by Zoe Dawson
Renata bent down and retrieved the helmet. “Here it is,” Renata said, setting it into Carolina’s waiting hands.
“This is beautiful. So well preserved,” Carolina said. Renata took back the helmet and Carolina took the toy from Jugs and threw it for him. “He is a rascal. Isn’t he?”
Renata laughed. “He is that for sure.” The same goes for his handler.
After playing with him for several minutes, they went back inside. Jugs disappeared into Max’s room and Renata helped Carolina pick up the plates and glasses. Before she went back to the room, she moved the clothes from the washing machine to the dryer.
“Good night, Renata. Don’t hesitate to wake me if you need help with Max.”
When Renata entered the bedroom, Max was still asleep. She climbed onto the bed and lay down next to him.
She felt his forehead and was still worried about how hot he was, his skin scorching and dry.
In his restlessness, he’d pushed down the sheet, and Renata couldn’t take her eyes off his chest. It was broad, his flat nipples dark against his tan skin. His throat was powerful. A vein pulsed at his neck, and she wanted to put her mouth there, the hollow of his throat awash in shadow. He was easily the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
She moved closer, drawn almost against her will. Power seemed to pulse beneath his skin. She wanted to feel it as if it could be transferred by touch. One arm was thrown over his head, the biceps rounded even in sleep. And before she realized what she was doing, she was tracing that heavy muscle with her fingers, soft skin over steel. She swallowed, her body reacting to him, well aware that he was naked in the dark shadowed bed.
She traced his skin to his shoulder, broad, also heavy with muscle. His collarbone tantalized her. She followed it until she reached the half-moon indentation, then she traced the line of his chest down to his abdomen.
The moon slipped from behind a cloud and cast his gorgeous body in delineated silver-lined silhouette. Her breathing stopped when she saw him fully erect, the length of him jutting up toward his belly.
He stirred, and she leaned back, sucking in air, her face flaming.
“What time is it?”
Her pulse skipped at his soft, husky voice. She took in a deep breath, forcing herself to hold his gaze steadily, despite what it did to the butterflies in her stomach. And the painfully tight points of her nipples. “Midnight.”
“I thought I felt…” He looked at her sleepy-eyed and sexy.
“What?”
“Your touch. Was I dreaming?”
“No. I was checking you for fever.”
He seemed to ponder that, his eyes glassy, and she braced herself for his response, already mentally kicking herself for losing her mind and invading his personal space.
“You were?” He watched her face with a scrutiny that was unnerving.
“Sure, I was,” she said firmly, brazening it out.
The twitch of his lips was more of a real smile now, one that made it all the way to his arresting eyes. And wasn’t that just lethal? She swore it made her knees go wobbly.
Before she could recover and respond, his eyes drifted closed. Her body was on fire, her senses reeling, leaving her aching and so turned on.
5
“Anna! The Team! They’re inside,” Dodger shouted and was up and racing for the building. The roof and upper floor had slid off like stacks of magazines and crushed the lower level entrance. This was an older part of the city with fewer earthquake coded buildings, and Hotel Rosa was one of those older buildings. His heart was in his throat as they worked, Professor beside him. Suddenly from the upper floors, 2-Stroke, Dragon, and Saint rappelled with the practiced ease of commandos down the ruined side of the structure, loaded with packs.
“What’s the status?” Saint asked, already assessing and treating several people with minor injuries in the street.
Dodger, Professor, and Pablo kept working with Dragon and 2-Stroke joining in. “Fast Lane, Anna, and Pitbull were in the lobby when the quake hit,” Dragon said.
“Hemingway and Shea were going down to the lobby. They may have been caught in the elevator,” 2-Stroke added.
“We dig out the front and get inside, and then cross bridges when we get to them,” Saint said, taking charge. “Just keep digging. We don’t have the luxury of scrapping this mission. There can be no failure in nabbing our target.”
“We all know this is going to put us behind schedule,” 2-Stroke said.
“Yes, but look around. We’re not the only ones who are going to be delayed. If there’s damage here, there’s damage at the airports across the region. No one’s going anywhere by air or land for a while. Gives us time to regroup.”
Dodger listened to the exchange. One part of his SEAL mind was on the mission, but the other part was too busy moving as much cinder block, brick, and debris as he could to make a hole big enough to enter the building and rescue the people inside—Anna, Pitbull, Hemingway, Shea, and Fast Lane his top priorities.
Professor set his hand against Dodger’s shoulder, pointing up. “Be careful. This stuff below is supporting the stuff above. Dodger nodded and looked around. He found some broken pieces of wood and used them to brace the debris as he kept digging.
He grabbed a cinder block and tossed it. His teammates were moving mountains of wood, furniture, and concrete like a well-oiled machine, yet it was a slow process. Saint joined in after he’d treated all the locals in the area. Dodger welcomed the extra hands as some of them helped to remove the debris.
They cleared without talking, sweating in the heat to clear a path, forming a fireman’s line to remove the rubble. Dodger and Professor were in the front, working stone by stone. Every so often, they were forced to stop to check the stability of the structure and brace it before continuing. Dodger worked to keep his concern at bay.
Finally, they worked a narrow opening into the mess of wreckage. Dodger slipped inside. The room was foggy with grimy particles and dirt raining down, and Dodger coughed in the dusty air. The lobby was partially destroyed. The light fixture was now in the middle of the sagging room, furniture overturned and crushed, luggage strewn across the polished floor.
“Anna! Fast Lane! Pit?”
“Here,” a weak voice responded.
“Pit!” Dodger jumped forward to where Pitbull’s voice had come from behind the desk. As he rounded it, he saw Fast Lane, Pitbull, and Anna. She was between them, shielded by his teammates.
“Come on,” he said, his voice cracking when he saw she wasn’t moving. “We’ve made a hole.” The two men rose, giving him enough space to kneel beside Anna. Please no, he thought, noticing the blood staining her face and shirt.
He slipped his arms under her, gently easing her into his embrace. Her head lolled listlessly back over his arm and his heart fractured. He touched her throat for a pulse and sighed, relieved at the strong beat. He clutched her, then stood and carried her from the ruins.
Her satphone rang as he got clear of the building. Crouching in the street, Fast Lane took the phone and started to talk. Inside, his teammates were rescuing whoever was alive in the rubble and getting Shea and Hemingway out of the elevator.
Crouching down, Fast Lane said, “They have a safe house for us to regroup. A doctor will meet us there. It’s not far from here.” He rattled off an address. “You get there, and we’ll follow once we get Hemingway and Shea free.”
“I can take you,” Pablo murmured, and they loaded up into his jeep, Dodger cradling Anna’s body.
She had a strong pulse, and she would be fine, he assured himself. Then there was Max. He was out there alone, his status and whereabouts unknown. The urgency he’d felt in getting to Anna and his teammates was double-fold for Max. He was alone and that wasn’t the way the brotherhood worked.
Hang on, buddy. We’re coming.
Max stirred, feeling as if he were climbing out of a red-hot pit of lava. His skin was on fire and he stopped moving, his breathing too fast. The last th
ing he remembered was that feather-light touch. Everything else was a suffocating blanket of heat.
He had no idea how much time had passed, but he was in a bed, the mattress soft beneath his back. He smelled the aroma of food and chlorine. His stomach recoiled and cramped. He kept his eyes closed, his head swimming. His lips were dry, his tongue swollen and fuzzy. He felt a presence lingering near, but his lids were heavy, and he wasn’t sure he could talk. He wanted to stay right where he was until he could get his bearings.
Then the memory broke through like a sock to his jaw. Juggernaut. “Jugs,” he whispered hoarsely.
A wet nose nuzzled his chin, the snuffling of a canine loud near his ear, and he smiled, his relief huge. He tried to move his arm, but it was slow and awkward through the lava. Jugs whined, and he felt the Malinois settle against his side, the warmth of his fur mingling with the heat from the steaming pool. He thought fleetingly that Jugs shouldn’t be lying in lava.
He drifted in and out, one moment in lava, the next in the arctic, shivering but hot…so hot, his mind still foggy. He managed to inspect his wounds by sense and by touch, surprised to find them covered in fresh bandages and a soft stretchy covering. He could feel the tug of stitches just above the gunshot wound, his ankle was swollen and thick, but had stopped throbbing.
He was so parched from swimming in lava. He needed water. Someone bent over him in the dark. “Max?” she asked, but he couldn’t focus on her or her voice. The lava pulled him under, and he was on fire again.
“Oh, God.” The words were soft and urgent. Then he was dropped into darkness so deep, he couldn’t fight against it.
Moments or a lifetime later, someone shook him, urgently calling his name. A light appeared behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes, caught in the lava, unable to focus, the light blinding him. He slammed his eyes shut. Was that another female’s face or was he hallucinating?
“Can you open your eyes?” the doc asked. He suddenly recognized her as the woman who had come to his rescue. She’d saved him from dying in the jungle after the fall.
She tugged at him, and he groaned softly at the pain in his side.
“He’ll need a waterproof bandage,” the unknown woman said.
He felt metal against his side as the soft covering was cut, then she removed the dressing over his gunshot wound. It felt hot and swollen and hurt like hell. He must have an infection…fever.
Then she pressed something over his wound and stitches, and he lost his connection to reality as pain crashed through him in waves of agony.
“Max? Can you sit up?” she asked, her voice louder, more urgent.
He ignored the pain and pushed up from the mattress. The doc supported him as he sat there getting his bearings in a room that spun. His brain felt like it was sloshing around in his skull. Someone gently took his ankles and swung his body so his feet were now on the floor. Then the two women were lifting, one under each arm. Putting pressure on his sprain caused the injury to throb again, but they were forcing him up onto his feet. It had to be important or they would have just let him sleep. He was so tired.
His knees buckled, but the women supported him until he got his legs to work. They propelled him forward, and he limped, his bare feet feeling good on the cool tiles. Jugs barked as suddenly, the floor tilted, and they all staggered to the right then left.
“Aftershock,” the unknown woman said.
His mind twisted. Aftershock? Had he slept through an earthquake? After a few more steps, they lowered him onto a chair. He turned his head to see Jugs watching every move they made.
“It’s all right, boy,” he said, his voice rough, but Jugs paced, his claws clicking against the tile.
“I’ve got him,” the doc said, her hands on his shoulders. “Get the shower going.”
He barely had a moment to process the words before a cascade of cool water hit his skin, making him start in confusion, but the doc was there, holding onto him so that he wouldn’t fall.
“It’s all right, Max. The water is to cool you just a bit. Your fever is spiking.”
He looked up and found the water soaking into her white tank top, molding to her bare firm breasts beneath the fabric. The clear outline of her pretty pink nipples, hard points poking against the cotton, jolted through him and generated more heat that had nothing to do with his infection. Damn, talk about a fever dream.
He let her hold him, giving over something he never let go of—control. He was the one in need, the one to be rescued, and it was as discombobulating as the fever. Curls of anger coiled in his gut.
This woman had risked her life, went to physical lengths that would have dropped even a SEAL to get him here…wherever that was. She was right now trying to lower his fever, keep seizures at bay. She’d braved a dangerous and well-trained military dog, caught him, and carefully tended to him. She was a hero, a rock star, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Maybe it was the fever or the light behind her, but she glowed as if her healing and caring created a nimbus around her in golden light. Her hair was a gorgeous lion’s mane of damp curls around her beautiful face. Her eyes were sharply defined by thick, fringed lashes, droplets caught in them. She was focusing all her attention to his well-being.
Those stunning espresso dark eyes weren’t focusing on him. She was too busy keeping him upright and monitoring him.
He was in such a haze. Her body moved next to him, and she cradled his head against those beautiful loose breasts, his chin dropped in the hollow between her chest and ribs. He reached up and clasped her waist, twining his fingers through the sheer white top, hating the weakness he couldn’t control, generating more irrational anger. The heat scorched through him, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think. Reason got lost in the swirls of the emotion.
Something touched his mouth. It was plastic, a rim. As the doc tipped the contents, cool, sweet liquid cascaded into his mouth. He swallowed and kept swallowing until it was empty, revitalizing him, clearing his head a bit. She slipped in a thermometer, and he dutifully held it under his tongue like a freaking four-year-old until it beeped.
The doc removed it, and he felt her sigh through her whole body, her breasts rising and falling with the intake and exhale of air as he pressed his forehead to her torso, breathing in the steamy scents of detergent, soap, and hibiscus.
“How are we doing?” the other woman asked.
“Down a degree, Carolina. That’s good,” Renata said, her husky voice satisfied.
Carolina was the woman’s name. It was as pretty as she was.
“You might as well wash his hair and body while he’s in here. I can change the bed and get fresh bandages ready if you’ve got him? I also made some broth we can try to get into him before we medicate him, and he gets some more sleep.”
“I can handle him. He’s a bit more stable.” She crouched down to look in his eyes, and he got a little lost. “Max? Can you hold onto the edges of the chair for a quick wash?”
He nodded, gritting his teeth. He’d never been in this position before. He was the one to take charge, man the guns, push forward, do the impossible, not have to hold onto a chair because he was too weak to wash his own damn hair and body.
“Go, Carolina, and take Jugs with you before he goes crazy. He needs a distraction.”
The woman let go of his shoulders. He sagged a bit before he grabbed the chair and held himself upright.
The water turned warmer, a gentle fall over his slick body, and he sighed, keeping his clasp tight. He closed his eyes as she tipped his head back, her palm cradling his skull. With gentle motions, she pulled out the band holding his hair and ran her fingers through it, brushing against his nape. His fists tightened as his body leapt to life, and he knew he should probably fight the urge. Injured in the field when he was being hunted wasn’t the time for freaking romance—or anything else that included getting this woman naked and under him, for that matter.
She turned off the water, and he shivered. It was as if the
fever had sensitized him. The lights seemed brighter, his skin more sensitive, sounds louder.
Sex had a way of blurring the focus, and danger hyped the body with adrenaline and testosterone.
It was a good way to get killed.
She was killing him now as she massaged in the shampoo, lathered his hair, and he relaxed his back against the chair, getting lost in the feel of her hands on him. Then the water was back on again, more controlled with a handheld shower unit as she rinsed the suds. Then her strong hands were back, but this time on his skin as she soaped him up with her palms, caressing and rubbing his shoulders, his neck, and moved around him to his chest. He frowned at the rough feel of her skin. He opened his eyes. Once again she was focused on his body, but there was a slight rosy hue to her skin as if all the blood had come to the surface. He was aware of the blood swirling in his veins, moving and swelling to her touch. Her hands moved slowly over his arms, and the memory of her fingertips against his biceps returned. She never hesitated as she stroked over his abdomen, skirting his wound on the left side of his body, skipping down to his hip, gentling her touch against the bruise there.
She cupped his semi-hard dick, her hands anything but clinical, washing beneath the shaft and curving into either side of his hips and inner thighs. Her heady, feminine scent seemed to be everywhere and infused every breath he managed to inhale. He was in no shape to feel this way, but he couldn’t seem to stop his body’s response, still in the throes of his fever. She moved to his legs, her head bent as she unwrapped the wet elastic bandage from his left ankle.
She examined it for a moment, still in charge, still the doctor while he was drowning again in heat. Then he felt the shaking in her hands. Okay, she was reacting to him. It made him feel both vulnerable and turned on.
“Can you stand?” she whispered, and he pushed off the chair, his naked body against hers. He set his hands against the tiled wall for support, keeping his weight off his sprained ankle. Those tantalizing, beautiful, arousing hands moved down his back to his buttocks, molding over the heavy muscles and getting all of him thoroughly clean.
