Angel's Rest(47)

Her own passion swelled and answered his thrusts. The delicious tension stretched. Grew taut. Almost. Almost. It’s been so long.

But even as she hung there at the very edge, he plunged one final time and cried out through gritted teeth. Cried out in pain and found release within her.

Heart pounding and aching for completion, Nic held her breath and watched him. The moment felt dangerous somehow. She didn’t dare to move. On the stereo, Frank Sinatra sang “O Holy Night.”

Slowly Gabe lowered his head. He opened his eyes and looked at her, dazed, as if he didn’t know who she was or where they were. Then, slowly, he focused. The dry, empty pools of brown filled first with pain, then with horror, and finally with tears.

Gabe Callahan wrenched himself out of her, away from her, rolling over onto his back. He flung his forearm over his eyes, breathing hard as if he’d run ten miles. His shoulders shook.

His whole body shuddered. The sound that escaped his lips was the most raw, mournful noise she’d ever heard.

It shook her from her stupor. She sat up. She touched him. Scooted beside him. She gathered his head and shoulders to her breast, rocking softly, saying softly, “It’s okay, Gabe. It’s okay.”

He shuddered silently.

She stroked his back and murmured soothingly, repeating over and over again, “It’s okay.”

He turned and wrapped his arms around her, buried his head against her, and cried harsh sobs that tore from his heart and ripped from his soul. Hot, bitter tears flowed from him like poison. Nic cradled him against her, rocking him, cooing soothing sounds, stroking his head and his shoulders. Her own eyes filled and overflowed.

How long they cried together, she would never know. Two minutes? Ten? Two hours? It was a moment out of time. The most intimate moment she had ever experienced. It was the saddest moment she’d ever known.

Until the afternoon got even sadder, when Gabe finally quieted, when he rolled away from her, turned away, and said in a quiet, raspy voice, “Please leave. I’m sorry. But please. Just leave.”

It hurt, but Nic understood his need to be alone. She wiped off her tears, gathered her clothes, and slipped quietly out into the cold.





EIGHT





The first time Gabe had met Jack Davenport was when he’d sauntered up to his isolated prison cell, announced that he was a colleague of Gabe’s brother Matthew at the CIA, and asked if he was really worth the $3 million ransom Jack had just paid his captors. When Gabe responded that he might not be, but the prisoner in the next cell who wanted to renounce his terrorist ways and reveal some particularly valuable secrets most certainly was, Jack did some quick thinking, scheming, and executing—in both a literal and figurative sense.

By “killing” both John G. Callahan and the recalcitrant terrorist and silencing some of their captors with bullets and others with cash, they had managed to protect the information in such a way that enabled the eventual apprehension of four sleeper cells on American soil and the disruption of terror plots that would have cost thousands of American lives.

Jack Davenport was a true unsung American hero. He was also Gabe Callahan’s best friend. Pam knew that, too, so he wasn’t too terribly surprised to hear the whoop whoop of helicopter blades on Christmas Day or to see Davenport land the bird on the helipad next to Eagle’s Way.

Just because he wasn’t surprised that his friend had come, however, didn’t mean he was happy to see him.

Gabe was in a full-fledged funk, and it had nothing to do with the fact that today was Christmas Day. Gabe hadn’t managed to get past the events of Christmas Eve.

A whole soup of emotions flavored his mood. Embarrassment. Anger. Guilt. Shame. Mortification. Guilt. Humiliation. Guilt. Guilt, and more guilt.

He couldn’t believe how he’d acted. He’d all but attacked Nic, ripping her clothes right off her body. He recalled the shock in her eyes. Her tears.

He was a sorry son of a bitch. What he’d done to her was unforgivable. It went against everything he believed, and the only saving grace was that she had responded enthusiastically.

He’d picked up the phone half a dozen times to call her and apologize. He’d picked up his car keys more times than that, thinking to do it in person. Each time he’d chickened out.

What could he say to excuse himself? He’d taken her like an animal, then told her to leave. He simply couldn’t find the words to express his sorrow and his shame.

Which meant he could add coward on top of the other charges stacked against him.