Tempted By The Hero

“It’s okay.”

He’d chopped down some palm fronds earlier, so he spread them out on the sand. She curled up on one side of the fire. He took the other. She was acutely aware of the distance between them. Their heads were almost touching, but nothing else. He didn’t hold her close the way he had last night. Although the fire was warm, she preferred his arms.

“Tomorrow will be better,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Today was a better day than yesterday, and yesterday was better than the day before. We have fire and an excellent water source. Right now we’re just surviving, but we can thrive here. We can have good days.”

She liked his optimism, but she didn’t care about thriving so much as being rescued as soon as possible. Because every day they spent together she felt closer to him—and more afraid of losing him.

Chapter 9

Logan woke with the sun.

He’d dreamed that he was back in Telskuf, searching for Hud. He didn’t know why he was searching. The explosion had left nothing but burning piles of rubble and a huge crater. There was no possibility of survival. No remains to find.

He sat upright, shaking off the remnants of the dream, along with the sand that was always clinging to him. It was in his hair, on his neck, underneath his clothes. It spilled out of the rolled-up cuffs of his pant legs.

The fire was still going. That was a relief, because he hadn’t really taken care of it last night. He’d tossed a thick log onto the pile and slept like the dead. Now the log was ash and embers, with one stubby end intact.

Cady was curled up on her side, facing away from the fire. She had that red veil wrapped around her head to protect her from bugs. The mosquitos didn’t swarm on the beach like they had inland. There were a few, but the smoke kept them away. It didn’t keep away sand flies or crabs or snakes, which was why he needed to build a sleeping platform.

He rolled the log stub into the embers so it would catch. Then he lumbered to his feet and blinked at the sunrise. Just another day in paradise. He walked down the beach, testing his knee. The dull ache was bearable. His stomach rumbled, telling him that the most pressing issue of the moment was food, not shelter.

Last night, after making the fire, he’d been whipped. His hands were sore and his knee had hurt like a son of a bitch, but the real reason he’d stayed off his feet was dizziness. He’d almost passed out. His body had said that’s it. No more. You’re done.

He hadn’t expected his system to shut down like that. He was used to extreme physical challenges and sleep deprivation. He had great stamina. He’d aced every endurance test during BUD/S training. But he’d never gone several days without food and water, after sustaining a head injury. Some ill effects were to be expected under these conditions. He hadn’t told Cady about it because he didn’t want her to worry.

And maybe he didn’t want to admit weakness. Whatever.

He felt better this morning. The eggs had supplied a bit of protein. He was more hydrated and less stressed. Getting fire was a huge weight off his shoulders. He knew he shouldn’t overexert himself again—not until he’d eaten a full meal. Once he had some meat in his belly, he could go all out and make this island his bitch.

He was Logan Nathaniel Starke. He didn’t quit. He didn’t faint. He nodded at the waves. Let’s do this.

When he turned away from the shore, he saw Cady was awake. She had the veil wrapped around her shoulders, as if she felt a chill. He added some wood to the fire. She tugged at the bodice of her dress, which he’d ruined last night. He remembered how the fabric had slipped down, revealing one dusky-tipped breast. Not that he’d looked. He’d been focused on the fire. Still, the vague impression was enough to get his blood pumping.

He gathered the strap from the sand. “I can reattach this.”

She turned around to give him access to the back of her dress. He bored a hole in the fabric with his knife, and tied it with fumbling hands. He had blisters all over his palms, but that wasn’t the reason for his clumsiness. It was her silky skin.

The front of the dress posed an even greater challenge. Her face was there, staring right at him. So were her breasts. He had to slide his battered hand into her bodice while he poked a hole in the fabric. When his knuckles grazed her soft flesh, she inhaled a ragged breath. His gaze met hers, and he felt the same pull as always, drawing him in. Then he stabbed the tip of the knife into the center of his palm.

Cursing, he yanked his hand free.

“Did you cut yourself?”

“It’s fine.”

She grasped his wrist and turned his palm over to examine it. The minor cut was the least of his problems. He had weight-lifting calluses, so his hands were tough, but not tough enough to protect him from the blisters that had formed last night.

Her brow furrowed in concern. “You got these making the fire? They need to be bandaged.”

He agreed to the treatment because he couldn’t afford to get an infection. He gathered a few elephant plant leaves and the broken cordage. Then he sat down and let her tend to him. She cleaned his skin with cool water from the bucket, and applied some soothing aloe vera. He didn’t know where to look while she worked. There was no safe place to put his eyes. Her mouth was lush, her breasts plump against the uneven bodice of her dress. He imagined it slipping down again. The sting of the cut didn’t distract him. Warmth pooled to his groin as she wrapped his hands in folded-up leaves and secured them with cordage.

“All done,” she said in a husky voice.

He muttered thanks and tore his gaze away from her. He added another branch to the fire, even though it didn’t need one. She rose to her feet and filled a coconut shell from the bucket. Instead of drinking it herself, she offered him the cup. He drained it in four or five gulps, grateful for its cooling effect.

When he could stand without embarrassing himself, he ventured into the jungle. His next order of business was making a spear. He needed a sturdy branch with a circumference about the size of his hand grip. Green wood, because it was stronger. After he found a good branch, he started to shape the end with his knife.

She gathered an armful of wood and a bunch of bananas while he worked on the spear. “This is the last of the yellow ones.”

“How many green?”

“Dozens.”

He ate two. Foraging would become more difficult the longer they were here. The mature coconuts wouldn’t last forever. That was why it was so important for him to hunt. He could make a fish basket, and set some traps for birds. He considered the possibilities as he sharpened his spear point. When he was finished, he stood and jabbed the end into the sand. It was a blunt weapon, hastily made, but he had high hopes.

“I have to go hunting,” he said. “Can you stay and take care of the fire?”

“What does it need?”

“Just make sure it doesn’t go out. Add some wood when it gets low.”

“Do we need more wood?”

“Yeah. A lot more.”

“What about stuff for the shelter?” She fingered the palm leaves.

“That can wait until I get back.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. An hour or two.”

She didn’t look happy about staying here without him. She didn’t want to be left behind. After hearing that story about her grandfather, he understood why. He could build up the fire and bring her along, but he’d rather go alone. Hunting required total concentration, and he had trouble focusing around her.

“I’ll be right at the tide pools,” he said. “It’s not far.”

“What if a rescue plane comes while you’re away?”

He glanced at the deserted sky. A rescue plane was unlikely, and human figures were almost impossible to spot from the air. They needed to make a signal fire at a higher location, which was a major undertaking. He wasn’t doing it today. “Do you want to work on an SOS?”

“How?”

“Dark rocks would show up pretty well on this beach.”

“Should I spell SOS?”

“You can do that, or make a triangle. Both are universal distress symbols.”

“A triangle,” she said, moistening her lips. “Right here, by the fire?”

He gathered some stones from the beach and marked three points to get her started. “Don’t bother with the sides. Just make three big piles.”

“Got it.”

Feeling optimistic, he strode toward the tide pools. He was surprised by her willingness to collect wood and help out. She was a beautiful woman, and a city-girl chef. Call him sexist, but he hadn’t expected her to work this hard.

Although his instincts toward her were protective, and he liked to be in charge, he needed to remember she could pull her own weight. She also stayed calmer when she had a task to focus on. Most people did.

When he reached the slabs of volcanic rock, he rolled up his sleeves and went to work. He spotted several tiny hermit crabs, but they scuttled out of range as soon as he stepped closer. Before long, he got distracted by the colorful fish in the shallows. They were everywhere, darting in and out of the coral. Blue ones and orange ones and fluorescent yellow. He aimed his spear at everything that moved, but his bandaged hands felt clumsy. He didn’t hit any targets.

He tried changing his stance to avoid casting a shadow. He tried adjusting his strike to account for the water’s distorting effects. It didn’t work. The fish fluttered around like butterflies, taunting him.

Apparently hunting with a primitive spear wasn’t any easier than making fire. He might have to rethink his weapon. He studied the nearby seabirds, who picked at the rocks and crevices with pencil-thin beaks. They were having a feast.

As the sun soared higher, the glare off the water burned his eyes and baked his face. His bad knee felt like rubber. He hobbled inland to take a break in the shade. The optimistic mood he’d started the day with evaporated. He didn’t want to quit. He was hungry, damn it. But hunting was an exercise in patience, and he had none.

Experience told him his odds would improve with trial and error. He would learn the best techniques for the setting, the optimal conditions. He couldn’t expect success on his first try. The fish weren’t going to jump out of the water for him.

While he leaned against the tree trunk, frustrated with his weakness, he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision. There was something crawling down the side of the tree, like a giant tarantula. He scrambled forward, his heart racing.

It wasn’t a tarantula. It was a crab. A big-ass, slow-moving crab.

He sank his spear point into a soft place behind the animal’s head. Its legs flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed. Then it went still with death. Logan gaped at it for several seconds. The crab was huge, with vivid blue streaks on its legs and body.

He returned to Cady with a fresh kill on the tip of his spear, triumphant. When she saw him, her eyes lit up with delight. “Oh my God,” she said, her hands on her cheeks. “That’s a coconut crab.”

“Yeah? Do they taste good?”

“Let’s find out.”

She took the crab off the spear, squealing. He built up the fire while she cleaned the meat. He noted that she’d collected wood, and made progress on the triangle symbol. It wasn’t big enough to be seen from the air, but it was a start.

“I’m going to cook this between two rocks,” she said. “Will that work?”

He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

She placed a flat rock in the center of the fire. The crab went on top. Then she covered it with another flat rock. The process was much faster than boiling water in a coconut husk. He started to smell roasted meat immediately. His stomach growled in anticipation.

When the crab was done, she used two sticks to take it off the fire. They sat on the driftwood log, waiting for the meat to cool. Then they pulled the shell apart and feasted on the tender white flesh.

He groaned at the first taste. With no seasoning, no utensils and no pots or pans, she’d created a masterpiece. The rock technique had sealed in the moisture and prevented the meat from getting charred. She’d cooked it perfectly.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think I love you.”

She laughed at the compliment. “It’s good, right?”

He grunted in agreement and savored every morsel, sucking the meat from the crab legs like straws. She did the same, licking her fingers. He wasn’t stuffed when the meat was all gone, but he was satisfied. He’d never enjoyed a meal more.

“Where did you find that crab?”

He told the story, which made her laugh in this beautiful, uninhibited way. Her hair was a mass of ebony curls, her teeth flashing white against her smooth caramel skin. Her laughter might have stung his ego if he hadn’t felt so great about providing for them. He also couldn’t begrudge such a gorgeous sight.

She caught him staring and went quiet. Maybe he shouldn’t have made that joke about being in love with her. Maybe it wasn’t a joke, and he was really starting to feel something he shouldn’t be feeling.

He tore his gaze away, frowning. “I need to, uh, get the shelter started.”

“What can I do?”

Stop being so irresistible. “You can collect palm fronds from the beach. We’re going to need a lot of those.”

While she went in search of loose fronds, he worked on making a handheld axe. He’d found a piece of quartzite yesterday that was about the size of his fist. He used a chunk of granite to strike the quartzite, causing it to flake. It didn’t take long to shape one end into a sharp edge, but it was bloody work. His fingers had multiple cuts when he was finished. His leaf bandages were shredded, and the blisters on his palms were raw.

Cady made him sit down so she could bandage his hands again.

He endured the treatment with impatience. Then he used the axe head to chop down a bunch of bamboo stalks, and some vine for lashing. She helped him carry the building materials back to the beach.

Although his strength and energy had returned to normal levels, time worked against him. By late afternoon, they’d lashed together enough bamboo stalks for a sleeping pallet. He’d formed a simple A-frame over the pallet, and she’d layered palm fronds on top. He wanted to build a platform for the pallet, but that would have to wait. Tomorrow, he’d improve the shelter. Today, they had a floor and a roof.

Good thing, because it started to rain.

He covered the wood pile and made sure the fire was well protected before they crawled inside the space. It was just long enough for his body, and wide enough for her to lie next to him. The bamboo didn’t make a comfortable mattress, but it felt nice to stretch out on his back. His muscles ached from overuse. He stared at the palm frond ceiling and listened to the soft rain. They stayed dry, for the most part.

They didn’t stay warm. The heat of the fire didn’t reach the shelter. He thought about ways to fix that. After he built a platform, he could make a pit for hot rocks, like a sauna. A better roof would help seal out moisture. He needed some moss or another soft material for padding and to hold in warmth.

Cady shivered beside him. Her smaller frame was more susceptible to cold.

“Do you want my shirt?”

She blinked at him in the dark, seeming hesitant. His shirt probably smelled bad. He shrugged out of the fabric anyway and draped it over her like a blanket. She curled up in the crook of his arm. He could feel her smooth cheek against his pectoral muscle. Her soft hair tickled his biceps.

Getting close to her had a predictable effect. His body didn’t care about the hard bamboo flooring or the intermittent raindrops that seeped through the roof. It wanted to generate some heat and get back into action.

He was used to going without sex during overseas assignments, but that was different. The members of his SEAL team offered no temptations. Cuddling with a beautiful woman—one that he’d felt an instant connection to, along with an attraction beyond anything he’d ever experienced—was a special kind of torture.

“How did you get into cooking?” he asked, desperate for a distraction.

“My mom taught me. And my grandmother.”

“The grandmother with the drill sergeant husband?”

“No. That’s my dad’s side of the family. My mom’s mom lives in Texas. I didn’t get to see her as often growing up. Just on holidays and stuff. Special times of the year. She was always in the kitchen.”

“What kind of food?”

“Soul food. Creole. Some Southwest stuff, too. Gumbo, chili, seafood...”

His stomach growled with interest.

“Are you hungry again?” she asked, sounding amused.

“I could eat.”

“My grandmamma would like you.”

“Did you always want to be a chef?”

She rolled onto her back and rested her head against his arm. “I wanted to be a dancer, actually. I was in competitive dance for years.”

“What happened?”

“I broke my ankle. I was practicing a leap near the edge of the stage and fell off. It healed, but I started dancing again too soon. Then I broke it a second time, and it was never the same after that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said in a light tone. “Professional dancing is kind of a risky career choice, anyway.”

“And you always play it safe.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t find that odd, considering her background. She’d lost her grandfather in a tragic accident, and her father had been shot on duty. There was nothing wrong with being cautious, but it wasn’t his style. Risks were inevitable in his line of work. They were part of who he was. No pain, no gain.

He wondered if she felt sad about giving up her childhood dream. She was a great chef. Cooking was another form of creative expression, and hardly a bad gig. She didn’t seem bitter about her chosen path.

“It’s funny,” she said. “I always play it safe, but here I am. In the least safe situation imaginable.”

“I can imagine worse,” he said, flexing his left hand. It was falling asleep. “I’ve seen worse.”

She lifted her head so he could move his arm. “In war zones, you mean?”

He nodded.

“What’s the worst place you’ve been?”

“Syria.”

She was quiet for a moment. “What if we don’t get rescued?”

He didn’t want to talk about Syria, but this subject wasn’t any better. “Then we’ll find a way to leave.”

“How?”

“I’ll repair the raft.”

“It’s shredded.”

“There’s a patch kit. I can fix it.”

“You want to brave the open ocean in a patched-up raft?”

“If we don’t get rescued, it might be our only option.”

“I won’t do it,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’d rather stay here than get lost at sea again. I’d rather die.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.”

He sat upright, incensed. He was trying to answer her questions honestly, and doing his damnedest to keep them both alive. Her words were an insult to everything he believed in. They were an insult to his dead comrades. “Don’t ever say you’d rather die.”

“You don’t understand how I feel.”

“Sure I do. You’re miserable. You miss your family and the comforts of home. I get it. You think this is easy for me?”

She was quiet for a moment. “I think this is an exciting challenge for you.”

He lay back down and took a deep breath, considering her point of view. He wasn’t as rattled as she was. He thrived in dangerous situations. He had confidence in his skills, and the ability to adapt to extreme circumstances. This was an exciting challenge for him, but that didn’t mean he was enjoying himself. “Let’s focus on getting rescued. We’ve only been here three days. It’s way too early to give up.”

“You said they might not even be looking for us.”

“We don’t have to count on an organized rescue effort. Some random person could pass by in a boat or a plane.” He told her about his idea for a signal fire. “Smoke from a high point can be seen for miles. We can build up the triangle. I also want to repair the raft, regardless. Having that kind of mobility is always an asset.”

“You think someone will pass by?”

“Maybe.”

“What about the kidnappers?”

“What about them?”

“Are they looking for us?”

“I hope so.”

She frowned at him in the dark. “Why?”

“Because they have a better chance of finding us than a rescue team. If they spot our signal, they’ll come ashore. And I’ll be ready.”

“You mean you’ll kill them.”

With relish, he thought. “If I have to,” he said.

“Then we’ll steal their boat?”

“Yes.”

Although she didn’t object to this plan, he could sense her unease. He could hear it in her rapid breathing. He knew she was afraid, and he didn’t want her involved in any violence. If the kidnappers showed up, he’d hide her somewhere safe.

“Look, we’re talking hypotheticals,” he said. “The possibility of a second attack is low. It’s more likely that a random plane or ship will pass by.”

The conversation trailed off and the rain dissipated. She was stiff as a board beside him. He remembered how distraught she’d been the last time they’d tangled with the pirates. He regretted stirring up her fears, but she’d insisted on this discussion. She’d asked him to be honest with her about the dangers they faced.

He also wanted her to be prepared. He needed her to fight, even if she was scared. Because that was the key to survival.

Chapter 10

Cady didn’t sleep well in the new shelter.

Although they were protected from the worst of the rain, the bamboo pallet needed padding. She had to lie on her back on the hard surface, which was her least favorite position. Moisture seeped inside, dripping from the palm fronds and creating a damp chill she couldn’t shake. She fretted half the night about Logan’s gonzo plan to kill pirates. Then she drifted off in the wee hours of the morning.

The next thing she knew, it was sunrise. Logan was already up, of course.

She emerged from the shelter with a stiff body, but a calmer mind. She had to stop worrying about worst-case scenarios. That was a bad survival strategy, according to Logan, and it was mentally exhausting. She also couldn’t prevent him from taking risks. She had to accept the situation, focus on simple tasks and live for today.

That was her plan, anyway. If she didn’t succeed, she’d try again tomorrow.

She did some yoga stretches and drank water from a coconut shell. She wondered if she’d be wearing them as a bra soon, complete with a hula skirt. Her dress was in shambles. The reattached strap kept slipping off. She tied back her hair, splashed her face with water and brushed her teeth with a twig.

They ate bananas for breakfast. She thought about other dishes she could make with the ingredients available. He started working on the shelter while she collected wood for the fire. Her feet felt better. The swelling was down and the cuts had scabbed over.

During her search for wood, she stumbled upon another treasure. A turtle shell had washed up on the shore overnight. It was oblong, about the size of a large serving bowl, and super tough. She picked it up and raced back to the shelter.

“Look what I found,” she said.

He was sitting on the driftwood log by the fire, making an axe handle. His hand axe wouldn’t chop down a tree big enough for the platform he was trying to build. He glanced up. “You can cook in that.”

“Right on the fire?”

“I think so. Boil some seawater in it first.”

She made a sound of excitement and set the prize by the fire pit. As she went back for the wood, she realized she’d squealed in delight over the prospect of cooking in a turtle shell. Who was she right now? She didn’t even recognize this person.

They spent the morning working on separate projects. While she boiled the turtle shell and scrubbed it with a pumice stone, he made improvements to the shelter. They had coconuts for lunch. Then he asked for her help to raise the roof onto the platform. There was a lot of cursing and adjusting and heavy lifting.