Untamed Desire (6 page)

She heard the door slam shut behind her and whirled around just as Jim reached out for her. “Don’t touch me!” she cried out, avoiding his hand.

He halted, breathing heavily. “That’s hard not to do. Will you listen to reason?”

“What reason? You’re the keeper of secrets, not me!”

The wind was picking up, and Storm shivered, drawing her coat more tightly around her. Jim pushed unruly strands of hair off his forehead as he stood looking down at her. Again that same unreadable expression shadowed his features. She felt utterly exhausted by their parrying.

“If you’d lose some of that chip on your shoulder, you’d be easier to talk with, Storm.”

“Well, if you’d stop trying to take my job away from me, I might be a little less defensive.”

“Dammit, think a little bit, will you? I want you out of Bradford’s. But I want you here. In Anchorage!”

She gave him a perplexed look. “Why? I don’t understand. Why do you want me to stay in Anchorage but not work at Bradford’s?” Her voice was becoming scratchy with frustration.

“You don’t give a man any room at all, do you?” he accused.

“Room for what?”

She heard him growl, and in the next blinding instant she was in his arms. The moment she leaned against his hard, unyielding body, she felt like so much workable clay in his hands. A small cry of desperation broke from her lips, and she made a feeble attempt to break free.

“Storm,” he whispered huskily, his lips claiming hers in an earth-shattering kiss. His mouth slid gently across her lips, parting, seeking entrance. Now his hands and mouth were telling her something she could understand completely. A moan of pleasure rose in her throat as his tongue slipped inside and she sagged against him, her knees nearly giving way beneath her.

She forgot time, place and all reason. The musky male scent of his body was a heady perfume. The roughness of his skin against her face sent shivers of pleasure throughout her. His mouth had captured her senses totally, until all sensations of anger were dissipated. Finally, he dragged his mouth from hers and studied her darkly. Her heart was beating in time with his own, and she could only stare up at him in wonder. Jack had never kissed her like this. Theirs had been a rival relationship in comparison to this one.

“Maybe I should show you more than tell you,” Jim whispered thickly. “At least you can’t confuse touching with words.” He smiled. “There’s so much I want to say to you, Storm. But I don’t think you could handle it all.” He leaned down, capturing her parted lips once again, gently kissing her for a long, long time. Finally, he raised his head.

“I care for you, Storm. I worry each time you fly.” He caressed her cheek, smiling sadly. “Be patient with me, will you?”

Her senses were disoriented, heightened to a point of excruciating awareness. His words confused her. She heard them, but they didn’t make sense. She frowned, thinking hard. “Worried…” she whispered. “About me? Why?”

He shook his head and embraced her tightly. “Somebody has to, storm goddess. Besides, I want to. All right?”

Gradually he untangled himself from her and held her at arm’s length. “Take the night off. That’s an order.”

For a moment Storm wasn’t sure she could stand up by herself. She gave him a searching look. “Jim, will we ever be able to say what we mean to each other? Will we always be misreading each other?”

He reached out, slipping his arm across her shoulders, then walking her slowly to her car. “We’ll get our signals straightened out,” he promised. “Right now we’re plowed under with work, and it’s a bad time to do anything except eat, catch a nap here and there and fly. Go home and get some rest. You don’t have a flight until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, so sleep in.”

Storm did drive home, but it was a long time before she fell asleep.

STORM GROANED AS
the insistent ringing of the phone shattered her sleep. She rolled over and fumbled for the receiver on the nightstand. Groggily, she looked at the lighted face of the alarm clock: 2:10 a.m.?

“Yes?”

“Storm, this is Jim. We’ve got a medical emergency. Meet me at the office in fifteen minutes.”

She sat up, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. “I’ll be right there.”

Storm’s heart was pounding as she shoved on a pair of green coveralls. Not bothering to run a brush through her hair, she ran quickly for the front door. The cold night air hit her like a hammer as she took the stairs two at a time and crossed the roadway to her car.

The stars glimmered so brightly and seemed so close that she had an urge to reach out and touch them. She tried to recall if she was on standby for medical runs. Oscelot must be in Seattle, she decided.

Minutes later, she parked her car in the Bradford lot. She saw the Beaver moving up the taxiway toward the other building. Gripping her purse, she jogged to meet it. An icy blast of wind from the propeller made her cringe as she moved up to the rear entrance hatch and scrambled aboard. Jim turned, his eyes full of worry. Storm managed a grim smile. “Sleep in, huh?” she teased, dropping into the copilot’s seat. Jim pushed the throttles forward, and the plane surged down the flight lane at the maximum speed for taxiing. “Sorry. Oscelot wasn’t available, so you got drafted,” he explained.

Storm nodded, and began rummaging in her breast pocket for a pen. “Sounds like my old navy days.” No further exchange was necessary as she went through the preflight takeoff list with Jim. The instrument panel cast a greenish glow over the cabin as they busied themselves with their responsibilities as pilot and copilot.

Storm set the radio frequency and checked the chart to see what kind of emergency they were facing, as Jim ran the engines up at the end of the runway to complete the preflight check.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

“What?”

“It’s Bobby.” She looked up, worry etched in her pale face. “The little boy with the flu. I knew he wasn’t well! I should have said something more to his mother. Oh, damn!”

Jim glanced over at her. “You can’t tell parents what to do. Don’t blame yourself.”

Storm slumped back in the seat and watched the night engulf them through the cockpit windows. The vibration of the engines provided a comforting hum. But being close to Jim was more comforting. “I think Louise knew her son wasn’t well,” she said. “I gave her some aspirin for him before I left.”

“He’s got a temp of 103 right now and drifts in and out of delirium, Storm.”

Her stomach knotted with anxiety. She tried to relax as Jim received word from the tower to take off. The throbbing engine reverberated throughout the cabin as the aircraft rose into the black sky. As the gear retracted, Storm unsnapped her safety harness.

“Where are you going?” Jim asked.

“To get the IV ready. Or did you do it already?”

Jim smiled tiredly. “No. Thanks.”

“Do you know if the boy is vomiting?”

“Yes. Set up the saline solution. He’s only five, and can lose enough body fluids to become dehydrated and in critical condition in just a matter of a few hours.”

It was almost three-thirty when they landed at the camp. The flash of the aircraft’s front landing light illuminated a small knot of people waiting tensely at the end of the grass strip. Storm glanced at Jim as he shut down the engines and began to unstrap his seat belt.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one,” she whispered.

“Take it easy,” he murmured. His hand rested briefly on her arm, sending a warming shiver through her as he left the cockpit. “If we stay calm, the parents will, too. It’s probably just another attack of flu.”

Storm followed him wordlessly into the chilly night air. Their breath came in white wisps as they joined the Callings family. Louise’s voice was high-pitched with anxiety. She grabbed Jim’s arm.

“He’s been vomiting for the past three hours!” she cried.

Storm stepped forward and draped her arm around the mother’s drawn shoulders. “It’s all right, Louise,” she reassured her gently, forcing a smile. “Walk with us and describe all the symptoms to Jim. Try not to leave anything out.”

Nervously, Louise rattled out a list, clutching Storm’s waist. Storm deliberately kept her own voice calm, and gradually Louise became more coherent. As they stopped in front of the tent, Storm asked about the vomiting.

Louise dabbed at her tears. “It’s—I think, white…with brown flecks. I think it’s blood, but Frank says no.”

Storm’s eyes widened, and she caught Jim’s intent gaze. “What has he eaten today, Mrs. Callings?” he asked, moving closer to Storm.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. He’s so terribly pale and weak.” Louise looked over at her husband, who wasfollowing in grim silence. “Oh, Frank, I knew weshouldn’t have brought him along so soon after gettingover the flu!”

“It’ll be all right, Louise,” her husband said. “Theboy’s just had a relapse, that’s all. That happens sometimes, doesn’t it, Mr. Talbot?”

Storm noted the anxiety in Mr. Callings’s voice. Gas lanterns flung rings of light around them, driving away the encroaching shadows.

“Relapses are common, Mr. Callings,” Jim agreed. “If you’ll wait outside, we’ll examine your son. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Jim opened the tent flap, and Storm followed. Her heart began beating faster as she noted Bobby’s wan complexion. “Oh, Jim,” she whispered, getting down on her knees next to the cot where the child was lying. She reached out, feeling Bobby’s arm. “Warm and dry,” she reported.

Silence settled between them as Storm deftly placed the blood-pressure cuff on Bobby’s slender left arm, apprehensively watching the needle slowly descend on the gauge. She held her breath as Jim placed the stethoscope on the boy’s inner elbow.

“Ninety-eight over sixty,” Jim murmured, a frown creasing his forehead. He handed Storm the cuff and stethoscope and began to gently examine the boy’s body. As his fingers probed the torso, Bobby moaned. Jim shook his head. “It can’t be liver enlargement.”

Storm placed a thermometer in the boy’s mouth and held it carefully. “Flu wouldn’t give a pressure reading like that,” she commented apprehensively. She removed the thermometer. “One hundred and four, Jim.”

Jim sat back on his haunches, observing the child; then his slate-gray eyes swung back to Storm. “He’s dehydrated, and we’ll need an IV. I’ll wrap him inblankets. You bring the medical bag along. Tell the parents to come with us. When you get aboard, radio the hospital in Anchorage and tell them we have an emergency. Give them the vital statistics.”

Storm blocked out everything she was feeling and concentrated on doing her job. Bobby’s vital statistics were bad enough, but the anxiety in Jim’s voice drove her close to panic. Jim wasn’t the type to overreact. She touched Bobby’s limp brown hair and pushed several strands off his forehead. “Okay,” she finally murmured, adding, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“The feeling’s mutual, babe. Come on, we’ve got to hurry.” Jim carefully bundled up the boy and lifted him from the cot.

Minutes later, Storm took the aircraft up, wasting no time in swinging the nose toward Anchorage. She felt lonely in the cockpit by herself, and kept one ear keyed to the conversation drifting in from the back, where Bobby’s parents and Jim tended the boy. Storm had just straightened the plane out for a run at eight thousand feet when the child began to babble and shriek. Louise gave a cry of distress.

Storm unbuckled her seat belt and leaned over to look through the cabin door. Her heart plummeted. Bobby was going into convulsions! Jim grimly restrained the boy. Louise began to cry openly, burying her face in her hands.

In anguish, Storm tore her gaze from the scene. She mentally catalogued the symptoms. What could be wrong with Bobby? It was a strange and baffling case. “Louise!” she called out. “Come here. I need to talk to you.”

Mrs. Callings climbed into the copilot’s seat, holding a handkerchief to her mouth, still sobbing wildly. “Louise, listen to me,” Storm begged. “Has your son been taking any drugs?”

“Just some antibiotics for the flu. Oh, Storm! What’s happening?” she wailed.

“I don’t know…just don’t know.” Storm’s mind raced to provide an answer. “Louise, do you or your husband’s family have a history of epilepsy?”

“No…Do you think—?”

“It’s hard to tell. The fever could be causing the convulsions. Jim’s the very best, Louise. If he needs assistance with Bobby, try to stay calm and help him. Please.”

Moments later, Jim spoke quietly in her ear. “Storm, red-line it.” His voice was absolutely emotionless, and it chilled her.

Her heart pounding, she shoved the throttles to full speed, and the aircraft surged forward. Another fifteen minutes passed and silence descended on the cabin. Storm carefully watched the heat gauges. The plane could only take so much full throttle before the engine would begin to overheat. She gripped the steering yoke, her knuckles whitening. They had to get to Anchorage fast!

Storm was so intent on monitoring the aircraft that she didn’t hear Jim come forward. His hand rested on her shoulder, sending an immediate response through her tense body. He sat on the edge of the copilot’s seat, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes intent on Bobby.

“I thought it might be a drug overdose,” Storm began lamely.

Jim sighed heavily. “How about meningitis?” He had barely mouthed the word before Storm jerked her head to face him.

“Oh, no.”

“He’s quiet now, but I don’t know for how long.” Jim sounded tired, anxious. “Damn, this one has got me going.”

Without thinking, Storm reached out and touched his arm. The muscles were hard beneath her fingertips. It seemed natural to try to comfort him, and she felt his silent plea for reassurance. “You aren’t expected to make a diagnosis, Jim. Doctors do that, remember?” She offered him a small smile, but he shook his head sadly.

His face softened a bit as he studied her features. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re good medicine?” He got up and slid his hand across her shoulder in a tender gesture. Storm gloried briefly in the shared moment and then turned her attention back to the gauges.

At last the lights of Anchorage appeared on the horizon. Storm bit her lip as she watched the needles on the dials move toward the danger zone. She tried to shut out the sounds of Bobby’s anguish and Louise’s continued sobbing. Only Jim’s soothing voice gave her solace.

Storm coaxed the plane on. Emergency clearance had already been granted, and she banked the plane with a solid left rudder. Now was not the time for gentle turns or long approaches. Every second was precious to Bobby.

Storm felt the plane strain to resist the pull of gravity. She made the last turn and opted for full power on landing. With full flaps extended, the plane seemedto hover momentarily, and she increased the steep angle of their descent to the runway. The red light of an ambulance flashed on her left as the wheels bit into the concrete surface of the runway.

Storm was utterly exhausted as the stretcher bearing Bobby Callings was wheeled into the back of the ambulance. A cold, steady rain had begun to fall, and she shivered beside the plane as Jim climbed into the ambulance, too, carefully suspending the IV above the unconscious child’s head. He looked back once, and their eyes locked. Storm hugged herself and tried to nod, but that one penetrating gaze left her shaken and on the verge of tears.

Would the boy die despite everything they had done? She turned away, her cheeks wet. Jim mustn’t see her cry. Not now. Not yet. The plaintive wail of sirens filled the air, and Storm climbed back aboard to complete the post-flight check. Later, as she closed the hatch, she gave the plane a well-deserved pat on the fuselage and walked tiredly to her car. Right now, all she wanted was sleep.

Storm groaned and flopped over onto her back as the heavy knocking at her apartment door continued. Groggily, she stumbled out of bed, pulling on a white chenille robe over her apricot gown, not sure what time it was. The room was pitch-black, and she stifled an oath as she bumped her shin against the corner of the couch.

Finally, after turning on a small light in the corner, she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Storm?”

She remained motionless, her hair in disarray. Jimstood in the doorway, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched forward, his wet hair plastered against his skull.

A lump formed in Storm’s throat as she stared up into his weary face. “Come in,” she whispered, moving aside.

He gave a shy, almost painful shrug. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” he muttered by way of apology.

“It doesn’t matter. Please, come in. Let’s get that coat off you. You’re soaked.”

He shuffled in and stood in the center of the small living room, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Yeah…guess I am pretty wet,” he returned after a moment.

Storm unbuttoned his coat with trembling fingers and pulled it off his broad shoulders. She frowned, noticing that even his light blue shirt was damp. “How long were you walking around outside?” she asked.

“What?”

She led him to the couch, and he sat down.

“How long have you been walking around in that downpour?”

He shrugged again and ran his fingers distractedly through his dark hair. “I lost track of time, to tell you the truth.”

Storm was beginning to panic. What had happened to make him so distressed? Going into the bedroom, she removed the blanket from her bed, then returned to the living room. Worriedly, she assessed Jim. He seemed to be suffering from some kind of shock. She threw the blanket across his shoulders and pulled it tightly around him, then said in a stern voice, “Jim, get out of those clothes. You’re shivering. I’m going to the kitchen to make some coffee to warm you up. Do you hear me?”

Moving stiffly, awkwardly, he began untying his shoes. Storm’s heart swelled with a feeling she had thought long since dead. Jim needed her. And she was responding to that need, that vulnerability, without hesitation. As she made coffee, she felt a thrill of joy. She was still capable of love, capable of giving unselfishly to another person.