COOL UNDER FIRE

by Justine Davis

  She knew immediately who it was; that air of authority and importance left her no doubts. She got to her feet, moving slowly to accommodate her stiff muscles, never realizing that it made her look distinctly regal.

  He was staring at her with an assessing gleam in his clear gray eyes that bordered either on rudeness or flattery; she couldn't decide which, but she was in no mood for either. When she spoke, her voice was husky from her tears, yet coolly distant, and the combination seemed to intrigue the man before her.

  "Mr. West, I presume?"

  One of the eyebrows, a shade darker than the sandy hair, quirked upward as he looked at her. Then she saw recognition dawn in his eyes.

  "Shiloh Reese," he said in a tone of sudden comprehension she was at a loss to understand. He looked both older and younger than the forty-two she knew him to be. Older in the lines carved into his tanned face, younger in the quick movements and bright eyes.

  "Now I understand." She raised her own eyebrow at his cryptic remark. "I knew there was more to it when he came back. He'd changed, he was hurting, and it wasn't just Joe."

  "So you immediately put him back to work." She knew her tone was sharp, but with Con lying there defenseless, she was the only person to speak for him.

  Sam West looked startled, and then the gleam in his eyes began to change to admiration. "Of course," he said lightly.

  "Of course," she echoed coldly. "Why give the man who uncovered a traitor for you a break? Damn it, he'd run himself into the ground for you! He'd never ask you for a rest if he thought you needed him. He thinks the world of you."

  "He does?" Sam West seemed to be enjoying this, and it infuriated her.

  "He does. Although it escapes me why, Mr. West."

  "Sam, please," he said, ignoring her tone.

  It was suddenly too much, trying to talk to this man who was able to stand here and feel amused by her while Con lay hooked up to all these damned machines barely a foot away. "Several other names pop to mind, Mister West," she said icily, "and that is the most polite of them all!"

  He smiled, and Shiloh wanted to throw something at him. He seemed to sense he had pushed her too far, and suddenly his eyes held all the ominous seriousness that kept boards of directors at bay. "Now that you've gotten that out of your system, perhaps you could explain to me why my … overworked troubleshooter here has been doing his damnedest to get himself killed for the last five months?"

  "What?" It was as if he'd thrown a bucket of cold water on her anger; she stared at him in shock.

  "He has never been what you would call cautious, but neither has he ever been reckless. Yet ever since he came back from California he's been exactly that, taking crazy chances, running alone, almost asking for trouble. I'd like to know why." Shiloh paled under his intense gaze, but she never looked away. He nodded slightly, as if he'd found something he'd been searching for. "But most of all," he said softly, "I'd like to know why that hurts you so."

  Her chin came up, and fire flashed in her green eyes. Something was tugging at the edges of her awareness, but she was too intent to stop now. "That," she said steadily, "is none of your business."

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, yes, I do see now." Then he seemed to look past her for a moment, and the gleam in his eyes became a sparkle when he turned them back on her. "I see quite well. Does he know?"

  "Know what, Mr. West?" she asked levelly, despite that odd tickling sensation at the back of her neck.

  "I'm disappointed, Ms. Reese. You know what I mean."

  Her eyes flashed again. "Yes, Mister West," she said, "I do. But since it changes nothing, how I feel about one of your … employees is hardly anything to concern you, is it?"

  He countered her question with one of his own. "Why did you let him leave?"

  "For a lot of reasons." She held his gaze warily as she got the oddest sensation that he was purposefully guiding the rather heated conversation. "There's only one you need to know. He wanted it that way."

  That persistent distraction tugged at her again, but for the moment she was still too intent on Sam West, wondering at a look unexpectedly like approval that had joined the admiration in his eyes. Somehow it made her even warier. "Is that all, Mr. West, or is there more ripping and tearing you'd like to do?"

  He laughed. Incredibly, he threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, you're everything he said you were," he said, shaking his head. "And everything he didn't say. You faced me down better than any CEO, better than the secretary of the navy."

  And then, to her amazement, he looked past her once more to say in a voice that rang with love and respect, "You picked a beauty, my friend, and if you let her go again, I'll either fire you for stupidity or go after her myself!"

  Stunned, Shiloh whirled around. And met two bruised, battered, but utterly beautiful blue eyes that were open and watching her. This, then, was what had been nagging at her; some part of her must have sensed that he'd awakened. As if paralyzed, she stood motionless, staring at him, unable to quite believe it.

  "Con…" It was barely a whisper, yet it held all her love and longing, all the aching of these last months, all the horrors of these last few hours. She saw him blink rapidly, as if his own eyes were stinging just like hers, and his tongue crept out to wet his battered lips as if he were going to try to talk. That small movement galvanized her, and she was at his side in an instant.

  "Shy…" It was hoarse and barely recognizable, and she put a finger to his lips.

  "Hush. Later. Just rest now." She meant to pull away, but the feel of him, of the heat that had returned to him, was too much, and she trailed her finger in a feather-light touch over his cheek. He closed his eyes as he turned his head into that soft caress, reaching for it.

  "You," Sam said with a chuckle that made two pairs of eyes snap toward him, "are going to be fine, my friend." He nodded at the machine that was registering the sudden acceleration of Con's heart rate. "I'll go tell them you're back, and fine. Although they'd better watch your blood pressure!" With a final grin that seemed to encompass them both, he turned and left the tiny room.

  Shiloh turned back to the bed, her eyes going over Con hungrily. She didn't know that every agonizing hour of her vigil showed in her face, or that every last ounce of her love for him was glowing in her eyes.

  "I … didn't … want…" He had to stop to take a breath, as if, despite the small plastic tubing that was pumping extra oxygen into him, he still couldn't get enough. She shook her head at him, remembering his broken ribs.

  "Sshh. I know you don't want me here. I'll go … soon. Just rest."

  Pain flared in his bruised blue eyes. He tried the words again. "No! I … didn't … want it … that way."

  It took her a second to remember that he'd been awake while she'd been talking—arguing—with Sam West.

  "What did you want?" she whispered. "To get yourself killed, like Sam said?"

  "Sam is… He talks too much." He lowered his eyes to the tape that held the IV needles in his arm. He took a breath, trying to get as much air as his battered body could take. Anything to avoid looking up at the reality of the vision that had haunted him for months. "What does Sam know, anyway?" he asked gruffly, his voice steadier now.

  "He knows you've been taking awful chances."

  He tried to shrug. "It's my job."

  "Why, Con?" Her voice rose a little, some of the pain slipping through. "Do you truly hate yourself so much? Or is it me you hate?"

  "You?" He stared at her, stunned. "What…? How in hell could I hate you? I—"

  "You must," she said simply, "because there's nothing in the world you could do to hurt me more than to die."

  From somewhere in the fog the words floated upward. "I can live without you, as long as I know there is a you." He didn't realize he'd whispered them aloud until he saw her staring at him, eyes wide with shock.

  "You … heard me?"

  Meeting her gaze with his own look of wonder, he nodded slowly. "I think I … must have.
I didn't want to come back … to find out it was just another dream. Then you were arguing with Sam … and I…"

  He broke off, swallowing heavily and then wetting his swollen lips. She was watching him steadily, unflinchingly, and his heart twisted at her pure, clean courage. She'd given him all a person could give, and then she'd reached deep and given him more, never counting the cost. She made him feel humble, not in the old way his past had made him feel, but in a new, unsullied way that strengthened rather than weakened him. He doubted if he could match her courage, but he had to try.

  "That night," he said slowly, "when they stuffed me in the trunk of that car and started driving… I remember thinking that maybe I'd gotten it done this time. When they dumped me behind that sand dune, I knew it was over. I could barely breathe. I knew I'd never be able to move."

  He saw her eyes brighten with the sheen of unshed tears, saw the rigid set of that delicate chin, but he went on.

  "The crazy thing was that … then, when I knew it was over, when I knew I wouldn't have to dream about you anymore, wouldn't have to wake up in the night aching for you anymore, when I knew I wouldn't have to fight to keep myself from going to you anymore … all I wanted was to run it all in reverse, to take it all back."

  He let out a harsh, quick little breath. "I wanted to say to hell with all the reasons it was wrong—I wanted to go to you and … ask if you still … wanted me. I wanted to believe what you said, that I wasn't like him— That's when it hit me. When I realized…"

  He closed his eyes, wondering how she did it, how she could be so painfully honest; it was about to kill him. He couldn't go on, he couldn't slice any deeper into his battered heart.

  "Realized what?"

  Her soft question rang in his ears, and he knew then that for her he could cut clear through to his soul. "That I'd already proven I was exactly like him. You loved me, and I'd walked out on you."

  She drew a quick breath. "You knew?"

  "I knew from the day I left you, even though you never said it. I should have known from the minute you went to bed with me."

  The little breath she'd taken came out in a shaky sigh. "I … didn't want you to … think you had to … stay, because of that."

  "I know. You'd never use that. You're not like that."

  "And you're not like your father," she said suddenly, fiercely. "We weren't married, and I wasn't … pregnant."

  He looked at her oddly. "Why did you say it like that?"

  "Because," she whispered, looking away, "sometimes I wished I was." She felt his sudden tension and made herself look at him. "At least … I would have had some part of you."

  He shuddered. "Oh, God, Shy … you wanted…" Faltering, he stared at her. "You can't mean … you still…?"

  Her head came up proudly, and she blinked away brimming tears. "Love you? Yes, Connor McQuade, I still love you. And I always will, even though you don't love me, even if you get out of here and walk out of my life all over again. And there's not a damned thing you can do about it!"

  His face twisted, looking more agonized than any bruises could make it. "Shy, I … don't deserve—"

  "Damn you!" she snapped, staring down at him with her eyes flashing green fire. "I have had enough of being insulted, thank you!"

  "What?"

  "I happen to be a reasonably intelligent person!"

  "I never—" he began, bewildered.

  "And so is my brother! And if you think Sam West is stupid, you're a minority of one."

  "What has that got to do—"

  "So tell me, Mr. High-and-Mighty McQuade, where do you get off calling us all idiots?" He was staring at her as if she'd lost her mind. "So we're all wrong, are we?"

  "Wrong?" He was gaping at her.

  "Sam thinks you're the best damned man he's got. He trusts you completely when he's got every reason not to trust anyone anymore. And Linc trusts you, too. He counts you among his closest friends."

  She hadn't told him, then, Con realized. But Linc wasn't stupid. He would guess soon, if he hadn't already. And then he would lose that as well, Con thought dully. The price just kept getting higher, he thought with a stab of pain that had nothing to do with his battered body. Yet he knew that, even had he known this would be the cost, he wouldn't have changed a thing. Not even to escape this would he have given up those sweet, honeyed days in her arms. The memory of them was the hell in his dismal life, but it was the only brightness, as well, and the sweetness outshone the pain, even now. He closed his eyes against the shiver that ran up his spine, and Shiloh didn't miss it.

  "Oh, Linc knows," she said, reading him perfectly. "He guessed a long time ago. So did my father." His eyes snapped open in disbelief. "Did you think they would hate you? They've both walked that dark road you're on, remember? And besides, Connor McQuade, unlike you, they let me make my own decisions. They think I'm smart enough … but you…" She laughed harshly. "You think we're all incompetent, don't you? That we're all too blind to see that you're really a worthless, no-good bastard, just like your father. Well, we don't see it. And did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, we're right?"

  He blinked, then swallowed heavily. "I … I never thought of it like that."

  "Of course you didn't. Because then you'd have to give up your armor, wouldn't you? You wouldn't have any excuse to keep the world at arm's length anymore. You might have to break down and let somebody get close, might have to take a … a chance…"

  She dashed a hand across her cheeks in a short, angry gesture, swiping at the tears she couldn't stop. She whirled away from him, heading blindly for the door.

  "Shiloh…"

  She heard a rustle of sound but kept going. She couldn't change anything; he would never believe he was worth loving, and it was breaking her heart.

  "Shy, don't—"

  She heard his sharp intake of breath and couldn't stop herself from looking back.

  "Oh, God," she exclaimed and turned to race back to him. He was sitting up, his face contorted with pain, the fingers of his left hand, impeded by the fiberglass cast, clawing at the IV needles and tubes that held him prisoner.

  "Con, stop." She grabbed at his hands, holding them tightly between her own. "Oh, God, I'm sorry." The tears were flowing freely now. "You're hurt, and I yelled at you. Stop, you'll make it worse, please lie down. I'll get the doctor—"

  "I love you."

  "—you're bleeding, and it—what?"

  "I love you." She stared at him; he didn't look at all certain. "I … must love you. I can't eat, I can't sleep, and I see you everywhere. I've been walking around empty inside for so long I can't remember what it feels like to be whole. Every time I see a sunset or the stars on a clear night, I wonder if you're seeing it, too. I want you so much it hurts, worse than any of this ever could." He shrugged off his injuries as if they were nothing.

  "It's eating me alive, and I can't stop it. And it's not just physical, even though with you it's… I've never … felt anything like it. But even that isn't enough. It's you I want, all of you, your heart, your mind, your courage, whether I deserve it or not. Is that love? Is that how it's supposed to feel?"

  Shiloh's heart twisted inside her at the uncertainty that filled his blue eyes. "Oh, Con…"

  "I don't know," he said, sounding lost. "I've never… I don't know if I … know how—" He shuddered. "All I know is I can't go on like this. I want you with me, whatever it takes, for always. If it's not love … it's the best I can do." He looked at her, and her eyes filled again at the hope in his bruised face. "Is it … enough?"

  The tears were flowing openly now. "Connor McQuade, don't ever think that whatever you have to give me isn't enough. You are more than I ever thought possible."

  She raised his hands to her lips and kissed his fingers softly. Heedless of his aching arm and heavily taped ribs, he pulled her down to the bed and held her close. And when the floor nurse, noticing the change in the monitors, hurried into the room, she found Shiloh curled against Con's less-battered s
ide as he whispered something to her.

  The glow of a pair of green eyes and the way Con's free arm held the slender woman so tightly to him told her all she needed to know, and despite the violation of hospital rules she backed out of the room silently, unnoticed.

  Shiloh twirled around, hugging herself tightly, a tiny giggle escaping her. She stopped, blushing, when she caught Con watching her with a glint of amusement, but there was no room for such reservation in her overflowing heart today, and the giggle became a delighted laugh.

  "I love them all, but I thought they'd never leave!"

  "I don't think they would have if Wayne hadn't promised them a hell of a party up at the club." He tugged gratefully at the bow tie at his neck as he watched her with a delight that matched her own; he'd never seen her like this. The dress she wore was modest, its high collar rising on both sides of the opening at the neckline, emphasizing the slender beauty of her throat. Yet it was the most incredibly sexy dress he had ever seen. Made of a glistening white knit, it was simply, exquisitely cut, flowing over her curves to her feet with a loving grace, the sheen of the fabric alternately suggesting, then emphasizing, those curves as she moved.

  She was the dress's only ornament. It needed no other, not with the burnished sheen of her hair, adorned only with a spray of tiny white flowers, and the glow in her eyes. They were vividly green and put to shame even the stone that now graced her left hand.

  She'd been stunned when he'd given it to her. The big, teardrop-cut emerald caught in a delicate swirl of gold was unlike anything she'd seen before, and she knew what it must have cost. Somewhat naively, perhaps, she hadn't thought much about finances; she'd been so glad merely that he was alive, that he wanted her, that she hadn't thought much beyond the moment. He'd read her expression and looked rather sheepish.

  "Sam … well, he's been paying me pretty well all these years. I didn't … need it, so I just turned it back to his investment staff and told them to have at it."

  She'd looked at his face, where the bruises had at last faded. No, she was sure he hadn't needed it. He'd been used to being without for so long, it had probably never occurred to him that now he could have more.