Prologue
After a two-year wait, Jamar finally had the opportunity to
shoot his brother out of the sky. Now that the slime worm,
Cade, had arrived, Jamar's cunning would pay off. Banking
his spaceship to lock on his brother's craft, Jamar
targeted Cade in his cross hairs. And fired.
"Got you."
Jamar's missile homed in on the ship breaking out of orbit.
At this angle, it couldn't miss. But even as a thrill of
satisfaction sizzled through Jamar, he noted three
discharges and the pilot's ejection from the craft.
He checked the scanner and pounded his fist on the console.
Damn, Cade. The man possessed more tricks than a dock rat.
Instead of attempting to return fire, he'd ejected his
precious cargo—along with himself. So when Jamar's missile
struck and Cade's ship disintegrated into a ball of flames,
the stubborn bastard hadn't died.
Jamar swore and brought powerful scopes on line, watching
as his brother plunged into the sea. He prayed he'd soon be
fish food. Cade should never have been allowed to leave the
creche. But that slime sucker had fooled his educators and
his taskmasters, hiding his minuscule measure of cunning
behind a devious mask. Cade's deception was a blight on all
Jamar held sacred—order and discipline. So when the rebel
had secretly conspired to foment discontent and disrupt the
economy, Jamar had sworn to crush the nuisance.
Yet, his brother still breathed. But not for long.
Chapter One
It wasn't every day that Shara Weston saw a man fall out of
an otherwise empty sky. Back in her Hollywood days, she
would have assumed coke and booze accounted for the strange
sight of a man plummeting toward the sea. But Shara had
abandoned her movie career almost five years ago and she
hadn't sniffed, injected or drunk herself into oblivion in
almost a decade. She couldn't be hallucinating.
The sonic boom's echo that had drawn her attention from the
Polynesian coral reef to the sky had been real. Lifting her
head from the turquoise water, she'd anxiously thrust back
her face mask and searched for the aircraft responsible for
disturbing her late afternoon swim in her favorite island
cove.
But she couldn't see any aircraft—just a body falling
through clouds too wispy to hide a plane. Shara held her
breath, watching him fall, waiting for his parachute to
deploy. It didn't.
When the horrifying notion finally sank into her stunned
brain that no canopy was about to flare open, Shara's
adrenaline revved. Replacing her mask over her eyes, her
snorkel into her mouth, she swam for her boat, using her
flippers to propel her through the water. Years of swimming
made her quick, powerful and efficient.
As her arms churned the water in an effort to reach her
boat, her thoughts swirled over the mystery of the man's
fall. It didn't matter if he was a downed military pilot or
a stuntman or a paparazzi come to spy on her in a plan gone
terribly wrong, Shara couldn't survive another death on her
conscience. Whatever his circumstances, she was the only
person around who could help him. Her home on Haven Island
in the South Pacific was wonderfully private, yet sometimes
privacy could be damn inconvenient, especially if he
required medical care.
He crashed into the ocean about twenty feet from her and
struck the surface with enough force for a backlash wave to
tug her under. Spinning ninety degrees to the left, she
searched for him in the clear water. Bubbles surrounded his
body but she made out a golden flight suit and his dark
hair.
Please, please let him be alive.
Praying he wasn't a dead body someone had pushed out of a
passing plane to dispose of, hoping his limbs would begin
to move and he'd swim toward the surface, she hovered a
moment. But he remained as still as her heart that seemed
to have stopped beating.
She'd heard of freak accidents where people had survived a
fall from such heights. So if he was alive and the force of
the fall had merely knocked the wind from his lungs, she
might yet save him. Shara gulped a large breath of fresh
air through her snorkel, then dived downward. He was about
four meters below the surface, and with the sea calm and
the sun bright, she had no difficulty snagging him.
Grabbing his gloved hand, she tugged, kicking them both
upward.
She burst back to the surface and gratefully sucked oxygen
into her lungs. As she breathed, she turned him unto his
back, slung an arm around his neck and shoulder, and
staying on her side, swam him toward the stern of her boat.
There was no way from her position in the water that she
could shove the man's large body unto the diving platform.
Somehow, she tossed her flippers into the boat, then
climbed aboard with one hand while preventing him from
floating away with her other. With both her feet planted on
the decking, she hauled him up, first his powerful chest,
then his muscular legs. She tossed aside her mask and
snorkel, then wasting no time, she rolled him onto his
back, pleased a pulse beat in the strong cords of his neck,
but he wasn't breathing.
Tilting back his head, she pinched closed his nostrils,
placed her lips over his mouth and blew air into his
lungs. "Come on. Come on. Come on."
She exhaled more air into his mouth.
"Breathe. Damn you. Breathe."
Pale as a jellyfish, he didn't so much as flicker one black
eyelash. Fierce determination compelled Shara to keep
filling his lungs with air. No blood seeped from his nose,
mouth or ears. He had a pulse and he was not going to die
in her puddle of the ocean. Surely he hadn't been under
water long enough to drown.
"Take a breath. Come on, man. Stop being so difficult. One
breath."
He coughed, spit out water. With a groan, he opened his
eyes, sea green eyes as deep as her lagoon. Bronzed skin
tones replaced his former pallor. Relief washed over her,
even as she noted his features. A bold nose and a strong
jaw complemented his direct stare and made him as handsome
as any of her costars, if she discounted the twist of his
lips that grimaced in obvious pain.
With another grunt, he clasped one hand over his obviously
injured shoulder, while still managing to convey his
interest in her with a piercing stare. The reminder that
she wore only a minuscule bikini caused a smidgeon of
wariness to trickle through her psyche. Now that she was
fairly certain he'd live, she wondered if he posed a
threat.
Was it simply coincidence that out of the entire Pacific
Ocean, he'd crashed in her backyard? She had to consider if
he'd deliberately sought her out. While the world hadn't
forgotten Shara Weston the movie star, reporters came to
Haven much less often now that she was merely a casting
consultant. But she remained wary, knowing that one
compromising photograph could sell for big bucks. One
exclusive scoop could make a reporter's career.
"Easy. Don't sit up yet." Shara placed a hand on his good
shoulder, pleased at the warmth that indicated he'd thrown
off the chill of the deep.
"I'm fine." Voice tough, but threaded with pain, he ignored
her instructions. Shoving his good hand onto the deck, he
raised himself to a prone position, shaded his eyes from
the sun and searched the empty sky. At his effort, sweat
beaded on his brow. "Have you seen anything . . . odd?"
"Other than you falling out of the sky?" she cracked, and
when he didn't react, she figured from the way he cradled
his arm that he was in more pain that he wanted to
admit. "After your swan dive into the ocean, you may have
dislocated that shoulder."
He licked his top lip, apparently needing the taste of salt
to believe he'd fallen into the ocean. Glancing sideways at
her, he spoke carefully, almost as if he feared he might
offend. "You have medical training?"
"You're holding that arm just like my stunt double did
after Sweetie Pie bucked her off."
"Sweetie Pie?"
"Finest horse that ever made a movie." She bit her bottom
lip. "Maybe you should—"
"I'm fine." The confident timbre in his tone suggested he
was accustomed to giving orders.
He obviously wasn't fine. As he clutched his forearm to
take the weight off his shoulder, his fingers trembled.
Yet, with his gaze once more on the sky, he exuded
masculinity, even as he again licked his top lip and a tiny
smile of satisfaction curled his lip. The breeze carried
his tantalizing scent to her nostrils and sunlight glinted
off his reflective gold flight suit that molded to his
broad shoulders. His wet dark hair, cut military short,
spiked straight up and emphasized his chiseled cheekbones.
A chest wider than the Pacific Ocean revealed the guy was
in shape, possibly dangerous, reminding her that she had no
idea of his intentions.
Shara stepped into her boat, opened a locker and tossed him
a towel. Feeling too vulnerable in her skimpy bikini, she
thrust her arms into a robe and tugged the belt tight.
Plucking two bottles of ice water from the cooler, she kept
one, untwisted the cap of the second and offered it to her
guest who had yet to make use of the towel. "Shara Weston."
"Cade Archer."
When Cade held her glance and introduced himself as if he'd
never heard of her or the scandal, he raised her impression
of him another notch. However, unless he was in too much
pain for her name and face to register, or unless he'd
grown up under a rock in a third-world country, he'd
undoubtedly read her name and had seen her face plastered
on any of a dozen magazine covers during her scandalous
heyday.
"Thanks for . . . saving my life." Cade accepted the water
bottle without letting his eyes drop to the open v-neck of
her robe, winning another point in his favor.
"No problem." She twisted off the cap of her bottle, took a
healthy swig, appreciating the cool liquid on her parched
throat. Shara hated personal questions so she hesitated to
ask them. But her curiosity got the better of her. "You a
pilot?"
"It's one of my skills." He downed his water in several
long gulps, then neatly recapped the bottle with only one
hand.
When he didn't volunteer more information, she raised an
eyebrow. "So exactly how did you end up here?"
A muscle clenched along his jaw. "I was shot down."
No kidding. And he'd survived a fall without a parachute.
True, he'd landed in the water, but still, he'd fallen
thousands of feet and the crash should have broken every
bone in his body and caused all kinds of internal injuries.
That he'd survived was a miracle.
But why hadn't she seen any burning metal falling into the
ocean? "Where's your plane?"
"When another pilot locked onto me, I ejected before he got
off his shot," he explained with a commanding air of self-
confidence, as if he hadn't questioned his decision to
eject for even a second. "The missile disintegrated my
craft."
She hadn't heard of a war breaking out, especially over
Polynesia. She didn't even believe any nearby islands
possessed a landing strip long enough for military aircraft
either, but she supposed an aircraft carrier could be
nearby.
"Where are you from? Who shot you down?" She shuddered. She
knew all too well about accidents involving weapons. "Were
you on a training mission that somehow went wrong?"
"That's classified." He craned his neck to search the sky
yet again.
"Did you take off from a—"
"That's classified, too." The words sounded dangerous,
menacing, but he delivered them softly, almost with regret.
"You're just full of secrets."
"You have no idea." Cade grinned, his smile all the more
charming for his attempt to ignore the pain in his
shoulder. It had been so long since she'd allowed a man to
talk to her, never mind charm her, that the sudden warming
heat in her core took her by surprise.
"Is your wingman coming to rescue you—"
"I'm alone." He had a solitary air about him, as if
accustomed to the success or failure of a mission riding
solely on his broad shoulders. However, she sensed no
violence or threat coming from him and that eased her mind
over her own safety. She didn't like the idea of bringing a
stranger to Haven, but between his injury and the storm
clouds moving in from the west, she saw no other choice.
"Let's get you back to my house and take care of that
shoulder."
He turned irritated sea green eyes on her. "You haven't
been listening."
"Sure I have. You said that your shoulder's fine." Shara
moved to the bow of her boat, pulled up the anchor and
secured it on deck. Her sarcasm got the better of her. "In
fact, you're in Olympic gold medal form, no doubt able to
swim across the ocean back to wherever you came from."
He let out a soft chuckle, then winced. "I wouldn't go that
far."
"Your pupils are dilated. When the shock wears off, the
pain will likely increase." She started the engine, turned
starboard and set a course for her dock. When she noted his
keen interest in a gorgeous stand of royal palms, she spoke
with pride. "Haven's a tiny island, about one hundred acres
of paradise, but I have my own water source and there's a
surprising variety of flora and fauna."
"You own all of this?" Cade moved into the copilot's seat,
careful to avoid jarring his arm.
She smiled with pride. "I bought Haven from a nervous
seller. When the volcano at the south end rumbled and shot
ash into the sky, I convinced him to sell the place to me."
Cade's gaze scanned the southern peak and returned to rest
on her, his eyes full of curiosity. "You aren't worried the
volcano will blow?"
She shrugged. "I had experts look over the place. They
figure there's as much chance of an eruption here as there
is of an earthquake taking out LA."
As she navigated through the reef and along the shoreline,
they passed papaya, mango and breadfruit trees, several
varieties of coconut palms and dense tropical plantings
full of ferns, palmettos and banana plants. Wild chickens,
iguanas, and turtles roamed the island, but Haven housed
nothing more dangerous than an occasional mosquito that she
could swat away—until now.
As an ex-actress Shara was good at reading people, but she
couldn't get a bead on Cade Archer. Composed, intelligent,
thoughtful, he kept his feelings checked. And he didn't
talk about himself unless she pressed. Although he hadn't
given her one solid reason to question his integrity, she
sensed a well-hidden determination in the angle of his jaw
and the glint in his eyes as he assessed his surroundings
and took in the scenery with more than a casual eye.
"Would you consider selling your island?"
She shook her head. The first three years she'd lived here,
she'd never left. Although during the last twenty-four
months, she'd vacationed and had done some consulting
abroad, Haven was not for sale. "This is my home. To me,
it's paradise. No press. No trick or treaters. No nosy
neighbors."
"You live here all alone?"
She hesitated, then nodded, seeing no point in lying when
he'd see for himself soon enough.
His eyebrows rose in surprise or disapproval—she couldn't
be sure. "Don't you fear pirates? Or storms? Or what if you
get sick or hurt or lonely?"
"I have a satellite phone and a shotgun." And a vibrator,
but she kept that fact to herself. In all ways important,
she could take care of herself. "I also have medical books
that will instruct us how to set your shoulder.
Unfortunately for you, I don't keep painkillers on hand."
"Why not?" For an extra beat, he studied her face with an
enigmatic expression.
"What I don't have, I can't ingest." She kept her tone
light, noting a wry but indulgent glint in his eyes as her
thoughts veered to the thirty-year-old bottle of scotch she
kept on her mantle. Many a night she'd taken that bottle
down, played with the seal, but it had yet to be broken.
She'd love a drink right now—to take the edge off a
disconcerting day. No longer accustomed to sharing space
with another human being, much less entertaining, she
couldn't help feeling as if he'd invaded her world, her
personal space. She'd moved to Haven in order to heal. And
Cade's presence and questions were bringing back painful
memories.
The Chevas had been a present from Bruce Langston, her
leading man and husband's first-ever gift to her. During
their four-year relationship, she'd never opened the
bottle, and after his death, she'd kept her promise to him
to stop drinking. She'd saved the aged alcohol as a
memento, not only of their too-brief marriage but to test
her willpower, to prove she was still strong enough to
resist temptation.
With the afternoon's sun setting into the west, thunder
clouds moved in. The breeze kicked up and the ocean
responded by spewing white caps. In deference to her
injured guest, she kept the boat speed slow and the
bouncing to a minimum. However, by the time she'd entered
her tranquil and protected cove on the lee side of the
island to dock, Cade's bronzed face had paled to a sickly
white and he clenched his teeth against the pain.
After she secured the boat with a line at the bow and
another at the stern, he carefully climbed onto her dock,
his breath coming in sharp grunts accentuated by a soft
hiss. He staggered and two deep lines of worry appeared
between his eyes.
Taking a quick step to his good side, she slipped an arm
around his waist and tried not to recall how long it had
been since she'd last touched another human being. "Think
you can make it to the house?"
His knees buckled, and she took the brunt of his weight on
her shoulder. If she hadn't supported him, he might have
toppled into the water or onto the dock and caused
additional injuries. Shoving her shoulder into his armpit,
she half-carried, half-dragged him toward her home.
"You can make it to the porch, can't you?" she coaxed. "One
step. That's right. Now another."
Between Cade's clammy skin and the shudders that racked his
body, she feared he had internal injuries and was about to
keel over. But without his help, she'd never make it from
the dock and over the stone path along the beach, never
mind carry him up her porch stairs. Cade was a big, rugged
man. Although she tightly gripped him, her muscles ached
and her legs shook from her effort. She needed him to
remain conscious and keep his feet under him.
He spoke with calm and authority. "I must . . . rest."
"Not yet. Soon," she promised. "Soon you can rest." She
feared if they collapsed, she might not coax him back onto
his feet. Together they covered the last dozen yards but
wobbled to a halt at the bottom of the steps. "We have to
go up."
"Up," he agreed with a cross between a grunt and a groan
and a curse.
Breath coming in pants, muscles quivering with effort,
Shara urged him with words and pushed him with as much
strength as she could muster to climb one step, then
another. The ten steps seemed like ten miles. And when they
reached her porch, his legs buckled. She'd barely lowered
him onto a chaise lounge before he passed out.
Shara didn't attempt to wake him. If he'd suffered from
internal injuries, there was nothing she could do to help
him, but if she could find the medical book and figure out
how to pop his shoulder back into place before he came to,
it would be a blessing. Hurrying into her home, she
automatically wiped her sandy feet on a braided throw rug
before treading across her wooden floors into the library.
This was where she read scripts for A-list actors to help
them decide whether to accept or turn down a proffered
role. This was where she corresponded with the world, where
her satellite cell phone and the occasional mail boat kept
her in touch with friends and clients.
She'd stocked her library with hundreds of books and she'd
catalogued them by categories. Gardening and food
preparation took up one shelf of her bookcase. Engine
repair, boating and navigation manuals shared shelving with
carpentry and fishing books. Heading straight for the
medical section, she removed a text from the top shelf and
her first aid kit from her bottom desk drawer. With a
scowl, she stopped by the fireplace to pluck the Chevas
bottle from the mantle.
She'd vowed never to break the bottle's seal.
But did it count if the hooch wasn't for her?
Shara snatched a glass from her kitchen and returned to her
front porch to find Cade once again conscious, but lying in
the exact same position in which she'd left him. The sun
had set and she flipped on a light. He didn't turn his
head, but followed her movements with his eyes. His chest
heaved and his breath sounded raspy. His color remained
wan.
Pulling up a chair beside him, she opened the Chevas,
poured three fingers into a glass. The rich golden color
and the savory scent made her mouth water, but she ignored
her burning yen for one quick sip.
Instead, she lifted Cade's head with one hand and tipped
the rim of the glass to his lips with the other. "Drink."
He sniffed. Took a gulp. And sputtered. "Are you trying to
poison me?"
How ironic that he didn't like the taste of the scotch that
she had to fight against downing. "Chevas will help ease
the pain."
"It's medicine?"
"Sure." His reaction and questions seemed peculiar. She
placed a hand on his forehead to check for fever but his
flesh felt normal to her. She held the glass to Cade's
mouth again. "Drink some more."
He sipped and swallowed, screwing up his eyes but downing
the alcohol. She kept the glass to his lips until he'd
drained it. And when he lay back, he mumbled, his tone low
and husky. "Mmm. That wassssn't ssso baddd."
Wow. The alcohol must have made a beeline from his gut to
his brain. She supposed it was too much to hope the booze
would work that fast on his pain as well. "How's the
shoulder?"
"Goodd 'nuf to hold you." His voice, deep and sensual, sent
a ripple of interest through her. A ripple she was
determined to ignore. So what if lately she'd been yearning
for conversation—one that wasn't by satellite phone. So
what if she missed chatting about her day during a walk or
over dinner with someone who cared. So what if she missed
touching and being touched? Her recent yearnings likely
meant she would be all-too susceptible to the first man
she'd let set foot on the island in five years.
Annoyed she wasn't immune to his charms, Shara sighed,
needing a distraction from the totally hot man on her
lounge chair. She picked up the textbook and turned to the
back where the appendix listed medical problems.
Cade hiccupped and then spoke slowly to enunciate each word
with the excess care of a drunk. "You're reading
backwards."
Shara turned to the page she needed, consulted the diagram.
Did she possess the strength to pull his arm straight then
slowly release it back to the correct position in the
socket? The medical text suggested the procedure should
only be done by an expert, and her stomach rolled as she
read how she could cause more damage. But her closest
neighbor was a three-day boat ride away, and by sea, it
could take a week to reach a real doctor. The text also
said that the sooner the arm returned to the proper
position, the sooner it would heal.
"Give me your hand." She moved back her chair to the
correct angle.
Jaw thrust forward, Cade shook his head, his profile strong
and rigid. "Don't want to."
She didn't argue. Leaning forward, she picked up his long,
callused fingers and gently raised his arm. Following the
text's directions, she placed her bare foot under his
armpit but on his ribs.
Two dimples appearing in his cheeks, Cade grinned at the
sight of her foot. "Pretty toes."
"This may hurt." Betraying none of her uncertainty over the
procedure, Shara slowly applied tension, tugging on his
wrist and implementing pressure with her foot against his
ribs to cause the necessary separation between his shoulder
and the socket.
In fascination, Cade stared at her toes. Then he jerked up
his head, his mouth twisting into a line of discomfort, his
eyes hardening. "Ow. That hurts."
"Sorry." She kept right on tugging.
Cade grunted, his arms stiffened. His entire body tensed
and bowed.
And something in his joint moved. Very slowly, she lessened
the pressure. When she finished, she noted his hand had
slipped into hers and his former grimace had relaxed
noticeably. "How do you feel?"
Eager affection radiated from him. "Kiss me again."
Again? "We've never kissed." She attempted to draw back her
hand.
He refused to release his grip. "You kissed me back to
life. I tasted the salt on your lips."
He remembered her artificial respiration? How was that
possible? He'd been unconscious. Shara didn't have to be a
doctor to know Cade's reactions were all wrong. First he'd
survived a fall from a plane without a parachute, without
sustaining one broken bone and apparently no internal
injuries beyond the dislocated shoulder. Next, he'd
recalled memories from when he'd been unconscious, and
last, she'd never seen anyone who had gotten drunk that
fast.
And his flight suit was composed of a very strange
material. She could have sworn when he'd been in the water
that the sleeves had covered his arms down to his gloved
hands, but now the material was short, hugging impressive
biceps.
Shara really could use a drink. She stared at the open
Chevas. Licked her bottom lip.
He tugged her closer and she didn't want to risk hurting
his shoulder by resisting. She sat beside him, close enough
to inhale the scotch on his breath that taunted her,
tempted her. If she kissed him, she'd taste the delicious
liquor on his lips.
Stop it.
While the alcohol had clearly lowered his inhibitions, she
didn't have an excuse for the sudden desire to kiss him
that flooded her. She simply craved the booze—not the man.
Attributing her sudden fascination with his mouth and the
yearning for him to the overload of leftover adrenaline
from her taxing afternoon, she squared her
shoulders. "How's your shoulder? Will you let me fix a
sling?"
"So pretty." His tone was singsong but pleasant and musical
and very powerfully male. "I'll let you do whatever you
want with me."
Sheesh. One little drink and Military Man had turned into
charming Lover Boy. Wary, but amused, she finally
disentangled her hand from his and opened the first aid
kit.
Cade raised his head. Catching her by surprise, he brushed
back a loose lock of hair from her face and kissed her
brow. "Thanks for making the pain go away."
"You're welcome." His eyes held hers, almost as if he knew
exactly what he was saying.
Again she thought his reaction odd. She'd seen a lot of
drunks. None of them got wasted as fast as he had. None of
them recovered as quickly. It was almost as if his system
worked at super-human speed.
"I didn't mean for us to meet like this," he mumbled, his
tone cagey.
"Really?" She dug through the first aid kit, putting aside
ointment, bandages, scissors. Behind a roll of tape, she
found a folded sling.
"I was supposed to . . .
She shook out the sling and adjusted the neck strap to the
roomiest setting. "You were supposed to what?"
"Supposed to seduce you."
He wasn't making any sense. Obviously the alcohol was doing
his talking and she took no offense. "You're a pilot and
you've been shot down."
"But not in hostile territory." He seemed quite proud of
himself and his gaze on her was as soft as a caress. "You
like me, right?"
"Sure." She hadn't known him long enough to make a
decision, but so far, so good. He'd piqued her interest,
made her aware of him as a man. She slipped the material
over his head, bent his arm and placed it into the
sling. "I'm certain you're a really great guy. But you
shouldn't get any wild—"
The roar of an aircraft cut off her words. A roar so loud
it sounded as if it the plane was about to crash into her
home.
Tilting her head to search the night sky, she saw hellish
sparks. Flames. Smoke. Surely two different people couldn't
crash into her island on the same day?
Her porch shook as if sprayed with hail that ripped large
holes in the deck. Dust from the eaves rained down and her
eyes teared.
What the hell was going on?
Cade grabbed her shoulders, tucked her against his chest. A
strong, hard chest. "Get down. We're under attack."