From the Beginning (35 page)

“Thanks for pointing that out and making the day a little bit worse.”

“Hey, honesty is always the best policy.”

“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that.”

He sighed. “Screwed it up with lover boy, did you?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Call him up, tell him you’re sorry. Trust me, guys like that stuff, since it happens so rarely.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a little difficult right now.”

“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

She reached for the remote control and turned the volume up on the TV as the anchor cut to Simon, live from Afghanistan. “That’s why.”

“Hmm, I see your point. When is he due back?”

“I don’t know. We weren’t exactly on good terms when he left.”

“So email him. Surely they have the internet, even in Afghanistan.”

“It’s not that easy. We’ve been doing this same thing for twelve years now.”

Lucas whistled. “Twelve years? And you’re going to throw all that away because you can’t admit when you’re wrong? There’s stubborn, Amanda, and then there’s stupid.”

“I know, I know. That’s what I keep—”

She broke off at the sound of gunfire from the TV. Rushing over to it, she watched in horror as the camera fell, hit the ground. She expected it to go black, but it didn’t. Instead, it showed Simon and two other Americans diving for cover as gunfire riddled the area. A huge explosion followed and the screen went black.

Seconds later, the regular anchor was back, ashen-faced and obviously shaken. “We apologize for that unexpected, and violent, end to the Afghanistan report. Please know we are monitoring the situation and will provide you with information regarding Simon Hart and his crew as soon as we find out anything.” He cleared his throat. “In other news…”

Amanda didn’t move as the man went on to talk about the huge dip in the American stock market that day. She just stood there, staring at the screen as every horrible thing that could have happened to Simon played through her head.

Please, don’t let him be dead. Please, don’t let him be dead.
Those six words became her mantra as she watched the TV, waiting to hear something, anything, about the only man she’d ever loved.

“Amanda, sweetheart, why don’t you sit down?” Lucas took hold of her shoulders, steered her toward the table.

“I don’t want to sit,” she shrieked, shocked that the sound was coming from her. “I need to figure out if he’s okay. I need to know—” Not Simon, she told herself. He always got out of these things okay. For years, people who worked with him had joked that he had nine lives. It wasn’t possible that he’d used them all up. It wasn’t possible.

“Of course you do. But I’m afraid you’re going to fall down if I leave you there.” He reached for his laptop. “Let’s call the station. See what they say.”

“I have the number.” She crossed to her locker, pulled out her purse and reached for the card Simon had given her weeks before. It had both his cell number and the inside line for the news desk on it.

Lucas handed her the phone, and she dialed with shaky fingers. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t be.

She all but leaped on the person who answered.

“I’m sorry. We’re not at liberty to give out information about Mr. Hart over the phone.”

“Please, just let me know if he’s okay. That’s all I need to know.”

“Again, the policy states—”

“Screw the policy! Please, if he’s hurt, I need to know.”

“Who is this again?”

Amanda repeated her name. “I’m his—” What did she call herself? His girlfriend? His lover? The mother of his child?

“Actually, you’re his emergency contact. I looked it up in the computer. I’m sorry, ma’am. We get all kinds calling in, trying to find out information about our reporters.”

“Just tell me, is he okay?”

“I’m not sure we know anything yet, but let me put you through to his boss. Maybe John can help you.”

Amanda nearly went crazy as she sat there, elevator music playing in her ear, waiting for Simon’s boss to pick up. Finally, when she was going to try to get the operator again, a gruff voice came on the line. “John Bradford.”

“My name is Amanda Jacobs and I’m a…friend of Simon Hart’s. They transferred me to you. Is there any news? Is he—”

“He’s alive, Ms. Jacobs.”

Amanda sagged with relief. “Thank God.”

“But he’s been badly hurt. They’re taking him to the American base for surgery, but right now I don’t know anything more than that.” His voice softened. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s—” She tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry it was impossible to form words.

“Ms. Jacobs?”

She swallowed convulsively. “I’m here. Please, can I leave my number? Will you call me as soon as you hear anything?”

“Of course.” He copied down her number, repeated it back to her. “I promise I’ll call you as soon as they tell me more about his condition.”

“Thank you,” she whispered before hanging up.

“He’s hurt,” Lucas said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Bad enough to need surgery, but his boss doesn’t know anything more than that right now.”

“So, we wait. Do you want me to take you home?”

She stared at him with unseeing eyes, trying to make sense of what he had said. Finally, the meaning sank in and she said, “No. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He crossed to the fridge, pulled out a cold soda. “Here, drink this.”

“I’m not—”

“Amanda!” He got in her face and stared her down as he popped the top on the drink. “I’m being a doctor here, not your friend. Drink the damn soda. You look like you need the sugar.”

She did as she was told, because she knew Lucas was right and it was easier than arguing with him. When she was done, he crouched down beside her, rubbed her back. “Now, do you want to stay here and wait or do you want to go home?”

“I don’t know. I can’t—” She. Damn it, she was not going to fall apart. Not now. Not ever again. She’d played the role of basket case long enough.

“Neither,” she told Lucas. “I’m going down to the network’s headquarters to hang out there. I want to know what’s going on with Simon as soon as they do.”

“They might not let you in,” Lucas cautioned.

She grabbed her purse and keys from her locker. “Oh, they’ll let me in.”

And they did, after an initial argument. She sat in the back of a somber newsroom, and as the night progressed, other relatives of the Afghanistan crew joined her.

It was the reminder she needed—Simon wasn’t the only one over there who might be fighting for his life. His cameraman, Mark Villanueva, had died from one of the first gunshots. His wife had left in hysterics, led away by her sister and father. Amanda felt terrible. She’d had dinner with the couple twice since she and Simon had started seeing each other again, and she had liked both of them immensely.

It was dawn before news came in about Simon’s condition. He’d been shot in the shoulder, but after the explosion he ended up with shrapnel in his chest and abdomen as well as a concussion. The doctors had managed to remove the bullet and most of the shrapnel, but injuries from the flying debris were severe. It had required several hours of surgery to repair the damage, and though they thought he was going to make it, they were keeping him in ICU for a day before evacuating him via medical flight—at the network’s expense—back to the States.

The doctor in her wanted details, but when it became obvious that she was not going to get them, she settled for rejoicing in the fact that Simon was alive. He was alive and he was coming home. For now, that was all that mattered.

SIMON AWOKE IN AN AMBULANCE. He was strapped in, an IV in one arm and a blood-pressure cuff on the other. “Where am I?” he asked in halting Dari, wondering where in Afghanistan he was being taken. He tried to lift his head to look around, but it took more strength than he had. Sinking onto the pillow, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain ripping through his chest.

“Simon?” Strangely, that sounded like Amanda’s voice. It couldn’t be, but he opened his eyes at the feel of a soft, cool hand on his cheek. She was leaning over him, eyes wide and concerned. “Are you in pain? Do you need more morphine?”

He wanted to say yes, considering it felt as if an elephant was doing the rumba on his chest, but at the same time he wanted to know why Amanda was with him. “Where are we?” he asked, shocked at how hard it was to get those three words out.

“In Atlanta. We’re on the way to the hospital. You were injured in Afghanistan—do you remember?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t something he was likely to forget, watching Mark die. Scrambling for cover himself. Hearing the bomb go off. He shuddered, then regretted the involuntary movement as it set off pain in new places in his body.

“Army doctors saved your life on base, and as soon as you were out of immediate danger, the network had you flown back here for treatment. You’re going to be in the hospital for a while.” She stroked his hair back from his face, and it felt so good to have her touch him again.

“You okay?” he asked, sure that the last—however the hell long it had been—had been terrible for her.

She laughed, and it sounded a little watery, but she was dry-eyed when she leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to be fine. And so are you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I love you, too, and I’m sorry I was an idiot. I won’t be that stupid again.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Now?”

“What do you mean? Yes, I love you now. I’ve always loved you.”

“No. I mean, you’re telling me this now? In an ambulance? When I can’t do anything about it?” He winced at the pain caused by talking.

“You don’t have to do anything about it.” She brushed a kiss over his forehead, then leaned down and pressed the button on his morphine drip. “You just lie there and sleep. I promise I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“For how long?” he asked. It was a challenge and both of them knew it.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

He smiled, a little. “I think I can pencil you in.”

She laughed. “I was thinking more along the lines of indelible ink.”

The morphine started kicking in, and he struggled not to float away. Not quite yet. “Be sure,” he told her, though it didn’t come out quite as strongly as he wanted it to. “Because this is it. I’m not letting you go this time. No matter how hard you try to push me away. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”

“Twelve years and you haven’t figured that out yet? Jeez, you’re even slower than I am.”

“I mean it, Mandy—” He was slurring his words, damn it. Hard to be taken seriously when he couldn’t even form a sentence.

“Hush, and go to sleep. You can threaten me some more when you wake up.”

“Not a threat.”