Rick let his hands drop until they were gently cupping Eve’s quaking shoulders.

She turned and stared up at him silently.

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.

In the end, it was her eyes that did him in.

They were 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 tears continued to trickle steadily down.

Before he could stop himself, Rick was 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 lips with his own….

Crossing the Line
Candace Irvin

CANDACE IRVIN

is the daughter of a librarian and a sailor, so it’s no wonder Candace’s two greatest loves are reading and the sea. After spending several exciting years as a U.S. naval officer sailing around the world, she decided it was time to put down roots and give her other love a chance. To her delight, she soon learned that writing romance was as much fun as reading it. A finalist for both the coveted RITA® Award and the Holt Medallion, as well as a two-time Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award nominee, Candace believes her luckiest moment was the day she married her own dashing hero, a former U.S. Army combat engineer with dimples to die for. The two now reside in the South, happily raising two future heroes and one adorable heroine—who won’t be allowed to date until she’s forty, at least.

Candace loves to hear from readers. You can e-mail her at candace@candaceirvin.com or snail mail her c/o Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017.

For my favorite soldier and forever hero, David.

Thanks, honey, for fielding a thousand and one questions on everything from fast-roping to small arms tactics…even at three in the morning.

Acknowledgments

As a former Squid who barely survived Army basic training before transferring to the Navy’s ROTC program, I was forced to pester several ground-pounding buddies to pull this plot off. I’m grateful to you all. I’d like to send a special thanks to Captain Norton A. Newcomb, U.S. Army, Ret., Special Operations Intelligence.

Tony, I always appreciate your continuous, unstinting generosity regarding Special Forces and the way it “really” is.

Also, to AZ2 Julie A. Thornton, USN; ABH2 Steve Mark, USN; and Mr. Ken Knowles—I appreciate the crash courses on the intricacies of helicopter flight…and especially how to crash them <g>. I bow to your devious brilliance and can only hope I did it justice.

Finally, to Damaris Rowland, Allison Lyons and CJ Chase—thank you so much for being there, professionally and personally, when I really needed you.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

You have never lived until you have almost died. For those who have fought for it, life has a special meaning that the protected will never know.

—U.S. Special Operations motto

She was on top of the world—literally.

Eve grinned as the newborn sun finally seared up through the dense canopy of trees that formed the Central American jungle below, igniting the world with swaths of emerald green, fiery red and burnt orange. She tightened her grip on the chopper’s joystick and leaned forward in the cockpit, drawn in by the Black Hawk’s panoramic windows and the spectacular view below. There was no doubt about it. She’d finally made it into heaven and she wasn’t even dead.

“Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

Another shot of adrenaline pulsed through Eve’s veins, matching the rhythmic thunder of the chopper’s blades. She grinned across the cockpit to her copilot. “You got it. The question is, how can you give it up?”

Carrie’s answering laughter bubbled though Eve’s earphones. “I’m not giving it up, exactly. I’m just trading it in for a hot bath back in the old U.S. of A. with enough bubbles to soak the sweat and grime off my face and restore my complexion to manageable.” Carrie swept her hands toward the dense trees two hundred feet below. “It’s all yours, honey. For the next six months, anyway.”

“I’ll take it.” Eve nodded crisply, then cocked her mouthpiece toward the aerial map spread out on Carrie’s lap. “But first, find my blasted landing zone, woman!”

Once again laughter bubbled above the thundering blades as Carrie turned her sparkling blue gaze to the map she’d been using to supplement the Black Hawk’s malfunctioning global positioning system for the last thirty minutes. Carrie was all business as she glanced up and pointed dead ahead. “Keep it steady. The LZ is just over that ridge.”

Two minutes later they were there.

Eve nudged her stick and swooped the Black Hawk down into the tiny clearing. Even before she felt the gentle thump as the bird touched down into the six-foot elephant grass, the squad of San Sebastián soldiers and their two U.S. Special Forces advisors were storming out of the chopper and melting into the perimeter beyond. Eve didn’t bother taking off but peered into the dense foliage.

Nothing but early-morning shadows and trees.

Where was the American soldier she was supposed to pick up and fly back to the San Sebastián presidential compound? Eve glanced at the clock on her instrument panel. The man had better show soon. His briefing started in less than an hour.

“Relax. He’ll be here.”

“Me? I’m not the one blushing like a sophomore waiting for the school jock to cruise past my locker.”

“I am not blushing.”

But she was and they both knew it. Just as they both knew why. Or better yet, who Carrie was hoping to see.

Eve waited until their crew chief bailed out of the bird to scan the perimeter for their next set of passengers before she powered the chopper’s engine down to idle. As the roar eased, she switched off her mouthpiece and pulled off her helmet, running her fingers through the tangles on her head as she scrounged up the courage to voice what had to be said. She might have only been in San Sebastián a couple of days, but she knew Carrie well enough to know that this time the woman was in over her head.

Eve finally sighed. “He’s enlisted.”

Evidently, Carrie had been waiting for her pronouncement, because she just shrugged. “He’s a hunk.”

“You could lose your wings—and your commission.”

“I don’t care.”

Damn. It was worse than she’d feared. Eve glanced out the side door of the chopper. The jungle was eerily silent beyond, no doubt due to the recent man-made intrusion. She turned back to Carrie, but Carrie still wouldn’t meet her gaze. For once she wasn’t sure how to respond to her best friend. Though they’d spoken regularly on the phone, they hadn’t seen each other in two years.

Evidently things had changed.

She swallowed hard. “Carrie, do you realize what you’re saying?”

Carrie turned then, pulling off her own helmet and running her fingers through her inky curls as she shrugged. “Yeah, I do.”

Oh God.

Now what?

Fortunately, she didn’t need to worry about a comeback, at least not right then. Because, as Eve tipped her head to the left and stared past her friend’s olive-drab flight suit, she spied two camouflaged soldiers with fully-loaded rucksacks on their backs stepping out from the trees beyond.

Two?

She must have stiffened, because Carrie turned around to stare as well. Her friend was smiling as she swung back. “It’s him. I was hoping he’d have to tag along. But I couldn’t be sure.”

Eve’s heart sank. Though there’d been more men in Carrie’s life than either of them could count, she’d only seen that beatific smile once before. It was during their senior year of college. During the reign of Jake-the-Great. Her heart sank even further. Carrie hadn’t been pretending. Her friend knew darn well she was playing with fire.

And she didn’t care if she got burned.

Eve flicked her gaze back to the men as their crew chief, Sergeant Lange, joined them. A couple yards more and they were close enough for her to make out their camouflage-greased facial features, though not the flat black ranking insignia on their collars. It didn’t matter. Her heart sank to her toes as she studied the taller of the two Green Beret advisors. If that was Sergeant Turner, it was too late for Carrie or the woman’s career. Heck, even she’d be tempted to rip off her wings for a night with the man.

Hunk was an understatement.

With those dark forbidding brows beneath the man’s field cap, strong cheeks and firm lips, combined with that mouth-watering physique beneath his jungle fatigues, the Army could skip the Be All You Can Be recruiting logo. For the women, anyway. Just slap a poster of this guy up in the halls of America’s high schools and they’d be signing up in droves.

As he drew closer, Eve sucked in her breath—and realized she’d been staring. A split second later, she caught the twin bars on his collar. They matched hers. Thank heaven. At least she hadn’t been ogling the man her best friend thought she was falling in love with.

If Carrie wasn’t already beyond saving.

Moments later, Eve knew she was. Before Eve could stop her, Carrie had vaulted from the cockpit and headed out to meet the men. The blinding grin still on her face as she turned back confirmed it. Jake-the-Great and every lover after was nothing more than a distant memory.

Against her better judgment, not to mention standard procedure, Eve climbed out of the cockpit as well. She rounded the front of the bird as her crew chief tossed the soldiers’ rucksacks into the rear of the chopper and climbed in after. Carrie stepped forward and grabbed her arm, practically ripping the sleeve of her flight suit off as she hauled her toward the men.

“Eve, this is Sergeant Turner. Bill, Captain Paris.”

Eve winced.

Not only had Carrie lost her head, she’d lost her manners, at least her military ones. It was bad enough for Carrie, also a captain, to be on a first-name basis with the enlisted man while in uniform, but did she have to advertise the fact before Turner’s commander?

Maybe the man would let it slide?

The deep frown on his face said otherwise.

Anxious to ward off a set-down within earshot of their crew chief, Eve nodded to the sergeant and stuck out her hand toward his commander. “Captain Paris. You must be Captain Bishop.”

If anything, Bishop’s frown deepened as he ignored her outstretched palm. “I am. Now, if social hour’s over, perhaps you soldiers would do me the favor of getting this damned bird off the ground before I miss my briefing.” He flicked his steel-blue gaze into the belly of the chopper. “Where’s my headset?”

Eve stiffened as the jackass stepped crisply past, dismissing her as curtly as he’d ignored her hand.

“My spare headset is on the fritz.”

Bishop spun about, the swift arch in his deep black brows clearly voicing his suspicions.

Too bloody bad.

Her crew chief would support her, as would Carrie.

In fact, behind Captain Marvel’s very back, Lange was already calmly slipping the extra headset with its perfectly functioning two-way communications link into its storage slot. From the way her chief snapped the door shut, she wasn’t the only one who’d taken offense at Bishop’s brusque comments.

Eve shrugged. “Global positioning is down, too. Fancy that.” She turned her back on the man before he could answer and strolled around the front of the chopper to climb in.

Captain Marvel wanted to play drill sergeant?

Fine with her. But she’d be damned if she was going to give him the courtesy of listening in while he did it.

Of all the lousy luck.

Rick bit down on his scowl as he studied the two pilots who had been tasked with ferrying him to the presidential compound for his briefing. He had no idea who the blonde was—and if she was anything like her copilot, he didn’t care. But the dark one, he knew that one all right. Better than he wanted to. Carrie Evans was going to cost him the best sergeant he’d ever had if he wasn’t careful. Dammit, he should have requested a set of male pilots. He would have, too, if it wouldn’t have led to questions.

Questions he couldn’t risk answering.

Still, he should have kept a tighter lid on his disappointment, not to mention his anger. After all, it wasn’t Captain Paris’s fault.

Well, it was too late now.

The crew chief slid the chopper’s side door shut as the officer he’d snubbed settled in the pilot’s seat and powered up the Black Hawk. Rick tugged off his field cap and scrubbed his hands through his shorn hair as he sank down into the webbed bench at the rear of the bird.

Another bad move.

His sergeant promptly took advantage of the forward empty seats, commandeering the one directly behind the pilot’s. In doing so, Sergeant Turner had afforded himself a choice view of the copilot—the same copilot Turner had been preoccupied with for five of the last six months. Rick tried scowling at the man as the chopper’s crew chief moved to the rear instrument panel to busy himself with the takeoff checks. Unfortunately, Turner’s attention was already focused on Carrie Evans.

As usual.

The bird took off smoothly, thundering over the trees where Rick had spent the last eighteen months training San Sebastián’s soldiers. He allowed his gaze to stray to the back of Captain Paris’s helmet. Eve. A good two inches of dark-gold curls spilled out from beneath the bottom edge of the Kevlar bucket, curls that were a shade lighter than the smooth brows framing those striking emerald eyes. He’d seen them for all of five seconds as the woman initiated their introduction. Thickly lashed, her eyes were unusually large…until her gaze had narrowed.

For the first time in a long time, he pushed aside regret.

In the end it wouldn’t matter how professional the woman was. In twelve years in the Army, he had more than enough experience to know that a woman that stunning was nothing but trouble out in the field. Take Carrie Evans. The captain was already paying more attention to his sergeant than to the aerial map spread out on her lap. It’d be a miracle if they reached the presidential compound on time. If at all.

Just then, Paris turned to say something to her copilot. Unfortunately, Rick couldn’t make the words out over the pounding of the chopper’s blades. If only the extra headset wasn’t down. What he wouldn’t give to listen in on that conversation. Rick had the distinct impression Captain Paris hadn’t been any more thrilled with Carrie’s familiar behavior toward his sergeant back at the LZ than he’d been. The suspicion bit into him again as the curve of the woman’s jaw tightened. Especially when Carrie jerked her gaze from his sergeant’s and fused it to the aerial map.

Way to go, Paris.

Evidently an apology was in order when this bird landed because at least one of the women was intent on the mission at hand. His sergeant, however, had an ass-ripping coming as soon as he shifted that blasted lovesick-puppy gaze of his to the rear of the chopper long enough for Rick to catch it.

Of course, his sergeant didn’t.

Nor did Paris’s reproach last.

In the next fifteen minutes, Rick caught Carrie Evans’s gaze sneaking back to his sergeant’s at least that many times. And given Paris’s concentration on her own tasks—that of flying this blasted thing, she didn’t seem to be aware of the majority of the glances. That last gaze, however, she did catch. It sent her head snapping to the right once more and, this time, that delicate jaw locked. Again, Rick couldn’t make out the words, but from the slump in Carrie’s shoulders as she refocused her attention on the map, they weren’t any kinder than the ones he’d have fired off.

Unfortunately, Paris’s latest rebuke was too late.

Rick was certain the second he glanced out of the chopper’s oversized side windows. Differentiating one section of jungle canopy from the next was about as easy as squeezing a platoon of soldiers into a one-man foxhole. But even he knew from that fifty-foot waterfall they were now flying over, the chopper was a good eight kilometers off course. If they didn’t get back on course soon, there’d be hell to pay—from San Sebastián’s neighbors.

“We’re losing power!”

Rick jerked his gaze forward, certain he’d misheard the crew chief’s shout. After all, it had barely registered above the roar and vibration of the chopper’s blades before the chief spun around to his instrument panel.

But he hadn’t.

By the time Rick snapped his gaze to the cockpit, both women were frantically flicking levers and switches. Once again he found himself wishing the spare comm headset wasn’t busted.

Suddenly, he didn’t need to hear their frantic words.

The choke of the engine as it cut out altogether confirmed his suspicions, as well as the sudden fisting in his gut. Especially when the comforting roar of the chopper’s blades gave way to the chilling whoosh of a rotor no longer under man-made power, but that of Mother Nature.

This was it, then.

It was time to kiss their boots goodbye.

It didn’t take a degree in rocket science to know that seven tons of Army steel were about to drop out of the sky with all the aerodynamics of a slick brick.

Pain.

No…not pain, piercing agony. It sliced into Eve with each breath she took. Her lungs were on fire.

No, not her lungs. It was her ribs that seemed to be splitting asunder. But her lungs were screaming too.

Why?

On her next breath, she knew why. The air searing through her nose and mouth contained the wrong ratio of gasoline fumes to fresh air. The jet fuel was way too pungent.

Oh, God—they were leaking fuel.

Eve forced her eyes open and struggled to focus.

Shattered glass, shredded steel.

Trees. The distinctive dark green of jungle undergrowth. Patches of dirt.

Where the devil was the sky?

Someone groaned. It wasn’t until Eve inhaled again that she realized the rasping sound had come from her own mouth.

Good Lord, what had happened?

And then she remembered. The crash. The chopper’s engine had stalled before cutting out altogether. She’d tried to pull pitch to soften the landing but then—

Carrie!

Eve twisted her head to the right and nearly threw up.

Her crew chief was dead. His right arm was flung limply between the seats of the now-crumpled cockpit, his gut impaled by the thick tree limb that had punctured one of the windows imbedded in the side door of the chopper’s skin. Death had captured the stark horror of the crash within Sergeant Lange’s glassy gaze with eerie perfection. If she ever got out of this chopper alive, she would never forget that bottomless stare.

She forced her gaze from her crew chief’s and struggled to scan what was left of the rear of the chopper. She couldn’t see Captain Bishop or his sergeant.

Had the two been thrown clear?

Had anyone else survived?

Her answer came in a whimper and then a rasping choke.

Carrie.

Eve cried out as she pushed the chief’s arm into the rear of the chopper in order to see Carrie’s battered body. Her helmet had fallen off and the left side of her dark, gorgeous curls were now matted and soaked with blood…as was the torso of her flight suit. With each breath Carrie took, Eve could hear the tell-tale gurgling, sucking sound beneath.

Sweet mercy. Carrie had punctured a lung.

Eve wiped the tears from her eyes only to discover they were mixed with her own blood. She didn’t bother seeking out the source, just wiped her hand on her sleeve and gritted her teeth against the agony in her chest as she reached out to smooth her fingers down the side of Carrie’s frighteningly pale neck, automatically checking her pulse.

It was thready, but it was there.

Thank God.

She swallowed firmly, nearly choking on her relief as she prayed her friend was conscious. “C-Carrie?”

Nothing. Not so much as a groan. Just the soft scratching of a thousand rustling leaves and branches scraping against the outside of the chopper.

“Carrie?”

“Hmm?”

Relief seared through Eve again. “Carrie, wake up. We have to get out of here. I smell fuel—” Eve winced as she risked a deeper mouthful of air. It hurt just to breathe. “The chopper must be leaking.” And given the twisted wreckage surrounding them, there was no way she’d be able to reach the fuel cutoff switch. “Carrie?”

“You…go.”

The whisper was so low she almost missed it. Carrie’s lips moved again, but she couldn’t make out the words that followed. Eve braced herself as she took another agonizing breath, this one cautious and shallow.

Yes, shallow was definitely better. Manageable.

Her chest still hurt like hell, but not nearly as much. “Carrie, please. The chopper could blow any second.”

“Go.”

Dammit, she didn’t have time to argue.

They didn’t have time.

Eve struggled to ignore the rasping gurgle coming from Carrie’s lungs as well as the agony slicing her own as she reached out to unlatch Carrie’s harness. She’d just have to find the strength to drag her friend out. Her slippery fingers found the buckle to Carrie’s harness. But just as she was about to release it, Carrie’s icy hands closed over hers.

“Carrie, please. I can’t leave you. I won’t.”

“Must…doesn’t m-matter. He’s dead. It’s dead. F-feel it.”

He?

Sergeant Turner.

Eve raised her hands to those dark, silky curls she’d always envied, desperately trying to ignore the blood as she smoothed them from Carrie’s cheek. “You can’t know that. He could be okay. I don’t see the passengers, just the chief. They must have been thrown free.”

“W-was. See him…th-there.”

Eve braced herself against the pain and turned to follow Carrie’s tortured gaze, and understood the deep keening within it. Sergeant Turner was five, maybe six trees away.

Dead.

Given the sickeningly odd angle in his neck, there was no way the man could be otherwise.

Bishop.

But Eve couldn’t see him. She could only pray the captain had been thrown free as well—and would live to tell of it. But right now, she had to get Carrie out of the wreckage. The searing stench of fuel had taken on nauseating proportions. At least, she was pretty sure the reaction in her stomach was due to the leaking fuel and not her own injuries.

Either way, they had to get out.

“Honey, I’m sorry he’s dead. But you have to live. You have to try. Sergeant Turner—Bill. Bill would want you to. You have so much to live for. You know you do.”

But her friend just blinked back her tears.

“Carrie, please.”

“T-told you. It’s d-dead…gone.” She coughed. “I c-can…feel it.”

“Don’t talk like that—”

“The b-baby…ours…it’s gone.”

What?

Eve hadn’t realized she’d breathed her shock out loud until Carrie answered her. Or maybe Carrie had read her mind.

“So s-sorry. I didn’t know h-how to…tell you. Please, m-make sure we’re b-buried w-with him.”

No!

Dammit, no. Carrie was not giving up.

She wouldn’t let her.

But before she could argue, Carrie started coughing again—and this time, she began hacking uncontrollably. Eve forced the panic down and held her friend’s hand until the coughs eased. “One m-more thing, p-promise m-me…” Oh God, Carrie’s whispers were getting weaker. The rasping gurgle in her lungs, louder. Frothy blood had begun to bubble and seep from the side of her mouth. She was losing her.

She had to act.

Now.

Eve ignored Carrie’s gasps as she grabbed the buckle again. But again, Carrie’s hands found hers. They were beyond icy now. Almost white.

“P-promise…me.”

“Anything.” She’d promise anything in the world if Carrie would just let her help.

“Don’t…h-hate me.”

Eve’s mind and heart shrieked in unison. No! Dammit, no. This was not happening. Her best friend was not dying.

But she was.

Eve could feel it even as those icy fingers lost their grip and slipped away from her own hands altogether.

Just do it. Promise her. Let the woman die in peace.

Lie.

She smoothed Carrie’s matted curls back one last time and kissed her shattered cheek. “I promise. I won’t hate you.”

Carrie managed a smile, and then she was gone.

Eve screamed.

The loss was excruciating. Unbearable. So intense, she couldn’t even feel the agony wracking her ribs anymore. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, shaking Carrie’s shoulders, begging her, shouting at her to come back, not to abandon her. But eventually, reality set in.

The smoke set in.

The sweltering flames.

The leaking fuel had finally ignited. The Black Hawk was burning, its searing metal creaking and bubbling around her. The sweet stench of melting rubber filled her nostrils.

She had to get Carrie out of here.

Their crew chief, too.

Dead or alive, she was not leaving them to roast in this fiery shell of buckling steel. Determination seared into her, giving her the strength to unlock her own harness and bash her aching shoulders and splintered ribs into the chopper door. She fell out into a whimpering heap on the jungle floor.

But again, determination forced her to overcome the agony. She lurched to her feet and managed to stagger several steps. But in the pain and confusion that followed, it took several more before she realized she was moving away from the chopper and not toward it.

The next thing she knew, something hot and hard slammed into her body, shattering her eardrums and ripping the very breath from her lungs as she went flailing backward into the choking gray mist. But the moment she smashed into the tree she also knew that, dead or alive, it was too late for Carrie or anyone else in that chopper.

Because it had just exploded.

Chapter 2

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?

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.

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.

He swore Eve was more tense now than when she thought he’d sensed someone else’s presence in the rapidly encroaching night. If anything, her reaction only made him more determined to get to the bottom of what had happened. But to do that, he’d have to proceed carefully. As much as he disliked the idea, he’d have to treat her as a tactical combat objective to be studied and then overcome.

He gentled his voice as much as possible and took the first step. “Eve, how can Carrie Evans be your sister?”

He knew it was a good call when she relaxed.

But she didn’t answer.

A good thirty seconds of jungle silence dragged into thirty more. Just as he was about to question his approach and revise it, she sighed.

“We went to college together. UT.”

“University of Tennessee?”

She shook her head as she reached for the packet of instant cocoa. “Texas—Austin.” He poured out a cup of water from the canteen and passed it over. “Thanks.”

“I take it you two were in the same ROTC program.”

She nodded as she stirred the powder into the cup and took a sip. “A couple of us started an all-women’s military sorority our freshman year. We called it Sisters-in-Arms.”

That would explain the sisters, then.

Blood wasn’t always thicker than shared experiences. Twelve years in the Army had taught him that. Evidently Eve and Carrie had learned the lesson as well. It also explained why she seemed especially devastated. But if they were sisters because of some sorority— “What about the others?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You said a couple of you started the sorority. How many calls do you have ahead of you when we get back?”

For the second time in as many minutes, she stared at him silently, this time over the cup of cold cocoa.

Her voice finally broke, “Three.”

From the depth of the sigh that followed, they wouldn’t be easy either. And those didn’t even include the calls and personal visits she’d have to make to her crew chief’s family.

“Tell me about them.”

Her mouth dropped open. Obviously he’d surprised her.

Hell, he’d surprised himself. He actually wanted to know.

When was the last time he’d encouraged a woman to talk just to hear the husky rasp in her voice? Or worse, to get to know her better? Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d honestly wanted to get to know a woman at all outside the bedroom?

The devil with the jungle, this was dangerous ground.

Perhaps it was time to rethink his strategy in getting to the bottom of whatever Eve was withholding.

Unfortunately, it was too late.

She polished off her cocoa and set the tin cup down. “Anna’s Navy. She’s an Intel officer currently stationed in San Diego. Samantha’s Air Force. Sam and I met in an engineering class the first week our freshman year. We were both aerospace engineering. Sam’s a theater missile systems design expert out of Kirtland, New Mexico.”

He couldn’t help it, his low whistle escaped.

She chuckled softly. “Don’t worry, Sam’s the brilliant one. I just fly.” Her laughter faded into a soft smile, and he nearly lost his grip on his canteen cup. Even half-formed, Eve’s smile had the power to sear straight through a man. The subtle curve was much too teasing and much, much too tempting.

He brought the tin cup to his mouth and forced himself to swallow the remainder of the cold coffee before he dared to risk speech. “You mentioned three. Who’s the other one?”

She nodded. “Meg. She’s Marine Corps. I’m not sure where she is right now. No one ever is.” Despite her shrug, he sensed the admiration in Eve’s husky voice.

“Why?”

“Meg works personal protection. Generals, Marine Corps or other visiting military officers, or anyone else she’s assigned to protect. Men or women, she watches their backs and keeps them alive—whether they want her there or not.”

“I take it she’s good.”

That tantalizing half smile returned. “The best.”

He suspected they all were. Which brought him back to the chopper. He was beginning to wonder if whatever Eve was holding back had to do with Carrie’s actions that morning. Had Carrie done something that directly or indirectly caused the crash? Given the woman’s behavior with his sergeant as well as her distraction, it was more than possible. It was also becoming downright probable.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t come out and ask.

“So…you and Carrie were close because you were both Army?”

Her lips curved again, but this time down. He suspected the shadows had returned to her gaze as well, but he couldn’t be sure. Dusk had settled in, cloaking the jungle in near-total black.

“We both wanted to fly, but it was more than that.”

He was sure of the shadows now. He could hear them in her voice. “How much more?”

She sighed. “Carrie’s mother died when we were sophomores and she…well, she didn’t have anyone else. Not really.”

He knew he’d hit a tender spot when Eve failed to continue. He waited, but there was nothing save her soft breathing amid the insects and nocturnal jungle life waking to the shroud of night.

He decided to risk it.

“Eve…what happened to your family?”

Again, nothing but jungle.

He wasn’t surprised.

But he was startled by the unexpected knife to his own heart when she wouldn’t share her pain. He reached out—but she was gone, scrambling to her knees as fast as her cracked ribs would allow. Eve averted her face and began cleaning up her mess as well as his own with a zeal he suspected she’d rarely afforded another man. Just as he suspected her movements were fueled more by desperation than a desire to conceal their camp site from any Córdobans who might stumble across it later.

He knew the feeling.

A droplet of water splattered onto his face and rolled down his cheek, taunting him almost as much as the tears Eve had shed earlier. He scrubbed it away, cursing to himself as he stared up at the sky through the opening in the jungle canopy. Not a star in sight. The clouds had been forming since noon. They’d finally merged into the thick layer now blanketing the sky. The dark thunderheads combined with the raw emotions still roiling though his gut to close in on him. But it wasn’t until Eve pulled the rain poncho from his rucksack that he experienced claustrophobia in a way the jungle had never caused before.

He only had one poncho.

It made one hell of a tiny tent.

And they were going to have to share it.

Chapter 4

Rick stared down at his web gear, cursing as several more drops of water splattered onto the ammunition pouches attached to the front. Waterproof liners or not, there was no sense taking a chance. He leaned down, sighing as he retrieved the web gear and slipped it on. Resignation locked in as he snapped the buckle into place. If he had to spend the next several hours in purgatory, he’d at least make sure his ammo stayed dry while he was at it.

But as he turned to face Eve, he froze.

He stood there for a full five seconds, silent, straining—his heart pounding against his chest, his nerves damned near screaming, as he worked to convince his brain that the distant but familiar thunder he thought he’d just heard had been caused by his imagination. By his need to avoid that poncho. By his need to avoid her.

But there it was again.

His hope surged as Eve stiffened too.

Adrenaline followed.

Her gaze swung to his as she breathed the prayer out loud, “It’s a Black Hawk.”

Before he could blink, she’d leaned down and snatched up her flight vest. Her flare pistol was out and pointing straight to heaven as he reached her side. He clapped his hand over her wrist with less than a trigger’s breath to spare.

“Don’t.”

“Dammit, Bishop, that’s our ticket out—”

“Or it could be a Huey.” She had to know as well as he did that Uncle Sam had sold off half a squadron of the Army’s Vietnam-era UH-1s to San Sebastián and Córdoba before all hell had broken out between the two countries.

Her free hand snapped up, locking down on top of his. “Bishop, listen to me. Trust me. I didn’t argue with you once today, because I knew you knew what the hell you were doing. Now it’s your turn to keep the faith. I know my choppers.”

The thundering blades grew louder, drew closer.

But for how long?

If she was right, even this delay could cost them. Even without the thick blanket of clouds, the jungle had its own unique way of buffering sound waves. That chopper could be directly above the canopy, ten yards away—or ten miles.

Unless Eve fired that flare, they’d never know which.

Her short nails drove into the skin on the back of his hand as that emerald gaze burned straight into him.

“Trust me.”

God help them, he did.

He pulled his hand from the pistol.

Before he could jerk his chin down, the flare shot up, a trail of white phosphorous searing through the canopy.

What the hell.

He grabbed his M-16 with his right hand, Eve’s upper arm with his left, pulling her body firmly behind his as he sprinted to the edge of the clearing. He heard her gasp as she stumbled. He forced himself to ignore it as he hauled her up and steadied her. If she was right and that pilot was one of theirs, manna was about to fall from the sky in the form of additional MREs, a fresh first-aid kit, and the blessed black plastic casing of a working Prick-112 to replace the radios roasted in the explosion that took out their own chopper.

And if she was wrong?

The adrenaline surging through his veins matched the pulsing roar of the chopper’s blades as it drew closer and closer until, suddenly, the bird was visible.

Eve was right.

Relief seared into him as the distinctive silhouette of an UH-60 slipped into view within the opening in the canopy above. The greenish glow of flailing chemical light sticks whirled toward the earth as the Black Hawk dumped its package and bugged out. Rick nudged Eve down and tucked her amid the sheltering trees.

“Wait here.”

A flick of his thumb and the M-16’s safety was off—and so was he. He snagged the bundle in record time and beat an equally low, hasty retreat back into the trees.

Back to Eve.

Rick reset the safety on his M-16 and propped it against a tree trunk before ripping into the bundle. He snagged the Prick-112 and fired up the radio as Eve retrieved her survival strobe with its infrared lens. “Black Hawk, this is Captain Bishop. I have you at sixty degrees, two hundred yards. Over.”

A burst of static filled the air as the pilot keyed his own mic. “Roger, Bishop. This is Romeo Six. What’s your status? Over.”

Status?

Try three soldiers dead and not a blessed body recovered.

Remorse slammed into him for the countless time.

Rick ordered it aside, determined to concentrate on the soldier kneeling beside him. At least Eve was alive. He had every intention of making sure she stayed that way. He keyed his mic, knowing full well the man on the other end was not going to like what he was about to suggest. “I have one ambulatory wounded. Multiple fractured ribs, possible internal bleeding. Request immediate extraction. Over.”

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