CHAPTER 6—DONOVAN'S MISTAKE

Damn, damn, damn, Donovan cursed as he disconnected the satellite call.  Her scent was all over him, her touch still burned his flesh, and the taste of her kiss still lingered on his lips.  Get your shit together, Donovan.  He couldn't leave until Lomax came with his replacement.  That meant he would be forced to stay with her at least two more days.  He didn't have the inner strength.  He had let go before, and would do so again without much provocation.  Donovan knew she was inside, he could hear her moving around, but she dared not enter where he stood hiding like the chickenshit that he was.  He couldn't face her, not after what he had done.  He had to take a shower, it was the only way he could physically remove her from him. 

"Frank?"

He jerked his head up as he heard Remy's voice calling his name.  He had just stepped out of the ancient shower, barely getting a towel wrapped around his waist.  She had gotten herself together nicely.  She, too, had changed clothes, and fixed her makeup.  She had brushed all her soft blonde hair over one shoulder.

"Do you mind," he asked quietly as he held onto the towel for dear life.

"I would think modesty isn't exactly necessary considering the circumstances," she said.

The hurt rolled off her words in waves.  She wanted something from him that he wasn't prepared to give.  He watched as she slowly approached him.  Her hand reached out to touch his arm, but he lifted it up quickly, defensively. 

"That's not such a great idea, Remy," he said.

She stepped back from him, withdrawing her hand.  "Frank?  What have I done?  I don't understand.  Are you married?  Involved?"

He shook his head absently.  "No, I'm not married or involved or anything.  It's not you."

"Then what," she spat.  "What?  Tell me."

"What happened shouldn't have happened."

"Then why," she began, her voice an indignant protest.

"I don't know," he said.  "Leave me."

His five-word sentence spoke volumes.  She understood completely [or at least thought she did].  Plaything.  Whore.  Mistress.  Quick shot.  She had heard it all, and what she saw in Donovan's eyes confirmed it.  Oh, how cold he was, how blunt.  It was she, no matter what he said.  Sexy, handsome men were the death of her.  Without another word, without another glance, she turned away and left him.

Silence became the name of the game for the next few hours.  Donovan couldn't avoid the living room for long.  It was the only furnished room in the small cabin.  He took house in the easy chair while Remy sought refuge on the daybed.  He found his eyes drifting to her again and again.  It was difficult for him to look away.  She was scribbling away at the legal pad like a woman possessed.  What he wouldn't give if he could erase the last few hours.  He would have definitely kept his wits about him.  Or would he?  He wasn't sure of much anymore.  He wanted to go back home and face his regular run-of-the mill demons.  Anything was better than this.  Donovan could have told her why he insisted on turning her away, but would she understand?  No one understood. 

He was so incredibly exhausted.  He wanted to lean back and rest his eyes for a moment. Before he did that, he looked around him, and spied the handcuffs.  He reached over and took hold of them.  He didn't want a repeat episode of what happened earlier.  Or did he?  Groaning inwardly, he leaned back and closed his eyes.  Within moments, he was asleep.

Ed and Frank were the Mutt and Jeff of the FBI.  They ended up as partners in every activity known to man.  Ed was like the kid brother Frank never had.  Both had been recruited and courted at the same time, and their bond grew strong very quickly.  They were the top two rookies in the squadron, but they didn't shrug away from healthy competition amongst themselves.  Whoever ended up besting the other, each man took his defeat in stride and moved on. 

Frank's brother-bond grew even stronger when Ed introduced him to his sister.  They had all met as a group in a local bar.  Back then, Frank was a bit looser, less guarded.  He could let go and have fun with the best of them.  He was immediately attracted to Cloe Lomax.  She was a bright, bubbly girl with honey blonde hair and the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.  The color was hard to describe, but he compared it to the soft purple of amethyst.  "Violet," Cloe had teased.  "You know, like Liz Taylor."  She had the ability to make him laugh, and he didn't want the night to end.

Although Ed was his friend, Frank didn't feel comfortable asking him for Cloe's contact information.  However, he pushed himself to do it.  He couldn't get her out of his mind.  Ed surprised Frank when he gave over the information without too much fuss.  He had figured his friend would like Cloe.  She had confided in her big brother that she wanted to see the handsome recruit with the dark eyes.

Most unlike himself, Frank nervously gazed down at Cloe's phone number.  He couldn't remember exactly how long he had stared at it before actually picking up the phone.  What's the big deal, he asked himself.  He would call, and she'd either agree to see him or not.  It wasn't a life or death type of situation.  Steeling himself and getting some balls about him, he finally picked up the phone and called Cloe Lomax.  It took all of fifteen seconds for her to accept a dinner invitation.  Her acceptance made him happy and thrilled him to the bone.  This was a pretty big deal for Frank.  He hadn't ever felt this way about a girl.  Sure, he had dated and/or slept with his fair share of women, but something about Cloe was special.

One date became two, two became four, and four grew into a full-blown love affair.  Frank was consumed by Cloe, and couldn't stand to be away from her for any length of time.  They eventually moved in together and planned to marry.  Ed had joked that he would finally be Frank's brother and asked him if he had a sister.  Yes, Frank had been captured by love hook, line, and sinker.  However, his happiness was short-lived.

In what Frank considered to be the irony of his life, his fiancé had witnessed a murder during a robbery.  She had been ensured that she would be protected.  Of course, Cloe was engaged to an up and coming FBI agent, and it simply meant she had added security.  Frank would have easily died for Cloe, no questions asked.  As it turned out, he almost did.  Just having made love, Frank and Cloe were in bed, both of them dozing on and off.  Unbeknownst to either of them, the killer had been stalking Cloe for weeks, and he eventually learned her routine, her habits, her bedtime, etc.  He knew Cloe had a lover, but he wasn't aware that the man was an agent in training.  It mattered little.  The witness had to die, and tonight she would.

Frank heard the intruder before Cloe even opened one eye.  Reacting, he flew out of the bed and flung himself onto the man's body.  Cloe awoke and screamed out Frank's name.  Her scream drew the attention of the intruder, and he fired his weapon.  The bullet should have missed Cloe altogether, but somehow, someway, fate had stepped in and helped angle the gun at just the right position.  The bullet lodged into Cloe's abdomen, knocking her back.  Frank tried desperately to wrench the gun away from the other man, but he wound up getting shot in the process.  Despite his own wound, despite the blood pouring from it, he continued to fight.  The gun went off again, and Frank was certain he had been hit once more.  However, he felt no pain.  He watched as the other man's eyes widened before growing glassy.  He let the man fall as he turned his attention toward Cloe.  Her hand was clutching at her abdomen, and Frank fell down to his knees before her. 

"Please, Cloe, let me see," he begged.

"I'm afraid, Frank, it doesn't hurt, it feels cold," she said with a moan.

"No, Cloe, it's okay.  Let me see."

She finally allowed him to pull her hand away.  The bullet hole was no bigger than a dime.  There was little blood flowing out of the wound, but he was almost certain she had been injured internally.  Without another thought, he called for an ambulance.  Frank rode with her and held tightly onto her hand.  She was lucid and seemed to be fine.  Frank had also been shot, but he wasn't worried about himself, and he tried to fight the paramedics who insisted on treating him.  He was more concerned about Cloe.

Frank relented to having his shoulder wound treated as Cloe was rushed into surgery.  He didn't give himself time to rest; he made his way to the hospital waiting room, refusing to leave for one second.  Ed joined him an hour later.  Together, the two men waited for what seemed like two lifetimes.  Frank took it as a bad sign.  Something had gone horribly wrong, and when he demanded an update, he was turned away.  Eventually, Frank couldn't sit any longer.  He began pacing the length of the waiting room obsessively, as if he were trying to rub a hole in the rug.

Cloe died during surgery.  At that time, the surgeons discovered that she had been right about six weeks pregnant.  They weren't even sure if she had known.  Her injuries were too significant, she had lost too much blood, and there was very little that could be done to save her life.  They knew Cloe's fiancé and brother were awaiting news.

Frank stopped pacing immediately as he noticed a doctor approaching.  The man had a grim look on his face, and it didn't take a medical degree to understand that the news was not good.  He barely heard the words 'significant blood loss.'  His mind was a billion miles away when the doctor mentioned that they had 'done everything they could.'  He batted aside the tired medical clichés and felt an emptiness creeping into his very soul.  When the doctor gently told Frank about the baby, he lost it.  It was the only words he had listened to, the only words that sank into his grief-stricken heart.  He vaguely wondered if she had known and hadn't told him yet.  It didn't matter anymore.  Both of them were dead.  A white-hot light stabbed his eye, penetrating his brain, and for a moment, he thought he was having a stroke.  He passed out cold.

Hours later when he awoke, he found himself in an ER bed with a cloth folded over his forehead.  The reality of what happened began to eat away at him.  He couldn't run or hide.  He had to face facts.  He failed to protect his fiancé and his unborn child.  He had made one of the greatest mistakes of his life, and it would haunt him forever.  Frank felt awkward around Ed after that, but Ed had harbored no hard feelings for Frank.  They continued to remain close, despite Cloe's death, but their easy brotherhood had been marred.  Frank and Ed had continued to work together throughout his tenure with the FBI, but he couldn't bring himself to visit his friend at home.  He couldn't stand looking at the pictures of Cloe that hung on Ed's walls. 

In his sleeping subconscious, all Donovan could see was violet eyes and blonde hair.  Remy.  She brought back the pain of Cloe all over again.  It wasn't that Remy even looked like Cloe, but those eyes, those haunting eyes.  They were burned into his mind, heart, and subconscious.  He didn't recognize it while he was awake, but asleep, when images of Cloe haunted him, he saw it.  His love for Cloe had blinded him.  If he hadn't been caught off guard, if they hadn't been making love, he might have been able to protect her like he should have.  It was a ridiculous thought, but it was also one that would never leave him.  He had taken Remy so wildly and found that he was ready to get lost again.  Yet, he couldn't shake the thought that Remy could have been murdered while he was satisfying his lust.  How could he have lived with himself if she had died?  He would not allow another slip; he would not allow another woman in his charge to die.

Remy's attention was drawn away from her writing.  Donovan was moaning softly in his sleep.  She couldn't sit still any longer.  Carefully, she approached his prone body and leaned over him.  There were tears falling from his closed eyelids.  Her hand ached to reach out and wipe them away.  He was a lonely, tortured soul, one that was untouchable.  She was tempted to take off in the Suburban and leave him be.  But she couldn't.

He exhaled a low sob, crying out a name:  "Cloe."

She drew away from him and went back to the daybed.  She didn't want to awaken him.  She didn't want to see his cold expression.  It would end up breaking her heart.

*  *  *

Toward dawn, Donovan awakened.  His eyes felt sticky and clouded.  He had dreamt about the woman whose name could not escape his lips.  Apparently, he had been sobbing in his sleep again.  He glanced over at Remy.  She was curled up on the daybed and appeared to be asleep.  He wondered vaguely if she had heard him in the night.  He shook the dream out of his head and stood.  He stretched his tall frame and grimaced as his spine crackled.  He couldn't wait to get into his own bed.

Donovan's eyes caught sight of Remy's legal pad.  She had placed it on the floor near her head.  His curiosity had not ended.  Taking an incredible chance, he approached the legal pad and picked it up.  She had filled over half the pages in the pad.  Not proud of himself in the least, he took the pad and carried it outside.  Like a schoolboy with his comic books after bedtime, he retrieved a penlight from his pocket and clicked it on.

This cabin is like a prison, Remy wrote.  I feel as if the goon who seems to be all arms and legs is holding me hostage.  Yet, I can't stop looking at him when he's near.  He has calmness about him, as if he knows exactly what he wants and where he wants to go.  Donovan flipped the page over.  I wonder if he notices me watching him.  I can't stand it that I am attracted to the shithead.  Why do I always want unobtainable men?  Men, especially sexy men like the goon, tend to use me as a doormat.  I suppose it's my lot in life.  Donovan skipped even more pages.  He supposed he had been looking for something specific, something written just a few hours ago.  It didn't take long.  He made love to me, it was the most intense moment of my life, she had written.  Here, her handwriting had gotten shaky, as if she were upset.  He turned me away as if I had hurt him.  I don't see why he reacted the way he did.  I wanted him.  I think he wanted me.  I wanted him more than I dare to write.  I don't know what I'm going to do.  I think he's leaving soon, and I can't bear the thought.  I can't believe how careless I was, how quickly I fell into his arms.  Sex is sex, nothing more, nothing less.  I don't know what to do.  Frank Donovan, how I loathe you, how I want you.  God help me, I'm following the same path as I followed with Anthony.  HELP ME! 

"What are you doing," a voice asked from behind.

His hand was caught in the cookie jar.  The red fire of embarrassment, which always began at his ears, quickly spread to his neck, and finally settled on his face.  How would we explain his way out of this one?

Viciously, she snatched the legal pad out of his hands.  "Is nothing sacred to you?  You had no right."

His nosiness had gotten him into more trouble than he cared to admit.  "Remy, I-"  His voice died out for a moment.  "I'm sorry."  He instantly knew his words would do no good.

"Fuck you and your apology," she spat.  "I don't need it; I don't want it."  She ripped the pages out of the legal pad and tore them into fourths.  She threw them carelessly into the air and they fluttered all about like large pieces of confetti.  "Right now, those words mean about as much as the fuck we had, and apparently that meant nothing."  She turned from him abruptly and walked back inside. 

There was no damage control.  He could have tried, but it would have been no use.  He went back inside and noticed that Remy had gotten back into bed.  Two more days, he thought.  How the hell am I supposed to make it another two days?