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Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

August, 1943

Over the din of the B-17 bomber's ascent into the air, the radio decided to squawk, emitting a familiar voice. "This is 'Flying Mamba.' Position confirmed. Hey, Johnny boy, whichever dumb bastard said 'War is hell' obviously never pulled duty in the Bahamas! Heaven on earth! Am I right, or what? Over."

Captain Jack Harrington grinned at his former co-pilot's comment on their now-completed "dream" assignment, and signaled his radio operator, Keith Watkins, for C channel to reply. Glancing out the window at the almost identical bomber flying in close formation, Jack gave a quick salute to his friend. "'Flying Mamba', this is 'Sweet Revenge'. Bad news, Nat. You have the wrong war. General Sherman, late of the Civil War and perpetrator of that quotable quote, had more on his mind with his march to the sea than we did on this babysitting gig. Over."

Naturally, Lieutenant Ian Baker of the Royal Australian Air Force, stuck his two cents in--or whatever the hell it was they used for money down at the bottom of the world. "Now, sir, I do believe it's my duty as co-pilot to correct you. Our RAF students, British or otherwise, aren't young children--or ankle-biters--as we Aussies like to say. And after all, the flight training school on Nassau is the finest in the Caribbean."

Flight training school. Christ, what a waste of valuable time for an old-timer like Jack! The foul taste of bile rose up in his throat, and truth be told, he was hard pressed not to spit it out. Out the window lay the golden sands and crystal waters of the Bahamian islands chain. Beautiful, yes, but how in good conscience could a man fritter away the days on this semitropical paradise when there was so much work to be done? When the horrors of war breathed hot and heavy day in and day out? When death was as close a companion as his sweaty regulation undershirt?

He grimaced. Bottom line here: the fate of the free world was so uncertain, he literally burned with the need to get back in the thick of things, whether in Europe or the Pacific arena. Thankfully, the layover at his next destination, Bermuda, would be brief. By this time next week, he'd be flying daylight bombing raids with his unit over in Ridgewell, England.

"Sir? Is everything all right?" Baker's blonde mustache bristled concern, and he tapped Jack on the shoulder to recall him to the here and now.

Annoyed, Jack checked his instruments. Damn altimeter gauge was stuck again. "Cut the 'sir' crap, Baker. I'm doing my bit for your king and country. So tell me again why I have to drag your sorry ass to Bermuda?"

Two other members of the crew, Salvatore Scarpelli the navigator and Danny Flannery the bombardier--twins in spirit not birth--wagged their bushy eyebrows and nudged each other in the ribs. Their captain's anger was legendary. Everyone knew that, including Jack.

He ignored the byplay to settle his wrath against the prune-dried Aussie. Had to take it out on someone, so it might as well be the person responsible for separating him from his co-pilot and best damn friend a man could have: Nat Terrell. In fact, if Jack were a superstitious man--which he wasn't--he would have claimed Nat as his own personal good luck charm. With Nat by his side, Jack had twenty-three successful missions to his name, or rather to his plane's name, "Sweet Revenge." When dealing with the enemy, any revenge was sweet.

"Not my country, precisely, er, Captain." Baker calmly tapped the altimeter gauge until it righted itself. "Needn't get cranky, mate. This wasn't a hardship tour, now was it? Plenty of time to sunbake to a crispy brown."

Which he had, to his skin's leathery detriment.

Nat's voice fought static to be heard on the radio. "Boys! Boys! Play nice now, why don't you? On the same side, no denying that. Ian, you'll have to forgive my pal, Johnny boy. He's still put out 'cuz that cute Bahamian honey preferred my butt to his! Over."

Scarpelli and Flannery couldn't hide their guffaws. And big men like them certainly knew how to laugh it up. Jack stared them into submission, causing them to shuffle apologetically and bury themselves in busy work.

Baker, on the other hand, lifted a sun-bleached eyebrow and stroked down his prickly mustache, all the while studiously regarding Jack.

"Don't jump to conclusions, Baker," Jack warned. "It's my pal, Nat, who's harboring illusions." He gestured to Watkins, the radio operator, for an open channel. "Nat, you ol' sot, you got the story wrong. That honey fancied my bedside manner, not yours! Over."

The rough edge that had niggled Jack since breakfast in downtown Nassau suddenly smoothed out. Locking horns with Nat always had that mellowing effect on him. Neither the deafening drone from the four turbo-supercharged engines nor the biting cold from high altitudes disturbed his complacent mood.

But that Aussie sure was a burr in his side. Hell, if only Nat were here instead. Jack shot a look of sheer displeasure at the co-pilot. And why not? At thirty degrees below, a man was entitled to growl like a bear.

Over the intercom, he spoke to his men. "Okay, heads up everyone. Time to put your air on. We're at 10,000 feet and climbing." Oxygen masks were necessary at that altitude since the inside of the B-17 wasn't pressurized.

He stretched in his seat and cracked his knuckles. Unusually tall for a pilot, he often felt cramped behind the controls. Once again, he checked the skies. Still no clouds in sight. A picture-perfect day for a routine flight to Bermuda. "Course position?" he requested from the navigator.

Just as promptly, Scarpelli relayed the information.

Damn good men, all of them. Usually the B-17, or Flying Fortress, as it was affectionately known, had a crew of ten. But because "Sweet Revenge", with sexually suggestive nose art, had been tasked to train raw recruits from British, Canadian, and Australian forces, Jack was down four men: tail, ball turret, and two waist gunners...and, of course, his regular co-pilot, Nat. They would all be replaced once he reached England, of course, but these men, including Watkins, Scarpelli, Flannery, and Chuck Ziegler the flight engineer, were like family--the family Jack had never had. Not a close one, anyway. Not with a passel of step-kin with him being odd man out. But his military family, that was a different story. They all pulled together under the hazard of enemy fire.

A team. They had been a team. So why the hell did the wing commander reassign Nat at the last minute?

Baker adjusted the strap on his oxygen mask. "Fancy yourself to be a ladies man, do you, Captain? Lud, I love 'em myself. Especially your Southern Belles with the delectable accent."

Jack grunted. The oxygen had a somewhat metallic scent to it. Usually didn't bother him, but today it seemed to dry his throat. Damn it all, he'd give anything for a smoke.

But that would have to wait until they landed. Instead, he popped a stick of chewing gum in his mouth, and savored the spearmint flavor. Belatedly, he remembered to offer one to Baker. "No, actually, I don't care much for women, other than in the bedroom, that is. Can make a man cut his own neck, in a manner of speaking." He'd seen it happen often enough, not only with his stepsisters' discarding boyfriends hand over fist, but with his stepmother destroying his dad.

Baker's blonde eyebrow arched up again in an unspoken question.

"Just look at your Edward VIII," Jack explained. "What's he now, the Duke of Windsor? He attended that damn party Command threw for us the other night, remember? Eddie looked as healthy as a wax candle, didn't he? One minute he's king of the British Empire, and the next he's assigned as governor of the stinking Bahamas! And all because of a woman."

"You sound bitter, mate," Baker had the nerve to say.

Jack shrugged. "Never let them get under your skin, that's my motto. Women. Nothing but trouble."

Baker took his time chewing on his piece of gum. "I disagree with you--"

"Captain!" Flannery called from his position. "There's something out there at two o'clock high."

A luminous mist appeared high in the sky, growing larger with each passing second. By all that was holy, what in Christ's name was it? Silvery grey, this cloud or fog ominously spread in all directions, blocking out the sun, ocean,...damn, even the horizon itself.

"What the hell?" As Jack glanced at his instruments, his heart almost lurched out of his chest. Never mind the damn cloud, the magnetic compass on the control panel spun like crazy!

Baker confirmed the malfunctioning compass, then heaped on more bad news. "Gyros and locators not working. All flight instruments out. Whatever this is, Captain, we're in for a rough ride."

Flashes of purple lightning vividly seared across the sky in front of them. Or what would have been the sky had everything not blended together in a sea of shimmering grey haze. The very air hung heavy with the acrid stench of burned ozone and octane gasoline.

Almost as one, the crew broadcasted their terror through the intercom. Navigation no longer was sure of their position. The flight engineer doubled over with vertigo. Damn it all, everyone even started to take on a strange greenish glow. Christ, what was going on?

Through the crackling of heavy static, Ned's voice radiated his panic over the airwaves. "'Sweet Revenge', this is 'Fly...Mamba'. Good God, Johnny, what...happening to you...? Disappearing right before...eyes! Where the...What's happen...Over!"

Then...there was nothing. Nothing at all. Disorientation and an odd sense of separation from self enveloped Jack. For all he knew, they'd been cut off from civilization, plucked from the sky, and tossed out into a vast cosmic dumping ground.

A wave of nausea hit at the same time a tremendous gravitational force yanked the B-17 deeper into the cloud. Watkins lay unconscious next to his radio. Baker slumped down on the malfunctioning controls, his blazing blue eyes hidden in the shadow of his thinning blonde hair. No crew member made a sound. Only the roar from the turbo engines disturbed the eerie quiet of their unnatural grey cocoon.

Jack had one last thought before passing out. "End of the line for us, ol' girl. Too bad we couldn't fly more missions." He spoke to the bomber as it continued its flight without benefit of pilot. "May God have mercy on our souls."

Chapter One

Present Day

Gramps was dying. He knew it, and she knew it. Larissa Parish sat next to him on the bed and lifted his age-mottled hand to her cheek.

"I'm here, Gramps. Just flew in." She tenderly gazed at his sleeping face, painfully aware that soon he would be gone. Totally and completely gone.

Blinking back tears, she adjusted her tortoise-shell eyeglasses, tucked the homemade comforter under his chin, then leaned over to kiss the top of his balding head. She was not going to cry. Getting away from her job had been darn difficult, but she didn't travel over 2,200 miles for Gramps to see swollen eyes and a reddened nose.

"Are your arms tired?" His voice wavered, but his eyes retained their mischievousness. "Quite a flight from Baltimore to Great Falls."

"Gramps! That joke's ancient!" Despite her grief, Larissa smiled at the old man who had been such an important influence on her--as an adult and as a child. Dad had died young, leaving an all female household. Mom had coped as best as she could, but with three young girls in varying stages of development, she often left the youngest one, Larissa, in his capable hands.

Now frail and weak, Gramps lay motionless under the covers as if even that scant weight was too heavy for him to tolerate. A slight odor of camphor filled the air, probably from an applied ointment to ease the pain from his weary body.

She quickly sobered up. "I brought you some flowers. Carnations."

The floral scent and the carnations' fringed petals did much to bring a bit of cheer to the sick room. She held the bouquet for Gramps to sniff. "Mom told me...you weren't doing well."

"Thank you, child. I've been better. But I appreciate your coming." His raspy coughing racked more than his emaciated frame. The bedposts actually shook. "Here, let me look at you. Just the sight of you does a body good. Heaven on earth!" With effort obvious in every movement, he sat up and slowly sank back against the pillows. Lifting a long lock of her hair, he tut-tutted. "Pretty as a picture, but you still hide behind that mane of hair of yours. Larry, you've got to fix yourself up. Go to the beauty parlor. Get a permanent. Get contact lens instead of those heavy-framed eyeglasses, why don't you?"

Not comfortable with society's rigid ideal of beauty, Larissa never paid attention to the cruel whimsy of fashion. Growing up in Montana, she didn't have to worry about New York's Madison Avenue dictates on what was in or out. Besides, where she worked, beauty definitely was not an asset. To get ahead, a person had to use her brains--no ifs, ands, or buts about that.

Another coughing fit stopped Gramps' list of her deficiencies. "Child, I'm afraid you've dithered too long. I'm not going to be able to keep my promise to you, like I did with your sisters."

Try as she might, Larissa couldn't keep her throat from thickening. And her eyes stung with unshed tears. She had to keep her composure. She just had to. Glancing around his airy bedroom, so chockfull of mementos from bygone days, she settled her gaze on the bureau where a treasured photo of his World War II bomber squadron was displayed.

"Larry? Are you okay?"

Sniffing, she turned away from him, took a deep breath, then faced him with a smile. He was the one dying, and he was concerned about her. She swallowed her sadness. "I'm fine, Gramps. What promise are you talking about?"

"Why, to walk you down the aisle for your wedding! Don't you remember? I promised all you girls that, right after your dad passed on. Of course, Molly and Ellen were older, but you were just five."

Animation sparkled the green of his eyes. Green, the color of an emerald rainforest. She inherited her brilliant eyes from him. "Good God, girl," he scolded. "You're a full twenty-eight years old! Why haven't you married? In my day, a girl that old was on the shelf--"

More coughing. From a pitcher, she poured water into a cup and held it to his lips. "Drink, Gramps. You need it." She filled another cup and also gulped down lemon-flavored water. "Don't worry about me not being married. I've looked around, believe me. No guy can measure up to you."

Marriage was something she had no interest in, anyway. She liked her life just the way it was: all work and very little play. The closest thing she had to a family life was when she took the time to fly back to Great Falls for her occasional role as maiden aunt to four nieces and nephews.

Larissa mentally corrected herself. Single aunt was more precise than maiden.

As Gramps shook his weary head, he sighed. "Kissing butt, as usual, Larry! Tell me, do you butter everyone up at that hush-hush government job of yours?"

As a signals analyst with the National Security Agency, Larissa's job wasn't to "kiss butt," as Gramps crudely put it. She spent her days...and very often nights studying and decoding some of the millions of electronic communications generated around the world. Maintaining national security was never more of a challenge than it was right now. Her agency's purpose was to protect the country's information systems and to collect and decipher foreign intelligence. No insignificant task. In fact, her work was more of a life's mission than a job, so having a husband just wasn't part of the equation. Besides, men had a habit of loving and leaving. Not only had she experienced that tendency first hand, but also watched her older sisters suffer through infidelity as well.

Before she had a chance to answer, Gramps held her gaze and squeezed her hand with surprising strength. "Larissa, I want you to promise to do something for me. My last request."

Gramps never called her "Larissa" unless it was really serious.

"Promise me, child," he continued. "I've thought of nothing else these past few days."

"Of course, Gramps. Anything--"

"I want you to scatter my ashes in a particular spot in the Caribbean."

Oh my gosh. Words of surprise couldn't get past the lump in her throat.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Gramps waved an unsteady hand. "Morbid duty, and all that. And, well, I know we've all depended on you too much, child, being the most responsible one and such. But you're just the girl to do this. Anyway, can't ask Molly--she's a sickly thing. And Ellen's had it pretty rough with the divorce. So I'm asking you, Larry."

Larissa stared off into space. Death was never an easy topic to discuss.

"Larry, I truly want this. Remember me telling you about Johnny--the best friend a man could have? He always said I was his good luck charm." Gramps gave a slow chuckle. "That's him in the picture, next to me."

Slipping her glasses down on her nose, she looked again at the black and white photo of the bomber squadron. Close to a young Nat Terrell, stood a tall, dark, hunky guy, and by his devilish grin, she could tell he had no shortage of self-confidence. Typical pilot. Just like Gramps! In fact, machoism was probably part of a pilot's job description.

Gramps patted her hand. His touch felt warm and reassuring. "Did I ever tell you how the plane Johnny and five airmen were in, 'Sweet Revenge', actually disappeared right before my eyes?"

Not trusting her vocal cords, she nodded. Even as a child, the mystery of the vanishing plane had titillated her imagination.

He related the story again, anyway. "They were on their way to Bermuda. I was in the other plane, 'Flying Mamba'. I heard them squawk about their instruments running amok, and watched them vanish into nothingness. God, I went crazy searching for them. Later, Headquarters sent plane after plane out after them, but no dice." Gramps sighed. "Well, I never told anyone this. All these years, and I never breathed a word. Guilty, I guess, in view of what happened. You see, without Johnny knowing, I requested time off to go back stateside. Nineteen forty-three, it was. We were in Nassau at the time. Your granny, bless her heart, had sent me an SOS. She wrote me that she was pregnant, and we, well, you know, we weren't married."

"Gramps, you little devil!" Funny how she'd known him all her life, yet here was an unsuspected side of him. And of Grandma, too.

"Yeah, well, I had a reputation back then, as did Johnny. I always called him Johnny boy!" The grin on Gramps' face tickled Larissa more than his unexpected news. "But I loved your granny, so I did right by her when I got home on leave. We settled here in Great Falls, next to Malmstrom Air Force Base, and she straightened me out. Yeah, she stuck by me, all those years. What a sainted woman she was."

Gramps wiped a tear from his eye. "I've got to tell you though, Larry. Granny saved my life. If she hadn't written me about her condition, I would've co-piloted that bomber. Disappeared with the rest of the boys." His eyes lost their focus. "For more years than you have to your name, I've been walking around here as guilty as sin."

"No, Gramps. You can't feel guilty. What was meant to happen, happened."

He shrugged, setting off another round of coughing. His insides must've felt like a punching bag. "Anyways, hell, I figure my ashes should be scattered in the same spot theirs are. I've got the coordinates. It'd be a type of 'coming home party.'"

For a long moment he was quiet. "Will you do it, child? Will you promise?"

Wow. The reality of impending death hit her full and square in the midsection. Willing her lips to keep from trembling, she smoothed his remaining grey hair off his brow. "Of course, Gramps. You know I'll do it." As he'd said: she was the responsible one. But she fought off a shudder just the same. "But I'll make a deal with you. Let's postpone this trip for as long as possible, okay?"

"Larry, you're such an optimist. Always were." Gramps gave a faint smile. "I'll do my best." A gentle sigh, a fluttering of his eyelids, and soon he was sound asleep.

Larissa silently blew him a kiss, then tiptoed from the bedroom. The shudder that she had so successfully squelched before, returned to rattle through her, shaking her teeth. For she had promised her grandfather to do the very thing that she had always feared more than anything else in the world.

She gulped down pure terror. It had a bitter taste. The scattering of ashes wasn't the problem, but the journey itself was, traveling to that spot in the Atlantic. Or Caribbean. Or wherever the heck it was that the bomber had disappeared.

All that ocean and one tiny boat.

Oh my God! Hunched over, she fought an attack of the dry heaves. Goodness, her skin must've turned a nauseous shade of green. There was no other way to get to Gramps' intended gravesite. Not by plane, car, train, bicycle; no, nothing else. It had to be by boat, over miles and miles of deep, endless sea.

Larissa bit her lip, inadvertently drawing blood. Sometimes a person had to face her demons head on--whether she wanted to or not. Well, this was going to be one of those times for her. She didn't have a choice. One day, very soon, she'd have to entrust her life to a rickety, floating bath toy, maneuvering through deadly waters filled with sharks, seaweed, and brine.

She took a long breath to calm herself, then wiped the sweat from her palms. Okay, bravery didn't come easily. This was something she'd have to work on every second while out on the open sea.

The important thing here was to do this for Gramps.

Gramps. Tears, long denied, now flooded her eyes. Dear Gramps wouldn't be with her much longer.

Avoiding her mother who was downstairs baking cookies in the kitchen, Larissa headed for the spare bedroom to indulge in a good cry.

* * *

Standing on the deck of the forty-three foot luxury yacht "Adolphus," Larissa held onto the railing with clenched fists. As the yacht cut through the dark waters of the Atlantic, salt water spray cooled her bare arms even as the sun, high in the sky, relentlessly sizzled down on her. Perfect weather for late April, perhaps even ideal. Certainly it was a boater's delight.

But all she could think about was the deep, bottomless ocean. As crazy as it sounded, she'd have given anything in the world to be safe back at her workstation in Fort Meade, Maryland, poring over computer printouts of electronic signals!

"Hey, Larry! Care for a swim? I'll help you overboard!" Abigail Abernathy fluffed up her stylishly coiffured golden head of short curls and made her way over to the railing. With a viselike grip, she grabbed Larissa's upper arm and yanked her toward the watery grave below.

"Thanks, but no thanks." Disengaging herself from her friend's unyielding hands, Larissa had to wonder whether Abby had been serious or not. One never really knew with Abigail. Physically, she was perfection personified, but well, the facts had to be faced: she could be a stone-cold bitch.

"You're no fun." Abby turned her back on the vast expanse of sea, to bathe her full-figured, bikini-clad body in the sun. "This whole trip is turning out to be a bore. Can't we just dump your grandfather's ashes now and head straight for Nassau? I mean, honestly, he won't know the difference, and I just can't wait to hit the casinos."

Larissa tightened a fastening on her lifejacket--just to make sure it didn't come undone--then walked on the deck to the pewter funerary urn where Gramps' remains rested. She didn't take Abby's words personally. After all, it had been Abby who so generously offered the means to carry out Gramps' last wish--by using her brother's yacht. Then again, she probably just wanted a vacation from the agency.

"Avery says we'll be at the right spot soon, Abby. Ten more minutes or so." Larissa checked her favorite Star Trek watch. Funny how time had no meaning out here on the open sea. "Your brother also asked me to convince you to wear your lifejacket, but I told Avery no one on earth had the power to make you do something you didn't want to do."

"True, true." Abby pouted her ruby-red lips. "But you're no slouch in that area either, Larry. How long has it been that we've known each other, two years now? And how many times have I told you Avery is just dying to go out with you? He's a millionaire, you silly little fool. Why, if you'd just snap your fingers, he'd be yours for the taking. And then we'd be sisters!"

Larissa couldn't resist a dig. "Maybe that's exactly why I've never dated him." Caressing the smooth surface of the urn's classical Greek design, she turned around to stare out at the ocean. If a girl was looking for a flaxen haired, hazel-eyed Adonis, well, she supposed Avery was okay, in an overbearing way. But as a lifetime partner? She silently shook her head. No, Avery and his luxury yacht held no appeal. At least, not for her. And besides, what would he want with a no-frills, near-sighted, work-oriented, computer nerd? Well, no-frills except for her rosy lacquered toenails. She gazed down at her toes and wiggled them. Every woman had a weakness: a pretty foot was hers.

For her levity, she received a punch on the arm. "There, that's what you get for disappointing me. As if I could believe you wouldn't want me as your sister." Abby punched the same spot again. "I'm not going to give up hope, though. Still plenty of time left on this pleasure trip to change your mind. Honestly, Larry, why do you think he agreed to take us here, anyway? We may be siblings but Avery never does anything from the goodness of his heart." She batted her lashes. "Like I do."

Facing into the wind, Larissa adjusted her prescription sunglasses as the breeze whipped back her hair. The sound of waves splashing against the hull of the yacht, the smell of briny sea water, and the cool ocean mist hovering over her body--the sea reached out and touched her soul, using the five senses as an intimate lover. It was heaven here, truly heaven, except...it would've been infinitely better if they'd had their feet planted on terra firma.

"Why do you hate being on the water?" Abby's curt voice cut through Larissa's meanderings.

Larissa sighed. It was so hard to put into words the primordial fear she'd had ever since childhood. "Well, it has something to do with the depth, I think. When I was a kid, just the thought of going down and down...without finding bottom would turn me into a blithering idiot. After all, the nearest ocean was about a thousand miles away from Great Falls." She shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe I had a past life where I drowned, like those people on the Titanic."

"Hmmn." Abby stroked her chin as if her thoughts were on another topic. "Ooh, here comes Avery. Come on, take off that lifejacket and let him see what a cute bathing suit you have on."

Abby usually didn't approve of Larissa's wearing apparel. She glanced down at her grey spandex suit, but most of it was hidden by the floatation device. If Abby liked it, maybe it showed too much skin.

"Too bad it's not a bikini, Larry." Determined to have her own way, Abby pulled on the lifejacket strap.

"Abby, cut it out." Larissa slapped at her friend's intrusive hands. Goodness, maybe she should've gone ahead and rented a darn boat no matter what the cost. Sometimes Abigail Abernathy could be one huge pain in the neck. Although they often commuted together from the small community of Odenton, Maryland, thankfully they also didn't work together at Fort Meade. Obviously too many hours in each other's company put an uncomfortable strain on their friendship.

"This is the spot, ladies. Halfway between Nassau and Bermuda." Avery Abernathy, skipper of the "Adolphus," extended his lanky arm out to encompass the ocean as far as the eye could see.

About an inch shorter than six feet, he was an imposing male, with a wavy mane of burnished hair and a low brow resting over hazel eyes. Whether he was romantically interested in Larissa or whether that was a figment in his sister's imagination was unknown. Just going by outward appearances, she would have thought he preferred glitzy, glamour types. But he'd always behaved appropriately toward her.

"The crew will be cutting the engines right about...now." On cue, the engines went dead. Pleased, Avery winked at her.

Overwhelming silence assaulted their ears. The engines quieted and the yacht now motionless, this noiseless state was too eerie to be normal. No birds, no insects, not even the wind disturbed this absence of sound.

He leaned on the railing and gave her an easy smile. "Glad my schedule was free so I could help you out, Larry. I know how hard it is for you to get away from that critical job of yours."

She returned his smile. "Thanks again, Avery. I can't tell you how much this means to my family."

Most people didn't understand the importance of electronic surveillance, including Mom. Nearly every telephone call back home ended with her denigrating Larissa's job and pleading for her to return to Montana.

No earthly way. Early on, she decided not to go Molly and Ellen's route. Perhaps that was why Larissa had pushed herself so hard in school: to get a ticket out of Mom's small town mentality.

But Mom wasn't the only one who had a grudge against the agency. More often than not, daily newspapers included at least one article by critics claiming the agency's resources were used to spy on civilians and conduct economic espionage. Total hogwash, of course. Why couldn't they understand protecting classified information and decoding enemy messages were so very vital to U.S. security? Still, it was a pleasant relief to be in the company of someone who appreciated her and her colleagues' work.

But right now, her work involved something even more important than intercepted conversations, communiqués, and other electronic transmissions.

Avery removed his captain's hat as a sign of respect. "It's up to you, Larry."

Abby also turned to face the ocean and sobered her expression.

Right. Perhaps Larissa raised the pewter urn to the sky too eagerly, but she couldn't wait for the yacht to start up again. A zillion miles from land, it was unnaturally quiet floating on top of the sea.

"Gramps," she called out, her voice radiating into the distance. "Gramps, do you hear me? We miss you here, but as you wanted, your last wish is about to be carried out. Your ashes are now mingled with your missing friends."

Unscrewing the silvery lid, she said a brief blessing, then poured the remains into the ocean.

"Are you going to throw in the urn, too?" Abby asked.

"No, I think I'll keep it--"

The sea had other ideas. The boat abruptly lurched to the side, causing Larissa to lose her balance...and the urn. The urn's shiny top and base hit the water with a savage splash to slowly filter down and down and down. Watching helplessly, she started shivering.

"Honestly, what's going on, Avery?" Abby hung on to the railing as the crest of a wave crashed against the wooden deck, soaking all three of them.

"I don't know." His simple words conveyed his confusion. "Let me tell the crew to--"

"Compasses don't work!" shouted a voice from the cabin. Then suddenly, ominously, a grey cloud rolled in, overshadowing the pristine blue sky with hurricane-speed winds. Pulsating dark purple lights split the heavens, producing flashing, jagged lightning. A mechanical, burned-out odor filled the nautical air. Because the yacht was without power, it tossed and pitched on waves which had risen without provocation.

Good God! What was happening?

Terror radiated from Avery's golden eyes. "Larry, Abby, get inside the cabin! And Abby, you put on a lifejacket, pronto!"

Fighting the force of gravity which so desperately wanted to throw her into the ocean, Larissa moved away from the railing to take hold of Avery's strong hand. Would her age-old nightmare finally be coming true? Would she soon plummet downward, headfirst into the water?

She shook off her panic. No time to think about that; she had to concentrate on her actions. Avery's hand was warm, a lifeline between her and the ocean. But, as he pulled her toward him, another wave, humongous in size, smashed into the boat and plucked her from his grasp.

Airborne. Weightless. For a few precious moments, she was lifted up, while her sunglasses took off in the opposite direction. Helplessly flying up into the air, she struggled to return to the yacht. But that was not to be.

The last thing she heard before hitting the turbulent seas was Abby screaming her name.

Then nothing. The bitter cold of the water came as a shock, but not as much as the realization that her life would soon be over.

A kind of peacefulness settled through her even as her lungs struggled to cope without oxygen. A losing battle for her lungs, of course. Still, she faced her demons head on--and won. She wasn't afraid anymore.

As the final bubble of air trickled from her mouth, Larissa smiled for the last time. At least she'd accomplished her goal in coming here...and now she'd be with Gramps for all eternity.

* * *

No. No! This can't be happening! For one endless moment, Avery Abernathy stared at convulsing waters. The ocean swallowed Larissa Parish whole. No trace of her or her orange floatation jacket. That crazy storm, so suddenly, so mysteriously descending upon them, now just as suddenly dissipated. Blue skies returned, along with gentle gusts of wind. Only small waves of the tempest's previous anger remained, lapping the sides of the yacht. Apparently Lord Neptune of the Sea was satisfied with his handpicked human sacrifice.

The next second, Abby's high-pitched screams broke the freeze paralyzing Avery's body.

"Man overboard!" he yelled. "Tell the crew to get out here, pronto." Racing over to the circular life preserver, he flung it out into the water.

Thankfully, for once, Abby didn't argue. She squawked her message out into the open air and continued down into the cabin.

He didn't wait for reinforcements. Tearing off his canvas shoes, he plunged into the cold ocean...and came up for air. Nothing. Diving down again, he frantically searched as best he could. Still nothing. As he resurfaced, he quickly took note of what was going on around him. His two crewmen now also in the water, swam like dolphins--bobbing their heads to exhale and inhale air, then taking to the depths again.

Abby, although still wide-eyed with shock, also studiously scanned the blue ocean. She was a bimbo, of course, but she had her uses. Their parents, doddering old fools that they were, believed him to be a superlative brother, helping his sister with her living expenses. It went far deeper than that. He bankrolled Abby, totally and completely. After all, how far would a girl with champagne tastes go on a government salary?

No, he paid her room and board, so to speak, in exchange for conversations, gossip,...anything she overheard while working in the Fort Meade commissary. Any tidbit, however small, could be helpful in getting the lowdown on potential global business deals. So what if this "insider" information was illegal? Why, last year alone, he pulled off his biggest deal yet--a six figure sum--by sifting through something Abby had said. Putting two and two together, he was able to sell valuable data to one of the world's top electrical equipment manufacturers concerning an upcoming secret deal, thereby beating out some of the European competitors. And Abby, bless her empty little head, remained clueless on these clandestine activities.

Avery ducked back into the water, only to come up again after a minute. For two years, he'd tried to worm his way further into the National Security Agency with Larissa Parish as his intended stoolie. Larry was a pleasing eyeful. All she needed was some gilding to come up to his beauty standards. With her job as signals analyst, she had access to hundreds or thousands of foreign codes. He stood to make millions more from whatever innocuous murmurings she let slip from those kissable lips. But she had resisted his blandishments...until now. Fortune had smiled on him with this heaven-sent opportunity to ferry her on his yacht.

Using both hands, he wiped dripping hair off his forehead. Shit. This was a nightmare. The agency wouldn't take kindly to one of their valuable employees turning up missing. No, they'd put their best investigators on the case, then their collective gazes would turn to him.

Without looking in a mirror, he knew he blanched white. Even people who were squeaky clean didn't stand up to the agency's scrutiny. A knot of fear settled in his throat.

From the deck of the "Adolphus," Abby wailed. "Avery! Did you find her? Where can she be?"

Before answering, he waited until his two crewmembers resurfaced. Both of them slowly shook their heads. There was no need for words.

He sighed more deeply than when his beloved dog had died. "Abby, we'll keep looking, but I'm sorry. Really sorry. I think we'd better get used to the idea. It would take a miracle for Larry to be...alive."

Chapter Two

After five long years, even paradise could seem like hell. Jack threw his cigarette substitute--a rolled sea grape leaf--down on the pristine island sands and stared out at the endless ocean. Yeah, just one month of this same-old, same-old turned to hell when all a guy had for company was a cheerful Aussie and a mismatched set of twin wannabees.

Although the leathery leaf wasn't lit, he ground it into the finely grained sand anyway. Habit, he supposed. Another boring day in the tropics and he'd go stark raving mad. If he wasn't already. Christ, it was difficult to be objective about his own behavior. At this rate, he could've been loonier than an ol' coot, but completely unaware of it. Five years, two months, seventeen days....He glanced at his well-worn watch. Plus ten hours and thirty-five minutes--out of the loop, to put it laughably.

Only Jack wasn't laughing. What was going on in the world? Did the war still rage on? Had the Allies won? He scratched his chin, now covered with a bushy black beard. Why the hell hadn't anyone come to rescue them? Or capture them? He'd give anything to get off this stinking, godforsaken rock.

Turning away from the blindingly white beach, he trudged barefoot up the sandy slope that led to the surrounding rainforest. Might as well see what the traps caught for dinner. If he was lucky, he'd find a big, meaty iguana waiting for him.

He sighed. What the hell else was there to do on Robinson Crusoe's island besides fill one's belly?

A sudden movement in the dense underbrush caught Jack's attention, and he pulled the hunting knife from his pocket, just in case.

"Easy! Easy, mate. It's only me." Ian Baker, also dressed in island casual--nothing but military fatigues cut down to shorts--emerged from the jungle, looking like the wild man of Borneo.

Jack grimaced at his own wit. Way back when, Borneo was to have been Baker's next assignment after Nassau, but instead he had opted for encrypting duty in Bermuda with a Brit decoding operation. Hence the side trip after the Bahamian assignment. Had Baker stayed on his side of the Pacific, chances were that none of them would be here, taking up space and twiddling their thumbs. But more important than that, now two of their number would never leave--resting, as it were, in shallow graves near one of the island's beautiful lagoons.

Shielding his eyes from the unrelenting sun, Jack repocketed his knife, then turned around to gaze out at the ocean. After all this time, he still held a grudge. Maybe Baker would get the hint and not disturb him.

But no. The man had all the sensitivity of an elephant. "Harrington," he called out. "It's happening again."

Jack knew exactly what his earthbound co-pilot referred to. On a spit of land ten miles across, not much transpired that escaped their notice. Baker could only be referring to one thing.

"Damn." Checking his watch, Jack stared at the second hand frozen in position--just like so many times before. "Scarpelli's and Flannery's stopped, too?"

"Dead as cactus."

"Right." No one had come up with a satisfactory explanation for all their timepieces going on pause at the same time, and later starting up again...also at the same time. It was as if Father Time unexpectedly took a vacation, leaving them adrift without the anchor of passing minutes to hold onto. Some kind of time warp engulfed all four of them: then, after an unknown amount of time, the watches resumed their ubiquitous ticking.

Jack scanned the horizon but the intense blue of the sky revealed nothing unusual. Nothing that resembled a nebulous fog or a magnetic storm, like the conditions that brought them here in the first place. "We'd better scout around. Make sure everything is okay. No telling what'll turn up."

Baker made a mock salute, then headed south along the shoreline, leaving Jack to go north. The men all knew the drill. They couldn't leave anything to chance. Nine times out of ten, after this peculiar stoppage of time, they'd find useless objects washed up on the beach, like shredded paper, broken glass, and bits of steel and chrome. Sometimes they'd come across a jackpot. The best thing yet had been a case of beer "bottled" in strange aluminum cans.

There had been a wild celebration that night! Jack allowed himself to smile. Truthfully, his ragtag group of men hadn't had much to celebrate in five years.

Once though, something came across them. Not from the sea, but from one of the island's limestone caves. Hell, he sweated thinking about it even now. A band of goddamn pirates, for chrissakes, brandished bloody swords and swooped down, ready to kill every single one of them. And that was how Keith Watkins, the radio operator, had died.

Walking along the edge of the inlet, Jack bent over to pick up a shiny object. It was only part of a conch shell, so he hurled it into the sea. Thankfully, those rejects from the seventeenth century had decided to hightail it back to the cave they'd crawled out of. The hell of it was, this was a tiny isle, and that was a tiny cave; his men should have been able to find those bastards. But as inconceivable as it sounded, the pirates had gone in, but did not come out. It was like they disappeared off the face of the earth.

As warm waters swirled about his feet, his toes sunk into the gritty wet sand. He checked his watch again, but the second hand was still glued to the number five.

"Maybe those pirates should come again and finish the job," he grumbled, kicking a piece of driftwood back where it came from. "Put me out of my misery, anyway. If this hellhole isn't a prison, I don't know what is. No cigarettes, no music, no more booze, and...no women."

No gratification of the flesh. Damn. He and his men had been here so long, the wild herd of goats grazing nearby on the lush, tall grasses was starting to look good!

Shaking off that perverse thought, he waded into the crystalline sea up to his knees. It was a shame, a damn shame these waters weren't cold enough to take away the pain of sexual deprivation. The familiar longing plagued him for the millionth time. Maybe if he dove deep enough, the temperatures would go south and then he could find relief. About to take the plunge, he spotted something bobbing in the distance. What the hell? Squinting into the setting sunlight, he saw that the object was orange. Orange like a lifejacket. And by all that was holy, this lifejacket had arms!

Without a second thought, he sliced through the water toward the object--the person. "Christ, please be alive," he prayed, stroke after stroke. Digging another grave alongside his two friends held no appeal whatsoever.

But for right now, the only thing that mattered was closing the gap that separated him and this person in distress. Quickly reaching his goal, he smoothed back dripping hair splayed every which way over the victim's face.

For a moment, his heart stopped as solidly as his watch had. It was a girl, the most exquisite girl in all the world. Of course, he was pragmatic enough to realize that any girl would have been exquisite after five years of abstinence. Even one with blue lips like this poor creature had. Wasting no time, he swiftly towed his precious cargo to shore.

Dear Christ, she wasn't breathing. She was as limp as a rag doll, so he lifted her chin to tilt her head back and begin mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But that lifejacket prevented him from seeing if her lungs were rising with the forced air. Using his free hand, he fumbled with the fastenings, then tore off the jacket....

Sweet baby Jesus! Jack's heart actually constricted. This girl had a body on her to die for--

No time for that, his mind screamed. Exhaling into her mouth, he counted to five and forced air into her again. "C'mon, baby. You can do it," he urged between breaths.

But although that curvy chest of hers rose, he still didn't hear her exhale.

"Do it for me. Breathe!" Panic rushed into his voice. She was so lovely laying there, a dusting of sand against her cheekbone, her long, dark hair heavy with water and grit. He took another moment to scan her skimpy one-piece swimsuit...and swallowed his astonishment. Female fashions must've really changed since he last hit USA's sweet shores. This suit was skirtless--cut extremely high on the leg, leaving very little to the imagination.

He wiped the sweat from his brow. Yeah, she was lovely all right, but so damn lifeless.

She couldn't die. He wouldn't let her. In between breaths, he roughly shook her by her shoulders. Maybe that wasn't the best thing to do, but he couldn't just let her slip away. Fear--cold and heartless--froze his soul. "Damn it to hell, babe, come on! Cut the crap! Breathe!"

He willed her back to life; he made her suck that air into her lungs and spit it out again. His reward was at first a slow rise, then fall of those delicious, rounded breasts. As she took deeper breaths, she started coughing until she was fully and beautifully conscious. And now awake, she stared at him, as if not comprehending what had just transpired.

Under the scrutiny of those blazing green eyes, he must've turned red, but hell, his unkempt beard hid a multitude of sins.

She propped herself up on her elbows and lifted a feathery eyebrow. "Do you always swear at strangers?"

An inappropriate urge to laugh tickled his innards. Hell, these last few minutes had been extremely tense. The girl almost died for chrissakes, and here she was, cracking a joke! His mind racing a million ways, he rubbed his bushy chin to gather his thoughts. "Er, I, well, I thought it would help."

Now sitting up, she glanced to the right and took in the curve of the flawless white beach, the vivid turquoise water, and the teeming, tropical forest. The view was the same on the left as well. "I'm awfully c--cold," she said apologetically.

"Christ, yes! Of course you are." He slapped his forehead. How could he have forgotten that her lips were still blue? "I'll get you a blanket--"

No, he'd better not leave her alone. Not that Baker, Scarpelli, or Flannery would harm her, but men were men, as the saying went. And right now Jack himself was feeling very...manly.

"Tell you what." Brushing sand from his torso, he wiped his hands on cutoff pants. "I'll carry you to my shack. It's not much, but you'll be more comfortable there."

Even her nod of agreement was made with obvious effort. The poor kid had been through hell. Lifting her was easy. And she felt good in his arms...cold and clammy, but good. As soon as her head rested against his chest, she fluttered her eyes closed. Thick, fringed lashes, full ripe lips, and a cute, pug nose: this girl, maybe eighteen or so, was made for kissing. But, hell, at thirty-three, he had fifteen years on her.

Getting way ahead of yourself, Jack, ol' boy. He grinned. And why not? This was the most exciting thing that had happened on this island since the damn pirates. But, of course, what was more important was that this girl's arrival meant there'd be a search party out looking for her. And wouldn't they be surprised to find not only Beauty but the four Beasts as well?

Finally, he and his men could leave this place.

Carefully walking with his important bundle around palm trees and flowering sea grape bushes, he held her tighter. Along with the spray of the ocean, a subtle fragrance of lilacs drifted up to him. A very feminine scent. There was no way he could resist, so he leaned his cheek against her hair to inhale her sweetness. But when she stirred, he straightened his position.

"I'm Larissa Parish," she murmured against his bare chest, much to his skin's delight. "My friends...call me Larry. They'll be looking for me, in their yacht." A tremor traveled through her slender frame. "I don't know what happened. There I was, scattering my grandfather's ashes, and then...it was so odd. The weather was perfect, but then suddenly a big wave swept me...overboard."

She shuddered again, obviously reliving the trauma. "Thank you for rescuing--"

His rescue ship was to be a yacht! Might as well go first class, after all, the four of them not only deserved it, but earned it.

He placed his index finger against her lips, and grew amazed at just how delicious that brief touch felt. "No need to thank me, Larissa." After five years spent exclusively with men, there was no way he would call this beautiful creature a man's name. "Once we flag down your friends, then you'll have returned the favor by rescuing us as well."

She gazed up at him with a questioning look. "But how?"

Christ, she was gorgeous, even in her drowned rat state. But she shivered almost uncontrollably.

Hurrying to his thatched hut awkwardly constructed of palm fronds, he gently sat her on the edge of his makeshift bed, draped a blanket around her, and started massaging her toes with a towel. The poor kid was completely out of it; she almost fell down on top of the bed, but valiantly fought to stay upright.

After he rolled woolen socks onto her icy feet, he helped her into his pilot's jacket--to take away the chills. "Don't worry about a thing. Let's just get you warm...."

Hell, the desire in his voice was thick enough to cut. Hopefully, she didn't notice. He stepped away and got her a glass of collected rain water to drink. "I'm Jack Harrington, by the way. The others are Baker, Scarpelli, and Flannery."

She thanked him with her eyes, then glanced around his hovel that he called home. Seeing it through her perspective, he scratched his hairy chin, then shrugged. Neither he nor his "house" were prepared for female company. One of the first things he'd do when she fell asleep was shave, then trim his overlong hair.

"Do you mind if I take a nap?" She yawned, and her eyelids drooped sensually. "I have a thousand questions but I can't seem..." She yawned again. "...to think of any of them."

Christ, he could use that cold shower right about now. But that was not in the cards, so he lifted the covers and eased her into the bed, tucking her in. Incredible how smooth her skin felt. "As Baker would say, 'No worries.' I've a ton of questions, too, but they'll wait. You sleep now, I'll be on the lookout for your friends."

An idle thought crossed his mind. Too bad his cot wasn't a double wide one.

"Thank you, Jack." She snuggled under the blankets looking for all the world like an angel. "You're very kind."

Kind? He took one more gander at his unexpected manna from heaven, then picked up his shaving supplies and left the hut. When she woke up, she'd discover her rescuer to be a clean-shaven United States Army Air Force captain, instead of a sorry ass beach bum. Not that it would make any real difference. Soon, very soon, he would be back in the States. Home sweet home--enjoying a hero's welcome. And better than that, he could take to the skies once again.

Anticipation zapped a clear path to his midsection. By Christ, he was so pumped up, he could almost taste it!

* * *

The first thing that hit Larissa was the smell. Or smells, actually. Whew. Several odors fought for her attention. Rotting vegetation, overripe fish, the stench of mildewed laundry-- all rolled up into one pungent olfactory treat. Still, no matter the smell, it felt good to be alive.

Sitting up, she wrinkled her nose and scrutinized her current living quarters. The shack's structure consisted of dried palm leaves or fronds, many of which had fallen away-- obviously in dire need of upkeep. Only one small room, the hut reflected its owner's appearance: ramshackle. But with a little maintenance, it would improve immensely. Definitely bachelor's quarters, just as the man who had rescued her was definitely single. Instinct told her that.

Personal articles were scattered over a few low-lying tables. An empty carton of cigarettes, a well-worn deck of cards, several whittled carvings of animals--actual and fanciful, plus a really old issue of Time Magazine sporting the face of Joseph Stalin on the cover as Man of the Year. The year being 1942.

She flipped through the pages. Despite being so old, the magazine was in pretty good condition. Probably was worth money. Odd choice though, to have as the only reading material around.

Larissa slid out of bed, stood, then wiggled her toes in the overlarge socks. Self-preservation warned her that she'd better put something on over her spandex swimsuit. That guy Jack, had devoured her with his gaze, which probably meant he hadn't seen a woman in a long time. His "home" confirmed her suspicions. He and his three friends must've been shipwrecked or....She pulled off the leather pilot's jacket heavy with genuine lamb's wool. Or perhaps their plane crashed. And if so, then that explained Jack's phrase, "returning the favor by rescuing us."

I wonder how long they've been marooned here? And why haven't they been found yet? Adding these questions to her growing list, she found a mildly soiled white t-shirt and slipped into it. There. It covered everything it was supposed to, and then some. From the size of it, she surmised that that Jack fellow had to have been pretty tall. And strong, too. Carrying her all the way from the beach hadn't seemed to disturb him one bit.

To complete her "beauty" regimen, she picked up a comb missing a few teeth and tried to make her hair presentable--which was pretty hard to do considering the sand, knots, and salt water. Unfortunately she couldn't check her appearance in a mirror. There were none lying around.

She grinned at her feminine preparations. Not that she was interested in Jack or his three companions. Men were men, as far as she was concerned. But he did present an interesting puzzle, appealing to her in a gruff sort of way.

Barefoot, Larissa stepped outside the hut into the hot, steaming jungle. She gulped down hard. Quite a change of scenery from her hectic life on the east coast. Goodness, what would she do if a snake slithered across her path? And what if it were poisonous? Pausing, she took a steadying breath. Why worry about that now? At the moment, she had enough on her plate.

The dense rainforest talked to her with a cacophony of dark animal noises reminding her that she didn't belong. And she didn't, of course. She was totally, completely lost.

Doing a 360 degrees, she pondered her next move. Too bad everything in the distance appeared as a blur without her glasses. Which way to the beach? Thankfully, a refreshing ocean breeze answered her, cooling a path up her legs and into the t-shirt.

Great! She checked the sun's position, then headed west to follow the gust of air. Maybe Avery and Abby found this place already. Maybe the yacht was docked offshore and they were waiting to pick her up.

Funny thing was, she felt absolutely fabulous--for almost being a dead woman. She fulfilled Gramps' wish, battled her childhood fears, survived a dunking in the ocean, and now she'd hook up again with Abby and have a quick vacation in the Bahamas. What a fantastic adventure--everyone at work would be so envious.

She sighed. But still, it was too bad she'd had to leave work in the first place.

Stopping to check out the local flora and fauna, she bent down to pick up a colorful seashell. A magnificent sample of nature's bounty, and yet, something bothered her, here in paradise. Niggled at her consciousness. If she could just put her finger on it....

She glanced up at the brilliant sky, now darkening as daylight turned into twilight. The weather for the trip had been perfect, just like it was right now. No clouds, no wind. Nothing. So, what had happened back on the "Adolphus"? Why had she been hijacked off the yacht's deck?

Accustomed to mulling over different problems at the same time, Larissa made her way through the thick growth of the palm trees toward the clearing of the beach. A cool breeze hit again, chilling her through the fine sheen of perspiration that had popped up on her skin. A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Gramps' words returned to her: how he saw his friend's plane disappear right before his eyes. At a certain location. At a certain latitude and longitude. And at that very spot, she had strewn his ashes. After that, all hell had broken loose.

The very coincidence of it gave her the willies.

Silhouetted against the iridescent blue waters stood two men gazing out at the horizon. The one on the left was extremely tall and lean, and from the back, he appeared very muscular. He had to have been Jack, only his hair didn't look quite so shaggy. The other man came up to Jack's shoulders, slightly stocky with lighter, shorter hair.

Larissa raised her hand in greeting. "Hello there! Any sign of the yacht?"

Both men turned to face her at the same time. And when they saw her, they both had identical reactions: widened eyes, mouths agape, and quick intakes of breath.

Heat crept up on her cheeks. While she knew she wouldn't cause a mirror to crack, she also could admit she was no beauty. Just how long had these men been isolated here?

Jack recovered first. Now clean-shaven, he looked years younger. Large, wide jaw and piercing, grey eyes. Rather hunkish, too.

A bubble of amusement tickled her throat. Well, okay, definitely a hunk, complete with broad shoulders, powerful pectorals, and sexy dark chest hair that swirled down past the snap on his shorts. Mmm, yummy! But instead of smiling, he fisted his hands on those masculine hips, narrowed his stormy eyes, and frowned at her.

"I didn't expect you to wake up so soon." His tone accused her. But of what? And why?

"Guess I'm just anxious to find my friends." Shrugging off his disapproval, Larissa held out her hand to the other man. If she could describe Jack's demeanor as brooding, this man's would've been called sunny. She shook the man's hand. "I'm Larissa Parish."

He made a low whistle. "Harrington here didn't do you justice, Larissa." Cupping her hand in his, he almost beamed at her--his smile was that wide--and only slightly hidden by a bristly mustache. "Ian Baker, at your service. May I say, you're a most welcome addition to our tiny isle?"

He had an accent, maybe Australian, plus the cutest dimples on either side of his mustache. However, his words caused that peculiar worry nagging at her to return with a blast. "Thank you, but, surely just a temporary addition, Ian. Abby and Avery Abernathy, my shipmates, soon will be here." She eased her hand from his. "Have you two been stranded here long?"

Jack turned away to resume his study of the sea. "Long enough."

Ian rolled his eyes at his friend's rudeness. "You must forgive our captain. He's a bit cranky at our overlong stay."

Strange how Ian and Jack avoided saying just how long it had been. She walked over to Jack, carefully avoiding the hoards of hermit crabs scurrying in and out of the minuscule holes in the sand. Just being close to his unadulterated masculinity made her heart pound out a code easily decipherable. "I haven't thanked you properly for saving my life. When I went under, I didn't expect to ever see the sun again."

The appreciative look she gave him had been known to dazzle many a bachelor. In some situations, a woman analyst had to use feminine charms to get what she wanted. But evidently, Jack was not impressed. Shrugging, he avoided her gaze. "Yeah, well....We should split up. Better the odds of our spotting your friends' boat. Scarpelli and Flannery are further down the shoreline. They haven't caught sight of anything so far, though. It'll be dark pretty damn quick so we shouldn't waste more time."

Ian grimly nodded. "What do you think our chances are, Harrington?"

The funny thing was, they both checked their watches at the same time. As if time, on a deserted island, had any meaning! Just to be sociable, she glanced at her own wristwatch, as the Star Trek Enterprise's second hand swept pass the twelve. Six-thirty. But what that had to do with the rescue was a complete mystery.

Jack shrugged again. "Who knows? Er, Miss Parish, you go south with Baker while I go on ahead--"

"It's Larissa, remember? Or actually, as I said, I prefer Larry." Her gratefulness to this man was beginning to wear off. He was hiding something. Something important.

Tossing a lock of sea-salt hardened hair over her shoulder, she forced her lips to curve up into a stiff smile. By gosh, she'd find out what his secret was. "And if you don't mind, Jack, I'd like to accompany you."

"Ho! Two points for the Yank." Ian smoothed down the bristles on his mustache. "But, if I may say, Larry,..." He halted, a mischievous twinkle lighting his sky blue eyes, "I'm much better company than Harrington, here. And how would I recognize your ship without you by my side, eh?"

"I believe you." She grinned back at him. "About being better company! But I'm sure you can manage. By the way, it's a forty-three foot yacht and its name is 'Adolphus.'"

Although she spoke lightly, a thread of fear weaved through her breast. "Only don't turn away any other boat, okay? The most important thing is to get rescued."

Ian smartly saluted, pivoted, then started to march. "I've got my orders, mate!" Beginning his trek, he loudly mumbled, "Abby, Avery, Abernathy, Adolphus. Bloody peculiar fascination with the letter 'A'."

Not waiting for her, Jack trudged in the opposite direction, all the while scanning the horizon. "Not too late to change your mind. This way's got sharp coral and rocky prominences."

Walking through the incoming tide breaking on the shore, she hurried to catch up.

He pointed at her legs--her rosy colored toenails peeping through the sand and the surf. "Guaranteed to slice into delicate feet."

Not usually quick to anger, she almost simmered with indignation. He implied she was fragile, not used to the rigors of island living. True, but surely that wasn't a weakness?

Matching his stride, she tried to keep her breathlessness from her voice. "Don't worry about me."

"I won't," was his ungracious reply.

What happened to the kind man who had saved her and tucked her into bed? Obviously he had vanished into thin air, along with his overgrown beard.

"Tell me, Jack, just how long have you been trapped on this island?"

Bending down, he scooped up some water and let it trickle down his back. With her gaze, she followed the droplets over the hills and valleys of his muscles.

"Astute of you to figure out we're unwilling visitors here." He sighed. "Our plane crashed...over five damn years ago."

Her surprise caught in her throat, causing her to cough. "Five years? But that's impossible!"

He raised a dark eyebrow at her as if challenging her to dispute his words.

"Well, gosh, I mean, why hasn't anyone found you?"

"My question, exactly." Stopping to peer at something out beyond the jagged cliff up ahead of them, he shook his head as if to dismiss it, and continued his bruising pace. "When we crash-landed the aircraft, the radio worked, for all the damn good it did us. We couldn't raise a thing on it. Dead as a doornail. Or as Baker would say, 'dead as cactus.' Since we've been here, babe, we've seen neither planes nor ships. That's why we still have flares left. Nothing to shoot them at. Hell, it's as if we've dropped off the edge of the world."

Wow. That was so odd. And so hard to believe in this day and age that a plane couldn't be found. But she believed him. After all, why would he make up such a story?

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Speechless? Christ, I'm not. Me and the others have a damn backlog of words to unleash so prepare yourself."

Reaching the bottom of the cliff, he stepped up onto a high, sharp-surfaced rock. "Best spot to look out over the inlet. It's a hell of a climb to the top, though." He folded his arms against his bare chest. "Here's where we separate the men from the boys, babe. So which one are you?"

She was really beginning to hate his sun-bronzed face, square jaw, and firm, enticing lips. Plus his classically high cheekbones and dark, sensuous, steely eyes. Gritting her teeth, she held out her hand for him to help her up. "Actually, Jack, I'm neither, in case you haven't noticed."

His laugh escaped him. It was deep, strong, and genuine. "Hell, yes, I've noticed. Been living like a monk for these five years. One reason why me and the others are so anxious to help you locate your yacht."

She laughed with him, even though standing on the slate rock felt like walking on glass. He was honest, at any rate. "Well, heck. I thought you all were just trying to be good Samaritans!"

"Oh, we're good, Larissa. I can promise you that."

An ache of desire suddenly pulsed within her--strong and urgent and unexpected. "Why don't you call me Larry?" Although panting slightly from her exertions, she also could admit her heart rate increased because he was an extremely sexy, virile man. Without intending to, she licked her lips.

"Why don't I?" He pulled himself up onto the next razor-sharp boulder. "Because you don't look like a Larry to me." Stretching out his hand to her, his gaze lingered on the hemline of her, or rather his, t-shirt, now riding high on her thighs.

If only she didn't have to climb these rocks of Gibraltar! Scraped, battered, and bruised, she somehow managed to drag herself up to where he stood. Whew! Although her job was mentally demanding, it wasn't physically demanding. Maybe when she got back, she'd sign up with a health club.

He spoiled her reverie by swearing. "Christ! At this rate, we'll get to the top in five more years." Insisting on silence, he bullied and forced her up the slippery slopes until they reached the summit.

Finally. Wiping sweat mixed with a bit of blood off her forehead, she collapsed down on the grassy part of the cliff. Her poor feet would never be the same. "You're an arrogant...taskmaster, aren't you?" The term "bastard" came to mind, but she refrained. "What did Ian say? You're the captain of this group? Well, that doesn't mean you have to be Simon Legree."

He didn't pay attention. Staring out over the ocean, he searched from east to west--and back again. Catching her breath took forever, but soon she joined him out on the promontory. The view was absolutely gorgeous, even with blurred vision--almost worth the price of admission. The sun sank slowly, radiating pink and orange shards of light into the deepening crystal blue of the sky. Awed, she held onto his arm to gaze down at the white foam of the surf, looking so small beneath them. It truly was beautiful, only...only there were no ships to be seen.

Without taking his gaze from the sea, he said, "So how determined are your friends to find you?"

She was too tired to complain about that insult. Instead, she moved away from him. "They'll find me. Even though Abby can be a royal pain at times, she's a really good friend. I know she'll hound Avery until they find me."

Sunlight gradually slipping away, Jack waved his arms to displace a flock of white, grey, and black terns running wild over the grass. He sat, but still faced the never-ending sea. "What about Avery?"

"What do you mean, what about Avery?"

"A boyfriend of yours?"

"No, he's Abby's brother."

Jack pulled out a wide blade of grass and chewed on it. "Hmmn, I thought as much. You're too damn close to being jailbait to have a boyfriend."

Usually, women considered it a compliment to be thought younger than their years. But by Jack's tone, she knew he meant to offend her. Her blood started boiling again. "Oh really? Well then, you'll be surprised to learn I'm twenty eight."

"That so?" He dropped the blade from his mouth. "And still not married?" Standing, he brushed dirt from his legs. "Didn't figure you to be an ol' maid."

Oh, boy. Her well-honed trait of diplomacy was fast leaving her. Or, to use Gramps' expression: her tendency to "kiss butt." How'd Jack know she was single, anyway? Inexplicable fury exploded within her. She stood and set her fisted hands squarely on her hips. "Sorry to disappoint you, but you're wrong again." Glaring at him, she felt an urgent need to use his midsection as target practice.

Larissa scratched at her head. How strange. She didn't usually fantasize about pulverizing someone. Especially someone who'd just saved her life.

Instead of answering, he bent over and ran his hand over the thick, high grass. "Ah, here we are!" Picking up three small objects, he then reached into his cutoff pockets, pulled out a leather bag, and gently placed the objects inside.

"Tern eggs," he explained. "They make a passable omelet." Still ignoring her, he scanned the horizon again. "Too dark to see anything. We'll have to call it off until tomorrow." He walked past her, heading for the forest. "Time to eat, anyway. Tonight, it's my turn to cook."

Her lower lip trembled with pent-up rage. It really did. But realistically, why was she allowing this big lug to affect her so? What difference did any of this make? The only thing important here was to get off this damn island.

She grimaced. Goodness, she had to get off this island and soon. Jack's swearing was starting to wear off on her.

"C'mon." He waved her on to follow him like the Pied Piper. "The way down through the jungle to our camp isn't as bad."

Pressing her lips together to keep from venting her spleen, she took her position behind him. She really didn't have a choice but to tag along. Maybe her dependence on him grated more than she realized.

He glanced back at her and narrowed his gaze. "So, you were saying I'm wrong? How?"

Given these few minutes to cool down, she now regretted her previous outburst. "It's not important."

"Hell, if I'm wrong, I want to know about it."

She flared her nostrils. If he was wrong! This man had a doozy of an ego. But now her little show of temper seemed petty, even to her. "It's nothing. You said I was an old maid, and I said you were wrong."

He turned around and lifted a dark eyebrow at her, almost leering at her. "You're not old and you're not a maid, is that it?"

Good gosh! She must've flushed redder than the paint on her toenails! Jack made it sound like she was some kind of tramp or something. She'd had a few affairs, sure, who hadn't? But that didn't mean she was promiscuous.

"Whatever," she mumbled, brushing off low hanging branches of whatever kind of plant life this island had to offer. Never a lover of the great outdoors, she once again acknowledged the reason for accepting a job on the east coast. Wide open, primitive spaces and her just didn't mix. Not to mention getting hitched to an obnoxious, self-inflated male! Prime examples were her brothers-in-law.

"Hmmn. Interesting." Giving her a smile that she could only describe as lascivious, Jack turned back around to lead the way through a trail in the bushes that, though he could see, was invisible to her.

She crossed her fingers, hoping she wouldn't run into a snake or other denizen of the jungle. How unreal all this was--a nightmare, even. Larissa Parish, highly successful signals analyst with one of the top organizations in the U.S. intelligence community, now forced to keep company with a randy, boorish, macho man on a desert isle in the middle of nowhere. And with no basic amenities--like running water and toilets.

God! She exhaled her frustration. What had she done to deserve this trial and tribulation?

Even Jack's loud voice seemed hushed in their surroundings. "What's going on in the world? Is the war over? Did we win?"

Five years out of touch with civilization. Of course, he'd be eager to learn the news. Here she was whining about her situation, when Jack and these men had struggled by themselves for so long. She softened her tone. "Things are pretty much the same, Jack. Nothing ever changes much. As for wars, there's always some type of skirmish going on, overt and covert. Plus--"

He whirled around and seized her by the shoulders. "Christ! I'm in no mood to play footsie with you. The war. The big number two. Germany and Japan, remember?"

He was serious. There could be no faking his smoldering eyes, corded neck, tightened lips, and the vein now dangerously throbbing in his temple. She couldn't deny it; he frightened her down to her very soul. But she refused to let him see her fear.

Biting her lip, she glanced down at her shoulders, painfully imprisoned by his grasp. Maybe living here somehow unhinged his mind. "Um, that war? Well, we won." She lifted her chin to meet his glaring gaze head on.

"When?" he barked.

Oh, this was bizarre. She was so close to him, she almost could see the insanity in his eyes. Which was too bad, because he really was a hunk of a guy. Swallowing hard, she offered, "1945. Could you let me go now?"

He immediately released her, and she carefully massaged her bruised skin. Poor guy had lost his marbles. Feeling pity for him, she sadly shook her head. The best thing she could do was to humor him.

Throwing her a disgusted look, he cut a branch of palm fronds obstructing the path. "Well, that's good news, at any rate. Sorry if I hurt you." His voice turned bitter. "But what the hell, after all this time, what does fate drop on the doorstep but a dimwitted female!"

Dimwitted female! Her eyes blazed. No one ever dared call her that before.

He raked his gaze over her again. "You do have your compensations, though."

Sex. It always came back to sex, didn't it? But she wouldn't let it bother her. He thought she was a pinhead, but she knew he was crazy. She'd let it slide. Once Abby and Avery rescued her, they could make arrangements to get this man some professional help.

One foot after another, Larissa tramped through the deepest jungle this side of Tarzan the Apeman. Crossing fingers once again, she prayed that Jack Harrington was sane enough to lead her to camp.

Chapter Three

While Larissa "freshened up" or whatever the hell women did to make themselves look presentable, Jack joined the group now pacing by the open stone fire. Among the three of them--Baker, Scarpelli, and Flannery--anticipation for seeing their female guest hung so heavy, it almost could be smelled. As it was, the pungent scent of fish permeated the evening air. Someone had already started dinner.

"Er, Captain." Sal Scarpelli shoveled his solid feet back and forth in the dirt. "I went ahead and put the grouper on the fire, 'cuz you were, y'know, busy."

Of the four men, he was the beefiest, with Flannery coming in as a close second. The two of them could've easily been speakeasy bouncers during the previous decade's prohibition period. Scarpelli, though, had an overabundance of shyness despite his six foot one frame. Five years in isolation hadn't helped him come out of his shell. And here he was, still calling Jack, "Captain."

"Good idea, Sal." Jack leaned over to check on the fish, then assembled the fixings for a desert island-style salad. "I'm hungrier than a--"

"Don't be a dipstick, Harrington," Baker growled. His already lined face, wrinkled by overexposure to the tropical sun, creased up further with disapproval. "Sal and Danny are dying to hear about the woman." With a twinkle in his blazing blue eyes, he rubbed his hands together. "And what a sweet armful she is, too!"

He paused. "On top of that good fortune, there's an excellent possibility tonight might be our last on this bloody pile of rocks. Thank our lucky stars!"

"Yeah, Jack." Obviously Flannery couldn't keep still, for he fidgeted around the fire, almost jumping like those kangaroos Baker told tales about. "Ian says she's absolutely beautiful! Better 'n Betty Grable. Better 'n Dorothy Lamour." He scratched at his newly-shaved chin. With his red hair and fair skin, his bare face appeared pinker than a newborn's bottom. "D'ya think she'll like me?"

Bless them all, but these men had been through hell and back. Jack loved them as if they were brothers. Actually, they were his family. Growing up as an unwanted castoff in his stepmother's house did nothing to endear him to the traditional family unit. "Sure, Danny. What's not to like? In fact, the woman specifically told me she wanted to hook up with a brawny, freckled bombardier from Brooklyn."

"Golly! Really?" Flannery's wiry hair frizzed out with his enthusiasm. "Hot dog! Sal, let's go grab some sea grapes for dinner!"

Hoots and hollers--all on Flannery's part--echoed down the seashore toward the large, leafy tropical plants.

Watching the two men's uneven stride on the sandy beach, Jack exchanged an amused glance with Baker. Amazing how Scarpelli and Flannery retained their naiveté even though they both were twenty seven.

"How do you think the twins will react around Larry?" Baker whipped out a large knife and grabbed a fallen coconut. He was in charge of the dessert portion of the meal.

If Jack considered all the men his brothers, then Ian Baker would've been the older brother he usually butted heads with. Two dominant males in a pride of lions usually meant big time trouble. And now there was a nubile young female as part of their group. Jack shuddered. Thank Christ they'd soon be off the island and back in civilization. Fingers and toes crossed on this one.

"Well, hell, no surprise there. They'll fall all over themselves trying to please her." Jack removed the tern eggs from his leather pouch. An omelet would go nicely with the fish. "My guess is once they get back to the States, they'll propose to the first girl they see."

"You think?" Baker made a face, distorting his craggy features. "But what if they both want to marry Larry? She sure is a lovely sheila."

Jack'd be damned if he allowed a girl off her trolley to marry into his close-knit "family." No sense telling Baker about her mental oddities, though. He'd find out for himself soon enough.

And speaking of Larissa, Jack looked up and saw her exit his shack. A lump of desire settled in his throat. She cleaned up nicely; he had to give her that much. Not that a little dirt and jungle rot would make any difference to a woman of her exquisite, tainted beauty.

Squatting on his haunches by the cooking pit, he watched her head for the campfire. Even from this distance of about fifty yards, a healthy radiance emanated from her, from the rosy flush on her cheeks to the tanned surface of her arms and willowy thighs. Everything about her was lovely to look at. Funny how feminine styles changed. Last time he was back in the states, all the women had short hair, crimped with masses of curls. But Larissa's bronze-brown hair hung long and straight over the curves of her bountiful breasts, unfairly hidden by Jack's shapeless undershirt. Truth be told, he preferred hair uncut and loose. Better to lose one's fingers in when indulging one's libido.

He lassoed in his imagination. Those thoughts could get a man into trouble.

She moved as one unused to walking barefoot in the jungle, and he smirked when she stumbled over an imperfection in the path.

"Now, now, Harrington," Baker warned as he peeled a brown layer of coconut husk to reveal the white "flesh" underneath. "Why don't you curb your mean-spirited side for once? I don't know about you, but the twins and I haven't been this excited since Betty Grable stopped off in Nassau to pay the troops a visit."

Baker was right, of course. Jack could admit that. Larissa was definitely good for morale. But, hell, she disturbed him clear down to his very bone marrow. As if he needed more reasons to be cantankerous.

Cracking the fresh eggs into a small frying pan, he poured in goat's milk and added some herbs. For being stranded on a deserted island, he and his men were pretty lucky--food-wise, anyway. In addition to plentiful seafood, a herd of wild goats grazed on the cliffs and grassy pastures, providing an occasional meat dinner. More important than that though was what Nana the goat supplied. Tethered to a tree, their reluctant mascot, an ornery ol' beast, produced sweet, nutritious milk.

But, however "lucky" they were, all of them prayed to go home--daily, if not hourly. And now, with Larissa's arrival, the odds were finally in their favor.

"I'll behave, Baker. On all counts." Jack nudged the side of the bubbling omelet to gauge how much cooking time was left. "If you will."

The last thing they needed was to fight over the woman's sexual favors. If she were so inclined to bestow them in the first place.

He wiped his brow with his forearm. That yacht of hers had better drop anchor tomorrow and welcome them aboard. Otherwise, hell, there was no telling what would happen. Not with four horny bastards salivating over her.

"No worries, mate." Baker burst into a grin from ear to ear. "I'll treat her like she was my own sister!"

Jack glanced over at the man's "formal" attire; besides the ubiquitous cutoffs, he wore a wrinkled, short-sleeve crew neck shirt. As they all did, making concessions for their female guest. But the shirt wasn't long enough to hide Baker's telltale bulging crotch. "Then, Baker, tell me why I'm not reassured?"

The ever-present sounds of the forest dipped in volume for a moment. Most likely in response to Larissa's approach, poised as she was like the Greek goddess Artemis, among her woodland friends. Before entering the campfire circle, Larissa squinted her eyes, as if sizing them up.

"Larry!" Setting down the makeshift dessert bowl--a helmet--filled with coconut pieces, Baker leaned over and whispered to Jack. "Don't she look good enough to...?"

Then he stood and rushed over to her side. Given his short stature, he reminded Jack of a gibbering monkey. "Hello, luv. Good to see you. We're having a barbie in your honor."

"A barbeque! Why, thank you, Ian. Everything smells wonderful. I had no idea I was so hungry."

A genuine smile of pleasure lit Larissa's face, causing a stab of unexpected pain to lance through Jack's chest. Christ, what the hell was wrong with him? Pretty face or not, this little honey was off-limits. And not only because lusting after her was a sexual minefield. No, she played with half a deck, to say the least. He repeated that thought to reinforce it. Had to have been loony, for if the war just ended three years ago, how could anyone forget it that quickly? He never would, that was certain.

Scarpelli and Flannery, back with a bucket full of sea grapes, stopped in their tracks and, mouths hanging to the ground, stared at Larissa as if she were a mirage. And so she was--a pool of cool water to the eyes of dehydrated men....

A loud sizzle and a faint whiff of burning eggs yanked Jack out of his reverie. He lifted the pan off hot stones, then flipped the omelet. It took some getting used to seeing Flannery without his scraggly beard and Scarpelli without his abundant one, just as they had expressed surprise on seeing him with his shorn face.

Jack rubbed his smooth chin, vaguely missing the comfort of an unkempt beard. Living on the outskirts of civilization did have its advantages.

Baker had the audacity to curve his arm around Larissa's shoulders while leading her toward his men. "And here's the rest of our crew."

Larissa held her hand out to shake Scarpelli's paw. "It's good to meet you, I'm Larry Parish--"

Polite manners on an uncivilized tropical island? Hell, what was she--a politician's mistress?

That particular thought angered him beyond all reason. Frowning, he introduced them. "Larissa, that's Sal Scarpelli, our navigator, and Danny Flannery's our bombardier." Jack turned back to the eggs, now a bit brown along the edges. "We'd better eat. Everything's ready."

Damn, he sounded like a stinking housewife, didn't he?

"Hullo, ma'am. Er, nice to meet you." Scarpelli placed a towel down on the ground and smoothed it into place. "Maybe you'd like to sit by me?"

"Yeah, Larry! Don't forget me, too." Flannery maneuvered to her left, then plopped down, ungainly as always. "I'll sit by you on the other side."

Jack shook his head. In the dark light shimmering up from the heated rocks, Flannery's and Scarpelli's eyes reflected the same emotion: desire. Hell, as Baker was always fond of saying, those two were like natural born twins. "Bookends," Jack couldn't help muttering.

Baker wagged a finger. "You promised, Harrington."

Larissa glanced over at Jack, but didn't comment. Maybe she didn't hear the byplay. Taking her seat on the towel by the deep pit fire, she genteelly sat on her heels, making sure the hem of the undershirt covered her knees. "You're a bombardier, Danny?" she questioned Flannery as he sat almost bursting with excitement. "How very interesting. Tell me about what you do."

What was there to say? Lieutenant Flannery dropped bombs. But she pretended she was fascinated with what he had to say. Fastening her gaze on the man, she drank in every word, as if pulling a lever and releasing sleek carriers of death was the most enthralling job on earth.

Women! Jack snorted. As useless as a three dollar bill.

Scarpelli and Flannery fought to fill her plate with everything they all had prepared. Sitting like a queen bee, she thanked them with her eyes, even though Jack could tell she brimmed full with amusement.

Tearing a piece from the roasted fish fillet, he chewed on it. Maybe he should cut her a break. If he were in her shoes, he'd be amused too.

"Goodness, there's a lot of food here, isn't there?" She daintily sliced into the fish. "Delicious, too. You're a good cook, Jack."

If she said that to annoy him, she'd succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. In the twilight sky, the stars twinkled with furious determination. Almost as if they wanted to brighten the night with their distant glow. And with almost the same determination Jack had in keeping his emotions in check with this woman. Somehow, she rubbed him the wrong way.

He grimaced. Shouldn't have used the word "rubbed." Illicit pictures of her giving him a massage capriciously flitted through his thoughts.

"Actually, Sal cooked the fish," Jack muttered.

Scarpelli blushed--a silly trait he wasn't able to control. In fact, his blush was even redder than his friend's red hair. Embarrassment stiffened his movements.

But his twin wasn't at a loss for words. "Aw, now, Jack, don't go modest on us. With your special seasoning, this stuff really tastes great!" Flannery twitched and squirmed beside her. Even his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Larry, our captain's cooking is the best."

Pointing at her dish, he continued, "This here type fish is grouper, and here we have conch meat, and this fruit is sea grapes, and--"

Jack interrupted before her deep green eyes began to glaze over. "Danny fancies himself to be a naturalist. Probably because he was born outside in a park. In Central Park. New York, you know." He added that just in case she wasn't up on her parks.

"I know," she coolly replied, turning back toward Flannery.

His mean-spiritedness returned. For some reason, Jack didn't want to share her with the others. Damn. He usually wasn't so petty. Taking a swig of water, he gestured at Flannery. "In fact, we have Danny to thank for the variety of our meals."

While Flannery's chest puffed out with the acknowledgement, Larissa tilted her head at Jack, her attention fully on him. "How so?"

But Baker butted in, as he usually did. "Yeah, when we first landed, Danny was our food taster. Y'know, conducted edibility tests on the vegetation. Produced some Technicolor yawns, if I remember right!"

Flannery gave a wide Irish grin. "You remember right, all right!"

Larissa glanced at all of them, then, to Jack's perverse delight, she stopped her gaze on him. "What's a Technicolor yawn?"

He stuffed a spoonful of eggs into his mouth. Slightly rubbery, they slid down his throat. "Vomit. It's Aussie talk."

Baker grinned. "And bloody colorful it is, too."

Would she be a Goody Two-Shoes and poker up to express disapproval?

She laughed. "That is colorful, Ian. But, Danny, how dangerous for you."

Christ, she earned a friend for life. Flannery's big ears almost flapped with pleasure, while Scarpelli glowed heat to the tip of his nose with envy!

Finished with his meal, Jack stretched out in the blaze of the fire and picked up a chunk of coconut. "We all want to hear more about the war, babe. Now that it's over, what else is going on in the world?"

To her credit, she finished her goat's milk as if unfazed by his question. But she was nervous. He could tell by her darting gaze and her slim fingers, now drumming an impatient beat. "Mmm. This milk is good. How do you have fresh milk on the island?"

Talk about diversionary tactics. But no one seemed to mind, especially Scarpelli. The goat was his special pet.

Standing, Scarpelli lumbered over to the palm tree where the goat was contentedly chewing its cud, if, of course, that goat did anything contentedly. "This here is Nana, ma'am. She lets us milk her everyday. Say something, Nana."

Even in the fading light, Jack saw the wicked gleam in the cloven-hoofed beast's dark eyes. To show its displeasure at being disturbed, it lowered its head to butt at Scarpelli with its small horns. Then it bleated its own peculiar noise, echoing out into jungle wilderness.

Larissa braved the elements and approached the goat. "Nana, the nanny goat. Cute." She scratched Nana between the horns, and oddly enough, the beast didn't seem to mind.

Then quickly, as if to continue to throw dust in their eyes concerning the war, she turned to flattery. "All of you have done a wonderful job making the best of things. Five years is an extremely long time to be stranded. It is five years, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Larry," Flannery agreed. "With the war on, we figured they just hadn't gotten around to rescuing us." He scratched at his wiry hair. "I wonder how come they didn't? But, hey, never mind that. I can't hardly wait to get home now!"

With her piercing gaze, she looked at each of them as if measuring them against some hidden standard. Did Baker also notice this?

Jack regarded the man from down under. No, he sat hanging on her every word, seemingly mesmerized by a pair of emerald eyes. Strange though, her large eyes reminded Jack of someone, but who?

Of course: Nat. Of Nat's vibrant green eyes.

Jack threw a hardened piece of coconut into the pit. Good ol' Nat. Nat better have made it through the war. Imagine his surprise when Jack tracked him down and grappled him in a bear hug!

Larissa shifted that clear gaze of hers. "Hopefully, my friends will find us tomorrow and we all can go home."

"Might be hard for your friends, ma'am." Scarpelli started clean up duty, scraping off the food remnants from the plates and gathering up leftovers. "Y'see, I think we landed on one of those cays belonging to the Exuma Cays in the Bahamas. Y'know, teeny, tiny islands." He gestured with his thumb and index finger to show how small. "The Exuma Cays have 365 little islands, one for each day of the year. It could take your friends a while."

"A long while," Flannery morosely agreed.

Now wasn't that a stinking cheery thought?

Feeling the hackles rise on his neck, Jack checked his watch, just to make sure it was ticking. Damn strange things happened when it stopped. Relieved to see the second hand making its usual sweep, he nodded at Flannery. "Your turn to...you know."

The man nodded. "Yeah. Well, Larry, I sure can tell you I enjoyed tonight! See you tomorrow." He lingered his gaze on her, then left the campfire to go get the gun...and stand guard at that infernal limestone cave.

As Larissa watched Flannery disappear into the thick foliage, Jack could almost hear the gears in her brain working, wondering. Maybe she had more cards in her deck than he gave her credit for.

But now it was almost completely black, so all three men pitched in to clean up. Baker left to put water on the cooking stones, and Jack took the "disposing of the scraps" duty. Several yards from camp, he dug a hole, all the while straining to overhear Larissa's and Scarpelli's conversation.

"Let me wash these dishes, Sal." The clattering of aluminum plates indicated she gathered the dishes together.

Scarpelli replied, "No, ma'am, it's okay. We just put 'em in a net, dunk it in the lagoon, and leave 'em soak overnight. I clean 'em in the morning. It's too dark and...."

Silently, Jack added, 'And too dangerous.' He finished hollowing out the pit and raked in scraps of coconut husks and the like. Good thing the navigator was being discreet. No need to alarm Larissa about the pirates. Not that they were in any real danger. In five years, the bastards had just appeared once. Of course for Watkins, once was enough. Still, if Larissa was a squeamish sort..., well, a hysterical female would be hard to handle.

Returning to the site, he watched as Baker poured seawater onto the hot stones encircling the fire pit. The resulting hiss of steam caught everyone's attention.

Jack clapped his hands together with feigned enthusiasm. Had to get this little honey tucked away so they could all relax. Funny how sexual tension wore down a man's defenses. "That's the extent of the excitement around here, babe. Time to, ah, turn in for the night."

He'd almost said, "go to bed," but damn it, if the word "bed" wasn't loaded with images and longings he couldn't dare admit.

Her impressive sigh raised her chest in a titillating manner. "Yes, it's been quite a day."

Christ. Baker and Scarpelli almost drooled.

Unaware of the havoc she wreaked, she flashed them a smile that lit up the night. "I just have to say again, I think you four have done an extraordinary job living off the land like this."

Scarpelli grinned like a fool. "Actually, ma'am, we, y'know, we started out as six."

Damn his heart! Even Baker inhaled his disapproval at the navigator's words.

Naturally, Larissa had to know more. "What happened--?"

Jack took her by the arm. Soft and pliant, yet with firm muscle at the core. "It's not important. Now, let's get you to--"

"No." She firmly planted her feet in the dirt. "No, tell me."

Scarpelli shot his dark gaze at both Jack and Baker, then held out his hands as if to ask what choice did he have? "Gee, well, uh, back when we first arrived, we had a really bad hurricane. No fooling, we didn't know the first thing about storm survival. Poor Ziegler. He was our flight engineer. He got...smashed when a palm tree came crashing down."

She bit her lip. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. He was a swell guy." Baker tugged on his earlobe. "Well, see you in the morn--"

"And what about the other man?"

This time Jack sighed. A woman's curiosity was not to be denied.

She wouldn't budge, all right. "Sal? What happened to the other man?"

Fingering the neckline on his shirt, Scarpelli flashed a panicked gaze at Jack. "Er, it was the pirates."

Jack forcefully tugged on her arm, but the hell of it was, she didn't move an inch.

Instead, she prattled on. "Pirates? What about pirates? You mean smugglers?"

Persistent wench, wasn't she?

Baker vibrated intensity from the tips of his thinning hair to his stubby toes. "Naw. He means honest-to-goodness pirates. Peg-legs, eye-patches, and gold teeth pirates. And they came out of a cave, of all places. They didn't even give us a fair go at them, because then they disappeared back inside it!"

Damn. No good sugar-coating it now. Jack shrugged and looked her square in the eye. "Nothing to worry about. Long time ago. They came and left, but Watkins, our radio operator, wasn't as lucky as we were. We couldn't save him."

Her frown showed she puzzled on that information. "Is that why Danny isn't here? His turn, you said. Is it some sort of guard duty?"

Hell, this dame was quick.

Baker answered her. "Yeah, just to be sure. Gives us something to do besides being beach bums." He rapidly smoothed down his mustache, probably wondering if she would go off the deep end on them.

More than anything, Jack wanted to get her safely out of the way. The feel of the palm of his hand around her smooth upper arm teased every blasted inch of him. And for some strange reason, perspiration poured from him like lava out of an erupting volcano. Baker and Scarpelli spewed forth sweat as well.

"Listen, don't worry about anything, okay? We'll protect you. Promise." Jack pulled on her arm one more time, and thankfully, she followed him.

"You sleep tight, Larry," Baker called after her.

"Good-night to you, too," she returned politely.

It was difficult to see the path in front of them, but thankfully the quarter moon provided a beacon of light.

He delivered her to the "door" of the shack, then took a step away. "Do us all a favor and just go to bed, okay?"

Her steady gaze was unnerving. "Where will you sleep?"

Scratching the back of his neck, he laughed. It was a good release. "Is that what's bothering you? Hell, I'll bunk with Baker. He snores, but I can handle it."

She looked so lost, almost as if she was in shock. Without planning to, he took her hand and sandwiched it between his own. "You get some sleep. You've had a hell of a day. Tomorrow, we'll search for your friends."

Her smile quivering a bit, she nodded. "Good-night, Jack. And thanks."

After she went inside, he stood where he was for a long time. What had she thanked him for? He was a mean son-of-a-bitch, but she thanked him anyway.

Running his hand over his hair, he turned, heading for Baker's shack. Larissa Parish was a trooper. A real trooper. No hysterical female about her. Just look how she handled the news about the pirates. Too bad she had to learn that even paradise wasn't trouble free.

* * *

Shafts of moonbeams filtered in