“Same thing we do on Wayfarer Island,” Bran told her. “So what?”
“So this fort was built with over sixteen million bricks. Just think about that for a second. Sixteen million bricks on top of shiftin’ sands.”
“Is this history lesson headed somewhere?”
She gave him a look that promised pain to some of his softer body parts. He wisely snapped his mouth shut.
“The main reason this fort was never finished,” she continued, “is because the mammoth weight of the structure kept crushin’ the cisterns, allowin’ seawater to seep in and contaminate the freshwater.”
The wind chose that moment to kick up. And the lighthouse made its revolution, briefly flashing over the beach and illuminating Maddy’s hair until it sparkled like corn silk.
Bran regretted not asking Ranger Rick if he had a ball cap she could borrow. He also regretted not considering that before they made their way along the beach to this bush.
“Over the years,” Maddy continued, “the crack in the foundation of the fort and the cistern grew. It’s big enough to swim through. It’s against park rules, of course. But there have been a few folks who’ve done it and posted pictures on the Internet.”
“And you know where this fissure in the foundation that leads to the cistern is?” he asked.
“Southwest wall. Between the two corner gun rooms.”
Bran tried to convince himself there was a better way. One that didn’t involve dragging Maddy through an underwater tunnel.
“You have that thinkin’ line between your eyebrows.” She pursed her lips. “Which usually doesn’t bode well for me.”
He searched her face, looking for…he wasn’t sure what. But all he saw in her eyes was stony resolve. And maybe a little desperation. She was willing to risk it all, her life even, on a chance to save those girls. “Okay, then,” he said before turning to Mason. “Thoughts?”
Mason nodded. “Worth a try.”
Bran blew out a breath at the same time he ran a hand through his hair. It was stiff with salt and still damp in places. “Well, you know what the SEALs say, right?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Maddy offered.
It struck him just how much Maddy knew about him. How much she knew him. He’d let her in. He’d let her get close. Too close. And in doing so, he’d let himself fall. Just a little. Or maybe a lot? He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that he had to stop the downward trajectory now, before it was too late.
“That’s our Team motto,” he told her. “The SEAL motto is something different.”
“So then what do the SEALs say?”
“The only easy day was yesterday,” he told her.
“Hooyah,” Mason said, shouldering his weapon and quartering the area in front of them, preparing to make a move.
When Bran looked back at Maddy, she jerked her chin in a quick, businesslike fashion. She was ready to jump into the fray without a second thought.
God help me. She’s too brave by half.
“Hold up, Mason,” he said, setting his M4 aside and grabbing the hem of his tank top. Since the last time he’d seen Maddy, he’d entertained about two thousand fantasies surrounding the events that might lead to him taking his clothes off for her. But nothing he imagined had been anything like this.
Chapter 9
7:43 p.m.…
“I’m sorry,” Maddy whispered when Bran whipped off his tank top and started wrapping it around her head. “What’s happenin’ right now?”
“Your hair is gonna get us killed,” he said. His broad chest with its smattering of crinkly dark hair was an inch from her nose. She was absolutely drowning in his scent. And the silver piece of eight caught her eye where it lay between his flexing pectoral muscles, glinting in the moonlight.
H-h-holy mackerel, he was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. Literally and figuratively. He radiated heat like a blast furnace. And he was straight-up, panties-on-the-floor, legs-in-the-air, have-at-me-big-boy sssssmokin’ sexy.
Considering she was dealing with wildly celebrating hormones and fifty shades of scrambled gray matter, it was amazing she had the wherewithal to come up with the super articulate reply of “Huh?”
“I said your hair is gonna get us all killed.”
Uh-huh. So she had heard him correctly the first time. Unfortunately, the second time was not a charm. His words still didn’t make a lick of sense.
“How in God’s name is my hair goin’ to get us killed?” she whispered as he continued to fashion a makeshift turban. “I mean, my brothers told me it was a crime against coiffures, but surely it hasn’t crossed the line into bein’ fatal.”
Bran stopped what he was doing to glance down at her. “I like your hair,” he said simply. No artifice. “But it’s too bright,” he told her, getting back to the business of tucking a piece of the damp fabric above her left ear. “It shines like a candle against the night. We don’t need it drawing unwanted attention.”
She was only listening with half an ear. Why, you ask? Well, because his nipple was suddenly right…frickin’…there. Staring at her. Daring her. She blew out a ragged breath and watched, fascinated, as the flat brown disk furled tight around the little bud in the center, making it poke up proudly.
Bran sucked in a startled breath. Then he pulled away, checking his handiwork and not meeting her eyes.
Aha! She felt like pointing a finger at his nose. And you think we’re just pen pals?
“We’ve gotten rusty,” Mason mumbled, looking over his shoulder and giving Maddy the once-over. “We should’ve thought of that before we left the ranger’s station.”
“I know.” Bran frowned. Then he shook his head and picked up his big, deadly gun, checking something on the side before tugging the strap over his shoulder. “You ready?” he asked her, finally meeting her eyes. To her great annoyance, his face didn’t show an ounce of the excitement and hunger that had passed between them ten seconds ago. He did, however, wince and make a grab for his wounded thigh.
“Question is,” she said, “are you?”
“I’m fine.”
She flayed him with a look.
“It just twinges every once in a while,” he assured her. “Now, we’re gonna head toward that southwest corner. And we’re gonna do it double time. You gotta stay close.” Staying close to Bran had never been a problem. “This is where things could get hairy.” She liked hair, especially the smattering across Bran’s chest. “We’ll be totally exposed ’til we reach the moat.” Exposed? Have I mentioned that Bran is now shirtless?
“I understand.” She nodded, the weight of her improvised turban making the move feel awkward. As for the weight of the task ahead of them? Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but it didn’t get any more real than this. And if they were about to drown in a dark tunnel or get filled full of lead once they managed to make it inside the fort, she had one final point to make.
“But before we go,” she whispered, stopping Bran with a hand on his forearm, “there’s somethin’ I need to do.”
“What’s that?”
She grabbed his big shoulders and went up on tiptoe. “This,” she said before slamming her mouth over the top of his.
She didn’t stop there. She took advantage of his slack-jawed surprise by sliding her tongue between his teeth. His breath was hot and sweet, just like she remembered. His lips masculine and firm. She remembered that, too. Her own lips tingled at the contact, every single nerve ending zinging with approval.
Bran stiffened against her. Just went ahead and did his best impression of a two-by-four. Hello, Mr. Wood! But the act only lasted a second. Because his rigidity morphed into a subtle quiver. Which, in turn, became… Whoa, Nelly! The sound that emanated from the back of his throat couldn’t be described as anything other than a low growl. And suddenly, his arms were around her, crushing her to him.
Somehow, without her knowing exactly how, their roles reversed. Just like that, she was no longer the aggressor. He was. And, oh, she’d never enjoyed being aggressed—Is that even a word?—so much in her life. His warm, wet tongue plunged into her mouth, invading and plundering like a marauder of old, a real-life pirate come to whisk her away with his dark eyes and even darker desires.
Over the past few months, she’d thought maybe she’d exaggerated the mastery he’d displayed during that one brief kiss they’d shared aboard her father’s yacht. Thought maybe the shock and adrenaline of the day had somehow skewed her perception of his skill.
Huh-uh. No siree.
Bran was the most accomplished kisser she’d ever had the privilege of kissing. It was all perfectly timed licks and sucks and nips. She could have gone on making love to his amazing mouth forever, but her pesky conscience tapped her on the shoulder and reminded her that it was her responsibility…nay…her duty to go save those girls.
Tick-tock, sister, it said.
She pushed out of Bran’s embrace and rolled in her lips, savoring the taste of him. If she weren’t mistaken, at some point during their exchange a puppeteer had connected strings to her knees and was now tugging on those strings, making her legs shiver and quake.
Bran breathed like he’d run a race. His pulse beat a rapid tattoo in the side of his neck. And his eyes were hot and fierce on her face.
Then, as if all of that weren’t delightful enough, he did something completely wonderful. He reached down and adjusted himself, drawing her eye to the rather impressive package housed behind the fly of his cargo shorts. There was no denying her effect on him. And hello, Mr. WOOD!
She couldn’t help herself. She donned a cheeky grin. “And that was for tellin’ Rick we were just pen pals.”
* * *
7:59 p.m.…
“Seven feet down and about three feet wide the whole way,” Mason said, wiping the seawater from his eyes.
“Tight squeeze,” Bran murmured, bobbing gently in the bath-warm waters of the moat. Their journey across the beach had been miraculously uneventful. Well…as uneventful as it could be considering he’d been recovering from that mind-blowing kiss Maddy had laid on him. The woman knew how to prove a point, that was for sure.
And, damnit! That makes me like her even more.
It was officially official—when it came to Madison Powers, he was one sorry SOB. Completely incapable of controlling himself. Which was the whole mothersucking problem, wasn’t it? Little did she know it, but her stunt behind that bush proved his point too.
“But not too tight a squeeze,” Mason added. “The problem might be the distance.”
“Tough, eh?” Bran asked.
“Not for me.” Mason shook his head, water droplets flying from the ends of his wet hair. “And definitely not for you. But I don’t know about her.” He jerked his chin toward Maddy, who was dog-paddling in the water beside them.
“We could do a couple of time tests on her lung capacity,” Bran suggested.
Mason shook his head. “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling like our luck has got to be running out.” Together they glanced up at the embrasures in the brick facade above them. The black holes were empty of the masked men and their weapons. But how long would that last?
“This conversation is weirder than a three-dollar bill,” Maddy declared quietly.
The turban he’d tied around her head had come undone on the swim through the moat. She was now wearing his tank top like a wedding veil, the neck hole wrapped around her forehead and the rest of it trailing down her neck and back to float atop the gently lapping water. The light was dimmer here in the shadow of the fort, but there was still enough illumination to show that the dried blood spatter that had stained her cheeks and forehead was washed away, leaving her skin clean and clear.
Beautiful, he thought. What he said was, “Mason thinks you might not be able to hold your breath long enough to make the swim through the crack in the foundation and up into the cistern.”
“I’ll have you know I’m the Powers Pool Party Breath-Holding Champ,” she declared, water dripping from the tips of her long, inky lashes. For a platinum blond, Maddy had surprisingly dark eyebrows and eyelashes. It made Bran wonder if she was a natural towhead or if her Marilyn Monroe tresses came out of a bottle.
There’s one way to find out, the voice in his head whispered. He studiously ignored it. Mostly because it was a jackass. But also because he knew that nothing lay down that particular path but trouble.
“I can make twenty feet, no problem,” she asserted. “So let’s do this thing already. This moat is startin’ to give me the heebie-jeebies. Did y’all know when they used the fort as a prison in the eighteen hundreds, someone kept a ten-foot shark in here?”
He opened his mouth to assure her there were no sharks in the moat now. But before he could say anything, she blinked and made a face. A weird gurgling sounded at the back of her throat.
“What?” he demanded, all his protective instincts jumping to the fore. His M4 was strapped to his back, but his muscles bunched, ready to swing it over his head.
“Something just touched my foot,” she whispered, and a line from that old English rock band sprang to mind: a whiter shade of pale. That definitely described what had happened to her complexion. Before Bran could tell her it was probably nothing—a fish or an eel or even just a piece of seaweed—she was splashing toward him like a lunatic, her eyes wide, her mouth contorted in a grimace.
“There it was again!” she croaked, climbing on top of him, her bare feet finding footholds on his knees and hip bones, her hands clawing at his shoulders and head until he was shoved under water.
Now usually, he would welcome a woman’s legs going over his shoulders and her breasts smashing his nose. But not while he was treading water. For a couple of seconds, they sank into the dark void before he had the wherewithal to kick and stroke toward the surface. He came up sputtering and sucking in oxygen that was heavy with the berry-sweet scent of her lotion and the subtler aroma of luscious, warm female.
“Little help here.” His words were muffled by Maddy’s sopping T-shirt and the soft cushion of her boobs. Her calf pressed against the barrel of his M4, digging the metal into his back.
“You’re on your own with this one, bro,” Mason said. And even though Bran couldn’t see Mason’s expression—what with Maddy attached to his head like one of those facehugger creatures from the Alien movies—there was no mistaking the exasperation in his teammate’s voice.
So much for having a brother’s back, Bran thought uncharitably as he doggy-paddled to the side of the fort. He managed to get a toehold in the mortar and a handhold on a piece of cracked masonry above the waterline.
Once he secured them and caught his breath, he muttered into her chest, “So you’re telling me you don’t bat a lash when a gun is aimed at your head. And you don’t hesitate for a second to stitch up a gnarly-looking wound. And swimming through a pitch-black underwater tunnel doesn’t give you a moment’s hesitation. But something brushes your foot and suddenly you go all girlie on me?”
“What can I say?” Maddy’s whispered words were muffled since her thighs were suctioned against his ears. “Things in the water, especially slimy things or scaly things or toothy things, rate a ten out of ten on my squick-o-meter.” Squick-o-meter? That was a new one. “And am I the only one who keeps hearin’ the theme from Jaws? Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum…”
She was clutching double fistfuls of Bran’s hair. And every second or so, another follicle pulled loose, causing tears to burn at the backs of his eyes. Then something brushed by his leg. Something big. Something scaly. Something he thought he might recognize given all the hours and days he’d spent in the ocean.
He didn’t jump when a tail fin slapped against his calf. He didn’t panic. But that was definitely an uptick in
his heart rate. And he was certainly having a difficult time breathing. Of course, the latter was likely attributed to Maddy.
He carefully snaked a hand between her left thigh and his right ear, breaking the vise she had on his head. “Damnit, Maddy!” he grumbled impatiently, turning his head so as not to talk into her breastal region. Any other night, he would breathe her in and maybe—okay, definitely—open his mouth and taste her. But right now it made carrying on a conversation, not to mention concentrating on the conversation, more than a bit…uh…arduous. To Mason he said, “I think we may have a problem.”
“Barracuda, you think?” Mason asked and Bran wasn’t surprised the ol’ Boston boy had already come to the same conclusion. Obviously the fish was testing them all, nudging and brushing and trying to determine if they might be good to eat.
And the blood on my shorts and seeping through my bandage sure isn’t helping matters.
“If I had to guess,” he agreed.
“Likely it’s been stuck in here for a few days,” Mason speculated. “Since the last storm made waves big enough to carry it over the seawall.”
“Not good news,” Bran said unnecessarily. Barracudas didn’t usually attack humans. But there was no telling what a six-foot, one-hundred-pound, trapped, hungry fish was capable of.
“You gotta get off my shoulders,” Bran told Maddy. “But I want you to stay between me and the fort wall. Be careful of the barnacles.” Because those could do almost as much damage as the fish.
“Did I hear y’all mention somethin’ about a barracuda?” she asked, not budging an inch.
“Could be,” Mason said. “Feels like it every time it rubs against me.”
Great. Way to reassure her, gavone.
“Hey,” he said, trying to offer some comfort. “Barracuda attacks aren’t usually deadly. Not like shark attacks can be.” Of course, with a set of dagger-like teeth made for digging into prey and ripping away chunks of flesh, the fish could score some serious devastation. Just thinking about what the creature could do to Maddy’s soft, perfect skin…
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