The first officer’s head jerked up. “I’ve got a pulse.”
Pyotr’s own heart hammered as he monitored the pulse. It was thready, but regular. “He’s not breathing on his own yet—we could still lose him.” But optimism leaped through his veins. Sometimes the very cold that killed also preserved life, putting the body into a state that was close to suspended animation. That was what he had banked on, but it was always a wild card. If there was one thing he’d learned at medical school it was that human life was a crazy, crazy thing. Sometimes people died for almost no reason at all, and other times people quite simply refused to die. He’d seen it with an old woman who had lost both her legs and half of her bowel in a bomb blast, again with a young child who had shrunk and withered with leukemia until he was little more than a skeleton before he had gone into remission. Now, unbelievably, he was seeing that phenomenon again.
With a grin, Pyotr watched as his patient stabilized further—his heart settling into a rock-steady beat. Whoever the stranger was, whatever drove him, Pyotr wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of whoever had pumped two bullets into him, then tried to vaporize his head with the third.
Two hours later, Anatoli once again surveyed their unconscious passenger. Chapaev had removed a bullet from the man’s shoulder, installed a drain to both shoulder and thigh, and cleaned and bandaged his head wound. Now he was in the process of hooking the patient up to a saline drip to minimize shock and dehydration.
Their comatose diver was alive but, breathing, he posed a problem.
So far, luck, if that was what it could be called, had been on their side. There was no damaged craft or outraged owner to contend with, and only one survivor, who was in no position to demand more than the captain was prepared to give.
The fact that he had obviously been detained and shot made what Anatoli had to do clear-cut. They had rescued a man who was probably involved in illicit dealings—a drug dealer or a criminal. They had given him every chance at life, but Anatoli wouldn’t put back into port for him; the risk was too great.
Under no circumstances would he draw unnecessary attention to his ship and the cargo they were carrying by taking an unconscious man suffering from gunshot wounds into Sydney Harbor. Customs and the local police would go over his ship with a fine-tooth comb, and when they found what Anatoli suspected was in the hold, they would all go to prison.
He had examined every angle, and they were in the clear. Without the broadcast of an EPIRB, which would have been picked up and recorded by Australian ground receivers in the COSPAS/SARSAT satellite system, there would be no record that a search and rescue had even taken place, and he had refrained from noting any details in the Volodya’s log. If the man died, which was still more than likely, they would bury him at sea. In the end, it would be no different than if they’d taken a slightly more southerly path and missed his beacon altogether.
If he lived, he and the crew would have to work out a course of action that would deflect undue attention away from the Volodya. None of it sat right with Anatoli, but he had no other choice. He was the captain; the mistake in signing with Varinski had been his. He was walking a narrow enough tightrope as it was without the complication of this foreigner. His first priority, as always, had to be his men.
Ten
Valle del Sol, Peru
Quin pushed through a thick wall of greenery and stepped into the grove she’d spent so much time in as a kid, her mud-encrusted boots making short work of the tangled network of weeds and vines that threatened to drown half the hillside.
Adjusting to the dappled light, she looked around curiously. It had been years—five years, to be exact—since the “dream,” since Olivia had read her the riot act and put this place off limits, and the neglect showed. Most of the large rocks were now submerged beneath weeds, and the gap in the trees that had been so useful as a lookout had long since grown over.
Making a beeline for her rock, Quin dropped her rucksack and settled her long frame into her usual reclining position, letting the sun-warmed granite ease muscles that ached from hours spent putting in the main potato crop of the season. It was hard, back-breaking work, but it was work that couldn’t be postponed. If she didn’t plant, they didn’t eat.
A yawn started deep in her belly and expanded into her chest, leaving her wrung out and exhausted and, lately—crazy as it seemed—feeling old. Her eighteenth birthday—the age when she’d expected to enroll in college—had come and gone, and her prospects hadn’t changed; she was still mired in Valle del Sol.
She’d long since given up on the idea of obtaining a degree—there was barely enough money to pay for essentials, let alone the luxury of an extended education—but even so, letting go of that particular dream had hurt.
Her mouth kicked at one corner. Oh, yeah, great going, Quin. A pity party.
She’d come here to take a break from the heat and dust and, she grimaced, solanum tuberosum—potatoes. A degree aside, what she really needed was a tractor.
The breath eased from her lungs as the subtle, soothing warmth of the grove enfolded her. She stared at the mesmerizing shimmer of leaves floating above, lime green and liquid gold, swimming in the hazy heat of the afternoon. As she sank into a doze, a vague presentiment niggled at her. The last time she’d fallen asleep here, something had happened.
Shifting her shoulders to fit more comfortably into the curve of the rock, Quin dismissed the thought with sleepy logic. The dream, such as it was, had happened five years ago, when she was a kid. Nothing had ever come from it, and nothing had changed. It was a fact that Valle del Sol was rock-solid boring. No strange men, no collapsing tunnels.
Another yawn almost took her under, and she felt herself begin to drift—the velvet blackness soothing after the heat of the sun….
A man lay still and silent on a bunk that was too narrow to comfortably accommodate either his length or his muscular frame. A bloodstained bandage was wound around his head—white against close-cropped black hair and tanned skin. Another bandage strapped his torso and shoulder, the gauze disappearing beneath the sheet that was pulled to his waist.
His chest moved, the shallow rise and fall almost imperceptible, his breath a raspy whisper in the dim room.
A door swung open. A brawny, fair-headed man entered carrying a plastic cup, and Quin shrank back into a corner, taking refuge in the dense shadows. The underlying throbbing she’d barely noticed registered now, louder because the door to the room was open. With a start, she realized that the sound was a ship’s engine.
The blond man spoke in a guttural language. The low register of his voice jerked Quin’s attention back to the tableau playing out in front of her as he lifted the injured man’s head, muttering beneath his breath at the effort it took. He tilted the cup and coaxed water between the man’s lips, spilling some, and massaged the man’s throat to help him swallow. When the cup was empty, he eased the man down flat, shook his head and uttered another short phrase.
Quin didn’t understand the actual words, but this time she understood the sense of what was said.
“Why haven’t you died?”
Still shaking his head, the blond man stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Minutes passed in which the stranger lying on the bunk neither moved nor acknowledged Quin’s presence as she remained crouched in the corner. Finally, feeling as wary as a small hunted animal, she forced herself to examine every inch of the cabin.
Apart from the injured man, it contained one other bunk, and a large metal locker set against one wall. A bulb was screwed into a fitting in the ceiling, and the walls, floor and ceiling were all painted a uniform gray. A small salt-encrusted porthole just above the man’s bed allowed natural light to filter into the room, but the murky beam of daylight barely succeeded in penetrating the gloom.
Acutely aware that the blond man could walk in any second and find her, Quin straightened, thankful that the room was so dark as she started across the room. Apprehensive or no
t, she knew why she was here.
Every muscle in her body poised for an all-out brawl, or flight, she stopped just inches from the bunk, which she could now see was steel-framed and bolted to the floor, but the man’s eyelids didn’t so much as twitch. She also noticed for the first time a bag of clear fluid suspended from a hook on the wall, the tube snaking down to a shunt in his wrist.
The fact that he was ill enough to need an IV should have reassured her, but this close, and despite the fact that he was unconscious, the man was formidable, his shoulders and chest broad, his arms well muscled. Even lying down, it was clear he was well over six feet tall—one of the few men she’d met who would tower over her own five feet ten.
Her gaze skimmed tensely over the square line of his jaw. Apart from the bandage, the only thing that marred his face was a thin scar, which sliced from one straight, dark brow into his hairline, but the scar didn’t detract. Crazily enough, it only made him seem more attractive—and more dangerous. It was a face that both fascinated and compelled, a face that sent an icy shiver of recognition down her spine.
Seconds ticked by as she continued to study the man, her spine tingling, her mind grasping at the uncanny fragment of knowledge, and still he didn’t stir. Finally, dismissing the weird moment as just that, Quin forced herself to get on with what she had to do. If the patient woke up, he woke up. Despite the muscles, she would lay odds on her chances against him. Head wounds were a real bitch. She’d had one once, courtesy of the slippery rocks that rimmed the Agueda. The first day out of bed, she’d walked into a wall.
Running her eye over the bandaged wounds, she noted the fresh seepage of blood at his shoulder. When the blond man had lifted him to tip water into his mouth, the wound had probably broken open.
Her gaze flicked to his closed lids. Emboldened by his unconscious state, she touched the pulse point at his wrist. At the contact, her solar plexus contracted with a short, sharp shock, as if the simple touch had released some kind of electrical charge, and she had to control the urge to snatch her fingers back. She was suddenly vividly aware that he was male with a capital M, his masculinity underlined by the absence of a shirt and the faint scent of sweat rising off his skin.
Clamping her jaw, she ignored the unsettling jolt and placed both palms over his forehead.
Instinctively, she knew that this was the wound that needed the most healing—this was the one that would kill him.
She was unsurprised to feel the familiar gentle warmth start, first enveloping her head, then flowing down her back and into her chest—so warm it felt as if her whole chest glowed—then on down her arms, until it poured from her palms.
The warmth steadied her and filled her with confidence. Quin didn’t know where the heat came from, exactly, although she had a fair idea, and she knew it was good. Ever since she could remember, she’d instinctively put her palms on any part of her that had hurt, and the heat had flowed and magically eased the pain. In her child’s mind, logic had demanded that if she could soothe her own hurts away, then her ability had to work on any of the animals that were sick or injured.
One day, Maria, Jose’s wife and the cook, had seen her “fixing” one of the cats that haunted the back door of the kitchen waiting for tidbits. She’d requested that Quin try putting her hands on her head, because she had a headache. When the heat had stopped, Maria had made the sign of the cross, blessed her and dragged her in to see Father Ignatius, who was sitting down to lunch in the front parlor with the aunts, claiming loudly that Quin had “The Gift.”
Father Ignatius had looked into her eyes with his thoughtful black gaze, held her hands for a while, and after consultation with the aunts, said he didn’t see anything wrong with Quin helping the pets, so long as Olivia and Hannah kept an eye on her, but helping people wasn’t such a good idea.
Olivia had been sharp with Maria and told her to keep quiet about her disappearing headache, but somehow the rumor had spread, and, as she’d gotten older, Quin had found herself occasionally called into the clinic to “help.” Hannah and Father Ignatius didn’t make a big deal about it, and they’d refused to label what Quin did as healing for fear they would be inundated with people looking for miracle cures, but there was no denying the effect of that gentle heat, or the fact that they all knew something out of the ordinary was happening.
As Quin continued to hold her palms over his forehead, the man lying motionless on the bed didn’t wake or move, but his breathing seemed to smooth out and deepen. The healing was having a soothing effect all around. Her own pulse rate had slowed, and her muscles had loosened, relaxed by the lulling warmth. Her lids drooped slightly as her mind began to drift; then, abruptly, as if some internal switch had been thrown, she became aware of the man himself as vividly as if one of those big hands had snaked out, gripped her by the scruff of the neck and wrenched her up onto her toes.
Adrenaline pumped, needle sharp, her whole body electrified by the shock of the connection. For a split second Quin was certain he was awake, dark eyes fastened on hers, but a quick glance told her the man was still unconscious, although at some level he was fully aware of her.
Flinching from the intrusion, she tried to shake off the touch of his mind. She was used to picking up on the way people felt, sometimes even their actual thoughts, as naturally as most people picked up on the nuances of conversation, but never with this clarity—and she had never experienced anyone making any kind of mental contact with her.
Somehow this man could access her mind, despite the fact that he was unconscious—or maybe because of it—and she didn’t like the sensation one little bit.
With an effort of will, she forced herself to relax in the hope that with the absence of tension, the intrusion would fade, but the second she let down her barriers, impressions came at her in a torrent.
Confusion. Grim determination. A towering anger. Something had happened—something had been taken from him—and the knowledge fueled his already powerful desire to live, although to call the emotions that drove him “knowledge” was incorrect. He had no knowledge, just instinct. Like an embattled swimmer in a dream, a part of the man had remained doggedly sentient, fighting the downward pull of the coma and the release of death. He wanted to live—the desire raw and edged, as powerful as a vice closing over her heart—and he wanted her to help him.
For long seconds, Quin was caught in the grip of his need, the pure, hot focus on survival. When the healing flow finally slackened, she remained frozen, barely registering that her hands had gone cold and that the soft warmth had seeped from her body.
Moving stiffly, as if she’d just woken from a deep sleep, and acting on the sure knowledge that when the healing in one place was finished, it was finished, and there was nothing she could do to make it keep going, Quin moved her palms to his shoulder. Once more she steeled herself against the assault of the man’s mind, but this time the connection was gentler, as if the fierce emotions had exhausted him, and he was simply content that she was there.
When the heat finally stopped, Quin straightened, swaying slightly on her feet. The muscles in her shoulders and the small of her back ached, and the cabin had grown progressively gloomier, as if the murky afternoon was darkening into night. She studied the rest of the man’s body, which was covered by a sheet. He needed more healing—she knew it as inexplicably as she knew she was there to heal him—but, as exhausted as she felt, she wasn’t brain-dead enough to lift that sheet. Since he wasn’t wearing a shirt, chances were her patient wasn’t wearing anything else, either.
She decided to try holding her hands a few inches away from the man’s skin and moving slowly down his body. When she reached his right thigh, the flow of warmth started again.
Even through the layers of the sheet and the thick padding of the bandage, she could feel the heat that poured from this wound, which could only mean one thing: it was infected.
The warmth flowing from her palms increased. Her head and her back, her arms, the whole upper part of her b
ody, became not just warm, but so hot that she broke out in a sweat, and, in the curious way of dreamers, Quin abruptly became aware that she was dreaming.
For a disorienting moment she was aware of herself in two places at the same time—the faintly surreal setting of the ship’s cabin and the warm haven of the grove; then the powerful pull of the dream sucked her back in.
The heat flowing through her intensified, making her feel light-headed and a little dizzy, both hot and cold at once; then, as abruptly as it had begun, the flow stopped, and the room began to dim and recede. The rough texture of the cotton sheet beneath her palms faded, the man’s features blurred, and fierceness gripped her. It hadn’t been enough. He needed more.
Quin clutched at one tanned, long-fingered hand where it lay limply on the cotton sheet, but where, bare seconds ago, he’d been as solid as she, now her hand passed through him as if he had no more substance than a hologram. It was then that she noticed that the mind link was gone. Dream or reality, exhausted or not, he needed her, and she didn’t want to leave, but as powerfully as she’d been pulled into the dream, she found herself expelled and floating in formless darkness.
Her eyes flipped open, then just as quickly blinked shut against the brassy glare of the sun as it sank below the western rim of the valley.
Jackknifing, she shoved damp strands of hair back from her face, every muscle taut. Through some strange process she’d ended up in a ship’s cabin with an injured stranger. She’d smelled salt and diesel fumes and blood. She had felt the floor beneath her feet vibrate with the rhythm of the ship’s engines, and she’d been acutely aware of him.
Her gaze swept the grove, as if she could see something—find something—tangible that would account for dreams that stepped out of nowhere and gripped her so tightly they seemed more real than the ground beneath her feet. And, as hard as she tried to relegate the dream images into something approximating normality, one fact kept undermining her efforts. Now that evening was approaching, the ambient air temperature was cool. Dressed in jeans and a tank top, she should have been shivering, but she was as cosily warm as if she were wrapped in a light, invisible blanket. She’d experienced that kind of warmth before—many times—although never to this degree, and it only happened when the healing flowed.
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