Shattered (23 page)

It hadn’t gone according to plan. A plan that had been to knock Shane’s socks off. To dazzle him with her new look. To stun him with the sexy new Kirby Campbell Titania and Sabrina had unearthed hiding inside her.

It wasn’t that she’d forgotten the reason they’d been thrown back together again. Not at all. But somehow during last night’s makeover, Kirby had come to the conclusion that Titania was right—looking hot and rescuing Rachel were not necessarily mutually exclusive.

An idea that had continued into her dreams, where Shane was stunned by her Cinderella-like transformation. Although there wasn’t a ballroom anywhere in the jungle that she knew of—though there undoubtedly was somewhere in that enormous pink palace—in her dreams, they’d waltzed, beautifully, just like the couple who’d spin around on the jewelry box her parents had bought her for her eighth birthday. While she’d really wanted a junior chemistry set, she’d found herself charmed by the tiny prince and princess.

In the ethereal way of dreams, the vision morphed from that gilded ballroom to a waterfall in the jungle, which actually was real and not far from the village where the clinic was located. In her dream, they swam in the jade-colored waters and made slow, beautiful love while the sun-warmed water streamed over them.

The dream—and her plan—had stayed with her after she’d awakened, warming her from the inside out.

Until Shane showed up at the house, his expression as grim as she’d ever seen it. Even worse than when she’d visited him at Landstuhl.

“What’s wrong?” The white tips of the new manicure she’d been so pleased with contrasted sharply with his dark tan as she caught hold of his arm. “Is it Rachel? Has something happened to her?”

“We don’t know.” He shook his head. “The news out of Monteleón’s still sketchy. But that volcano that’s been simmering—”

“Ixtab.” She pushed the name past the lump in her throat.

“Yeah. Anyway, CNN’s reporting it’s taken out a village. There aren’t any reports of any survivors.”

Although she would have guessed it never snowed on Swann Island, a flurry of white flakes began swirling in front of Kirby’s eyes.

De Oppresso Liber

To liberate the oppressed

—U.S. Special Forces motto

The damn woman wasn’t playing fair. Bad enough that he’d found her hot even in cammies or that ugly suit she’d worn yesterday. But when Shane arrived at Swannsea to pick Kirby up and she’d come waltzing down those stairs, he’d nearly had to pick his tongue off that marble floor.

She’d always been gorgeous to him, both inside and out. But she’d downplayed her looks, which was, if he were to be perfectly honest, okay with him, because he’d just as soon not have had to fight off every other soldier or airman in the Green Zone. Not that they hadn’t noticed, anyway.

Some women were just sexy to the bone.

Kirby Campbell was one of those women. The amazing thing was that she honestly hadn’t seemed to believe that.

Until now.

A sensual aura, along with a new scent, surrounded her. And, Jesus, those shoes she was wearing, which weren’t exactly fuck-me-big-boy stilettos, still had her hips swaying in a seductive way guaranteed to make a man drool.

But proving that timing was everything, just as he’d turned down Swannsea’s oak alley toward the house, Zach had called with the news about that damn volcano.

And while he may not have Dallas O’Halloran’s seduction moves, even Shane could figure out that hitting on a woman after telling her that her best friend might be lying dead beneath tons of volcanic ash was out of the question.

So they’d picked up their passports at the Phoenix Team offices, then, since it was important that their trip appear as normal as possible, suffered a bumpy flight on a sardine can of a cramped commuter jet to Altanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.

Not only would Shane not have been the least bit surprised if the pilot of that first jet had been wearing a leather helmet and scarf, when they’d finally arrived in Atlanta, they were informed that because of a plane being delayed somewhere in the Azores, their flight would be delayed. By at least two hours.

Terrific. One of the first things Shane had learned after moving to the South was that even if you died and went to hell, you’d first have to change planes in Atlanta. And these days, getting anywhere on time without some glitch was a miracle right up there with Moses parting the Red Sea.

Although they kept their eyes glued to CNN, updates were not encouraging. Or verified. There were rumors that the volcano had been accompanied by devastating earthquakes that had left the entire country in ruins. Other reports had the rebels using the opportunity to seize control of all the power grids and communication networks.

Still other reports had Vasquez declaring martial law, and his goon squads not only shooting looters on sight, but using the opportunity to dispatch his political enemies.

Meanwhile, Kirby was as wound up as a cat on a hot tin roof. Unable to sit still, she paced the floor of the Crown Room, until he expected her to wear a path in the carpeting.

“You know, if you could only walk across water, you’d have probably reached Central America by now,” he said.

“It’s nice one of us can joke about this,” she shot back.

“I’m just saying.” He stood up, put his arm around her, and led her over to a couch at the far side of the room, away from all the businesspeople industriously tapping away on their laptop computers. One laid-back individual was practicing his putting on the miniature indoor green.

“You’re not going to do your friend any good if you wear yourself out before you get there.”

“I know.” She threw herself down onto the couch and buried her face in her hands. “It’s just that I’m so worried.”

“You’re not alone.” He put his arm around her shoulder and resisted, just barely, taking a nip out of that smooth, fragrant skin.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her he was an expert at multitasking. While one part of him was already thinking ahead about how the volcano might change the mission plan, or the ops tempo, another part of him was powerfully aware of her scent, which reminded him of the plant outside the window of his rental house in Somersett. It was exotic, seductive, and sexual.

“But Zach said as soon as he hears anything, he’d call.”

“I know.” Her pansy blue eyes—which, thanks to the smoky shadow she’d brushed onto the lids, looked even larger in her too-pale face—were bleak. “My parents have never understood why, if I had to become a doctor, I couldn’t just settle down in some nice middle-sized city and set up a comfortable private practice.”

“I can understand that, since I imagine most parents want their kids to be safe,” he agreed, happy to turn the subject to something other than what might be happening to Dr. Rachel Moore.

“I suppose so. But there was also the little fact that I owed the Army for my education.”

“Which you paid off with your service,” he pointed out.

“True.” She blew out a short breath. “But I’d go insane diagnosing skin rashes and writing steroid prescriptions for wheezy asthmatics.”

“I’m not certain, but I suspect there’s more to being a general practitioner than that.”

“I’m sure there is. And I don’t want sound dismissive, but the reason I chose trauma medicine is because I’m easily bored.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She’d done something to her hair. It framed her lovely, worried face and swung when she shook her head. He tucked a few strands behind her ear, enjoying the silk against his fingertips, remembering all too well how it had felt against his chest. And below.

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “You have many flaws, flyboy.” Shane thought it funny how the same name Zach and Quinn used to rag him sounded incredibly hot coming from those rosy pink lips. Which looked a lot wetter than they’d looked last night, making him wonder if whatever gloss the other women had pushed on her was flavored.

Strawberry, maybe.

Or, better yet, cherry.

Which brought back a memory of the time he’d traded all his Montgomery Gentry CDs to one of the flight crew for a jar of maraschino cherries from a care package the navigator’s mom had sent him. Shane had taken them back to Baghdad.

Remembering how they’d spent the rest of the night licking the sticky, sweet cherry juice off each other was enough to make him hard as a rock.

“Since we’ve had other things on our mind, I held back saying anything,” he said on a voice rough with need, “but you look great.”

“Thank you,” she said distractedly, looking back out the wall of windows toward the tarmac, as if wishing could make their delayed plane arrive sooner.

“Actually, better than great. You look really, really hot.”

“It was Sabrina and Titania’s doing. They took me on as a project last night, which just goes to show I must’ve looked even more pitiful than I felt. I’ve been buffed and polished.” She held out a bare arm. “All over.”

She might be worried to distraction about Rachel Moore, but Shane wasn’t the only person in this lounge capable of compartmentalizing. He knew damn well she knew exactly what she was doing, inviting him to imagine her naked. Imagine and remember.

His fingers curled around her wrist as he brought the slender arm up to his nose. “You’ve changed your scent.”

“That was Sabrina’s idea, too.” She trembled, just a bit, as he touched his lips to the crook of her elbow. “It’s jasmine.”

“Maybe a bit.” Because he didn’t entirely trust himself to behave, he backed away, just a little, and traced a wandering path down the inside of her arm with his index finger. “But underneath the flowers, it’s still you.”

That earned a faint smile, though she did reclaim her arm and inched a bit away from him. “You did that on purpose.”

“What?”

“Distract me.”

“Did it work?” The ploy had definitely boomeranged back on him.

“Doesn’t it always?”

She didn’t exactly sound happy by that admission. Not entirely unhappy, either, though, Shane reassured himself. More resigned, as she looked out the window again at the empty place on the asphalt tarmac where their plane should be.

“It goes both ways,” he said.

He touched her cheek, turning her gaze back to his. She looked concerned. And not, he thought, solely because she was worried about whatever was happening down in Central America. This was personal, and they both goddamn knew it.

She was looking at him the same way she had in the CSH, just before she’d handed him the keys to her trailer.

He watched the mental wheels turn as she remembered that day, too. And wondered what she’d do if he went over to that bar and brought back a glass of cherries.

“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” she insisted. “Not now.”

“Okay.” His fingertips skimmed down her neck. “Maybe we should talk about what I want to do to you once we rescue your friend. Who’s going to be okay.”

“You have no way of knowing that.”

“I know that I’m not going to let anything make you cry. Ever again,” he said simply, meaning every word as he continued to look in her eyes. He could easily drown in those deep, midnight blue depths. “Which makes it a given that we’re going to get her out so she and the former Father-What-a-Waste can live happily ever after.”

“How did you know that’s what I thought when I met him yesterday?”

He shrugged. “I went to Catholic school for twelve years. And used to listen to my sister and her friends moon over Father Casey, who wasn’t nearly as good-looking as Gannon.

“So putting that behind us,” he continued, “we could talk about everything I want to do to you. With you.”

“Shane—”

“Like how I’m going to touch you all over.” He ran his hands over her shoulders. “Taste you all over. Including that tattoo.”

He knew she’d gotten the tattoo—a caduceus, with its double serpent staff designating the medical corps—after a rare night out drinking until dawn with other medical school graduates.

It had been inked on the silky skin of her back, below her waist and above her lush, round ass. He’d spent many a happy afternoon tracing the blue outline with his tongue.

That sexy blush stained her cheekbones again. “You can’t talk about that. Not here,” she complained, looking around the room.

“All those workaholic drones are too busy making money to pay any attention to us.”

Though he had noticed more than a few of the harried businessmen watching the enticing sway of her hips as she’d paced. Each time he’d shot them his most intimidating Spec Ops glare, which had immediately sent their eyes back to their laptops.

“Still, it’s not appropriate,” she insisted.

Outside the window, the plane finally arrived. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be much longer.

“So.” She took a deep breath that did nothing to drag his mind away from sex, since all it did was have him noticing her breasts and fantasizing taking first one, then the other, in his mouth. “Why don’t you tell me about how you ended up switching from JAG to the 160th Airborne?”

“It’s not that interesting a story.” Not nearly as intriguing as the nipples pressing against the flowered silk. “I’m a middle kid. An older brother, a younger sister. I was also the first person in my family to go to college. When I got appointed to Annapolis—”

“Wait.” She held up a hand. “You went to the Naval Academy?”

“Didn’t I mention that?”

“Granted, we didn’t spend all that much time talking. But I believe I would have remembered something as memorable as you being a naval cadet.”

“Well, yeah. It wasn’t any big deal. I got nominated by one of my state’s senators after being elected governor of Boy’s State. Anyway, ever since I was eight, and saw the Blue Angels perform at an air show, I wanted to be a Navy pilot.

“I’d already used my paper-route money and bucks I got doing odd jobs around the county during summer vacation to learn to fly small planes. But I wanted more. So I figured going to the academy would give me a better shot at getting into flight school.”

“And you decided this at age eight?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “When did you decide to be a doctor?”

Her grin, the first smile he’d seen from her since he’d arrived at Swannsea with the news about her friend, was quick and lit up her entire face. “About the same age. When I had Dr. Barbie bandaging Ken.”

“Sounds a bit like life imitating art,” he suggested. “Or play.”

“Hey, that was serious Barbie work,” she said. “Besides, it was the only thing Ken was good for.”

“Yeah. I remember that from my sister’s doll,” he said. “Not only were the guy’s parts not in working order, he didn’t have any parts.”

“I know. I think it was from a terrible accident when Barbie ran over him in her pink Porsche. And you were telling me about how you went from flight training to the Judge Advocate General’s Corps,” she reminded him.

“I never got to flight training.” Having dreamed of being one of those elite Blue Angels, the memory still stung, just a little. “The Navy docs ruled me out because of my astigmatism. I could’ve still been an airman, working in flight support, but watching other luckier guys flying off the decks of carriers would’ve been tough.

“So, since my mother had always wanted a lawyer in the family, and my adviser was pushing it because of all the personality-profile and career-assessment tests I’d taken, which supposedly pointed in that direction, I figured I might as well try JAG.