Page 114 of The Forbidden Billionaire
I ask him what kind of things are on the menu, and we chat as we walk to his building and take the elevator up. He opens the door to his apartment and gestures for me to precede him.
I go into the living area and walk slowly through it toward the kitchen. It’s small and clean. Everywhere is neat and tidy, very Luke.
He tosses his keys on the table, and I rub the bridge of my nose. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. Have you got any Panadol?”
“In the cupboard above the sink.” He walks away toward his bedroom.
I go into the kitchen and open the two cupboard doors above the sink. The left one contains a box of tools. The right one has the kind of things you’d find in a first-aid box—antihistamine, ibuprofen, plasters, a couple of bandages, and a box of Panadol. I take them down, pop two out, and take them with a glass of water.
I’m just replacing them in the cupboard when I notice a box behind the tools. The crest on the front catches my eye, and I lift down the tools, then extract the box. It’s black and square, maybe four inches by six. It bears an embossed version of the official New Zealand Coat of Arms. Beneath it are the words “The New Zealand Gallantry Star.”
“That’s better,” Luke says, coming into the kitchen. “I’m ready to go now.” He stops beside me and stares at the box in my hand.
My face flushes. “I’m so sorry. I saw it at the back and recognized the crest.”
He just looks at it and doesn’t say anything.
“Whose is it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Mine,” he says. “Apparently.” He turns away. “I made a reservation for six-thirty. We don’t want to be late.”
But I continue to stand there, looking at the box. Carefully, I lift the hinged lid, which is lined with white satin. The medal sits on a molded black-felt insert.
It’s an eight-pointed silver star with a Royal Crown in the middle surrounded by a ring of fern fronds. The ribbon consists of a central purple stripe bordered by narrow white stripes, edged with broad crimson stripes.
I turn to face Luke, who’s waiting beyond the kitchen counter. His hands are in his pockets, and his shoulders are hunched.
“I had to interview a soldier who received one of these for a PR project when I was at university,” I whisper. “It’s awarded for outstanding gallantry in dangerous situations.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Was this given for the incident in Afghanistan?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He looks at his feet.
“For what reason?”
For a moment, I think he’s not going to reply. Then, in a low voice, he says, “For killing people.”
I walk around the counter, still holding the box, and duck my head to catch his eye. “Honey, they wouldn’t have given a gallantry award for that.”
He lifts his gaze to mine. “What do you want me to say?” His voice is harsh, defensive, but I don’t think it’s me he’s angry with. “I watched through my scope as my team got ambushed. I saw them all die, and I had to watch what they did to the female officer from a hundred yards away. I was under fire, so I couldn’tleave my post. All I could do was aim my rifle.” His eyes shine. “Seventeen times.”
My eyes widen as I interpret the number. “You killed seventeen Taliban fighters?”
He nods. “But I couldn’t save my friends. And then I was given a medal. I don’t think being the only one who survived is worthy of commendation, do you?” He stops, breathing heavily.
I look down at the medal. Carefully, I close the lid and put it on the counter. Then I move closer to him. “You killed seventeen of them with a rifle, even though you were under fire?”
Tears well in his eyes. “All those lives taken, and for what?”
I frown. For some reason, they don’t sound like his words. “Were your parents and Penny there when you were presented with the award?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think any of them could get over the fact that I’d killed people. My parents believed taking a life was always a sin. Penny agreed. When I came home they didn’t congratulate me. Mum cried. Dad said he hoped one day I’d find God’s forgiveness.”
My heart aches for him. He was doing his job, defending his friends, trying to save them. “You weren’t honored because you killed people,” I whisper. “You were honored because you refused to let evil win.” I take his face in my hands. “I am so, so proud of you.”
He looks into my eyes as though trying to decide whether he believes me. His brows draw together. And then his face crumples as tears spill over his lids.
