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They didn’t.
She felt just as safe as she had since the moment Bishop had implicitly assumed command. She scrubbed her hands over her eyes and down her cheeks, but that didn’t help either.
She could still feel that kiss.
Dammit, it hadn’t happened.
She punished herself with a sharp breath, grateful when the resulting stab succeeded in fusing her thoughts back on her ribs. Once again, she welcomed the pain. The constant ache had served to keep her grief over Carrie sealed up and tucked away until she could risk dealing with it. Until she could risk dealing with the memories. So far, the throbbing had kept them at bay.
How long would the reprieve last?
Promise me you won’t hate me…
But she already did. She couldn’t help it. Despite Bishop’s constant presence, the loneliness had begun to creep back, slowly but steadily. She hadn’t felt it in years, but here it was. Like the cold, familiar companion it was.
Taunting her, stifling her.
“Eve?”
She stiffened, only to feel foolish moments later. After spending the last twelve hours watching Rick Bishop in action, she shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d managed to sneak up on her without making a sound. If they were discovered before they reached the border, it would be her fault, not his. She risked another deep breath to steady her nerves and turned. Her relief bled out. Other than the concern lingering in that dark-brown gaze, it was void of emotion. Bishop obviously agreed—that kiss had not happened.
He nodded toward her sweat-soaked T-shirt. “I need to rewrap your ribs.”
“I’ll do it.”
The firm hand on her arm stopped her.
She turned back.
“I will.” This time, there was no room for argument in his voice. Unfortunately, he was right. She hadn’t been able to get a good enough grip on the bindings he’d fashioned this morning to wrap her ribs as tightly as she’d needed to.
Hence, they’d loosened.
While she welcomed the distraction the pain provided, neither of them could afford the caution that was now part of her every step. What she’d lose in embarrassment, they’d both gain in speed. She nodded. “Fine, I’ll just get—”
He held out a fresh set of bindings, already rolled.
There wasn’t much she could add, so she just stood there. He finally glanced over to the trees where they’d just been standing. Where they’d just been kissing.
“Over there. It’s sheltered.”
Was that supposed to help her feel less humiliated?
She nodded anyway.
But once she’d crossed the clearing and eased herself down onto a gnarled root, she realized her mistake. She should have refused. Early evening was rapidly giving way to late. As Bishop propped his M-16 against the tree trunk and hunkered down in front of her, the lengthening shadows magnified the tension between them, giving the small alcove a distinctly bedroom feel. The intimacy was compounded when he dropped the fresh bindings beside them and reached out to pull the hem of her T-shirt from the knotted sleeves of her flight suit at her waist. He’d obviously decided it would be too painful for her to remove the shirt herself.
Unfortunately, he was right.
Even more unfortunate was her subsequent realization that she wasn’t wearing one of her basic cotton bras today, but one of her lace ones.
What else could go wrong?
Evidently, a lot.
Eve sucked in her breath as he peeled her shirt up. If he stripped her any slower, the act would qualify as foreplay.
And his hands.
They were so large, he couldn’t seem to avoid her skin as he eased the shirt from her head and set about unwrapping the old bindings. Yeah, her skin was definitely paying the price. His callused fingers skimmed her waist as he adjusted his grip, only to slide another trail of fire across her stomach as he moved around to the front. She forced herself to lift her arms and stare past his head as he quickened his pace, only to inhale sharply as one of his fingers bumped into her right breast and scraped the tip.
She flushed as it puckered embarrassingly beneath the lace.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“N-no problem.”
Mercifully, the final layer of cotton bindings disappeared along with his disturbing hands. She would have welcomed the pain that followed as he began to rewrap her ribs tightly—but this time, it was just too intense. Her eyes began to water and soon she was on the verge of whimpering. She needed a distraction.
Desperately.
“I—ah—I don’t know what happened.”
His gaze shot to hers. She swore she could see a hundred different questions swirling amid those probing depths. She wasn’t sure how, but he picked the right one. “The chopper?”
She managed a nod. “The engine, it just…stopped. Cut out. Almost as if we’d run out of fuel.” She risked a deeper breath. “But that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because the tank was nearly three-quarters full when I took off from the landing zone, that’s why. Not to mention the blasted fuel exploded.” Damn, she hadn’t meant to snap. But her ribs hurt so bloody bad. “Sorry.”
He shrugged off her apology as he continued to wrap her torso, tucking the free end beneath the bindings. He met her gaze as he began a new strip. “Do you think there was an electrical problem?”
Despite the agony in her chest, she blinked.
“You mentioned your global positioning system was down when I reached the LZ—along with the comm links to the extra headsets. Do you think the problems were related?” He glanced down to smooth the bindings, saving her the humiliation of admitting the headset malfunction had been a fib.
“No.”
His gaze shot up. “Are you—”
“Yes, I’m sure.” If she was lucky, he’d chalk up the fire in her cheeks to the constant stabbing in her ribs. Despite both, she managed not to shift beneath that dark gaze.
She might not know why the Black Hawk had crashed, but she did know the malfunctioning GPS hadn’t contributed to it. Nor had there been a systematic electrical failure. Other than global positioning, all equipment had been functioning correctly until the chopper’s engine simply stopped.
Even if she confessed her fit of pique regarding the headsets, what would that explain?
Nothing.
But it would open up a discussion about Carrie.
A discussion she had no intention of initiating with this man, let alone an accident investigation board. If the board discovered Carrie’s relationship with Sergeant Turner by some other means and then asked her a direct question, she wouldn’t lie. But neither did she intend to volunteer anything that would stain her friend’s military record. Carrie was dead. So was her lover. As far as Eve was concerned, the extent of their relationship had died with them.
In more ways than one.
She didn’t know how much Bishop knew, but she was fairly certain he didn’t know about the baby. Given his time and care with the makeshift crosses, surely he would have added a smaller one if he had? Again, even if he did know, what would it change? Hindsight might have filled in several of the blanks regarding Carrie’s behavior during the flight, but it certainly hadn’t absolved her of her own actions.
As the pilot in charge, the safety of the Black Hawk’s passengers and crew had been her responsibility.
And now they were dead.
Eve was holding something back.
Rick stared into that wide green gaze for several moments, hoping she’d tell him what it was, but she didn’t. She just slid her gaze from his and resumed that distant, fixed stare beyond his shoulder. He knew exactly what she was looking at. The past.
This morning, to be exact.
Eve Paris knew something about that crash that she wasn’t sharing. He’d stake their paltry supply of ammunition on it.
But what was it?
Well, he wasn’t going to get it out of her now, not after his inappropriate behavior. He was better off sticking to his makeshift mission. He’d get them the hell out of Córdoba and let the investigation board handle the rest. It was better for Eve and better for him. Hadn’t he already proven his objectivity was out of whack with that blasted kiss?
That kiss.
Dammit, he was not going there.
Though he’d been willing to apologize for his behavior, Eve was right. It was best to pretend those mindless moments had not happened—and to make damned sure they didn’t happen again. Rick jerked his attention to the task at hand, glancing down one last time to check the bindings he’d finished.
Not a smart move.
His fellow soldier might be minus a couple of intact ribs, but she was sporting some seriously healthy cleavage. He ripped his gaze from the generous curves spilling out from the top of her bra and grabbed the T-shirt lying beside them. He stretched the neck opening and eased it over her curls, pausing as she carefully reinserted her arms before he pulled the shirt the rest of the way down to tuck the hem into the arms of the flight suit knotted about her waist. The sigh that followed seemed to fill the darkening jungle.
He wasn’t sure if it was hers or his.
Not that it mattered. He suspected her relief was as great as his. Especially when she stood abruptly. He reached out, but she stepped away, evading his hands as she turned.
“I’ll break out the food.”
He studied her movements closely as she headed across the clearing toward their gear still dumped at the base of the tree on the opposite side. Rebinding her ribs had been a good call. She was walking easier now, her stride almost matching the energy she’d displayed that morning at the landing zone.
Almost.
Well, he’d done the best he could, given the circumstances. If only he hadn’t lost his sergeant’s rucksack with its medical kit and painkillers.
Hell, if only he hadn’t lost his sergeant.
Regret slammed into him for the thousandth time that day.
He slammed it back. There’d be time enough for that later. Eve was right; they needed food. Twenty winks wouldn’t hurt either.
Her or him.
Rick shifted his rifle and leaned back against the trunk of the tree, swallowing a groan as he raised his hands to probe the line of stitches Eve had added to his latest soon-to-be scar. This was definitely no hangover. Those ebbed as the day wore on. This headache had only worsened. Since they’d stopped, the throbbing had taken on the cadence of an M-60 machine gun chewing through a belt of bullets, damned near drowning out the subtle sounds of the jungle beyond.
Even when he concentrated, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hear the birds and the insects above the pounding in his skull—and that was dangerous. Any change in their behavior could well signal the stealthy approach of an enemy.
But if he was too tired to hear it…
Rick stood, flexing his aching neck and shoulders before he snagged his M-16 and headed across the clearing after Eve. By the time he reached her, she’d already rummaged through the rucksack and located the MREs, or meals, ready to eat, using her pocketknife to slit open the brown plastic wrappers.
He gestured to the makeshift meal, indicating she should take her choice, not that there was much of one. As far as he was concerned, one version of MREs tasted as much like wet sawdust as another, especially cold. He leaned his rifle against the ruck and reached for one of the instant coffee packets instead as he settled back against a tree trunk.
“Feel free to take the other coffee, too.”
He did. “Thanks.”
He poured out a canteen cup of water, dumped both packets in and swished them around for several seconds. She grimaced as he downed the lukewarm contents, but didn’t say anything. Cold coffee wasn’t on his list of favorite foods either, but they both knew they couldn’t risk a fire.
He reached for the Army’s attempt at beef stew, discreetly watching Eve as he settled back against the tree. She seemed more interested in studying the moss clinging to the knotted root beside her than she did in consuming the contents of her own MRE pouch. The longer she stared at the moss, the more fascinated he became—with her. He was beginning to suspect that no matter how cool and controlled Eve seemed when she thought he was watching her, she was anything but when she did not. A myriad of emotions continued to sweep through her gaze, each one more intense than the last, until the distinct shadow of grief finally shrouded those deep-green eyes and settled in, turning them even darker.
His gut clenched as her gaze began to glisten.
Tears.
He’d lay odds she was thinking about Carrie and the crash. As much as he felt the pull of compassion, it had to stop. He had to distract her. Frankly, he couldn’t afford to watch those tears well up again. Look what had happened the last time.
Dammit, she was a soldier.
So, think of her as one.
God help him, he was trying. But in spite of his best efforts to relegate her back to the ranks of fellow officer, he couldn’t quite manage it. The truth was, the longer he stared at this particular soldier, the more he became intrigued by the glimpse of pure woman he caught beneath.
Just who was Eve Paris?
Whoever she was, she was seriously hurting.
If she and Carrie were really sisters, it made sense.
He sought out her gaze, steeling himself against those tears and their effect on his sanity. He’d have to deal with them—because she obviously needed to get it out. To be honest, he wanted to know. He gave up all pretense of eating and leaned forward to return the food pouch to the communal space between them, then cleared his throat softly.
“Eve?”
Her wide gaze shot to his. “What is it? Did you—”
He held up his hands. “Relax. I didn’t hear anything. I haven’t all day. I was just thinking about something you said about Carrie—” He broke off as she stiffened.
Odd.
