Sinner (The Hades Squad #1)

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Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,

Hartwood Publishing, 400 Gilead Road, #1617, Huntersville, NC 28070

www.hartwoodpublishing.com

Sinner

Copyright © 2009 by Jianne Carlo

Hartwood Release: February 2015

 Digital ISBN: 978-1-62916-112-9

Cover Artist:  Georgia Woods

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Navy SEAL Sinner is no choir boy. Deployed to fight an out-of-control brush fire in Alaska, Sinner is the last smokejumper to exit the plane. Sinner veers off course, his chute fails, his reserve opens, and he’s knocked unconscious when he lands in a pear tree. Sinner awakens in a cabin to the sight of a woman with the face of a Madonna and the body of a stripper tending to him.

Destiny is in Alaska, armed with whips, cuffs, and copies of “classic”—who knew?—porn movies, to “sex up” former bestselling author Nadine Roland’s latest manuscript. It’s make or break it time for Destiny, career wise. The last thing she needs is a car that won’t start, a fricking blizzard, and a SEAL named Sinner who thinks she’s into BDSM because of her “toys.”

Sinner doesn’t believe Destiny is a book editor, not for a second. He knows they’re trapped in the cabin for at least two days. When the lights go out, Sinner knows exactly how he’s going to stay warm.

“I'm going insane. First I think Nadine's feeling me up, and then I see a parachute in a pear tree.” Destiny Driven straightened and shot the ceiling a furious glare. “It's the middle of September, there's a blizzard outside, and now I'm seeing things.”

“You actually see a parachute in a tree?” Jess Blaine, senior editor for St. Paul's Publishing, asked.

“You're not going to believe me, but there's a man with a parachute in a pear tree.” Destiny's breath fogged the windowpane. She used the sleeve of her cotton sweater to wipe the glass. “He's wearing military fatigues. I think something's wrong. He's not moving.”

She groaned and thunked her head on the cold glass. “This is the last thing I need.”

“Hang up and call 911.”

A burst of static blasted Destiny's eardrums. “Damn. Jess, you there?”

She looked at her iPhone's screen. No bars.

Nothing had gone right from the moment she'd left St. Paul's New York headquarters yesterday morning. A momentary lull in the offending white fluff spinning by the wall of windows allowed her a clear view of the man hanging from the branches of the tree. Large neon orange letters on the man's green and black fatigues spelled out the words 82nd Airborne Division.

She couldn’t leave him out there.

Destiny groaned, she had to call 911.

Call 911.

No dial tone came from the old-fashioned rotary phone on the kitchen counter. She scowled at the black receiver and blew out a long sigh.

He could be injured.

“I might as well get this over and done with.” She shrugged on her denim jacket, zipped up the front, and pulled the hood around her face.

A shudder racked her body the second she opened the door. A blast of frigid air blew the hood off Destiny's head; then her hair took flight, whipping her cheeks and chin and scrambling her vision. At least two inches of snow carpeted the green turf. Sandals and a blizzard didn't mesh. Her toes curled as she sprinted across the narrow clearing, heading for the grove of fruit and pine trees lining the ridge of the mountain.

Destiny hopped from one foot to the other in an effort to stay warm as she surveyed the man stuck in the trees. He hung around seven feet off the ground, and his eyes were closed. He definitely wasn’t conscious.

The parachute's white material lay in a pine tree, the ropes attached to his bulky form threaded through the thick silver-gray-green branches of a heavily laden pear tree. The impact of the man's landing had scattered brown fruit around the tree's trunk. A thin line of blood outlined a jagged cut that ran from the corner of one eye to the edge of his helmet. The wound hadn’t bled much and didn’t appear to be serious. Nothing looked broken. But my, he was a big man.

How to get him down from the trees and into the cabin?

No way would she be able to lift him., but she could roll him onto a sheet or rug and then haul him into the cabin. Before that, she'd have to climb the tree and cut the parachute's ropes. She needed a knife, a sheet, and for double measure, a pair of scissors.

Fifteen minutes later, Destiny dragged the sheet she'd heaved the man onto through the cabin's entrance and closed the door. She slumped to the wooden floor, cupped her hands, and blew warm air over fingers so numb with cold they burned.

“You probably gave me frostbite,” she complained, glowering at the wounded man lying face up on the floor next to her. “Damn, it's cold out there.”

On one of her frequent trips back to the cabin, she'd located the thermostat and turned the heat to the highest temperature possible. The interior had warmed marginally, but what she wouldn't give for a roaring fire. Blowing out a sigh, she shot the fireplace a yearning look usually reserved for chocolate soufflés, pursed her lips, and then grumbled, “I bet
you
know how to start a fire,” before shooting the man a frown reserved for errant authors.

How long would they be stuck here? How long would the snow keep falling? The phone wasn't working, and her rented Ford Focus didn't seem any match for narrow mountain roads made treacherous by layers of white muck. Not to mention the fact she'd taken wrong turns at least five times getting here.

A moan drew her attention to the paratrooper.

Surely he could help. The man was a paratrooper after all. Weren't they all big, bad tough guys who could survive jungles and deserts? “I suppose I should clean you up first.”

When Park Ranger Tim Dalton had given her the keys to the cabin earlier, he'd also mentioned a full emergency kit in the room off the kitchen. Grumbling under her breath, Destiny levered to her feet. Her legs felt like wet noodles and her arms like melting Jell-O. Paratroopers weighed a ton.

Shaky steps took her to the room Tim had mentioned.

A plastic neon lime carton labeled
Medical Supplies
lay on top of a chest freezer in the small square room. Baskets of apples and pears and root vegetables, along with a webby sack of potatoes, stood adjacent to the white appliance. A miniature desk, really a slab of wood bearing multiple communication devices she had no clue how to work, punctuated the far end of the alcove.

Returning to the kitchen with the box in hand, she spotted a Pottery Barn-style bowl. After filling the slate container with warm water, she ambled over to her parachutist, squatted, and set the supplies on the floor.

A
rat-a-tat-tat
drew her glance from the cut on the man's cheek, and she looked outside. The snow fell so fast and furious now, Destiny could see nothing but a white blanket.

What if the snow doesn't stop until next spring?

Stop being dramatic, Destiny; at least we have heat.

Even though the cabin had warmed to tropical-beach temperature, an arctic shiver gamboled across her neck.

I'm a New Yorker. I can cope with anything.

Focus, focus. One line at a time, one task at a time. Clean his wound.

She sat on her heels and edged closer to him.

Getting the helmet off his head proved a harder task than she'd anticipated. Destiny worked up a good sweat and almost gave in to the temptation to turn the thermostat down a notch.

Almost.

One glance at the wet white snowflakes
thud-thudding
on the window nixed that notion.

He had to weigh well over two hundred pounds. His shoulders were rock hard, and both her hands couldn't span his corded neck. When she cut his helmet's chin strap, he groaned. She flinched at the low rumble and lost her balance. The hard hat jerked off his head, Destiny landed on her backside, and the helmet slid across the wooden floor.

Gasping for breath, she swiped a palm across her damp forehead and blew a lock of hair off her right cheek. “You owe me, mister.”

She shifted, braced her elbows on her bent knees, and surveyed her booty.

He had the usual armed forces buzz cut, a square face, and a nose that had met a few fists at some point in time. “I bet you have an ego the size of this state.”

She found gauze in the medical kit, dampened the cloth, and dabbed at the dried blood covering the thin diagonal slash that probably came from a broken tree branch. The layer of stubble covering his chin felt soft and downy.

All angles and planes, his face held no hint of softness. His bronzed complexion spoke of mixed blood, and the last adjective she'd use for him would be handsome, because he wasn't. Testosterone and pheromones jumped out of every pore, and he smelled the way a man's man should smell, hard and capable and in command of his own destiny. A jagged scar ran along the line of a jaw punctuated by hollow cheek dimples and ridged bones.

Definitely not urban-male-model handsome, yet being mere inches away from those craggy features made her lungs work harder and her toes curl and uncurl. Leaning across his visage to sponge away the blood streaked into the tanned crinkles bracketing his eye, she muttered to herself, “You are
not
attracted to him. He probably barely graduated high school. Ten to one he hasn't a clue what
War and Peace
is, far less who wrote it.”

“Tolstoy,” he said.

Destiny yelped and sat back on her haunches.

He couldn't have woken up twenty minutes earlier?

How long had he been conscious? A lick of flame scorched her throat and cheeks. She studied the camouflage pattern of his jacket.

Please don't have heard that. Please. I'll volunteer at the food bank four times this year if he didn't hear that.
She bit her lip to fight the urge to look at the ceiling.

“Who are you?” He had a voice like the deep, belly-echoing roar of a Long Island ferry idling.

She tried to even out her ragged inhales, trailed her gaze inch by inch up a throat the delicious color of caramel toffee, and swallowed around the cotton ball sucking the moisture out of her mouth.

Hazel eyes, clear and focused, met hers; then his glance swept the cabin. “Where am I?”

God, what a voice. His words rumbled and shuddered up her spine, and the barometric pressure in the cabin dipped and hip-hopped.

It'd been a long time since she'd been with a man.

And she'd never been with a man whose muscles looked hard enough to ricochet bullets.

Stop, Destiny. Stop. You will not think of a roaring fire and naked, entwined limbs.

“Ma'am. Where am I?”

Ma'am? How old does he think I am?

“Healy, Alaska. Or near it anyway.”

Wincing, he sat up. Thick fingers traced the line of the cut on his face. “I was supposed to touch down on the east side of Denali.”

“Denali?”

“Denali National Park. Two hundred acres are on fire.” He rose in one fluid, graceful move.

She stood right away. For such a big man, he moved lithely. Destiny felt like a dwarf and had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

“I don't think you have to worry about fighting a fire. It's blizzarding.”

His eyes flickered to the picture window and then back to her. “I can see that. Where did I touch down?”

“In the pear tree.” She squared her shoulders and wished she were wearing three-inch stilettos. “You were all tangled up in it. How're you feeling?”

“You cut me down?” One sandy brow lifted a fraction. He didn't sound the least bit grateful.

“Not an easy feat. It took me fifteen minutes.”

“I've been out for fifteen minutes? Shit. Do you have a phone?”

“No bars. I think the weather's interfering with reception.”

He rolled his eyes. “Is there a landline?”

“Yes. It's dead.”