COOL UNDER FIRE

by Justine Davis

  She felt that irritating heat rise to her face once more, and she glanced at him to be sure he wasn't looking. It was a mistake, because in that first instant of looking at his lean, muscular body, she could picture it as clearly as if the tight jeans and soft blue sweater didn't exist. She looked away hurriedly.

  She pulled open the drawer beneath the forward double bunk and dug around in it for a moment. She found a pale green one-piece bathing suit that looked like it might fit and took it out. When she straightened up, Con was there, his expression oddly tense.

  "Yours?"

  His eyes were on the suit. His relief that she didn't have some notion about skinny-dipping in this secluded spot was marred by a niggling little regret over the same thing. At least it wasn't some skimpy little bikini, he thought. That would be too much for his already strained control.

  "No," she said, puzzled. "Wayne keeps several here for guests. There's probably one you can use, too."

  Wayne. He was beginning to hate the name. And the man, sight unseen. "Wayne must be quite a guy."

  "He is. I admire him a lot."

  "I can see that. So why don't you admire him into your voyage around the world on this tub?" His tone made it impossible to mistake his meaning.

  "She's not a tub! And Wayne is a sweet, kind man who just happens to be old enough to be my grandfather, and I don't appreciate your rotten insinuations!"

  She slammed the drawer shut and pushed past him into the head, the door slamming behind her even more loudly. She stripped off her jeans and the bloody sweatshirt, then the rest, kicking her deck shoes aside angrily. She yanked on the green suit and looked into the mirror, which was surprisingly large for the small space.

  It would have to do, she thought, although it was a little skimpy on top for someone as generously endowed as she was. And the French-cut legs were awfully high… It doesn't matter, she told herself. No one's going to see you except one bad-tempered, dirty-minded private spy. Who seems to have the knack of destroying your control. She grabbed a towel and the soap, then gathered up her clothes and shoes and dumped them on the bunk as she passed.

  Con was pacing in the spacious cockpit, mentally kicking himself. What the hell was he doing, mouthing off like that? She'd done nothing but help him—risked her life for him, in fact, not to mention coming up with probably the best way to truly lose those gorillas who were on his tail. And what had it gotten her? The sour side of his tongue, that's what.

  And why? He shied away from the question of why the thought of the unknown Wayne had bothered him so much. And why finding out the truth about him had been such a relief.

  He owed her an apology, that was certain. Again. He chuckled mirthlessly. He wasn't sure an apology would be enough, this time. Maybe if he groveled, he thought ruefully. Maybe if he—

  He broke off, swallowing heavily. Oh, Lord. And he had been stupid enough to be grateful it hadn't been a bikini, he thought numbly as she came up through the hatch like Venus rising. All that was missing was the dolphins.

  She didn't even look at him as she walked toward the back of the cockpit, her lingering anger clear in her stiff posture. He gaped at her, unable to tear his eyes away from the slender yet lusciously curved figure bared to his gaze. The high cut of the suit made her legs look impossibly long, golden and beautifully shaped, and his throat tightened as his heart began to pound.

  He forced his eyes upward over the gentle swell of her hips and the inward curve of her slim waist, only to have them stop with arresting suddenness on the curves of her breasts, full and lush beneath the shimmering mint fabric that had to strain to contain them.

  His jeans were suddenly experiencing much the same problem. He couldn't seem to stop the sudden images that leapt to his mind, those long, incredible legs wrapped around him, his hand peeling away that thin layer of green to let her breasts spill free, bare for his hands, his mouth…

  She was past him now, but the taut, trim curve of her buttocks gave him no relief. He leaned against the cabin roof weakly. He couldn't fight this. He didn't know how anymore, it had been so long. Or had it ever been like this? Had he ever felt anything so fierce, so fast?

  She draped the towel she held over the rail, and lifted one small foot to the cockpit seat. "Sh—Shiloh?"

  He sounded as if he'd been punched in the stomach. She looked back over one slender shoulder at him, the shining green of the swimsuit making her eyes come alive. He turned slightly, away from her, uncomfortably aware of the aching tightness of his body.

  "I…" He had to stop and take a deep breath to steady himself. She waited. Silently. "I was out of line. I don't have any excuse for it. I just… I haven't…" He swore under his breath. "I've forgotten how to just talk to people. How to look at them like human beings, not tools."

  Her foot came back to the deck. She turned to face him.

  He tried to keep his voice even as he struggled to control his rebellious body. "I never meant to treat you like that. You, of all people." He took one more breath. "I'm sorry. Again. Still." He gave a shaky little laugh. "Maybe I should just apologize for my next stupid move now. Save time."

  "Apologize twice," she said, straight-faced. "That'll hold you for a couple of days."

  He stared at her for a moment, uncertain. Then he caught the glitter in her eyes and the barest twitch at the corners of her soft mouth.

  "How about three times? I like to stay ahead."

  The twitch won, and she smiled. "Consider yourself paid-up in advance."

  He studied the teak deck beneath his feet. "You're pretty generous." You wouldn't be if you knew what I'd been thinking, he muttered to himself.

  "Generous enough to share the Pacific, even. I'll wait, if you want to swim." He hesitated. "Just forget it for a while, Con. It's a beautiful day, and a beautiful place. If they find us, we'll handle it then, but for now, can you just enjoy it?"

  Could he? Just relax and enjoy, with no thought of what had been, or what might come? Or had he lost the knack completely? A beautiful day and a beautiful place. And a very beautiful woman. A woman who turned him inside out like no one ever had, just by her presence.

  Suddenly, even knowing he was asking for trouble, he wanted to do as she asked more than anything in the world. He wanted to steal this moment out of time, to have this one brilliant day to stack against all the dark, ugly ones. I can handle it, he told himself. She was Linc's little sister, for God's sake. Surely that would keep his recalcitrant body in line. Just keep remembering that, he told himself as he went to dig in the drawer that had produced that incredible slash of pastel green.

  After discarding a minimal racing suit and a pair of trunks that would have fit any member of the local whale population, he found a pair of nylon running shorts that fit and could double for trunks. He changed quickly, tossing his rather the worse for wear clothes on the bunk beside hers. And refusing resolutely to notice that the bunk was huge, at least the size of her bed.

  The moment he reappeared on deck she was up on the rail, swinging those long, golden legs over the stainless steel stern pulpit.

  "Race you to the beach!" she called, then was gone in a flash of shimmering green and bare skin.

  For a second he just watched, thinking how like her it was just to plunge in; no one-toe-at-a-time testing the waters for Shiloh Reese. She was cutting through the ocean cleanly, with an effortless stroke that spoke of a long familiarity with the water. Then he went after her, gasping a little at the shock of the cold water; fall might not have hit the air yet, but the ocean knew it was here.

  She beat him handily and was standing on the deserted little beach, wringing water out of her hair, when he got to his feet and waded the rest of the way in. She was laughing exuberantly, her eyes sparkling.

  He couldn't take his eyes off her as he sloshed through the surf toward her. She leaned back to squeeze the last drops of seawater from her hair, bending her supple body easily. Her nipples were taut from the chill and pressed against the wet fabric as her br
easts were thrust upward by the movement.

  Easy, McQuade, he ordered, tearing his gaze from her. You've got nowhere to hide in these wet shorts. Linc's little sister. Remember that. It would work. It had to work. Except that right now she didn't look like anyone's little sister.

  They explored the little cove as far as they could in bare feet, then came back to sit on the sand as the morning sun cleared the island and hit the little beach. There was a tense moment when another boat came into view, but it appeared set on a course and continued with only a wave from the gray-haired man at the wheel and his plump wife.

  Gradually, as the sun warmed his skin and took away the chill, Con dropped back in the sand. He consciously let his taut muscles relax, amazed at how the tension seemed to flow out of him as if it were a liquid thing. It felt good to just lie there lazily, pretending for the moment that he hadn't a care in the world.

  "Con?"

  "Mmm."

  "What's this from?"

  It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to jump upright when he felt her fingertips brush over his chest. He kept his eyes closed, not daring to look at her as she traced the path of that old mark, making it flame as if it were fresh. It was a moment after her fingers left him before he could trust himself to answer.

  "A knife." He looked up at her from under half-lowered lids, saw white, even teeth bite at her full, lower lip, saw the furrow between her brows. "I never said I was pretty," he said, a little tightly.

  "You don't have to say it."

  His eyes snapped completely open at that. She looked away quickly, but not before he'd seen the two spots of pink that colored her cheeks. Warmth flooded him, and his heart began to race.

  "I'll race you back." She sounded as breathless as if she already had. "I'm hungry."

  He beat her easily this time, but Shiloh wasn't concentrating on her swimming. She kept running her thumb over the tips of her fingers, wondering why they were still tingling, as they had when she had first reached out to touch him. She couldn't believe the feel of him, sleek and smooth skin over hard muscle. She had wanted to go on, beyond the thin, white scar, to run her fingertips down his breastbone, over the taut muscles, to his flat, male nipples…

  She was glad then for the water's chill. She didn't understand what was happening to her. She'd never felt like this before, never felt so much from so little, never felt so driven for more. She found most of the men she met boring, wrapped up in their shallow little worlds that had so little to do with reality. Even Jimmy, whom she liked a great deal, was at a loss if it didn't deal with sailing or Mandy.

  Wayne was different, and she'd secretly agreed with him when he'd laughingly joked about wishing he was fifty years younger for her. She adored him, and not just because he was a sort of benevolent adopted uncle. He was the kind of man she'd been afraid didn't exist anymore.

  Or was it her? Had she made a trade-off, the price for her hard-won control the surrender of whatever it was that had attracted man after man to women like her mother? She'd always laughed it off, saying she wanted nothing to do with that kind of man anyway, but lately she'd been wondering if there was any other kind. She had her brother and her father as proof that there were, but she'd been beginning to think they were the last of the breed.

  Until now.

  He was waiting for her at the boat and tossed her the soap she'd left on the cockpit seat. They took turns using it, by tacit mutual consent giving each other privacy, never guessing it was for the same reason; neither of them could quite handle the sight of slick, soapy hands sliding over temptingly bare skin.

  It took her a little longer, and when she was done she clambered up over the rail and reached for her towel. Con was lifting the seats, peering into the big lockers beneath them. He'd been too preoccupied to do much exploring before, but he was curious now. Shiloh watched him, watched the muscles flex beneath the slick, smooth skin, marveling at how the scars that marked him only emphasized the sleek perfection of the rest. The wet shorts clung to him tantalizingly, and she buried her face in the towel to mask her own astonishment at how her pulse began to speed up.

  When she had regained her composure she hung her towel over the pulpit next to his and went below. Con followed her, poking into the various shelves and cubbies with interest, remarking on how well-organized everything was, and how suited to the sea.

  "It's gimballed," she said in answer to the tenth question he asked, this one about the big table in the main salon. "Just like the stove. It swings to stay horizontal when the boat shifts or heels over."

  He made her take him through the whole vessel, pointing at everything and asking what seemed like a hundred questions. Since it was her favorite subject, and he seemed genuinely interested rather than just killing time, she didn't mind and answered as thoroughly as she could.

  Finally, however, over her growling stomach, she laughingly begged for mercy. "I'll even cook," she pleaded. "Go ahead and rinse off." And get dressed, she added silently. Please get dressed. Those damned shorts are more than I can take.

  "I don't know," he said, holding up his clothes rather gingerly. "These have had a rough day and night."

  She snapped her fingers, remembering. She lifted her nylon suitcase up to the bunk and unzipped it. Digging into it, she pulled out a pair of jeans and a striped rugby shirt. "Here."

  He looked at her blankly.

  "They're Linc's. I thought you might need something. You're about the same size."

  He shook his head in wonder. "You never miss a trick, do you?"

  "Sure I do, but the Phoenix doesn't. She even has a washing machine." He stared at her in disbelief. She pulled open the cupboard he'd been standing in front of, about the only one they hadn't gotten to. He stared at the tiny but very efficient looking washer. And below it, incredibly, a small dryer. "Comes in handy when nothing will dry outside."

  "Maybe you could go around the world," he muttered as he tried the richly tiled shower and found it complete with scalding hot water. He turned down the H tap and upped the C. Stripping off the nylon shorts and hanging them under the stream of fresh water, he rinsed off quickly, trying not to think of the woman who would soon be in here, as naked as he was now. Swiftly he rinsed the saltwater from his hair and shut off the water.

  He dried himself on a new towel, beginning to realize that a dryer on a boat wasn't as absurd as it sounded. No, this was quite a little ship, he thought as he pulled on the clothes she'd packed for him. And she was … Linc's little sister. Maybe it would be easier to remember if he was wearing Linc's clothes. Somehow he doubted it.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  He couldn't remember a day like this one. He couldn't remember if he'd ever even had one. They ate, lounged in the fall sunshine, ate some more, lounged some more. She tried to teach him about all the rigging on the boat, amid laughter over his comments about the absurdity of the terminology.

  "It's a rope. Why don't you call it that?"

  "Because it's a sheet."

  "That's dumb. If anything on this boat should be a sheet, it would be the sail."

  It went on, both of them getting sillier and sillier, until Con stopped, staring at her in what appeared to be awe. He'd never in his life engaged in this kind of laughable inanity, not even as a child. Especially not as a child. He wasn't quite sure how to deal with it now.

  "Are you all right?" She was looking at him with her head cocked to one side.

  "I… Fine. What do you want for dinner? I'll cook, if you're feeling brave."

  It wasn't nearly as risky as he'd implied; the cupboards yielded a can of salmon with a recipe that produced a more than passable salmon loaf. He felt ridiculously proud as it quickly disappeared.

  Shiloh had found a full bottle of wine to go with it, but Con discreetly limited himself to one glass. Although he had managed to do as she had asked to a great extent and put the hovering threat out of his mind, he wasn't able to forget it to the point of
letting himself get drunk.

  It was as she picked up the glass he'd refilled for her a second time that Shiloh realized it. "Just so far and no further," she murmured. He didn't pretend not to understand.

  "It's the best I can do."

  She raised her glass. "It's better than I expected."

  He grinned. "Is that an insult or a compliment?"

  "A compliment. You didn't have to apologize all day."

  "Does that mean I've got another day paid in advance?"

  "Sure. I'm feeling generous. It was a wonderful day."

  "It was." His voice was serious now. "I've never had a day like this."

  For some reason Shiloh found herself thinking of the moment when she'd told him Linc had envied him, and of his astonished response. Just the fact that he was so amazed that anyone would envy him, and that the simple pleasure of a day like today was so foreign to him, told her worlds about the life he'd lived.

  "Never?"

  He recoiled inwardly from the soft, warm sympathy in her voice. He didn't know why it was so important; he only knew the last thing he wanted from her was pity. And the first thing he wanted from her? The first thing would have her brother calling you out at dawn for pistols at twenty paces, he thought sourly. And Lincoln Reese just might be the man who could beat him.

  "Nope," he said flippantly, looking away from her as he rubbed a hand over his now stubble-free jaw; the worthy Wayne indeed kept a razor aboard. "There aren't a lot of sailboats in Denver."

  She didn't react to his tone. "You grew up in Denver?"

  "Sort of." His voice had gone flat, expressionless.

  Shiloh knew he had suddenly tensed, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. "Is your family still there?" The question slipped out before she remembered that he'd said there was no one. No levers to use on him.

  "What the hell is this, an inquisition?" He erupted into motion, getting to his feet in one swift, barely controlled movement.