He’d watched her as much as possible, though moving his head made his headache almost blindingly severe. When she was in his field of vision he’d watched her stagger around, then crawl around, and it infuriated him that he couldn’t help her, that he had to lie there like a useless piece of shit while she half killed herself trying to take care of the both of them. She had pushed herself way past the point where most people would have sat down and said, “I can’t do any more,” and in taking care of him she had seriously neglected her own health.
He suspected she was dehydrated, because if she’d stopped for any nature calls during the day, he hadn’t noticed, and since regaining consciousness he’d paid very close attention to her, listening to her movements even when he couldn’t see her. She had allowed herself only a few sips of water, but at the same time she’d pushed herself physically all day long.
On the other hand, he’d tried to replenish the fluid volume he’d lost. He had drank steadily, if not a lot at any one time, from the mouthwash bottle as the snow inside it melted, replenishing the snow from what he could reach. At one point he’d painfully rolled on his side and taken a leak—careful to aim away from the area where he was getting the snow—and Bailey had been so focused on accomplishing all her tasks that she hadn’t even noticed.
She was so exhausted he’d let her sleep for a while before waking her to eat and drink. Holding her wasn’t exactly a hardship. Even with all the layers of clothing between them he could feel the firmness of her body, the resilience of her breasts. She kept herself trim, almost too slender for his tastes, but her muscle tone said she did it by exercise and not by starving herself.
Good muscle mass would help keep her warm tonight, too, but even then she’d have a tougher time dealing with the cold than he would. That was another reason why he was letting her sleep now, while she could. As the temperature kept dropping she’d get colder; they both would, even with all these clothes around and over them. Their shared body heat might be enough to keep them fairly comfortable, but he suspected that around dawn the temperature would be around zero, with a windchill about thirty below. That was damn cold by anyone’s standard. The shelter did the job of protecting them from the wind, but it wasn’t airtight. Guess he’d have to suck it up and cuddle with her all night long.
What a hardship.
He wasn’t above taking advantage of the forced intimacy of the situation, at least as far as he was able to take advantage of anything. Nothing overt, though; for now it was enough that they’d spend the night in each other’s arms—literally. Even if they were rescued first thing in the morning, which he didn’t think could possibly happen, tonight would always be a bond between them. They would have slept together, used each other’s heat to stay alive, talked through the long hours of darkness. There wouldn’t be any going back to her former frostiness. He didn’t think she’d try, but if she did he wouldn’t let her get away with it.
Cam didn’t pursue many women; he’d never really had to. Most pilots didn’t, unless they were bum-fuck ugly. Growing up in Texas, he’d played high school football, and that was pretty much guaranteed to make you popular with the girls. From there he’d gone straight into the Air Force Academy—cool uniforms, all the military machismo—so no problems there. Then he’d gone to flight school, got his wings, started moving up in rank. By then he’d been married, to the daughter of a colonel, so he’d deflected all the female attention that came his way. Later, after he was out of the military and divorced, nothing much had changed. Now he was a pilot and a business owner, and while he wasn’t a hound dog like Bret, when he wanted sex it was seldom difficult to find.
Bailey, though, had all the signs of being difficult. She hadn’t been embarrassed by his hard-on, but neither had she shown the least bit of interest. Because she’d been married he had to assume she wasn’t a lesbian, so she was either totally, completely uninterested in him, or it was those damn walls she’d built around herself. Either way, he was anticipating a challenge. He almost smiled in predatory satisfaction.
When he judged she’d slept about an hour, he turned on the little book light so she’d be able to see who he was and wouldn’t be startled, then gently shook her awake. “Bailey. It’s time to eat.”
She surfaced a little, only to sink again as soon as he stopped shaking her. He shook her harder. “Come on, honey, you need to drink some water even if you don’t want to eat.”
Her eyes opened, blinking slowly, and she glanced around for a moment as if she didn’t know where she was. Then she focused on him, and beneath the mound of clothing that covered them her free hand clenched on his waist. “Justice?”
“Cam. Now that we’re sleeping together, I think you should call me by my first name.”
A sleepy little smile touched her mouth. “Don’t get pushy. You can’t rush these things.”
“I won’t tell.” He studied her face as best he could in the small light. There was no way to tell for certain, but he thought she was still pale. Her right cheekbone was a little swollen, and a bruise darkened the skin under her eye. She’d been battered, too, but she’d kept going. “You have a black eye,” he said, drawing his hand from under the covers to gently touch her cheekbone.
“So what? Both of your eyes are black.”
“Won’t be the first time.”
She yawned. “I’m so tired,” she said drowsily. “Why did you wake me up?”
“You need water; you’re dehydrated. And you need to eat something, if you can.”
“You’re the one who lost so much blood. You need the water more than I do.”
“I’ve been drinking some all day, as the snow melted. Come on, don’t argue. Drink.” He hauled the mouthwash bottle out from its resting place against his hip. He watched as she dutifully swallowed a couple of times, but she was so exhausted he could tell even that was an effort. The bottle tilted in her hand, threatening the precious liquid cargo, and he hurriedly took it from her and recapped it.
“That’s good,” he said in encouragement. “What about the rest of that Snickers bar? Feel up to splitting it with me?”
“I just want to sleep,” she said fretfully. “My head hurts.”
“I know, honey. Remember those two aspirin we were each going to take? You need something in your stomach so the aspirin won’t upset it. Bite.” He held the candy bar to her lips and she took a small bite. He watched as she chewed and swallowed, before taking some of the candy himself. Then he made her take another bite. One last bite for himself, and the candy bar was gone.
Next he had to open the first-aid kit, which she’d put in the shelter with them, and that necessitated lifting himself up on his elbow. Every muscle in his body protested the movement, but his head went into outright revolt. He paused a moment, fighting nausea, until the hammering pain settled from excruciating down to mere agony.
When he could open his eyes, which were watering from the pain, he saw that she’d closed her eyes again. “Bailey, wake up. Aspirin.”
Once again she made the effort to open her eyes. Carefully he fumbled through the kit until he found the two doses of aspirin, sealed in their individual plastic squares. Using his teeth, he tore open both squares, swallowing two of the tablets before giving the other two to Bailey. They each had another sip of water, to wash down the aspirin, then he stowed the bottle under the covers again so the water wouldn’t freeze during the night.
Turning off the book light and plunging them once again into darkness, he settled her by touch, turning her so they were face-to-face, their legs tangled together. Remembering how she’d covered their heads earlier, he pulled one of the garments over their heads. There was still an opening for air, he could feel the frigid gap as clearly as if it were solid ice, but the air they were breathing was marginally warmer.
“Good night,” she murmured, the words slurred, as she nestled closer and pressed her face against his shoulder.
“Good night,” he said. He kissed her forehead, draped his arm
over her hip, and settled himself to catch what sleep he could.
14
THE COLD WOKE HER. BAILEY SURFACED FROM A FRETFUL sleep, shivering. She ached all over, and felt generally miserable. Complete darkness surrounded her and she almost panicked, would have panicked, if not for the unmistakable sensation of being held tightly in someone’s arms. On a subconscious level she recognized the scent, the feel of him, and knew there was no cause for alarm.
Or maybe there was, since his left hand was tucked inside the elastic waistbands of both her sweatpants and her underwear, resting on her bare butt.
Just as her hands were tucked under his shirt, she realized, seeking the warmth of his skin.
Icy air seeped through the heavy layers of clothing that covered them. Chills raced over her spine. Was there a gap in the covers? She reached behind her back with a questing hand, to see if she’d dislodged some of the garments.
“Are you awake?” Cam asked in a low tone, so if she wasn’t the question wouldn’t disturb her. She could feel the faint vibration the sound made in his chest, almost like a deep masculine purr. It made her want to nestle even closer, if that was physically possible.
“I’m cold,” she replied in a murmur. “And would you move your hand, please?”
“Which hand? This one?” His fingers wiggled against the cleft of her bottom, disturbingly close to, well, disturbingly close.
“Justice!” she said in sharp warning, narrowing her eyes at him even though the thick darkness made the action useless.
“I have brain damage, remember? I’m not responsible for my actions—or for the actions of my hand, which acted of its own volition and without my knowledge.”
She made a derisive little sound, but she was fighting a smile. Lying with him like this in the darkness was seductive, she realized. They were doing it to survive, but the reason behind the action in no way weakened the sense of intimacy the circumstances had forged between them. Her innate caution began sounding an alarm. If she weren’t careful, she could find herself drifting into exactly the kind of impulsive relationship she’d seen cause so much trouble in so many lives, her own parents’ among them. With such firsthand experience of the havoc bad personal choices could make on whole families, she’d always been ultra-careful not to let her emotions rule her head.
Bailey didn’t do impulsive, not in her financial life and certainly not in her personal one. She didn’t know Cam Justice; she’d been acquainted with him for a few years, but she didn’t know him—and their acquaintance hadn’t been cordial. She doubted he’d changed much in the past twelve hours or so, and she knew she hadn’t. To go from barely tolerating each other to sleeping together—in the literal sense, of course—in such a short length of time was mind-boggling enough by itself, without letting the situation cause her to make stupid decisions.
So instead of laughing, she said, “Move it or lose it.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be use it or lose it?” He sounded amused but he moved his hand, pulling it out of the back of her pants and tucking his fingers, instead, just under her shirt. She didn’t quibble about that; after all, she was still warming her hands on him.
And she liked touching him. The thought set off another alarm, but not recognizing the fact when it was staring her in the face seemed even more dangerous. What was there not to like? He was tall and lean, his body hard with muscle. He wasn’t handsome, but the rugged masculinity of his features appealed to her. She flashed to the sudden image of seeing that face above her in bed, of those strong arms braced on each side of her as her legs twined around his hips—
She jerked her thoughts away from the fantasy. Don’t go there. She didn’t believe in acting on sexual attraction, because if ever there was a situation when hormones took over decision-making from the brain, that was it. The stronger the attraction, the more control she exerted. In fact, she made it a point to avoid men to whom she was strongly attracted. She’d never had a passionate affair, never been in love, and didn’t intend to start now. Love and passion should come clearly marked with signs that read: Caution: May Cause Stupidity.
Her back and legs were aching so much she couldn’t get comfortable. She shifted around, searching for a better position. After yesterday, she was probably covered with bruises, and it wasn’t surprising that she felt sore after being in a plane crash. She shivered as another chill swept over her. “What time is it?” she asked. When daylight came, she’d be able to move around, and the temperature would start rising.
He moved his left hand again, lifting it and pressing a button on the side of his watch so the face was briefly illuminated. “Almost four-fifteen. We slept about four hours. How are you feeling?”
He was asking her that? He was the one with a huge gash in his head. He was the one who’d almost bled to death, who had gone into hypothermia. He was concussed, and could barely move under his own steam; she doubted he could walk ten yards unaided. Maybe such a disconnect from reality was a defect in the male chromosome.
“I have a headache, I ache in every muscle, and I’m cold,” she said succinctly. “Other than that, I’m good. How about you?”
Instead of answering he touched her face, his fingers cool on her skin. “I think you have a fever. You say you’re cold, but your skin feels hot to me. In fact, I’d probably be cold if you weren’t giving off so much heat.”
“I don’t have a fever,” she said, irrationally insulted by the suggestion. “I’d have to be sick to have a fever, and I’m not sick. Sick sick, anyway. I have altitude sickness, and according to that handy-dandy first-aid booklet altitude sickness doesn’t cause fevers. It causes headache and dizziness, which I have. Had. I’m not dizzy now, but, hey, I’m not standing up either.”
She couldn’t be sick. She had things to do. She was on vacation. As soon as they were rescued from this stupid mountain, she was going white-water rafting with Logan and Peaches, and she refused to let a stupid bug derail her plans.
“Like I said, I think you have a fever.” Ignoring her rejection of the idea, he went on, “Have you been exposed to anything lately, that you know of?”
“No, and if I do have a bug, you’ll get it, too, because we’ve been drinking from the same bottle, so you’d better hope I don’t.” Irritated, she turned onto her right side so she no longer faced him. When she did, pain shot through her right arm. What the—?
“Crap,” she muttered, then, more loudly, “Crap!”
“Crap, what? Is something wrong?” He clicked on the book light and the bright little LED bulbs almost blinded her for a second.
“You lucked out. I don’t have a bug. I had a piece of metal stuck in my arm this morning…yesterday morning. I pulled it out and forgot about it. Now my arm’s hurting. I guess it’s infected,” she said glumly. Okay, so she had a fever. Damn it.
“So you took care of me and didn’t take care of yourself.” There was a grim note in his voice. “Which arm?”
“The right one.”
“Let’s see.”
“It can wait until daylight. We can’t even sit up in here, so—”
He began unbuttoning the outermost shirt she wore. Seeing he wasn’t going to listen to reason, she pushed his hands away and resumed the task herself. “All right, all right. I don’t see what difference a few hours will make, but if putting some antibiotic salve and a Band-Aid on my arm will make you feel better—”
“God, you’re grouchy. Are you always like this when you first wake up?”
“No, I’m always like this when I have a fever,” she snapped as she struggled out of the first shirt and went to work on the second. “Damn it. Crap! I don’t have time to get sick.” She pulled off the second shirt.
“Just curious,” he commented, watching the proceedings with interest. “How many shirts do you have on?”
“Three or four. I was cold, and I gave you my nice, warm down vest.”
“Which I deeply appreciated.”
“You’re full of it, Justice,” sh
e muttered. “You were barely conscious and didn’t know what was going on.”
When she was down to the last shirt, she paused. She didn’t have on a bra, and she wasn’t about to strip off to the waist for him to enjoy the view. Feeling very put upon, she struggled to roll over onto her stomach. Considering the many layers covering them, the idea was much easier than the execution. Finally, feeling like a fish flopping around on a creek bank, she managed to get onto her stomach and pull her aching arm out of the shirtsleeve. “There,” she mumbled into the space blanket.
“Hell, Bailey, you didn’t even clean it up!” Annoyance was plain in his voice.
“No, I was preoccupied with other things, like keeping you from bleeding to death, then keeping us from freezing to death,” she said sarcastically, just as annoyed as he. “Next time, I’ll get my priorities straight.”
“Where did you stash those wipes?”
With her left hand she fumbled around the shelter, located the pack, and flipped it over her back. “Here you go.”
The wipe was cold, but it felt good on her arm. She winced as he swabbed at the puncture wound and pain stabbed the muscle. “Ouch!”
“No shit. Does it feel as if something’s sticking you?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s because there is. You pulled out the biggest piece, I guess, but left this one in. It looks sort of like a needle…hold on…got it.”
She set her teeth against the burning ache. He was pinching hard on her triceps muscle now, making the wound bleed, and swabbing the blood up with his free hand. This wasn’t fun, but he’d kept quiet while she sewed up his head, so she could keep quiet while he tended her arm.
“The skin is hot and a little swollen,” he said. “So, yeah, I’d say this is what’s causing your fever. I don’t see any red streaks, though.” She felt the coolness of salve, then pressure as he slapped a couple of adhesive bandages over the wound—or wounds. She didn’t know if there was one puncture site, or two. “Let’s hope this is enough to keep the infection under control.”