Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(21)

She sighed and girded herself for the inevitable. All this stalling was just making him suspicious. “It’s a waste of time, that’s all.” She shrugged, trying to project nonchalance. “But fine, if you want to listen to my heart, be my guest.”

He studied her face for a moment before offering an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you take a seat?” Pivoting, he headed for the table against the wall, across from the foot of the bed, and grabbed an oblong black bag. “This will be easiest on the bed.”

On the bed . . . oh goodie . . .

She swallowed to lubricate the sudden desert parching her throat and settled on the mattress with stoic acceptance. A minute tops, and she could escape. She could handle a few minutes of personal contact. No problem.

He followed her to the bed, set the black bag on the mattress beside her, and opened it up, rummaging around inside. Removing a stethoscope, he settled on the mattress next to her with his left leg drawn up until his calf was braced against the mattress. He shifted to face her.

“Why don’t you turn toward me?” he said as he plugged the ear pieces of the stethoscope into place.

She scooted around as he’d requested, and the heat of his big body toasted her from shoulder to thigh. His warmth loosened something inside her, something urgent and hungry.

Leaning forward, he lifted the disk of the stethoscope and pressed it against her chest. Faith caught her breath and held it. Even with her blouse shielding her breast from his hand, she was unbearably aware of his closeness, his warmth, of the clean, soapy scent of his skin and hair. She felt torn between pressing closer and wrenching herself away.

Seconds later a frown touched his forehead, and he pulled back, lifting the metal disk. “I need a better seal.”

Without giving her a chance to protest, he lifted the hem of her blouse and slid his hand underneath. His fingers were hot and scratchy, the metal disk icy and smooth—the erotic juxtaposition sparked a trail of fiery shivers as he guided the instrument up her abdomen. Her breasts swelled. Her stomach flipped. Her muscles weakened. Goose bumps gathered at the nape of her neck and marched down to the base of her spine.

He bent his neck and tilted his head, his moist breath caressing her bare forearm, as he nestled the disk under the left cup of her bra. Helpless, she quivered, his humid breath bathing her sensitive skin, his fingers burning against the swell of her left breast. Heat bloomed, a slow lazy sprawl through blood and bone.

“You can breathe anytime now, darlin’,” he said, a hint of humor in the roll to his vowels.

Breathe, yes—she needed to breathe. Lack of oxygen would account for this sudden fit of dizziness. But when she tried to wrestle in a breath, his clean, soapy scent flooded her lungs, paralyzing her.

“Come on, sugar.” His calloused fingers slid to the right an inch or so, prickling against the swollen underside of her breast, and then pressed the disk firmly against her aching flesh. “No need to hold your breath, I can hear your ticker fine.”

She drew in a raspy breath, and prayed her rigid lungs would know what to do with it.

“Relax,” he said in such a soothing voice she wanted to curl up in an embarrassed ball and roll on back to her cabin. “Everything sounds just dandy in there.” He tilted his head to the right. “No need to get all—” His voice simply broke and stopped as they locked eyes.

He froze, his fingers still burning against her breast. The laser-blue eyes darkened and dilated. And then slowly, oh so slowly, they dropped to her lips.





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Chapter Four




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THIRTY-FIVE MILES NORTHEAST of Bellingham, Washington, Mac watched the Jayhawk that Wolf had loaned them bug out. Once the dust cloud settled, he shifted his attention to Jude, the big, braided Arapaho warrior taking Rawls’s place. Twisting slightly, Mac scanned the equipment strewn across the landing strip. Supposedly the guy was a medic, although how he intended to treat injuries without a med kit was open to question. Son of a motherf*cker—he should have checked the bastard’s gear before they hopped off the chopper.

“Jude, isn’t it?” Mac asked after waiting until the helicopter crested the hill looming in front of them and disappeared from view, where it would touch down, settle in, and wait for recall. “Wolf said you’re his team’s medic?”

An abbreviated nod of the regal head sent Jude’s long, graying braid swaying.

Mac eyed him closely. The guy looked a hell of a lot like their host. Same square face and hawkish black eyes. Same massive, muscled build tucked into a light green T-shirt and olive Flex-Tac pants. Same impassivity—although from the looks of it, the bastard had an extra twenty-five years on Wolf.

“Where’s your med kit?” Mac fought to keep the words a question, rather than an accusation.

Jude lifted his eyebrows and patted a small square pouch hanging against his side from an ancient leather shoulder strap. The bag was made from worn leather and embossed with a spider’s web in vibrant red and yellow.

Gritting his teeth, Mac turned away. That damn pouch was maybe four inches by four inches, barely big enough to carry a couple packages of QuikClot, a spool of gauze, and a suture kit. Sure as hell not much else.

In the distance, the Jayhawk’s rotor slowed as the pilot began the shutdown procedure. Mac swore beneath his breath. While Zane’s internal psychic alarm hadn’t sounded—yet—that didn’t mean much. Over the past fourteen years, numerous insertions had blown up in their faces without any warning from Zane’s emergency broadcasting system.