COOL UNDER FIRE

by Justine Davis

  Feeling more than a little silly, Con looked over his shoulder at the small goat that seemed mesmerized by their presence. She'd mentioned that a large herd of them lived on the island, he remembered now. And he remembered that moment when he'd watched her from the boat, when she'd come up to these same bushes and jumped back, startled. The tension drained from him, and he couldn't quite meet her eyes.

  "I seem to spend a lot of time getting knocked off my feet with you around." In more ways than one, Shiloh added silently.

  His eyes snapped up to hers then, the barest hint of color rising in his face. "I didn't… I thought it was…"

  She knew what he meant. He hadn't thought at all. It had been pure instinct. He'd reacted instantly, fiercely and, to her amazement, protectively. The impression she'd gotten that he was protecting her body with his own had not been wrong. Pure instinct, she repeated to herself. Don't read any more into it than that.

  "Quite a set of reflexes you have there, Mr. McQuade."

  She seemed to have lost what breath she had regained; her words came out huskily, on a little rush of air. The sound of them sent a shiver down his spine.

  She was looking up at him, those green eyes alight with something he couldn't name. The effects of that sudden spurt of adrenaline faded, leaving him all too aware of the sudden harshness of his own breathing and the way his heart had slowed from reaction-induced racing to a heavy, pulsing beat that echoed in his ears.

  The tension drained from his muscles, leaving them slack and useless, and he sagged atop her. He tried to push himself away, but nothing seemed to be working; his body would listen to nothing, was aware of nothing except how she felt beneath him. He could feel the endless silk of her legs against his, the quickened thud of her heart.

  Shiloh couldn't seem to breathe, and it didn't seem to matter. Her entire being was concentrated on the pair of bottomless blue eyes that stared down at her. And on what she could read in them: the awareness of her, the need, the growing heat, the determination, the anger. She wondered if the anger was at her or at himself. The question had barely formed in her mind when the heat swirled up in those blue depths, overcoming all else, and his mouth came down on hers with the sudden fierceness of an attacking hawk.

  She meant to protest. She couldn't go through this again, couldn't take another rejection. But at the first touch of his firm, warm lips, she was lost. As if he were breathing fire into her, she melted beneath his touch, her arms going without question to circle his neck, her lips parting eagerly for his questing tongue.

  The small sliver of her mind that was still functioning rang out a warning, a tiny red flag of danger that said she was surrendering the control she'd spent her life building, and to a man who would probably reject her again. She saw it, heard it, and couldn't make herself care. Couldn't make herself care about anything except the blaze he was kindling.

  His tongue was tracing her lips, tasting, teasing; it wasn't enough. Tentatively she reached out with her own tongue, the tip brushing his. It was the barest of touches, a quick, split second of contact; it was the match to the tinder. She felt his groan in the vibration deep in his chest before she heard the smothered sound of it against her mouth.

  He invaded her mouth then, plunging, demanding, sending ripples of sensation through her. Her hands clutched at him, slender fingers tangling in the thick, wet hair as she clung to him. Her tongue met his now, all hesitancy forgotten, dancing, twisting, tasting, needing. Her fingers tightened, pressing him closer, wanting, needing, more.

  A little sound of protest rose from her as his tongue withdrew. Without thought her own followed, seeking, then stopping as she reached the boundary of his lips. His mouth went suddenly soft, coaxing, and she responded with a tentative swipe of her tongue over his lips.

  Shiloh was stunned by the shudder that went through him at that tiny touch, and more stunned by the echoing ripple that raced along her own nerves. She probed forward, the tip of her tongue sliding into the hot depths of his mouth, flicking over the even ridge of his teeth.

  He groaned again, low and deep and harsh. His hands cupped her face, tilting her head back to intensify the kiss, his tongue urging hers on until she was deep in that wet, luring heat. He shifted atop her, and she was suddenly aware of the hot, urgent hardness of him through the two thin, damp layers of cloth. The feel of him, rigid and ready, pressing against her belly, sent explosive little bursts of flame up from that place inside her, sent them spiraling upward to meet and collide with the conflagration he had begun with his mouth. A low moan, the only sound she could make to express this need she'd never felt before, broke from deep within her.

  And then he was gone. He was gone, and she lay there shivering in the cold left by the sudden removal of his searing heat. Shaking, she opened her eyes. He was sitting a careful six inches away, staring at her with a pained longing that was frightening in its intensity. She stared back, her body still throbbing with need and utterly confused. And hurt.

  "Wha—" She swallowed tightly and tried again, her voice a harsh, pained whisper. "What do you want from me?"

  His eyes closed, and the expression on his rugged face was nothing short of agonized. "Shouldn't that be what do you want from me?" His tone matched his look. "But I already know. And I can't give it to you." The thick, dark lashes lifted; his eyes were as tortured as his face. "I can't, Shiloh."

  Shiloh sat up, conscious of dragging air in through parted lips, of the aching heaviness of her breasts, the tingling tightness of her nipples, and most of all a new, strange hollowness deep and low inside her.

  "I didn't … ask you for anything." Her voice shook, and a small spurt of anger at her own weakness stabbed through her.

  Con let out a small, pained burst of air. "You don't have to ask. It's what you are, who you are. You want—deserve—things I can't give you."

  The tiny flicker of anger sparked, then caught inside her. Only now it was directed at him and his infuriating tendency to insist on making her decisions for her.

  "We've had this discussion before, as I recall. Who appointed you to decide what I deserve? And," she added, drawing her knees up under her so she could meet his eyes, "where do you get off telling me what I want?"

  He winced, but she couldn't seem to get a rein on her rising temper. She was full of so many roiling emotions that she couldn't begin to sort them out and knew only that she was angry at his dictatorial manner and hurt that, when for the first time in her life she knew what it was to want a man, he wouldn't take what she offered.

  It stung more than just her pride; it brought painfully to the fore the doubts that had arisen recently, the fear that the price she had paid for her considerable control had been her femininity. She drew a deep breath.

  "Let me get this straight. I'm a stupid little child who's playing with fire, and you're the big, bad spy, who also happens to have the right to make all my decisions for me, since I must be incapable of doing it myself. I never realized you had to have sex before you could think—"

  "Shiloh, stop it." Con's voice was dull, weary.

  "I'll stop. As soon as I find out what it is I want. Since you seem to be the only one who knows, why don't you tell me?"

  He turned his head away, closing his eyes as her words bit deep. She saw a shudder go through him and suddenly felt as if she'd kicked a wounded man, a man who was down and hurt. Her anger drained away, and when she spoke again, the edge had gone from her voice.

  "What, Con? What is it you think I want?"

  For a long moment she thought he wouldn't answer, but she'd learned to wait, had come to know how difficult it was for this lone wolf to open up. When the words came, they were harsh and strained.

  "You … need someone who can be there for you. Who can promise you a future. Hell, I can't even promise tomorrow."

  Shiloh stared at him, wondering if he even realized what he'd admitted about his feelings for her.

  "I didn't ask for tomorrow," she said slowly.

  "You
don't have to ask," he answered. "It's just who you are. You're not the kind for … casual relationships. If you were, you wouldn't still be…"

  "A virgin? We're back to that again?" Her eyes were snapping, her anger returning full force. "What do you want me to do, apologize? Say I'm sorry I haven't been to bed with every guy that came along?"

  "Damnit, Shiloh…"

  "Nice double standard you use, McQuade." She cut him off acidly. "Tell you what, I'll just go find someone without your scruples, one of those macho guys who gets a kick out of … deflowering maidens, isn't that what they call it?"

  "Shut up!" Con snapped. The idea of her going to someone else, making love with someone else, was so painful that the heavy ache in his groin was momentarily overwhelmed by the instant rebellion of his mind and body at the thought.

  "Why? Just because you don't want me doesn't mean somebody else won't." She took in a gulp of air, ashamed of herself, of the way she was acting, but unable to stop herself. "Somebody who isn't all bogged down in what they think I want…" Her words faded as she stared at him, huddled there on the sand, muscles tensing as if each word was a blow. "Do you think I'll lay some kind of claim on you? Is that it? That I'll expect you to … to make an honest woman of me or something?"

  He looked at her then. "You should," he said tightly.

  Her eyes widened. "You think I'd expect you to marry me? You think that's what I want?"

  "Not me. I'm not stupid enough to think you'd—" He stopped and let out a long breath. "I mean, you … you've waited this long, you should wait for the man you will marry." And I hate him, whoever he is.

  "Make up your mind," she said. "Is it the man I love, or the man I marry?"

  He gaped at her, confused. "I … you wouldn't marry somebody you didn't love."

  "What makes you think I ever plan on marrying anyone?"

  "You will." His voice went suddenly flat. "You aren't made for anything less." Remember that, McQuade. She isn't the kind for what little you can offer.

  "Oh, really." Shiloh was furious at his arbitrary assessment. This had somehow become about much more than her hurt feelings and frustrations. "Well, let me tell you, if my parents are any example, I'll pass."

  Con's brows furrowed. "I thought your parents—"

  "You don't know a damned thing about it," she snapped. "You didn't grow up watching a weeping, hysterical woman turn my father old before his time. You didn't see her whine constantly when he was hurt, not about him, but about herself. And then go out and flirt with every man in sight, saying that it was all right because her husband was a cripple."

  Con cringed, his stomach knotting in protest at the picture she was painting. "I didn't know. You never mentioned her, so I guess I assumed … she was dead."

  "You assume one hell of a lot, McQuade."

  She was glaring at him, that angry light still leaping in her eyes, her slender body tense with it, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. She was all crackling energy, all fiery wrath, and she'd never been more beautiful to him. He knew instinctively that she would be the same in his arms, all fire and life, and the need to have her there was suddenly fierce and overwhelming. He wanted to plunge into that living flame, bury himself in her bright heat, let it sear away all the wasted, empty years…

  In the very act of reaching for her, he stopped. He stayed there, outwardly frozen, fighting an inner battle that was becoming harder and harder to win. Then he scrambled to his feet, backing away from her, toward the water, knowing it was his only chance of winning, of keeping himself from grabbing her, from taking her right there and then. For the first time in his life, Connor McQuade turned and ran.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  He knew she was behind him before he'd swum ten yards. Even with his head start she made it a race, her quick, even strokes pulling her close despite his longer, stronger ones. He pulled himself up over the rail of the boat, then sat watching her close the gap.

  She swam, he thought, as she did everything else, giving it her best and fullest effort. She was strong and brave and bright, and unlike any woman he'd ever known. He watched as she reached the boat and pulled herself up into the cockpit.

  She flipped her wet hair back out of her face with a toss of her head and stood looking at him. Never had the finely spun steel core of her been so evident, unexpectedly emphasizing the soft loveliness of her exterior. His eyes went over her helplessly, hungrily, loving her strength as much as her beauty.

  "I wasn't through," she said tensely.

  "I never thought you were." His voice was soft with a note she didn't recognize.

  "Oh," she said sourly, "so you just decided to avoid the rest of the conversation."

  "I should have known you wouldn't let me."

  "So now I'm being stubborn?" She knew she sounded bitchy, but her emotions were still raw, and she couldn't help striking back.

  "No. I was." He could imagine how she'd felt, to have waited so long only to be, in her eyes, rejected when she'd offered the most precious gift of herself. She was hurt, and he couldn't blame her. "I just…"

  He stopped, his eyes going over her, up and down the trimly curved body in the skimpy green suit. His gaze lingered on the gentle swell of her hips and the full curve of her breasts, the tightness that had never gone away surging to aching fullness once again.

  At last he met her eyes. They were so full of confusion, anger and pain that he had to look away again. When he could go on, his voice was low and husky.

  "I was right, you know. It's the wrong place, the wrong time, and … I'm not the right man for you."

  "So you've told me."

  Shiloh sat down on a bench, despair sweeping over her. When she'd realized that she loved him, she had also acknowledged to herself that he didn't love her back. She hadn't expected him to, had known he had no room for love in his life. If she had entertained any idea that he would make room for her, she had discarded it with the cold rationality her familiarity with his world had instilled in her.

  She would have been content, she thought, with just the fact that he wanted her. And she knew that he did; he'd left her no doubts. The hunger in his face was as obvious as the arousal of his body. But he didn't want her enough. Not enough to overcome his misguided reservations.

  The irony of it bit deep. All these years of fighting off men who made her feel nothing but a mild curiosity, and now the one man in the world who could send her up in flames with a look wouldn't touch her.

  Well, she'd be damned if she would beg. Her chin came up.

  "Fine. You just hang on to that image you have of me as some wide-eyed little innocent who doesn't know anything." She looked at him balefully. "I may be inexperienced, but I'm not as naive as you think."

  The snap was back in her voice, the fire in her eyes. God, he thought, she never quit. She had more nerve, more backbone, than most of the men he'd ever worked with, more than most people he'd ever known.

  He had to give it one last try, he thought, but his heart wasn't in it. "It's the circumstances, Shiloh. We're on the run together, we've been scared together. I've seen it before."

  "I'm sure you have. But don't insult me any further by telling me I haven't thought of that."

  Her hands were locked together in her lap, but her back was straight, her head high. Atta girl, Green-eyes, he applauded her silently, more than a little bemused by his own thoughts. She was sitting there giving him hell, and he was cheering her on.

  Shiloh saw that look in his eyes, that glimmer of beguiled wonder. A new determination rose in her. She wouldn't beg, but she wouldn't give up without a fight, either. She wouldn't make it any easier for him by hiding the whole truth. She took a long breath before she went on steadily.

  "Maybe I've never actually been there before, but I was raised knowing all about it. Linc told me enough about the … bonds that can be formed under stress. But it doesn't matter. Not here. Not now."

  She was lo
oking at him so intently and with such a sudden rush of color in her cheeks that he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Why?"

  Her color deepened, but she answered him levelly, holding his gaze with a strained effort that was visible in her eyes. "Because … you turned me to jelly long before I knew who—or what—you were."

  Con paled. "I … what?"

  "I think that's really why I didn't call the police when I first found you. I just didn't want to admit it."

  He stared at her. He saw in her face that she knew what she was doing, what she was risking, laying her soul bare to him like that. And he knew as well that it had taken more courage than facing Moose and his partner, or that gang in the loft; he didn't know if he had that much courage himself. And she just sat there waiting, knowing he could destroy her so easily. And he knew it, too; knew that if he rejected her yet again, she would carry the scar forever.

  No, he didn't know if he could match that courage, but he had to try. "I meant all those things," he said tightly, "but that wasn't all."

  Something in his tone made her lift her eyes to his. "It wasn't?"

  "No." He made himself meet her green-eyed gaze. "I just couldn't believe that you really meant it." He had the grace to admit what she'd said. "I did think you were naive. That you just didn't know what was happening."

  "I knew what was happening," she said quietly. "I just didn't know that it could. To me, I mean."

  How could she find the words? How could she explain the feeling of awe, her surprise that the body she thought she knew so well was still capable of shocking her after twenty-four years? "I've never felt that way, not with anyone."

  Con felt his stomach knot at the same time that he felt his body heat with pleasure at her words. Desperately, he clung to his last doubt.

  "You will someday. Wait, Shiloh. You don't—you can't really want me."

  "Why?" She turned his question back on him, her eyes holding his relentlessly. "Why are you so certain of that?"

  "I can't give you anything, can't promise you anything." His eyes swept over her. "God, Shiloh, look at yourself! You could have anybody."