From the Beginning

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.