Tension ripped through Max. His every muscle tightened with a reminder to keep his guard up around this woman. He should have kept his yap shut. Instead, he'd thought it would be safe to spill a few truths about his past to relax her.
Darcy Renshaw was about as far from safe and relaxing as a man could get.
He'd screwed up and lost focus. Now he had to haul himself out of the mess and protect his cover. "My work takes me all around the world, some parts not as safe as others. I always carry a weapon."
Her eyes showered sparks his way. "You're supposed to declare that weapon before setting foot on any aircraft." She swung her legs over the side of the lounger and sat upright to pin him with an accusing glare. "I could have you thrown in jail."
Now there was an image to tempt a man—Darcy slapping cuffs on him while wearing her skimpy ribbed underwear. "I did declare it. To Daniel Baker." Max stabbed a finger toward her injured leg. "Now put your foot back up or I'll have Doc Clark lock you up in the infirmary." She didn't budge. "Why Crusty?"
"He's the senior pilot."
Max watched her mull that over until the will to argue seeped out of her set shoulders. A momentary retreat, no doubt, but welcome.
"Okay, then." She reclined back and swung her legs onto the lounger. "Next time, I'd advise telling all the aircrew or you could land yourself in trouble."
"I'll keep that in mind." How pissed would she be if she found out the rest of what had been kept from her? She made it clear she didn't appreciate back-seat roles, but life didn't always offer choices.
He had a job to do and a woman to protect. And he damned well didn't intend to let her wander off alone into the jungle to face her childhood ghosts and present day "critters.'' Whether she wanted it or not, this woman had his protection.
A woman mellowing into a sleepy haze. Her body lolled, relaxed, sagging into a seductive sprawl on the lounger that sent heat rushing south with throbbing intensity.
Max speared a hand through his hair, scanning the perimeter from his higher vantage point. What would it be like to make love to this uninhibited woman out in the open? She might be innocent, but he recognized a sensualist when he saw one. And Darcy was one hell of an enthusiastic sensualist. It would be a lucky man who tapped into that.
Hell. He did not need jealousy burning his gut. She wasn't his and never would be.
Waves lapped in the distance with a lulling regularity. Darcy's eyelids drifted closed, her breathing rhythmic.
Finally Max allowed himself the pleasure of looking at her—so damned pretty. Not gorgeous in some unapproachable-model kind of way, but pretty. Real. And alive, thank God.
In the quiet and solitude of the night, Max let himself say the words he'd bottled up for hours. "You scared the hell out of me with those gunshots. It knocked a year off my life seeing you on the floor with that snake."
A smile teased at the corner of her lips, her lashes still caressing her cheeks. "I told you. I never miss."
Sighing, she nestled on her side, cheek on her hand.
She didn't miss? Well, neither did he. And he knew it would be tougher than he'd thought keeping his hands off her while ensuring she didn't fall victim to any more "coincidences."
Darcy pulled herself through at least seven layers of sleepy fog. She turned her face into the pillow. A pillow. Not a lawn chair. Sometime during the night, Max must have carried her back to her room.
She'd actually slept through the chance to snuggle against that muscle-cut chest again. She must have been more wasted than she'd thought. Probably for the best as she would have been tempted to pull him down onto the covers with her to discover if he had other tattoos.
To uncover more pieces of Max's past.
Darcy arched into a languorous stretch. Her leg throbbed from the bites, just as her mind throbbed with memories of moonlight and Max. She didn't want to leave the bed and lose the dreamtime with him that had so perfectly overlaid the horror from earlier.
She'd found more distraction than she'd bargained for with the hunky professor. Sure, the night glow and solitude had been sexy, but the talking had been even more intimate. Somehow confusingly different from the friendships she shared with her crewdog buddies.
None of them could have pried bits of those past Guam days out of her. Yet wasn't this trip about putting that time behind her? She wrestled with lending too much importance to her sharing with Max.
Tougher than wrestling a ten-foot snake.
As difficult as putting her past behind her.
Of course, so far she'd made zero progress in that department, too. One little encounter with a tree snake and she'd been plunged back into that nightmare time.
Get a grip, soldier.
Darcy rolled out of bed. She tested her weight on her injured calf. Winced. Wincing even more at the next three days she would spend working a desk in the squadron until she returned to flying status. Might as well get to it.