His Last Defense

by Karen Rock

  He’d once promised himself he’d never see her again.

  She nodded, hefted the other sixty-pound pump, and turned, as economical and tough as ever. Captain of her own ship, apparently, and how impressive was that? But then, he remembered well what it was like to crew with her on a fishing vessel. She never expected anyone to cut her any slack, an attitude that had always won over the crustiest of seadogs.

  And it was no different on the Pacific Sun, he could tell, as she led him past a line of life-jacketed men passing buckets from the keel. She’d had the foresight to ensure they’d all geared up in preparation for the deadly waters. She’d protected them, but hadn’t let them quit, either.

  He and Nolee handed the carbon-monoxide-emitting pumps over to crew members to secure topside where they wouldn’t endanger lives, and descended down into the engine room, unreeling the hoses to vacuum up the flooding. The whoosh of incoming water filled his ears.

  Shit.

  This looked worse than reported.

  Water sprayed from a pipe that a man, standing in thigh-deep water, was attempting to wrap with rubber. Another fisherman secured what appeared to be a replacement pump, their movements clumsy in the arctic flood, their efforts futile given the size and pressure of the leak. The Pacific Sun was past the point of no return.

  “We’ve got to abandon ship,” Dylan shouted to Nolee.

  She shoved back her hood and squinted up at him. Her dark eyes flashed, ink. “No!”

  Damn that stubborn, reckless streak. Age hadn’t tempered it. She was every bit the spitfire who’d rocked his world as his first love, the only woman to whom he’d ever given his heart. And he’d gotten it back in pieces.

  “We’ve only got enough fuel for fifteen minutes on scene. I need to get you off this vessel.”

  Her mouth worked for a moment, and she peered at her laboring crew members. She nodded slowly, her expression inward, then shoved back her shoulders. “Get everyone to safety, but leave me be.” She turned to the guys working on the pipe and pump. “Everett. Pete. Tell the crew they’re abandoning ship.”

  “The hell we are,” one of the guys swore.

  “That’s an order.”

  The man shook his head and dropped the wire into his pocket. “Roger.” He and the other crewman climbed up and out.

  Nolee squinted back at Dylan for a moment then held out a hand for the hoses. He cursed under his breath. He’d left her before, once, when she’d given him no choice, but history would not repeat itself today.

  Not under these conditions.

  Not a chance.

  Still. She was a civilian and captain of the vessel; he couldn’t compel her to follow his orders, much as he wished otherwise. After he got the crew off, he’d return for her and make her see reason.

  “I’ll be back,” he vowed. He handed over the nozzle, snapped down his visor and headed topside. It took every ounce of will and training to leave her in the belly of the doomed ship. He’d learned to live his life without her, but that didn’t stop his instinct to protect her at all costs from surging back to life.

  On deck, the fishermen continued bailing as the guy Nolee had called Everett lugged the dewatering pumps’ outtake lines to the rail and dropped them over the side of the unstable boat.

  “6039 this is Holt,” Dylan spoke into his headset. When a wave swelled off the port side, he grabbed an oblivious guy, a young kid barely out of high school by the looks of it, and scrambled for cover by the winch. Water buffeted them for several seconds as they huddled and then he tried again. “6039 do you copy?”

  “6039 copy,” his Jayhawk pilot and mission commander, LCDR Chris Abrams, said in the flat monotone they adopted in even the worst situations. “What’s your onboard assessment? Over.”

  The wide-eyed teenager stared at him, his skin pale. When one of the men hollered, “Tyler!” he jumped to his feet then trudged back to the line.

  Dylan stayed behind, listening hard. “They’ve got three feet of water in the hull and rising fast. Vessel is listing heavily. Structural integrity severely compromised with inadequate time to attempt repairs. We’re abandoning ship. Basket requested. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Chris said, his voice crisp. “Basket is being deployed.”

  Another oceanic blast tipped the vessel so that the rail drove to the surface before righting itself. He pictured Nolee below. He needed to get moving to return to her.

  Inside his neoprene suit, his slick skin flushed hot, his blood humming with adrenaline. He emerged from cover and joined the crew who now held on to lines as the boat rose and dipped violently.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “We’re abandoning ship. Who’s coming first?”

  The fishermen eyed him, then one nudged an older crewmember forward. The man, with white hair and a craggy face, glared at him with red-rimmed eyes, uneven teeth bared between cracked, flaky lips. “I ain’t going first.” He pointed at the young guy in the blue slicker. “Take the kid.”

  “Right.” Dylan nodded, understanding that it’d be a waste of time arguing with a sailor who’d rather risk losing his life than his pride. “Let’s go.”

  For the next several minutes, Dylan toiled as the storm refused to lessen its grip, placing survivor after survivor into the basket until only he and Nolee remained on board.

  “We have one minute,” he heard his commander say through his helmet’s speakers. “Is your captain ready? Over?”

  “She will be,” Dylan answered, his back teeth pressing together hard. He slung an arm over a rope line and held fast when another swell lifted him off his feet, dragging. The ship groaned as sheets of metal strained against each other like fault lines before an earthquake. The lashings clanked. “Send down the strop. Over.”

  Given the helo’s low fuel state, he had barely enough time for the dangerous hypothermic double lift.

  “You have fifty seconds and then I want you on deck, Holt,” barked his commander. “Over.”

  The sea receded and Dylan shoved his way along the slick deck, propelling himself forward across its steep slant. “Roger that.”

  He would get Nolee out. End of story.

  Descending as fast as he dared, he fought the wind and dropped down into the hull again. Icy water made his breath catch even with the benefit of the dry suit. Nolee should have been out of here long before now.

  “I’ve almost got it.” Her strained voice emerged from blue lips. Her movements were jerky as she twisted wire around the still gushing pipe.

  His eardrums banged with his heartbeat.

  She was losing motor function. Hypothermia was already setting in. With only thirty seconds left, he made an executive decision.

  “It’s over, Nolee. Come with me now.”

  He would haul her out by force if necessary. Braced himself for just that.

  Yet when she opened her mouth, her head lolled. Her eyelids dropped. Reacting on instinct, he grabbed her limp form before she crumpled into the freezing water.

  His throat closed, and he had to make himself breathe. He hauled her up and out of the hull and across the deck where a rescue strop dangled. Damn, damn, damn. His hands weren’t cooperating, his own motor function feeling the effects of this cursed sea. Once he’d tethered them together, he gave his watching flight mechanic a thumbs-up for the hoist. The boat flung them sideways, careening over the rail.

  Swinging, their feet skimmed the deadly swells. The line jerked them from harm and sped them up through the stinging air. He tightened his arms around her. Imagined them made of steel. With only a tether connecting her to him, he couldn’t lose his grip. It was the difference between saving her life and causing her to fall to her death.

  As they rose, he forced himself not to look at her. He’d dreamed about that face too many times, even after he left K
odiak to forget her.

  But he wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t hold her close. And heaven help him—no matter how much she’d gutted him nine years ago—he couldn’t deny she felt damned good in his arms.

  2

  NOLEE WAS LYING on warm, gritty sand, water circling around her toes, breathing in the Alaskan summer fragrance of salt water and dense cedars. There was a delicious, decadent taste in her mouth—berries and chocolate, and possibly wine. She lifted her head and the afternoon sun glinted off the blue ocean so brightly, she had to squint through sparkles of light to see her feet in front of her.

  Her toenails were painted a deep rose. Girly and sweet. Not her style at all. And the nail polish had even been applied well. No smudged cuticles or bumpy surfaces. Someone was lying next to her, propped up on his side. Someone she cared about, who made her laugh, with big feet, nails unvarnished and clipped.

  Dylan.

  He stroked her bare stomach with a firm hand, the circular touch languid, deliberate, filling her with teasing heat, a pleasant ache beginning between her thighs.

  Somewhere in the distance, gulls cried and the cool ocean thundered as it crashed ashore, swirling up and over her calves, then suctioning her skin as it receded. A throaty chuckle sounded beside her. She curved toward it, her body fitting against Dylan’s instinctively, her toes curling in delight when his hand skimmed lower still, sliding along the edge of her bikini bottom.

  “Nolee,” he whispered in her ear and she tipped back her head at the rich sound of his voice.

  “Dylan,” she murmured, but could not be sure whether his name was flooding her thoughts or she had spoken it aloud.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She pressed her lips together. Stopped herself from revealing how she really felt and explaining why she’d been quiet on their summer outing. If Dylan left her, her heart would break, but he couldn’t know that.

  She started to say something flippant, and then he reached around to cup her ass, bringing her hips to his, the heat of him emanating through the thin nylon of his shorts. Her skin burned fiercely against his everywhere they touched, and she was incapable of speech, or of thinking anything at all. Shivering hunger took hold. She craved more.

  Skimming her hands up the curves of his strong arm, she absorbed the tension of the muscles beneath his hot skin. She glanced at his handsome warrior face. Reached to trace the straight bridge of his nose, to touch the scar just above his arched right eyebrow and the tiny dimple in his square chin. She met his scorching green gaze. He had that way of looking at her. Intently. Passionately. With heated promise, as if he knew all of her erotic fantasies and intended to make each one come true.

  It undid her.

  He lowered his face. “You’re driving me crazy,” he whispered directly into her ear, his warm lips grazing the sensitive lobe.

  “Me, too,” she gasped as he continued stroking her, slowly, tantalizingly, eliciting a lush heady response to his touch so that her heart clattered.

  “Tell me what you want,” he rasped, his voice an edgy growl.

  “You,” she groaned, a dizziness taking hold as her hand smoothed along his ridged abdomen. “I want you, Dylan. Always.”

  She felt him brush the hair back from her temples. His unsteady fingers conveyed the same need that licked through her.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice insistent. Husky. Then he slid across her, inch by inch, like a tide, and she lay back so that she was flat on the sand, sinking into it.

  In the sizzling afternoon, she could smell the sea on him, feel the faint grittiness of the salt on his skin as his muscular body shifted over hers, firm and solid. And then, she could feel his breath, the shocking, numbing firmness of his mouth a moment later as Dylan’s lips melted into hers.

  He kissed her, slowly and tenderly, his weight easing onto her so that she was overwhelmed with lust, the hardness of his body against her. His lips lingered and sampled. Tasted and nibbled. When his tongue glided over hers, the sensual contact triggered waves of pleasure that rippled to her toes. Her fingertips.

  She nipped at his lightly bristled jaw, his ears, her fingers brushing over his dark, close-cropped curls. He cradled her head as his mouth whispered along the sensitive length of her neck. The delicious caress stopped at the birthmark at the base of her throat. Lingered. Nerve endings short-circuited, flash-bang, beneath her skin.

  She couldn’t possibly get enough of the feel of him.

  “Dylan,” she moaned, her voice loud in her ears.

  * * *

  “NOLEE,” SHE HEARD him answer, his voice rising as if it were a question. Her lashes fluttered. Lifted. Dylan’s face swam into focus. He peered down at her, his pupils dilated, the black blotting out most of the green. His face pale.

  She reached for him, needing him to anchor her when she suddenly felt so loopy. The effect of their incredible sexual chemistry, she supposed. She drew his face close and pressed her lips to his again, inhaling his sweet breath, feeling the heat of his skin as he responded to her, kissing her deeply. Ardently.

  Adrift on this blissful current, her lashes fell to her cheeks. She felt Dylan tunnel his fingers through her damp hair and its weight surprised her. Took her aback.

  They hadn’t gone swimming. Not yet. Or had they? Why couldn’t she remember?

  She caressed his smooth jaw.

  Smooth.

  Her fingers stilled.

  Then she noticed something else that wasn’t right. Something thick and heavy separated them.

  A blanket. No. Blankets.

  And the automated sound of beeping machines filled her ears, not the ocean, the salted air now smelling of antiseptic soap and disinfectant.

  The dream or memory or whatever it was dissolved and vanished, like a reflection on water. Nolee’s thoughts sharpened, and she willed herself to open her heavy eyes.

  She was in a small white box of a room lying on an uncomfortable mattress.

  A hospital.

  Not on the beach.

  Not on her boat, either, because...

  A strangled noise escaped her and she shoved Dylan in the chest, forceful enough to make him stumble back, hard realizations knocking through her.

  ...Because in this reality, Dylan no longer loved her.

  * * *

  “YOU!”

  Dylan shoved his hands into the pockets of his olive-green flight suit and stared wordlessly at a furious Nolee. Sporadic bursts of noise filtered in from the corridor of Dutch Harbor’s medical clinic. A squeaky wheel, and the aroma of roast chicken, heralded the delivery of the evening meal to the small unit’s patients. Stale air hung as still and heavy as a tomb.

  Why the hell had he just kissed her? He shouldn’t have angled in so close when she’d called his name. Tempted himself.

  And had she meant it when she’d said she wanted him? Granted she wasn’t fully conscious...but she’d said always.

  Not that he cared.

  Shit. He cared.

  He wanted her. The driving need to haul her back into his arms, feel the press of her lush curves through her thin hospital gown, thrummed inside. Made his stomach clench.

  He drew in a ragged breath. Raked a hand over his hair. “I’ll get the doctor.”

  “No!”

  He halted at the door. Turned.

  She leveraged herself up on her elbows and then sat up. The pallor of her skin alarmed him, and snapped him back to the bed where he gathered her small, rough hands in his.

  “What are you doing here, kissing me? Why am I here?” In the room’s quiet, her soft voice, always at odds with her tough words, slid around him like a caress.

  Good questions, both. At least he had an answer for the second one. As for why he’d kissed her, frustratingly, he’d be
en as unable to resist her as ever. He should’ve left with his flight crew after dropping her here and enjoyed his upcoming time off after a long shift. But he hadn’t been able to leave until he was assured of her recovery.

  “You don’t remember the boat?”

  Beneath the flicker of humming fluorescent lights, her dark eyes sparked. “I fixed the leak...” Her words trailed off like the last air from a deflating balloon and confusion crossed her face. “Right?”

  He shook his head. “You were too late.”

  She snatched her hands back. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “You fainted. Hypothermia.” He gestured to the thermal heating blankets that concealed her gorgeous shape, the feel of her body imprinted on his muscle memory as clearly as the last time they’d made love on Summer Bay beach, nine years ago.

  Her teeth appeared on her bottom lip. Worried it. Black brows slanted toward the small proud nose he’d always found sexy. “So the boat...” She swallowed the last of her words. Hard.

  “Gone.”

  She dropped her head in her hands. Moaned. It took everything in him not to gather her close and hold her as he had moments ago. Suddenly her lashes, thick and black, rose. She peered up at him. “My crew. Are they...?”

  “Safe. Still pains in the ass, though. They’re in the waiting room and refuse to leave until they hear you’re okay.” He bit back a rueful smile as he recalled the ongoing battle between the boisterous fishermen and the nurses threatening to toss them out. If not for his military credentials, and his persistence, he might not have been allowed back here, either.

  “They’re assholes. But they’re my assholes,” she said affectionately. She rolled her eyes at him, and in an instant their old connection slammed into him. He pictured the gritty young woman he’d worked alongside on his Uncle Bill’s crab-fishing boat. They’d gone from friendly rivals to friends, and then much more.

  What were they now?

  He wouldn’t stick around long enough to find out.

  Her amused expression faded slightly, and she seemed to give herself a small shake. “Thank you for saving them.”