Nina Bruhns - Capturing the Crown Bundle

A small explosion rocked the beach. More smoke billowed out from behind the row of trees. The jet, most likely. She should be glad she’d been thrown farther away.

Thrown. All at once, the staggering truth of what had happened hit her. Miraculously, she’d survived a plane crash.

So far.

She refused to think anything negative. She was alive. That counted for a lot. From the looks of things, it appeared she might be the only one who had survived. She and the tiny, precious life growing inside her. She could only pray her unborn child was all right. At least she had no cuts on her abdomen, no aches or bloodstains to indicate she’d miscarried.

Her baby had to be all right. More than anything, she prayed her unborn child had not been injured.

She finally struggled to her feet. Standing, weaving, she licked her lip and tasted blood and salt and sweat. Thirsty, so thirsty. She swayed, her vision blurry, and then forced herself to focus. Focus. Live.

A blur moved toward her, moving fast in the blinding sunlight. An animal? No, a man. Running toward her. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she squinted as she tried to make him out.

Chase? Her heart rate tripled. Could it be? She rubbed her blurry eyes and again attempted to focus. Yes, Chase. Moving toward her. Whole. Unhurt.

Glancing down at herself, she winced at her bloody, torn blouse. She swayed again, dropping to her knees. Damn, her head hurt. She might be injured there, too.

“Sydney!” Chase. Blinking, she lifted her head and attempted a feeble wave.

He ran toward her. His lips moved, but she couldn’t understand his words. She stared at him, resisting the urge to reach out her hand and sob in relief. He’d made it through the crash in even better shape than she. Except for a still-bleeding, jagged cut on his leg, he appeared to be unhurt.

Good. Then maybe he could help her, until rescue arrived.

Her last conscious memory was of Chase scooping her up in his strong arms.

When the plane went down, damned if Chase’s first thought wasn’t for the woman. Maybe it was the part of him that would always be a bodyguard, but he’d known he needed to shelter her, protect her and keep her safe, even if it took his own life to do so.

Then everything went black as they’d hit.

When he’d come to in the midst of the smoking wreckage, smelling jet fuel and feeling the searing heat of the fire, Sydney was nowhere to be found. He’d known he had to get out of there before the whole thing blew, but first, he’d looked for the others.

Franco and Dell were dead. After swiftly ascertaining there was no hope for them, Chase knew he didn’t have time to drag their bodies from the smoldering wreckage. He needed to get out quickly, aware an explosion was imminent.

He saw no sign of Sydney.

He crawled from the battered jet and, after looking around once more, Chase took off at a run. He made it a hundred yards before the thing exploded, knocking him to the sand.

On all fours, he said a quick prayer for the two dead men. Then he stood and brushed dirt and gravel from his legs. Most of his cuts and scratches appeared to be minor. One wound on his knee bled but he felt no pain.

He began by searching the immediate area around the wreckage. They’d come down in a hilly area, clipping the tops of the massive trees before crashing near the rocky beach.

Sydney—or her body—had to be here somewhere. They’d been strapped in together. How they’d been separated in the final moments, he couldn’t begin to speculate.

She wasn’t anywhere near the wreckage. Next, he expanded the search area, more and more worried when he still couldn’t locate her. The forest area was thick and wild; still he searched through the dense foliage with no luck. While searching, he came across a spring-fed pond and noted its location. A source of drinkable water would be vital to their survival if they weren’t rescued quickly.

As he ranged the perimeter of the woods, pushing aside thorns and vines and undergrowth, he drew closer and closer to the rocky shoreline. As he began to scan the rocks near the water, he heard a hoarse cry up the beach.

There—past the larger boulders, too close to the gently pounding surf, Sydney! When she attempted to rise and sank back down to all fours, his heart stuttered.

“I’m coming!” he yelled, taking off at a run toward the ocean. When he reached her, she tried again to stand.

Bleeding from her wounds and weak, she fainted in his arms.

But she was alive. That was all that mattered.

Carrying her back to the shade of the forest, he lowered her gently to a pile of leaves. Lifting her torn blouse, he ran his hands over her, searching for broken bones and finding none. If she had internal injuries, that would be another matter and much more difficult to detect.

She moaned, shifting fitfully. She had a nasty cut on her shoulder, another on the back of her head, though it looked worse than it was due to the way head wounds bled.

If she had a concussion, which seemed highly likely, he couldn’t let her remain unconscious.

“Sydney, wake up.”

No response.

Chase heaved a sigh and lifted her to her feet. Her deep-blue eyes opened, cloudy with confusion.

“Come on, we’ve got to walk.” Still bearing the brunt of her weight, he half dragged, half carried her into the forest, toward the pond he’d found earlier. If he could get Sydney there, they could wash off the blood, making it easier to judge the true extent of her wounds.

“Walk?” She shook her head, trying to drop back to the ground. She would have succeeded, but he kept his arm around her waist. “No. I want to sleep.”

“No can do.” He let her lean on him while they pressed through the undergrowth, and he did a rapid assessment of the situation.

Plane down, two survivors. No working radio; at least, the one in the jet had blown with it. His cell phone had disappeared in the crash—with his luck it had fallen into the ocean. And, though they’d filed a flight plan when they’d left Silvershire, he didn’t know if the storm had taken them off course or how far.

They were on some sort of island. Though small, it appeared hospitable. The place was most likely some rich bastard’s private getaway, though the area where the plane had gone down didn’t appear cultivated. Chase resolved to explore it later, especially if rescue took some time.

All their hope would be on the jet’s emergency beacon. Even if it had been damaged or destroyed in the fire, a signal should have already gone out to lead rescuers to them.

Or the bad guys, assuming they had someone on the inside.

They had to be extremely careful.

Chase cursed again. He felt as though he was once again in Special Forces, on some kind of covert mission, rather than the head of Silvershire’s Department of Public Relations. More than anything, he wanted a working cell phone. He needed to get in touch with the office and fill them in.

He could only imagine the public relations nightmare going on back home. Since Reginald had died, he’d bet things had gone to hell in a handbasket. With so much going on, Chase needed to be back in Silvershire now.

He lived for his work. Except for the brief derailment when he’d thought he’d fallen in love with Kayla Bright, he’d focused his entire life on his job. Always had, always would.

Now, stranded on an island with the one woman the press would be salivating over, he’d been rendered virtually useless. Public relations was difficult to manage when one had no contact with the public.

As he thought of the press, circling like sharks in search of a meal, he realized he’d now become a potential story. Once the reporters realized he and the beautiful woman who carried the prince’s son were lost together, they’d be fabricating the stories as fast as the papers could print them.