COOL UNDER FIRE

by Justine Davis

  He made himself stand up, and with his gaze fixed on the front door that seemed so distant now, he started across the living room.

  "Running away?"

  He froze, unable to move as the chair rolled into his field of vision from a darker corner of the room. A corner from which Robert must have seen everything.

  Con shuddered, and his jaw clenched as he wondered at the coward he'd become when faced with her father. He let out a long, shaky breath. Robert was looking at him, his gaze betraying nothing, but Con could no more lie to those green eyes than he could to hers.

  "Yes." Robert's brow rose at his simple honesty, but as if he were checking something off on a list, rather than in surprise. "It's the best thing I can do for her."

  He didn't know that his pain echoed brutally in his voice, only that Robert's face changed somehow. As if he knew that this was costing Con the last of his feeble reserves, and as if he knew that feeling all too well. But concern for his daughter still shadowed the eyes that were so like hers, and at last he spoke softly.

  "She loves you, you know."

  Pain knifed through Con again, and he closed his eyes against the fierceness of it. As long as he hadn't heard it in words he'd been able to avoid it, but now the image rose in his mind with stark clarity: Shiloh on the Phoenix, the day he had piously spoken about her waiting for the man she loved, and her knowing, enigmatic smile when she'd answered, "You're absolutely right."

  He should have known. Casual sex and Shiloh Reese were as incompatible as oil and water. She would be incapable of going to bed with a man she didn't love. And maybe he had known, somewhere deep down inside, that as joyous a passion as hers had to be fueled by love. He heard a small, low sound; he didn't even know it had come from him.

  Robert reached out a hand; he wasn't the kind of man who could witness this kind of pain, no matter what the cause, without reacting. In his lined face was proof that he knew, because he had fought just such a battle himself, what was going on in the heart and soul of the tortured man before him. The war between darkness and light, between the shadows and the open air, between midnight and sunrise.

  Con's face had gone beyond bleak. He had turned an unhealthy gray; his pallor stood out grimly in the golden morning light. At the first touch of Robert's fingers on his rigid arm, a small, choking sound ripped from him, and he whirled and ran to the door.

  He had it open and was halfway through when he stopped, one hand on the edge of the door and the other on the jamb, his knuckles white with the pressure of his grip. He muttered something that was barely audible.

  "I'll always take care of her," Robert answered almost as quietly, his voice full of the knowledge that she would need his care now more than ever in her life. Then, slowly, "But who's going to take care of the man she loves?"

  A strangled groan was the only answer, cut off by the closing of the door as Connor McQuade disappeared.

  Her father had asked only one question after that first horrible morning. It had come abruptly, out of a long silence that had enveloped them as they sat on a bluff looking out over the water.

  "He's the one, isn't he? The man who saved Linc's life?"

  She'd nodded, not really surprised that he'd guessed. Or at his tone of voice, the tone of a man torn between anger and admiration, between dislike and respect. She knew he'd been torn since that morning, when she had awakened to face the beginning of the pain.

  She had sat up in surprise when she saw him, barely having the presence of mind to hold the sheet over her nude body. The sheet from Linc's bed. She had felt herself begin to blush, but the look in her father's patient green eyes cooled her cheeks, and she met his gaze levelly. He had obviously guessed what Con meant to her, and she wouldn't cheapen it by denying it.

  After a moment he nodded, both pride and relief showing on his face. "I've been afraid we'd crippled you, Shy-girl. I know our marriage was a poor example. I was afraid that my skydiving, crack-shot little girl would never have the nerve for the biggest leap of all." He stopped, shaking his head sadly. "And now that you have, it turns out to be one of us. And one caught in the coldest, loneliest part of a cold and lonely world."

  "He's gone, isn't he?" she whispered. He nodded, confirming her fear. Con wasn't going to give her the chance to convince him that he wasn't like his father, that blood didn't always tell. And last night, that sweet, hot night, had been his goodbye.

  A horrible ache began inside her, but when she saw the touch of anger in her father's eyes and knew it was for her, she struggled to hide it. "Don't, Daddy. It's not his fault. And he never … lied to me about it."

  "He didn't want to go."

  And that, she thought, was her sole crumb of comfort. "Please don't hate him, Daddy," she said softly. She wasn't sure he had heard her until at last he answered.

  "I don't, girl. I feel as if I should, but I can't. I saw his face. It could have been me. Or anyone who walks that road."

  She was thankful for that. Con had so few people to love him; she couldn't bear it if someone hated him for her sake.

  Her father read her face accurately. Sympathy and admiration glowed in his eyes; it was the admiration that won out. "I always knew that if it happened for you, it would be heart and soul, no holds barred. I expected nothing less of you."

  "Would you have it any other way?"

  "No." He looked at her steadily. "Would you?"

  "No."

  And she meant it, she told herself on the long bus ride home. Not for anything would she trade the time she'd had with Con, not even to avoid the hell she was in now.

  She knew the physical reminders would eventually cease, although she doubted at first that she would survive them. She arrived home to find her Blazer in the garage, all damage repaired, including the shattered windshield, with no clue as to who had done the work and no sign of a bill. She knew Con had done it, just as he had arranged for the Phoenix to be brought home to Dana Point long before she had even thought of it. And the car they'd "borrowed" had been returned to its owners with an apology and a sizeable—though anonymous—payment.

  There had been a check for Jimmy, as well, for the damage to the loft, along with a letter signed by Sam West himself thanking him for his "help" in solving a major problem for the company.

  Con had been busy, she thought tightly; while she was licking her wounds with her father, he'd been removing all traces of himself from her life with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. She called and was politely told that Mr. McQuade was unavailable. She wrote and got no answer. She thought of casually asking Linc if he'd heard from him, but her brother had already sensed there was more to what had happened than the edited version she'd given him, and she didn't dare.

  So instead, in the darkness of each night, she slid between the covers naked, not admitting to herself that it was because it made her feel as if she could just roll over and find Con's warm, vital body beside her. She knew the moment she closed her eyes in the bed on which she'd first seen him, the moment she surrendered to sleep, he would be there. He would be there, with that lopsided grin that made her heart turn over and that rusty laugh she'd sworn he would never forget how to use again.

  And then the shadows would come, falling over him with grim suddenness, taking him from her and back into the darkness. It was hell, but it was all she had of him and better than nothing. So each night she closed her eyes and waited silently for him to come to her.

  Shiloh glanced at Wayne, then turned her attention back to her sanding. He had found the classic old sailing dinghy they were working on at an auction, and they were stripping it down to the boards before refinishing it in the yacht club colors. It was monotonous, backbreaking work, but Shiloh welcomed it.

  She'd been spending more and more time with Wayne; he seemed to ease her mind and heart as only her family had been able to. She knew he must have sensed a change in her, but he never asked. He merely used his considerable resources and active imagination to keep her diverted, and she gladly let h
im do it.

  She knew that most of the people on the dock thought she was either his granddaughter or his gold digging young mistress, but when she found he was pleased by the first and amused by the second, she thought no more about it. And she tried not to remember when Con had accused her of the same thing.

  At last she stopped, taking a breather while she smiled admiringly at the seventy-year-old man who was running her ragged. Moments later Wayne lifted his head to glance over her shoulder at someone coming down the dock. She saw something odd come into his eyes, and then he spoke softly.

  "Is that him?"

  "Who?" she asked, brushing a few errant paint flakes off of her nose before turning to look.

  "The one who hurt you so."

  She paled, shocked that he had guessed so much and paralyzed with the thought that he might be right. "Shy?"

  She shuddered at the sound of the deep, strong voice; she didn't know if it was with disappointment or relief.

  "It's my brother," she told Wayne quickly.

  He was in civilian clothes, and he came toward them with the long, easy stride that reminded her so much of Con. She wondered how Wayne had known, how the similarities between the two had led him to believe this could be the man who had changed her.

  She introduced the two men, which was easy, since each of them had heard so much about the other, and then Wayne discreetly left them alone. Shiloh looked at her brother a little anxiously; he had dropped in at the house a few times, but for him to track her down like this, he had to have a reason. He looked away, a fact that frightened her thoroughly.

  "Linc?" He raised troubled hazel eyes to hers. "It's not Daddy?" she begged.

  "No," he said hastily, reaching out to take her hands in his. "He's fine. I spoke to him this morning."

  She let out a shuddering sigh of relief. "Then what? Why are you down here?"

  "I have to know something."

  "What?" Her brow creased as he hesitated.

  "Shy, I never asked what happened between you and Con, but I have to ask now."

  She paled a little, but she asked steadily enough, "Why?"

  "I need to know because…" He stopped, floundering. Her self-possessed brother at a loss for words was something she'd never seen before, and she felt a set of icy fingers start a shivering trail up her spine.

  "Is this … professional?"

  "No."

  Those icy fingers dug through to her heart, and it quivered in response. "Then why? Why now?"

  "I … got a call from WestCorp this morning."

  The fingers squeezed, clamping her heart in their frozen grip. "Oh, God." She pulled her hands away, clamping one over the small fist of the other as she pressed them against her lips to hold back a cry.

  "He's alive," Linc said quickly, seeing the stark terror in her eyes. "At least he was this morning," he added grimly.

  "Where is he?" It was a harsh, broken whisper.

  "Nevada. He was on something at the air force base outside of Las Vegas."

  Shiloh erupted into motion, on her feet so quickly even her quick-reflexed brother was startled. He had to hurry to catch up to her as she raced up the dock.

  "Shiloh, wait!"

  She stopped, her delicate chin jutting out determinedly. "I'm going to him, whether he wants me or not."

  "We're both going. It's already set. I just…" He paused, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I wasn't sure, but I am now. You love him, don't you?"

  "Yes." She said it flatly, in a tone that spoke worlds of the pain that love had become instead of the joy it should have been.

  He nodded slowly. "Then let's go."

  They were on the plane before it occurred to her.

  "Why did Sam call you?"

  Startled by the sudden question after all the silence, Linc turned and looked at her for a moment. "What?"

  "Why did Sam West call you?"

  Linc shifted uncomfortably in his narrow airplane seat. "I… After the Philippines, when I realized he really didn't have … anybody, I asked Sam to let me know if anything ever … happened. I never told Con. I guess Sam didn't, either."

  Shiloh stared at him, at this rugged, handsome, tough man who was her brother. As always when he was caught doing something that betrayed his innate warmth and sensitivity, he squirmed awkwardly. Her love for him shone in her eyes as she whispered softly, "Have I ever told you how proud I am of you, and how glad I am that you're my brother?"

  To her amazement he blushed, then cleared his throat gruffly. "Anyway," he went on hastily, "Sam told his secretary to pull his file and call me— What?"

  Shiloh was staring at him, wide-eyed. "So that's how they knew," she breathed.

  "What?"

  "We could never figure out how they found out about you, how they knew to look for me. But if your name was there…"

  Linc went white under his tan at the realization that he might have inadvertently endangered his sister's life. "But … I can't believe Sam would—"

  "He didn't. Con's file is confidential." She hesitated, but she supposed it didn't matter now. "There was a leak. High up. Right next to Sam, in fact."

  Linc whistled. "It's a wonder he's still—"

  He stopped, aware of what he'd been about to say. Shiloh heard it, anyway. "He is alive," she said fiercely. "I know it. He wouldn't talk to me before when I called, but he'll have to now. He can tell me to go to hell, get out of his dark, secret little life, and I'll go and leave him to his damned shadows if that's what he wants, but not until he tells me himself."

  Linc stared at her, this little sister of his who had suddenly grown claws to match her emerald-green eyes. And who had never shown such emotion as she did now. "I'm pretty proud of you, too," he said quietly, and saw a little of the fierceness fade from the green depths.

  When, after a long silence, he spoke again, it was to ask a question she hadn't expected. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Tell you?"

  She knew perfectly well what he meant, and he knew that she knew it. "Shy," he said, with all the big-brother sternness he could manage.

  She sighed. "Because you're the only person in the whole damned world other than Sam that he considers a friend, and I wasn't going to have him lose that because my brother happens to act like a gorilla if he thinks someone's hurt me."

  It came out in a breathless rush, and Linc pulled back in his seat a little at the intensity of it. Then he reached out and took one slender hand in both of his broad, strong ones. "You never did do things halfway, did you? He's my friend, but he's a fool if he lets this kind of love slip away."

  "I … don't think he knows what to do with love."

  Linc nodded slowly. "Then it's time he learned."

  He lifted the armrest between them and pulled her into a close embrace. She nestled against his broad chest and heard the rumble of his voice.

  "Really, Shy. A gorilla?"

  "Gorilla," she confirmed, and hugged him fiercely.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^

  Shiloh knew she would never forget her first sight of Con in that antiseptic little room. The bits and pieces she could remember of the doctor's words were whirling in her mind: beaten, dumped for the desert to finish… That he'd been found at all, by a state patrolman who happened to be unusually curious, was a pure fluke.

  "—no reason for him to still be unconscious," the man had said. "That's our main concern."

  "Coma?" Linc had asked tensely.

  "Not indicated by the EEG." The white-coated man had shrugged. "He's tough and fit, although he seems pretty run-down right now, like he hasn't been eating for a while, or sleeping. He's concussed, but there's no reason for this." The shrug again. "Maybe he just doesn't want to come back."

  Those were the words spinning in her brain as she stood beside the narrow bed, trying not to see the mass of tubes and machines that surrounded the still figure.

  Her first thought was that he looked so tired, with the ugly, dark b
ruises that marked his face and the fiberglass splint that encased his left arm. And thin. And the shadows that circled his eyes had nothing to do with bruises; she knew that look too well. She supposed she should feel gratified that these last months had been just as hard on him, but she couldn't; all she could feel was pain for him.

  Tentatively she reached out, putting her hand down over his, trying not to see the needles that pierced his unbroken arm, trying not to notice how cold he seemed, he who had always seared her with his heat. And she began her vigil.

  She was vaguely aware of the comings and goings around her, even drank some of the coffee Linc brought and took a bite or two of the tasteless sandwich he handed her. But mostly she just sat, holding desperately to that slack hand, tightening her fingers around his, stroking his palm gently.

  And she talked. Ignoring those who said he wouldn't hear her and believing the nurse who said, "You never know," she talked. She began with soothing words, telling him he would be fine, but as the hours passed she worked up to a half-real anger, as if she could badger him back to life.

  "If you want me out of your life, McQuade, then you'd damn well better wake up and tell me so, because I'm not leaving until you do. You're going to have to sit up and tell me to get the hell out of here, damn you, or I'm staying. You think I was stubborn before, well, you haven't seen anything yet."

  And then, in the hour just before midnight, when she somehow sensed him slipping farther away from her, she had broken at last. "I know you don't, maybe can't, love me back," she choked out between sobs. "I'm not asking for that— Just don't die. I can live without you, as long as I know there is a you…"

  At last she wiped her eyes and was shifting stiffly in the hard, straight chair when the door opened. She turned, her eyes seeking the tall, lean shape of her brother. They found a complete stranger.