He'd been a fool. He'd gotten caught up in unimportant things and ignored matters of life and death. Remorse coursed through him.I forgive everyone who's hurt me. All of them. Every one.
The thing he'd been so reluctant to do—forgive—was shockingly easy in this moment.
God, please forgive me. I'm so sorry. Please forgive.
Into the chaos and pain came a clean wind. And that clean wind chased away the ashes of his mistakes. It brought strength and reassurance.
Love for his brothers and mother and father tugged at him. He could bear that, though. There was only one thing he could not bear, one thing that was breaking his heart.
Gemma. He hadn't gotten enough time with Gemma.
God, if you can, give me more time with her. I beg you.
He grabbed the shirt of the male agent next to him. “I need Dixon to call . . .” He pulled in a breath. “Gemma Clare.”
“Of course.”
“Tell her . . . that I . . . love her.” It was becoming hard to form words. They slid around, not cooperating.
“I will, but you'll be able to tell her yourself soon—”
“Tell her,” Jude repeated.
A verse whispered through his soul.Not my will, but thine.He put his last conscious moments into that prayer, surrendering.
Then his vision grayed.
* * *
Gemma's first thought upon waking this morning had been,Today's the day Cedric will sell Jude the secrets behind Rhapsodie. Today's the day.
Instantaneously, worry had leapt onto her. It hadn't let go. It had been with her all day at work. On and off she’d spent time praying. Spent time pacing. More time praying.
She was cleaning her studio in preparation to go home for the day when her phone rang. Caller ID announced an unknown number.
Her nerves pulled taut. “Hello?”
“Miss Clare?” The caller had the voice of an older man.
“Yes?”
“This is Agent Dixon Martin with the FBI. Agent Camden has been injured.”
Her stomach dropped and her pulse spiked.Injured.
“It’s serious,” he continued. “A gunshot wound. At the scene he insisted that you be notified. He wanted to tell you something.”
“Yes?” Her ears were ringing.
“He wanted you to know that he loves you.”
She squeezed closed her eyes. With her free hand, she supported her forehead to keep the weight of it, of this situation, from snapping her neck.Injured. She'd said goodbye to Jude the day before yesterday and he'd been fit, healthy, strong. It was hard to hold that memory of him up against the word picture Dixon had just relayed. Yet she knew with bone-deep conviction that Jude had, indeed, been shot.Thiswas why her instincts had told her to go to New York. “Where is he?” she rasped.
“Manhattan Valley Hospital. They just took him back for surgery. He's receiving the most outstanding medical care possible.”
Memories of the day of her mother's stroke circled like angry black crows—dive bombing, pecking her with lethal beaks. “Please tell me everything you know.”
“He was shot in the side. The bullet tore through the bottom edge of his left lung. It missed major blood vessels, thank God. Right now they're cleaning the wound and repairing the tissue.”
