Page 30 of No Hope of Rescue

I turn around. She’s showered, her blonde hair still damp but sweetly mussed by an equally short nap. There’s a crease across one of her cheeks, but both are bright pink. She’s wearing clean black jeans and a navy-blue angora turtleneck. Finally, she’s warm enough to go barefoot.

Her feet are small, brown, with perfectly straight toes capped with shiny light blue nail polish. There’s a sense of exposure, of vulnerability, just with her standing in front of me. Something stirs deep in my lower abdomen.

I try to shake off whatever this is. Why am I seeing her like this?

Mom hands her a steaming mug of coffee and gives her a hug.

“Got it,” Ryan yells from the kitchen table. He’s been hunched over a laptop the entire time. “Look.”

Kelly comes around to gaze at the screen. She puts a hand on her son’s shoulder.

“That’s it. It’s from a museum in Guatemala,” she says, nodding. “It’s the same piece.” She taps the screen. “This and thirty other pieces on loan were taken from a small teaching college in Guatemala.”

“What about land records?” I explain the five-mile radius from the crash site.

“Got that too.” Ryan hits another tab.

Ross takes a look, then hits a key and zooms out. He glances at me. “We can take the Bell up, check for activity—lights on or smoke at any of the cabins. There are five cabins large enough to house five people each. You got high-powered binoculars?”

“Yeah.” I set down the coffee mug. “If they’ve already made a run to retrieve more artifacts from the plane, there’ll be tracks too.”

Ross turns to me as if he has something to prove. “I’ve done extractions,” Ross says. “And I can fly.”

“You’re licensed?”

“As a SAR medic pilot.”

Ross Colton is in. We’ll need to leave as soon as possible. This was fast, easy, and he’s already making motions to suit up and leave.

In contrast, the argument a few minutes later in the back supply room with Riley, though heated, is nearly silent—and takes much too long.

My eyes close. “You’re not going,”

Instantly, she flares. “I am too going, and you’re not going to stop me.”

I shake my head and shrug on a heavy spare coat. My boots are out near the woodstove, drying.

Her whisper is fierce and punctuated with glaring looks. Again, there’s a stirring. Fuck. It’s why I don’t want her going anywhere near those men.

Her face is in mine. “I’m part of this. I am a co-owner of this operation, remember? You put me on the paperwork.”

There’s a tap on the open door, and Ross ducks his head in. He takes in our sudden silence for a moment and then gives a thumbs-up. “Whenever you’re ready.” The door pulls shut. He clearly senses we need privacy.

Placing both hands on her shoulders, feeling her bones under the sweater, imagining her throat as her breath catches the moment my fingers touch her, my prick stiffens against denim. Once more, I’m seeing her as a woman—as a friend, yes, but definitely as a woman.

There’s something compromising for both of us in this moment.

“I can’t let you come.” I expect a full-on attack. “Letting” is a dangerous word in Riley’s world. She has told me more than once that she doesn’t need permission.

Before she can speak, I close my eyes and lean one arm against the wall. “This isn’t a typical search and rescue operation. There are criminals involved.”

“I know.”

My voice cracks. “I can’t . . . I couldn’t deal with it. If you got hurt—”

“I am not your responsibility. I have never asked to be your responsibility. We are part of a team. We stick together.”

I try to get a word in, but she shuts me down again.