emotional investment, Amanda. Not in the house, but in you. In Gabby.”
His words hit like blows and she trembled under the onslaught. But she caught herself, fought back. “The only thing you’ve ever been emotionally invested in is the story. You, of all people, should know that trying to rewrite history doesn’t work—not if there’s someone still around who remembers how things actually happened.”
He clenched his teeth so tightly that she worried he would crack a molar—or five. She waited for him to swallow the bait, to explode and walk away, as was his modus operandi. But sometime in the past year and a half, he must have learned self-control, because he didn’t defend himself. Didn’t say anything at all.
Instead, he looked out across the sand, his eyes focusing on some distant point, while his jaw worked furiously. Long seconds passed in hostile silence until, in a voice that sounded a lot more reasonable than he looked, he said, “Since you sold the house, where are you planning to stay?”
“Why?”
“Why do you think? I want to pull in a few favors, have your place firebombed.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, remembering one of the reports Simon had done about Chechnya when she’d been there—a report that had ended with her clinic being attacked by the government. She’d barely gotten Gabby out in time, which was one of the main reasons she’d decided to end the romantic part of their relationship once and for all.
“That wasn’t my fault,” he answered with an amused resignation that hadn’t been there a few moments before.
“It never is.” She grinned at him for a second, before remembering that he was the enemy. No, she corrected herself firmly. Simon wasn’t the enemy. She refused to give him that much importance in her life.
He scooted closer, cupped her face in his palms. She forced herself not to flinch this time, when all she really wanted to do was flee. “I didn’t have any nefarious intentions in asking, Amanda. I just wanted to know where we were going to settle.”
His thumb stroked gently across her cheek, and despite everything—despite her anger at him, despite her resentment and her despair—she found herself melting into his touch. Simon felt safe, even though she knew he was anything but. And she was so tired that it didn’t matter.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of talking.
Tired of living.
But then he moved, shifting a little closer until his body brushed hers. It was all she needed to shove him away, once and for all.
“Jack might have contacted you a few days ago, but I just got my walking papers today. I haven’t exactly had time to decide where I want to end up.”
“Come with me,” he urged. “We can decide together.”
She shook her head, backed away some more—not even caring that it looked as if she was in full retreat. “I’m not getting on that plane with you.”
“Well, then, you and I have a problem.”
“Not from where I’m standing.” She gave him her most obnoxious smirk. “Get on your little puddle jumper and go back to whatever it was you were doing before Jack interrupted you.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen. I came a long way to find you, Amanda, and I’m not leaving here without you. Not this time. One way or another, you’re getting on that plane with me. Tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“HEY, JACK. WAIT UP.” Simon ran to catch up with the doctor as he crossed from the clinic to his small tent.
“Where’s Amanda?” Jack asked, looking behind Simon. “I thought you were getting ready to leave.”
“I am, but she’s dug in her heels. She refuses to come with me, says she’s going to hitch a ride into the city with the transport driver.”
Jack sighed, shook his head. “That sounds like Mandy.”
“We can’t let her do that.”
“I’m not sure how we can stop her.”
Simon cast around for the best way to say what was on his mind. He knew what he wanted to do was extreme and was certain that Jack would object to it, but he was also convinced it was the only way to get Amanda on the very beginning steps to recovery.
“She’ll disappear, Jack. If she gets into the city, gets to the major airport, she could go anywhere, do anything, and I’ll have a hell of a time finding her.”
Jack nodded. “That’s why I contacted you to begin with. But at the same time, if she really won’t have anything to do with you, I’m not sure how I can help. Do you want me to talk to her?”
“I want you to drug her.”
The words hung between them for long seconds as Jack’s eyes widened. He took a step back and then another, shaking his head. “I can’t do that. She’s a grown woman—she’s allowed to make decisions for herself.”
“I know that. Believe me, I know that.” Amanda was the most independent woman he had ever met. “But at the same time, she’s not thinking rationally right now. She may say she’s given up, that she’s going to go home and rest, but you know as well as I do that she’s not built like that. She’s hurting and she’s going to keep running from the pain until she kills herself. I can’t stand by and watch her do that.”
“But to drug her? Simon, she’ll never forgive you for taking the choice away from her. She’ll never forgive either of us.”
Simon swallowed back the unfamiliar thickness in his throat, forcing himself to talk through the fear Jack’s words—which only echoed his own thoughts—engendered.
“Do you have a better suggestion? Please, if you do, tell me. I’ve been racking my brain for hours trying to figure out how to do this another way. But she’s so angry, so hurt—”
“It’ll only be worse if you do this.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. But I need her to live. I need to get her someplace where she can recover, where she can remember that there are good things in life. You know how dire the situation is—you wouldn’t have emailed me if you didn’t. If we can’t get her somewhere safe, we both know that the next time we meet, it will be at her funeral. I can’t—” He turned away, terrified. He’d already lost his daughter. How could he ever survive losing Amanda, too?
“I know where you’re coming from, but I still don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean, it’s a huge betrayal.” Jack sighed heavily. “Look, let me talk to her one more time. Try to change her mind.”
“It won’t work.”
“Maybe not, but before I ruin a fifteen-year friendship, I’m damn well going to try.”
Simon’s whole being sagged with relief. “So you’ll do it.”
“I’m going to talk—”
“I know, I know. But if you can’t convince her, if she insists on doing this completely on her own so she can disappear the second we turn our backs, you’ll help me?”
“Yeah.” Jack nodded, but he didn’t look happy. “If that’s really what’s going on, then I’ll find a way to help you.”
“Thank you.”
He snorted. “Don’t thank me yet. If I drug her, I’ll be hundreds of miles away when she wakes up. But you’ll be right there. Good luck with that.”
AMANDA LOOKED AROUND the tent she had called home for the better part of a year. It seemed even more barren than usual.
Her belongings, except for the outfit she planned to wear the next day, were all packed in one large suitcase and the worn green backpack that had traveled around the world with her. It was old and on its last legs, but she knew she wouldn’t part with it, even after she got to a place where replacing it was simply a matter of driving a few blocks to the nearest shopping mall.
She could still see Gabby smiling and tugging the backpack off the rack all those years ago. At the time, it was bigger than she was, but she’d insisted on getting it down herself. Just as she’d insisted that this was the one her mother had to buy. It was the same color as Dada’s eyes, after all.
Blocking out thoughts of Simon—and his ridiculous ultimatum—Amanda stowed the last of her toiletries and wondered where she’d be when she finally unpacked them again. Jack wanted her to go home, back to America, but there was no way she was going to do that. She couldn’t face everything she’d lost there. Maybe she couldn’t work with For the Children, but the world was full of countries—here in Africa and elsewhere—that needed a skilled doctor willing to work for almost nothing. Surely it wouldn’t be that hard to find another position.
She zipped the backpack closed, then pulled the only picture of Gabby she had allowed herself to bring to Africa out of the front pocket. The others were all in storage in Boston. Locked away like so many of her emotions.
The photo was ragged and well-worn, the edges crumbling a little from her daily handling. Her baby looked so beautiful, so vibrant and happy and alive.
So very alive.
She was dressed in a pair of jean shorts with embroidered peppermint candies around the waist and hem and a bright pink T-shirt covered in pictures of lollipops and gumdrops. Her black hair was swept up into two ponytails and she was wearing her favorite pair of jeweled tennis shoes—she had talked Amanda into letting her decorate them with the BeDazzler herself. There wasn’t a square inch on the shoes that wasn’t covered in sequins or jewels or beads.
They were terrifically gaudy and eye-catching, and Gabby had loved them. She’d worn them every single day for months, until she’d gotten so sick that she didn’t need shoes and all she could do was lie in bed all day. Even then, they’d sat on the nightstand, waiting for her to get better. Waiting for her to need them again.
She never had.
The familiar pain welled up inside of Amanda, but she fought it, just like she always did.
Fought against the fist squeezing her heart and the hollowness invading her stomach with every strangled breath she took.
Fought against the razor blades slicing along every nerve ending in her body.
It was a little bit harder this time than the last. That’s the way it always was. Just a fleeting thought of her beautiful, precocious daughter almost brought her to her knees.
Outside the tent, someone cleared his throat, which was as close to a knock as you could get here. She ignored it, ignored him. There was no one she wanted to talk to right now, anyway. Especially of the male gender.
But whoever it was wasn’t put off by her silence. Instead, he called her name softly before flipping the tent flap aside without waiting for an invitation. That alone told her it was Jack.
“What do you want?” She didn’t even try to sound gracious, but then, why should she? He had completely sold her out.
“To say goodbye.”
“Oh, right.” She turned her back on him. “Goodbye.”
“I didn’t have a choice, Amanda. You’re—”
“It’s fine. I get it.”
“Do you?” He reached out, put what she figured he thought was a comforting hand on her shoulder. But all it did was make her want to scream. She shrugged him off, pressing her lips together. If she started to scream now, she’d never stop.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m not your problem anymore. I’ll catch a ride into the city with the next transport. There’s one scheduled to come tomorrow, isn’t there?”
“I thought you were going back with Simon.”
Her laugh was harsh and hurt her throat. “I don’t know what gave you that idea.”
For long seconds, he didn’t answer. Then he finally said, “You are going back, though. To America. Right?”
“Where else would I go?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You made it pretty clear that you’re not my boss anymore. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Don’t do something stupid, Amanda. This is a dangerous place for anyone, let alone a woman without protection.”
“Look, I’m not your problem any longer. And I’m sure as hell not Simon’s problem—I don’t even know why you called him.”
“He’s your—”
“He’s my nothing. Not anymore. In case you haven’t noticed, the only connection we had is long gone. Besides, this whole discussion is moot. You wanted me gone. Fine. I’m leaving. What I do after that is none of your damn business.”
She finally faced him, fixed him with the most intimidating doctor look she had. It didn’t really work—his scowl was a hell of a lot better than hers and always had been—but he did have the grace to look ashamed. Good. They’d been friends forever, and a friend wasn’t supposed to throw her to the wolves when she was at her most vulnerable.
Even worse, he’d thrown her to one particular wolf.
“You need someone to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, because you’ve done such a bang-up job of it so far. And I’ve let you get away with it because I was afraid of hurting you more. That’s on me. But why take the transport truck when you have Simon, and an airplane, ready to take you to the States with no hassle? The situation here is escalating. If you have an option other than the transport truck, it makes sense that you take it. Besides, you and Simon need some time to work things out.”
“There’s nothing to work out, Jack. I keep telling you that. Whatever Simon and I once had is long over. And now that Gabby’s gone, there’s nothing between us at all. I don’t have a clue why he came, but I do know that I will not be leaving with him.”
“Yeah, because wandering around Africa, purposeless, is such a good idea.”
“It’s better than wandering around Boston alone.”
“So go somewhere else. Go to California or Hawaii. Jamaica. Lie on the beach somewhere. Eat, sleep. Recuperate.”
“Sure. Why not? My daughter’s dead. Why the hell shouldn’t I take a tropical vacation? If I’m really lucky, maybe they’ll let me keep the little umbrellas from my drinks.”
“You’d rather punish yourself forever?” he demanded. “Work yourself to death? What’s that going to do? You still won’t bring her back.”
“No, but if I’m dead, at least I won’t feel the pain anymore.”
Jack blanched and she knew, right away, that she’d said the worst thing she possibly could have. She hadn’t really meant it, at least not the way Jack was taking it. She wasn’t suicidal, had always been too much of a fighter to consider that, even now, when everything was so messed up. But the oblivion provided by working twenty-hour days, week after week, month after month, was welcome. If she was tired enough, maybe she’d finally be able to stop thinking. To stop remembering.
“Don’t hate me, Mandy,” he said gently, moving closer to her.
Some sixth sense kicked in, warned her of danger. But it was too little too late. She felt a prick on her upper arm. Watched in shock as Jack emptied a syringe into her biceps.
“What are you…” Her mouth and tongue wouldn’t cooperate enough to form words. The world around her went fuzzy, and she reached a hand out, trying to keep her balance. Jack tried to steady her, but she stumbled. Would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her. And then everything went black.
SIMON WAITED THE ALLOTTED fifteen minutes, then entered the tent in time to see Jack cradling Amanda in his arms. Even though he knew the two of them were only friends and Jack was following through on the plan—at Simon’s request—something ugly welled up inside him at the sight of Amanda held so intimately by another man.
His reaction caught him by surprise. It had been years since they’d been a couple and he thought he’d sublimated any lingering romantic feelings he’d had for her. After all, the last thing he wanted to do was give her a chance to dump him again. The first time had hurt more than enough.
Besides, he should be thanking Jack instead of contemplating the best way to rip out his throat. God knew, it had been hard enough to convince him to go along with this plan to get Amanda on the plane.
“I’ll take her from here,” Simon said, slipping his hands under the woman he had loved for almost half his life. “Can you get her bags?”
“Sure.” Jack checked her vitals then pulled away completely, and the first thing Simon felt was shock. He’d carried Amanda numerous times through the years—usually in circumstances a lot more pleasant than this—and never had she felt so…insubstantial. As if she would float away any second. Or worse, as if she really wasn’t there at all.
What the hell had she been doing to herself for the past eighteen months?
And why hadn’t he known how bad off she was? Why had it taken Jack to get him to check on her? Simon had known she wasn’t okay after the funeral. He’d known that accepting Gabby’s death was going to be the hardest thing she’d ever done, especially considering how valiantly she’d fought to save their daughter.
So why hadn’t he said to hell with the story—with all of the stories? Why hadn’t he come to get her long before this?
As he berated himself, Simon strode quickly through the darkness, his boots finding easy purchase despite his unfamiliarity with the terrain. He hadn’t been to Africa in longer than he cared to admit, but his body remembered the land as though he’d last been here yesterday. Jack walked beside him, grimly silent as he carried Amanda’s backpack and suitcase.
When they got to the plane, Simon made quick work of getting Amanda buckled in. Who knew how long the sedative Jack had given her would last? He had said it would be effective long enough for Simon to get her out of the country, but Amanda was incredibly strong-willed. If anyone could pull herself out of a stupor, it was Amanda.
After making sure she was safely settled, he walked to the plane’s open door and took her backpack from Jack while the pilot stowed her suitcase down below. Then he shook the other man’s hand.
“Thank you for calling me.” He kept his voice steady through sheer will alone. “I should have been here.”
“Don’t push her too hard, Simon. She’s more delicate than either of us ever suspected.”
Though that part of him that had been jealous earlier reared its ugly head a second time—who was Jack to tell him how to treat Amanda?—Simon pushed it down. Again. He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t realize how right the doctor was.
“I’ll take care of her.”
Jack nodded, then clapped him on the back before leaving. Simon stowed Amanda’s backpack before walking up the aisle and settling himself next to her.
In the next few minutes, the pilot finished with the pre-takeoff maneuvers. Before Simon had even registered the time passing, they were cruising down the makeshift runway, their only guide two men waving flashlights in the direction they were supposed to go.
Looking away, he pretended that risk didn’t drive the control freak inside of him completely bat-shit crazy. Hands clenched on the armrests, he glanced at Amanda as the plane finally became airborne seconds before the dirt road turned to sand. And wondered how angry she was going to be when she finally did wake up.
Angry enough to make his life a living hell for the next few days, or weeks, he figured. She knew how to hold a mean grudge, after all. Which wouldn’t matter if he was certain that he’d done the right thing so far. He only hoped his deviousness didn’t end up leaving her more damaged than she already was.
In a perfect world, he would have stuck around the camp and tried to convince her to see things his way, but their situation was far from perfect. To begin with, he was doubtful Amanda would ever trust him again. Not after what he’d done…and, more important, what he hadn’t.
And even more than that, he didn’t have the luxury of time. He’d pulled a bunch of strings and used up all his clout at the cable news agency he worked for in order to get this plane. But he hadn’t been able to swing it for more than four days. They needed to be in Atlanta two days from now—the network execs had a board meeting planned somewhere exotic and the plane could not be MIA when it came time for them to leave.
He might have run the risk of taking regular planes home—probably four at least—if he wasn’t absolutely convinced that Amanda would slip away from him in one of the airports while waiting for a connecting flight.
Admittedly, he’d thought they were going to Boston when he’d first commandeered the plane, but now that she’d sold the house, there was nothing for her there.
Pain kicked him in the stomach, hard, at the thought of someone else living in the house he had once shared with Amanda and Gabby, but he ignored it as he always did. He focused, instead, on the problem at hand. She had no friends left in Boston, really. And there was no family for either of them. Which meant they were going to Atlanta. To the apartment he’d moved into after taking the job at the network a year ago.
It wasn’t an ideal solution—his apartment was a one-bedroom, so small that twenty-five paces would take a person from one end to the other. It was perfect for him, given the amount of time he spent at home, but it would definitely be cramped with two of them.
Maybe he could talk to his landlord about switching to something a little bigger. Though he wouldn’t mind staying with a one-bedroom. There was a part of him that found the idea of sleeping next to Amanda again, after so long, very appealing.
That is, if she didn’t maim him, which he wouldn’t put past her after the various stunts he’d pulled through the years. He’d behaved bad enough when Gabby was alive, shirking responsibility and chasing after stories as far from home as he could get because he couldn’t deal with the fact that he was losing his little girl. But now he’d gone and kidnapped Amanda.
Sitting next to her on the plane, he was forced to acknowledge that perhaps this wasn’t the best-thought-out plan. Despite the fact that she looked like a stiff wind would knock her over and shatter her into a thousand pieces, Amanda was tough. The toughest woman he’d ever met.
He’d be lucky if she didn’t call the police as soon as they were back in the States. Still, if he could get her to his apartment, get her rested and fed and stabilized emotionally, everything would be worth it. Even spending a night in jail.
It hurt him to see her like this. The vibrancy that had been such a big part of her for as long as he’d known her was damn near extinguished. The fact that he was partly responsible… He shook his head, ran a hand over his face. The fact that he’d had a part in it made him want to kick his own ass. Or at least bend over, a target painted on the body part in question, as Amanda did it for him.
But he’d had to do something. Benign neglect certainly hadn’t worked.
Reaching over, he brushed his knuckles down Amanda’s hollowed cheeks. And wished for a forgiveness he didn’t think he deserved.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS AMANDA STRUGGLED slowly toward consciousness, her first thought was that she had contracted something from one of her patients. Her head was pounding, her body ached and her stomach was trying to turn itself inside out.
She groped for the small trash can she kept a few feet from her bed, but her hand met only air. Eyes flying open, she was struck by several new realities.
First, she wasn’t in her tent.
Second, wherever she was, Simon was sitting next to her, his green eyes both wary and urgent.
Third, her seat was vibrating.
And finally—though it was probably the most urgent of her realizations—she was going to throw up.
“I need—” She started to bolt out of her chair, only to be yanked back by the belt fastened low over her hips. She wasted precious seconds trying to figure out what was happening, even as her fingers fumbled frantically with the buckle.
“Whoa, Amanda, take it easy, sweetheart.” Simon’s voice, low and soothing, barely registered as panic overwhelmed her.
She was on an airplane.
She was going to puke.
She was on an airplane.
She was going to puke.
She was on an airplane.
She was going to— The clasp finally gave way and she leaped to her feet, made a mad dash up the aisle toward…she didn’t know what. A trash can. Some privacy. Anything.
She careened into something hard—another seat maybe—and got knocked backward. Reaching a hand out to steady herself, again she grabbed only air. The next thing she knew, she was on the ground, Simon pounding up the aisle after her. But it was too late. Her stomach revolted.
Thank God there was nothing in it.
Still, Simon shoved a paper bag in front of her, then squatted beside her as she dry heaved, again and again, her entire body shuddering with the force of her convulsions. When they finally stopped after what felt like hours, she pushed the bag away and let her forehead rest against the muted gray carpet. Inhaling long, shaky breaths, she tried to figure out what the hell was happening.
It didn’t take long. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of her nausea was that it cleared her head of the cobwebs that had taken up residence there and let her think clearly.
Obviously, she was on an airplane. Obviously, she hadn’t put herself there—she would remember making the decision to accompany Simon back to the States. In fact, the last thing she did remember was her conversation with Jack, and then the prick to her arm followed by a sudden onset of dizziness. All of which added up to the realization that she’d been drugged. She’d never responded well to sedatives, which explained her sickness.
As the last of the sluggishness cleared, she became aware of Simon crouched over her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. She jolted upright, shrugged off his hand.
“What the hell did you do to me?” she demanded, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears. Not that she gave a damn. Being kidnapped pretty much granted her the right to be as shrill as she wanted to be.
Simon drew back, his eyes wary as he scanned her face. Before he could say anything, the plane shook and shimmied as it hit a pocket of turbulence. “Let’s go back to our seats and talk this out. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He stood and offered her his hand.
She didn’t take it. Instead, she grabbed on to the nearest chair and pulled herself up, despite the continued weakness in her legs. “It’s a little late for that sentiment, isn’t it?” she asked. “Considering what you’ve done?”
The plane hit another pocket of turbulence, and the pilot’s voice came from the overhead speaker, asking them to fasten their seat belts. Furious—with Simon, Mother Nature, the hapless pilot and perhaps the entire world—Amanda flounced to where she and Simon had been sitting.
Strike that. To where Simon had been sitting and she’d been lying, unconscious. The bastard.
Refusing to sit next to him for one second longer—no matter how juvenile that made her—she plopped herself into the single seat on the other side of the aisle. As she did, she realized that the plane was quite luxurious. This wasn’t some little charter jet from Africa—this plane spoke of money and executives and power. It didn’t seem like Simon’s normal style, but then, she reminded herself abruptly, a lot of things could happen in eighteen months. She wasn’t the same woman she’d been a year and a half ago. Why should Simon not have changed?
The thought made her uncomfortable, particularly since she had plans to be coldly furious with the old Simon for the next five decades or so. She didn’t want to imagine Gabby’s death as having affected him. She didn’t want to have any sympathy for him at all.
Of course, he wasn’t too different from the old Simon. Otherwise he never would have dragged her out of Somalia without her permission. Although, if she was going to be technical, Jack had been the one to drug her. At Simon’s behest, obviously, but her oldest friend had betrayed her as surely as her ex-lover had. The next time she saw Jack, she’d have something to say to him and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Amanda, please.” Simon had settled himself across the aisle from her. “Can we talk about this?”
She very deliberately turned her head away from him. Nothing good would come from talking to him right now. The way she was feeling, she was as likely to hit him as she was to tell him to go to hell. And while she didn’t mind the latter, she’d never been a violent person and didn’t relish the thought of becoming one, even with these extenuating circumstances.
Of course, looking out the window only made her angrier. It had been night when she and Jack were talking in her tent and now it was full daylight outside. Which meant a lot of time had passed, especially considering the fact that they were traveling west. If only a few hours had passed, it would still be pitch-black.
The thought galvanized her, made her speak when she’d sworn to herself that she wasn’t going to say another word. “Where are we?”
He cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably. “A few hours out of Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?” she demanded incredulously. “How long have I been out?”
“About sixteen hours.”
“Sixteen— What the hell did you give me? Ketamine? You could have killed me!”
“I called Jack when we stopped to refuel. He had me check your vitals, and they were fine. He said the sedative was probably hitting you so hard because of how run-down you are.”
“I’m overwhelmed by both of your concern.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as she turned back around to face the window. Looking at the clouds was a lot easier than looking at Simon right now.
“Don’t do that,” he said suddenly. “Don’t pretend I’m not here—I used to hate when you did that.”
“What you like and don’t like is high on my priority list right now.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of facing him.
“I hate how you always retreat behind that stony wall of silence. I know you’re mad at me—you have the right to be. But can we talk it out like adults instead of sulking like a couple of children who’ve lost their ball on the playground?”
The words were clipped, crisp, and she realized it had been years since his accent sounded so heavy. He really was as upset by this whole thing as she was. Good. He deserved it. If that made her bitter and unfeeling, so be it. But at least she wasn’t a criminal—transporting another person from one continent to another without her permission.
“What do you want me to say, Simon?” The words were wrenched from her. “That it’s okay that you did this? It isn’t. Not at all. I’ve been making my own decisions since I was seventeen years old. I don’t appreciate one of this magnitude being taken out of my hands. And Atlanta? What the hell is in Atlanta?”
“My apartment. A little over a year ago, I took a job at a cable network based out of Atlanta.”
Despite herself, she glanced around at the very lush interior of the plane. “I think you mean you took a job at the cable network based in Atlanta, don’t you?”
He flushed a little. “Pretty much.”
She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t know what to say, not when she was so shocked at the changes in Simon. A couple of years ago, there was no way he’d have tied himself to anyone. He’d relished being one of the top freelance journalists in the world, free to follow whatever story caught his fancy.
“I still travel a lot, though. I’m one of the people they send out when all hell breaks loose somewhere in the world.”
And there it was. That sounded like the Simon she knew. An inexplicable sense of relief filled her.
When she still didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “Are we going to talk about this?” he asked. “About what happened in Africa and about…how you ended up here?” His voice trailed off lamely.
“Do you want me to wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze until your eyes bug out of your head?” she asked, sugar-sweet. “No? Then we probably shouldn’t talk quite yet. I’m still a little raw.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I really am.”
“You’re not the least bit sorry. Don’t insult me by pretending that you are.”
“You were killing yourself.”
“I was working. It’s what I do.” She forced herself to lower her voice, to swallow the words and insults and pain that wanted to spill out. Wanted to spill all over him. Taking a deep breath, she said as civilly as she could, “I was leaving, anyway. I was already packed.”
“You wouldn’t have come to the States—wouldn’t have gotten the rest you need.”
“That’s not your problem. I’m not your problem.”
“I can’t stand by and watch you do that to yourself.”
“Nobody asked you to. You could have gone on your merry way. God knows, you’re good at that.”
“Damn it, Amanda. I want to help you!” His voice was raw, impassioned. “When are you going to see that? When are you going to let me in?”
“Damn it, Simon,” she mimicked him, but her voice was as devoid of feeling as his was overwrought. “I don’t want your help. When are you going to figure that out? When are you going to leave me alone?”
It was his turn to lock his jaw. His turn to face the window and the seemingly infinite sky.
She knew he was angry. Knew that, even more, he was hurt by his inability to reach her. For a brief second, she tried to care. She’d never been one to take pleasure in someone else’s pain. But when she reached down inside of herself, tried to find some remnant of the feelings she’d once had for him, there was nothing left. Only a terrible numbness.
She went back to looking out the window herself. Started counting clouds. It was going to be a long few hours until they landed in Georgia.
SIMON UNFASTENED HIS SEAT BELT with combined feelings of relief and unease. Relief because they were finally in Atlanta after what had been one of the most emotionally uncomfortable flights of his life, with the exception of the one after Amanda had called to inform him that Gabby was dead.
He was uneasy, though, because these past few hours of silence between them had been colder than the temperatures he’d endured in Antarctica covering a story on climate change. The emotional chill and Amanda’s total and complete introspection made him wonder what she had planned. Because if he knew anything, it was that Amanda Jacobs was not the type to accept her fate—especially if that fate had anything to do with him.
Crossing to the rear of the plane, Simon retrieved her backpack from where he’d stashed it. She accepted it without a word, then walked toward the front and waited patiently for the door to be opened. Simon grabbed his bag and followed her.
In only a couple of minutes, they’d collected her suitcase and then headed toward customs. More than once, he tried to start a conversation, but she shut him down every time with her absolute refusal to speak. He might have thought her voice box had suffered some terrible calamity if she hadn’t spoken clearly and politely, if a little woodenly, to the customs officer who questioned her.
After checking out her American passport and welcoming her home, he let her enter. She walked through and then it was Simon’s turn to hand his documentation to the man. After answering questions about the stories that had taken him to four continents in three weeks, he, too, was allowed in.
Amanda wasn’t waiting for him on the other side of the gate. Instead, she’d taken off, using the extra time he’d spent dealing with the customs agent to put some distance between them.
Swearing bitterly, he set off running. It was evening, so the terminal wasn’t as crowded as it could have been, but it was still busy enough that he had trouble finding her, dressed as she was in simple baggy jeans and a black tank top.
When he got to the exit doors with still no sign of her, he paused, looked around wildly. Had he overreacted, jumped to conclusions? Maybe she’d had to use the restroom? But that didn’t make sense. She would have told him if that was the case. Wouldn’t she?
Walking slowly back the way he’d come, he scanned the exiting masses carefully. If he lost Amanda here, in Atlanta, he might never find her again. No cell phone, no address to go on, nothing at all. And while he’d spent the past eighteen months without her, he’d always known where she was. The idea of never finding her again was a sucker punch to the chest. Besides, how was he supposed to put his plans into action if he didn’t know where she was?
It was on his third scan of the area that his gaze fell on a sign that read Ground Transportation, Taxis. His heart kicked up its rhythm as he took off in the direction of the arrow. Why hadn’t he thought of it right away? Of course she would try to get a taxi.
As he burst into the steamy Atlanta night, he prayed he wasn’t too late. Not that he didn’t deserve to be left behind after his total and complete stupidity. But still, he couldn’t help hoping—
There. There she was. Thank God for the delay at the taxi stand. Amanda was still five people away from getting a cab.
Weaving through the crowd, he came up on her left side. “Thanks for getting in line,” he told her nonchalantly, as he cupped her elbow with his hand.
She whirled to face him, lips tight and eyes completely blank. The blankness frightened him. He’d always been able to tell where he stood, where Amanda was emotionally, by looking into her eyes. She’d never been one to hide her emotions away, so whatever she felt—happiness, anger, sorrow, confusion—shone brightly in the varying shades of gray.
Now there was nothing. He didn’t know if it was because she’d finally found a way to lock her emotions down deep inside her or if it was because she really didn’t feel anything. Either way, it didn’t bode well for her or the tattered remnants of the relationship he’d been hoping to salvage.
“I would suggest going to the back of the line,” she told him woodenly. “Because you are not sharing a cab with me.”
“Of course I am. How else are you going to find my apartment?”
A flash of surprise in those glorious eyes. Finally. “Why exactly would I need to know where your apartment is?”
“Because you’ll be staying with me.”
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