Forbidden River (The Legionnaires #2.5)(3)

“I’m getting the idea these aren’t the first people to disappear up there.”

She gave him a sideways look. “How much research did you do on this river?”

“Enough to know it’s one of the wildest kayaking runs anywhere.”

“See, I’d have thought that would warn people away, but it just seems to attract them. I’ve never understood that urge to put yourself in danger.”

“And yet you fly a helicopter.”

“I fly it very safely.” Her voice strained as she pulled a strap. “The lucky ones get airlifted out with broken limbs. Of course, by then they’ve usually been waiting awhile—hungry, dehydrated, hypothermic...”

“You trying to talk me out of it?”

She yanked. “Would you listen?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Would you heed the warning?”

“No, ma’am. You’re just saying that for the record, right? Covering your liability.”

“Yep. That and the fact I’m not your mother. I take it you’ve been in a helicopter before.”

“Many times.”

A dimple in her cheek twitched. “Okay, we’re good to go.”

“I’m a soldier.” Now, why did he feel the need to make that clear?

“You’re a soldier.” Not a question, more a sarcastic echo. She tipped her head and studied him like he’d blown her assumptions and she had to start over.

He laughed.

“What?”

“I can hear you thinking.”

“You’re a psychic, too? Wow.” Deadpan again, like it was the end of a long day and she didn’t want to encourage conversation. Neither did he, normally. Mindless chatter shriveled his soul. But she was fun. There was passion hiding in those eyes, a smile simmering under those lips.

“Yep,” he said. “You’re thinking, ‘What kind of soldier charters a helicopter rather than hiking in?’”

That dimple again. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“‘And what kind of soldier buys a new kit instead of stealing military supplies?’”

“Maybe you are psychic.” She folded her arms. “Or maybe you’re a rich-boy fantasist who thinks that because he’s in some hick backwoods at the end of the Earth he can reinvent himself into anything he wants—like, say, a soldier—so the gullible local girl will trip over herself to fall in bed with him.”

“Whoa.”

“And maybe you’re also a risk taker with a death wish,” she continued, a twitch away from a smile. “You’ve done so many reckless things—out of rich-boy boredom, let’s assume—that you’ve overridden your survival instinct and now it’s only a matter of time before you make headlines and everyone says all that bullshit like ‘He lived life to the fullest’ and ‘He died doing what he loved’ and ‘He’ll always stay beautiful.’ But you’ll just be unnecessarily dead like all the other unnecessarily dead people.”

Shee-it. She was ten kinds of cool. “You calling me beautiful?”

The smile broke through, curving her lips at an intriguing angle. An exasperated smile, but he’d take it. “Still, it’s not a bad thing that fate weeds out the risk takers. Makes the herd stronger. Just try not to die in my country, on my river.”

“Your river.”

“My people’s river. Ko Awatapu te awa, ko Maungapouri te maunga. Awatapu is my river. Maungapouri is my mountain.” She jerked her head at the highest of the snow-crowned peaks jutting up behind the deep green nearer range. “I haven’t always lived here but my whānau—my family—are anchored by these mountains and that river, guardians of them. So yeah, don’t die on my watch because you’ve screwed up your wiring and death is the only challenge left.”

Oh, he was getting a reminder that a very different challenge could still amp him up. He had zero time for women who were impressed by his uniform or his family’s money. A pity legionnaires with death wishes didn’t do relationships.

She walked past him, toward the cockpit. “See, to me, you look like a rich guy with too much time to spend at the gym.”

Okay, so that stung—his fitness had come from hard work, self-control and self-loathing. Those he could take credit for. But it also meant she’d been checking out his body.

Guessing he wouldn’t get an invitation, he circled the chopper and let himself in as she settled in the pilot’s seat.

She raised her chin in cool appraisal, clipping on her harness. “What’s your weapon?”

A test? “Le Fusil à Répétition modèle F2. Sometimes a Hécate II.”

She hovered long, slender fingers over the dials on the instrument panel, eyes narrowed, following their path. Not taking chances, even though the blades had just stopped spinning. Overkill, but he’d tolerate that in a pilot. “That’s the FR-F2, right? Sniper rifles.”

“You know them?”

“Those don’t sound like US military issue. So...what? You’re a mercenary? Sorry, I mean security contractor?”

“In a sense,” he said. “Just not a well-paid one.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of selling out—making money?”