COOL UNDER FIRE Read online

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  Chapter 1

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  Shiloh had read the phrase "his jaw dropped," but she'd doubted that it ever really happened. She knew better now as she stared openmouthed at the sight before her. The crew, who said nothing ever ruffled her, would love to get a look at her now, she thought.

  There was a man in her bed. Or, actually, on it, facedown, sprawled crosswise in a way that gave her a clue as to his height; the five-foot width of her queen-size brass bed was more than a foot short of holding him. And she had no idea who he was.

  At least, she didn't think so. True, she couldn't see his face, because it was buried in the crook of the arm that cushioned his head and partly masked by the tousled, slightly long mane of dark hair, but she was reasonably sure that that body did not belong to anyone she knew. And she certainly could see enough of it to judge, she thought, wishing her heart would recover from the shock and slow down.

  Only a pair of light blue briefs broke the long, tanned length of that body, leaving the lean, muscular lines of strong legs, narrow hips and waist, and broad back and shoulders bare to her gaze. And what that band of cloth did cover was just as interesting; the tight, muscled swell of his buttocks made her fingers curl.

  What are you doing? she snapped at herself, backing up a step. Why aren't you on the phone to the police? You walk in on a total stranger lying half—no, make that nine-tenths—naked on your bed, and instead of doing the rational thing and screaming your lungs out, you're taking inventory. They're right; you are strange.

  But why was there no sign that her house had been broken into? Not a thing out of place, nothing that wasn't as she'd left it, except for the pile of clothes on the floor and their owner on her bed. Could it just be some kind of mix-up? A case of mistaken address?

  Call the police, idiot, she told herself, and tiptoed past the sprawled man to the bedside phone. A muffled sound stopped her in her tracks, and she froze as the man lifted his head and looked unerringly straight at her, as if he'd known where she was all the time. She had barely registered that he had vivid, heavily lashed blue eyes before he murmured something, so low and soft that she almost missed it.

  "You're … prettier than … picture."

  As if those few words had sapped the last of his failing strength, his head fell back on his arm.

  Picture? What picture? Where on earth had he seen a picture of her? She stared down at the prone figure, her mind whirling. She now knew without a doubt that she had never seen this man before. Even if she had been stricken with amnesia and forgotten that incredible body, nothing on earth could have made her forget those eyes.

  But he knew her. Or thought he did, she amended, but he couldn't, not really. But what picture could he be talking about?

  "Hey," she said tentatively. No response. She tried again. Nothing. He just lay there, ignoring her. She reached out to shake him, conscious with a little rush of abashment that she was scrupulously avoiding touching anything other than his bare arm.

  When she did, she recoiled instantly. "My God," she whispered, her fingers still tingling from the heat of him. It was then that something else about those eyes finally penetrated her racing thoughts. They had been searingly blue, but they had also been bright and hot with the glitter of fever.

  Wonderful. She had hoped that this was all some elaborate joke, planned and carried out by that bunch of clowns she worked with, who seemed on an unceasing mission to shatter what they called her unnatural calm. The first touch of her fingers on that fevered skin singed that idea to ashes.

  Call the paramedics, she muttered, nodding to herself at the reasonableness of the idea. Have them cart him away and solve both the problem of his presence and his obvious illness. She reached for the phone.

  "Shy…"

  She jerked around. Had she heard it? Or had it just been a suppressed, fevered moan that sounded like her name?

  "Damn." It slipped out, startling her. "I wish you would wake up!"

  In answer he only rolled over, making his head loll back uncomfortably over the edge of the bed. Great, she muttered inwardly, the front looks better than the back.

  Her eyes were drawn to a puckered ridge of flesh above his right hip, an angry, wicked-looking scar that began just above the bone and wrapped halfway around his side. And then to another, this one a smooth, white line curving from the top of his left shoulder down over his collarbone and across the top of his chest, stopping just short of the breastbone. On the smooth, tanned skin of that muscled chest, with no mass of concealing hair to hide it, the thin line stood out starkly through the sheen of fevered sweat.

  Lord, she breathed, who was this man who had dropped out of nowhere, shaking her vaunted calm? She raised a hand to rub the back of her neck, lifting the thick, neck-length sweep of burnished auburn hair. When she realized she was responding to the awkward angle of his neck, not a real pain in hers, she knew she couldn't just let him stay like that.

  As soon as she moved, the self-possession that had momentarily deserted her returned. She wrestled with the solid bulk of him, levering and pushing and pulling, then tugging at the covers until he was beneath them. He barely stirred, moaning only once, a low, raspy sound that he seemed to try to stop even though he was clearly beyond being aware of it.

  He looked pale somehow, even beneath his tan. And she could see now that dark circles shadowed his eyes beneath the thick fringe of lashes. Oddly, his jaw seemed set and tight despite his oblivion; it was strong, firm and very determined.

  She also saw, when his sweat-dampened hair fell back as she slipped a pillow behind his head, another scar, a small crease of whitened flesh that began an inch below the hairline and disappeared into the thick darkness. It did nothing to lessen her unease, although she continued to work dispassionately.

  With the thought that she should call the paramedics still in the back of her mind, she walked to the bathroom to get the thermometer. She could at least find out how high his fever really was first. And she could get a cool cloth while she was at it, and sponge him off a little.

  When she picked up the phone a few minutes later, holding the thermometer that read 103 degrees, instead of calling 911 for the paramedics and an ambulance, she found herself dialing a completely different number.

  "Dr. Watterson's office."

  "Mandy?"

  "Is that you, Shy? How are you?" Amanda Wilcox sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her.

  "Fine. Er, sort of. How serious is a 103-degree temperature?"

  "Oh, no, not you, too? It's everywhere, but you're the last one I expected. You never get sick!"

  Shiloh didn't challenge her assumption. "What is it?"

  "Some kind of viral infection. We're going crazy here, but I can find room for you if you want to come in. We're going to be running late, anyway."

  "Would it do any good?"

  "Not really," the young nurse answered honestly. "Antibiotics don't seem to have that much effect, and the doctor is basically telling everyone who isn't under ten or over sixty to stay in bed and take aspirin and—"

  "—plenty of liquids. I know the drill. Will it get worse?"

  "It pretty much knocks people for a loop if they get it bad. If they're run-down in the first place, it can get pretty serious, but it usually only lasts a couple of days. Just long enough to ruin your weekend," Mandy teased, then became serious again. "Do you want me to stop by when I get off?"

  "No," Shiloh said quickly, "that's all right."

  "I don't like to think of you there alone if you have a bad case."

  "I … I'll be fine."

  "Well, if you're sure. But if the
fever hasn't dropped by tomorrow, you come in. It's so bad we're opening up for a few hours in the morning. Take care, Shy."

  "Thanks, Mandy."

  Now what? she wondered as she hung up. She leaned over to check the cool washcloth she'd placed on his forehead. She glanced at her watch. Five-thirty. She would wait awhile, she thought. If he wasn't any better by later tonight, she would call for help. She couldn't quite understand why she didn't call now, only that something held her back.

  It couldn't be just coincidence, she thought, that this man who knew her name had wound up in her house. He had intended to come, had expected her to be here. And had recognized her when he had seen her, even half out of his head with fever.

  A vague image from her childhood, of a man appearing on their doorstep in the dark of night, nudged at Shiloh's mind. Her father had taken him in, whispering to her only that he was someone who needed help.

  "He's your friend, Daddy?" she'd asked.

  "In a way, baby, even though I don't know him."

  Her young mind hadn't worked through to understanding what her father had meant until much later, but the memory of the event had stayed with her. Now this man clearly needed help. And although in leaving home she'd also left the kind of life that brought strangers to the door, she'd never left behind her father's example. She would let him stay, she thought, until she found out if he, too, was a friend even though she didn't know him. And in the meantime, she would be extremely wary.

  In between changing her clothes, fixing herself a meal and sorting her mail, she kept rewetting the cloth, which seemed to become warm from his skin as fast as she could rinse it out. She swabbed his face, arms and chest, trying not to notice how he stirred, how the flat, brown discs of his nipples tautened when the rough, cool cloth swept over them. At last she pulled up the wicker lounge from beside the fireplace and stretched out on it, tilting the shade on the nightstand lamp so that its glow fell on the pages of the book she'd picked up and the face of the man in the bed was cast into shadow.

  It didn't matter. She could still see each feature as if it were lit by a spotlight. Even with that jaw shadowed by a couple of days of beard growth, it was a clean, chiseled face that was saved from rugged harshness by the thick, long sweep of his lashes and the softer line of his mouth. Who was he? She ordered herself to stop thinking about him; she would find out when he woke up, and not before.

  She'd thought of going through his clothes, looking for something to identify him, but it seemed such a violation while he lay there helpless that she couldn't bring herself to do it. If she had to call the paramedics, they could do it. Right, she thought with a grimace, while you explain what this man you've never laid eyes on before is doing in your house. In your bed.

  She came awake with a start and glanced automatically at the clock on the nightstand. Her eyes widened; she hadn't meant to doze off, let alone sleep for hours. She shifted her gaze to the bed; he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. She got up and reached for the washcloth she'd left folded over his forehead.

  Without warning she was flying through the air, a crushing grip around her wrists. In a bare instant she was flat on her back, a hard, muscled weight pinning her to the bed, that iron grip forcing her hands above her head. She smothered the scream that rose in her throat, trying to channel her panic into an effort to break free.

  The man above her stopped dead. Incongruously, she found herself wondering at the rapid-fire changes that raced across his rugged face, from the relative peace and vulnerability of sleep to instant, violent alertness and hair-trigger reaction, which were replaced just as quickly by something else. The deadly chill in his piercing blue eyes faded, to be replaced by awareness and, she realized, recognition. He knew her. She didn't know how or why, but he knew her.

  She didn't know if that eased or added to her fear. She held his gaze despite every instinct that was crying out for her to get away. Something akin to admiration flashed briefly in his blue eyes, and then he abruptly rolled off her.

  "Sorry," he muttered, an arm rising to rest over his eyes, as if even the dim light of the room were painful.

  Shiloh's eyebrows shot up. Sorry? He breaks into my house, takes up residence on my bed, then, when I'm only trying to help him, pounces on me like … like…

  Like she didn't know what. She couldn't think of anything right now that moved that fast. And if this was what he was like when he was sick, Lord help anyone who got in his way when he wasn't.

  He had ruptured her perennial calm, had frightened her out of her hard-won serenity, and all she got was a grudging "Sorry"? In place of her initial panic another emotion was growing: anger. She climbed over him to stand beside the bed, being none too careful about where she put her hands and knees; she heard him grunt and saw the arm lift abruptly from his eyes when her knee used his stomach for leverage.

  Tough, she thought. It was hard as a rock, anyway; she was surprised he'd felt it at all. She glared down at him.

  She'd had just about enough of this. She reached for the phone. He reacted as swiftly as before, his hand darting out to clasp her wrist once more, but she was half expecting it this time. She grabbed the receiver and rapped it across his knuckles fiercely. "Damn."

  He swore under his breath as he yanked his hand back, but that odd flash of admiration came again, this time mixed with a rather rueful look she didn't at all understand. Nor did she try to analyze the strangeness of it right now.

  She backed up a step and shifted the phone in her hands so she could dial. He struggled to sit up, and she had to steel herself against the sight of how hard it was for him. The taut, whipcord muscles and the lean, hard body told her this was not a man used to weakness. She could sense his frustration as he fell back.

  "Don't."

  He didn't shout, he didn't snap, but it was an order nevertheless. She ignored it, although something in his voice made her uneasy. It was low and had the rasp of a raw throat, yet it held the note of a man who was used to being obeyed. Instantly.

  Tough, she repeated to herself. She dialed the nine and moved to the one.

  "Please."

  She paused. He'd said it between gritted teeth, and it didn't take much intuition to know that it was not something he said frequently. More used to ordering than asking, she thought as she lifted her head to look at him.

  "Give me one good reason why," she said, anger making her tone icy.

  He closed his eyes, letting out a short breath that she suspected would have been a groan if he wasn't so determined to disguise how rotten he was feeling. "Just don't."

  Any thawing she might have been experiencing at the sight of his pain halted abruptly at the arrogant words.

  "Not good enough." She dialed the first one.

  "Shiloh."

  She didn't turn a hair. "I've already gathered that you know who I am. But I don't know you, and I don't want you here."

  For a third time, that admiring look gleamed in his eyes, but the ruefulness had been replaced with an unexpected gleam of approval. Absurdly it warmed her, which only made her angrier.

  "I'll leave."

  She looked at him, surprised, although she wasn't sure why, that it had been so easy. And, for a reason she didn't understand, a little disappointed. She hung up before completing the call. "Just like that?"

  "Shouldn't have come here in the first place." His words were muffled a little by his efforts to move. Using the closest bedpost, he pulled himself up. Sweat broke out once more on his forehead, and he was moving with agonizing slowness, every muscle taut and strained, but he never stopped.

  Shiloh winced inwardly as she watched him struggle to stand up. Whoever he was, he had no business being on his feet. Before she could speak, he leaned over to pick up the pair of faded jeans she had folded over the footboard of the bed, and then, with a small, smothered sound of protest, he crumpled to the floor.

  She knelt beside him, turning him over. He mumbled something unintelligible as his head lolled back limply. His skin
did not feel as fiercely hot as it had, but clearly he was still very sick. The thought that this might be something more than the virus Mandy Wilcox had told her about had never been far from her mind, and this time she didn't hesitate in picking up the phone.

  When she'd hung up she went for the damp cloth again, rinsing it quickly to cool it. She went back and knelt beside him again, drawing the cloth over his forehead. He stirred, murmured again; then the dark lashes fluttered. They lifted, and a pair of dazed blue eyes were looking up at her.

  "It's all right," she soothed. "The paramedics are on their way. They'll get you to a hospital—"

  "No!"

  That dazed look vanished, and with a convulsive effort he sat up, leaning against the side of the bed for support. Shiloh sat back on her heels, her unease returning.

  "Call them back," he ordered in a tone made no less intimidating by his obvious weakness. And even though he looked helpless, Shiloh wasn't convinced. Still, after she studied him for a moment, she merely said, "No."

  He stared at her, then closed his eyes as what could have been a wry chuckle if he'd had more breath escaped him.

  "Stop them, damn it," he grated out.

  Shiloh was at the end of her patience with his dictatorial ways. "You have broken into my home, manhandled me and sworn at me," she snapped. "If I'd had any brains, I would have called the police the minute I saw you! But the paramedics can cart you away just as well. I don't care, as long as you're out of here. Soon."

  His eyes were open again, watching her. "Shil—"

  "Stop it!" So much for calm, she thought in irritation. "I don't know how you found out who I am or where I live, but it's not going to do any good. There's not a single thing you can say that can make me pick up that phone."

  His eyes closed again for a brief moment, a look of weary resignation coming over his face. Then, in a low tone that matched the look, he spoke. One single syllable, but it stopped her cold.

  "Linc."