Flaming patches of fuel and chunks of debris swirled across the lake’s surface. A pillar of black smoke rose from a fire on the shore like a beacon, drawing the scattered survivors toward safety. Lauren kicked toward it, struggling to keep Nick’s head above water.
Time seemed to suspend and compress as she angled toward the bank. Nick’s limp body dragged at her arm until she felt as if her bones were being pulled from their sockets. It was impossible to swim straight, and she lost sight of the smoke beacon, her vision blurred by exhaustion. She didn’t realize she had reached the shore until she felt her toes finally brush the bottom. She towed Nick into the shallows, straining muscles that already burned. Crawling, stumbling, she gripped him under the arms and inched him above the water before she allowed herself to collapse on the rock-strewn shore.
Lying on her back, her chest heaving, her throat squeezing shut, Lauren curled her fingers into the ground as if it might be snatched from beneath her at any moment. Each breath she drew was precious, each throb of her pulse a gift. Until now her actions had been ruled by instinct, by a primitive sense of survival. Only when her thoughts grew steadier did the enormity of what had just taken place begin to register.
Stifling a whimper, she rolled over and came to her knees. Half a mile away, the glow from burning debris lit up the sky, tinging the moonlight orange. She thought she recognized the tail section, its gleaming silhouette rising like a shark’s fin. How far from the airport were they? How long would it take for help to arrive? She squinted through the spreading smoke but couldn’t see any movement. Yet on the still night air she could hear noises. Oh, God, the noises. Crackling flames, broken sobs, cries, shouts, pleas. How many had managed to make it to shore? How many had survived the crash?
And how many hadn’t?
She lifted her chin, her breath coming in short, sharp pants as she tried to maintain control. Calm. She had to stay calm. She was fine. She’d beaten the odds. She’d live to see another day, another story... her sister’s wedding.
A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat, frightening her into biting her lip. Well, she hadn’t wanted to go home, and she’d almost gotten her wish. Once, during an argument with Angela, her sister had accused her of hiding behind her job as a way to avoid getting a real life. Ha. Not this time. No, this time there wasn’t any handy microphone to clutch or TelePrompTer to follow. No chance for detachment or distance. For the first time in six years she had been wrenched away from her safe perch as an observer and...
And what on earth was she supposed to do now?
She twisted to look at Nick. He hadn’t moved since she had hauled him onto the shore. Her gaze skimmed down his long legs to the waves that lapped the tips of his boots. He was a large man, solidly built, his body devoid of any fat that would have helped buoy him up in the cold water. How she’d managed to get him this far was beyond her.
Struggling to peel off her sodden jacket, she leaned over to look at his face. His steel blue eyes were closed, his chiseled features slack. Moisture gleamed from his high cheekbones and trickled down the edge of his strong jaw. Thankfully, the cold water had washed away most of the blood and seemed to have slowed the bleeding.
Something had struck him during the crash. Instead of protecting his head with his arms, he had wrapped himself around her and sheltered her with his body. Because of this stranger, she had escaped with nothing but bruises.
“Nick?” She coughed, shocked at the roughness of her voice. “Nick, can you hear me?”
He didn’t respond.
She felt her body begin to shake with reaction. Had it been more than the cold water that had slowed the bleeding? Was he dying? Was he already dead?
Clamping down on another bubble of hysteria, she inched closer. She touched her fingertips to the side of his neck, but her hand was too unsteady to find a pulse. Swiftly she moved her hand to his chest, sighing in relief as she felt the shallow rise and fall of his breathing.
In the distance, over the sound of the flames and of human misery, another noise grew. Lauren lifted her head, holding her breath, not daring to hope that what she was hearing could actually be... Oh, God, yes. It was a siren. The warbling two-note shriek was still faint, but it was coming closer.
There was a faint rustle of movement by her knees. She glanced quickly back at Nick in time to see his eyelids flicker. She slid her hand to his cheek. “Mr. Strada?”
Beneath her palm his skin was cool and moist. The fine muscles under the surface tensed as he clenched his jaw.
“Nick?” she tried, louder this time.
The lines on his face deepened as his lips drew back in a tight grimace of pain.
She didn’t know what to do. Stay here? Try to find help? If the siren meant that help was on the way, whoever it was wouldn’t be able to see them here at the water’s edge. They were too far down the shore from the crash site. She shifted her weight to her feet, preparing to stand up, when a large hand clamped around her wrist.
Nick held her in place, his grip amazingly solid. His eyes opened slowly, as if fighting against an invisible weight. He parted his lips, and the sound that he made was too rough to be called speech, too urgent to be called a groan. He swallowed hard, then tried again. “What... the... hell... happened?”
“We’re safe, Nick. The plane’s down. We survived.”
His eyes narrowed. “Lauren?”
“Yes, yes. You sat beside me, remember? We saw the engine catch fire and—” She forced herself to slow down. “Something hit you in the head and knocked you out. I think that means you have a concussion. I don’t know if you have any other injuries. How do you feel?”
He coughed, then inhaled sharply and muttered a short pungent oath. He released her wrist and raised his hand to his head. For a moment he warily probed the gash at his hairline. His fingers came away smeared with fresh blood.
“Maybe you shouldn’t try to move,” she said, watching a spasm of pain tighten his face. “I heard a siren, so help should be on the way.”
“You okay?”
The muscles that she had overworked trying to get Nick to shore were cramping. Bruises that she hadn’t wanted to catalog throbbed from every part of her body. Her stomach was rolling with a combination of nausea and panic. But just the fact that she was alive to feel it made all the discomfort insignificant. “Yes, I’m fine,” she answered.
Nick hung on to the sound of her voice, trying to reorient himself. He seemed to be fading in and out, as if he’d been pulled backward through some crazy carnival ride. Cautiously, he flexed his arms and legs, checking out the rest of the damage. Apart from a stiffness in his left knee, everything seemed to be functioning.
He gritted his teeth and pulled himself into a sitting position, bracing an arm behind him as he was struck by a wave of dizziness. He breathed deeply, hoping the oxygen would help clear the ringing from his ears.
The plane had crashed. At least his brain had managed to absorb that much. He cautiously turned his head to survey their surroundings. “Where the hell is the plane?”
“Most of it’s in the lake.”
“How’d we end up here?”
“The fuselage was sinking. I pulled you to shore.” She shuddered. “I’ve done stories on accidents and fires, but I’ve never done a plane crash. This will be my first.”
That’s right, he thought, pleased that the mist in his brain was starting to clear. Reporter. Channel Ten. Cool as chilled wine while she watched an engine flame out.
In the moonlight her face was as colorless as her pale blouse. The blond hair that had been so neatly confined was now straggling over her shoulders like wet seaweed. Yet she still kept her chin lifted and her gaze steady.
Either the woman had an astonishing reserve of inner calm, or she really did have nothing but ice water in her veins.
But what did it matter? They were alive. And he owed his life to her. “Thanks,” he said, his voice rough. “For pulling me out, bringing me to shore. Thanks.�
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To his surprise, she raised her hand to his face, brushing her fingertips across his cheek. It was a gentle, feminine gesture, something he never would have expected from the unflappable Lauren Abbot he’d met on the plane. Her lips parted in a brief, unsteady smile. “If you hadn’t sheltered me when we crashed, we both would have drowned with the wreckage.”
A memory of the moment before the crash came back to him. Her green eyes had been widened in terror, her delicate hand had been gripping his knee. And her trembling body had felt warm and fragile and...good as he’d held her close.
She dropped her hand and twisted to look over her shoulder. The open collar of her blouse shifted, and moonlight whispered over the curve of a gently rounded breast.
His nostrils flared. Beneath the sour tang of the lake water and the bite of burning fuel, there was a hint of sweetness. Must be her. Nick’s gaze flicked over the display that was mere inches from his nose. Those curves had been hidden by a stiffly tailored jacket before. He’d felt them, though, with his arm, when he’d pulled her back into her seat....
He looked away impatiently. They had just survived a plane crash, for God’s sake. Why the hell was he thinking about her breasts?
He’d heard about this phenomenon. Heightened senses, physical awareness, it was all a type of primitive coping mechanism, something to do with adrenaline, or some kind of psychological reaction to escaping death.
He clenched his jaw and squinted toward the column of smoke farther up the shore. Flashing lights pulsed over what was left of the plane’s tail section and strobed across the water. The ringing in his head coalesced into a siren, screeching closer, echoing from the darkness.
And all at once, the urgency that had made Nick board that plane in the first place resurfaced with a vengeance. He couldn’t stay here. He’d lost too much time. He had to get home and find some way to protect his family....
“Nick?”
The last of the mist cleared and reality returned in a merciless burst. Duxbury. His family. No protection.
Nick slipped his hand beneath his jacket, checking for the hard weight that should have been there. His fingers probed the lose flap, the empty sling, and he cursed under his breath. The holster must have come unfastened when Lauren pulled him from that plane. His gun was either on the bottom of the lake or had fallen out when she’d dragged him out of the water.
Sweeping his hand across the ground, he searched the area around him, then looked at the black waves that lapped the shore. He hissed between his teeth. No gun. It didn’t exactly make him defenseless, but it left him at a distinct disadvantage.
“What is it?”
He patted the side of his boot, grasped the heel with both hands and tugged until the sodden leather finally slid off his foot. Water splashed onto the muddy rocks in a sudden stream, followed by the reassuring clunk of his knife. He leaned over to pick it up, carefully testing the switch on the side of the handle. There was a click and a whisper, then moonlight glinted from the wet blade.
Gravel crunched as Lauren hurriedly moved back.
Nick fastened his free hand around her wrist to hold her in place. “Relax. I’m a cop.”
With a sharp twist of her arm she broke free. Her eyes widened as she focused on the knife he still held. “What kind of cop carries a switchblade in his boot?”
“Lieutenant Nicholai Strada, Chicago police,” he muttered. He shook the last of the water from his boot and put it back on, then closed the knife and slipped it back into its customary place beside his ankle. He emptied the water from his other boot, jammed his foot inside and braced his knuckles against the ground. Taking a deep breath, he shifted his weight and tried to stand up. The gravel shore rushed upward toward his face. With a frustrated grunt, he broke his fall with his hands.
“Wait here,” Lauren said. “I can bring someone—”
“No.” He crawled to where she had retreated and looped his arm over her shoulder. “No. I can make it if you help me get to my feet.”
She hesitated, her gaze on his right boot. Then she sighed, grasped his hand and braced herself against his side.
It took three attempts, but together they managed to get him upright. He took a wobbling step forward. Sharp shards of pain shot outward from his stiff left knee and his wet socks sloshed in his boots.
Lauren propped her shoulder under his arm and slipped her hand beneath his jacket to get a solid grip on the waistband of his jeans. Her head barely reached his chin, but there was a surprising strength in her slender form.
Stumbling, leaning into each other, they limped forward. As they wove an unsteady path toward the flashing lights, the ringing in Nick’s head faded, but the anxiety that replaced it got worse.
His mother and the twins knew he was on this flight. Once the news about the crash broke, they probably wouldn’t stay out of sight like they should. There was a good chance Duxbury would know he was coming home, too. But that man would have a very different reaction to news of this crash. He’d likely be ready to celebrate his good fortune, hoping not only to be rid of his adversary but to save the cost of a contract.
An odd thought blinked across Nick’s mind. Cost of the contract. Saved. If it hadn’t been for Lauren, he would have drowned. If he’d died, there would be no more danger. His family would be safe. If he’d died...
The distinctive thumping noise of a helicopter intruded before he could finish the thought. Lights appeared, coming from over the water.
They were close enough to the wreckage to make out more details now. A tangled, burning trail of debris stretched to the water’s edge. Heavy black smoke swirled around the broken fin that marked the tail section. The deep bellow of an air horn blended with more sirens as a pair of fire engines bumped over the gully the plane had carved into the ground. Help was arriving. People were swarming over the crash site, their urgent calls mingling with the confusion.
The throbbing beat of the helicopter grew loud enough to rattle Nick’s teeth. A powerful spotlight shone a squashed circle on the ground as the helicopter reached the shore. More people were moving there, other survivors who had pulled themselves from the water. Some were in better shape than he and Lauren, some were worse.
Lauren’s shoulders stiffened. “I bet that’s Gord.”
“What?”
“In the helicopter. Gord Skinner, one of the station’s videographers.”
Nick shielded his eyes and glanced upward. The Channel Ten logo was easily identifiable even through the pall of smoke. The light swept toward them. For a moment they were caught in the beam, but then it slid past.
“He’s going to get some great footage,” she said as they maneuvered around a piece of twisted metal. “He’s probably drooling at the chance to beat me out of this story.”
Nick bit back a groan as a stumble jarred his left knee. “You’re one cool lady, Lauren Abbot. You almost died, and you’re worried about getting your story.”
She was silent for a while as they continued walking toward the light. “That’s what I do best, Nick,” she said finally.
He’d hit a nerve, he thought immediately. “Hey, Lauren, I didn’t mean—”
“You handle things your way, Lieutenant Strada, and I’ll handle them mine. I’d rather be an observer at a funeral than a participant.”
More thoughts flickered in and out too quickly to grasp. Camera. Observer at a funeral.
Cost of the contract.
His family would be safe.
Nick looked at the string of vehicles that were already clogging the narrow road on the far side of the wreckage, then swung his gaze back to the helicopter and the black emptiness of the lake.
And this time, when the outrageous thought blinked across his mind, his brain was quick enough to latch onto it.
Chapter 3
Lauren pulled Nick’s leather jacket around her shoulders and made her way through the confusion in the crowded hospital corridor. The cloth slippers one of the nurses had given her loosened
with each step, and the freshly cleaned cuts on the soles of her feet stung, but like the other survivors who lay on the gurneys that lined the walls, she had absolutely nothing to complain about.
The Miracle on Lake Michigan. That’s what she would have called the story if she’d been the one to put it together. Out of the one-hundred and twenty-eight people who had been on that plane, it appeared that sixty-two of them had survived. That was the last official count she’d heard. Forty-seven dead, nineteen missing, and sixty-two who were part of the miracle.
There were so many factors responsible, not least of which was a skilled and resourceful pilot. Then there was the incredibly fast response time, as the emergency crews and ambulances converged on the crash site. And there were the survivors themselves, who had found the strength to help one another.
Lauren clutched the lapels of Nick’s jacket more tightly together as she headed toward the admitting desk. She still had trouble believing that she’d actually saved a man’s life. How did that saying go? If you save someone’s life you’re responsible for that person from then on?
If that were the case, then Nick had just taken on a load of responsibility tonight, too. He’d been barely able to stand on his own, but when the helicopter’s spotlight had shone on those people who were still in the water, he had tossed Lauren his jacket, lunged toward the lake and waded out to help them.
A young woman who had been struggling to hang on to her crying baby had been the first one he’d reached. After that, other rescuers had arrived, along with paramedics and ambulance attendants. In the confusion that had followed, Lauren lost track of Nick. She’d been pressed into service as well, passing out blankets, helping to record names, anything and everything until the station’s helicopter had landed and she’d been cornered by Gord Skinner for an eyewitness account of the disaster.
Had she thought she’d feel better with a microphone clutched in her hand? Well, she hadn’t.
She dodged a pair of doctors in surgical greens and stopped in front of the desk, trying to catch the attention of the harried nurse. “Excuse me?”
On The Way To A Wedding Page 3