by Karen Rock
He’d been slowly rebuilding his tattered confidence with each successful mission the past few days. Now Cassie threatened to tear it down for good by flying with him. How could he focus when a part of him would worry about keeping her safe? When another part of him would relive the last time he’d flown into danger carrying a Rowe.
He had to stop Cassie, but how?
“Sixteen!” Dylan leaned on the club car’s hood, his chest barely rising or falling. Was he even human?
“I’m going to stop you there before you hurt yourself, kid. Let’s run.”
“Asshole.” They pushed the vehicle back into its spot for other workout teams and headed to the beach. At the trailhead, they stopped to stretch. He pulled his heel to his back and his mind drifted again to Cassie.
Despite his tough words, he couldn’t actually refuse her assignment on his aircraft. He could call his command boss and ask him to intervene with Captain Vogt, but Mark would need a logical reason for the request.
He didn’t question her abilities, just her frame of mind. Cassie was more than qualified to be a flight medic, her surprising list of advanced certifications impressive. What plausible excuse could he give? Not the truth. If he revealed that flying with Jeff’s sister rattled his nerves, his superiors would question whether Mark could fly at all...if he’d truly conquered his demons.
And he had. Or he’d thought he had, until Cassie.
“Hey. You in there?” He looked up from his stretch and Dylan tossed him a couple more water bottles.
“Didn’t hear you.” He slipped the containers into his running belt before reaching for his toes.
Dylan’s mouth twisted in a smile. “Losing your hearing already? Shit. Getting old sucks.”
He socked Dylan in the shoulder. “Watch your mouth, son. Thirty-one isn’t old. Want me to prove it?”
Dylan threw his hands in the air and backed up a step, laughing. He pulled on a neon yellow headband bright enough to make Mark squint. “I’ll take your word for it. Or...you could try keeping up.”
With that, Dylan sprinted down the path and disappeared around a bend.
“You son of a—” Mark darted after the rescue swimmer, his legs pumping, feet churning up the loose dirt and leaves. Vegetation caught at his shins, ripping at his skin, but his adrenaline rushed too hard to let him feel it. Instead, he breathed in the salted air, fragranced with the lightest trace of flowers, a sign the island had begun to heal.
As for himself...not so much it seemed.
He caught up to Dylan on the beach and the sun splashed directly in his face, momentarily blinding him.
“Hey, glad you could keep up after all.” Dylan’s arms swung as he ran across the sand. Five yards down, the clear, aquamarine ocean swirled against the white shore.
“Try keeping up with this.” Mark pushed ahead, setting a blistering pace. His sneakers plunged in and out of the powdery surface, the resistance welcome. He listened to the pounding of his own heart, the familiar rasp of his breath, and the tense knot inside his gut began to uncoil.
The sun bobbed over the horizon. Storm clouds lingered to the north. They’d be flying in that direction tomorrow he’d been told, when his request to change shifts had been refused.
Something cold stole around his heart when he imagined Cassie aboard, a chill in spite of the tropical heat and his own rising temperature.
“So why the hermit act lately?” Dylan huffed beside him.
“What?” He whipped off his damp shirt and stuffed the collar in the elastic band of his shorts.
Dylan grabbed one of his water bottles and squirted the liquid in his mouth. “You haven’t been around much. The guys are starting to think you’re seeing someone else.”
“Can you blame me? You’re too young, too slow and your taste in workout gear sucks. Our relationship was going nowhere.”
“Seriously, dude. What’s up?” Dylan slipped his container back into the holder and kept pace.
“Nada,” he said, trying to shut the conversation down, wherever it was going. The whoosh of the sea grew louder as the tide crept higher on the deserted, debris-littered beach. His feet crunched over broken shells and dried seaweed, his eyes staring straight ahead at the downed trees on the formerly lush mountainside.
“We all knew coming on our first, large-scale disaster response mission without Jeff was going to be hard.”
He ducked his head and ran faster, wishing he could outpace this conversation, his thoughts and feelings crashing inside like the sea sprays shooting up from the rocky outcropping ahead.
“Definitely not my preferred mission destination,” he said at last after they’d scrambled up and over the obstacle.
Dylan shot him a sideways glance. “It’ll get better.”
Except it wouldn’t. Not with her in his aircraft.
“Cassie is Jeff’s sister,” Mark blurted and swerved around a pile of cracked-open coconuts swarming with ants.
“No shit.” Dylan lost a step. “That’s the blonde you were with.”
He nodded and his breath came harder now, burning in his chest on its way in and out. He grabbed more water without breaking stride.
“She probably wants to follow in her brother’s footsteps. I get it.”
He finished his gulp and caught Dylan’s shrug out of the corner of his eye. “And drive me crazy in the process.”
“You like her.”
Mark ran on, his lips pressed into a flat line. “I can’t do anything about it.” He blew out a harsh breath and for a long moment the only sound was the sea, the gulls and their feet thumping against the sand.
“Why’s that?”
At Dylan’s question, Mark slowed up and stopped, incredulous. He leaned over at the waist and air rasped against the back of his throat. “She’s Jeff’s sister. Jeff.”
Dylan ducked under a fisherman’s line and nodded at the two men it belonged to. Like many of the small groups they’d run past, they camped on the beach, trying to find a meal. “He did say you sucked for not liking Die Hard. But I still think he’d approve.”
An agonizing flash, the feel of Cassie, warm and eager in his arms, cut through him. “I can’t be with her. Dude, listen to yourself. That is Jeff’s sister!”
“Why the hell not?” Dylan asked, jogging in place alongside Mark.
He straightened and stared at his friend. “Because I left Jeff.”
Dylan stopped moving and broadened his stance, his feet planted so firmly in the sand he looked like he sprang from it. “We all left Jeff.”
“But it was my call. I was the aircraft commander.”
“Any one of us would have done the same thing. Even Jeff. Especially Jeff. He was a stickler for following procedure.”
He used his T-shirt to wipe the streams of sweat running down his face, dripping into his eyes. He tasted salt on his lips. “You and I both know I should have ordered Larry to check the line again.”
Dylan goggled at him. “And have run out of fuel and lost six crew members instead of one? Oh—plus our four survivors.”
He opened his mouth to argue that they could have made it, but recalled Cassie’s assertion that he’d had no choice. Heard his old flight instructor’s admonishment to adhere to energy consumption protocol. Fuel versus distance calculations ran through his brain, the same impossible number coming up again and again. He blew out a long breath.
They wouldn’t have made it.
His final memories of that moment fired through him: the horror of watching Jeff plunge back to the ocean on a snapped line. The euphoria of seeing him emerge behind a swell, okay after all. The desperate mental math that’d added up to deploying the rescue swimmer survival raft and data marker buoy before leaving his friend behind. Larry crying out Mark, mark, mark! as they’d marked the spot and ra
dioed home base with the coordinates in case another asset was available to pick Jeff up.
Then, worst of all, Jeff’s last confident smile as he’d waited on another swell before swimming for the gear they’d dropped.
“He had no clue,” Mark muttered and began running again.
Dylan caught up. “Of course he did. Why do you think he waved?”
“He did the lasso thing.”
“That was when we hoisted the last survivor in the basket.”
Mark turned over the mental picture. He hadn’t remembered it that way.
“He was saying goodbye. Just in case,” Dylan added, his voice hoarse now.
Mark’s throat swelled so tight he couldn’t breathe. He’d been so focused on numbers, coordinates, ratios that he’d missed that last chance to say goodbye to his buddy...but he’d been sure they’d recover Jeff. Even when they’d returned, searching the scene for hours, then days, it’d taken a long time for him to accept they’d never get him back.
“You saved ten lives,” Dylan reminded him. “If you’d made the wrong call, you would have had a helicopter upside down in the water. We all would have been statistics.”
He’d made an impossible call when he’d had to and had followed protocol in the end. But that didn’t make it easier to sleep at night.
Or to fly with Cassie on board. He waited for that reality check to settle in, hating the anxiety he’d feel knowing she’d be there. Jeff’s sister. Facing unpredictable danger.
“Cassie’s going to be our flight medic tomorrow.” He didn’t know why he said it since he’d had more than enough of the share-fest for the day. But the crew would find out soon enough. “She’s filling in as our flight medic until Clearwater sends a replacement.”
Dylan was silent for a long moment. When they reached a tall cliff, they stopped and squinted up at it.
“Then I guess you better get your head on straight sooner rather than later where she’s concerned.” Dylan didn’t wait around for an answer before he started climbing.
Brilliant piece of advice right there. Too bad he didn’t have the slightest clue how to get his head on straight when it came to Cassie. She drove him wild in a way no other woman ever had, but brought back his darkness, too.
Maybe she was right and sex would heal something for both of them—get their heads straight the way it had back in Clearwater? Sounded crazy, but hell, she was making him crazy. Why not give all that frustration an outlet?
He’d look for her tonight at the Red Cross’s giveaway event. If his words didn’t convince her to see reason, maybe his body could do the persuading. Make her forget this dangerous idea. It’d be a last option; one he’d avoid like hell if possible. He steeled himself for another sizzling encounter with Cassie. He just hoped the fireworks between them wouldn’t blow up in his face.
8
MARK SHOVED ASIDE a green frond and emerged into the clearing the Red Cross had set up for tonight’s surplus giveaway event, something the organization did to lift spirits and unload large quantities of supplies without creating long lines for the already overtaxed islanders. Despite his sour mood, one side of his mouth lifted when he spotted the “We’re Alive!” sign above one of the tents pitched around the space.
That was one way to look at the situation.
Tiki torches flickered in the balmy night and bats swooped overhead. Below them, an incoming tide hissed beneath a rising moon. Then he heard it. A driving, rhythmic beat. A trio of steel drum players pounded out a tinny tune that added to the festive mood.
He eyed the long line of islanders queueing up for packages and cans of food, water and other basics. Despite their hardships, many nodded along to the music. A few even swayed and moved with the beat. The twin scents of roasting chicken and burning charcoal from a smoking fire pit beyond the trees curled through the air while overexcited children darted in and out of the crowd. Their resilience, as he’d witnessed around the world on previous disaster missions, impressed Mark. They found happiness where they could.
His eyes swerved to a flushed Cassie, who passed out cans of peaches. He hefted one of the boxes piled beside a military truck and headed her way.
Cassie’s smooth fall of light hair and lush, curvy figure made his body tighten, his libido firing. In her body-hugging white T-shirt and slim khaki skirt, her fresh-scrubbed face glowing in the ambient light, her full lips stretched in a welcoming smile, she was a fantasy made real. But what made her hot as hell was the sense that she knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate to go after it in spite of everything she’d gone through.
Unfortunately, that included her wish to join him on tomorrow’s treacherous mission.
His lips flattened into a tight line.
Not happening.
The Category 5 hurricane now followed a deadly figure eight pattern that slashed at Puerto Rico’s leeward side before returning to swipe at the British Virgin Islands, threatening the supply route they’d established before the hurricane had jogged from its predicted trajectory and stalled. It’d be the deadliest storm he’d ever flown into and the last thing he wanted was Cassie riding shotgun.
Yet in an earlier call to COMMCEN, his command boss had confirmed what Mark had already guessed. She had the assignment unless she backed out.
He had to change that stubborn mind of hers. Maintaining his own focus once he got her alone, however, was another challenge altogether.
When she’d first seen him in Mayday’s, the awareness in her gaze, the teasing, sexy game she’d played, had been like a wave of heat, burning a tantalizing path. It’d made him want her more than he’d ever wanted a woman before. And that fierce attraction had only strengthened this week, tearing him apart with as much fierceness as the hurricane that’d ravaged this island.
He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache form behind his right eye. Thinking about Cassie was like realizing, toward the end of a logic puzzle, that he’d made a mistake early on, and that there was no way to reach the solution without starting over. Without erasing everything. Without throwing out all of his assumptions.
He strode by her, and she watched, openmouthed, as he added his box to one of the piles beneath the tent. The band drummed out a percussion version of “Jump the Line,” and the crowd sang along with the infectious tune. It lured the volunteer working beside her out into the now grooving crowd.
“What are you doing here?” she murmured beneath her breath, sliding him a sideways glance. Her smile didn’t falter as she handed a twelve-pack of fruit to an elderly man and what looked like his daughter.
“Helping out the needy.” He took an involuntary step closer, breathing in her honey-and-vanilla scent, and picked up a stack of cans. When a family of five pushed forward, he passed over the peaches.
“Doesn’t that usually involve you in the air?” Her small nose scrunched and he held himself in check. Resisted the urge to kiss its tip. To kiss all of her. Every gorgeous inch.
“Let’s just say, I think I can do more good here.” Their eyes met briefly before she dropped her gaze and edged away. Desire had been sparking inside him since the moment he’d spotted her, but now a pang of sharp arousal jolted him—making his crotch swell painfully.
“I don’t need your help.” Her shoulders rose and she held herself rigid as she continued passing out supplies.
“I don’t need yours tomorrow, either.” He steadfastly ignored her gasp and dropped cans into an islander’s outstretched bag. The pregnant woman smiled shyly at him and a young boy clinging to her leg gave Mark a quick wave.
“This isn’t the place to talk about that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She waved a can of peaches at the milling throng. “Anyone want peaches?” she called. A few of the locals stepped up. Others shook their heads and pointed to the cans they already held.
After a short flurry of
takers, Cassie sighed. “No toothpaste or bread, but man, we’ve got peaches.” A sudden gust flapped the corners of the tent and lifted her hair in a golden sheet. “And you’re staring.”
He jerked his gaze away. She was right. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the captivating woman. As for his hands...he stuffed them in his shorts pockets to keep from taking what he wanted. And what he wanted was to haul Cassie down to the beach for a fiery tryst that’d ease the exquisite pain she caused him.
“When are you through?”
A redheaded woman he recognized—Raeanne, he thought—danced her way under the awning. “I’ll relieve her. Don’t see many more takers for the peaches anyway.”
When Cassie frowned and started to protest, Raeanne gave her a little shove. “We got these outfits at the resort gift shop for a reason. Go have fun, or I might steal him.”
She winked at Mark and, seizing the opportunity, he instinctively reached for Cassie’s hand. Sparks of awareness slipped past his guard and, sure she wouldn’t go anywhere alone with him, he eased her into the mass of dancers stomping to the beat.
He steered her through the writhing group until they reached its outer edge. Behind them, the rushing ocean competed with the pinging drums, a steady beat that kept time with his pounding heart. He swept her into his arms and, in an instant, his body responded to the brush of her full breasts against his chest, the tantalizing sway of her hips as they slid across his aching groin.
He grabbed for his slipping control, holding on to it barely. How to use logic on her when he could barely rationalize with himself? But he was out of choices.
“Dance with me,” he groaned into her ear and, unable to resist, dragged her closer until he could feel the soft, mind-blowing length of her. His hand settled on the sweet swell of her hip.
He knew he was playing with fire, but he wanted to hold her, to feel her safe and secure in his arms. Surely he could go that far, convince her not to fly with him, and then return to his quarters.
Leave and spend another sleepless night aching for her.