Awaken to Danger (6 page)

"Thank you, sir. If it's okay, I'd like to step in back for a walk-around before landing."

"Roger, cleared to unstrap."

Bambi unbuckled the harness holding him in the copilot's seat and ducked out of the cockpit for the

stairwell leading to the cargo hold. Captain Seabrook slid into the empty copilot's seat on the right and

settled behind the stick, scanning the control panel. "Tough to believe we were once that idealistic."

"Maybe because we weren't." In those days his only plans centered around escaping his family legacy.

The rigid structure of the military provided a blessed relief to a childhood spent not knowing what to

expect from minute to minute with coke addict parents.

Lately he worried about the stress load sending him over the edge, something he was always on guard

against and a part of why he kept his personal life as uncomplicated as possible. He dated, but low-key.

He'd even dated Nola Seabrook three years ago, back when they were both Captains, when he was

senior only in years and not her supervisor in any way. She was far more suited for him than Nikki, closer

in age, they both understood the pressures of military life, combat, even captivity since Nola had been

snatched during a mission in South America.

Jesus.

Surely the crappy-luck odds were about played out for them?

Of course now with his new promotion in the squadron, a relationship was out of the question even if he

was interested. Which he wasn't, because the chemistry wasn't there in spite of her bombshell-blonde

looks...and he couldn't shake a certain leggy brunette from his brain.

He definitely needed to keep his personal life simple for at least as long as the squadron stayed under his

command. Lives depended on it.

Thank God the runway neared. Time to pull his attention back on landing this lumbering beast of a plane.

An instant before he could thumb the radio button to contact the control tower, the headset squawked in

his ears.

"Major Hunt, there's a message for you at the command post from Special Agent Reis. Something about

an accident over at Nikki Price's place, a loose balcony railing."

His muscles clenched as tight as the knot of dread in his gut. Screw having someone else check on her

and keeping his distance. The second this plane touched down, he'd be out the hatch and on his way to

Nikki's side. Where he intended to stay.

Enough already.

Nikki considered herself a tough person overall, but had somebody painted a bull's-eye on her back

while she wasn't looking?

She toed off the water faucet in her steaming bathtub that hadn't come close to easing the kinks and cold

from her tumble off her balcony into the pool. At least she'd been able to control her fall enough to land in

the water when the wooden railing gave way. Thank God for all those gymnastics classes her parents had

paid for when she was a kid.

Her stomach still lurched just thinking about those horrifying seconds in midair. She rested her head back

and wished she'd thought to turn on her stereo before she sank into the bubble bath. She could use all the

help relaxing that she could scavenge.

Three stories was a helluva long way to fall and hope that the dive angle you'd taken would land you in

the pool rather than smack you onto the cement instead. She'd no doubt made a record breaking

cannonball splash. EMS techs called by her neighbor declared her unharmed, although she would be

black-and-blue by morning.

What happened to her nice boring life? She was a junior high teacher whose biggest concern should have

been whether or not her students made it to regionals for the history fair.

Her doorbell echoed.

Peace over.

She hauled herself out of the water and grabbed for her jogging shorts and T-shirt resting on the edge of

the vanity.

The doorbell pealed again. Her mother, no doubt, since the gossipy little old man next door had called

her family's house two seconds after phoning EMS. She really could have used a beach towel from him

instead. It was darn cold in that pool in January, even in South Carolina.

When she'd told her mother about Gary's death, her mom had—no surprise—freaked. Nikki had calmed

her down by tapping into her mother's training for suggestions on regaining her memory. Keeping a

dream journal and making an appointment with a hypnotherapist didn't feel like much, but at least she

was taking action, already unearthing snippets of memories.

When she wasn't busy diving off a third-floor balcony.

The doorbell stuttered while she tugged her clothes onto her damp body. "Hold on, hold on, Mom." She

hopped, one leg at a time into shorts. "I'm coming and I'm gonna chew you out for not putting up your

feet like the doctor—"a building sneeze tingled through her sinuses, down her nose "—aaaachoo!"

She snitched Carson's freshly washed and folded handkerchief from the stack of laundry on her sofa and

tried to ignore the teacher voice inside of her that insisted tissues were more sanitary than a cloth holding

germs. And was this stuffy nose cosmic justice for lying to her mom about having a cold last week?

She tugged the door open. Rather than "concerned Mama," she found "pissed-off hunky flyboy." Her

fingers fisted around the handkerchief, tucking her thumb to hide the telltale corner peeking out.

Carson gripped the door frame, his sensuous lower lip pulling tight. "You're okay."

"You don't have to sound so mad about it."

His hand slid from the frame and before she could blink— or head back into her apartment away from

temptation—he hauled her to his chest. "Jesus, Nikki, you could have died. I damn near had a heart

attack when command post patched through an inflight call about this."

Hunky, awesome-smelling flyboy, who'd raced straight over after a flight just for her. Muscle, leather and

all that concern made for a heady sensory combination, especially when she was already susceptible to

this man. Her body obviously wasn't near as smart as her mind.

But her will was stronger. She edged her shoulders free, stepping back without meeting his eyes. "I

landed in the pool." What was she doing staring at her bare feet beside his boots? She forced her gaze up

to meet his full on, no flinching.

His hand gravitated to her damp hair. "How long ago did it happen if your hair's wet?"

She held still under his touch, the heat of his fingers steaming her skin from a simple brush of his knuckles

across her cheek. Better to let him think the water was from her impromptu swim than mention she was

naked in the tub sixty seconds ago. "Why did they call you?"

His hand fell away. "Your mother phoned my secretary at the squadron to track me down. She wanted

me to check on you since her doctor has her on bed rest."

"Figures." Where was Chris when she needed him? "You'd think I was still in college."

"I think you're lucky to have a family who cares. Was she a little intrusive? Maybe. But I don't see her

here hovering."

"You're right. I am lucky, and I don't mean to sound like a brat."

She might not want a relationship with him anymore, but her ego still nudged her to be careful. They were

inching toward dangerous—tempting—territory every time they spoke.

He strode past. She grabbed the door frame to support her suddenly shaky knees.

She watched him saunter into her apartment, a place he'd never stepped inside before. Seven months ago

she'd been finishing up at UNC. Their one night together had been at his place, a beach community

bungalow he'd bought from another military family when they'd moved.

She wondered what he thought of her bargain-basement Pier 1 knockoffs and the scattered plants she'd

grafted from her mother's garden in an attempt to fill corners she couldn't afford to decorate.

Why was she thinking about appearances now when she'd never cared about material things before? If

Carson Hunt— obviously from wealth—was only impressed by a price tag, then she was well rid of him.

He stopped short in front of her class's latest history project. "What the hell is this?"

She laughed and damn it felt good, almost as good as the rush because he'd noticed her most prized

possession in the whole place. Her students had crafted the towering project which made it worth gold to

her. Nikki walked deeper into the apartment, surreptitiously hiding the used handkerchief under a throw

pillow until she could wash it.

Nikki tugged a tissue from the end table on her way to the six-foot-high papier-mâché creation she'd

brought home from school strapped into the back of her Ford Ranger. "It's a sarcophagus."

"Ohhh-kay." Hands hooked in the pockets of his leather flight jacket, he studied the psychedelic coffin

propped against the island counter separating the small kitchen from the rest of the dining area. "While I

don't claim to be an interior design expert, why do you have one in your dining room?"

She ambled closer, determined not to bemoan the fact she was wearing nothing but ratty gym shorts and

a threadbare T-shirt over her damp body. "My students are studying Egyptian history. The kids have

been crafting papier-mâché items to go in the tomb, and we tried to build this in class, too, but Trey

Baker spilled his lunch inside the sarcophagus and tapioca pudding totally stinks when it rots, so I had to

cut that part out. Although what kid actually eats tapioca? Most children I know like chocolate pudding

with candy sprinkles or gummies, or maybe a cookie crumbled on top."

"I liked tapioca when I was a kid."

"Geez, were your parents health food nuts or what?"

"Or what."

Welcoming the chuckle, she leaned an elbow against the counter bar and smoothed down a straggly

corner of newspaper sticking from the still-damp section. "Anyhow, I'm patching over where I cut out the

damaged part."

She'd taken a break from repairing the project to eat supper out on her balcony. Memories of Carson's

apology had drawn her to the railing and before she'd known it, she was tumbling heart over butt toward

the pool. "It should be dry enough to paint by tomorrow."

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

Reasonable notion except every time she closed her eyes she saw Gary Owens's vacant dead stare. "If I

rest, I'll think. I'd rather work. Although building a coffin really isn't helping take my mind off this whole

mess."

"Rather macabre."

"Macabre." She snatched up a piece of paper from under the phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing down the word." And trying to think about anything but the dead man and unanswered

questions. She finished scrawling on the notepaper and tore the top sheet off from the soccer-patterned

pad—a Christmas gift from one of her pupils. "I've got this student who's a word wizard. Feeding his

brain is a full-time job. You use these words that are not the kind guys would usually choose."

"I can't decide if you're insulting or complimenting me."

"Neither. You just don't speak as informally as most guys I know."

"I'm older than most guys you know. Hell, I even eat tapioca, remember? If I said dude a couple of

times, you wouldn't notice the other words."

"Still hung up on being a cradle robber, are you?"

His eyebrows shot up at her open acknowledgement of their past relationship. Relationship? One-night

stand.

Ouch.

He thumbed the pad of paper, fanning through sheets until one piece peeled loose. "Shouldn't you be

resting?"

"You already said that."

"Must be early onset Alzheimer's at thirty-five." Absently he picked up the stray piece of paper, leaned

back against the bar and started folding. "I understand you need to keep your mind off things, but how

about reading a book? Your body has been through hell the past few days. You should take care of

yourself."

"I'm a young, resilient twenty-three, not an
old
thirty-five like you."

He stopped midfold on the soccer paper. "I'm guessing your mother and father encouraged you to speak

your mind when you were a kid."

"What clued you in?" She smirked for a full five-second gloat before the fun faded with reality. "And how

surprising that you always manage to bring up my dad anytime we speak."

"People have parents."

"You don't."

"Sure I do." His fingers started tucking and folding the paper again, drawing her eyes to his talented

nimble hands.

Hands she remembered feeling over her skin too well right now. "Other than our tapioca conversation,

you've never mentioned your parents once in all the time I've known you."

"I didn't crawl from under a rock."

She smiled slow and just a little bit impishly vindictive. "That's open for debate."

His laugh rumbled low and long, wrapping around her with far more languorous warmth than the

ineffective bubble bath she'd stepped out often short minutes ago. Her body tingled with awareness, her

breasts suddenly oversensitive to the brush of cotton against her bare skin.

"Damn, Nikki, you never did cut me any slack." Shaking his head with a final self-derisive laugh, he bent

a last tuck on the paper and extended his hand to her with the finished product cradled in his palm—an