Relief swamped him when he found the side-by-side with the keys inside. Okay, so she wasn’t trying to kill him.
She had, in fact, left behind enough food to see him through a few days and his own field and emergency backpacks.
What did this mean? Should he push forward to the village or go after her?
She had the sleeping bag. He could only presume she had a plan for shelter, given that she’d left him with the vehicle.
What was her goal here? To lose him because she was in on it with whoever had blown up the camp? Or was she simply acting out of fear?
He’d just about decided to try to make it to the village and sleep in the vehicle, if necessary, when he noticed one more thing missing from the side-by-side: Dylan’s clipboard.
Why would she take that? It was of no use to her . . . unless she was part of whatever was going on and knew the notes were valuable.
He looked to the steep hillside she’d parked next to and could just make out the path she must’ve followed up the hill. It couldn’t have been easy for her—her boots weren’t built for climbing slippery hillsides, as he’d seen this morning on the way to the site, and her pack must be damn heavy.
Now he wondered if leaving the vehicle behind was a red herring. Hell, for all he knew, the Unangax̂ village was a red herring. Maybe it wasn’t occupied year-round. Maybe they’d been evacuated too.
She could be sending him off while she met with her conspirators.
Maybe she’d lead him to Dylan.
Hope flickered in his chest.
He cursed the fact that he hadn’t been able to pack a gun for this trip, but he’d been well aware that while his bags wouldn’t be scanned by an X-ray machine for the military flight, they were subject to inspection, and it was a risk he wouldn’t dare take. But if he had, he’d have a weapon now—more than the knife that was clipped to his hip and was considered reasonable for this kind of field project.
He quickly set to work, filling his own packs with everything he’d need. She’d left him more than half their supplies, including the small pot and dishes, probably because she couldn’t fit more into her bags. But he wasn’t burdened with the sleeping bag, so he managed to cram the remainder into both packs and used the clips that attached the packs together. He grabbed the keys from the ignition and secured them in a zippered pocket. If he couldn’t find her, he’d have to come back here to weather out the storm, and he wasn’t about to take chances the vehicle would be gone.
One thing being a photographer had taught him was tracking. He was no Navy SEAL or Army Ranger, but he knew how to follow a nearly invisible trail, and he knew how to do it in good weather and bad. He doubted she’d do much, if anything, to cover her tracks. Like a lioness on the savannah, she’d be more concerned with finding her prey—or in this case, shelter—to waste time attempting to erase her trail in the pouring rain.
He set out, following her path up the hill, noting the places where plants were torn out at the roots—places she’d grabbed to halt a fall.
She’d mentioned a fear of rock climbing, and he wondered if she’d suffered panic at losing ground on the steep hillside.
Not his problem. Right now, Fiona Carver was the enemy.
It had been at least an hour since she’d left the side-by-side, and it was time to pull out her map and get a real bearing. The airplane was near. She was sure of it. She could just make out the low slopes beneath the cliff where the plane had crashed over seventy-five years ago.
Her shoulders ached from the heavy pack, her hands were frozen from the chilly rain, and her feet had blistered in her boots from the hike that was more strenuous than she’d expected to do today.
She dropped the pack to the ground and rolled her shoulders. She’d pause just for a minute and enjoy the relief of not carrying forty extra pounds. She crammed her hands up the opposite sleeves of her coat so her cold fingers could find warmth on the skin of her arms. She wore wool gloves, but they were the fingerless kind, so the tips were cold and uncovered. She should have switched out for mittens after she’d climbed the steep hill, but she’d been too anxious to make progress to stop and change.
She’d do it after she studied the map. But first, she would drink water and get warm. She wanted to sit but was afraid if she did that, she wouldn’t have the strength to stand again.
She was nearing her limits and was aware fear had reduced her capacity today. She could usually handle more strenuous hikes than this, even in the rain.
As an archaeologist in the Pacific Northwest, she didn’t have the luxury of working in only good weather.
The rain had lightened considerably since she’d set out. It was still cold and miserable, but sight distance had increased, and it was back to being a steady rain and not a deluge. It was light enough, in fact, that now that she’d stopped walking, she could make out noises that weren’t weather-related.
Like the snap of a shrub underfoot.
Fear shot through her as the noise registered. No fox or other critter to be found on this island would be out in this.
Slowly, so as not to make her own noise, she turned.
Something slammed into her, and she fell, dropping to her back on the ground as Bill Lowell pinned her down and stretched over her, bringing them eye to eye and chest to chest. She sank into the spongy muskeg as the full weight of his body pressed her into the slippery, muddy moss.
His voice was low and dangerous as he spoke with his face just an inch from hers, his blue eyes no longer bright but a stormy gray to match the dark sky. “Why did you take Dylan’s clipboard, Fiona?”
His weight on her made it impossible to breathe or speak. She pushed at his chest, suffocating. Panicked.
She was going to die here, but not from exposure. He was going to smother her.
He shifted his weight, and she took in a deep breath, but she was still pinned. Trapped, and she might be hyperventilating. It was hard to know in the moment.
“Do you know where he is?” Bill asked, his voice louder now but no less menacing.
“I—I—wh-what?” The stuttered words were all she could manage as she tried to get air.
He’d shifted again, and now rain hit her face directly, and she couldn’t turn or dodge it. This must be what water torture felt like, trying to breathe but unable to get air without taking in liquid.
She wriggled beneath him. Unable to raise her hands, she tried to use her hips and knees. But the soft ground swallowed her, and she sank farther down, reminding her of childhood stories of the dangers of quicksand.
No. The real dangers in this world were mud and rain and lying hot bird men.
“Where is Dylan?”
“Can’t . . . breathe.” She gasped between the feeble words.
At last he moved, perhaps realizing she couldn’t answer if she died of asphyxiation. He rolled to the side but kept a leg and arm flung over her, holding her down. “Where is Dylan?” he demanded again.
“Why would I know where Dylan is? And . . . what does it matter to you? Who are you?”
“Because last I heard, you’re his girlfriend. Nice to finally meet you. I’m his brother. Dean.”
FOURTEEN
Dean watched her face as his words settled in. Confusion. Surprise. Anger. In that order.
She scratched at the arm that pinned her, catching his bare wrist between glove and coat, but his skin was numb from cold, and he felt only the faintest trace of her touch. She could be opening a vein and he wouldn’t notice.
They were finally at the crux of the situation.
“Where is Dylan?” he asked again.
She shook her head. “I don’t know!”
His hand was so close to her neck, which was exposed at the front, as rain dropped down on her face and filled the yellow hood of her raincoat. It had to be sliding down her back, chilling her to the core.
He itched to place his hand on her exposed skin; his cold fingers would let her know he was in control here, and she would answer h
im.
He’d never before threatened or harmed another human being—at least, not outside of a sport where it was part of the game—but he’d reached a new level of desperation. A new low in his evolution from man to monster.
He’d lost Violet. No matter how hard he worked, how hard he fought for her, he’d lost her. But that had been a losing battle to begin with.
He wouldn’t lose Dylan. Couldn’t. He’d do absolutely anything to find his brother. He’d risk federal prison by impersonating an ornithologist. He’d tackle a beautiful woman and watch her rain gear slowly fill with icy water that would kill her in a matter of hours if she didn’t get warm.
But he wouldn’t put his hand on her throat.
Violet would be appalled.
He released her and scooted back, the voice of his dead wife shaming him. It had been years since Violet had spoken to him like that, even in his mind.
Fiona curled up and rolled to her side, putting her back to him. He could tell from the shudder of her body that the water that had been trapped in her hood had filtered down and soaked her side.
She wore wool and fleece, which remained warm even when wet, unlike cotton, which would mean death out here. Her body might even heat the water, like a wet suit, but still, they needed shelter and a fire ASAP or hypothermia could—would—set in. If he took her back to the side-by-side and they turned it on for the heater, she’d get warm, but they’d quickly run out of fuel.
She must’ve had a plan, a destination in mind.
“We need shelter,” he said. “Where were you headed?”
She pulled her knees up to her chest and said nothing.
Shit. He’d fucked up. Big-time. She was now more afraid of him than of dying from exposure.
“We need to talk, Fiona, and we can’t linger out here. Someone might be following us, and you’re soaked. Please. Let’s work together and find shelter. Make a fire. And then you can tell me why you and Dylan broke up or where he is. Whatever. I won’t hurt you. I just need to know the truth. I just need to find my brother.”
Slowly, she rolled over. It was like each shift of position pained her, but then, her whole body could be seizing with fear, cold, or aches he had yet to learn about. She’d hiked uphill in the pouring rain with a heavy pack. She could be flat-out done for the day.
If that were the case, he’d have to carry her and both their packs to safety. She was tall and strong. She had to be 150 pounds, minimum. Probably more. The packs would be another sixty to seventy pounds.
He worked out regularly to remain fit for the job, and his work often involved extreme conditions, heavy packs, and remote locations, but this . . . this was too much. No way in hell could he do it, not all at once. And not uphill in the rain.
She met his gaze. “I don’t know why you seem to think Dylan and I were dating. We were colleagues, nothing more. I liked him, but there wasn’t any attraction beyond respect and friendship. And I have no idea where he is now. All I know is he was fired. Rumor has it, he sexually assaulted his boss, Sylvia Jessup.”
Fiona watched Bill’s—or rather, Dean’s—face carefully for his reaction. At the same time, she took in the subtle resemblance. They had a similar height and build, and she realized she’d mentally compared them more than once based on that. But their facial features were different enough that the resemblance wasn’t obvious, so she didn’t need to kick herself for not connecting all the dots. It was there in the blond hair and probably the jawline, but Dean sported a beard while Dylan had always remained clean-shaven throughout the expedition.
It had to be the eyes that had thrown her off. She’d been so focused on Hot Bird Man’s Newman eyes, she’d failed to see the resemblance to the hazel-eyed volcanologist who’d left the last field expedition in disgrace.
It all came back to her now, the night in the office tent when Dylan showed her the inscription on the clipboard. He’d mentioned his brother the photographer—his twin—and for some reason, she had it in her head they were identical. Dylan was supremely good-looking, and she’d mentally imagined what it must be like to be presented with two of them. Beautiful bookends to make an awkward girl tongue-tied.
She remembered now that Dean wasn’t a fashion photographer. He photographed wildlife, and Dylan had said he was quite successful.
One twin was a volcanologist and the other traveled the world taking pictures of animals in their natural habitats. It was hard to imagine two more appealing careers. To her mind, anyway.
Now she looked into Dylan’s brother’s eyes, and the man was an entirely different kind of handsome from Dylan. Two flavors of perfection.
She should have caught on when she’d noticed the expensive cameras and ease behind the lens, but she’d been too wrapped up in those blue, blue eyes and the gentle—but enticing—flirtation when he had those fancy cameras in his hands.
What had been the point of that flirtation? It didn’t make sense, given that he’d had it in his head that she’d dated his brother. It couldn’t be a competition thing between twins, because he clearly cared about Dylan or he wouldn’t be here under a false name.
The shock of it all almost made her forget the cold that was slowly sapping her energy.
She’d been just as shocked when Dylan had been sent home abruptly. The volcanologist had been nothing but kind to her, and she’d found Sylvia’s behavior toward Dylan problematic. What she’d seen with her own eyes was enough to make her doubt the allegation. But Fiona hadn’t been there when it happened. All she could do was fail to support Sylvia’s account by not repeating it when people asked. And she sure as hell wouldn’t testify on the woman’s behalf, not when the interactions Fiona had witnessed were the opposite of what the woman claimed.
If Dylan had asked for a statement on Sylvia’s conduct, Fiona would have agreed to provide it. But he’d never reached out, even though they all knew Fiona had witnessed a few choice encounters between boss and subordinate.
Now she was face-to-face with Dylan’s handsome, angry brother, and the guy wanted to know why Fiona had lied about her relationship with Dylan? What relationship?
Every muscle in her body ached with cold and other pains too numerous to mention, but she forced herself to roll to her feet and stand. She was as wobbly as a newborn colt and in a whole lot of pain, but lying in the icy muck would kill her. They needed to get to shelter. She needed fire and food before her body seized.
“In my pack, you’ll find a field map in a plastic case. There’s a Japanese plane wreck marked on it. That’s where I was headed. It’s big enough for shelter. We can probably build a fire inside.” She reached for the bag she’d dropped moments before she’d been flattened to the ground, but before she could wrap her fingers around the strap, her knees buckled.
He swooped forward and caught her before she landed in the mud. Her cheek pressed to his chest, and she closed her eyes against tears. She felt no comfort in his arms. He might have saved her from hitting the ground this time, but he’d also put her there.
She pushed against his chest to regain her footing. She couldn’t rely on him. Couldn’t trust him, any more than he seemed to trust her.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“No. You’re not.”
“I will be. Once we get to the plane. We’ll build a fire. Eat.”
“And talk.”
“Yes. And talk.” She reached for the pack again, but her fingers were too numb to lift it.
Dean swore and grabbed it. “Where is the map?”
She thumped on an outside zipper pocket with her club of a hand, then tucked both hands under her coat and all the other layers so her fingers met the warm skin of her torso. It was a little scary that her belly felt the cold but her fingers hardly registered the heat of her own skin. Like waking up in the middle of the night with a dead arm, but she was wide-awake.
Dean pulled out the map, and she used her club hand to signal where the airplane was and where she thought they were, then tucked it back under h
er layers, against her skin. Feeling was returning, and her fingers ached with renewed life.
This was next-level pins-and-needles pain.
He pulled out his own compass and took a bearing. The fog had lifted enough for a few more landforms to be visible in the distance, and she was impressed that he knew how to triangulate their location. But then, he’d probably been on many shoots where GPS wasn’t available and he had to use old-fashioned maps and rulers to find his way.
Somehow, that made her trust him more. He wasn’t so different from Dylan after all. She’d always been impressed with Dylan’s competence in the field. He’d been one of the people she’d most looked forward to catching up with on these projects, a person she’d enjoyed as a friend, as Cara was a friend.
But she’d never felt a burning attraction that went both ways sort of vibe. They were colleagues who enjoyed hanging out in the cook or office tent at the end of the day.
“I—I liked Dylan,” she said. “But that was all. And I’m pretty sure it was the same for him.”
“He told me otherwise,” Dean said. His voice wasn’t angry, but she didn’t know what it was. This conversation would be easier once they were safe inside the World War II wreck and had food. A stiff drink would, frankly, be welcome at this point, but that wasn’t among the emergency supplies, unfortunately.
If she survived this, she was going to get good and drunk off her favorite rum, and she wouldn’t even feel guilty about it.
Her breath hitched as her brain repeated the “if” in that thought.
“It looks like the plane is a quarter of a mile from here. I’ll take the packs and find it, drop them off, then come back for you.”
Her brain rebelled at the idea of being left behind without supplies. “No. I can walk. I can carry my pack.”
He gave her a look that said he highly doubted that. He slipped his pack from his back and unclipped his day pack from the frame. “Mine is a little bit lighter. You carry it. I’ll carry yours plus my day pack.”
Dangerous Ground Page 13