by Rachel Grant
Dean nodded, feeling the same way. This morning felt like a month ago. A glance at his watch said it had only been eleven hours. Eleven hours and a site collapse, a camp explosion, one near-drowning, and a hypothermic reheat in a Japanese World War II airplane, and now he was stranded on an Aleutian island with a beautiful woman and not a single step closer to finding his missing twin.
Or was he?
This all had to be related to Dylan’s disappearance. Something was going on here. Nothing that happened today had been an accident.
“How did you find out Dylan was—supposedly—sent home?” she asked.
“After I received an email from Dylan’s work email address—anyone at Pollux could have sent it—saying he was taking a leave of absence and going off the grid for three months, I tried to reach him. When I couldn’t get a hold of him, I contacted Pollux, and they made it sound like Dylan had been evacuated with the team.”
“That was definitely a lie.”
“And I had no way of knowing that, because no one would talk to me.” Dean took another swig of whiskey, then breathed deep as it burned. “I knew from the moment I received the bogus email that something was off. Dylan would never take off like that without talking to me first. We’re close. Always have been. Best friends since the womb. He might run off for a few months—I’m not saying that part isn’t like him; he did as much when he found out his wife was leaving him—but he would absolutely contact me, just like he did then. Which means he never left Chiksook.” He glanced toward the broken window where the smoke escaped into the night. “He’s out there somewhere. And I need to find him.”
SIXTEEN
Fiona’s heart broke a bit at the pain in Dean’s voice. She could relate to his pain and his fear on a deep level, one he absolutely didn’t want to know about. Not now. Not while he was so adamant he could find his brother.
She knew from experience, sometimes the finding was more painful than one could even fathom.
But at least now she understood him. Even more than he realized. But also, his suspicions were explained. The hostility he’d shown when he knocked her down on the hillside.
She knew the pain of a lost sibling. And Dean and Dylan were twins, a dynamic she couldn’t relate to. With Regan, she knew only the older sister role. The responsible one. With Aidan, she was the middle sibling. The one who would never be good enough. And then, in her teens, he’d stepped into their father’s role after the accident.
Aidan would always view her more as a dependent than an equal, not much different from how he treated their mom. But the difference was Mom couldn’t make her own decisions anymore, while Fiona was just fine without Aidan in control.
“Who is older?” she asked Dean.
He tilted his head. “It doesn’t matter. We’re twins. The same age. Technically, no one is older.”
“I know. Just curious.”
“Truth is, we don’t know who’s older. My dad’s best friend was a twin, and when Dad found out he was going to have twin boys, he asked for advice. The one thing Uncle Leroy said was to never, ever tell us who’s older, or it will start to matter. So my dad made sure when we were born, both birth certificates recorded the same time of birth. We know one of us was born ten minutes after the other, but no one—with the possible exception of my dad, who took it to the grave—knows who came first.”
“I’m so sorry your dad is gone, but also, that’s really sweet.”
He smiled, and his eyes held warmth that made her heart do a little flutter. He picked up the bottle and stared at it, then said, “Our dad was a great man.” He glanced up and added, “To you, Pop,” then took another drink.
She took the bottle from him and said, “To your pop.” She silently added her sister and father to the toast, took a long, slow sip, then offered him the bottle again.
“That’s it for me. Not a good idea to get wasted right now, much as I want to.”
She set down the bottle between them. As tempting as it was to escape into the happy haze of alcohol, it was also dangerous. “Agreed.”
He moved the bottle to the side and scooted closer to her, now that the whiskey wasn’t in the way. “We need a plan.”
She nodded again. She’d been thinking the same thing. She leaned her temple on his shoulder, feeling drowsy now that she had an almost full belly and was warm again. The fire lit their haven with a cheerful orange glow. Her eyes fixated on the flames as a warm buzz infused her. Just a few sips of whiskey and she could feel her senses dulling. Good thing she’d stopped there. It wouldn’t take much to get her drunk right now, and she needed to keep her wits.
“I’m sorry you’re in danger because of me.” His fingers drummed the floor between them, and she had a feeling he was fighting the urge to take her hand in his, to give and take comfort.
Sparks popped and danced in the small metal bin that served as their hearth. “We don’t know that I’m in danger because of you. This might have happened—probably would have—even if you’d never stepped on that plane.” She closed her eyes and thought about last night in the office tent, when she’d emailed her boss. “I told my boss I was concerned you and Victor aren’t qualified. Maybe someone in camp was intercepting emails.”
“Victor? He’s on my short list, but why do you suspect him?”
She explained his mistake with Michal’s gender.
“Damn, that’s probably even worse than messing up Section 7.”
“It’s certainly close, especially for a USGS geologist who’s supposedly from California. Why do you suspect Victor?”
“Trevor was pulled off the flight at the last minute and suddenly this geologist shows up like a miracle? It’s a little hard to swallow.”
“But is Trevor involved too?”
She felt Dean’s shrug as she leaned against him. “No clue,” he said. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders—even better than holding hands, really—and it felt so natural. “Right now, my biggest concern is that we’re not alone on this island. I don’t think we’re the only ones who missed the boat. If it weren’t for the wicked rain, I’d be concerned we can be tracked here from the side-by-side, but I watched our trail wash away behind us. We’re safe as long as Victor—if it’s Victor who set up the explosion—doesn’t know about this plane. Does Pollux have your field maps?”
She shook her head. “Nope, we’re doing the archaeological survey with navy employees only. No need for Pollux to have historic and cultural resource maps or location information. It’s a separate section of the EIS, and the actual site data aren’t subject to FOIA. Sites are protected.”
He let out a deep breath and said, “Thank goodness. We can sleep at the same time tonight, then, instead of taking shifts. We’re both going to need all our energy tomorrow if we leave this shelter.”
Something stirred low in her belly at the knowledge they’d be sharing the sleeping bag. There wasn’t any other option that didn’t include one of them freezing to death.
“You still want to go to the village tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Maybe you can check your email, see if your boss replied. Find out if there’s a plan to rescue us.”
She yawned. “It’s worth a shot.” She rose and shed the sleeping bag. “I’m going to step outside and take care of business, then brush my teeth.”
“There’s a spot under the broken wing that offers a little shelter from the rain.”
She nodded. “That was my plan.” She cleared her throat. “We’re supposed to pack out all waste, but given that this plane itself is garbage that’s been rotting here for over seventy-five years, I’m going to ignore the regs for the duration of our time here. We’ve got enough crap to worry about without worrying about actual . . . waste. Just make sure anything we leave behind is biodegradable and buried.”
“Deal.”
She pulled on her thick yellow raincoat but didn’t bother with anything else. It would just be in the way, and she didn’t plan to be outside long.
Al
l she could think as she took care of business in the shelter of the broken wing was how glad she was that her period wasn’t due for three weeks. It was always a hassle to have a period during a field project, but in this situation, it would be extra irritating.
She was shivering by the time she was back inside. The temperature had dropped by at least ten degrees after the sun went down. The rain was now mixed with flecks of snow. There was a chance they’d wake up to a blanket of white tomorrow.
Back inside, she used water Dean had boiled to wash her face and hands; then she brushed her teeth while Dean slipped outside to take his turn in their makeshift latrine. While he was gone, she inflated their one small sleeping pad that had been in the back of the side-by-side with the emergency supplies. At least their sleeping bag had bands to attach to the pad. They wouldn’t slide off it and would each get a small amount of thermal padding.
After their bed was set up, she paced the cold plane, bracing herself for the coming night.
He crawled into the plane through the back, then stood and faced her. “We should conserve wood and let the fire die.”
She nodded. They would probably be too hot in the bag with their combined body heat. It would be a waste of good wood.
That’s what she said.
She mentally groaned at her own internal joke. How would Dean react if he knew where her mind was going right before they had to share a sleeping bag?
He nodded to the bed she’d set up. “You climb in first. I’ll slide in beside you.”
She did as he suggested and watched as he peeled off his long underwear, stripping down to boxer briefs. She was caught off guard by his sculpted chest. She’d known he was strong but hadn’t expected this . . . utter perfection.
But then, he must spend more months of the year in jungles, deserts, and on tundra than in the city, and a man had to be fit for that kind of lifestyle. Clearly, he worked out to maintain the shape he was in.
Her gaze landed on a tattoo just left of center on his chest. Purple flowers. Violets?
Before she could get a good look, he pulled a shirt out of his bag, covering up both the tattoo and his perfect, sculpted chest and shoulders. Then he donned a pair of sweatpants, covering his muscled thighs as well.
She stifled her sigh. It was better this way, since they were going to be sleeping wrapped like the stuffing in a burrito, but still. She might not have minded having his bare skin against her.
He caught her gaze and gave her a smug smile, reminding her of the first moments they’d met. The man wasn’t short on ego, but then, with a body and face like his—and a skill with the camera to match—he had plenty of reason to be smug. And Dylan had said his brother was something of a playboy. The women he dated tended to come from the glitterati of LA.
Given his profession, he wasn’t a man who could make or break any woman’s career. All he could do for them was give them pleasure.
That women flocked to him said something about his talents in other areas. Maybe she should reconsider her no-field-flings rule. Find out if he delivered on his smug promises.
“You know, I turned my back when you were undressing.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, but I stripped naked. You had boxers on. Also, you could have said something sooner. I’d have given you privacy.”
“And deny you the pleasure of ogling me? I would never.”
Now her chuckle turned to a belly laugh. His abundant ego worked for her. There was a refreshing lack of pretense. “I’m glad you get me. Your body is impressive.”
“Thank you. I work hard enough on it; it’s nice to get some appreciation.”
If she had a pillow, she’d throw it at him. Instead she said, “Stop bragging and come to bed. I’m tired.”
“You just can’t wait to touch this.”
Now she snorted. But dammit, there was a little bit of truth there.
I mean, if I have to be pressed up against some stranger all night long . . . might as well be a slice of perfection.
He spread out the wood in the fire pit so the fire would die but maybe preserve some charcoal for tomorrow morning. The light dimmed as the flames divided among the pieces of wood and shrank. “Scoot over. I’m going to need some room.”
Yes. Yes. You will. Your shoulders will take up so much real estate, they should have their own zip code.
She pressed her body to the right zipper to give him as much space as possible, and a moment later, his hard, sculpted body was sliding next to hers inside the bag.
It was a tight squeeze. So tight, her arms were trapped. She tugged down the zipper at her shoulder. Cold air would lick her skin, but with the hard body at her back, she’d be warm enough. And she’d be able to move her arms.
He settled in, tucking his knees behind hers and wrapping his arms around her so she spooned against him. “Sorry. This is the only way we’ll both fit.”
“I know. It’s fine.”
And it was. Not because he had a nice body but because it really was their only option.
His face was in her hair, and her ass was pressed to his crotch. If she were shorter, he could breathe in this position. Sometimes she felt guilty over being tall, which was ridiculous given that it wasn’t exactly a personal choice.
“Sorry you can’t breathe.”
“I’m fine.”
They lay there in silence for several minutes, both their bodies tense. This was going to take a little getting used to.
The firelight slowly dimmed, and the interior of the plane grew darker and darker. Her body relaxed by slow degrees. Rain pattered on the roof, and she wondered if it was more snow than rain, hence the quieting of the storm.
He cleared his throat and said, “I feel I should warn you—and apologize in advance—there’s a ninety percent chance I’m going to get an erection at some point tonight. It’s . . . kind of unavoidable, given your ass is . . . snug against me. But I’m going to try not to, and I just want to say, I wouldn’t . . . do anything. It’s just biology and physiology. Hard to ignore when there’s a beautiful woman in my arms.”
“Well, that last line goes a long way toward earning my forgiveness. In advance.”
“It wasn’t a line. It’s obvious why Dylan is attracted to you. You’re the full package. Beauty, brains, skilled. Professional.”
The compliments were nice, but he was wrong, which kind of undermined the good parts. “Dylan wasn’t—isn’t—attracted to me.”
“He is. He described you to a T, and the first thing he said was you’re beautiful and brilliant.”
“I’m neither of those things. I mean, I do okay, but I’m hardly special in looks or smarts.”
“I think you’re wrong there. And so did Dylan.”
“I promise you, Dean, Dylan wasn’t attracted to me. Not in any real way. There was no . . . zing.”
Not like I feel with you.
She jolted at that. This was not the time to explore that thought train.
“I don’t believe it. Not after the way he talked about you.”
“When we first met, we did the usual checking-each-other-out thing. Both single and of similar age and all that, but by day four or five, we’d settled into an easy friendship. I liked him, even appreciated his looks—but it wasn’t anything more than enjoying working with a good-looking, kind, smart man who wasn’t a dick on the job. Those can be rare in the field. Especially the engineers. No social skills and with an inflated sense of their importance.”
She rolled over, which wasn’t easy in the tight bag, but she wanted to see his eyes so he’d get it. It took a ridiculous effort—like making a sixty-point turn to get a car out of a tight space—but eventually she was looking at his eyes in the dim light. “You don’t have to compliment me to get me to help you find Dylan. I’m on board. I’ll do what I can. I’ll take you to the volcano where he was working. But don’t try to make our friendship into something it wasn’t.”
His eyes showed confusion, which wasn’t at all what she’d expected. F
inally, he said, “I can’t help but think there was more on Dylan’s side, given what he said. You just didn’t notice.”
It made no sense, the way he clung to this belief. But it was probably hard to accept his brother had lied. Because if that was a lie—and he was so certain Dylan never lied—then how well did he know his brother? Was it possible Dylan had taken off on his own?
Were the events of the last twelve hours nothing more than a bizarre coincidence, and Dylan was off on a tropical island somewhere drinking his troubles away?
Dylan had told her about his divorce. He’d said—and she’d believed him—he wasn’t ready to start dating again. Then there was this weird dynamic with Sylvia. Maybe he had been attracted to his boss after all, and given his broken heart, he didn’t know what to do about it?
But she still didn’t believe he’d assaulted Sylvia. It was the one piece that never rang true. People revealed their true selves on difficult field projects like this one, and she believed to her core that Dylan Slater hadn’t laid a finger on his boss. The person she didn’t trust was Sylvia Jessup.
She’d seen the woman come on to Dylan in small ways that made him uncomfortable. Subtle aggressions that were hard to call out, especially when the male-female dynamic was flipped. When a guy was sexually harassed, he was supposed to feel like a stud, or some kind of bullshit like that. Plus, Fiona had seen the move Sylvia had made the night before Dylan was supposedly sent home.
But she was utterly exhausted, and there was no convincing Dean tonight that there was nothing between her and his brother, so she pressed a kiss to his cheek and said, “Good night, Dean.”
He smiled and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Good night, Fiona.”
She completed another sixty-point turn, then settled in again, with his knees behind hers and her ass tucked against his hips and crotch. There was a small—very small—gap of air between them, so they weren’t quite snuggled tight, but she was blessedly warm, and his arm draped over her shoulder, making her feel safe.
She closed her eyes and listened to the patter of rain on the fuselage. Slowly, sleep overtook her, and thankfully, she didn’t dream.
