“I’m going to use your fancy shower now,” she said.
Bennett cleared his throat. “I’ll find you something to wear. If you need me, just call.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He left her to it.
She was fine. She was fine. He kept repeating the words in his head as he snagged a shirt from his walk-in closet. He left it on his bed for her, then headed for one of his guest bathrooms.
He quickly showered, trying not to think of the bomb going off, of Ajay blown to pieces.Poor Ajay.
The images in Bennett’s head morphed, and he saw Hamed injured and dying. The harsh rattle of his breath. The fear in his friend’s eyes as he’d understood he wasn’t going to make it.
Why had Bennett survived, while Paul and Hamed hadn’t?
Life is pain, man.Anyone who says differently is selling something.Paul had always said that during their missions. Quoting from some movie Bennett had forgotten.
You have the chance to live, my friend. Make the most of it. Cherish it.Hamed’s voice, from one of their many long, after-mission conversations.
Bennett pressed his palms to the tiles, and let the water rain down over his head. He dragged in a breath.
In his head, he imagined Hadley hurt and bleeding. Dying.
No. She was alive, and naked in his shower.
They were both alive.
He turned off the shower, toweled dry, and dressed in long, black pajama pants. When he left the bathroom, Hadley was still in his en suite.
In the living area, he headed for the bar to pour himself a glass of Scotch. He reached for Balvenie 40-year-old.What the hell?He grabbed the Balvenie 60-year-old instead. He kept it for very special occasions. After pouring, he sank into his armchair.
He stared out the window and thought of Ajay. He sipped the Scotch, but tonight it tasted bitter.
He released a long breath.
There was a whisper of sound.
She appeared like an apparition, his white shirt looking ridiculously sexy on her.
Bennett didn’t move.
Her fingers ran along his shoulders. “So tightly wound. You keep it all locked in, then you sit in the dark and brood.”
“I’m not good company, Hadley.”
“I don’t mind.” She sat in his lap, sliding an arm across his shoulders. She smelled like his citrus body wash. Fresh and good.
“I keep imagining that second when I realized there was a bomb,” he said. “The moment it went off.”
“And your first instinct was to protect me.”
“You still got hurt.”
“Barely.” She took his glass and sipped, making a small murmur of appreciation. “This is good.”
“It should be. It’s over a hundred thousand pounds a bottle.”
Her hand froze for a second, then she set the glass down on the side table. Her other hand fiddled with the damp hair at the base of his neck.