Heat of the Moment

“Ohmigod,” she breathed.

She couldn’t believe what she saw; Shane Rafferty, swinging down from the top of his gun truck, his gaze fixed grimly on her as he made a beeline directly through the line of fire toward her position. He gestured wildly back toward her truck, but Holly couldn’t tell if he wanted her to be aware of the fire and move away from it, or run back toward it. She shook her head, not understanding.

Through the haze, Holly could see his eyes blazing at her. He yelled something to her and gestured again, but his words were lost beneath the sound of explosives. Holly stayed glued to where she stood, unable to tell where the precise threat came from amidst so much chaos. Shane held his own weapon low and strafed the orchard with gunfire as he ran. And just when Holly thought he might actually make it across the open space to her side, it happened.

The bullet hit him in the left leg, just below his knee. Shane staggered, his face expressing surprise. He managed to take three more steps before his leg buckled and he went down. Even then, he didn’t stop but began doggedly working his way across the ground toward her.

Holly found herself running toward him before she was aware that her feet were moving. Shane was no longer watching her, but was staring at something behind her, his expression one of dismay. He shouted something unintelligible, and Holly felt a hard slap against her shoulder, spinning her sideways and causing her to stumble. She scarcely had time to register what had happened, when an explosion rocked the ground, lifting her off her feet and sending her sprawling onto her back. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Couldn’t comprehend that the unthinkable had happened.

Had it been a grenade, or a IED? Slowly, she lifted her head and made a mental inventory of her injuries. Her back ached, and the exposed skin of her face and neck had been sandblasted by the dirt that had been flung up from the explosion. Her ears were ringing and the ground seemed to tilt beneath her. From the convoy, she saw another soldier had taken control of Shane’s gun and was spraying the orchard with a constant barrage of fire. Through the swirling dust and settling debris, she could just make out Shane’s prone body lying on the ground.

Holly became aware of a fierce burning sensation in her arm and glanced down, noting the darkening stain on the camouflage of her sleeve. Her left arm hung at an awkward angle and when she probed the area, raw pain sliced through her. Her hand came away covered with blood. She’d been hit, and from the total weakness in her arm, she knew the bone was broken. Cradling the injured arm against her side, she pushed herself to her feet and staggered over to Shane. He lay face down in the dirt and even when she saw the trickle of dark blood seeping into the ground beneath him, she refused to believe he might be dead.

“Please, God,” she breathed. Just let him live and I promise I won’t ask for anything more. Just let him live. Let him live.

Holly had heard about the effects of adrenaline giving people unnatural and amazing strength during high-stress situations, but she’d never experienced it until that moment. Reaching down, she hauled on the straps of Shane’s vest with her good hand and dragged him toward the trucks, digging her heels in and managing to move him across thirty feet of open ground with seemingly little effort.

Only when she had reached the safety of the trucks did two soldiers and a medic come forward to help her, lifting Shane’s body and carrying him to the rear of the convoy. With Shane out of harm’s way, Holly realized she was panting and light-headed and soaked with sweat. A fourth soldier caught her as she staggered, and supported her weight as he hustled her to a secure spot behind a truck and lowered her to a sitting position against one of its enormous tires.

She strained for a glimpse of Shane, stretched out on the dirt road as the medics worked on him. Around her, the sounds of battle continued. The world spun dizzyingly and Holly dropped her head to her knees, dragging in great gulps of air. Fear consumed her, so intense that she was certain her heart would stop beating. Her stomach twisted in a sickening knot. She didn’t know what she would do if Shane died. The very thought made her go weak. Blackness fluttered at the edge of her vision, and she was only vaguely aware of sliding sideways onto the ground…and then she knew nothing more.

SHE WAS HAVING the dream again, but this time it seemed so real…she could actually feel Shane’s hands on her, unbuttoning her shirt and exposing her skin to the cool air. His fingers brushed over her flesh, causing a thrill of awareness to shoot through her. She moaned softly and arched upward, seeking more of the delicious contact. She’d wanted this for so many years and now here he was, touching her, and even if it was only a dream, Holly didn’t want to miss a second of it.

The faint odor of gasoline hung on the air, and overhead she could hear the soft whir of a ceiling fan; they were in the boathouse, where Shane preferred to sleep whenever he came to stay at her family’s summer place. How many times had she been tempted to follow him here? To undress and spread herself across the bed in the small bunk room and show him how good it could be between them? She wasn’t a kid anymore, and it was time he stopped thinking of her as his best friend’s little sister. She’d caught him watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking, and the expression in his hazel eyes told her that he wanted her, too. Only his damnable honor and pride kept him from accepting everything she had to offer.

But not now.

For this moment, at least, he was hers, and even if this was just a dream, she’d take it. As dreams went, it was a pretty good one. Her entire body was on fire with need.

“Shane,” she breathed, “kiss me.”

“Holly.” His voice sounded strained, with an underlying urgency that she had never heard before. He didn’t sound at all like the Shane she knew. “Holly, stay with me.”

She frowned. Stay with him? Of course she intended to stay with him. She’d opted for an assignment in Iraq because that’s where he was stationed. Practically every decision she’d made over the past seven years had been for one reason: Shane Rafferty. Oh yeah, she intended to stay with him.

His touch was incredibly gentle as he eased the fabric of her blouse back, and Holly shifted to grant him better access. As she did so, agonizing pain flared in her shoulder and made her cry out, jerking her out of the sensual dream and into a harsh reality that was equally as surreal.

Through a haze of pain, Holly opened her eyes and saw two soldiers crouched over her. One of them cut away the sleeve of her camo jacket with a knife while the second one prepared an I.V. drip. She concentrated on the face of the first man and struggled to bring him into focus. Not Shane.

Slowly, she became aware that they were in a military helicopter, and Holly could smell fumes from the aviation fuel. What she’d dreamed was the soft whir of a ceiling fan was, in reality, the rhythmic thwap-thwap of the rotor blades. All around her, male voices barked orders while others were raised in urgent discussion. None of those voices belonged to Shane.

“Stay with me, Lieutenant,” the first soldier commanded, his eyes flicking to hers. “You’re going to be fine.”

Her entire body ached, but her left arm burned with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe. Holly shifted her gaze to where the soldier probed at her shoulder. There was so much blood soaking her clothing and covering his hands that at first, she couldn’t tell where it came from. Then, as he pulled away a bloodied gauze pad, she saw the gaping wound high on her upper arm. She had a hole the size of a half-dollar and bone fragments protruded through ragged flesh around it. Blood pumped in a slow, steady flow from the injury even as the medic tried to staunch it. Immediately, her head felt woozy and a wave of nausea washed over her. She turned her face away and struggled to draw in air.

“What happened?” Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.

“Your supply convoy drove into an ambush,” the first soldier said curtly. “You were shot, but you’re going to be fine.”

She’d been shot?

She struggled to remember, and pImages** drifted through her mind, as hazy and insubstantial as smoke. Sifting through them, she winced as she recalled the attack.

As she turned her face away from where the medic was working on her arm, she realized there was an injured soldier on a gurney next to her, and two medics were frantically working over his prone body. The medics blocked her view of his face, but she recognized the black tribal tattoo that encircled his bicep. Shane.

Holly tried to raise herself on her good elbow to get a better look at him. They had stripped him of his protective body armor and camo jacket and…oh, God, there was so much blood covering his muscled torso. The medics bent over him, while another barked into a radio. All she heard was “men down, one urgent.” She knew what urgent meant—loss of life was imminent without immediate medical intervention, and not the kind that they could provide on the battlefield.

Shane was going to die.

Another wave of dizziness swept over her.

“Shane.” Her voice was no more than a gasp.

“Lieutenant, I’m going to sedate you,” said the medic who crouched over her. He pushed her back down and the second soldier deftly inserted an intravenous drip into her uninjured arm. Almost instantly, the agonizing pain in her shoulder subsided and Holly had the oddest sensation that she was floating.

She could see Shane’s face now, it was covered in dust and blood, but there was no mistaking the strong line of his jaw, the proud nose and thrusting cheekbones, the dark shadow of his lashes against his cheeks. A thin trickle of blood ran from his ear and nose. The sight made Holly feel light-headed, or maybe that was the effect of the morphine they had given her. She could no longer tell.

Closing her eyes, she drifted in a strange euphoria. The sounds of the helicopter and the men’s voices faded to a distant hum. She was back in the boathouse, and Shane was there with her. He smiled down at her and she raised her arms to welcome him into her embrace, stroking her hands over the hot silk of his skin and knowing this would be the last time they would ever be together. In the morning, he would be gone. She determinedly pushed aside the sadness that filled her. They were together now, and that was all that mattered.

With a soft sigh, she melted into his arms.

2

THE LAST PERSON SHANE Rafferty expected to see walk through the door of his hospital room was his father. A pang of guilt swept through him. He’d been back in the States for nearly a month while the staff at the U.S. Naval Hospital patched him up, yet he hadn’t talked to his old man. The nurses had told him that his father had kept a near constant vigil at his bedside for the first two weeks that he’d been in the hospital, when Shane had lain in a drug-induced coma. But once he’d turned the corner to recovery, his father had returned to his home in Chatham. He’d left messages on Shane’s cell phone, but Shane hadn’t returned any of his calls. He told himself it was because his father was a busy man and he hadn’t wanted to worry him, but he knew that was a lie.

He hadn’t wanted to see him.

James Rafferty looked older than Shane remembered. His dark hair was liberally streaked with gray and his strong face was lined with deep seams. His expression was wary as he approached Shane’s bed, as if he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome.

“Hello, son.”

His father’s dark eyes swept once over Shane’s body, his gaze touching briefly on the fading cuts and bruises that marred Shane’s face, neck, and arms, before lingering on the cast that enveloped his left leg from the knee down to his toes. His father’s throat worked convulsively, but when he met Shane’s eyes, he schooled his expression.

“How you feeling, boy?”

Like shit, he wanted to respond. It had been nearly four weeks since the incident, and yet Shane’s entire body still ached, and his skin felt as if it had been sandblasted. His newly healed wounds felt pinched and tight. He had a bitch of a headache, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he’d taken a direct hit from a rocket launched missile. But according to reports, it had been a hand grenade, and he’d been lucky—he’d been on the outer edge of the impact radius and might have sustained more serious injuries, but the bullet that had taken him out at the knees had also saved his life. If he hadn’t already been on the ground, he likely would have been killed.

So how was he doing? He shrugged. “I’m okay.”

The doctors had stitched him up and repaired his fractured leg and told him not to worry, he’d make a full recovery. But what they hadn’t warned him about were the nightmares that dragged him out of sleep each night, his heart racing and his body coated in sweat. They were always the same; he was sprinting through the battle to wards Holly. He could see her standing there, staring at him in horror through the smoke and debris, and he was driven by a desperate need to reach her. But he never made it. Each time, he’d watch her die before he could save her. Each time, her death was an agony that tore him apart. Then he’d wake up and realize he’d only been dreaming, but it would be long minutes before his heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. He’d lie in bed and remind himself that Holly was alive, until the words became his mantra. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive.

He didn’t know what he would do if anything happened to her. He’d spent the better part of the last ten years fighting his powerful attraction to her and telling himself that they had no future together, when the truth was he couldn’t envision a future—any future—without her in it. He might not be the right guy for her, but he wouldn’t hesitate to lay down his life to save hers. She was the reason he’d joined the military in the first place. One, he’d needed to get out of Chatham and away from Holly before he did something completely stupid, like sleep with her. Two, she came from a military family and he knew how much she respected service men and women. Part of him had dared to hope that if he joined the military and if he worked hard to rise through the ranks and if he could distinguish himself somehow, then maybe—just maybe—he could be worthy of her.

But then the unthinkable had happened; Holly had also joined the military and had somehow managed to end up assigned to the same base as himself. He wasn’t naive enough to believe any of it was coincidence, but he had a difficult time figuring out what it was she saw in him that would make her request a deployment to Iraq when she could have had her choice of assignments. Since the day she arrived at Al Asad Air Base, his mission had abruptly switched from combat to keeping her safe.

But he couldn’t escape the fact that his recurring nightmares had almost become reality. Holly had very nearly been killed. He’d read the incident report a dozen times, but the damned thing was he couldn’t recall a single detail of that day, or the attack that had nearly ended his life. The doctors told him the amnesia was temporary; a direct result of the concussion he’d sustained from the grenade. He’d been assured that his memory would return, but Shane had a nagging sense of unease that until it did, he was missing something vital.

“I wanted to come back sooner, but we’ve been busy at the track, what with the Preakness coming up next month,” his father was saying. He shifted uncomfortably. “But I’d have come anyway, if you’d wanted me to.”

Which clearly Shane hadn’t or he would have called him. His father didn’t say the words, but it was all there on his face.

Shane sighed.

“You didn’t need to come all the way up here,” he finally said, referring to the four-hour drive from Chatham, Virginia, to the medical center in Washington, D.C. “They’re releasing me today.”

James Rafferty dragged a hand through his hair and a fleeting frown crossed his face. “But that’s why I came,” he finally said. “To bring you home.”

Home.

pImages** of the three-room apartment over Benjamin’s Drugstore flitted through Shane’s mind. That cramped space had never been home to Shane. He hadn’t had a home since the day his mother had died and he and his father had moved to the pristine community of Chatham. The place may as well have been called Stepford, with its immaculate, white-pillared mansions and perfect, tree-lined streets. He’d fit into the quaint town like a rough-hewn square peg into a neat, round hole.

After the death of his mother, Shane’s father had withdrawn from everyone, including Shane. For nearly two years, he did little except drink and sleep. First he’d lost his job, and then he’d lost the house until, eventually, the only thing his father had left was his reputation—and Shane had known that unless they acted quickly, he’d lose that, too. His father had needed another job and the only thing he really knew was horses. Race horses, to be precise. He’d trained some of the best horses ever to run a racetrack, and once Shane had put the word out that his father was ready to get back into the business, the offers had begun trickling in.

Shane had chosen a job for his father at a stable in Chatham, despite the fact the position was not lead trainer. After two years away from the track, his father had needed to prove himself before anyone would give him that kind of opportunity again. It had taken several years, but James Rafferty was firmly back on his feet and despite the fact he could afford a new home, he hadn’t left the tiny apartment over the drug store, insisting that it suited his needs.

But returning to Chatham was the last thing Shane wanted to do, not because of his father but because of her. She’d be at her parents’ home, recovering from her own injuries and Shane didn’t want to risk running into her. Too much had happened for them to ever go back to the way things had been when they were teenagers.

He’d first seen Holly Durant soon after he’d moved to Chatham. He’d been barely seventeen and he’d taken a job working at the drugstore. Holly and her clique of giggling, sashaying girlfriends from Chatham Hall, the affluent girls’ boarding school in town where she was a day student, had liked to come into the drugstore for after school. He still probably never would have met her if he hadn’t become friends with her older brother, Mitch. Even then, when he and Mitch had become damn near inseparable and Shane spent more time at the Durant house than he did at his own, he hadn’t really made an effort to get to know Holly. He didn’t want to know her. Just the thought of talking to her had terrified him.

She’d been too pretty. Too mouthy.

Too good for him.

So he’d all but ignored her, telling himself there was no sense in chasing a pipe dream. Look where it had gotten his father. Nope, better to stick with what you knew and stay where you belonged.

And he definitely didn’t belong in Chatham.

He couldn’t imagine he’d be welcome there now, anyway, not after what had happened. Holly’s father was a retired Navy admiral and he and Holly’s mother were keystones of the small community. Shane had nothing but admiration and respect for them and he didn’t think he could bear their censure. After all, he’d let them down.

He’d let her down. He’d failed her.

He should have protected Holly but instead, he’d nearly gotten her killed. He’d read the incident report, which indicated he’d abandoned his position atop the gun truck and had raced through the firefight toward Holly without due cause. He might not be able to recall the attack, but he could guess why he’d done it—he’d wanted to protect Holly. Instead, she’d been forced to protect him and had nearly been killed in the process.

“I’m not going home,” he said darkly.

His father’s eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean you’re not coming home? I ain’t touched your room. It’s just the same as when you left it.” He indicated Shane’s leg. “’Course, the stairs might give you some trouble, but we’ll manage.”

“I said I’m not going back.”

“Where will you go, then? You got no place else to stay.” His father sounded baffled.

Shane looked away. He was right. He had nowhere else to go. He’d joined the military in order to get away from his father, from Holly, and from Chatham. Since then, he’d never stayed in one place long enough to buy a house or even lease an apartment. The doctors said he couldn’t return to active duty for at least three weeks, maybe longer. He could probably stay at the Marine barracks in Washington, D.C. or the Marine Corps base in Quantico until he recuperated, but the prospect held little appeal for him.

“He’s going to stay at the lake house.”

Both men turned at the sound of the deep voice, but Shane’s father was the first to recover, striding forward to grasp Mitch Durant’s hand and pump it furiously.

“Hell, boy,” he said, “it’s damned nice to see you. How long has it been? Three years? Four? You look good. The uniform suits you. How’s your sister? I hear she saved my boy’s life. I’d like to thank her properly, if she’s up for a visit.”

In his crisp Navy dress uniform, Mitch looked every inch an officer and a gentleman. The double silver bars on his collar denoted his rank as Lieutenant and for the first time, Shane was acutely conscious of the difference in their status. The last he’d heard, Mitch was doing a six-month deployment aboard the USS Lincoln, an aircraft carrier that patrolled Middle Eastern waters. He’d obviously come home to be with his sister and another pang of guilt washed over Shane.

“Holly will recover, sir,” Mitch was saying. “Her arm is busted up pretty good, but otherwise she’s okay.”

He was glossing over her condition, and Shane knew it. By the time he’d regained consciousness and recovered enough to even think about Holly, he’d been told that she’d already been released from the hospital. He’d persisted in knowing her condition and after days of badgering the nursing staff he’d learned that the bone in her arm had been shattered by the bullet, and only a series of metal plates and screws had been able to repair it.

And it was all his fault. If he’d just stayed with his gun, instead of trying to be a hero…

Mitch walked toward Shane’s bed with careful deliberation. He extended his hand and Shane took it.

“Hey, man,” Mitch said. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m okay.”

To his immense relief, there was no censure in Mitch’s eyes, no recriminations. Only the same genuine warmth and friendship that he had grown to rely on since they were kids.

“You look like hell,” Mitch observed, one corner of his mouth lifting in a wry grin. “But I think it might actually be an improvement.”

Shane knew he referred to the lacerations and bruises on his face. He had seen his reflection for the first time that morning, when the nurses had finally relented and let him take a real shower on his own. They’d seemed disappointed when he’d declined the bedside sponge baths they had been providing him each day since his arrival. To his way of thinking, their dedication to his hygiene had been just a tad too thorough.

Shane felt a reluctant smile tug at his mouth. “Yeah, well you always were jealous of my good looks.” He glanced over at his father and lowered his voice. “So what’s this about the lake house?”

He didn’t really need to ask the question. Mitch understood why he didn’t want to stay with his father and by offering up the lake house, he was giving Shane an excuse not to have to. But Shane had no intention of accepting the invitation.

He couldn’t think about the lake house without his imagination conjuring up pImages** of Holly, slim and naked and sexy as hell, wrapping herself around him like she couldn’t get enough of him. He’d known that she’d harbored a crush on him since she was a teenager. She’d followed him everywhere with that damned camera of hers, snapping pictures of him whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. But he wasn’t boyfriend material, and he definitely wasn’t husband material. He’d seen what marriage to his father had done to his mother. He’d never be able to provide Holly with the kind of lifestyle she was accustomed to, and he wouldn’t be responsible for turning her into a bitter, unhappy woman. Maybe if things had been different…