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.
