He responded with a smirk. “I ain’t got time to bleed.”
“Would you stop doin’ that?” She curled her plump top lip like Elvis. It was a gesture he remembered well. One that made strange things happen to the butterflies that had recently taken up residence in his stomach.
“Doing what?”
“Quotin’ bad movies at a time like this!”
He gasped exaggeratedly. “You think Predator is a bad movie?”
Before she could answer, Mason told the park ranger, “Lead the way. But stay low.”
Apparently Mason wasn’t of a mind to hang around and discuss the merits of one of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s better movies. Considering their current situation, Bran couldn’t blame him.
Grabbing the dead man’s weapon from where it had fallen on the beach, Bran slung the strap over his shoulder before reaching for his M4 and tactical blade. Once he’d shoved the latter into its sheath, he lumbered to his feet and offered a hand to Maddy. When her palm landed in his, he felt a jolt of awareness, like two wires on a car battery suddenly making a connection.
“Are you sure you can make it?” she asked again. Er…demanded, really. With her eyebrows pulled in a vee and her hands balled on her hips, it was definitely a demand. An adorable, adorable demand.
Before he could reassure her, Mason barked, “Go, go, go!” and they were all suddenly on the move.
Bran lifted his rifle, keeping his sights aimed at the fort and the large embrasures—the openings built into the side of the garrison to allow cannon fire—that peered out at the island and the surrounding waters like dark, malevolent eyes.
The short trip to the little cottage that was the ranger’s station seemed to take an eternity. Bran figured that was partly due to the burning pain in his thigh. But it was also due to his acute—we’re talking absolute—awareness of every move Maddy made. He sensed every stutter in her step. Was attuned to every breath she took. He imagined if he listened really closely, he could probably hear her heart beat.
This was how he remembered her, this…hyperawareness. And it was just one of the many reasons he hadn’t wanted to come tonight.
In the three months since he’d last seen her, he’d been able to convince himself he had imagined everything. Chalked up his overwhelming reaction to her to the extreme circumstances under which they’d met. But now that he was back by her side? There was no denying it. That pull, that draw was still there. Still thick in the air between them like a cloud of superpowered pheromones or some shit.
When they finally made it to the ranger’s station, the quiet shuffle of feet scurrying up the stone steps sounded behind him. “Got you covered,” Mason said. “Up and in.”
When Bran turned to make his own way into the ranger’s station, it was to see two things. The first was Mason on the little porch, leaning against the rail that could really use a coat or two of paint—the salty sea air was hell on exteriors—M4 raised and at the ready to provide cover fire should Bran need it. The second was Maddy’s luscious ass at eye level. Had Bran not already been sporting a battlefield boner—adrenaline tended to make a man’s stick and stones perk up—he would have sprung wood at the sight. Her hips swung back and forth with an enticingly feminine tick-tock when she hustled through the front door.
“Bran?” She spun around in the threshold. “Hurry!”
To jostle his brain around enough that it could tell his eyes to stop bugging out of their sockets, he had to shake his head like a dog shaking off water.
Oh man. He was in so much trouble. And only some of it was from the dick-lickers in the fort.
*
7:23 p.m.…
Alexandra Merriweather didn’t know which was worse. The horrifying sound of a real, live, honest-to-goodness gun battle, or this. This oppressive, almost malignant silence that seemed to be spreading with each passing second.
“The silence is worse,” she said aloud, just to hear her own voice and not feel so alone.
When Mason and Bran had armed themselves to the teeth before diving overboard, she’d thought she’d be fine on her own. But now, in the midst of the eerie quiet, the solitude was starting to get to her. The vastness of the sea was daunting. The soft clink, clink of the rigging lines against the steel mainmast sounded strangely sinister. And the warm, humid air had become oppressive, pushing in on her until it felt like her lungs were caught in a vise.
“You wait here,” Mason had told her before donning a pair of swim fins, his huge back flexing as he bent at the waist. “The minute we know what’s happening and take control of the situation, we’ll send up this flare.” He’d shown her the flare stick before shoving it into a pocket of his cargo shorts. Then he’d slipped two large…er…what she thought were called magazines full of bullets into another pocket. Just…easy-peasy, as-you-pleasey. No biggie. Gulp.