Her smile trembled as she shook her head slightly from side to side. “I didn’t think you wanted kids.”
Jesus, those were happy tears? Would he ever understand women?
* * *
Caitlyn tried to stop crying but her emotions refused to cooperate. Stillman shifted, his thumb rubbing little circles on her wrist.
His bedside manner, including pain distracter, was highly successful. “Why did you think I didn’t want kids?” he asked with a storm of concern clouding his eyes.
Love for this man bubbled through her veins with more mood-enhancing effect than the morphine drip in her arm. “When I thought I’d be taking in Joe’s son, you got all weirded out.” Before he could respond another memory surfaced. “What about Hilary? And your parents’ expectations?” She closed her eyes and knuckled her tears away. And saw that damn diamond flashing like an airport beacon. Maybe Hilary didn’t want children. She cracked one eye open. She had no intention of fighting fair to get what she wanted.
Stillman released her hand and brushed hair back from her forehead. “She sends her apologies for her snippy comments. The engagement ring wasn’t from me.”
“Good. She doesn’t deserve you.”
Stillman shifted to dig a small package from his pants pocket. It was wrapped in wrinkled gold paper with a crushed bow hanging limply off the side. “I’m afraid this didn’t do so well in the fight.”
His voice sounded so sad she looked up from the package, only to find eyes burning with regret. “This was for you and only you.” His voice had grown husky and his eyes looked suspiciously damp as he tore paper off the slightly crumpled box. The little plane had survived, though it listed a little to port, its tinny-sounding tune audible over the steady beep of her monitors.
The smile he flashed her didn’t last long and didn’t make the short trip to his eyes. “When I bought the first one, I had no idea just how appropriate the song was.” His gaze shifted and he touched her bandaged side with a light sweep of his fingertips. “That bullet would have killed me if not for you. I had no intention of falling in love with a hero.”
Two bald statements aptly mirrored the fear that had shadowed her since Johnny’s death. She saw his throat work before his fingers returned to stroking her hair. “Caitlyn, honey, I’m runnin’ out of fuel here. Marry me. I promise to give you as many beautiful babies as you want.”
Caitlyn smiled through the wave of love that threatened to drown her. “On one condition.”
He cocked his head to one side as if weighing his options. “All right, what?”
“I want to continue flying rescue missions and saving lives. I want to be the best damn helo pilot in the seventh district. I want to stay here and not move to Ala-damn-bama.”
* * * * *
To purchase and read more books by Sharon Calvin, please visit Sharon’s website here or at http://www.sharoncalvin.com
Turn the page for an excerpt from A DANGEROUS LEAP by Sharon Calvin, now available at all participating e-retailers.
Now Available from Carina Press and Sharon Calvin
Coast Guard rescue swimmer Kelly Bishop is ready for a new start in Florida, eager to prove herself as the best of the best.
What she isn’t ready for is the spark between her and fellow Coastie Ian Razzamenti.
Read on for an excerpt from
A DANGEROUS LEAP
A Dangerous Leap
by Sharon Calvin
Chapter One
Rescue Swimmer Kelly Bishop sat in the open doorway of the Coast Guard Jayhawk helo, timing the rough water’s rise and fall beneath her dangling swim fins. Green waves spouted white foam like an Irish street party gone wild. Her stomach heaved with each pitch and drop of the Florida-based helicopter.
She clamped her mouth closed, then her eyes. She wasn’t supposed to be on duty for another twenty-four hours. But the mayday came in, her new crew was ready, and despite her hangover, she’d do her job.
New base, new crew, new chance to make a family from her fellow Coasties. Once again she had to prove herself—past accomplishments meant zip here. Kelly knew all about starting over—she’d spent a lifetime doing just that.
The helo dropped suddenly and she grimaced. Right now she needed to empty her stomach before she jumped into that water, or she’d be in worse shape than the man she was supposed to rescue. She leaned forward, her body held in place by a gunner’s strap, and forced up her late lunch, vomiting into the Gulf between her fins.
“Hell, she’s afraid!” Joe, the hoist operator, yelled behind her.
Kelly didn’t need headphones on to hear the taunt over the roar of the helo’s engine. He signaled her release with a too sharp jab to her chest and she unclipped the safety strap. Then he signaled her jump by pounding his fist three times on her shoulder with more force than necessary. If she weren’t battling a destroyer-sized headache, she’d plant her elbow in his gut. Instead, she gave him a sweet smile accompanied by a one-finger salute before securing her face mask with one hand and crossing her other arm over her chest.
Distracted when the next wave came up, she jumped a beat too late, free falling toward the now receding ocean. The shock of not hitting the wave registered only seconds before her fins made contact. The trough between waves had left her an extra ten feet of hang time, sending a jolt from feet to aching head with lightning speed.
Instinct and training took over as the water closed above her. She surfaced and raised her hand over her head, palm forward, signaling her safe entry to the hoist guy with the ‘tude. Careful, Kel. He could get her kicked off the crew faster than anyone save the pilot. Stupid squabbles had a way of mutating into career-ending mistakes.
The Coast Guard was the smallest of the five armed forces, and as such most Coasties performed multiple jobs beyond search and rescue. SAR was their oldest charter and for Kelly, the one she preferred doing most of all. Even when she had to work with someone who clearly did not want to work with her.
The helo moved off to minimize the rotor wash and she orientated herself to the floundering sailboat and set about the rescue. With strong, sure strokes, she swam through eight-to twelve-foot waves. She needed to collect the survivor before the building storm overtook them. From the air she’d spotted one adult male—drunk, seasick, or injured—hanging onto the sloping deck of the twenty-seven-foot Hunter. It would be just her luck if he were all three.
Swimming closer, she spit out her snorkel and hailed the boat. A hoarse reply told her she’d been heard.
“Are you hurt?” she called while keeping an eye on the rise and fall of the boat’s stern. She winced at the grinding of fiberglass on rock. What a waste of a beautiful little cruiser.
The man staggered into view along the railing. He wore a black Speedo and a thick gold chain around his neck, like a middle-aged beach slug. One hand pressed a bloody towel to his head. His wild unfocused look and jerky movements would complicate the hell out of her approach. A large wave slapped the boat up against the rocks and he pitched headfirst over the railing without a sound.
Anticipating the worst, she closed the distance by half before he hit the water. Shit, an unconscious man could drown in seconds and she wasn’t about to let that happen, not on her rescue, dammit.
Circling his desperate splashing, Kelly came in from behind, speaking calmly, “Relax, I’m a rescue swimmer. You’re safe now. You’re not going to drown.” She slipped her arm around his chest. He stiffened momentarily, then dead weight sagged against her. The movement of his chest confirmed he was still alive, but unconscious again.
Kelly glanced over her shoulder and gave a thumbs-up to bring the helicopter in for pickup. When the pilot brought the craft in lower, she propped her survivor against her chest so she could raise her hand straight up, palm forward. She then crossed her other arm above her head and tou
ched her fingers to the elbow of her straight arm. This signaled Joe to deploy the rescue litter.
He lowered the folding litter into the water and Kelly expertly maneuvered the still-unconscious man into the stainless steel stretcher and covered him with one of the accompanying wool blankets. She secured him with the straps and gave an all clear for his hoist up to the helo. After the survivor disappeared into the Jayhawk, Joe leaned out and signaled they were leaving.
She blinked, confused. Leaving? He gestured again, pointing to the helo, indicating an emergency. She signaled her understanding even as her heart beat frantically. Treading water, she watched the helo move steadily away.
It didn’t happen often but she’d been left before. And every time panic whispered in her ear. What if they didn’t return? What if the helo went down and—
Stop it. Just. Stop. It.
She ignored the sound of the Jayhawk growing more distant as it headed toward shore. Besides the boat’s VHF radio, she had her own waterproof backup. And a C-130 circled above providing communications coverage. She wasn’t alone—not really.
She spun around. One quick check of the boat for additional survivors, then she’d wait for her ride back to the air station. From the increasing wave size, the sea appeared anxious to take its latest victim home. She kicked toward the sailboat, stopping about five yards out to determine the best way to board.
A wild keening sound erupted from the boat, chilling Kelly down to her soul.
Something, or someone, was still on board.
* * *
“We’re diverting to pick up one of our swimmers,” the pilot announced over the crew’s headsets. Ian Razzamenti groaned from his jump seat in the back of the Jayhawk. Five minutes from their air station near Tampa and now they had to head out to sea again. The pilot relayed what had happened. The poor bastard’s helo had developed an oil problem and he’d been abandoned near a rock outcrop ten miles offshore. Ian looked out at the white caps below and shook his head. Poor bastard was right. Why would anyone want that job?
A couple minutes later, the pilot’s voice broke into Ian’s thoughts with an update. The report made him sit up, his earlier fatigue forgotten. “Son of a bitch,” he said without thinking. Thankfully, his mic wasn’t hot.
After evacuating a male survivor, a second survivor had been found on board the sinking sailboat. This survivor, a young girl, had been left along with the swimmer. And from the exchange he’d just heard, she’d been a victim before the boat ran aground.
The atmosphere in the Jayhawk became charged as the crew absorbed the news. The young female had been discovered bound, apparently drugged, possibly sexually assaulted.
Ian mentally geared up for dealing with a potentially hysterical girl in a decidedly testosterone-filled environment. Poor kid. Having a fully rigged rescue swimmer find her had probably scared the bejesus out of her.
Preparing for the worst, Ian set about getting ready for his patient. As a Health Services Tech, he’d take over for the standard EMT-rated swimmer. Hopefully, in his flight suit he wouldn’t look as intimidating as the guy in a wetsuit, face mask and snorkel. If only Caitlyn were flying. Having a woman on board, even as the pilot, might help ease the girl’s fear.
The next ten minutes the crew worked with minimal chatter and experienced efficiency. The hoist operator deftly swung the basket with its precious cargo aboard and Ian quickly took in the girl’s pale skin, glazed eyes and rigid body. She was dressed in a sweatshirt, now stretched past her knees from the water, and an inflated flotation device.
Ian leaned close to explain what he was going to do over the roar of the helicopter’s engines. Her wild look and sudden scramble to get away forced him back on his heels.
“Whoa, honey.” Hell, he had to get her out of those wet clothes and into something warm without scaring her. He took a quick inventory and searched his brain for a solution. Blankets—maybe they could be used to give her some privacy.
“Look, sweetie, I need to get you warmed.” He picked up a stack of blankets and held them out to her, trying to look as harmless as possible. “I can hold one of these up as a screen, and you—”
A strong hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Shock drowned irritation as he saw the distinctly diminutive swimmer discard his—check that, her—mask and snorkel. She gave him a dismissive look and immediately took charge of his patient.
He bit back a snort. She epitomized Caitlyn’s crazy BITCH acronym: Boys I’m Taking Charge Here. He scooted back to his jump seat with relief. He’d let her do just that. Here was most definitely a situation where being female held a distinct advantage.
Ian glanced at the hoist operator, certain his own face mirrored the dumfounded look he saw. He’d heard about a new female rescue swimmer joining their air station. Hell, his buddy Joe had talked—no, complained—about it all week.
Stupid really, Joe was a damn good hoist operator and flight mechanic. Besides, Ian had reasoned, any chick that made it out of swimmer’s school probably weighed two hundred pounds and could bench-press the likes of Joe. He eyed the female swimmer again. Nope, he doubted she’d tip the scale at a hundred pounds soaking wet.
The swimmer’s gentle but firm movements calmed the girl, while her less patient gestures to him were obviously commands meant to be followed. Hell, he didn’t mind playing Nancy-nurse under the circumstances. Her short cap of mink-dark hair, slicked back from the water, exposed the delicate bones of her face.
He narrowed his eyes. Something about her looked familiar.
The pilot announced their approach to a local medical facility and Ian retreated to one of the bulkhead seats again and strapped in, his mind spinning. Could they have met outside of the Coast Guard?
Like a one-two knockout punch from a ringer in a fight, air escaped his lungs. He turned his attention back to the efficient fluid movements of the swimmer as she settled into the seat beside him. With an absent motion he’d seen before, she tunneled her fingers through her closely cropped hair.
Oh yeah, he’d seen her before all right. Hell, he’d been lusting after her.
She’d been drunker than a skunk. Kelly. That was the name she’d given him. No last name, and he hadn’t asked. He assessed her actions more closely.
Nothing in her demeanor gave any hint of the incapacitated state he’d last seen her in. Lines of tension around her eyes could be caused as much by a world-class hangover as stress from the rescue.
He’d spent half the night wondering why she’d looked so damn sad. And drank enough to be fried in short order.
Ian had a hard time meshing the two very different images of her. The woman who moved with utter control sitting next to him now, to the one who’d had tears swimming in her eyes when he’d bundled her into a cab after refusing her blatant invitation to go home with her.
Hell, and now they’d be working together. Thank God he hadn’t given in to pure male instinct.
* * * * *
Don’t miss
A DANGEROUS LEAP by Sharon Calvin
Available now wherever
Carina Press ebooks are sold.
www.CarinaPress.com
Copyright © 2015 by Sharon L. Calvin
Acknowledgments
I’m lucky to call Kerri Buckley my editor. She has made me a better writer with her insight and support. In fact, everyone at Carina Press has been delightful to work with.
Jim Bonck, a former Coastie, who inspired me to write about the smallest armed service branch in the US. His experiences fueled a lot of “What if” ideas and became my inspiration for Joe. It was his casual comment about a female helo pilot that sparked this story about Caitlyn.
Johnny Rowlands, owner of KC Copters, and longtime friend of my husband, gave me an intro in a simulator (about 15 minutes of very realistic takeoffs, landings and cruising usin
g the cyclic, collective and pedals). Then out to the runway where I got to try my hand at the real thing. While an R44 Raven II (Robinson Helicopter Company) is quite different from the Jayhawk that Caitlyn pilots, it gave me an appreciation for what she did in Jayhawk Down.
My critique partners, conference roommates and brainstorming confidants, Laurie Cooper and Sandy Moffett Parks, who have provided unflagging support through all the ups and downs of this crazy writing and publishing life. I wouldn’t want to take this journey without you both!
Also available from Sharon Calvin
and Carina Press
A Dangerous Leap
About the Author
Sharon Calvin has been a winner and finalist in numerous Romance Writers of America writing contests, including the Molly, the Suzannah, the Beacon and the Golden Heart, and she is currently writing a romantic suspense series (Gulf Coast Rescue) about the men and women of the US Coast Guard for Carina Press.
Her life experiences fuel her imagination and help her breathe life into her characters. Over the years Sharon has worked in an Oregon sawmill, been a telephone exchange repairman (until she failed pole climbing), fired a Thompson submachine gun (Tommy Gun) at the FBI firing range and won second place in an off-road hill climb in her Jeep CJ-5. Last year she took an intro flight in a helicopter to better understand her heroine in her Coast Guard series.
She competed in cross-country riding events for almost ten years before swapping in her horse for a Kawasaki Ninja 500 sport bike. Trading Midwestern ice storms and tornadoes for hurricanes and perpetual summers, Sharon now lives on an island in Fida with her husband and a Maine coon cat with attitude.
You can learn more about her at www.facebook.com/sharoncalvinauthor or on her website at www.sharoncalvin.com.
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