“How are you feeling?” he asked.
She mumbled something that sounded like
“
thrill,
”
although he couldn’t be certain. Wisps of hair had dried around her temples, but the rest was still wet and appeared almost brown. The color offset her eyes far better than the bleached blonde, he decided.
A moment passed and she spoke again, but he couldn’t tell if she was saying “Thrill me” or “Don’t thrill me.” What did she mean? She sounded upset, desperate.
“You’d better lie down,” he said. “You’re in shock. It’ll be morning before I can get you to a hospital. The storm washed out the road.”
She stared at him—or through him—with glazed, intense eyes roiling with emotions he didn’t understand. Instinctively Greg was shaken in a way he’d never been before. His breath stalled in his throat; he couldn’t move. The flashlight emitted nothing more than a faint glow now. But it was enough. Her breasts swayed slightly, the nipples pouting seductively at him through the wet fabric. Slow heat unfurled in the pit of his stomach, then centered in his groin.
Again she whispered something about “thrill.” Jesus! Had he rescued a two-bit hooker? “You’re in shock,” he repeated. “You’d better rest.”
She moved toward him, closing the small space between them until Greg could feel the heat of her body, could see the drops of moisture on her lashes. “Give me a chance,” she said. Despite the intimate pitch of her voice, he sensed something was terribly wrong. “I can make you love me.”
Sweat peppered the top of his lip. He swiped at it with the back of his hand. The world was filled with all types of women. He’d spent time with more than a few, but he was out of his league here.
“Forget about love,” he tried to joke. “A simple thanks for rescuing you and a box of chocolate chip cookies will do.”
“
Love,
”
she whispered, her mesmerizing eyes never leaving his as she kept inching nearer, until she was so close that his uneven breath ruffled the wisps of hair framing her face. He caught the heady scent of cheap perfume as she edged closer and one pert breast brushed the damp hair on his chest. He jerked back and hit the side of the small tent.
He realized that she had yet to blink. Uneasiness prickled across the back of his neck, raising the fine hairs and making him wonder what in hell was wrong with her. He waved his hand in front of her nose. Nothing. Not even the flicker of an eyelash.
“She’s in a trance or something.” His words bounced off the walls of the tent.
With a whimper that might have been a cry of pain or longing, she threw her arms around him. “I can make you love
me. Please. Let me show you.”
He had no doubt she could do it. The soft mounds of her breasts molded against his torso. Through the fabric he felt the heat of her body and the throb of her pulse in her taut nipples. Her eyes were incandescent, riveting. Her lips, so temptingly close to his, were slightly parted, revealing the pink tip of her tongue. The warmth of her body seeped through his, tiptoeing through his veins and trembling through his chest as erotic as jungle drums at midnight.
She tugged his hand to her breast and coasted it along
her
chest until his warm palm was centered on her tightly spiraled nipple. He tried, he honestly did, but couldn’t resist cradling her softness in his palm, testing the weight of her breast with a slight rise of his wrist, exploring the pliant fullness with his fingertips, then brushing the peak with his thumb.
What was he doing? This woman must be on drugs—or
lo
l
o
—crazy. She needed help—not sex. He eased her back onto the mattress.
She bucked, thrusting her hips against his, sending an upward surge of heat through his groin. He slung one leg across the tops of her thighs, anchoring her in place. The fight went out of her as he lay beside her, his body half covering hers. The rapid tempo of his own breathing startled him, yet she didn’t seem the least bit agitated. If anything, she seemed detached, on another plane entirely. This was just too friggin’ weird.
“Don’t do this to me,” she whispered, desperation in her voice. “I can make you love me.”
Her hand glided across his torso, tracing the contours of his chest, her eyes on his. They had a haunted quality as if she were seeing something, experiencing something that he couldn’t.
Her hand
. Oh Christ…
her hands were in his pants. Faster than a bolt of lightning, one hand shot inside his underwear. She touched him lightly with her fingertips, a low moan rising from her throat, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Don’t!” he said, pulling her hand away.
He sucked in a gulp of air, amazed to discover he was hot and achingly hard. Squeezing his eyes shut, he called on the reservoir of strength he had used so successfully to cauterize his feelings during the past two years.
It took a full minute for his breathing to return to normal and for the pressure building in his chest to diminish and erase the lingering imprint of her hand. Then he eased his eyes open, almost afraid of what he might see.
Her head was resting against his shoulder. She was still staring at him, a sheen of tears glazing her eyes. She’d aroused
him, true, and part of him hated her for it, but she was scaring him now. Something was terribly wrong with her.
He told her what he thought she wanted to hear. “I love you.”
She moaned, a plaintive sound that bordered on a sob, a cry so piercing it vibrated through his bones. Her eyes had that faraway look, yet they bored into his, seeming to speak to him alone. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
“I’ll never hurt you,” he said, feeling
lolo
—crazy—himself for talking to someone who didn’t even know he existed.
Her tense body relaxed, becoming soft and pliant in his arms. He released her hand and, with a sigh, her eyes closed. She went utterly still just as the light went out, leaving them in complete darkness.
2
S
he awoke by degrees, drifting upward through cushioning layers of sleep, dimly aware of a buzz in her head. She tried to open her eyes, but they were too heavy. Her whole head seemed unnaturally large and noisy, the drone of a million hornets filling her ears.
“Breathe deeply,” she told herself.
She sucked in air so hot and so thick that it was like breathing through a wet blanket. The smell filling her nostrils made her gag. Was she in a kennel? The odor of wet dog and something equally musky had ripened in the oppressive heat.
She managed to force one eye open. “Oh, my God!”
A Day-Glo orange sky greeted her. Where was she? Jerking upright, she tried to remember. Both eyes were open now, pinwheels of light whirling in front of her, backlit by the dreadful tangerine sky.
She covered her eyes with both hands and tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry; her tongue felt like sandpaper. For a second she thought she might be ill, but the surge of nausea passed, and she eased her eyes open. Her head was a dead
weight, and the hum in her ears made it hard to think. It took several seconds to realize that she was in a small tent.
“Funny, I don’t remember going camping.”
She glanced around and spotted her tennis shoes. The first shoe went on easily. The other one belonged to someone else. Not only was it too small, the curly red shoe laces didn’t match. She checked but didn’t see her other shoe.
A yellow slicker was heaped in the co
rn
er with a shirt. Picking it up, she saw the blue polo shirt was a man’s XXL. What was she doing in this small tent with a man? A very large man at that. Who?
Her muzzy brain didn’t have an answer. All it kept saying was
:
It’s hot. Get out of here.
She started to jam her foot into the mismatched shoe, then noticed the horrid pink nail polish on her toes and fingers. Yuck! Why would she use such an ugly color? And what was she doing in a cheap tiger-print dress?
She forced her foot into the shoe and scrambled on all fours toward the closed flap of the tent. Another wave of nausea urged the bile up from the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes, hugging her shaking body, and her head fell forward. Her hair tumbled across her face, tickling her nose. She looped the long strands behind each ear before daring to open her eyes again.
Feeling better, she nudged the tent flap aside and crawled out. She gulped in air that was only slightly cooler than it was inside the tent. Moist plumes of heat shimmered up from the rocky ground in a vaporous mist that brought with it the earthy scent of rain. She rose to her feet and saw an endless expanse of azure sea that blended with the sky at the horizon. A flock of tiny birds rose off the water and floated like a cloud, skimming just above the breakers.
“Where am I?” she asked aloud.
The rugged coastline was austerely beautiful, yet somehow lonely. Frightening. Stately palms stood like sentinels guarding the deserted beach. Gazing at the ocean, she stood there, trying
to recall what she was doing here until she realized someone was watching her.
She turned slowly, to keep her stomach on an even keel, telling herself to stay calm. A few feet away in a shadowy bower of ferns, a man was sitting on a rock, shaded by enormous tree ferns, a mug in his hands. His deep blue eyes pierced her with a physical force she felt all the way to her toes.
His eyes weren’t Santa Claus blue, all twinkly and merry. No. These eyes were as cold as the gleaming blade of the knife hanging from his side. Tall, big-boned with formidable shoulders, he could snap her in two with one hand, and right now he looked as if there was nothing he’d like better.
She glanced around quickly, her wariness mounting. She was alone with this man in the middle of what appeared to be nowhere. He hadn’t done anything; he hadn’t even spoken, yet she was on the verge of panic.
He looked like someone you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley—or even in a church. Not only was he big, he looked just plain mean. Several days’ worth of dark beard stubbled a square jaw and shadowed an upper lip crimped over a slightly fuller, yet no more friendly, lower lip.
They were at the beach but he was dressed for the mountains in khaki shorts and sturdy hiking books. A faded navy tank top stretched across his tanned shoulders and pitched low over his chest, revealing a wealth of dark hair. A scarred leather belt rode low on his narrow hips, holding the knife that she had noticed earlier, a canteen and a flashlight.
Her head hurt so much, her heart was racing so fast that she couldn’t concentrate, yet she knew he didn’t like her. Dozens of thoughts whirled through her mind like dervishes. Who was he? Why didn’t he like her?
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, lifting the midnight black hair that rippled across his brow. “How are you feeling?”
The voice was rich and deep, yet totally devoid of emotion, scarier somehow than if he’d shouted. She managed to croak
out a few words between parched
li
ps.
“
Fine. A little headache, that’s all.”
“You sure?” he asked.
A subliminal flash of intuition told her that he’d been prepared for something terrible. What had he expected her to do? He controlled his expression, remaining very still, as if unaccustomed to sharing his thoughts with anyone. But his hands gave him away. They were splayed across his bent knees, the fingers digging into his skin even though both kneecaps were scraped raw. His legs had multiple cuts and livid bruises. What on earth had he been doing?
“I’m fine. Honest.” It was all she could do not to bolt up the rocky hillside, but she didn’t move. Where should she go? Which way would she find help?
Without another word, he extended his arm, offering her a cup of coffee. She moved closer, walking stiffly like an old lady with crippling arthritis. She accepted the cup and took a sip, conscious of him studying her intently. The warm liquid ran down her throat and hit her stomach. Instantly, the caffeine shot through her veins, giving her a much needed boost.
She ran her tongue over her dry lips and said, “Thanks.”
He lowered his hand to pat the dog crouching in the shadows beside him. Until that second she hadn’t noticed the animal, but the coffee seemed to have cleared her head a little. Well, how bad could this man really be? He had a dog and he’d made no move to hurt her. Maybe if they talked a bit, she would remember who he was.
“Your dog’s a greyhound, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
Sheesh. He was some conversationalist. She drank more coffee, hoping to rid her brain of the incessant buzz and remember what on earth she was doing here. “If he’s a greyhound, why is he tan?”
“They come in all colors.”
“Do you race him?” This was an inane conversation, but she didn’t know what else to say. It seemed idiotic to confess
she’d forgotten who he was. Talking—or the coffee—had calmed her nerves a bit. Any second she’d remember what she was doing out here.
“Nope. Dodger’s a hunter.”
There was something about the way he shifted on the rock, folding his bare arms across his chest and flexing the muscles visible beneath the tank top that frightened her. Or maybe it was the word
hunter.
There was something lethally quiet about him that seemed unnatural. “What does Dodger hunt?”
“He’s a search and rescue dog.”
“Really?” That explained the man’s hiking clothes, as well as the knife and other gadgets hanging from his belt. He must be part of some rescue team. “Someone’s lost?”
“Nope.” He was studying her as if her brain was the size of a pea. “You were in an accident. How’s your head?”
“Accident?” She reached back and touched the base of her skull through hair like a bramble bush. Ooow. The huge lump had a small cut on it. No wonder she had the mother of all headaches.
“Don’t you remember the accident?”
“No,” she conceded. “What happened?”
He tilted his head toward the stony outcropping of rock nearby. “You drove off the road.”
“I did?” she asked as he rose and walked toward her. She resisted the urge to back up, reminding herself that he didn’t mean her any harm.
“Keep your eye on my finger,” he said.
Greg moved his index finger toward the tip of her nose. She concentrated on his finger, realizing that his arms were as cut and as bruised as his legs. Had that happened when he had rescued her?
“Hmmm,” he grunted, apparently satisfied with the way her eyes followed his finger until they almost crossed. The exercise made her feel nauseous again, but she didn’t mention it. “Suck in your breath.”
She inhaled sharply, aware of his steady, inquisitive stare.
“Any sharp pains?” he asked, and she shook her head. “You’re damn lucky. No broken bones. Probably no broken ribs either.”
“I was in an accident,” she repeated, trying to make sense of her situation.
He pointed to the rocky cornice a short distance away. “Your car went off the road over there.”
She picked her way over the rocks to see her car, barely conscious of the man and his dog following at her heels. She must have a mild concussion, she decided. That was why her head ached and her ears rang. Come to think of it, her whole body was painfully sore.
At the edge of the overhang, she stopped and gasped. “Oh, my God!” It wasn’t just an outcropping of rock that gently tumbled to the sea as it had appeared from the camp. No wonder she hadn’t noticed it. The volcanic formation twisted sharply to one side, concealing the steep drop into a ravine where a white car lay mangled on the rocks.
“I was in that car?”
He came up beside her. “
Don’t you remember?
”
“No.” It seemed pointless now to conceal the fact that she didn’t remember what happened. Judging by the condition of the car, it was a miracle she’d survived. Obviously the trauma had caused her to block out the accident. “Where are we?”
“You’re on the Hana side of Maui about two miles from Lindbergh’s grave.”
The way he said it, she should know who Lindbergh was, but the name didn’t sound familiar. “Lindbergh?”
Again he looked at her strangely. “You know, the first man to fly solo across the Atlantic. The Lone Eagle.”
“Oh,” she responded, still not remembering Lindbergh. “What was I doing out here?”
“You tell me.”
She shrugged, puzzled about why she was here. If only she could get rid of this killer headache, she would remember what had happened.
“I found you when I was training Dodger”—he halted, then smacked his thigh with his hand—“Son of a bitch!”
The smile that lit his face stunned her with its intensity. She was positive this man rarely smiled, but now the genuine warmth was unmistakable. He dropped to his knees and put his arm around the dog.
“You knew the difference between body A an
d body B, didn’t you, Dodger?”
he asked, and the greyhound responded with a happy swish of his tail.
“Body A and body B?” she repeated, looking down at the car. She clutched the hem of the tiger-print dress to keep her hands from trembling.
My God, she had almost died.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He studied her with an unwavering stare.
She nodded. It was a miracle that she was alive. What was a little headache? “How did you happen to find me?”
“You have Dodger to thank. I never would have found you.
”
Greg gave the dog an affectionate pat. “Let me show you something.” He turned his palm to the clear blue sky. “Search,” he told the dog.
Dodger vaulted over the embankment and was airborne for a moment. She gasped out loud. It was such a long way down. He landed, surefooted, on a rough-hewn rock, swiveled to the right, and disappeared from view.
“If an explosion levels a building, who do you want to find first?” the man asked.
“Anyone who’s alive.”
“Right,” he replied, a smile shadowing his lips. It wasn’t for her, though. He was gazing at the spot where the dog had disappeared. “That’s body A. The person who’s alive. Body B is someone who’s dead. Last night we were looking for body
B.”
“You mean there’s someone dead down there?”
Please, God, don’t let me have been the driver.
I
can’t face being responsible for someone's death.
“No, there isn’t anyone else in the car.” He smiled again
as Dodger reappeared and bounded up the steep slope. His jaws were open slightly, but she couldn’t see what he had in his mouth. The dog halted in front of the man. He reached out, removed a small vial from Dodger’s mouth, and passed it to her. “Take a whiff.”
She inspected the rubber stopper and saw a pinpoint hole in the top. She sniffed but couldn’t smell anything except the briny tang of the sea. With a twist of her hand she removed the stopper. The stench hit her nostrils and her stomach heaved, bringing the coffee up into her throat.
“Careful,” he said, taking the god-awful vial from her before she dropped it. “Body in a bottle—the smell of death—body B. In the old days we had to hide parts of dead bodies to practice for search and rescue. Now we use pseudo-corpse. It’s distilled from a cadaver.”