barked a short laugh. “All right, fine. Let’s get to the plane and see if we can’t find our way out of this place.”
They started making their way back to the plane, being mindful of their steps, when Hope asked, “So, why do you hate being called Mr. Carmichael? Did you have a tense relationship with your father?”
J.T. pushed away a large leafy branch and held it so she could pass. “You could say that. Me and the old man didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. He thought I was a mouthy, disrespectful punk and I thought he was an overbearing, arrogant asshole.”
“Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“A disrespectful punk.”
“At times.”
Hope glanced back at him. “Well, maybe he was an overbearing jerk because he was trying to provide some discipline to a kid who was, in his opinion, going down the wrong path.”
“And maybe he was just a controlling closet alcoholic who cheated on every woman he ever tricked into loving him and at his core was a narcissistic waste of oxygen.”
Way to go, J.T. Why don’t you pull up a leaf and start spilling your whole life story while you’re at it. “It doesn’t matter what he was, anyway. The old man is dead to me and I’m done talking about it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”
Touch a nerve? She’d done more than touch it; she was standing on it. “You know, in the short time I’ve known you, I’ve been shot at, my plane crashed and now I’m pissed off about a man I haven’t seen in eight years and haven’t spared a thought for, either. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were bad luck.”
She scoffed. “There’s no such thing as luck.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Luck has kept me alive and you can thank your stars you hitched a ride on that luck because you’re alive when that crash should’ve killed us both.”
To illustrate that point, they broke the clearing where the plane had crashed and J.T. groaned at the damage. It wasn’t as if he’d actually thought there was hope the plane could be fixed, but maybe, in the back of his mind, he’d clung to the irrational idea that it could be.
That is, until he saw the poor busted-up heap of metal.
“Damn,” he breathed, rubbing the stubble on his jaw as he saw Blue Yonder’s aspirations go up in smoke.
“I’ll buy you a new plane,” Hope said, hoping to soften the blow. When he cast her a dubious look, she added, “I told you, my company has deep pockets. Get me safely to South America and you can add the cost of your plane to the bill.”
“Where the hell do you work?” he asked incredulously. “The Pentagon?”
Hope offered a short smile, but didn’t answer. “Your flares?” she prompted.
Yeah, right. The more he found out about Hope, the less he actually knew.
And he had a feeling that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.
Eye on the prize, Carmichael. Eye on the prize.
All he wanted was to get out alive.
* * *
WHILE J.T. GATHERED up the supplies from the fallen plane, Hope dug through her backpack to find some protein bars she’d stashed for the flight. She also found her cell phone, but, as expected, there was no service. However, she hoped that when she didn’t show up at the designated point, her colleagues would start tracking its GPS.
She tucked the phone back into her pack and tried to repair her bedraggled blouse. There was no help for it—the top was ruined—so she gave up.
J.T. emerged from the wrecked cockpit with an Army-style pack of his own and dropped to the ground.
“I never thought I’d have to use this, but thank God Teagan made me keep one in the plane at all times.” He lifted the pack and shouldered it. “The water-purifying tablets might save our bacon. You don’t want to know what kind of bacteria swim around these parts.”
“I’m a molecular biologist. Chances are I know more about the microbes and bacteria than you,” she said with an enigmatic smile that J.T. found immediately inappropriately arresting and annoying. She was the prettiest know-it-all he’d ever come across, that was for sure. “What else is in your survival pack? I have some protein bars. That should help blunt the hunger pains for a while.”
“It’s no meatball sub, but it’ll do,” he said, wishing he’d been able to grab his sandwich before the bullets had started flying. Good ole hindsight. “Tarp and rope, which we’re going to need if it—”
As if on cue, Mother Nature rumbled and a torrent of rain began falling from the sky, instantly drenching them both, forcing them to climb back into the plane to escape the deluge.
Dripping from head to toe, J.T. laughed at Hope’s expression. “You look about as happy as a wet cat.”
She shook the rain from her hands and removed her glasses as she wiped her face. “You called this place Satan’s armpit?”
“Yeah.”
“Fitting.”
Thunder rumbled as a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and the rain pelted the metal frame of the plane, sounding like a barrage of gunfire.
Huddled in the downed plane, Hope sighed and broke into the protein bars, offering one to J.T. “Might as well have a bite while we wait out this storm,” she offered.
J.T. accepted the chocolate bar and broke it in half, then handed her the other half. When she looked at him in question, he explained, “We should ration what we have for food. God only knows how long we’ll be trekking through the jungle.”
“Good point,” she agreed, shuddering delicately, as the reality of their situation was hard to ignore. She stuffed the other bar back into her bag and slowly chewed her half of the protein bar.
He startled her when he reached across, brushing her belly as he leaned to grab something at her feet. “Excuse me?” she exclaimed at having her personal space invaded. “What are you doing?”
“Gotta take advantage of the water falling from the sky,” he answered, lifting a canister and causing her to blush at her reaction. He fashioned a hook from some wire he had in a small toolbox and before long had the canister hanging out the pocket door, catching the rain. He grinned, saying, “No need to filter the rainwater. That way we can save our purifying tablets.”
“Another good point,” she murmured, shifting in the seat, wondering why she reacted so viscerally when J.T. was close. Of all the inappropriate times to notice that rugged physique and those tight, trim hips. A bit of protein bar snagged in her throat and she began to sputter. Horrified, she tried to swallow, but it seemed stuck.
“Here, drink,” he instructed, pulling the canister inside to give it to her. “Talk about fortuitous. Or, as some might say, lucky.”
