for too much longer.
In fact, he moved over to the couch and sat down just in case.
“Hungry?” Ashe asked her from behind Cole.
“Yes. What’ve you got?”
Ashe put on a cheesy fake French accent. “I have for zee mademoiselle a delicious tuna fish on zee half can. Or I can offer to her zee beans of later making music.”
Nissa’s laugh was as musical and appealing as the rest of her. “I’ll take the tuna, thanks.”
“Good choice,” Bass commented, opening the stove door to add more wood to the fire.
Nissa settled on a chair that put her knee about six inches from Cole’s. Was she trying to torment him? He was supposed to be the ice man. Nothing rattled him, and nothing ever shook his vaunted cool. He shifted uncomfortably, putting a few more inches between them, hoping he was subtle enough about it not to draw his guys’ attention. He stared fixedly into the fire, determined not to give them any fodder to harass him or, more important, to harass Nissa.
The iron stove door clanged shut, startling him into looking up at Bass. The guy was smirking knowingly. Dammit. At least he’d had the decency to keep his amusement to himself and not embarrass Nissa. Cole made a mental note to have a private word with Ashe and Bass later to keep their remarks to themselves and be respectful of her.
“How much longer until we can get out of here?” she asked no one in particular.
He glanced at Bastien, who was the local and more accustomed to hurricanes than the rest of them.
Bass shrugged. “Depends on how long it takes the water to go down. Could be a day, could be a week. When we can move out will depend on where we plan to move to.”
“Meaning what?” Cole asked.
“Are we heading back to the boat, or are we going to hike inland until we hit civilization?” Bass responded.
“What are the odds of stumbling across a marina out here where we can refuel?”
“Low,” Bass admitted. “Even if we had a water navigation chart, when a big storm comes through the bayou, the scouring action of the tides and the storm surge cut new waterways and clog others till they’re impassable.”
“So our best bet is to abandon the RIB and make our way overland toward New Orleans?” Cole asked.
Ashe chimed in. “The boat was out of gas. If we use it, we’ll have to row all the way back to town. My best guess is we’re a hundred miles west of New Orleans.”
“So far?” Nissa exclaimed.
Ashe nodded. “Weather reports said Jessamine passed west of New Orleans, and her eye wall was about sixty miles across. I figure we didn’t catch the eye wall, because as sturdy as this place is, even it wouldn’t have withstood a direct hit. So we’re at least fifteen to twenty miles west of the path of the storm center. That puts us a good hundred miles or more west of New Orleans.”
The others launched into a brainstorming session of possible ways to get back to New Orleans, but all Cole could think about was Nissa’s knee so close to his. Who obsessed about knees, anyway? And yet, here he was, taking note of how slender hers was and how perfectly proportioned to her legs.
Eventually, Bass distracted him by saying, “What do you think, boss? Do we radio for help or try to make it back on our own?”
He answered, “The folks back in New Orleans are going to have their hands full with rescue operations. No matter how hard the government tries to convince everyone to leave, you know a bunch of the locals were too stubborn to go.” The others nodded in commiseration. “We’re able bodied, uninjured and capable of taking care of ourselves. We don’t need to divert resources to help us when civilians are dying. What’s out here by way of roads or towns?”
Bastien pulled out the laminated maps that had been provided for this mission, and Cole was relieved to move over to the kitchen table to pore over the maps with his men. Close proximity to Nissa was doing weird stuff to his blood pressure.
Cole pulled out their GPS locator. “We’ve only got the one battery that’s in the GPS to work with. The spare batteries got wet somewhere along the way. Let’s get a solid position fix and then figure out where the closest place is that might have vehicles and gasoline.”
As Ashe had guessed, they were, indeed, about a hundred miles west of New Orleans along the Gulf Coast. But what shocked Cole was that they were nearly fifteen miles inland north of the White Lake Wetlands Conservation Area. “How did we get so far north?” he asked.
Bass answered, “Storm surge. All this coastal area, here, was underwater by the time we came ashore, and we motored right over it.”
“We’re only about three miles southwest of this town, Gueydan. Can we hike to it overland, or will the area between us and it be flooded?” Cole asked him.
Bass shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”
Ashe looked over at Nissa, seated on the couch. “What about her? Do we leave her behind and come back for her once we’ve got transportation?”
Cole was stunned by the visceral negative reaction in his gut at the notion of leaving her behind. Aloud, he answered, “SEALs don’t leave anyone behind, and for now, she’s one of us. Besides, she’s had a hell of a scare—several of them, in fact. Let’s not traumatize her any further by abandoning her out here in the middle of the bayou.”
Nissa flashed him a brilliant smile that all but had him striding across the room to wrap her in his arms and capture all that joyous relief for himself.
They ended up having to wait a full twenty-four hours for the floodwaters to go down and for the sodden land to reemerge. They passed the time making repairs to the cabin, inside and out, by way of thanks to the owner for the shelter. Bright and early the next morning, however, they packed their gear and headed out.
Cole was plenty glad to get out of the small confines of the cabin. Its four walls hadn’t been anywhere near big enough to contain the towering attraction between him and Nissa, and he was on the verge of losing his mind before they finally got outside and on the move, away from the momentary insanity that had been their impromptu hurricane party.
For the first time he could remember, he was antsy as all heck to get back to civilization and be done with this mission. And it had everything to do with a petite blonde CIA analyst and her big blue eyes.
The three-mile hike to Gueydan turned into a six-hour nightmare of dead ends, doubling back and wading through waist-deep water. Nissa didn’t think the trek from hell was ever going to end. She was still dreadfully sore from the last hike with these guys, but she was embarrassed to complain about being too uncomfortable to go on. They were toodling along like this was a stroll in the park. Which she supposed it was for them. Bass was actually whistling—cheerfully, no less—as he led the way forward. Instead, she suffered in silence and resolved to work out for about a month solid before she volunteered to come out into the field with a bunch of Navy SEALs again.
The
