Epilogue
DOMINICAL, COSTA RICA
“I still like HORNET.”
“No,” Gabe told Jean-Luc for the hundredth time. But he had to raise his beer to his lips to hide a smile. He’d missed the guys and was glad they’d all made it to the housewarming party Audrey had somehow thrown together. Even Bryson and his boys had shown. Danny Giancarelli also put in an appearance with his stunning wife. And, of course, no party would be complete without Raffi.
Gabe hadn’t had much time over the past month to hang out with the guys, what with them attending constant training exercises, him buying the new house, setting up the international team office, and dealing with all the incoming contracts and resumes. Not to mention the way Audrey had thrown herself into her career and constantly spirited him off to Paris or New York or Tokyo for showings. He still wasn’t sure how he felt that her most popular painting was
Sunday Liberty
, a watercolor of him lying in a hammock in nothing but cargo shorts and his dog tags. Sure, the figure in the painting was faceless, but everyone
knew
it was him. It even said so on Audrey’s website.
The guys had given him grief about it for weeks.
“Well,” Jean-Luc said like a petulant child. “What else are we going to call ourselves? It’s a great acronym. I thought all you military types like acronyms?”
“No,” everyone said in unison.
“Will you drop it already?” Marcus said with an eye roll. “Nobody wants to be called HORNET.”
“Oh, hey, that reminds me.” Audrey jumped up from her seat on the lounger beside Gabe. “I made something for everyone.”
Handing him her margarita, she left the room.
“Should I get my swim trunks?” Marcus asked.
Gabe shrugged. He couldn’t begin to guess what she was up to. Last time she told them she had a present at Harvard’s twenty-fourth birthday party last month, she’d bombed them with water balloons.
Gabe heard the door of her workshop off the kitchen open and close. Please, he thought, don’t let her have water balloons again. Or worse, a hose.
All smiles, she came back to the patio with nothing but a box of gray T-shirts and set it on the table.
“I used to draw caricatures for a living so…” She unfolded the first and shook it out. “Here, Jean-Luc, this one’s yours.”
Jean-Luc grinned, yanked off his shirt, and pulled on the one she handed him. Across the shoulders in dark yellow lettering was his nickname, “Ragin’ Cajun.” Underneath that, in smaller lettering: “Hostage Rescue & Negotiation Team.”
No wonder she wanted to know everyone’s nicknames last week. The little sneak. He’d known for weeks she was up to something, but hadn’t been able to figure out what.
“I kind of went with Jean-Luc’s hornet theme,” she explained as she passed the shirts out.
On the front was a cartoony depiction of a beehive surrounded by six hornets sporting the faces of each of the men. Marcus’s hornet wore a fedora and Harvard’s carried a book. Jesse’s wore a stethoscope and cowboy hat. Ian’s carried a bomb with a lit fuse, which made the hardass chuckle when she handed him his shirt. Even Quinn’s lips twitched as he got a load of the camouflage greasepaint and bandolier his hornet wore.
Finally, she returned to Gabe’s side and handed him the last folded shirt. His hornet stood inside the hive with a cane and an air of superiority.
The cane. He looked at it, propped beside the chair. Had she included the damn thing six months ago, he would’ve taken offense. Now—not that he’d admit it aloud—he kind of liked it. He
really
liked the crown she’d drawn on his hornet’s head. Grinning, he held up the shirt and read the back. Instead of “Stonewall,” the nickname his SEAL teammates had dubbed him so many years ago, it said, “King Bee.”
Gabe caught her hand and drew her down onto his lap for a kiss. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Good.” She returned his kiss. “’Cuz I made myself one that says Queen Bee. Of course, we’ll have to get married to make it official.”
He sputtered. “Married? But—but—I thought living together was enough.”
With an indulgent smile, she patted his cheek. “It was. Now it’s not. I’m flighty like that, so you’d better get me to the altar before I change my mind again.” She gave him another quick kiss on the lips as Raffi strolled over and held out a hand to help her off his lap.
“I’m kidnapping your woman,” Raffi said, “and holding her ransom for some girl talk.”
Gabe pointed at him. “Don’t even joke about that. It’s not funny.”
“Bro, I never joke about girl talk.” With a grin, he looped his arm through Audrey’s and they sidled away, laughing quietly together.
Gabe stared after them with a scowl. She wanted to get married? Okay, yeah, he’d known from the start she did. Someday. But not now. She had to know how much he loved her—he sure showed her as often as he could—so why did she need the rings, and the priest, and the cake, and the license? Couldn’t they just go on like they had been? Why screw with something that wasn’t broken?
“You look like my sister just beaned you upside the head with a two-by-four.”
“She did,” Gabe muttered and rubbed his head. “A whopper of a two-by-four.”
Married?
Bryson grinned and held out a fresh bottle of beer. “Here. I’ve discovered this is the best cure for the headache she causes.”
“Thanks.” He took a swig from the bottle and eyed his possible future brother-in-law. Bryson had aged considerably over the past several months, had lost the little bit of extra weight he’d carried before the hostage situation, and had very little hair left on his head. But stress did that to a guy.
“How you holding up?”
“Actually,” he said and looked toward the beach where Ian—of all people—played with Bryson’s sons in the water. “I’m good. And no, I’m not just saying that. Audrey was right.”
“She does have that annoying habit.”
“Yes, she does. And I wish I would have listened to her a lot sooner. There’s so much I’ve missed out on with my sons—that’s all I kept thinking about when I was in that basement. That I’d never see them again, never hold them, or kiss them goodnight. No more baseball games or karate lessons or birthday parties, stuff I always took for granted. But even after I got home, I fell back into my old habits. What Chloe—Claudia—did was the wake-up call I needed.” He winced, took a swallow of beer. “I can’t say I’d do it all over again, because if I had known from the start about Chloe—Claudia—whatever her name is—I wouldn’t have married her.”
“We still haven’t found her,” Gabe said.
“You won’t.” His laugh sounded bitter and self-deprecating. “She cleaned out one of our joint accounts, and I’m sure by now she’s found herself another rich husband to sponge off of. God, I was a fool, but I really did love her. Part of me still does.”
A squeal of sheer excitement boomeranged up from the beach. Gabe glanced down, watched as Ian picked up Ashton and all but body slammed the kid into the next incoming wave. Laughing and splashing, Ashton surfaced like a buoy thanks to his bright red water wings. He launched himself at Ian, who pretended to stagger under both boys’ weight when Grayson joined in. The three of them went under the next wave together.
Bryson chuckled. “He’s good with them.”
Yeah, go figure. “How about your boys? How are they coping?”
“Better than me,” Bryson admitted. “They haven’t asked about her once. She was never… Even though she was their mother, they were better judges of—” He broke off and took another drink, but he didn’t have to finish the thought. Gabe knew what he was trying to say, because he felt the exact same way toward Catherine Bristow as the boys did about Claudia.
Just because a woman gives birth does not mean she’s a mother in any but one sense of the word.
“So,” Bryson said after a long moment of watching his sons play. He turned to face Gabe. “I don’t suppose I have to give you that cliché speech about not hurting my sister or blah, blah, blah.”
Gabe laughed. “No, you don’t.”
“Good, because I like you. Beyond the obvious reason that you saved my life, you’re good for her. She’s always marched to the beat of her own drum—”
“Marched? More like done the conga.”
Bryson grinned with genuine pleasure. “See, you get her. You…ground her in a way I’ve never been able to, and you make her happy. Just don’t let her railroad you into marriage if you’re not ready. Believe me, you’ll both be much happier in the long run.”
Gabe managed to hold back a wince as Bryson walked away. There was that M word again.
God. Marriage.
She wanted to get married.
But then, as he sat there watching Ian play with the kids, he thought about it, really considered it. What if she did change her mind about them and kicked him to the curb? It would destroy him—he was that ridiculously in love with her. So why not make his claim to her legal?
Actually, he kind of enjoyed the idea of her wearing his ring, having his last name, and started wondering if any jewelers in San Jose were open on Sunday. Or, even better, a drive-thru chapel? The faster he tied her to him forever, the better.
Too bad they weren’t closer to Las Vegas….
As a matter of fact, that was a good idea. A Vegas wedding. It was so unlike him, so wild, so spontaneous, so…
Audrey
. She’d love it.
He pushed out of the lounger, gimped through the living room to the closed doors of his office, and slipped inside. In five minutes, he had two first-class plane tickets and a suite at Caesars Palace booked for a week. They left the day after tomorrow.
Smiling, Gabe shut his laptop and picked up the printed tickets. He’d surprise her with them later tonight after everyone turned in, after he took her to bed and made slow, careful love to her for several delicious hours.
A knock sounded at the door and Jesse poked his head into the office. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” He sat behind his desk again, still grinning, and Jesse gave him a look like he was worried about Gabe’s sanity, which just made him grin more. “What’s up?”
“Wanted to talk to you about—” Jesse noticed the printouts and paused. Almost, Gabe thought, like he wanted the distraction. “Whacha got there?”
“Plane tickets. I’m marrying Audrey in Vegas on Tuesday. You’re all invited.”
Jesse’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. “Well, hell, I guess congrats are in order, then.”
“Sure are. I’m a lucky guy.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me.” He lifted his beer in a toast. “You’re stupid if you don’t put a ring on that lady’s finger before someone else does. Luckily, I never figured you for a stupid man.”
“Just don’t mention it to her,” Gabe said. “She doesn’t know yet.”
“Lips. Sealed.” He even made a zipping motion across his lips.
“Thanks,” Gabe said. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
Jesse’s smile faded. He set his beer on the edge of the desk, but hesitated, twirling the neck of the bottle between two fingers. “I don’t know how to put this…”
“Jess,” Gabe said when he trailed off. “Talk to me.”
“Yeah, all right.” He took off his hat and dragged a hand through his hair in that habitual way he had, then set the Stetson beside his beer. “It’s about Quinn. He’s not physically fit to be out in the field.”
Gabe sat back, taking a long moment to absorb that news. Jesse and Quinn had their issues, but he knew better than to think this was anything other than Jesse’s medical opinion. The cowboy was too good at what he did to sully his reputation with a misdiagnosis.
“Why?”
Jesse blew out a breath and slung one long jean-clad leg over the corner of the desk. He met Gabe’s stare head-on. “Did he tell you why the SEALs wouldn’t take him back?”
“His shoulder’s fucked up, but that shouldn’t factor into our job. What we do isn’t nearly as physically demanding as—”
Jesse was already shaking his head. “It’s because of the brain injury.”
Stunned speechless, Gabe stared at him for five long seconds. “Uh, whoa, back up. The
what
?”
“Think about it,” Jesse said. “When you two were in that car accident, you were traveling at what? Sixty-five, seventy miles an hour—and Quinn was thrown through the windshield. Man, he’s lucky to be alive and functioning as well as he is. He sustained massive head trauma, was in a coma for a week.”
Gabe recalled one night when Quinn came into his hospital room to check on him, and vaguely remembered the bandages wrapped around his friend’s head. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, too muddled by the painkillers in his system from his last surgery, too focused on healing his foot so he could keep his job. He had wondered, at one time or another throughout the past year, why a messed up shoulder had gotten the best of Quinn, why the great Achilles hadn’t even fought to stay a SEAL like Gabe had.
Now he understood and his throat tightened. “How bad is he?”
“Like I said, he’s awesome, considering. A goddamn walking miracle, you ask me,” Jesse added. “But he’s not sleeping or eating like he should, and he’s blacking out, losing time. I saw him do it once back in Bogotá, and I have a feeling it’s happening pretty regular.”
“Does he know? I mean, is he losing time and doesn’t realize it, or—”
“He knows. That’s why he kicked up such a fuss about me doing a physical and seeing his medical records.”
Gabe sighed. “If I pull him off the team, it’ll kill him.”
Jesse stood. “It’s your call, boss.” He settled his Stetson on his head, picked up his beer. “But, fair warning. If you don’t pull him, he’ll black out at the wrong time. Then he’ll wind up dead a whole helluva lot quicker.”
Gabe sat back in his chair and stared at the office door for a long time after Jesse left.
“Oh, man, Q,” he groaned and rubbed both hands over his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t he tell you what?”
He looked up as Audrey slipped inside his office and shut the door behind her. He started to say, “Nothing,” but closed his mouth and studied her. She wore another of her flowing dresses, her hair loose around her shoulders, her feet bare. He could tell by the way she kept curling her toes into his carpet that her feet were cold, as usual.