Code Name: Bundle!

by Christina Skye

  That would be another stupid move, and she wasn’t going to be reckless or stupid ever again. She would follow the wonder dog and the inscrutable warrior and keep her emotions buried where they couldn’t cause any trouble.

  Her hands were clammy as she stepped into the fading sunlight. She felt exposed and painfully vulnerable, tensed for some kind of attack. But there was no sound except the wind brushing her face, cool and clean. Only the sea, washing and retreating in calm majesty.

  Miki closed her eyes, struck with a sudden awareness of being alive, really alive, feeling every heartbeat, hearing the tiniest sound. She looked around, giddy, seeing colors that seemed brighter and outlines that looked impossibly sharp. For a photographer whose life was tied up in images, this kind of sharp clarity was nirvana, and she clutched every detail in her memory.

  Behind her Max shifted impatiently and pointed at the rocks. Miki nodded at him and followed.

  “MIKI—IS THAT YOU?” Dutch was twisting on the cot, trying to sit up. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. Max had brought him from the cave only minutes before, and the trip had left him agitated.

  When Max leaned around her to reach for his medical kit, Dutch stared at him in confusion. “Who are you? Where the hell am I?”

  There was a faint blue tinge to Dutch’s lips that Miki hadn’t noticed before, and the change seemed ominous. As Max focused his light, Miki noticed that the man’s neck veins were distended. He tried again to sit up, but the movement left him wan and gasping for breath.

  Miki took his shoulders and pushed him down gently. “Take it easy, Dutch. Max is a friend. He’s going to help us.”

  “Help us how?” The pilot’s fingers twisted, digging at the blanket Max had thrown over him. He didn’t seemed to notice when Max took his pulse.

  It seemed like an eternity before Max put his equipment back into the medical kit and offered the pilot water through a straw shoved into his canteen. Dutch drank deeply, then broke into harsh coughing that was painful to watch. Miki was certain that he wouldn’t survive without drastic intervention. Even though Max seemed to have decent medical skills, how much could you do with a few basic drugs and a small set of tools? Major surgery was out of the question.

  Miki knelt and took the pilot’s cold hand in hers, talking quietly about the plane, their travels, sports and the weather. Dutch didn’t seem to understand her words, but the sounds made him relax. Finally his eyes closed and he fell asleep again.

  Miki stood up slowly. “He’s worse,” she whispered. “Isn’t there something you can do for him?”

  “Maybe.” He stowed the medical kit and ran a hand through his hair. “It won’t be easy, I warn you. I’d need your help. But let’s give it a few more hours.”

  “He needs to leave now,” Miki hissed. “Get on your radio and call someone.” Her hands shook, opening and closing with anger. “Otherwise, he’s going to die.”

  “He isn’t as bad as he looks.” Max’s voice was tight and cold. The subject was closed.

  He didn’t care, Miki thought. He was going to go right on with whatever had brought him to this island, and nothing was going to make him deviate from that goal.

  “His face is white and his lips are turning blue. Even I can see that he’s not getting enough oxygen. He’s had a heart attack or maybe—”

  “It’s his lung,” Max said quietly. “A pneumothorax, probably from the pressure of impact. The airplane crash separated part of his lung from the surrounding cavity, and now his lung is compressed.”

  “You knew that all along?”

  “I wasn’t sure before. Now I’d say that it’s a high probability.”

  “Then do something. You have to—”

  “I am doing something. I’m watching him carefully. When the time is right, I’ll do what’s best for him.”

  “That’s it? You say something vague like that and expect me to say sure, fine, whatever?”

  “Take it or leave it.” He turned away abruptly and pulled off his vest. Miki realized that his movements were slow and awkward, probably because he was exhausted. But she refused to feel a shred of sympathy for him.

  She watched him open his pack on the floor and remove a small digital camera with lenses different from any she had seen before. High zoom capability, she noted. Good for distance work. He reached into his medical kit and pulled out a thermometer for Dutch. There, lying next to iodine and gauze, nearly within reach of her hand, was a seven-inch surgical scalpel. One jab with that blade in a vulnerable spot and Max would be incapacitated. If she could find his radio, she could call for help

  Impossible. She couldn’t pull it off even if she wanted. With her luck, she’d fumble and end up burying the blade in her own arm.

  So much for trying to escape.

  She gave an irritated sigh. “Aren’t you going to feed Truman? The poor guy must be hungry.” She walked past Max and held out a piece of jerky, one of the last in her stash. “Here, honey. You can have this.”

  “He’s fine. Keep that for yourself or Dutch.” He didn’t move, studying her face. “You don’t add up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Max’s gloved hands circled her shoulders. “The scalpel was there. You could have used it. Why didn’t you?”

  The scalpel.

  Okay, she’d thought about it, and it would have been nice to have something to protect herself from another attacker, but the way things were going, she needed more than a scalpel. Mortar fire and a tank battalion came to mind.

  Frankly, she wouldn’t have known what to do with the thing anyway. Slash his neck? Drive it into his heart?

  She felt nauseated at the thought. Throat slitting just wasn’t in her repertoire. On the other hand, she didn’t want to give him any undue advantage over her. “What scalpel?”

  “The scalpel lying in plain sight on top of my medical kit,” he said quietly. “You looked at it, and you could have reached it, but you didn’t.”

  “Do you have eyes in the back of your head? How do you know what I was looking at?”

  “The camera. I saw your reflection in the steel body.”

  It had been a cool, calculated test—and she hadn’t suspected a thing. “I don’t like being watched. Or manipulated.” Miki crossed her arms. “If you keep pushing me, I may decide to use one of those scalpels next time.” But she didn’t meet his eyes and the words sounded flat. So she wasn’t the toughest fighter in the world. This whole situation was pushing her way out of her comfort zone.

  She watched him toss a roll of gauze between his gloved fingers. “You expected me to attack, didn’t you? You really think I’m some kind of hostile agent?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.” The gauze kept moving, slapping softly against his gloves. There was something hypnotic about the unbroken rhythm. “I haven’t scrapped the idea entirely,” he added grimly.

  “Because of what Truman did?” Miki was trying to approach the situation calmly and logically, but it wasn’t easy.

  “That and other things.”

  “Care to be more specific?”

  He shook his head.

  “If you don’t trust me, why tell me now?”

  “Because things just got a little more complicated.” He stared down at the medical kit. “I’m going to need your help.”

  Miki realized the harsh lines on his face came from exhaustion. So he wasn’t a superman after all.

  He studied her for long moments and then unzipped the front of his wetsuit. As he moved, a muscle clenched at his jaw.

  Something wasn’t right here. “Is there a problem you’re not telling me about? Is it Dutch?”

  “He should pull through. I know what to watch for.”

  “Then what?”

  Max pulled his wet suit down to his waist. His chest was ridged with rows of muscle above sculpted abs. The up-close view made fingers of heat jab at hidden parts of Miki’s body.

  Okay, he was built. No, that wasn’t nearly strong enough. The m
an was major-league hot. With a body like that he could have sold gym equipment on late-night television and made a fortune. There wasn’t a hint of fat on him anywhere. She kept physically active and liked to think she was in decent shape, but this body was completely out of her league.

  Miki took a deep breath. Something happened when a woman looked at a body like that. It made her wonder how those muscles would feel naked under her in bed.

  He turned away and tugged at his wetsuit, his shoulders tightening in a beautiful, sculpted line. Miki felt new heat swirl through her body. What was going on here? He was the enemy, sort of. She didn’t give a damn how gorgeous his body was.

  Yeah, right.

  But when he turned back, Miki’s breath caught in horror. A six-inch gash ran across his back, oozing fresh blood. “That happened when you were fighting?” Her voice was unsteady.

  “Our pal was pretty good with a knife.” Max’s face was unreadable.

  “And you didn’t say anything until now?” Maybe he was Superman after all.

  “I had other things on my mind.” Max tossed her his medical kit.

  She fumbled, but managed to catch it. “I don’t understand.” She wasn’t good with blood. Whether her own or others, the sight of blood always made her feel faint. A therapist had told her it had to do with watching her mother die and all the blood tests that were done during treatment and after treatment, all of which had failed. Miki didn’t know if that was true—he’d hit on her after the first appointment so she’d never gone back.

  Small wonder she didn’t trust people very much.

  “I can’t see behind me, Miki. You’re going to have to clean the wound and then stitch me up. Everything you need is inside that medical kit.” His voice hardened. “If you’re thinking about stabbing me, now’s your chance. There are six different blades in that kit, and I’m going to trust you with all of them. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Perfect abs, Miki thought, feeling a little dizzy. She took a quick peek, her eyes slipping lower.

  Perfect everything. With no hint of self-consciousness Max gave a final tug and kicked off the wetsuit.

  Gorgeous wasn’t nearly strong enough in the adjective department. Miki swallowed, unable to take her eyes away. The buff, naked body moved closer.

  Life was stupid and unfair, she thought. Women obsessed about wearing a halter top, much less stripping down to the buff, but men like Max walked around commando and didn’t bat an eye.

  He stared at her over one shoulder, his back turned. “Aren’t you going to take the scalpels out? I’m ready.” Their eyes met, and Miki felt heat fill her cheeks as he turned around to face her.

  That was when she really began to hyperventilate.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE MAN WAS ABSOLUTELY SERIOUS, Miki realized.

  He was inches away, completely commando, a sight pulled out of her most private fantasies. She felt a little zing of dizziness as his thighs flexed. “You think—I mean, you want me to—”

  He looked down at her, a faint grin on his face. “Yeah, I do.”

  Okay, this was what real hypoxia felt like. She wasn’t exactly prim. She’d had enough serious relationships to know her way around the male anatomy. But she had never seen prime material like this before. As her pulse hammered in her ears, Miki realized that she had never had such a physical reaction to any other man. Was it the stress? The adrenaline rush of danger?

  Her palms were sweaty. Her body was alive and restless, flushed with heat. She was seriously aware of him, sensing him with every nerve in her body. A little voice urged her to get closer, but she managed to ignore it.

  Clearing her throat, she looked away.

  This isn’t happening, she thought.

  Breathe, she thought.

  Breathe before you pass out.

  Except Miki had a feeling that any second her body was going to hit the red zone and she would do something crazy—like reach out and grab those amazing abs for the sheer pleasure of it.

  What was she thinking? This man was her enemy, or at least still harboring hostile feelings for her, despite their awkward and very temporary truce. She couldn’t afford to be swayed by a little skin.

  She was smart.

  She was tough.

  She was also having a hell of a time keeping her gaze on his chest when it insisted on slipping lower. But all of that was going to stop right now, Miki swore. “You can put the swimsuit back on,” she snapped. “Going full commando isn’t required.”

  His eyes narrowed. He looked surprised. Miki realized he didn’t understand her embarrassment.

  She hated men who were completely self-confident about their bodies. It just wasn’t fair. “Well?” She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “Get dressed.” If you could call wearing a little scrap of black nylon dressed, she thought grimly.

  He shook his head slowly. As his lips twitched, Miki realized that he was enjoying her discomfort.

  The jerk.

  She waved a hand in the general direction of his lower body. “I mean it. No clothes, no stitching.” And how in heaven she was going to find the strength to face a knife wound was beyond her.

  “Seeing my body really bothers you?” His brow rose. There was something unreadable in his eyes.

  Miki felt heat torch her cheeks. “It’s nothing I can’t deal with,” she snapped. “But it may be uncomfortable for you to get dressed after I stitch you up.” A clumsy explanation, but it was the best she could do with her brain caught in a serious state of oxygen deprivation.

  He smiled faintly, as if she hadn’t fooled him for a second. “I’ll survive. It’s best to make an aseptic environment near the wound.”

  Aseptic, Miki thought dimly. Her brain bought the idea, but the rest of her body wasn’t handling it so well.

  “Look, I’d do this myself but I can’t,” Max went on. “I need you to stay calm and clean the wound, then put in eight stitches.”

  Eight stitches? She waved her hand. “No. Not even a microscopic chance. I can’t. Sorry. Impossible,” she said hoarsely.

  His fingers cupped her chin. “Do you want to tell me why?”

  “You’re naked,” she rasped.

  “I can still talk,” he said quietly. “So let’s have it. Just clear the air.”

  “Air?” Miki didn’t want to talk. She was unbearably aware of his lean, dangerous body within hand’s reach, and talking wasn’t anywhere near the top of her agenda. She cleared her throat. “It’s personal.”

  “I’d say we’ve gotten past being strangers, wouldn’t you?”

  Miki closed her eyes, which was the only way to keep her restless gaze north of the danger zone. “I don’t want to have this conversation.” She was perilously close to blurting out the details of her mother’s long illness, the months of dealing with the fragile skin and deteriorating veins that came from complex cancer treatments. Miki had never told anyone about her fears or the residual pain, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  She glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see that Dutch was asleep. “There has to be some other way. Maybe if I hold a mirror for you or—”

  “There’s no other way.” He cut off her vague proposal. “If this wound gets infected, it could be dangerous.” He gripped her shoulders. “I need you, Miki.”

  The rough sound of his voice made the little hairs stand up along the back of her neck. When had a man ever said that to her and meant it?

  “Breathe,” he ordered quietly. “I’ll talk you through it.”

  “What about the pain? I’ll have to give you something for that.”

  He shook his head. “Not necessary.”

  There it was, the tough-guy factor again. But there was no point wallowing in fear and uncertainty because she figured Max was right. He needed help and she was the only one available.

  Looking down, she saw that she was clutching the medical kit. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Describe the wound to me. If the cut isn
’t clean, you’ll have to recut the surface at a ninety-degree angle.” He turned his back to her. “Look closely. Tell me if the wound is clean or jagged.”

  He had the most amazing butt, Miki thought grimly. She took a few seconds to enjoy the sight of his lean, tanned thighs, girding herself for the shock of the wound.

  She took a deep breath, horrified by the bloody, jagged skin. “No, it’s not straight. He must have jerked the knife.” She heard the words echo hollowly in her ears. “I’ll have to clean it before I can tell you anything more.”

  “Sterile gauze wraps are packed in the medical kit. You’ll find a small bottle of Betadine there, too. Better clean your hands first.”

  After she’d washed with Betadine, Miki splashed some of the dark antiseptic onto a piece of gauze. Once the gash was clean, she could see the full depth of the incision. How had he managed to stay mobile all this time without a painkiller?

  Max touched her shoulder. “How does it look?”

  Awful. “Jagged.”

  “How deep?”

  “Maybe half an inch.”

  “Can you see bone?”

  Bone? Miki shuddered. “No.” Thank God. More blood welled up and she brushed it away with fresh gauze. “What do I do now?”

  “Take the number fifteen scalpel. That’s the one with the long, curving blade. Do you see it?”

  Miki found the blade and removed the scalpel from its sterile wrapping. “Ready.”

  “Good. Now you’re going to stretch the skin tight because that’s the only way to make a clean incision.” His voice was as cool and impersonal as if he was talking about someone else’s body.

  “Shouldn’t I give you something to numb the site? This can’t feel good.”

  “I need to feel what you’re doing in case you go too deep.”

  Miki’s hands began to shake more than ever. How could he possibly do this? For that matter, how could she?

  “Tell me how,” she rasped.

  “Squeeze the skin between your thumb and forefinger and look at the wrinkles. That will tell you the cross lines. Do it now.”