COOL UNDER FIRE

by Justine Davis

  The soup was good, although Con had to keep beating down the images brought on by her earlier words as she had pressed her hand to her body as if she indeed could still feel him there. He wondered if there was the slightest chance he could keep his hands off her tonight, giving her a chance to heal a little. If she would just cooperate, quit looking at him like that, quit touching him… Sure, McQuade, he sighed inwardly. He sipped at his soup glumly.

  When, after they had cleared the table, she went to the radio to call her father, he toyed with the idea of going above to give her some privacy. But she'd given no indication that she minded his being there, and it was awfully chilly out there— He compromised by picking up one of the books from the shelf above the settee and at least appearing to be engrossed as the call went through. "Hello."

  Con heard her sharp intake of breath and looked up. Although a little brusque, it had been her father's voice; he'd heard it enough now to know. Yet she had gone pale, her fingers tightening around the microphone until her knuckles were white. He closed the book.

  "Is this… The Hat Shop?"

  She sounded oddly breathless, and Con got to his feet.

  "No." That same brusque tone. "This is 555-1700. Their number is 1704." There was a rustle of sound, something muttered in the background, unintelligible. "Excuse me, I have to go."

  The line went dead, and Shiloh stood staring at the mike clutched in her hand. She had gone waxen, her green eyes filling with horror. His stomach knotting and his heart beginning to pound, Con crossed the salon of the boat in one long stride. He gripped her shoulders and turned her to look at him, heedless that she'd dropped the microphone.

  "What is it?"

  "They're there." Her voice was harsh, a raspy, broken whisper.

  "What?" He looked at her with a disbelief that faded before the look in her eyes. If he had learned anything about Shiloh Reese in these past days, it was that she usually had a pretty good reason for anything she said or did. If she said they were there, they were. "How do you know?"

  In the small part of her mind that wasn't stunned into numbness, Shiloh registered that he had accepted that she knew and was only questioning how. He trusted her that far, at least.

  "For as long as I can remember, my father has never answered the phone 'hello.'"

  Con's brow furrowed, then cleared. "'Yo,'" he whispered in sudden understanding.

  Shiloh nodded. "He's always answered like that. Always 'yo.' 'Hello' was saved as a red flag, a warning no one else would know."

  "And 'The Hat Shop'?" he asked tensely, fearing he already knew the answer.

  "The black hats are there."

  "Damn."

  Con swore softly, bitterly, as he released her shoulders. He didn't waste time on apologies; they would be meaningless now, and he didn't know any words to express how rotten he felt, anyway. He started to reach for her again but stopped, thinking that he was the last person she would want to touch her now, now that he had managed to get her father into this as deeply as she was.

  "What … what will they do?" The tremor in her usually cool, unshakable voice as she sank down on the chair at the navigation station told him more than he wanted to know about her state of mind. He looked at her, saw the fear in her eyes, and thought about what he should say.

  "The truth, Con."

  He sighed. Of course. No sugarcoating things for Shiloh Reese. "They know we've got to surface sometime. And that you'll contact him sooner or later. And then they've got their lever."

  "But what good would getting to me through my father do them?"

  "Because they know you're with me."

  "But why would they think you would care? I mean, they don't know…" Her words trailed off as she blushed. He nearly smiled at her until he saw the touch of doubt that had crept into her eyes.

  "I care," he said suddenly, fiercely.

  Thankfully, he saw the doubt fade in the instant before she looked down at the deck beneath their feet. "But they don't know that," she said in a tiny voice.

  "If they knew enough to connect me to you in the first place," he said, still angry because he couldn't begin to figure out how they had come up with that particular piece of information, "they may think there's a connection between me and … the Reeses in general."

  She looked up at him then, a tender warmth glowing in her eyes, as if she were hoping that he, too, thought there was a connection between him and all the Reeses. It startled him; at the least he'd expected anger because he'd gotten her father into danger, but there was none. Only that tempting warmth. It lured him even as he reminded himself coldly that it was impossible.

  "It doesn't matter what they think," he said, his voice a little sharp with the chill of his last thought, "or how they made the connection. Not right now."

  He reached down for the radio mike she'd dropped. He'd never used a radiotelephone before, but he'd watched her—all too closely—enough to know how it worked, and he soon had the marine operator. He knew Sam probably wasn't back yet, but he had to at least try. He didn't like giving out Sam's private number over a radio line, but he didn't have much choice.

  "WestCorp."

  "Julia." His answer to Sam's quietly efficient secretary of ten years was a sigh of resignation. She only answered this line if Sam himself was gone.

  "Con?"

  "Yeah. He's not back yet, is he." His flat tone made it a statement instead of a question.

  "No. I spoke to him yesterday. He won't return until late tomorrow night." He let out a long, tired breath. "Con, is something wrong?"

  "You could say that." His jaw tightened. "If you talk to him again, tell him … tell him I had to go ahead."

  "All right." She asked no questions, and not for the first time Con was grateful for the woman's unswerving loyalty. "Is there anything we can do?"

  "We?"

  "Joe or I."

  "I thought Joe was on vacation."

  "I didn't think you knew the word, you who haven't taken a day off in seven years." A soft laugh came through the small speaker. "He was, but he said he got bored."

  A chill was beginning somewhere at the base of Con's spine. "When … did he come back?"

  "Last week."

  The chill became a frost. "When?"

  "You mean, what day exactly?" She sounded puzzled, but once more didn't ask any questions. "Let me look—" there was the sound of a computer keyboard being used "—here it is, he came back on Tuesday."

  The frost became ice, hard, unyielding and utterly frigid.

  "Yes, that's right," Julia went on, "because I was here late catching up on some data-entry work and in walked Joe. He's here in his office now. Do you want to talk to him?"

  "No." His voice was flat, inflectionless. "And don't tell him I called, Julia."

  There was a pause. "Well, of course, if you say so," she said, surprise obvious in her voice.

  "It's important, Julia. Not a word."

  "Certainly." The businesslike tone was back. "Anything else?"

  "Just tell Sam not to do anything until he hears from me. Anything," he repeated emphatically.

  "I will." For just a moment her demeanor slipped. "Are you all right, Con?"

  "Sure. Just great." He heard the echo of his biting tone. "Sorry, Julia. Things are unraveling a bit here. Tell Sam I'll get in touch when I can."

  Shiloh watched him hang up the mike, saw the bleakness that had come over his face and the frost that had returned to his eyes. It tore at her and, for the moment at least, transcended the realization that had come to her during his conversation; he had given the great Sam West an order, and in the tone of one who knew it would be obeyed. But now all she could do was ache for him as she saw that implacable mask descend again. He was once again the grim-faced man she had first met.

  Finally she asked softly, "Joe?"

  His eyes closed, he swallowed heavily, then took a long, deep breath. "It has to be," he said. "It's the only thing that fits. He's got the access and the resources." />
  "And they came after you the morning after he came back."

  He nodded slowly. "You were right. They didn't know about me at first. Until Joe got back to tell them." He laughed harshly. "He always joked about retiring to some private, tropical island. Apparently it wasn't a joke."

  "Are you sure?"

  He let out a harsh breath. "He came up with reasons to go to Switzerland at least twice a year. He does a good job—" his lips twisted wryly "—so Sam never questioned it. He figured he just wanted to sneak in some skiing." He ran a hand wearily through his tousled hair. "I still don't know how he found out about you. He couldn't have known Linc and I had any contact after the Philippines. Not even Sam knew."

  "Does it matter now?"

  "No," he muttered. He straightened up then, his voice taking on that sharp, ordering tone she hadn't heard since they boarded the boat. "What's the next closest port?"

  She didn't comment on the obvious assumption that they didn't dare go back to Dana Point, merely asked, "Which way?"

  "North."

  She knew then that he meant to go to her father. "Con … you said they won't hurt him while they need him—"

  "What's closest?" he interrupted.

  "You said they couldn't use a lever if they couldn't find you. I could go—"

  "And give them you to use on me? Not a chance. Now, what's next going north?"

  She wondered if he even realized what he'd said, what he'd admitted with his harsh words. And she wondered even more at how quickly she had reached the point of becoming as worried about him as she was about her father.

  "But you said—"

  "I talk too damned much."

  She couldn't stop her eyebrows from shooting upward at the absurdity of that.

  "Around you," he amended, a little abashed despite the grimness that had returned to his expression. Then the sharpness was back in his voice. "We're wasting time."

  "Newport," she said succinctly.

  "How long?"

  "If we push and we're lucky, four-and-a-half to five hours. There are emergency docks at the harbor department. We could tie up there for a while, but I'm not sure how long they let you stay."

  "Long enough, the way this is unraveling," he said grimly.

  She paled a little but nodded, and he could have kicked himself for his caustic words. He opened his mouth to speak, but she merely said they'd best get started and reached for her jacket. Tugging it on, she headed for the hatchway. One foot on the steps, she looked back over her shoulder at him.

  "I'm sorry about Joe," she said softly. "I know you … trusted him." Then she disappeared into the cockpit.

  Con stared after her, stunned. He had gotten her into the middle of this mess, had practically dragged her into bed with him, and now had managed to endanger her crippled father into the bargain, and she was sorry for him because someone he'd trusted had turned traitor on him?

  He laughed under his breath, harsh and strained. It had been so long since he'd trusted anyone, he couldn't even remember when he'd come to expect betrayal as the rule and not the exception. He didn't know what it was like to take anyone at face value anymore. Yet he trusted her, as he trusted her brother…

  And she trusted him. Enough so that she was worried about him as well as her father. And that scared the hell out of him. Don't, Shy, he thought painfully. Don't trust me. I'll let you down… I'm not like you. I don't have the blood, not like you and Linc, you know who you are—

  His thoughts were cut off by the sound of the diesel firing up, and he scrambled toward the hatch to head for the anchor winch. When they were under way and Shiloh assured him that she would call him if she needed help, he went below and began to search for something to write on.

  Shiloh thanked the young sheriff's deputy again. He grinned, and, after looking her up and down admiringly once more, he threw Con an envious look and drove off.

  "You're awfully damned good at this," Con grumbled.

  He was somehow a little disgruntled at how easy it had been. One look from those big green eyes and a few words about her ailing father and how she had to get to him as soon as possible, and they had the Phoenix secured at a county dock and, in a manner of speaking, a uniformed chauffeur.

  "Well, it was the truth. And it worked, didn't it?"

  He couldn't argue with that. He'd wanted a place that was full of people even at this hour; the airport filled the bill admirably. "Yeah. But did you have to flirt with him all the way up here?"

  "I was not flirting with him!" She glared at Con. "I was merely polite. It was the least I could do. He was giving us a ride, after all. I'm sure he has to deal with enough rude people as it is."

  He muttered something unintelligible, then took her arm and guided her down the sidewalk away from the terminal. Shiloh went along meekly enough, warmed in spite of herself by the fact that her supposed flirting had angered him.

  They paused only to find an Express Mail mailbox, where Con deposited whatever he'd written on their return from the island. Shiloh knew only that it was addressed to a post office box in Denver; there had been no name on the envelope. Then they walked past the long, glass-domed, Quonset-shaped terminal building that had been recently finished and headed toward the parking lot. He was carrying her nylon suitcase, along with the big canvas bag; they could easily have just gotten off a plane. Which was exactly what he wanted, she realized; no one gave them a second glance as they went into the long-term parking lot.

  They had trudged down an entire row of the lot, Con carefully eyeing each vehicle, before it dawned on her. Her eyes widened, and she stopped in her tracks to stare at him.

  "Oh, no," she began.

  "No choice," he said shortly, not bothering to deny it. The iceberg was back in command, she thought, and the softer, gentler, happier man she'd seen at the island had vanished as if he'd never been.

  Suddenly he stopped next to a rather nondescript blue sedan a couple of years old. He reached out to try the door, but stopped abruptly and moved on.

  "Excuse me," she said sweetly, "I don't have much experience in the finer points of auto theft, but what was wrong with that one?"

  "Belonged to a pilot. They might know him at the gate."

  Shiloh glanced back at the car, only now seeing the winged decal in the rear window. She sighed. And he thinks I'm good at this? I don't even want to see what happens when he finds one he likes.

  "And that one?" she asked as they passed a smaller, sportier model.

  "Alarmed."

  "Of course. Silly me."

  "I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered to herself. Walking down the rows of a parking lot as if it were a car dealership, looking for one to steal. A non-pilot-owned, nonalarmed, nonstandout car that, of course, wouldn't be missed for a while, if they were lucky.

  Great. First I have thugs breaking into my house, then the sail loft, leaving chaos behind, shooting holes in my car, threatening my father—

  She sucked in a quick breath. She'd tried not to think about it, but it came back now in a rush. She would steal a hundred cars if it would get her to him. She quit muttering and began to look at likely vehicles herself.

  "How about that one?" she asked, gesturing to what was almost a twin of the first car he'd stopped at, except this one was tan. And, more importantly, the passenger door was unlocked. Con halted, glancing over the vehicle, then pulled open the door. He scrabbled around in the glove box for a minute, then she heard a muttered "bingo," and he popped back out with what appeared to be a parking stub in his hand.

  "From yesterday. Let's hope they're gone for a long trip." He got back in and slid across the seat, and she saw him bend to fiddle under the dash. She looked around nervously, smiling rather idiotically, she thought, at anyone who passed within three cars of them. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin when the motor roared to life; he was too damned good at this!

  She was still marveling over how he had calmly produced the stub and paid the parking fee, then driven s
edately out of the airport without drawing a look from anyone, when they hit the freeway and headed north.

  "Check the registration."

  Yes, sir, she snapped inwardly, but kept silent as she did as he instructed. It took her a moment to find the card in the clutter in the small glove box.

  "Frederick and Barbara Sanger," she read.

  "From where?"

  "Anaheim." She held up a baseball cap she'd found on the floor. "And Angels fans, I gather." She glanced again at the card in her hand. "I can live with Barbara, but you are definitely not a Frederick. We just dropped them off, perhaps?"

  He eyed her rather curiously. "I thought you'd be … more upset about this."

  "I was. I am, really. But I'd do a lot worse than steal a car for my father."

  "They'll get it back."

  Con turned his attention back to the road, afraid she might read the bitter longing in his eyes, even in the shadowy interior of the car. She'd made him feel so many things he'd never felt before, brought back so many feelings he'd thought long dead, and he didn't dare think about them, not now.

  He kept up with the flow of traffic, and only the tension in his hands on the wheel and the rigid set of his jaw told her he wished it were faster. He didn't speak until they were nearly to Long Beach.

  "I'm sorry we couldn't fly. I didn't want to take the chance. They might be watching the flights."

  "I understand." So the iceberg wasn't back completely, she thought. Yet.

  Silence reigned again until they were nearing Los Angeles, with its chaotic freeway interchanges. "You may have to nurse me through this mess," he said dryly.

  "Just stay on the 405 to the 101. Then it's a straight shot." She shivered a little, and he reached to flip on the heater. "Don't," she warned. "I'll go to sleep."

  "Good idea. I'll wake you if I get lost."

  She hadn't meant it literally, but once the idea had been planted, it seemed overpowering. Maybe for a while, she thought. Just so she could be rested when they got there and found…