She didn’t care for the sensation. Not when she needed to feel ten feet tall and capable of leaping buildings in a single bound. Or…at the very least capable of dealing with his wound without fainting dead away or puking all over him.
“This is probably goin’ to burn like the fires of hell,” she warned.
“Lemme have it.”
She upended the bottle, pouring its contents over the gash that cut across the bottom half of his thigh. Had the bullet been lower, or higher, or an inch to the left, for that matter, they would have been in some serious—even more serious?—trouble. When the disinfectant hit the torn skin, it fizzed and bubbled. White foam turned pink as it mixed with his blood, and big blobs of the stuff dropped onto the unpolished wood floor.
Bran didn’t utter a word. He simply sat there all Bran-like. His face showing not a flicker of pain. His lips never grimacing. A hiss never forming in his mouth.
That’s okay. Maddy did all those things for him.
“I’m starting to wonder which of us is wounded,” he said, tongue in cheek.
“Oh, piss on a log.” She harrumphed, digging back into the first aid kit for more supplies. “I, uh…I think you’re goin’ to need stitches,” she said when she pulled out the package of butterfly bandages. “These won’t do the trick.”
Bran looked down at the open gash, assessing it with a critical eye. “We could just wrap some gauze around it,” he said.
Maddy made a face. “I may’ve been born at night, but it wasn’t last night.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her.
Why do guys always do that? She’d had far too much experience with that whole keep-a-stiff-upper-lip nonsense from the men in her family to fall for Bran’s baloney.
“So, you’re tellin’ me if we were sittin’ in an emergency room somewhere, the doctor would just wrap some gauze around this thing”—she motioned to his thigh—“and send you on your merry way?”
“Well, no,” he admitted. “But—”
“No buts.” She searched through the kit for the suturing needle and thread. When she found them, she turned to Rick. “I’m assumin’ you’ve had first aid trainin’.” She held the wicked-looking curved needle aloft. “Mind doin’ the honors?”
Rick squared his shoulders and pushed away from the counter in the little kitchenette to take the needle from her. The instant they were side by side, she could see the look on Rick’s face again. That adoring puppy-dog look.
“I’m sorry about the girls,” he whispered just for her ears. “I should’ve done more to…” He let the sentence dangle, shaking his head sorrowfully.
“You did everything exactly right,” she murmured, squeezing his bicep and thanking her lucky stars that he was proving to have a level head on his shoulders, despite his age. “And when this is all over, I’m buyin’ you a drink. A big one. With multiple shots of tequila and an umbrella.”
His adoring puppy-dog look became decidedly less innocent as he searched her eyes. She shook her head and offered him a smile. One she hoped conveyed, You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, sweet pea. I’m currently a little hung up on the guy bleedin’ all over your floor.
And on that topic, when she glanced at Bran, it was to find his eyes narrowed, a considering expression wallpapered across his face. And…something more. Something that was hot and dark. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. But just when she thought she might have figured it out, it was gone. And he was back to being cool, calm, and collected.
Classic Bran.
She was the opposite of cool, calm, and collected as she watched Rick kneel and place the needle near Bran’s torn flesh. Her insides were mush, and acid burned the back of her throat. Since her patience was located near a spot you might call Rock Bottom, when Rick hesitated, she said, “What’s the problem? Do you need—”
“I-I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I c-can do this.”
He was absolutely green. And swaying like a willow in the wind. She hadn’t had a lot of experience, but she’d say he was about…oh…ten seconds from lights-out.
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
“Stop lookin’ at the wound,” she instructed him sternly. “Look at me and breathe.”
When Rick glanced up at her, the look of self-reproach on his face had her taking pity on him. Poor guy hadn’t asked for any of this. Point of fact, neither had she, but since she’d been through something similar before—and really, she must have a talk with Fate, Destiny, and/or the Big, Bearded Cheese—she was better prepared to deal with the situation.
“I’ll do it.” Bran grabbed the needle and thread from Rick.
The thought of him suturing his own flesh had Maddy blanching. “Are you kiddin’ me?”
He flashed her the kind of focused, determined look you rarely saw. And when you did, it was usually on the face of a man who didn’t back down no matter what. He’s not kiddin’.
“Well, someone needs to fuckin’ do it and get it the fuck over with,” Mason said. “On account of we got three girls who need rescuing. Not to mention, Alex is still out there all by herself.”
“You brought Alex with you?” Maddy asked.
Bran had told her about the indomitable young historian, and she was intrigued by the woman. Of course, right now she could do with fewer people being in mortal danger.
“She’s anchored way out behind the fort,” Bran told her, “waiting on our signal to sail closer.” It occurred to Maddy that she hadn’t considered how Bran and Mason had arrived on the island. Like the heroes they were, perhaps she’d assumed they flew in with the help of their superpowers. Then all thoughts zipped right out of her head when she saw Bran squeeze the two halves of his wound together. “Now,” he said, “gimme a second while I—”
“Oh, for the love of…” She motioned for Rick to stand up and trade spots. “You can’t stitch yourself.”
Rick brushed by her, murmuring something to himself that sounded like recrimination.
“Two umbrellas,” she smiled at him, giving his arm another friendly squeeze.
Before she could see if that look was back on his face, she dropped to her knees beside Bran’s chair and snatched the needle and synthetic suturing thread from him. Their fingers brushed, just for an instant, but she jumped like a live current zapped her.
It’d been like this from the beginning. Or at least it’d been like this for her. When she looked up to gauge Bran’s response, his face was a mask of ridiculous calmness. Which annoyed her for two reasons. The first was that it made all those doubts she’d been having swell to mammoth proportions. The second was that she judged the expression to be completely misplaced. You know, considering she was seconds away from going at him with a hooked needle, and that she had suddenly morphed into Lady Shimmy McShakyFingers.
“You ever done this before?” He cocked his head. Now was not the time to notice how his dark, wavy hair curled over the tops of his ears.
“Stitched a guy up?” She nodded and smiled. Then she shook her head. “Nope. But my grandma taught me how to sew on a button. Does that count?”
She’d meant it as a joke, but he just crossed his ridiculously muscled arms over his ridiculously wide chest and presented her with his oozing thigh like he had all the faith in the world in her.
Before she allowed herself to contemplate what she was doing—and who she was doing it to—she pushed the needle through the skin on one side of the wound. She gulped and briefly squeezed her eyes shut when she had to muscle it through. Bran’s tan flesh was thick and tough.
“See,” he said, his deep voice absurdly steady, making a mockery of her trembling fingers. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She squinted up at him. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. Again.
“You keep sayin’ that and I�
�ll stop believin’ you. Methinks he doth protest too much and whatnot.” She wiped the back of one hand over her forehead. It came away damp with sweat and a smear of Bran’s blood.
“Anyone ever tell you when you wear that particular expression, your nose and face all scrunched up, you look like a raisin with eyes?”
She blinked at him, mouth open. “Do you really think it’s wise to insult a woman who’s holdin’ a needle this far away”—she held her fingers an inch apart—“from your Grand Master of Ceremonies?”
His white teeth glowed against the dark whiskers on his cheeks and chin when he flashed a smile. Bran seemed to sport a perpetual five-o’clock shadow. And his twinkling dark eyes, swarthy complexion, and shaggy hair made her realize once again how much he resembled a pirate of old. All he needed was a gold hoop earring and parrot.
He lifted a brow. “That’s a good one. Maybe we should invite her over the next time we have our Who Can Come Up with the Best Euphemisms Contest. What’d’ya say, Mason?”
Bran had a way of making contractions out of multiple words at once. Maddy figured it was because he was an East Coaster and they did everything fast, including talking. Not that she didn’t have her own linguistic idiosyncrasies. She did a pretty mean fixin’ to and y’all. Not to mention she usually dropped the g’s off the end of her words, but that was mostly because the g sound wasn’t soft on the ear. And as anyone from Texas would tell you, the rounder and longer and softer words were, the better they sounded.
“And when I said you looked like a raisin with eyes,” Bran continued, turning back to her, “I meant you looked like a really adorable raisin with really beautiful, gray, sea-after-a-storm eyes.”
Maddy gaped at him. Now there was no denying it. He was coming on to her. Right? Right? Despite the direness of their situation, her inner Maddy let loose with an enthusiastic happy dance complete with hip shakes, finger guns, and maybe a few leaping heel clicks.
But before she could come back with some clever reply à la Joey Tribbiani—How YOU doin’?—Bran cupped her chin in his hand.
Whoa, Nelly.
Gone was the smile. Gone was the twinkling light in his eyes. Now his expression was serious as death. Just flip! As if he had some sort of internal switch that could change him from Teasing Bran to Terrifying Bran.
“Hey.” His palm was warm and dry against her clammy skin, his calluses a gentle abrasion. “You’re doing great. Just keep stitching and talking, and it’ll be over before you know it.”
Aha! Now she got his game. He wasn’t coming on to her so much as trying to distract her from the gruesomeness of her task. Darnit.
“I think I can accomplish the first,” she admitted, swallowing the bile that climbed up the back of her throat when she pushed the two halves of his wound together before threading the needle and string through the flesh on the opposite side. “But the second might be askin’ too much.”
The new-penny smell of blood hung thick in the humid air. She ignored it, breathing out of her mouth as she tied off the first stitch. She tilted her chin, admiring her handiwork.
Not too shabby, even if I do say so myself. Grandma Bettie would be so proud.
“So, you sew,” he said. “I’ll talk.”
“Deal,” she agreed, going to work on the next suture. If she didn’t think about what she was doing, she could pretend she was just stitching together two pieces of really tough, really leaky fabric.
“I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your email,” he said. Just like that.
She thought about herding him toward the end of the conversation the way a cattle dog herds a cow toward an open gate, with a bark and a few nips at his heels. But then she thought, Why the hell not? If he was willing to air their private business in front of two audience members, by God, so was she.
After she finished the third stitch, she lifted her eyes to his face. “I was wondering about that. And a little…hurt, I guess.”
Chapter 7
7:29 p.m.…
Hurt.
The word rolled over Bran’s heart like an Abrams tank, smashing the organ beneath its steel tracks.
“Maddy…” He whispered her name. “I…” He stopped himself from saying, I woulda answered if the satellite dish hadn’t blown down. Because he wasn’t sure that was the truth. And he was many things. But a liar wasn’t one of them.
The muscles in the back of his neck tensed, and he ran his hand over them before blurting, “The truth is, I didn’t decide to come ’til the last minute.”
“Why?” She blinked up at him, her stormy eyes searching his face.
He didn’t say anything, simply raised a brow and waited. Maddy was a smart cookie, so it didn’t take her long to figure it out. He saw the moment shock and realization struck.
“Oh.” She shook her head, frowning. “Sorry… I thought maybe we were… Because there was that thing on my father’s yacht. And then the last three months we’ve… But…never mind. Doesn’t matter. My bad.”
Bran didn’t know which he regretted more. Seeing that look on her face, or the burning mothersucker of a gash across his thigh.
On second thought, I do know. It was definitely her expression. His thigh would heal with time. But he’d never forget that he’d hurt Maddy. Hurt her, mislead her, and…embarrassed her in front of Mason and the park ranger.
“Maddy.” He cupped her chin in his hand again. Partly to make her meet his eyes, and partly because he couldn’t stop himself from touching her. Her skin was so soft and warm.
“Sure, I get it.” She jerked her chin from his hand.
“Well, I sure as shit don’t,” said the park ranger whose embroidered name read “Rick.” Seriously? Ranger Rick? He was once again in front of the kitchenette’s counter. But he wasn’t leaning against the Formica countertop. He was pacing back and forth. Back and forth. “I don’t get anything about this.” There was a slightly hysterical edge to his voice. “Who are those men? What are they doing here? And who in God’s name are you guys?”
Bran stared down at the golden crown of Maddy’s head glinting brightly in the dim light. His fingers itched to run through the strands of her short, silky hair. Then his fingers weren’t itching to do anything but curl into fists. She no longer hesitated on his stitches, instead going after them like a dollar-a-day factory seamstress. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from sucking in a harsh breath when the needle punctured fresh flesh.
He thought about asking her to take it easy, but she had made that comment about his Grand Master of Ceremonies—which he’d like to keep fully intact and sporting just the one hole. So he decided to keep his mouth shut and endure. And besides, he probably deserved it after the way he’d bungled things between them.
“I can’t answer the first question,” he told Ranger Rick, his eyes nearly crossing when Maddy hit a particularly tender spot. Sweat broke out across his brow and the back of his neck. “But if I had to guess, I’d say the answer to the second question is ransom. Maddy’s family is beyond rich—we’re talking Daddy Warbucks—and whoever these assholes are, they probably thought it’d be easy to snatch her from a remote island in the middle of the Gulf.”
“There was an article that ran in the Houston Chronicle about me and the scholarship girls and this trip,” Maddy said consideringly. “Anyone with an eye toward kidnapping could’ve seen it. I should’ve thought about that. I should’ve—”
“This isn’t your fault,” Bran assured her before turning back to Rick. “As for who we are…” He wagged a finger between himself and Mason. Ow! Shit!
He jumped. He couldn’t help it. And instead of looking contrite, Maddy scowled at him.
“What did I tell you about that tough-guy, don’t-cry crap?” she demanded. “Am I hurtin’ you?”
“I’m f—”
She narrowed her eyes, daring him to say I’m fine one mor
e time.
He cleared his throat and motioned with a hand toward his half-stitched wound. “Please continue.”
She hesitated, turning her head to view him from the corner of her eye as if that might help her see through his bullshit. She must’ve been satisfied with what she saw—confirming he could have had a job on the stage—because after a second, she bent back to her work.
He blew out a covert breath and curled one hand around the edge of his chair, gripping the wood so hard he was surprised he didn’t splinter it. “We’re your neighbors,” he told Ranger Rick through his clenched jaw.
“Huh?” Rick’s youthful face scrunched up.
“We live on Wayfarer Island.”
“Ah, the six retired Navy SEALs who are looking for the lost treasure of the Santa Cristina.”
Bran lifted a brow.
“News travels fast in the Keys,” Rick clarified.
Ain’t that the truth?
Every time Bran made a supply run to Key West, some new stranger walked up to him and asked how the hunt was going. The Florida Keys were unique in that a person could disappear in them, just fall off the edge of the map as long as they kept a low profile. But keeping a low profile was damn near impossible when searching for a legendary treasure.
“But I don’t understand,” Ranger Rick said. He’d moved over to take Bran’s position by the front window, but he wasn’t watching the fort. He was eyeing Bran. “Why are you here? With machine guns? Killing people?” The young ranger had turned a milky shade of white at that last question. “I-I mean, that man out there…” Rick swallowed, and the sound his throat made was strangely loud inside the tight confines of the cottage despite the low rumble of the generator outside that supplied juice to the few electronics. “He is dead, right?”
“Graveyard dead,” Bran admitted without a hint of remorse.
“Oh, forgive us,” Rick murmured, crossing himself.
Hot as Hell (The Deep Six) Page 12
