“Good food, and some zydeco music, make people happy. Cooking is relaxing for me. Not much different from mixing explosives.” He poured more pancakes.
She scoffed. “Somehow I doubt that.”
He met her gaze, smiled. “Yeah, but it’s still cookin’.” He flipped a pancake, then from another pan, lifted the bacon onto a paper towel. “When Mom died, Jasmine was alone, barely legal age, and too wild to be unsupervised. God, she was a handful.” He shook his head. “She was angry with everyone, including me.” He started another stack. “The house was falling apart around her, and Mom’s restaurant wouldn’t pass a health inspection without being gutted.” He shrugged. “Noble kept her in line, but she wasn’t a juvenile. When I got out, I renovated everything. I have the mortgage to prove it…then gave her a job and home.”
Her brows shot up. “You left the Marines then?”
“I was on hardship leave, then—yes, I did.”
An uncomfortable silence pushed between them. His constant absence was the biggest hurdle between them then. Like a peace offering, he held up a strip of bacon.
She ate it quickly. “You planning on eating all that yourself?”
He flipped pancakes, shook the pan of sautéing veggies. “No, for the troops.” He pointed to the ceiling and she looked at the scaffolding, but couldn’t see more than the Marines’ boots from here. “How about one of Gracie’s omelets?”
“With onions and cheese?”
He laughed to himself and pointed to the large fridge. “Work for it.” She hopped down and a second later, brought him a massive bag of cheddar.
“I love to eat, just wasn’t excited about cooking.”
He glanced at her as he whisked a half dozen eggs. “You were better at other things.” The instant it was out he knew it was a mistake.
But she just smiled brightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment, since my ego could use one.” She pushed her hair back, and glanced at the the chaos of knives and bowls and the simmering pans. “Clearly there’s more to you than I got to know.”
“Not really.” She watched him make the omelet, encouraging more cheese and leaning over the pan to catch the aroma.
“Bullshit. Bombs, a pilot, a chef, you’ve been busy.”
To keep from missing you, he thought, then jumped to flip the omelet. She gathered plates and silverware, and he plated up the omelet with a side of pancakes and bacon. He set it on the counter, then kicked the stool closer. “Chow down, rebel.” She met his gaze, her lips curving and a playful glint in her eyes reminding him of the last time he saw it. It involved sweaty skin and about every surface in their little apartment. “God, Livi, don’t look at me like that.”
“I have a certain look?”
“Yes, and you damn well know it.” He pulled her off the stool and that was another mistake. Despite the layers of flannel, she was like a heat-seeking missile; everything in him was attracted to her in a big way. The layers of flannel and fleece didn’t make a damn bit of difference. He knew that body too well to forget. “So behave.” He pushed her into a chair when he wanted to kiss her senseless.
“Only because we have an audience,” she said, then took a bite. She moaned. “Your mother would be so proud.”
Smiling, he touched the pad on his throat. PRRs were rigged for voice activated. “Tango One, Chow is on.”
She barely glanced up as the Marines worked their way down the framing. “Fabulous, Sebastian.” She tasted pancakes, bit into the bacon. He took a seat beside her. “You’re not having any?”
“Had four pancakes while I was cooking them.”
“When this is over, I’m coming to New Orleans to see your place.”
“You’re always welcome.”
She went still, the fork halfway to her mouth. “I never thought I was.”
A crook of her finger, and he’d have come running, willing to risk the heartache all over again. The noise of the Marines put the kibosh on anything further.
“Save us anything, Doc?” Recker said.
Sebastian hopped up to grab the food out of the warming drawers.
“Hey, I have four older brothers. I know it’s get in here first or you guys leave nothing behind.” She shifted on the stool, snuggling into her robe, sampling the pancakes. He heard her mutter, “They’re light and fluffy carriers for butter and syrup.” She dunked a piece and he noticed she’d scratched her arm while she ate.
“Your stitches itch?”
“Yeah, they’re only three days old, no, four, but I’m mad at Cruz, so they’re still in.”
“I can take them out for you.” Her gaze swung up. “Or Max, he has the training.”
“He’s sleeping,” she said, then looked at the Marines hovering over plates. The serving platter was nearly empty.
“We won’t be missed,” he said lowly and she left the chair, heading to her cube. He grabbed the small medical kit from the comm room and joined her. She hit the keypad and the door popped. He followed her in, glancing around at the simple décor. Everything had a place, neatly tucked in a wall of cubicles, but he could tell a scientist occupied the room. There were bone samples in bags tacked to the wall.
She took off her robe and sat on the bed while he searched the medical kit for scissors and forceps. She tried rolling up her flannel pajama sleeve but the wound was too high. “Oh, hell,” she muttered and unbuttoned the top. He arched a brow. “Not like it’s all unfamiliar.” She pulled her arm free as he sat on the bed beside her.
He glimpsed the rounded curve of her breast. “My memory is excellent.” He started cutting the stitches.
“So’s mine.” He met her gaze and she wiggled her brows. “We had some fun, didn’t we?”
“God, Livi, don’t go there.”
Her expression fell, and she stared at her hands. “I’m sorry. It must be hard to be around me, let alone work with me.”
He caught her chin, tipping until she met his gaze. “No, it’s not. Being with you is as comfortable as it ever was. It’s keeping my hands off you that’s tough.”
Her lips curved in a slow smile and she looked relieved. “Who says you have to?”
“God, do you have to be so honest?” He didn’t expect an answer and pulled the last stitch free, cleaned the tiny dot of blood, then applied a bandage.
“Then you’d know I’d be lying.” She slid her arm back into the pajama top, then pulled a down blanket over her shoulders. “Thank you.”
He replaced the tools and snapped the kit closed, then started to stand, but she grabbed his arm, pulling him down.
“If you don’t kiss me right now I’m going to attack you.”
“No.”
She arched a brow.
“A kiss isn’t enough. It never was.”
She gripped his jacket, pulling him nearer, and he saw the mischievous glint in her eyes. “But it’s a good start.” Her face neared, her gaze lowering to his mouth, then meeting his gaze. “Or are you afraid of me now?”
He scoffed. “Afraid I’ll drown myself in you.”
Her mouth brushed his and she whispered, “Man overboard.”
He sank into her, into her mouth, and like a thousand times before, the sensuality between them didn’t have levels; it rocketed straight to lush excess. He took her mouth like a man dying of thirst, his arms slipping around her and under her top. She moaned, a dark sultry sound that ignited him in several places, and when she pulled him with her as she fell back onto the bed, he went eagerly. His mouth trailed her throat, then lower. Olivia wasn’t shy, and flipped a button, then another. His hands slid beneath and closed over her bare breasts.
“Sebastian,” she said, her warm little hands finding his bare skin beneath his clothes. He nudged the flannel aside, exposing her lush full breasts, and Olivia encouraged, “Taste me.”
He did, his lips closing over her nipple. She gasped, arched, offering more and he indulged in the taste of her, the smooth feel of her skin. The little sounds she made were just more fuel fo
r the fire, and he covered her mouth, silencing them. She responded wildly, her kiss mauling, drawing him tight as a bow. Then she tore at his Gore-Tex jacket, the layers of sweaters and shirt.
“God, you taste good.”
“And you do that so well,” she said as he laved at her nipple, tugging, and slid his hand down her hip and between her thighs. She spread wider, and he was about to touch her more deeply when a knock echoed in the cube. They went still, and he met her gaze.
“I’m gonna beat whoever’s on the other side of that door.”
He was, too, and it made him realize the dig was not the place to start this. Not with the close confines and everyone knowing each other’s business. He pushed off her, then went to the door, glancing at her before he opened it. Her disheveled hair and the hint of bosom was enough to give him a dangerous hard-on. He gestured and she buttoned up, but not before she flashed him. He chuckled, shaking his head, then opened the door.
Max stood on the other side. “Second watch, I’m on it.” His gaze slipped past to Olivia sitting on the bed, his grin tell-tale with amusement. “Carry on.” He chuckled as he walked away. “Cuz I know you will.”
Sebastian shut the door.
“Okay, that was a little embarrassing.”
“This isn’t happening, not here.” He flicked at their surroundings. “Not now.”
She looked crestfallen, and fell back into the pillows. “I have no dignity around you.”
And he had no restraint. But Sebastian wasn’t certain he wanted anything temporary with her, then knew he didn’t. Old heartache kept him cautious. When it came to Olivia, he had only so much willpower in his arsenal. “Try to behave, Doctor Corrigan. You are the boss.”
She tipped her chin up, her green eyes daring him. “But being bad is much more fun.”
Smiling, he shook his head, opening the door. “G’night, Olivia.”
Just before he closed it, he heard, “Sweet dreams.”
Sweet? Not a chance.
Ice Harvest
0900 hours
Photographs, grids, and readings were done and Olivia savored the single moment as she stepped on the freshly constructed wood platform one hundred thirty feet below the ice. It stretched over the deck of the Viking’s ship and she didn’t fight the tears blurring her vision. Finally. She hadn’t slept much, the anticipation waking her. That and the sub thing Sebastian was checking out. She didn’t really understand how something in Chechnya three weeks ago mattered to Ice Harvest, but he’d find out. Noble was hostage for whatever she’d find in here.
The ice cutting was slow when the average temperatures were below zero inside the cave. She didn’t feel it, her thermal suit keeping her toasty. Fine tubes of some liquid she couldn’t name ran through the suit fabric and worked with her own body heat. A little warmth went a long way in that liquid conductor, and she loved that she got to test it. She could see the use of it in lots of cold-weather gear. Inside the ice cavern, it was quiet, the occasional slurp of water being sucked through the tubing, but other than that, she could hear herself breathe. Heat was direct and water immediately drawn out. The air was circulated every hour without anyone inside because it created a pudding-thick fog. She shined her light into the far recesses and she imagined the Viking’s crew struggling against an ice storm, unable to maneuver away from shore as most mariners did then.
She looked up, the roping to her harness flopping loosely as Dana and Kit prepared to come down. All three of them would catalog samples for testing. The technicians above were champing to get more than bits of dirty ice under their microscopes. She was happy to oblige, and knelt, turned up the lights, then set the timer. The equipment produced heat and they would excavate in two-hour intervals, allowing the temperatures to remain frigid. The entire surface of the deck had an electronic grid set with lasers. Not a single stream hit the ice and it had taken her half her dig time to get it right. The laser levels were feeding data to Cruz above, including the seismic sensors, and he’d re-create it in CGI. The guy was a genius, but he didn’t know what he was missing, she thought, glancing at the supports and platforms before she pulled long tweezers from her tool vest. She got close to the deck and the light on her helmet showed the grain of the aspen and spruce. She used her rope system so she could lean out and not fall into the Viking’s face.
“Hello, Jal,” she whispered and simply held there, staring at the long hair that still held its yellow shade. Gently, she pried his cloak apart, the rankness of decayed wet fur making her slide up her mask. She’d passed two layers of animal skins before she found fabric. She slid a frayed thread free and bagged it. Then she found a leather string around his neck and worked it free. A small purse hung from the end. It had weight and she tipped it. Moldy coins slipped into her palm. Coins and pebbles, she thought, bagging it as well.
She moved to his feet and took a scraping from his boots. Cruz could analyze it and tell her where Jal had been. It took her over an hour to tag the surface artifacts, and she moved to the Chinese warrior nearly flattened around the broken mast pole. He was face out, his body bent from the pressure of ice. It was sorta gross seeing a human body that way, but she was interested in his queue, the long braid of hair. She worked it free, feeling perspiration on her upper lip, and stopped.
“You must be Zhu,” she said when she recognized the emperor’s symbol on the clasp anchoring the braid. It was still dark despite the burn of freezing temperatures. The mummy was dressed in layers of clothes and she gently peeled back a level and almost screamed when she saw the stole embroidered with the never-ending Celtic rope. Her heart pounded. “Yes, yes, freakin’ yes!” She wiggled a happy dance.
“Doctor Corrigan,” came through her personal role radio. “Come to the surface, now, the ice cave is shifting.”
She looked up. Dana and Kit were on their way back up already. “I don’t feel anything.” Just the same, she pocketed her tools, worked the ratchet to bring herself upright, and stood on the new platform. “Which side?”
“East, the water side. Don’t risk it.”
She started climbing back up. “I’m coming up, I swear. How big a shift?”
“Forty percent!”
Oh God, she thought, moving faster. “Are you sure? Check it again. It’s stable down here.” She shined her light over the interior that was more than forty feet wide. It looked more like a cavern now with arches cut into the ice to support the tremendous weight. She could see the sensors implanted every five feet to detect any fracturing. Olivia hoped it held off and strained to hoist her weight, the walls too hard to gain any traction even with her spikes. She aimed for the next platform. Then she heard a soft crack, and spied her light around. Above her was the slanted end of the three-foot-wide platform fastened into the ice. The anchor bolt had worked itself out. I can fix that, she thought and worked the ropes. She reached for it, but could barely get her gloved fist around the bolt. She climbed higher and with her feet together, aimed for the bolt to push it back in till the engineer could repair it. She pushed off and hit it, feeling the smack up her legs. The anchor didn’t move. She pulled on the rope, swinging free in the center. Her arms trembled. The air smelled fetid and she reached for the oxygen canister. She couldn’t and grabbed the rope, pulling.
“Cruz. Get some muscle and pull me up, will you?”
She’d barely taken a breath when the platform broke free.
Sebastian shifted his position on the dome roof, and sighted on the blinding white horizon stretching to blue water. The Northern Lion was somewhere in the Greenland Sea with Noble aboard. With a killer. Safia was tracking, and all photos were running through their database. He was impatient for a hit. He was interested in the woman running the show because the Spetsnaz was bowing and scraping to her and that just didn’t sit right with him.
The wind barely cut across the dome and he felt the warmth of the sun. Not even forty, though he’d bet Max was feeling every degree on that snowmobile. He’d sent Max out with two Marines
for a spin around the neighborhood and see what was near. Satellite images didn’t mean much when everything was covered in snow and ice. Behind him was land so green it looked like velvet, and he turned in a slow circle back to the horizon.
The Marine beside him checked his watch. “Two hours to de-Rossing time.”
Sebastian smiled. He’d fly Ross out of here in an hour or so, McGill’s orders, and none too soon. The man had a way of pissing everyone off, the troops especially. The young devil dogs considered him no more than a pencil pusher and not physically fit enough to be out on the Arctic Circle. Sebastian thought the guys were just glad to be busy instead of loitering.
He felt a shudder in the soles of his boots and looked down the scaffolding. Like something hit it, he thought. “You feel that?” He glanced at Collins.
“Tremors, happens a lot, sir. We’re on an ice island.”
“I guess I need to learn more about archaeology, huh?”
“We got a lesson from Doctor Corrigan, sir.” He smiled tightly. “We’re at the mouth of a fjord. It’s big, lava, and a mile or so long. The Doc said that’s why they have only a short time. In the winter, the upper ice floe shifts, and puts pressure on it, then.” He shrugged, “It just folds into the sea. Like with the Viking ship, I guess.”
Sebastian went back to inspecting the horizon, thinking that digging in the ice was just nuts, but admired her for it.
“Tango One, be advised, there’s trouble in the pit.”
Sebastian looked down through the scaffolding to the giant cave in the ice, then started to work his way down. “What’s the problem?”
“There’s been a shift. Doctor Corrigan’s in trouble. She’s not answering her PRR.”
Sebastian kicked into high gear, swinging out to the scaffolding poles and sliding down like a fireman. He rushed to the dig. “Back off, everyone who does not need to be here, go. Esposito, Collins, my six, A-sap.” He looked around at the equipment, grabbed a keel of rope, then stepped into a harness and linked himself up. He shined his light down.
Oh Jesus. Olivia dangled on the rope line like a dead fish on a hook, slumped and not moving. Below her was the jagged point of the broken mast.
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