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He rolled his shoulders slightly as if to ease his tension as she picked up her last stitch. “So…what happened up there?”
Slick. Very slick.
Small talk, her ass. Rick Bishop wasn’t interested in getting to know her at all. Neither had he been coming on to her. He’d been softening her up for an impromptu interrogation session. Or maybe it wasn’t impromptu. Either way, she didn’t care. While she wouldn’t pretend to misunderstand, neither was she in the mood to discuss what had happened.
As if she even could.
“You were there, Bishop. You tell me.”
But then, he hadn’t been listening up in that chopper, had he? She’d refused him the common courtesy of the extra headset in a fit of pique over his manner toward Carrie.
It all seemed moot now.
Childish.
She tied off the final stitch and clipped the ends before turning away to restow her first-aid kit and tuck it into her flight vest. But before she could scramble to her feet, his hand closed over her arm, stopping her cold.
“Eve…I’m not a pilot. I had no idea what was happening in that chopper beyond the fact that it was about to drop out of the sky roughly four klicks inside enemy territory.” The words were quiet, almost gentle, certainly devoid of the accusation and reproach she’d fully expected.
Even deserved.
Maybe that’s why she was able to scrape up the nerve to meet his gaze. “Then congratulations, Bishop. You’re one up on me.”
She hadn’t said a word in eight hours.
Not so much as a passing comment or even a question as to how far they’d traveled or when they’d stop for the night. Rick held up a hand, bringing them to a halt for a moment so that he could gauge the pulse of the jungle. Other than the rustle of leaves, the distant shriek of a howler monkey and the occasional chirp and almost constant buzzing of insects, there was nothing. He lowered his hand, then switched his machete into his left in order to hack another swath of vine-tangled foliage from his path.
Eve followed him through.
Again, but for the soft thumps of her boots, silently.
It wasn’t normal, even for him. Sure, they were still well inside Córdoba, but no one was tracking them. He was certain. At first he’d been worried about the trail they were leaving. But given Eve’s condition, he didn’t have a choice. With her ribs in the shape they were, it would have taken four times as long to cover the same amount of ground if he’d forced her to pick through the uncut undergrowth. Even now she was stumbling more often than not.
The woman was exhausted.
If she fell and damaged her ribs further or, God forbid, punctured a lung, they might never make it back. He should stop. Force her to rest if necessary. As tired as she was, she’d probably sleep through to dawn if he let her. Still, he had to hand it to her.
Eve Paris was one tough soldier.
He’d had plenty of time to consider the woman as he buried her crew and his sergeant, plenty of time to worry. It wasn’t long before his guilt over Turner’s death had turned to apprehension. Apprehension that his sole surviving companion would fall apart the minute he assumed command of their extraction and pushed her to her physical and mental limits.
Mercifully, she hadn’t.
That the woman was about to fall over was no fault of her stamina. It was a direct result of her injuries. Injuries that were in serious need of re-tending.
A swift glance to his flank confirmed it.
Though Eve still dogged his boots, she now winced with every step she took. He’d lay odds her bandages had loosened, given the soft gasp that escaped despite her obvious efforts to hold it back. Rick switched the machete to his right hand and took up the swinging rhythm again. Forty more whacks and he found what he’d been seeking.
He stopped short.
Evidently too short, because he was forced to drop the machete and whirl about to grab Eve by the shoulders and steady her before she went down.
She promptly shrugged out of his grasp.
“Sorry.”
He shook his head. “No harm done.”
She smoothed the sweat from her brow as he slid his M-16 rifle and rucksack from his aching shoulders, dumping both on the ground at their feet.
“Why are we stopping?”
“Rest.” He flicked his gaze to the sweat-drenched T-shirt beneath her matching olive-green flight vest. She’d long since unzipped the top of her coveralls and peeled the sleeves down to tie them about her waist. “You need rest. So do I.”
He suspected she knew the last was an exaggeration but she let it pass. He chalked up another point in her favor. Accepting their individual limitations and depending on one another to make up for them would only help the both of them reach San Sebastián in one piece. He unhooked one of the green plastic canteens from his web gear and unscrewed the stopper before he passed it over. She accepted the water without argument, earning another point for not bothering to wipe the spout before she drank. His-and-her germs were the least of their worries.
She passed the canteen back. He polished off the remaining water before dumping the empty canteen down next to his ruck. His web gear followed and she wisely added her flight vest to the pile. She could probably use something to eat. Lord knew he could.
But first, her ribs.
Rick bent down, shifting his rifle off his rucksack so he could open the rear pouch and pull out the extra makeshift bindings he’d stashed within. In his haste, however, the personal effects of their men spilled out onto the jungle floor. He cursed his clumsiness beneath his breath as he tried to gather up the watches, wallets, spare dog tags and additional items before Eve noticed.
It was the least he could do.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough.
She snatched up the ring he’d removed from Carrie’s right hand. “What the hell are you doing with this?”
He stood slowly, reaching for her.
She jerked from his touch and stepped back before he could stop her. “Well?” The emerald fire in her eyes had chilled to ice.
He sighed. “That’s Captain Evans’s ring. She was—”
“I know what it is. I asked what you were doing with it.”
He ignored the iron set to her shoulders and stepped closer, grasping them gently as he calmly explained what she already knew. “Eve, be reasonable. Carrie probably has a mother and a father who may be grateful we were able to bring a piece of her back home.”
Once again, she tore herself from his touch. But this time, the chill was gone from her eyes. They were on fire now, swirling, raging. And something else.
Pain.
A pain so deep, he swore he felt it searing into him.
“I don’t give a damn what you thought, Captain Bishop. Carrie Evans was part of my crew, not yours. You should have consulted me. The truth is, we may never be able to retrieve those bodies and you know it. This ring was supposed to be buried with Carrie. And for your information, Carrie doesn’t have any family. I was her family. Her sister—and with Sergeant Turner gone, the only family she had left!”
What the hell?
Rick stood there, too stunned to move as Eve clenched the ring into her fist and stormed out into the eight-by-eight-foot clearing he’d decided would serve as their bivouac site for the night. Her fury propelled her to the opposite side of the clearing. But there, she ended up tangled in the dense undergrowth as well as the vines hanging between the trees. She lashed out at the vines, but that only seemed to make it worse. He heard her cry out as a thick branch came snapping back squarely across her ribs.
He winced as she cursed.
A moment later he caught her muffled sob. An inexplicable punch to his heart followed, almost as if he’d taken a bullet.
Confusion capped it off.
How could Eve and Carrie possibly have been sisters?
Family members weren’t allowed to be stationed within the same command. Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time to demand an explanation. Even from where he stood, it was obvious that Eve Paris was devastated.
Rick retrieved the fresh roll of bindings and stuffed them into his right cargo pocket as he stood. He snagged his M-16 next, slinging the rifle over his shoulder as he headed across the clearing. Eve’s back was to him, her shoulders quaking silently as she stood staring off into the rapidly darkening jungle. It was obvious she and Carrie had been close. So close, he was beginning to wonder how the woman had held it together for as long as she had. He reached out only to force his hands to halt in midair. Each time he’d touched Eve before, she’d pulled away. There was no sense aggravating her again. Least of all now.
So what the hell was he supposed to do?
Were she one of his men, he’d know exactly what to say, how to handle this. He’d done it often enough. But how did he comfort a soldier he didn’t even know? A female one at that? For the first time, Rick experienced a twinge of regret at serving the majority of his career within the Special Forces, one of the few remaining holdouts in this man’s Army.
In the end, he gambled.
Reaching out again, he let his hands drop until they gently cupped her quaking shoulders.
As expected, she stiffened.
But then she turned and stared up at him silently.
Good God, how could he have spent twelve hours with this woman and only now be noticing how tiny she was? Even in her boots, the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. The soft gold of her hair still curled about her face despite the heat and constant exertion of the day. Even with the purple bruises that had darkened along her left cheek and jaw, Eve Paris was a stunning woman. But the longer he stared, the more he noticed the emotional ravages of the day.
Her complexion for one.
The ivory shade of earlier this morning was gone. Grief had stained her high cheeks and stubborn jaw bright red. Even her gently bowed lips were flushed, but the effect only served to make her seem even more delicate than he’d first imagined.
In the end, it was her eyes that did him in.
Puffy and red from crying, the emerald irises seemed darker now, larger…and silent tears were still streaming from the corners of her eyes. Mesmerized, he reached out and smoothed his thumbs up her cheeks, catching the damp warmth as it continued to trickle steadily down.
Time froze as her tears mingled with his sweat.
His breath froze.
Seconds later he succeeded in jump-starting his lungs, but it was too late. He was already leaning down. Closer and closer, until he was breathing her scent. He caught her tears with his lips, absorbing the salt with his flesh. Even as his actions stunned him, they seemed right. This seemed right. And a moment later, it only seemed natural to cover those soft swollen lips with his.
To his surprise, her mouth parted.
And then he was kissing her.
Softly at first. Lightly. But over and over. Though he knew better, he couldn’t find the strength or the sanity to stop. Nor did he want to. He gently grasped her bottom lip with his and caressed it, then slipped the tip of his tongue slowly inside. He used his mouth to draw her in closer until he was drawing her very essence into his own. She tasted of the early-morning sun and of the evening rain—but also of sorrow. A sorrow so heavy and so profound, he could feel it slipping down into his soul. Driven to ease it, to comfort her, he deepened the kiss. But he didn’t dare touch her with his hands for fear that he’d injure her ribs. So he used his lips and his tongue instead.
He tasted, soothed and caressed.
And then he tasted again, all the while resolved to take just this kiss and nothing more.
Until it changed.
He knew Eve felt it too. Somewhere deep inside it just…changed. The hunger swelled, ignited, consumed.
And then the kiss changed.
She was clinging to him now, reaching up to rake her fingers into his hair, kneading them down the back of his neck, pulling him in tight, molding her lower curves to his now aching erection until all he could think about was peeling that damp T-shirt from her chest as he had earlier, until there was nothing between them but bare skin and the lace of that tantalizing pale-green bra.
When her fingers grabbed his shirt, he caved in to temptation and did the same.
She gasped—and he cursed.
Her ribs.
But as he jerked back and stared at the shock exploding amid the pain and desire still swirling within those wide green eyes, the reality of his actions slammed into him with the force of an Abrams tank grinding a swath of hothouse flowers down into the dirt.
What the hell had he just done?
Chapter 3
Eve stood there, her mouth gaping, liquid heat still flooding her body. Heat that had nothing to do with the sweat still trickling down the back of her neck and in between her breasts. It had to do with him.
Bishop.
Captain Rick Bishop. Her fellow stranded soldier.
And that steamy kiss.
Why on earth had he done it?
Who was she kidding? She hadn’t even tried to stop him. She’d just stood there, like some doe caught in the cross-hairs of a hunter’s scope. And then she’d kissed him back.
Grief. That’s what it was. It had to be.
Shock. Uncertainty.
Yes, even fear.
She’d experienced them all today. They both had. But that was no excuse and she knew it. She and Bishop were trapped behind enemy lines. They had no business engaging in sexual misconduct. According to the Army’s code of professional ethics and morals—hell, according to her own—that’s exactly what they’d just done. From the way the color had bled from the man’s face as well as the terse working of his throat, he felt the same way.
“Please…forgive me. There’s no excuse for what I—”
“It didn’t happen.”
He reached out. “Eve—”
“No.” She jerked away from those dangerous hands before they could seduce her again and strode into the clearing. Perhaps the shadows of the jungle beyond would reinforce her sense of exposure and reduce these roiling feelings that that kiss had stirred within her.
