realization jarred her from her stillness, prompting her to concentrate on the unfamiliar song. The birds almost sounded … anxious.
And then she remembered.
Her heart slammed hard. She opened her eyes and stared at the remains of the cockpit. Amber lights still flashed, but the manic voice had stopped warning them to pull up.
Hawk.
The blast of cold robbed her of breath. Everything came crashing back, sharp, punishing, ramming into her with the force of the plane hitting the floor of the valley. The sudden loss of both engines. Wesley's unwavering determination to retain control. The mountains rushing up to greet them. The incredible skill with which he'd put the plane down in the valley and not against the side of the mountain. It was nothing short of a miracle that they'd survived—
Violently she swung to her left and saw him. Hawk. Slumped against the instrument panel. Still. Completely unmoving.
"Hawk!" she tried, but his name scraped against her vocal chords. "Wesley!"
Nothing. He didn't turn to her, didn't flash that carnal grin, didn't so much as move his shoulders in breath.
Horror screamed through her. Hawk Monroe was a man of action. He was always in motion, pacing, touching things, assessing a situation. That's what made him such a competent bodyguard. But now he lay hideously still against the panel of flashing amber lights and shattered glass, dark blond hair matted with blood and falling against his face.
And something inside her started to bleed.
"No!" She lunged toward him, cried out when the safety belt cut into the flesh of her stomach and chest. Viciously she fumbled with the clasp, lunging across the small cockpit the second it opened.
His body was big and hard and warm, the cotton of his shirt drenched from perspiration. And blood. "Wesley?"
Nothing.
Dread jabbed into her throat. They were in the middle of nowhere. The Lear had a first-aid kit, but she was no paramedic. If the worst came to pass— No, she wouldn't think it. Instead she muttered a silent prayer and slid a hand along the warm, clammy flesh of his neck, using two fingers to search for a pulse. "Wesley?"
Nothing.
The composure she'd been grappling for crumbled. "Don't do this to me, damn it!" she shouted, running a hand along his back. Her fingers fisted in the hair loose at his shoulders. "This isn't the way it's supposed to be!"
There. She felt it. A fluttering beneath her index finger. Faint at first, then stronger.
Hope surged. "Wesley. Can you hear me?"
There. She heard it. A low sound breaking from his throat. "What?"
"Quit … pulling my hair."
The words were slurred, but they rushed through her like the cool wind whipping through the plane. "Come again?"
His big body shifted, turning toward her to reveal eyes burning overly bright. "I'm not goin' anywhere, sweetness—you don't need to hold on so tight."
His breath rushed against her neck, warm and strong and vital. She went very still, staring at the swirling butterscotch of his eyes, the dilated pupils and gleam that warned of shock. Cuts streaked across his face, a tiny piece of glass embedded at the base of his right cheekbone. But he never blinked, never looked away. Very slowly she looked from his face to the back of his head, where her fingers clenched his hair like a lifeline.
Reality punched hard. Her lungs refused the oxygen she tried to deliver. "I got you awake, didn't I?" she asked with a simple logic she didn't come close to feeling. Fear and relief crashed inside her. She wanted to dive against him, feel the warmth and strength of his body, assure herself he was all right. Instead she forced her fingers to uncurl.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," she said. "Isn't that what you always say?"
The corner of his bloodied mouth lifted. "Since when have you listened to a damn thing I've told you?"
Only once, and the fallout had destroyed. "I didn't have a choice this time," she said, sidestepping. The more lucid he became, the more
And then she remembered.
Her heart slammed hard. She opened her eyes and stared at the remains of the cockpit. Amber lights still flashed, but the manic voice had stopped warning them to pull up.
Hawk.
The blast of cold robbed her of breath. Everything came crashing back, sharp, punishing, ramming into her with the force of the plane hitting the floor of the valley. The sudden loss of both engines. Wesley's unwavering determination to retain control. The mountains rushing up to greet them. The incredible skill with which he'd put the plane down in the valley and not against the side of the mountain. It was nothing short of a miracle that they'd survived—
Violently she swung to her left and saw him. Hawk. Slumped against the instrument panel. Still. Completely unmoving.
"Hawk!" she tried, but his name scraped against her vocal chords. "Wesley!"
Nothing. He didn't turn to her, didn't flash that carnal grin, didn't so much as move his shoulders in breath.
Horror screamed through her. Hawk Monroe was a man of action. He was always in motion, pacing, touching things, assessing a situation. That's what made him such a competent bodyguard. But now he lay hideously still against the panel of flashing amber lights and shattered glass, dark blond hair matted with blood and falling against his face.
And something inside her started to bleed.
"No!" She lunged toward him, cried out when the safety belt cut into the flesh of her stomach and chest. Viciously she fumbled with the clasp, lunging across the small cockpit the second it opened.
His body was big and hard and warm, the cotton of his shirt drenched from perspiration. And blood. "Wesley?"
Nothing.
Dread jabbed into her throat. They were in the middle of nowhere. The Lear had a first-aid kit, but she was no paramedic. If the worst came to pass— No, she wouldn't think it. Instead she muttered a silent prayer and slid a hand along the warm, clammy flesh of his neck, using two fingers to search for a pulse. "Wesley?"
Nothing.
The composure she'd been grappling for crumbled. "Don't do this to me, damn it!" she shouted, running a hand along his back. Her fingers fisted in the hair loose at his shoulders. "This isn't the way it's supposed to be!"
There. She felt it. A fluttering beneath her index finger. Faint at first, then stronger.
Hope surged. "Wesley. Can you hear me?"
There. She heard it. A low sound breaking from his throat. "What?"
"Quit … pulling my hair."
The words were slurred, but they rushed through her like the cool wind whipping through the plane. "Come again?"
His big body shifted, turning toward her to reveal eyes burning overly bright. "I'm not goin' anywhere, sweetness—you don't need to hold on so tight."
His breath rushed against her neck, warm and strong and vital. She went very still, staring at the swirling butterscotch of his eyes, the dilated pupils and gleam that warned of shock. Cuts streaked across his face, a tiny piece of glass embedded at the base of his right cheekbone. But he never blinked, never looked away. Very slowly she looked from his face to the back of his head, where her fingers clenched his hair like a lifeline.
Reality punched hard. Her lungs refused the oxygen she tried to deliver. "I got you awake, didn't I?" she asked with a simple logic she didn't come close to feeling. Fear and relief crashed inside her. She wanted to dive against him, feel the warmth and strength of his body, assure herself he was all right. Instead she forced her fingers to uncurl.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," she said. "Isn't that what you always say?"
The corner of his bloodied mouth lifted. "Since when have you listened to a damn thing I've told you?"
Only once, and the fallout had destroyed. "I didn't have a choice this time," she said, sidestepping. The more lucid he became, the more
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