Dangerous Passions

Jazz hesitated a moment, then nodded.

Shannon felt some of the tension slowly seep from her body as she watched Jazz move back toward the Zodiac. But she didn’t breathe until she heard the motor start up again, and she didn’t speak until she saw the small boat heading back to the yacht.

“What are we going to do now?”

Mike had been prepared for the question. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give her a more definitive answer than to say, “Hope the Sarsat beacon on the boat was working.”

“What’s a Sarsat beacon?”

“It’s a distress signal sent via satellite to a search-and-rescue center. The coast guard might already be on its way.” If it was working.

“Might?”

He should have known she’d pounce on that word. “Since the radio was destroyed, we have to consider the possibility that the emergency signal may have been, as well.”

“Destroyed?” She frowned.

Damn.

“It had been tampered with,” he admitted.

“Oh.”

But it was obvious she didn’t fully understand the implications of his explanation, and he didn’t want to expand on the details right now.

“Let’s take a walk around,” he said. “Get our bearings.”

He bent to retrieve the backpack, wincing when his arm flexed with the movement.

Frowning, he glanced at the bicep, at the sticky crimson fluid trickling down his arm. He’d felt the bite of the bullet, the searing heat as the metal projectile cut through the flesh, but he’d put it out of his mind. Now that more immediate dangers had passed, he knew he should take care of the wound. It really wasn’t deep, but in this environment, infection was a definite possibility.

“Which way—” Shannon gasped when she turned and saw the blood. “What happened?”

“Those weapons you were telling me about,” he said. “Definitely AK-47s.”

“You were shot?”

“Flesh wound,” he said dismissively.

“There’s an awful lot of blood….”

Her face seemed to drain of color right before his eyes, and he was afraid, for a moment, that she might pass out. “Are you okay?”

She drew in a breath, steadied herself. “I’m not the one who was shot.”

He glanced at the wound, the blood still seeping down his arm. It really was minor—the bullet just having grazed the skin. “It’s fine.”

She shook her head and muttered something that sounded like “macho idiot” under her breath.

This time he did smile.

“Is there a first-aid kit in the backpack?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He reached inside for the metal box with the familiar red cross on the top, scowling when he realized the box was wet, that everything inside the waterproof pack was wet. His scowl deepened when he realized there was a bullet hole in the fabric, and the canteen he’d packed was both broken and empty. He was almost more annoyed at the loss of the water than his injury. He bit back a curse and handed Shannon the first-aid kit.

She rummaged inside until she found an antibiotic wipe, gauze pads and tape. Her fingers were cool and gentle as she dabbed at the blood around the torn flesh.

The light touch reminded him of the way those same hands had skimmed over the bare skin of his chest, gripped his shoulders. The memory made him tense, tightening the muscles in his arm.

He swore.

She pulled her hand away. “Did I hurt you?”

Yeah, but the pain he was feeling had nothing to do with her nursing skills.

“No,” he responded to her question, his voice sounding hoarse, aroused, even to his own ears.

She glanced at him warily, then away quickly, returning her attention to his arm.

He tried to focus on the scarlet blossom of a hibiscus flower visible in the distance, but his gaze kept being drawn back to Shannon. Her head was bent down as she applied herself to her task. Her long hair hung in a tangled, dripping mass down her back, but even the saltwater residue failed to dim its fiery color. Her neck was long and slender, the skin pale and smooth.

He wondered how she would respond if he dipped his head to nibble the soft lobe of her ear, press his lips to the graceful curve of her neck, touch his tongue to the racing pulse point at the base of her throat.

His eyes riveted on that pulse point.

It was racing.

She might project cool competence and a hands-off attitude, but Shannon Vaughn wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted him to believe. Or maybe it was adrenaline that was causing her heart to pump so furiously.

He let his gaze drop further, to the wet T-shirt that clung provocatively to her generous curves. Her nipples pebbled beneath his stare, confirming that there was more than just adrenaline at work here.

She lifted his arm gently, to clean away some already dried blood, and his elbow brushed against her breast.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Her response was automatic, but he noticed that her cheeks had turned pink and her hands weren’t quite as steady when she unrolled and tore off a piece of tape to fasten the gauze to his arm.

She definitely wasn’t unaffected, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to bridge the distance between them and cover her mouth with his own.

It was a natural desire under the circumstances—the result of adrenaline pumping through his own system. Because he understood the reaction, he was able to resist the impulse.

Besides, he knew one kiss wouldn’t be enough. He wanted not just to taste her lips but to touch her all over. He wanted to hear her soft sighs and throaty whimpers as his hands moved over her naked flesh, to feel the yield of her soft curves to the press of his body as they merged together and finished what they’d started in her room.

He exhaled a ragged breath.

One kiss definitely would not be enough.