SEVEN
Tuamotu Archipelago—South Pacific
DR. EVELYN CARMICHAEL squeezed her eyes shut, dug her fingernails into the armrests either side of her and thanked God for the harness strapped across her chest. The large seaplane slewed sideways in the storm that had appeared out of nowhere, just an hour out of Port Laurent. All she could think was, I’m going to die... I’m going to die in the middle of the South Pacific and I’ve never had a halfway decent...well...that.
A monster gust of wind hit the aircraft broadside, threatening to shake everything loose. Metal screamed under the assault, as though the agony of it was too much to bear in stoic silence. Eve could empathize. She was all too ready to start screaming herself. And she would if she had the presence of mind to do anything but sit wide-eyed with terror as the world around her went to hell.
A good thing too, since being frozen with terror kept her from freaking out. Because, frankly, she’d rather die than give the man beside her—the pilot from hell—the pleasure of seeing her fall apart.
She didn’t look out the cockpit window and she didn’t look sideways at the heathen turning the air blue. He was big and scary enough, without the palpable tension pouring off him between curses.
And, boy, were his curses inventive. Some she’d never heard before...others she never would have thought, let alone uttered. But they rolled off his tongue like they were best buddies.
Fortunately he seemed to have forgotten her in his battle with the aircraft and Mother Nature. Which suited her just fine. It meant he was too busy to witness her mental meltdown.
Again.
A few hours earlier she’d opened her eyes and realized she was lying on a rattan sofa with a big half-naked sea god looming over her. Wide shouldered and long legged, he’d filled the space with a toxic cocktail of masculine superiority and supreme sexual confidence. She’d hated him instantly.
Of course it had absolutely nothing to do with the unwelcome shiver of almost primal awareness his proximity had sent zinging through her veins, but rather the abrupt knowledge that he’d seen her at her most helpless.
And if there was one thing Eve hated it was being helpless.
Fine. It might also have had something to do with the way he’d made her feel—like she was awkward and gawky and thirteen again. Like she had to pretend she wasn’t dressed in charity-shop rejects and the object of pity or derision.
She’d only had to look at him, leaning close and dripping water all over her, to know he’d put the bad in bad boy.
Fortunately for Eve she was no longer shy or geeky, and she’d never had a thing for bad boys. That had been her mother’s weakness and one she’d vowed never to share. Besides, she was a thirty-year-old recently qualified OB-GYN specialist, on the brink of a promising career, and she’d learned early on that a cool look and a raised brow quickly dispelled any unwelcome ideas.
But this...this Neanderthal, with his hard body, cool gray eyes and his soft cargoes worn in interesting places, had found her icy looks amusing. His eyebrow had arched with more mockery than she could ever hope to muster.
He’d promptly sent her blood pressure soaring into the stratosphere—and not just with aggravation. That, as far as Eve was concerned, was reason enough to hate him.
But none of that really mattered. Not when her entire life was flashing before her eyes—which were still squeezed tightly closed, to shut out the vision of her impending death.
“Just stay calm!” her pilot shouted above the roar of the storm and the screech of tortured metal.
“I am calm,” she snarled, snapping her eyes open to glare at him. And she could have promptly kicked herself when he turned those disturbing slate-gray eyes her way and she got a little light-headed.
From jet lag, worry and exhaustion, she assured herself. Or maybe it was from all the testosterone that surrounded him like a thick toxic cloud. She was clearly allergic. All she needed was the antihistamine, hidden somewhere in her luggage, and she’d be fine.
Hopefully immune.
Oh, wait. Her suitcase was MIA. Along with her mind for even starting on this wild goose chase in the first place.
“Is that why you’re whimpering?”
His mouth twitched and she was tempted to snarl at him again, maybe use her teeth. She’d never been a violent person, but she would make an exception with him. Unfortunately he was about as sensitive as a rock, and any biting on her part would in all probability be construed as interest.
“Just keep this flying boat in the air, Slick, and let me handle my own life flashes.”
“We’re going to be okay, I promise,” he said. “Chris has never failed me, and I’ve flown in much worse.”
She didn’t know how that could be possible, but who the heck was she to judge? She could take or leave flying on a good day, and this certainly wasn’t turning out to be one of them. Besides, after a lifetime of disappointments she never put much store in empty promises, and his promise to keep them safe was as about as empty as the sky had been a half-hour earlier.
“You named your seaplane Chris? So what’s it short for? Christine? Crystal?” She smirked. “Christian?”
He sent her a get real look that questioned her intelligence before flicking the Saint Christopher medal hanging overhead with one long tanned finger.
“Saint Chris. We have an understanding.”
She wished he had an understanding with the weather, instead of a piece of metal that had about as much magic as this flying boat.
The thought had only just formed when the world exploded in a blinding flash of blue-white light. She sucked in a terrified squeak and nearly scorched her lungs on white-hot sulfur an instant before sparks shot out of the control panel. They were almost instantly followed by ominous pop-popping sounds.
