He should be used to it by now.
And it was a smart question, he conceded after a few breaths. Why the hell should she be stupid enough to trust him?
You always need to be the hero, Maggie’s voice sang in his head. Well, he sure as hell wasn’t a hero anymore. He wasn’t anything except a helicopter pilot trying to do his job.
He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. “I could have snuck around the back of the bar, slit Sylvie’s throat and left via the back door before coming in the front to pick up you and Vikki.” He kept his tone moderate. “But one, I’m not covered in blood and that was not a clean or easy kill, and two, I’ve been flying nonstop since dawn, slinging equipment to a new drill site. I didn’t have time to murder anyone today.” His fingers tightened on the cyclic. “Check the logs if you need to verify that.”
He could have easily accused her of malleting Sylvie, but that was rubbish because she wasn’t covered in blood, and he doubted she’d ever killed anything outside a laboratory.
Lucky bloody her.
Doc Young looked like a poster girl for VSO, the antithesis of warfare, the converse of evil. That sort of bone-deep innocence was rare and underrated. A lone caribou crossed barren tundra below but the Doc didn’t even see it. She just watched him with eyes the color of sage.
A muscle ticked in his jaw and he concentrated on the scenery. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
She looked away. He focused on flying, trying to get back the buzz of racing high above the world. Over brooks that snaked across the valley floors, over the three-billion-year-old Laurentian Shield, the oldest rock in the world. Over ponds as deep and blue as the ocean. But excitement eluded him. Right now he was remembering how it felt to have everything ripped away—his career, his life, his honor. How suspicion tainted the air until you choked on every breath. Desperate to forget, he increased speed until they were rushing over the barren country, the boom of the rotors punching the atmosphere. But you couldn’t outrun memories and no one knew that better than him.
It took another ten minutes to navigate the puzzle of islands, inlets and fjords, to the sheltered bay where the Imaviaq was anchored. They arrived just as the sun dipped below the horizon.
“There she is.” Daniel couldn’t wait to ditch his passengers. He radioed ahead for permission to land. The first mate waved them in as a crew member, decked out in yellow protective gear, manned the emergency fire-hoses. They got final clearance and Daniel lowered the aircraft gently into the wind, onto the painted yellow circle on the deck. He started the shutdown process, keyed in the speakers so both women could hear him.
“You can get out now. The first mate over there will show you where you’re quartered and fetch your gear down later.” He heard metallic clinks as both women unbuckled their seatbelts. “Keep your heads down and don’t go around the back of the aircraft. The tail rotor will take your head off.”
The Doc started to get out, but her headphones were still attached to her head. He caught them as she slipped out of her seat. Her hands went up as her ball cap flew off and whipped out to sea. A mass of shoulder-length curly brown hair exploded around her face, and Daniel got slammed in the gut by something other than flying.
She swore. He read the unexpected word on her lips as he leaned over and grabbed her wrist. Her bones felt delicate within his grasp.
“The rotors,” he repeated and jerked his head to the rear of the bird. “Be careful of the rotors.” He maintained eye contact until he was sure she fully understood the danger. She was still spaced from finding Sylvie’s body, and the death toll was high enough for one day. He didn’t want anyone sliced and diced on his watch.
“Right. Got it. Thanks,” she shouted.
He let her go.
She rubbed her wrist as she headed around the nose of the aircraft, and he purposely turned to watch Vikki Salinger sashay her ass across the deck. And though he stared at the motion, enjoyed the synchronicity of perfect female body parts bouncing with each step, he found himself watching Cameran Young out of the corner of his eye. Just as carefully. Just as avidly.
***
Who the hell did she think she was?
His back ached from carrying her scrawny frame, and his feet ached from the long walk.
Little bitch. Blaming him for her shitty life. Blaming him for her weaknesses and addictions as if she hadn’t happily jumped on his cock and rode him a thousand times. He plunged the cloth into the freezing lake and scrubbed with vigor.
He shook his head. Yes, she’d been young, but she’d known what she was doing. He spat his disgust onto the surface of the clear lake and was surprised by the reflection of the old man who stared back. A stickleback darted near his toes and brought him out of his reverie. He slapped his reflection.
The water was so cold his penis retracted like a turtle in its shell, the temperature snapping at his foreskin. His fingers grew raw in patches as he scrubbed, but the blood would not wash out. He raised his face to the sky and inhaled deeply. He waded back to the shore, goose bumps rising on his flesh where the wind licked his wet skin.
A caribou dipped its heavy rack toward the water, satisfying its thirst before ambling toward the great herd. Summers here burst with life in a brief flash of startling energy. It was the long winters that crushed the soul—the frigid temperatures, the relentless isolation.
He gathered kindling and started a fire. He’d burn them, even though they were good clothes—just because she was a greedy, lying little whore. He hesitated and the tiny flicker of flame died on the breeze.
What if she hadn’t been lying?
His heart stuttered.
He frowned and struck another spark, fed this flame with dried leaves and dead grass. She’d only ever been good for whoring, but what if, this time, she’d been telling the truth?
He sighed. He needed to check it out.
He positioned small branches on the fire, building the blaze until it spat hot sparks and gave out a fierce roar.
Long ago he’d loved a woman but she’d moved south. He squeezed his eyes shut on a lifetime of longing. He picked up his damp clothes and started feeding them to the hungry flames. A wolf howled far in the distance, taunting him with melancholy. Soon he’d be rich and he’d buy himself all the company a man could want. He squeezed his fists into gnarly knots as the orange flames ate the bloodstains. No stupid drunken hooker was going to take that away from him.
***
It was after 11 p.m. and Cam couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw that woman’s vampire-white face contrasting vividly with the crimson splatter of blood down her front. Getting out of bed, she pulled on workout gear and grabbed a bottle of water.
The top bunk was empty. Vikki had gone off with the first mate for a tour of the bridge, charming everyone who possessed dangling genitalia with her Colgate smile and Clairol streaks. Usually it made Cam smile. Whatever else she thought of the girl she’d known for over a decade, Vikki had never poached her boyfriends, not even her ex-fiancé Dean. More surprising since it had turned out Dean had a penchant for cheating with cheap blondes.
Fact was, Vikki was probably getting down and dirty with Daniel Fox right now, and that disturbed her in a way she’d never experienced before. Cam tried not to think about it as she headed down two levels into the bowels of the ship and began searching the narrow corridors for the gym. She’d been trying not to think about it the whole time she’d lain awake in her bunk. She wasn’t interested in that guy any more than she was interested in Dwight Wineberg, the mine foreman. Fox was hot, but so was an active volcano, and she was in no rush to get too close to one of those either.
She found the gym, last on the left in the bow of the ship, and slipped her hands over cold metal and turned the handle. The lights were blazing inside, thank God, because she didn’t think she’d enter a dark room again anytime soon. She blinked in surprise because—wouldn’t you know it?—she wasn’t alone, and of all the si
xty-six guys and three women aboard this ship, here was the absolute last one she wanted to see.
At least he was alone.
Daniel wore shorts and a damp T-shirt as he sat doing bicep curls, his body more hard-packed and muscular than she’d appreciated earlier. Sweat made his short hair lie flat against his scalp.
“I didn’t know you’d be here.” Jeez. She hadn’t felt this sort of emotional jumble since her hormone-ridden teenage angst. But she didn’t want him thinking she’d followed him down here like some optimistic groupie. Dean had taught her all about groupies.
“Come in. I don’t bite—usually.” His eyes glittered as he worked the bar.
She didn’t understand him. Although a loner by all accounts, he obviously liked women. In the canteen she’d watched him go from staring at Vikki as if he was already inside her to charming the enormous pants off the two hundred and fifty-pound mentally challenged KP washing dishes in the galley. But he hadn’t looked at Cam, and it bothered her because she’d thought they’d shared some sort of bond earlier. More fool her.
She whipped her towel from around her neck and marched over to the rowing machine. Despite the charm, he made her nervous and she didn’t know why. While she might not win any beauty pageants, she wasn’t ugly either. Her issues went deeper than skin and were not as esoteric as intellect. So why did she care what Daniel Fox thought about her?
All she wanted was to be so exhausted she didn’t see the image of that dead woman when she closed her eyes. She concentrated on settling her breathing, adjusted the rowing machine to fit her shorter frame, and took a swallow from her water bottle. The air was laden with hot male sweat. Her body was rigid with tension. She rolled her shoulders and tried to loosen the muscles in her neck, then started a slow steady pace to warm up.
“You didn’t believe me when I told you I didn’t kill Sylvie.” His voice was light, but she detected a thread of underlying antagonism.
He was mad because she’d checked his alibi? She stopped rowing and turned to look at him. “I was examining my study area—”
“Come on, Doc.” His eyes held scorn. “You can do better than that.”
“So I checked the logbook.” Cam shrugged. She wasn’t frickin’ stupid. “I needed to know you weren’t lying. I need to be able to trust you.”
“So now you trust me?” He smiled and a ripple of warning shot through her body. “Funny, because you look smarter than that.” On the outside he was gorgeous, but his eyes burned with restrained anger. “Well guess what? Your instincts were right. The world is full of cheats and liars. But don’t be fooled by something as mundane as a logbook. Logs are written by men, and men can be bought.”
He stood, uncurling a body that was all muscle and no fat. Cam froze as he came toward her, her legs braced on the machine, arms taut in readiness. Suddenly she was scared and she didn’t like it. Her blood raced through her veins as he squatted so they were nose to nose. She could smell his scent, and she closed her eyes because she didn’t want him seeing her reaction.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Doc.” His voice was soft without inflection. “I’m not on radar. I can land that helicopter on a dime and do whatever the hell I want as long as I get the equipment to the site at the specified time.” He ran a finger along the line of her throat, and her pulse jumped. “Think about it.”
She opened her eyes and glared at him. She wanted to speak, but her mouth was so dry the words stuck to her tongue.
“But I’ll let you in on a little secret. If I were going to kill someone using a knife…” Gently, he touched his knuckle to a sensitive spot on her lower back and she flinched. “I’d stick it in the kidney from behind.” His touch was velvet but drove ice into her spine. “It’s so painful you can’t even scream. Death’s quick so there’s less blood.”
In the nadir of his eyes she glimpsed an intimate knowledge of death. Fear ballooned in her throat and made it impossible to breathe.
His breath brushed her cheek. “It’s a quicker, more silent kill.”
Her heart thundered loudly in her ears. The charming smile was a terrible façade, masking a dangerous individual. He made no move toward her, offered no threat, but she knew he’d planted a knife in someone’s back and held them while they died.
She found her voice. “How could you kill another human being?”
A rush of emotion swept through his eyes. If they were the window to the soul, his was a dark and treacherous place. He stood and stared down at her, his Adam’s apple working in his throat. “Innocents like you—”
“What do you mean innocents like me?”
They locked gazes for a long moment.
Finally he looked away. “This is a dangerous place, Doc. Just don’t take everything at face value.” Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving Cam with the certain knowledge that not only was Daniel Fox a handsome sonofabitch, he was also a cold-blooded killer.
Chapter Three
Ready for Anything
The Parachute Regiment
Thirty-four years old, at the peak of physical fitness, and he was absolutely fucking useless. Except at scaring women. He took another drink of contraband beer. Yep. He was damn good at scaring women.
Christ.
The look on the Doc’s face in the gym made the alcohol turn sour in his belly. She’d looked as though he was about to knife her on the spot. And wasn’t that what he’d wanted? To maintain his distance? To keep her at arm’s length?
She wasn’t his type. He liked women who knew the score, who wanted to play the game. No commitment, no strings, no promises. Women who liked a bit of fun and physical release. Girls like Vikki. And Sylvie…
How could you kill another human being?
Loneliness echoed around the empty room. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned up the music to fill the void. He couldn’t change the past any more than he could tap dance on a landmine without getting blown to shit. He sucked back a can of Moosehead and willed the alcohol to kick in.
Breaking the rules. Again.
Between the ship’s reformed-sinner captain and the overzealous local government, alcohol was considered the epitome of evil aboard this vessel. If they found it in his cabin, it was immediate grounds for dismissal. But a couple of beers wouldn’t do any harm unless he got caught. It helped him relax when he wasn’t flying. And seeing Sylvie’s murdered corpse today had unearthed some memories he’d rather forget.
Some days he felt like a ghost…as if he’d died but no one realized it yet.
He tried not to think about the past, but for the last twenty-three months, one week and five days, not thinking had been a hell of a lot easier with a beer in his hands. Or an aircraft. Or a woman.
Wouldn’t it figure the Doc would turn up in skintight spandex that left nothing to the imagination? If Vikki had been with her they could have sweated out a threesome and rocked his world. But the Doc had turned up alone after questioning the first mate about his movements that day, and then said she needed to trust him?
So, yes, he’d scared her. He wasn’t proud. He just wanted to be left alone.
Christ.
Just touching her the way he had…that stupid innocent caress had supercharged his blood and made him yearn for things he hadn’t thought about in years. And he’d wanted to put his hands in all sorts of places that were strictly forbidden. He screwed up his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He’d never get involved with a woman like her, no matter how great her ass looked in shorts. He pulled the tab on a second beer and thumped his head three times against the wall because he did not need to be thinking about Cameran Young’s ass, or her eyes, or her soft mouth.
There was a knock on the door. He drained the beer then shoved the crushed can inside his boot. He wiped his mouth, turned the music down, went to the door. “Who is it?”
“I’ll give you a clue.” The voice was teasing and seductive. Female. Vikki Salinger. His groin tightened, his body in direct conflict
with his instinct that told him to steer clear of the females on this boat.
He didn’t want to get involved. He especially didn’t want to get involved with Cameran Young, and Vikki Salinger was Cameran’s friend and colleague.
Memories pressed against his skull. Blood. Death. Hatred. His hand tightened over the doorknob. Daniel closed his eyes against circumstances he couldn’t change, took a breath and opened the door.
“Hello, lover.” And there she stood, ranged against the wall, wildness and attitude scrawled indelibly over every inch. Tall, gangly as a fawn, she clutched a half bottle of vodka inside her jacket.
Looking at Vikki was like staring at his own reflection. She was glitter over nothing more substantial than dust. No challenge, no threat, knew exactly what she was getting into. She didn’t want emotional entanglement, she just wanted to bury herself in booze and exorcise the demons that haunted her. Her lips curled upward and she flicked her long hair over one shoulder.
“You gonna invite me in?”
“What if I said no?”
“Then I’d go find a real man.” Her gaze traveled over him and his body responded. Her grin widened and she straightened away from the wall.
She was enough of a distraction to occupy his mind for a few hours. Enough of a distraction to get him through the night until he could fly again. And taking her to bed was a surefire way to keep Cameran Young out of it.
He pulled her inside and locked the door.
***
Staff Sergeant Griff Kershaw of St. John’s Major Crime Unit pulled his overnight bag from under his seat as they taxied along the gravel runway in Nain. His dick was as hard as a Cleopatra’s Needle, thanks to his wife and their sex therapist. Now he could get it up. He just couldn’t get it back down again.
Edge of Survival Page 3
