Читать книгу Crossing The Line - Candace Irvin - Страница 9

Christ Almighty, his head.

Rick groaned. He hadn’t had a hangover like this since he and his brother had polished off half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s back on their father’s farm in the tenth grade. Ah, cripes, he was going to throw up. A second later, he almost did. Rick thrust his hands out, searching for something to grab on to as he worked to steady his aching, spinning brain. He pushed himself up from what appeared to be a rock to suck down a mouthful of air, but what he got along with it was the distinctive sear of smoke.

This was no hangover.

The crash.

He tried scrambling to his feet but ended up on his knees, cradling his forehead as he struggled for balance…and something was wet. But why? It wasn’t raining. He pulled his hands down and forced his gaze to focus on his shaking fingers. They were covered in blood.

His?

It had to be. He didn’t see anyone else around him.

Sergeant Turner.

Where was he? Where was the chopper for that matter?

Once again Rick used his hands to steady his throbbing skull as he twisted his battered torso about, searching. If his eyes were cooperating as well as he hoped, those were trees wavering in and out of his view. Hundreds of trees.

But no chopper.

The smoke. Follow the smoke.

He could still smell it.

He braced himself against the nausea and lurched to his feet, grateful he managed to remain upright despite his drunken weaving. At least his vision seemed to be clearing. Wary of his tenuous grip on his balance, he began a slow, systematic three-hundred-and-sixty-degree search of the dense jungle undergrowth. He made it to the one-ninety mark before he spotted the small clearing Paris had tried landing the chopper in. It was a good twenty yards into the brush. He caught a flash of something else through the trees, too.

Was that red? Or orange?

He couldn’t be sure. It was just a flicker.

He advanced anyway, determined to check it out. Grasping vines and thick foliage snapped back at him as he moved, lashing around the legs and sleeves of his jungle fatigues with enough tenacity to topple him. He definitely could have used his machete because twice they succeeded. In the end, it was the red that kept him going.

Flames.

He was sure of it now.

He could hear them consuming the chopper, devouring the steel with a vicious rumble that kept him staggering forward until he was almost on top of the tiny clearing. But as he stumbled past the final trees, it wasn’t the chopper that brought him to his knees.

It was his sergeant.

Rick swallowed the roiling bile as it threatened once again, knowing it was hopeless even as he slid his fingers down his sergeant’s throat and pressed them into the man’s carotid artery. The soldier he’d entrusted with his life for nearly three years was gone. Given the angle of the break in Turner’s neck, it would have been a miracle if the man had been otherwise. Guilt seared through Rick, burning the pain from his head, leaving only the anguish in his heart as he cupped his hand to his sergeant’s face and gently closed those dark, unseeing eyes.

Dammit, why had he brought Turner along?

As soon as he realized Carrie was on that chopper, he should have sent his sergeant back to the rest of their men. Sure, Turner would have figured out the real reason Rick had ordered him to come along this morning. But even that would have been better than this.

Rick stared at the almost peaceful expression on Turner’s face, remembering. The good of the last three years far outweighed his sergeant’s distraction these past five months. Turner had saved his ass more times than he could count. In training and in the real thing.

What a waste.

His waste.

Dammit, there was no time to mourn.

The chopper. Her crew.

Once again, Rick hauled himself to his feet, grateful his strength was coming back. He’d need it. For himself and whoever else had survived the smoldering hell thirty feet away.

Please, God, let the rest have survived.

He murmured the prayer over and over, holding fast to the mantra as he crossed the clearing and reached the blackened, shattered shell on the other side. The prayer died on his lips as he spied the remains of the two forms inside the wreckage.

Carrie Evans. The crew chief.

Like Turner, both were beyond hope.

He sent up another prayer for each, saving his last for the soldier he’d yet to find.

Eve Paris.

Had she been thrown free as well? Her chopper door was open. There was a chance. He caught the impression her body had made in the grass beneath the dangling door and set about tracking her uneven footsteps. Ten feet away, the depressions suddenly stopped. It wasn’t until he raised his gaze and scanned the area beyond that he understood why. She must have managed to evacuate moments before the chopper exploded because there was nothing by way of a trail until he spied her body sprawled out a good twenty feet back.

The blast had blown her smack into a tree.

Despite his still-spinning head, he reached her limp form in record time and checked her breathing and her pulse, relieved beyond words to find both present, if a bit weak. Twelve years of combat training kicked in and he carefully checked her over before he dared to move her head and spine. Other than the bleeding knot at her temple and the swollen lump at the back of her skull, she appeared fine. But as he skimmed his hands down her torso, she groaned.

“Don’t. Hurts.”

“I know, Paris, I know.” Despite her protests, he unhooked her survival vest and unzipped the front of her flight suit, then peeled her T-shirt up her ribs. There was no blood, but she was sporting one hell of a vicious set of bruises across her right side. Most were already turning purple. He eased her shirt down. “It looks like you’ve cracked a couple of ribs. Any other injuries you’re aware of?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Despite everything that had transpired, his lips twisted at her sarcasm. True enough. Given the devastation behind them, not to mention the journey ahead, cracked ribs were definitely enough.

She coughed and then gasped as he helped her into a sitting position. Tears began streaming from the corners of those huge green eyes, mingling with the blood streaking down her cheeks.

From the ache in her ribs, no doubt.

But he’d bet most were a result of the ache in her heart.

Dammit, now was not the time to soften, let alone give in to the ache in his own. “Paris, we’ve got to get those ribs wrapped. Then we need to get out of here.” He held her down as she tried to stand. They definitely had to get moving.

He glanced at the chopper.

As soon as he buried the bodies.

He swung his gaze from the wreckage as Paris touched his temple. “What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Considering he had to keep blinking to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes, he figured it was an understatement.

“You need stitches.”

“No time. I’ll wrap it.” Just as soon as he figured out what they were going to wrap her cracked ribs with.

She looked ready to argue with him.

He turned his back on her frown and took stock of their surroundings. By the time he’d turned back, she was staring at the remains of the chopper. Her eyes were red.

“Your crew’s dead, as well as my sergeant. I’m sorry.”

From her stiff nod, he wasn’t sure she’d really understood. She seemed a bit too controlled, too contained.

Almost cold.

Then again, it wasn’t like he knew the woman. Nor had the local rumor mill had a chance to circulate its findings. Eve Paris was too new in country. From her professionalism in the chopper as well as the way she’d appeared to stay cool during the crash, cold could well be the woman’s normal mode.

Just as well. They had three bodies to bury and a two- to three-day trek ahead by his estimate. Given who was likely to be dogging their boots the entire way, it was past time to get started. But as he reached out to ease off her flight suit, she stiffened. In deference to her shock, he knocked back his impatience. “Please, I need to get a better look at your ribs, and then I’ll need to wrap them. You won’t make the journey otherwise.” He waited for a response.

Nothing.

She still wouldn’t even look at him.

She just kept staring at that damned hulk of blackened steel.

“Paris?”

“I’ll do it.”

For a moment, he considered arguing.

What the hell. He’d probably insist on the same thing in her place. He nodded curtly. “I’ll see what I can salvage from the wreck. Then I’d better get started on the bodies. No—” He nudged her down again. “I’ll take care of them. You need to conserve your strength.”

Another nod. This one even more stiff.

Frankly, he wasn’t surprised. Cold or not, he knew full well she had to be taking the crash personally, just as he knew why. But there was no time for guilt.

Hers or his.

They had to get moving. “Eve?”

Again, nothing.

He continued anyway, “That waterfall we flew over. Did your copilot have a chance to tell you about it before the crash?”

She shook her head slowly.

Great. One more piece of crappy news to lay on her head. Even as his heart went out to her, he hauled it back and crammed it firmly inside his chest. The woman was a soldier.

So, treat her like one, dammit!

“That waterfall was on the wrong side of the border. By my estimate, we’re about four, five kilometers to the west of the San Sebastián border—inside Córdoba.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in, not bothering to add that the communist country was probably searching for the crash site as they spoke. Or that they’d be lucky to escape with a bullet to the brain if they were captured. Not to mention the fact that his radio, as well as her own, had probably gone up in the same explosion that had roasted the chopper.

Then again, maybe he should have. Because again, she didn’t seem fazed. He touched her shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

She nodded slowly.

Shock.

He wasn’t surprised. His own brain was still rattling around in his head. Unfortunately, there was no time to waste. If she didn’t snap out of it soon, he’d have no choice but to wrap her ribs for her and toss her hind end over his shoulder and carry her whether she liked it or not.

He’d give her an hour—or until he was done.

But as he stood and turned away, she finally spoke.

“Bishop?”

He turned back and waited. She dragged her gaze up to his and focused. “Thank you.” Her whisper was soft, hoarse. There was a wealth of gratitude in the simple words.

And even more pain.

It was his turn to nod stiffly. Then he turned back to the morbid task he’d performed too damned many times before.

Snap out of it!

That was just it. She couldn’t.

Eve continued to stare at Rick Bishop in a fog as he covered the graves of their fellow soldiers with the stones he’d gathered. His sergeant, her crew chief, her copilot. Her friend.

Her fault.

But she hadn’t just ended three lives, had she?

A baby.

For God’s sake, why hadn’t Carrie told her? She’d been in country catching up with the woman for three days now. Despite the succession of near-constant briefings, surely Carrie could have found the time to discuss something that monumental?

But she hadn’t.

Hell, Carrie hadn’t even alluded to her pregnancy. Not this morning when they fired up the Black Hawk before dawn, nor the night before when they’d stayed up way too late filling each other in on everything that had happened since college and flight school.

Why had Carrie kept this secret from her of all people?

Except…she knew why, didn’t she?

Friends or not, had she known about the baby, she never would have let Carrie fly. Certainly not two kilometers away from hostile airspace. And not when there was a chance they might end up in that hostile airspace…like they had. Of course, an immediate and detailed explanation would have been required from the brass on why she’d had Carrie pulled from the flight roster. The resulting scandal would undoubtedly have affected her friend’s career. But surely that would have been preferable to this?

Eve forced her gaze back to Bishop.

He was marking the graves now, each with a small makeshift cross. Evidently the man was religious. How would he feel if she asked him to add a smaller cross to the grave on the far right?

Or did he already know?

Is that why he’d been scowling at Carrie from the moment he’d approached the chopper? Maybe it hadn’t been her imagination earlier out on the landing zone. At the time, she could have sworn he’d been brusque with her because she’d tried to divert his attention from Carrie’s behavior. Either way, it didn’t matter now.

She wasn’t breathing a word about the baby to Bishop.

If she did, the pregnancy would only come out during the accident investigation—and what would be the purpose of that? All it would serve would be to tarnish two records that were already about to be closed forever. Even if the knowledge did explain Carrie’s distraction during their flight, it wouldn’t have changed anything, least of all what had happened. Yes, Carrie’s preoccupation with Sergeant Turner had allowed the chopper to fly into hostile airspace. But even if they’d gone down on the San Sebastián side of the border, they would still have gone down. And that fault was hers, and hers alone.

“Ready?”

Eve flinched.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay.” Eve eased out her breath as she stared down at the single rucksack that had been thrown free along with Bishop. From the bulging seams and rear pouch, she could tell he’d already added the extra supplies she’d managed to scrounge up from the scorched hulk of steel that had once been her chopper.

Thankfully, water was abundant in the area.

They also had a rain poncho between them, as well as a two-day supply of food. Rick had gathered his extra T-shirts from the ruck and shredded the brown cotton with his pocketknife, turning them into makeshift bindings for her ribs. After she’d wrapped herself, she’d gone back to the chopper and managed to locate the sergeant’s blackened but still razor-sharp machete. Unfortunately, Bishop’s radio was hopeless. As was the PRC-112 survival radio and beacon she carried in her flight suit. Whatever had slammed into her ribs during the crash had cracked the Prick-112 as well.

They truly were on their own.

But at least they weren’t blind.

Bishop adjusted the dark-green cravat he’d wrapped around the gash on his forehead, then pulled a battered map out of the cargo pocket on the right thigh of his jungle fatigues. He hunkered down beside her. The Green Beret was obviously good at his job as well as a natural choice for training San Sebastián’s troops in their own backyard. He’d already reduced the azimuths of the two visible Córdoban mountain peaks down to lines on the map and used them to mark their location. He extended his index finger and tapped the resulting X, then traced the route he’d already plotted out.

Their route.

He sighed. “The good Lord didn’t totally blow us off this morning, because we went down in a fairly remote area.”

Meaning that since they’d yet to encounter any sign of the Córdoban army canvassing the area from overhead or searching on foot, they had time. But even she knew that how much time remained to be seen. Eve stared at the dirt and grime still staining Bishop’s hands. Strong, capable hands that had just buried three of their fellow soldiers.

Friends.

One even more so. To her anyway.

Eve pushed aside the mindless torrent of tears that had been threatening to drown her for the past two hours and raised her gaze. She focused on that collection of imposing, yet still camouflaged facial features beneath the knotted, blood-stained cravat, and waited for the rest. Dark-brown eyes stared back, their gaze razor-sharp and much too steady.

“Well? What’s the bad news?”

Those firm lips only tightened further.

“Don’t hold back on me now, Bishop. I know I look like I’m about to break, but I swear I won’t.” At least, not until they reached San Sebastián—and she reached a private room with a locked door and bucket large enough to hold her tears and grief.

Hell, maybe they should head for the Pacific Ocean.

Bishop held her gaze for several moments longer, then finally nodded. He glanced down at the map and traced the zigzagged line he’d added, the one that would take them well around the steep incline of the waterfall they’d flown over. “We’ve got a good six kilometers to cover.”

“How long will it take?”

He frowned. “Given the density of the undergrowth as well as the condition of your ribs?” His dark gaze found hers again. If it contained compassion, she couldn’t see it. But neither did it contain reproach. He shrugged. “We’re looking at two days, maybe three. Depends on what we encounter along the way.”

Natives.

Fortunately for them, at least half the locals were rumored to support the political freedoms of their San Sebastián neighbors.

But which half would they encounter?

Eve studied Bishop’s eyes as well as his body language, trying to gauge his mindset in the silence that followed. Unfortunately, it was impossible. The man could have been born a rock. A large, stubborn rock at that. She slid her gaze to the bandage tied about his head. Just as she’d warned him, the exertion of digging had already taken its toll. The center of the dark-green cravat was now soaked with blood.

Red blood, not brown.

Fresh.

She reached out, but he intercepted her hand before she could check the bandage. Startled by the warmth in his fingers, she jerked her hand to her lap. “You still need stitches.”

“There’s still no time.”

“I disagree. You said yourself, we’ve crashed in a remote area. It looks as if we’ve gone unnoticed for the time being. We should at least have ten more minutes to sew up your head.”

He shook that same damned stubborn head.

As if on cue, a thin river of blood spilled out from beneath the bandage and trickled into his right eye. She raised her brow as he swiped at it with the back of his hand. “If I don’t stitch it, you’ll just continue to lose blood during the journey. How long do you think you’ll be able to keep up with me and my cracked ribs if that happens?”

Apparently she’d chosen the one argument that had a chance of working, because that dark gaze finally wavered. But his frown deepened. “My sergeant’s medical kit was charred beyond salvage.”

Eve shrugged as she reached into the right pocket of her flight vest and pulled out her first-aid kit. Unlike her radio, the kit had survived the crash intact. “I guess you’re lucky you’re stranded with a pilot.” She flicked her gaze to the canteens he’d already topped off. “Now why don’t you wash the grime and camouflage off your face while I thread the needle? You might just save yourself an infection.”

Bishop nodded curtly, but at least he complied.

By the time he’d rummaged through his rucksack and located his stash of alcohol wipes and used them to clean his face, she’d managed to thread the needle and ready her disinfectant.

He turned back. “Ready.”

Sweet heaven.

Her hands froze as she took in the man’s features without the olive-drab and brown grease paint smeared into his skin. Her initial instincts at the landing zone had been right on. Rick Bishop’s face was as commanding as his lean, muscular body. Perhaps even more so. Without the grease paint to break up the planes of his face, he was uncannily handsome. Not in the blond, pretty-boy way that had attracted Carrie to Bill Turner, but in a dark, pure male and very rugged fashion. The only thing remotely soft about this man were his thick brown lashes. But those curling wisps were deceptive.

This was no tin soldier.

Neither was Bishop a man to be toyed with.

Each and every one of those deep lines carved about his eyes and mouth had been earned, etched in over the years spent in Special Forces. The man hunkered down in front of her was no weekend warrior. Nor was he a man who spent his days merely training for war. This was a man who’d lived it, day in and day out in the deserts and jungles of the world. On covert campaigns that had never made it into the nightly news. Those etched lines served as permanent testimony of a youth squandered on the planning and execution of missions no American mother wanted to know her son had ever been tasked with, let alone accomplished. There was no doubt in Eve’s mind, Rick Bishop was one dangerous man.

God help the enemy who dared to cross his path.

God help her.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Eve nearly jumped out of her skin as his low growl rumbled between them. But at least it succeeded in forcing her thoughts as well as her breathing back on track. Bishop might have the rugged looks and the mystery to attract a woman’s interest, but he didn’t have the personality to hold it.

At least not hers.

“I—uh—don’t have anything to give you for the pain.”

“Didn’t ask. Just do it.”

Yup, the man was definitely lacking in personality.

Still, she owed him. Bishop might have the manners of a caged mountain lion, but he had spared her the task of retrieving Carrie’s body as well as those of her crew chief and passenger, and he’d buried them. For that reason alone, she tried her damnedest to work as quickly and as gently as she could.

It seemed to help.

The only hint of discomfort Bishop gave as she stitched was the subtle clenching of his jaw as well as the occasional tensing of his broad hands. Every now and then he swallowed firmly, but that was it. Had she been in his place, the added pain would probably have sent her over the edge. As it was, anything deeper than the shallowest of breaths still sent an eye-watering ache ripping up the side of her chest.

They made quite a pair.

Bishop must have thought so too, because as she reached the halfway mark on his three-inch gash, he shot her a half-hearted attempt at a smile. To her horror, for a moment the pain in her ribs actually ebbed. Good Lord, what kind of a woman was she—let alone soldier—that she could be reacting to this man as a man here of all places?

And now?

“You’re pretty good with that needle.”

She yanked her gaze from his. “Yeah, well, I hear women go wild for the wounded-soldier look. I’d leave a better scar, but then your wife would have to drive them off with a stick.”

Good one, Eve.

She picked up the next stitch as the reminder that the man had a life back in the States—one that she wasn’t part of—helped to restore her breathing.

“Don’t have one.”

She almost dropped the needle.

He must have taken her clumsiness for confusion because he elaborated. “A wife. That is, I don’t have a wife.”

Wonderful.

She forced a stiff smile of her own as she regained control of the slender needle and resumed her stitching. “Girlfriend then.”

“Fresh out of those, too.” His smile deepened briefly.

The effect was devastating.

Who’d have thought Super Soldier would have dimples?

“What about you? Husband? Boyfriend?”

For a single, blinding moment, she couldn’t respond. She didn’t know how. Surely the man wasn’t coming on to her?

After the way he’d barked at her?

Not that it mattered. She could not afford to get personal. Not now, and certainly not with Rick Bishop.

She must have sat there gaping too long, because he sighed.

“Look, Paris, I was making small talk. It’s bound to be a long trek.” He might as well have come out and said she wasn’t his type.

Despite her relief, she flushed.

What the hell. The man was right, it was going to be a long trip. And since Bishop had an M-16 rifle and a 9 mm pistol as well as a machete to her lonely 9 mm, she might as well stay on his good side. She just might need him for more than company. Besides, the conversation was probably an attempt to take his mind off the pain.

Eve shook her head. “None.”

Despite her nearby stitching, his brow furrowed.

She elaborated, “No husband, no boyfriend. No time.”

“Ah…I know the feeling.”

He probably did at that.

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?