Olivia Gates - Airborne Emergency

The fierceness of that silver gaze was too much to take head-on.

Heat surged in her head, cascaded all over her body. Her face had to be radiating a red as deep as her hair by now. Her eyes escaped his, only to stray over the rest of him, and—wow! Everywhere she looked, every detail of his striking features and awesome physique—and the thoughts they provoked—were even more blush-worthy.

But something was wrong here. Very wrong. Besides feeling like a derailed train, she felt as if she knew him—as if she should know him.

Then it struck her. Hard, then harder. With the force of a jackhammer right upside her head.

No wonder she felt she’d known him all her life.

She had…

Dear Reader

I’ve always believed heroes are not born but made. I also believe heroes don’t know they’re heroes—not even when others insist on it. This lack of self-satisfaction is what marks a true hero for me. Vidal, my hero, never suspected he was one—even feared he was the reverse. Both he and Cassandra, my heroine, started out in a wrong place in life, but worked unstintingly to become the best people they could.

I love to explore the life path of people who better themselves, people I can cheer for, fear for, and find total satisfaction when they get the happily-ever-after they deserve. I loved going along for the ride as Vidal and Cassandra made life-changing adjustments and discoveries, and struggled with their prejudices and misconceptions—about themselves and each other.

I hope you will enjoy the ride too.

Olivia Gates

Recent titles by the same author:

EMERGENCY MARRIAGE

DOCTORS ON THE FRONTLINE

Airborne Emergency

Olivia Gates

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

For my father. The power behind my soul,

the vision behind my being. You live on in me.

“OF ALL names, my new boss had to be a Vidal .”

Cassandra St James winced. She was talking to herself out loud, sounding like a hissing cobra, no less. No wonder the woman ahead of her in the queue had given her that funny look.

What was really funny was that just his name still raised her hackles this way. Brought every sort of fierce nastiness she thought she’d outgrown bubbling to the surface again.

So their mission leader, the man they were transiting in Madrid Airport to pick up, was blighted at birth with ‘the name’. Him and a million other men in Spanish-speaking communities. Her Vidal was an Arroyo Martinez. He must be in some hyper-advanced surgical center, performing million-dollar esthetic miracles. Her new boss was a Santiago, and he was devoting three months to a grueling, payless humanitarian mission.

She shook her head, paid for her breakfast, tossed her mane of curls back. Better focus on something else. Her life’s much-needed new direction, for example. That began today. Her plans to explore new medical frontiers, to break the monotony and the dead ends, were in motion at last. And from the way she saw—saw...

Eyes. Steel and silver. They slammed into her across the huge, bustling cafeteria and held her prisoner. Wouldn’t let her look anywhere else. Not even at the face they belonged to.

Her heart lurched and the next scheduled breath just wouldn’t come.

Whoa! What was that? She didn’t do that. Didn’t do instant overwhelming attraction and X-rated thoughts. Or delayed ones, for that matter. Didn’t go hot and gooey when a man looked at her. And the man was just looking at her.

OK, so no one had ever looked at her that way—ogled her blatantly, sure, especially since she’d set foot in this land of self-appointed Latin lovers—but this...this devouring was something else altogether.

People passed in front of her, blocking her vision, severing the connection.

Oh, thank you! She made use of the time out, reached one of the elegant plate-glass tables, swore softly when she splashed cappuccino over her French pastry.

Don’t look . She did. She had to, to find out just what that bolt of chemical reaction was all about. Bodies still blocked her view. Then suddenly she had a clear shot of him again and...he was no longer on the other side of the cafeteria!

He was cutting his way through the packed crowds, head and shoulders above other people. Coming to her. Oh, wow!

Her mind stuttered to a standstill as his purposeful stride eliminated the gap between them, then kicked off again, in a jumble.

He was going to talk to her. He wanted to talk to her. Oh, yes! But what would he say? What would she say? She must look hideous. Her hair was a worse-than-usual mess. Not even lip gloss. She must still be puffed up with that horrible deathlike sleep on board the plane—not that those lethal eyes said anything, but—

A bloodcurdling shriek went through her like a scythe.

Cassandra jerked around, but not before she saw his eyes snapping from consuming to concerned as they refocused behind her, searching out the source of distress.

The shrieks continued, rising to a manic pitch. People were running, some away from the source of disturbance. That added to her confusion until she remembered where they were. In an airport screams might easily be interpreted as some sort of danger. Her first impulse was to rush to help. It must be all her medical training, and probably her knight-to-the-rescue genes as well.

Shouts in many languages echoed. She made out enough to know there’d been an accident. Someone—a child—was injured, unconscious.

She was running by now, towards the milling crowd. He was ahead of her, his growls cutting a clear path to the victim in seconds.

It wasn’t as easy for her. The crowd closed up again in his wake, didn’t part for her as it had for him. She had to shove and elbow away layer after layer of onlookers, trying to get to the object of their horrified fascination.

Her shouts of, “Let me pass. I’m a doctor,” didn’t make any impression on the predominantly Spanish audience. Then she heard his voice again, snapping something in Spanish, and suddenly she had a front-row view of the emergency.

A hysterical woman being restrained, dragged away. A motionless boy on the floor, or at least a head of golden hair. The rest of him was obscured by the man’s huge crouching body. He was already administering CPR.

She groaned. So the boy had arrested. If the man could judge that. And he’d volunteered to resuscitate him—probably on the strength of a technique picked up from some medical TV drama.

Falling to her knees beside him, she tapped him on the shoulder. “ Señor? I can take over while you make sure an ambulance is on its way. I’m a doctor.”

He withdrew to deliver cardiac compressions, didn’t even look at her. “I got that already.”

She started. His voice—a bass rasp that was just as potent as the rest of him. Concise, cultured. And American. American?