SEALs of Summer 2: A Military Romance Superbundle (120 page)

Circling as wide a path as she could, she approached her tent from the rear, flung open the flap and half-dragged, half-walked Irish inside where she eased him to the floor. Claire bent over him. “Are you still with me?” she whispered.

No response.

Again, she pressed fingers to his neck, her own heart standing still until she felt the steady beat of his pulse. Then she collapsed on the floor beside him and rested her strained back and arms. She wasn’t done. Sunrise would come soon, and she had to hide Irish in the small confines of her tent.

Once the burning in her arms and back subsided, she moved her cot, folding desk, medical supplies and equipment from one side of the tent and made a makeshift pallet of a sleeping bag and several blankets. Then she strung her mosquito netting from the ceiling, providing a little bit of a visual barrier for anyone peeking in through the door of the tent. When she had the pallet the way she needed it, she pushed, shoved and rolled Irish onto it.

He muttered and moaned but helped a little. Finally on the padded surface, he passed out again.

Claire found her penlight and shined it into his eyes. His pupils didn’t respond correctly, indicating a possible concussion. Not much she could do for him. If he had swelling on the brain, she wouldn’t be able to help him without the tools she’d need to drill a hole in his skull to allow excess fluid to drain.

Her fingers flew over the buckles, velcro, zippers and buttons of his flack vest, jacket and trousers as she stripped him enough to check for other injuries. Rolling him onto his side, she found a large bruise on his back and hip. His trousers were cut clean through on his left shin, a four-inch-long gash laid open his skin to germs and infection.

To keep from removing the trousers all together, she cut a small length at the ankle and ripped the trouser leg upward. Claire went to work on the abrasion, cleaning it thoroughly with her supply of boiled water. When she had dirt and grit out of the wound, she poured on alcohol to kill any germs and covered it with gauze and medical tape. Using the precious penicillin she’d stored in her kit, she gave him a shot to his derriere. It was the best she could do in primitive conditions, a fact she had long ago accepted when working with the Somali people. Food and shelter meant more to them than medical necessities. Infant mortality was high, and the rebels made sure all ages of mortality stayed at an elevated level.

When she was finished checking him over, she left him on the pallet and went to work rearranging the rest of the tent to hide him. She pushed her cot up next to him, positioned her boxes of medical supplies in stacks beside her cot and her desk in front of the boxes. Anyone looking into the tent would see her cot before they saw the pallet on the floor, and assume she’d built the barricade for more privacy.

At least that’s what Claire hoped. When Irish was well enough to move, he’d have to be moved in secrecy.

And then what?

She hoped to hell he had some ideas. A week ago, when the rebels had taken control of Samada, they’d confiscated the ancient Land Rover Claire had purchased in Djibouti. No one had expected them to barrel into town, waving guns and firing into the air, until they’d arrived.

Rather than risk being taken by the rebels, Claire had walked away from her only form of transportation. For the past two weeks, she’d hidden on the edge of the quickly established refugee camp. The rebels knew about the refugee camp and sent over armed fighters to scare them once to remind them who was in charge.

Umar, their leader, had killed the elder of the village, cut off his head, driven a spiked rod through it and planted it in the earth as a reminder to those who turned against him.

Claire kept that in mind, knowing if she were caught harboring one of Umar’s enemies, she’d be treated the same, even though she was a doctor and a member of the World Health Organization. Her backers could do nothing when she was at Umar’s mercy. Vowing to move Irish as soon as possible, she finished rearranging her meager belongings.

Early in the predawn hours of morning, she crawled onto her cot, pulled the mosquito netting around her and the pallet, and laid a hand on Irish’s muscled, bare chest. It moved evenly up and down. Occasionally, his uninjured leg jerked and his head moved back and forth, as if he were living a nightmare over and over.

Leaving her hand on his chest, Claire closed her eyes. Though the night had been trying, the morning and daylight would bring a whole new set of challenges. Hoping a visit from the rebels wasn’t one of them, Claire fell asleep.

In the gray
light of morning, Irish opened his eyes to a splitting headache and stared up at a curtain of light mesh hanging over him. If he turned his head just a little, sharp pain ripped through his skull. But the view of the pretty sandy-blond-haired woman, lying in the cot above him, made him forget the pain for a moment.

Lying on her stomach, she dangled her hand over the edge of the cot onto his chest and the side of her face was half over, as well. Her straight hair lay in disarray around her shoulders and across her cheek.

Had he imagined those soft, rosy lips kissing his?

Irish raised a hand to brush the hair from her cheek, the effort costing him in a stab of pain through his temple and across his skull. His back ached and, when he moved, his left leg joined the rest of his body in soreness. He felt like he’d been put through a meat grinder.

Slowly, the events of the previous day came back to him—the preparation, the explosion, grenades launched into Umar’s hut, running for the chopper and the aircraft taking a hit.

His pulse sped, and he started to rise.

The hand on his chest applied pressure, holding him down.

Irish’s gaze shifted from her lips to soft, gray-blue eyes.

“You’re awake,” she whispered.

“I have to get out of here.” Again, he started to rise.

Her hand remained on his bare chest, and she shook her head. “It’ll be daylight soon. I snuck you in last night. If you run out of here now, someone will see you.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said, sitting up.

“You might be willing to risk your life, but it’s the others who will also bear the brunt of your discovery.”

“What others?”

“We’re on the edge of the refugee camp containing the women and children of Samada lucky enough to escape before the al-Shabaab rebels took over. So far, they haven’t attacked us, but that could only be a matter of time. If they discover you among us, they’ll kill everyone here.”

“I have to leave. My team needs me.”

“Your team is gone.”

Irish tensed. He seemed to remember her saying something like that before, but hadn’t quite grasped her meaning through his haze of pain. “I don’t understand.”

She slid off the cot and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him and, keeping her voice down, she filled him in. “You fell out of the helicopter. It crashed. The rebels converged on it, but I didn’t see them dragging any bodies back to Samada for the usual torture and dismemberment.”

Some of his tension eased. If the rebels hadn’t dragged them back to Samada, dead or alive, his team had gotten away. For a long time, he stared into her eyes. The woman had saved his life. She had no reason to lie to him.

“For today, you have to stay inside my tent, be quiet and not let anyone else know you’re here.” Her brows rose. “Understood?”

His lips twitched. He wasn’t used to taking orders from a civilian, but he didn’t really mind when it was his guardian angel. “On one condition.”

She frowned. “You’re not in a position to make conditions.”

The way her nose wrinkled made his insides feel all tingly. Bossy and sassy. He liked this woman. Irish winked, the effort costing him another twinge of pain. “I only want to know the name of the lass who rescued me.” He laid on the Irish accent he’d learned from his mother.

Her face brightened and the crease in her forehead lifted as she held out her hand. “Claire Boyette.”

“And why in the hell are you in Somalia?”

She smiled. “I’m here as part of
Medecins sans Frontieres
.” She grimaced. “Doctors Without Borders.”

“A doctor, are ya?” He pinched the bridge of his nose before staring across at her. “Isn’t it too dangerous for you to be here? Couldn’t you go to Kenya or South Africa?”

“Samada was fairly safe until two weeks ago when Umar decided the village suited his army’s needs and forced the people out.”

“Why, my angel, didn’t you leave then?”

Her lips twisted. “While I was herding women and children into the woods, Umar and his men confiscated my transportation. Unless I walk out, I’m kind of stuck. Besides, I have patients to tend in the hospital tent we were able to move. I couldn’t leave them.”

Irish started to shake his head, regretting it as soon as he did. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose again. “You’re in grave danger.”

“So far, I’ve stayed out of sight of the rebels. They’re more interested in staging raids to other cities and villages than to fool with a bunch of women and children living in the woods.”

“Still, you’re in danger, here.”

“Yes, but I’m a doctor. They are less likely to kill me than kidnap me. Trust me when I say that you are a bigger threat to me and the people in this camp. Umar has leveled entire villages for harboring his enemies.” She pulled a penlight from beneath her pillow. “Stare straight ahead.”

He did as she said, while she shined the light in both of his eyes.

Claire’s gray-blue gaze stared into his intently. Her nearness made him more aware of the way she smelled of the outdoors and sunshine, and the way she bit on her lip when she concentrated. Yes, this doctor was having an effect on him, and he was in no shape to do anything about it. Even if he were, she probably would slap the stupid off his face for even trying.

“So, Doctor Claire.” He paused, waiting for her to finish.

“Yes?” She switched off the light and stared at him with a clear direct look.

“Are you married?”

Her eyes widened and then narrowed. “What?”

“I meant to ask, will I live?” Irish glanced at her hand. No ring. No white band from where a ring might have been.

“Your pupils are responding, which is a good sign.” She put the penlight in her pocket, pushed to her feet and stretched. “And no.”

“No, I’m not going to live?” He grinned.

“No. I’m not married.” She stepped out of the little room made of boxes and the tent wall. “Close your eyes. I need to change and get ready for rounds and clinic duties.”

“I can help.”

She appeared at the end of the pallet and dropped down beside him on her knees. Claire gripped his arms and said in a stern whisper, “No matter what, you are not to step foot outside this tent. And not a peep out of your mouth. Don’t move anything or knock anything over.” She let go of his arms and sat back on her heels. “Understood?”

He nodded, loving the way her eyes sparkled when she got all wound up. But stay still all day? “What am I supposed to do?”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll sleep away the day. If you’re feeling better and the leg wound isn’t infected, you have to get out of here, tonight.” Again, she pushed to her feet. “Now, be nice and close your eyes.” She turned away, grabbed the hem of her dirty T-shirt and tugged it over her head. Standing in nothing but her shorts and a bra, she wet a washcloth and performed a quick ritual of washing her face, neck, arms and torso, pushing the cloth beneath her bra. Claire glanced over her shoulder and glared. “Your eyes are supposed to be closed.”

“Sorry, got something in one.” What he’d gotten was a glimpse of a beautiful woman with a long lithe form and curves in all the right places. “Got it.” He closed his eyes long enough for her to turn back around, and then he opened them again.

Claire reached into a suitcase, pulled out a clean shirt and slipped it over her head.

Irish sighed. “A shame to cover such a lovely body.”

She turned and threw the cloth at his head. “You are no gentleman.”

Shaking his head, he raised his hands. “Never said I was. But you’re all lady.”

Her cheeks reddened as she dragged a brush through her long, straight hair until all the tangles were smoothed. Then she bent at the waist and gathered her hair into a single ponytail and cinched it in place at the crown of her head with an elastic band. She stood, and the ponytail made her look much younger than her years, but no less beautiful. Her hair pulled tightly back from her face emphasized her high cheekbones and full lush lips.

Lips Irish would like to kiss again.

“Was it my imagination or was I kissed by an angel last night?” he asked.

The color in her cheeks deepened. “I’m sure you were dreaming.”

“Kiss me so I can compare with my dream.”

“I will not.” She pulled a white smock over her T-shirt, stuffed her stethoscope in the pocket and headed for the front tent flap. “Remember, no one must see or hear you.”

Irish moved to sit on the cot as Claire left the tent, pulling the flaps tightly closed behind her. His head still hurt like hell. He raised his hand to the back of his neck and felt the goose-egg-sized lump at the base of his skull. Much as he hurt all over, he was lucky to be alive. Being so close to the town he and his team had been sent to annihilate, he wondered if he’d live long enough to get out.

Though danger lurked, he couldn’t help but think about the pretty doctor out here in the middle of hostile territory. When he left, he’d have to convince her to go with him. He couldn’t leave her knowing Umar might find out she’d harbored one of the American SEALs sent to kill him.

‡