Candace Irvin - Crossing The Line

Despite the agony in her chest, she blinked.

“You mentioned your global positioning system was down when I reached the LZ—along with the comm links to the extra headsets. Do you think the problems were related?” He glanced down to smooth the bindings, saving her the humiliation of admitting the headset malfunction had been a fib.

“No.”

His gaze shot up. “Are you—”

“Yes, I’m sure.” If she was lucky, he’d chalk up the fire in her cheeks to the constant stabbing in her ribs. Despite both, she managed not to shift beneath that dark gaze.

She might not know why the Black Hawk had crashed, but she did know the malfunctioning GPS hadn’t contributed to it. Nor had there been a systematic electrical failure. Other than global positioning, all equipment had been functioning correctly until the chopper’s engine simply stopped.

Even if she confessed her fit of pique regarding the headsets, what would that explain?

Nothing.

But it would open up a discussion about Carrie.

A discussion she had no intention of initiating with this man, let alone an accident investigation board. If the board discovered Carrie’s relationship with Sergeant Turner by some other means and then asked her a direct question, she wouldn’t lie. But neither did she intend to volunteer anything that would stain her friend’s military record. Carrie was dead. So was her lover. As far as Eve was concerned, the extent of their relationship had died with them.

In more ways than one.

She didn’t know how much Bishop knew, but she was fairly certain he didn’t know about the baby. Given his time and care with the makeshift crosses, surely he would have added a smaller one if he had? Again, even if he did know, what would it change? Hindsight might have filled in several of the blanks regarding Carrie’s behavior during the flight, but it certainly hadn’t absolved her of her own actions.

As the pilot in charge, the safety of the Black Hawk’s passengers and crew had been her responsibility.

And now they were dead.

Eve was holding something back.

Rick stared into that wide green gaze for several moments, hoping she’d tell him what it was, but she didn’t. She just slid her gaze from his and resumed that distant, fixed stare beyond his shoulder. He knew exactly what she was looking at. The past.

This morning, to be exact.

Eve Paris knew something about that crash that she wasn’t sharing. He’d stake their paltry supply of ammunition on it.

But what was it?

Well, he wasn’t going to get it out of her now, not after his inappropriate behavior. He was better off sticking to his makeshift mission. He’d get them the hell out of Córdoba and let the investigation board handle the rest. It was better for Eve and better for him. Hadn’t he already proven his objectivity was out of whack with that blasted kiss?

That kiss.

Dammit, he was not going there.

Though he’d been willing to apologize for his behavior, Eve was right. It was best to pretend those mindless moments had not happened—and to make damned sure they didn’t happen again. Rick jerked his attention to the task at hand, glancing down one last time to check the bindings he’d finished.

Not a smart move.

His fellow soldier might be minus a couple of intact ribs, but she was sporting some seriously healthy cleavage. He ripped his gaze from the generous curves spilling out from the top of her bra and grabbed the T-shirt lying beside them. He stretched the neck opening and eased it over her curls, pausing as she carefully reinserted her arms before he pulled the shirt the rest of the way down to tuck the hem into the arms of the flight suit knotted about her waist. The sigh that followed seemed to fill the darkening jungle.

He wasn’t sure if it was hers or his.

Not that it mattered. He suspected her relief was as great as his. Especially when she stood abruptly. He reached out, but she stepped away, evading his hands as she turned.

“I’ll break out the food.”

He studied her movements closely as she headed across the clearing toward their gear still dumped at the base of the tree on the opposite side. Rebinding her ribs had been a good call. She was walking easier now, her stride almost matching the energy she’d displayed that morning at the landing zone.

Almost.

Well, he’d done the best he could, given the circumstances. If only he hadn’t lost his sergeant’s rucksack with its medical kit and painkillers.

Hell, if only he hadn’t lost his sergeant.

Regret slammed into him for the thousandth time that day.

He slammed it back. There’d be time enough for that later. Eve was right; they needed food. Twenty winks wouldn’t hurt either.

Her or him.

Rick shifted his rifle and leaned back against the trunk of the tree, swallowing a groan as he raised his hands to probe the line of stitches Eve had added to his latest soon-to-be scar. This was definitely no hangover. Those ebbed as the day wore on. This headache had only worsened. Since they’d stopped, the throbbing had taken on the cadence of an M-60 machine gun chewing through a belt of bullets, damned near drowning out the subtle sounds of the jungle beyond.

Even when he concentrated, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hear the birds and the insects above the pounding in his skull—and that was dangerous. Any change in their behavior could well signal the stealthy approach of an enemy.

But if he was too tired to hear it…

Rick stood, flexing his aching neck and shoulders before he snagged his M-16 and headed across the clearing after Eve. By the time he reached her, she’d already rummaged through the rucksack and located the MREs, or meals, ready to eat, using her pocketknife to slit open the brown plastic wrappers.

He gestured to the makeshift meal, indicating she should take her choice, not that there was much of one. As far as he was concerned, one version of MREs tasted as much like wet sawdust as another, especially cold. He leaned his rifle against the ruck and reached for one of the instant coffee packets instead as he settled back against a tree trunk.

“Feel free to take the other coffee, too.”

He did. “Thanks.”

He poured out a canteen cup of water, dumped both packets in and swished them around for several seconds. She grimaced as he downed the lukewarm contents, but didn’t say anything. Cold coffee wasn’t on his list of favorite foods either, but they both knew they couldn’t risk a fire.

He reached for the Army’s attempt at beef stew, discreetly watching Eve as he settled back against the tree. She seemed more interested in studying the moss clinging to the knotted root beside her than she did in consuming the contents of her own MRE pouch. The longer she stared at the moss, the more fascinated he became—with her. He was beginning to suspect that no matter how cool and controlled Eve seemed when she thought he was watching her, she was anything but when she did not. A myriad of emotions continued to sweep through her gaze, each one more intense than the last, until the distinct shadow of grief finally shrouded those deep-green eyes and settled in, turning them even darker.

His gut clenched as her gaze began to glisten.

Tears.

He’d lay odds she was thinking about Carrie and the crash. As much as he felt the pull of compassion, it had to stop. He had to distract her. Frankly, he couldn’t afford to watch those tears well up again. Look what had happened the last time.

Dammit, she was a soldier.

So, think of her as one.

God help him, he was trying. But in spite of his best efforts to relegate her back to the ranks of fellow officer, he couldn’t quite manage it. The truth was, the longer he stared at this particular soldier, the more he became intrigued by the glimpse of pure woman he caught beneath.