Up Close and Dangerous Read online

  There was nowhere to sit without getting their pants wet, so she stood with her back to him while he bared her arm and peeled off the bandage. “It doesn’t look any worse,” he said, to her relief. “It’s still red around the puncture site, but the redness isn’t spreading.” He put more antibiotic on the wound, slapped another bandage over it, and she eased her arm back into her shirtsleeve, did up the buttons.

  “While we’re out here, I should probably check your head,” she said.

  He touched the thick bandage on his head. “Is there enough gauze to redo this?”

  There was, but only one more time. What if they weren’t rescued tomorrow? The thought sent a chill down her spine, or maybe that was a chill from the fever. Either way, the idea of a third night on the mountain was horrendous.

  Nevertheless, his bandage needed changing. “I don’t have to use as much this time,” she finally said. “I’ll put a pad over the cut, and wrap the Ace bandage around your head to make sure no trash or debris gets into the stitches.”

  There was still no place to sit, and he was so much taller than she that even unwrapping the Ace bandage was awkward. Finally he pulled one of the trash bags over and carefully knelt on it, while she still stood. “Is that better?”

  “Much.” Carefully she removed the rest of the bandage, hoping the antibiotic salve she’d put on the stitches would prevent the gauze from sticking. It had, for the most part. There were a few places where she had to tug on the gauze to pull it free, but nothing drastic. At least, he didn’t scream or curse, for which she was grateful.

  Her repair job looked almost as bad as the cut had, she thought, biting her lip. Dried blood crusted around the holes where the stitches were, and in a thin line along the cut, making her wonder if she hadn’t pulled the edges together tightly enough. Then she realized that some of the swelling had gone down, which meant the stitches weren’t as tight as they should be. “It’s going to leave a hell of a scar,” she warned. “You may need plastic surgery.”

  The look he gave her was mildly incredulous. “For a scar?”

  “I’m not a doctor, remember? This isn’t exactly a neat job.” She felt embarrassed, as if she’d failed at some test, though she didn’t know what else she could have done. Left the cut open until the swelling went down? That didn’t seem like a viable alternative. Not only would the cut have been more likely to get infected, but wouldn’t leaving it open make the scar worse?

  “Does it bother you? The scar,” he asked.

  “Hey, it isn’t on my head. If it doesn’t bother you, then don’t worry about it.”

  He grinned as she used an alcohol wipe to clean off the dried blood. “You aren’t oozing with sympathy, are you?”

  “I’m not an oozer. Sorry.”

  “What I meant was, does it bother you to look at it?”

  “I won’t be looking at it, because I’m going to cover it with a bandage. But scars in general don’t bother me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Picking up the tube of antibiotic salve, she squirted a line of it over the stitches, from one end to the other. Covering the wound took two sterile gauze pads; she used strips of tape to hold them in place, then rewound the Ace bandage around his head. “There. You aren’t as good as new, but you’re better than you were yesterday.”

  “Thanks to you,” he said as he climbed to his feet. She reached out to help him, holding him until she was certain he was steady. He looped one strong arm around her, tilted her chin up, and kissed her.

  18

  BAILEY FROZE IN DISMAY, CAUGHT IN HIS SURPRISINGLY powerful grip. She hated having to deal with sexual issues. They’d been getting along so well; why did he have to ruin things by making a pass? He was stronger than she’d expected, given his physical condition, which meant she might have to put some muscle into pushing him away, but she didn’t want to maybe cause him to fall and make his concussion worse—

  But the kiss was light and brief, his lips cold against hers, his head lifting before she could put thought into action. “Thank you,” he said again, and released her.

  She stood there in the cold, flummoxed. Okay, now she was officially confused. Was that a pass, or not? If he’d intended it to be, then it was the most nonsexual pass she’d ever experienced, which kind of defeated the purpose. If the kiss had been intended as a “thank-you,” then just saying the words would have sufficed.

  She was the first to admit she wasn’t the best at catching sexual signals, and it seemed to her that relationships were hair-raising enough without one or both of the people involved operating on mistaken assumptions. In her book, it was better to ask and be certain, even if that wasn’t how these situations were usually handled. She shook off her mild shock and resumed helping him to the shelter, wedging her shoulder under his left arm and putting both arms around his waist. “Was that a pass?” she demanded, frowning up at him.

  He paused, his expression mild as he glanced down. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I couldn’t tell. If it was a pass, then I want you to know up front that sex isn’t in the cards. If it wasn’t, then never mind.”

  He actually laughed, his arm tightening around her shoulders in a brief hug. “Trust me, when I make a pass at you, you’ll know it. That was just a thank-you.”

  “Saying ‘thank you’ would have been enough.”

  “So would saying ‘you’re welcome,’” he said drily.

  Color burned in her pale face. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry. I was being pissy, and I didn’t mean to be.”

  “It’s okay.” They had covered the four yards or so to the shelter. He dropped his arm from around her and eased to one side, indicating for her to enter the shelter first. She did, realizing for the first time how much easier getting in and out was when no one else was inside. “Wait, let—” she began, but he was already crawling in behind her. She drew her legs up to give him as much maneuvering space as possible. He got turned around, his long legs making things difficult for him, then he stretched out on his stomach and pulled the trash bag closer to plug the entrance.

  They settled in, straightening and arranging the heap of clothing so they were better able to cover themselves. Bailey sighed as she relaxed her aching body, lying on her side facing him. After doing nothing but lying around and dozing for most of the day she should be bored and restless, but instead she was still so tired she felt as if heavy weights were attached to her legs and arms. She also felt incredibly grungy; being dirty and sick was somehow much worse than being clean and sick.

  Depression settled on her like a wet rug. “Why didn’t they come today?” she asked, her tone desolate.

  Cam rested his head on the piece of foam that served him as a pillow. They were lying face-to-face, close together in the dimming light as the sun sank lower, bringing another icy night closer and closer. Her gaze roved over his battered face. She could still see the way his lashes curled, and the day’s worth of whiskers that adorned his jaw, but soon he would be only a darker shadow in the gloom of the shelter, before the darkness became complete.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said. “The ELT should have brought a helicopter right to us.”

  “Maybe it’s damaged,” she suggested, her heart sinking as the possibility registered with her. If no one knew where they were—

  “ELTs can take a lot of abuse, especially with the plane as relatively intact as it is.”

  “Intact?” she echoed incredulously. “Have you looked at it lately? The left wing is gone! Half the cabin is gone!”

  One corner of his mouth curled in faint amusement. “But we’re both alive and in one piece, and most of the aircraft is still there. I’ve seen crashes where all that was left was a few burned pieces of metal.”

  “Like if we’d crashed into a rock face?” For a moment she flashed back to those sickening moments before impact, when she’d stared at the craggy rocks looming ever closer and knowing that she was about to die.

  “Like that. That’s why I wanted to get