Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

“While you’re at it, why do I have the mother of all headaches and how did I get here?”

      Her questions didn’t surprise him. She wouldn’t remember the last minutes before he had put her out. No one ever did. “I knocked you out,” he said curtly. “The men flying in that plane could have been dangerous.”

      “You think everyone is dangerous.” She started to say something more, but instead she frowned and crossed to sit beside Truman. “He doesn’t look right. Did he fall during that fog?”

      “Not exactly. Hell, what’s your real name? We both know it’s not Ella.”

      She chewed at her lip and stared back at him, then shrugged. “Miki—like the mouse.”

      Max filed the name away for future reference. He had a hunch that she was telling the truth this time.

      “What’s wrong with Truman?”

      “Something happened after that fog came in off the sea.” Max chose his words carefully. “You saw that, did you?”

      Miki nodded. “At first I thought I was imagining it.” She ran a hand slowly along Truman’s head. “He feels cold. Can’t you do something for him?”

      Max found a package of green gel nutrients and squeezed a tiny amount into Truman’s mouth.

      The dog didn’t respond, barely breathing now. Max lifted him gently onto his lap and stroked his head.

      “What happened?” Miki asked anxiously.

      Max shook his head. “One minute he was fine. Then the fog came and he just collapsed. Maybe it’s some kind of canine virus.”

      Miki pushed closer, rubbing Truman’s stomach. “Poor baby,” she crooned. “Move over,” she ordered. “Then go get me a blanket.”

      “Why?”

      “Because he’s cold, stupid.” Miki nudged him away as she scooped Truman closer, smoothing the fur across his back. She lifted one of the Lab’s eyelids carefully and frowned. “No pupil response. That’s a bad sign.”

      Max stiffened. “You know about dogs?”

      “I told you before that my friend is a trainer and one of her dogs had a habit of getting sick. He’s a real handful, but he likes me, so I help take care of him.” Miki felt Truman’s chest. “Where’s that blanket?”

      Max didn’t have a blanket in his pack, so he pulled off his T-shirt and draped it over the Lab’s motionless body. He realized Blondie was staring at his chest. “Something wrong?”

      Her eyes were wide. She took a little gulping breath. “You—Your chest. It’s…strong,” she said hoarsely. “But the scars…”

      It had been so many months that Max had actually forgotten the silver network that laced his ribs and shoulder, relic of a mission gone bad in Indonesia. “I had a car accident,” he said tightly.

      Her hand rose involuntarily, almost as if to soothe and comfort. The sight made Max’s stomach clench. When had a woman last touched him to comfort rather than in the heat of sex?

      He cleared his throat, annoyed at the sharp image of her fingers tracing all his scars while her soft mouth offered whispers of praise and desire.

      “Shit.”

      “What’s wrong?” Her brow wrinkled. “Do they hurt—your scars, I mean?”

      “No, they don’t hurt. They haven’t hurt for months.” He was angrier than he should have been. “Forget about it.”

      “I can see how you’d be sensitive about them. I’m sorry.”

      “Look, I’m not—hell, forget it.” Max jammed a hand through his hair. “They’re ancient history.”

      He saw her eyes linger on his stomach and he realized there was appreciation, not distaste in her glance. Instantly his body hardened in an erection.

      Talk about rotten timing, he thought irritably. Silent and controlled, he pulled a syringe from a sealed packet of the medical kit. Ryker had told him the high potency stimulant was strictly for emergencies. Max figured this fit the definition.

      Kneeling beside Miki, he brushed aside the fur at Truman’s chest and broke the seal off the packet.

      “Is that adrenaline? Do you think it’s his heart?” Miki’s voice was tight with concern. The name suited her, Max thought. Restless and quirky. Unusual.

      Not that any of that mattered to him.

      “Try to hold him. He can be very strong, I warn you.”

      “Just do it,” she said tensely. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, honey?” She stroked the dog’s silky head.

      Truman lay limp and cold. Max could no longer feel a pulse. He found the carotid artery and injected the stimulant. If this didn’t work, he could do CPR—even a cardiac thump, part of his advanced field training. But beyond that…

      He forced away the thought. He’d never left a man behind in battle and he damned well wasn’t going to lose Truman. The injection done, he smoothed the Lab’s fur, checking for a pulse.

      Nothing.

      Miki watched his face, her fingers smoothing the Lab’s soft hair. Their shared worry tightened, a thread of emotion that built until it stretched between them, deep and tangible. Max could almost feel her anxious breath, the brush of her thigh, even though they weren’t touching.

      Suddenly Truman wheezed. His tail banged Max’s leg weakly. With a sharp surge of relief, Max saw the dog’s eyes open. The Lab twitched hard, looked up at Miki, then lapped her face with his wet tongue.

      Most women would have gasped and squirmed away. But this woman laughed in pure exuberance, brushing Truman’s nose with hers and ruffling the dog’s fur. “About time you came around, big guy. Come on, give Aunt Miki a kiss.”

      Limp but eager, Truman burrowed closer against her chest, his nose shoved under her shirt directly atop her breast.