Crossing The Line

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

Eve nearly jumped out of her skin as his low growl rumbled between them. But at least it succeeded in forcing her thoughts as well as her breathing back on track. Bishop might have the rugged looks and the mystery to attract a woman’s interest, but he didn’t have the personality to hold it.

At least not hers.

“I—uh—don’t have anything to give you for the pain.”

“Didn’t ask. Just do it.”

Yup, the man was definitely lacking in personality.

Still, she owed him. Bishop might have the manners of a caged mountain lion, but he had spared her the task of retrieving Carrie’s body as well as those of her crew chief and passenger, and he’d buried them. For that reason alone, she tried her damnedest to work as quickly and as gently as she could.

It seemed to help.

The only hint of discomfort Bishop gave as she stitched was the subtle clenching of his jaw as well as the occasional tensing of his broad hands. Every now and then he swallowed firmly, but that was it. Had she been in his place, the added pain would probably have sent her over the edge. As it was, anything deeper than the shallowest of breaths still sent an eye-watering ache ripping up the side of her chest.

They made quite a pair.

Bishop must have thought so too, because as she reached the halfway mark on his three-inch gash, he shot her a half-hearted attempt at a smile. To her horror, for a moment the pain in her ribs actually ebbed. Good Lord, what kind of a woman was she—let alone soldier—that she could be reacting to this man as a man here of all places?

And now?

“You’re pretty good with that needle.”

She yanked her gaze from his. “Yeah, well, I hear women go wild for the wounded-soldier look. I’d leave a better scar, but then your wife would have to drive them off with a stick.”

Good one, Eve.

She picked up the next stitch as the reminder that the man had a life back in the States—one that she wasn’t part of—helped to restore her breathing.

“Don’t have one.”

She almost dropped the needle.

He must have taken her clumsiness for confusion because he elaborated. “A wife. That is, I don’t have a wife.”

Wonderful.

She forced a stiff smile of her own as she regained control of the slender needle and resumed her stitching. “Girlfriend then.”

“Fresh out of those, too.” His smile deepened briefly.

The effect was devastating.

Who’d have thought Super Soldier would have dimples?

“What about you? Husband? Boyfriend?”

For a single, blinding moment, she couldn’t respond. She didn’t know how. Surely the man wasn’t coming on to her?

After the way he’d barked at her?

Not that it mattered. She could not afford to get personal. Not now, and certainly not with Rick Bishop.

She must have sat there gaping too long, because he sighed.

“Look, Paris, I was making small talk. It’s bound to be a long trek.” He might as well have come out and said she wasn’t his type.

Despite her relief, she flushed.

What the hell. The man was right, it was going to be a long trip. And since Bishop had an M-16 rifle and a 9 mm pistol as well as a machete to her lonely 9 mm, she might as well stay on his good side. She just might need him for more than company. Besides, the conversation was probably an attempt to take his mind off the pain.

Eve shook her head. “None.”

Despite her nearby stitching, his brow furrowed.

She elaborated, “No husband, no boyfriend. No time.”

“Ah…I know the feeling.”

He probably did at that.

He rolled his shoulders slightly as if to ease his tension as she picked up her last stitch. “So…what happened up there?”

Slick. Very slick.

Small talk, her ass. Rick Bishop wasn’t interested in getting to know her at all. Neither had he been coming on to her. He’d been softening her up for an impromptu interrogation session. Or maybe it wasn’t impromptu. Either way, she didn’t care. While she wouldn’t pretend to misunderstand, neither was she in the mood to discuss what had happened.

As if she even could.

“You were there, Bishop. You tell me.”

But then, he hadn’t been listening up in that chopper, had he? She’d refused him the common courtesy of the extra headset in a fit of pique over his manner toward Carrie.

It all seemed moot now.

Childish.

She tied off the final stitch and clipped the ends before turning away to restow her first-aid kit and tuck it into her flight vest. But before she could scramble to her feet, his hand closed over her arm, stopping her cold.

“Eve…I’m not a pilot. I had no idea what was happening in that chopper beyond the fact that it was about to drop out of the sky roughly four klicks inside enemy territory.” The words were quiet, almost gentle, certainly devoid of the accusation and reproach she’d fully expected.

Even deserved.

Maybe that’s why she was able to scrape up the nerve to meet his gaze. “Then congratulations, Bishop. You’re one up on me.”

She hadn’t said a word in eight hours.

Not so much as a passing comment or even a question as to how far they’d traveled or when they’d stop for the night. Rick held up a hand, bringing them to a halt for a moment so that he could gauge the pulse of the jungle. Other than the rustle of leaves, the distant shriek of a howler monkey and the occasional chirp and almost constant buzzing of insects, there was nothing. He lowered his hand, then switched his machete into his left in order to hack another swath of vine-tangled foliage from his path.

Eve followed him through.

Again, but for the soft thumps of her boots, silently.

It wasn’t normal, even for him. Sure, they were still well inside Córdoba, but no one was tracking them. He was certain. At first he’d been worried about the trail they were leaving. But given Eve’s condition, he didn’t have a choice. With her ribs in the shape they were, it would have taken four times as long to cover the same amount of ground if he’d forced her to pick through the uncut undergrowth. Even now she was stumbling more often than not.

The woman was exhausted.

If she fell and damaged her ribs further or, God forbid, punctured a lung, they might never make it back. He should stop. Force her to rest if necessary. As tired as she was, she’d probably sleep through to dawn if he let her. Still, he had to hand it to her.

Eve Paris was one tough soldier.

He’d had plenty of time to consider the woman as he buried her crew and his sergeant, plenty of time to worry. It wasn’t long before his guilt over Turner’s death had turned to apprehension. Apprehension that his sole surviving companion would fall apart the minute he assumed command of their extraction and pushed her to her physical and mental limits.

Mercifully, she hadn’t.

That the woman was about to fall over was no fault of her stamina. It was a direct result of her injuries. Injuries that were in serious need of re-tending.

A swift glance to his flank confirmed it.

Though Eve still dogged his boots, she now winced with every step she took. He’d lay odds her bandages had loosened, given the soft gasp that escaped despite her obvious efforts to hold it back. Rick switched the machete to his right hand and took up the swinging rhythm again. Forty more whacks and he found what he’d been seeking.

He stopped short.

Evidently too short, because he was forced to drop the machete and whirl about to grab Eve by the shoulders and steady her before she went down.

She promptly shrugged out of his grasp.

“Sorry.”

He shook his head. “No harm done.”

She smoothed the sweat from her brow as he slid his M-16 rifle and rucksack from his aching shoulders, dumping both on the ground at their feet.

“Why are we stopping?”

“Rest.” He flicked his gaze to the sweat-drenched T-shirt beneath her matching olive-green flight vest. She’d long since unzipped the top of her coveralls and peeled the sleeves down to tie them about her waist. “You need rest. So do I.”

He suspected she knew the last was an exaggeration but she let it pass. He chalked up another point in her favor. Accepting their individual limitations and depending on one another to make up for them would only help the both of them reach San Sebastián in one piece. He unhooked one of the green plastic canteens from his web gear and unscrewed the stopper before he passed it over. She accepted the water without argument, earning another point for not bothering to wipe the spout before she drank. His-and-her germs were the least of their worries.

She passed the canteen back. He polished off the remaining water before dumping the empty canteen down next to his ruck. His web gear followed and she wisely added her flight vest to the pile. She could probably use something to eat. Lord knew he could.

But first, her ribs.

Rick bent down, shifting his rifle off his rucksack so he could open the rear pouch and pull out the extra makeshift bindings he’d stashed within. In his haste, however, the personal effects of their men spilled out onto the jungle floor. He cursed his clumsiness beneath his breath as he tried to gather up the watches, wallets, spare dog tags and additional items before Eve noticed.

It was the least he could do.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough.

She snatched up the ring he’d removed from Carrie’s right hand. “What the hell are you doing with this?”

He stood slowly, reaching for her.

She jerked from his touch and stepped back before he could stop her. “Well?” The emerald fire in her eyes had chilled to ice.

He sighed. “That’s Captain Evans’s ring. She was—”

“I know what it is. I asked what you were doing with it.”

He ignored the iron set to her shoulders and stepped closer, grasping them gently as he calmly explained what she already knew. “Eve, be reasonable. Carrie probably has a mother and a father who may be grateful we were able to bring a piece of her back home.”

Once again, she tore herself from his touch. But this time, the chill was gone from her eyes. They were on fire now, swirling, raging. And something else.

Pain.

A pain so deep, he swore he felt it searing into him.

“I don’t give a damn what you thought, Captain Bishop. Carrie Evans was part of my crew, not yours. You should have consulted me. The truth is, we may never be able to retrieve those bodies and you know it. This ring was supposed to be buried with Carrie. And for your information, Carrie doesn’t have any family. I was her family. Her sister—and with Sergeant Turner gone, the only family she had left!”

What the hell?

Rick stood there, too stunned to move as Eve clenched the ring into her fist and stormed out into the eight-by-eight-foot clearing he’d decided would serve as their bivouac site for the night. Her fury propelled her to the opposite side of the clearing. But there, she ended up tangled in the dense undergrowth as well as the vines hanging between the trees. She lashed out at the vines, but that only seemed to make it worse. He heard her cry out as a thick branch came snapping back squarely across her ribs.

He winced as she cursed.

A moment later he caught her muffled sob. An inexplicable punch to his heart followed, almost as if he’d taken a bullet.

Confusion capped it off.

How could Eve and Carrie possibly have been sisters?

Family members weren’t allowed to be stationed within the same command. Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time to demand an explanation. Even from where he stood, it was obvious that Eve Paris was devastated.

Rick retrieved the fresh roll of bindings and stuffed them into his right cargo pocket as he stood. He snagged his M-16 next, slinging the rifle over his shoulder as he headed across the clearing. Eve’s back was to him, her shoulders quaking silently as she stood staring off into the rapidly darkening jungle. It was obvious she and Carrie had been close. So close, he was beginning to wonder how the woman had held it together for as long as she had. He reached out only to force his hands to halt in midair. Each time he’d touched Eve before, she’d pulled away. There was no sense aggravating her again. Least of all now.

So what the hell was he supposed to do?

Were she one of his men, he’d know exactly what to say, how to handle this. He’d done it often enough. But how did he comfort a soldier he didn’t even know? A female one at that? For the first time, Rick experienced a twinge of regret at serving the majority of his career within the Special Forces, one of the few remaining holdouts in this man’s Army.

In the end, he gambled.

Reaching out again, he let his hands drop until they gently cupped her quaking shoulders.

As expected, she stiffened.

But then she turned and stared up at him silently.

Good God, how could he have spent twelve hours with this woman and only now be noticing how tiny she was? Even in her boots, the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. The soft gold of her hair still curled about her face despite the heat and constant exertion of the day. Even with the purple bruises that had darkened along her left cheek and jaw, Eve Paris was a stunning woman. But the longer he stared, the more he noticed the emotional ravages of the day.

Her complexion for one.

The ivory shade of earlier this morning was gone. Grief had stained her high cheeks and stubborn jaw bright red. Even her gently bowed lips were flushed, but the effect only served to make her seem even more delicate than he’d first imagined.

In the end, it was her eyes that did him in.

Puffy and red from crying, the emerald irises seemed darker now, larger…and silent tears were still streaming from the corners of her eyes. Mesmerized, he reached out and smoothed his thumbs up her cheeks, catching the damp warmth as it continued to trickle steadily down.

Time froze as her tears mingled with his sweat.

His breath froze.

Seconds later he succeeded in jump-starting his lungs, but it was too late. He was already leaning down. Closer and closer, until he was breathing her scent. He caught her tears with his lips, absorbing the salt with his flesh. Even as his actions stunned him, they seemed right. This seemed right. And a moment later, it only seemed natural to cover those soft swollen lips with his.

To his surprise, her mouth parted.

And then he was kissing her.

Softly at first. Lightly. But over and over. Though he knew better, he couldn’t find the strength or the sanity to stop. Nor did he want to. He gently grasped her bottom lip with his and caressed it, then slipped the tip of his tongue slowly inside. He used his mouth to draw her in closer until he was drawing her very essence into his own. She tasted of the early-morning sun and of the evening rain—but also of sorrow. A sorrow so heavy and so profound, he could feel it slipping down into his soul. Driven to ease it, to comfort her, he deepened the kiss. But he didn’t dare touch her with his hands for fear that he’d injure her ribs. So he used his lips and his tongue instead.

He tasted, soothed and caressed.

And then he tasted again, all the while resolved to take just this kiss and nothing more.

Until it changed.

He knew Eve felt it too. Somewhere deep inside it just…changed. The hunger swelled, ignited, consumed.

And then the kiss changed.

She was clinging to him now, reaching up to rake her fingers into his hair, kneading them down the back of his neck, pulling him in tight, molding her lower curves to his now aching erection until all he could think about was peeling that damp T-shirt from her chest as he had earlier, until there was nothing between them but bare skin and the lace of that tantalizing pale-green bra.

When her fingers grabbed his shirt, he caved in to temptation and did the same.

She gasped—and he cursed.

Her ribs.

But as he jerked back and stared at the shock exploding amid the pain and desire still swirling within those wide green eyes, the reality of his actions slammed into him with the force of an Abrams tank grinding a swath of hothouse flowers down into the dirt.

What the hell had he just done?

Chapter 3

Eve stood there, her mouth gaping, liquid heat still flooding her body. Heat that had nothing to do with the sweat still trickling down the back of her neck and in between her breasts. It had to do with him.

Bishop.

Captain Rick Bishop. Her fellow stranded soldier.

And that steamy kiss.

Why on earth had he done it?

Who was she kidding? She hadn’t even tried to stop him. She’d just stood there, like some doe caught in the cross-hairs of a hunter’s scope. And then she’d kissed him back.

Grief. That’s what it was. It had to be.

Shock. Uncertainty.

Yes, even fear.

She’d experienced them all today. They both had. But that was no excuse and she knew it. She and Bishop were trapped behind enemy lines. They had no business engaging in sexual misconduct. According to the Army’s code of professional ethics and morals—hell, according to her own—that’s exactly what they’d just done. From the way the color had bled from the man’s face as well as the terse working of his throat, he felt the same way.

“Please…forgive me. There’s no excuse for what I—”

“It didn’t happen.”

He reached out. “Eve—”

“No.” She jerked away from those dangerous hands before they could seduce her again and strode into the clearing. Perhaps the shadows of the jungle beyond would reinforce 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.