Dancing on the Wind (45 page)

hands.

* * * * *

Because the orthopedic surgeon had decreed the hellion had healed Fallon’s leg as

well as could be expected, they removed the cast before they wheeled him out to the jet

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waiting to take him, Keenan, a nurse-practitioner and two operatives taking R & R to

the Island. Cautioning him to use the crutches provided for him, they had admonished

Keenan to make sure he put as little stress on the mending leg as possible. Thankfully,

x-rays showed his broken arm had mended completely and that cast as well had been

removed.

With the window shields locked into place, the interior of the jet proved to be

exceedingly unnerving for the Reaper. His claustrophobia reared its ugly head so

violently the nurse was forced to give him an extra dose of tenerse to calm him down.

Even so, his uninjured leg bounced nervously and he plucked constantly at the arms of

his chair. Unable to look out the windows, to hobble to the cockpit, he was forced to sit

in his seat and stew—taking harsh breaths and wiping at the sweat that dotted his

forehead—until they were airborne then he moved to the couch where he could be

more comfortable.

“Did I tell you about the island my mother bought after my father died?” Keenan

asked in an attempt to take his mind off the claustrophobic conditions.

He shook his head.

“She named it St. Brisa although it was called something else—still is, I think—on

the maps. It’s on the Dende Coast off Brazil.”

He nodded as though he were listening though she was sure he wasn’t. She kept

talking in the hopes of distracting him.

“It really is a beautiful place,” she continued. “Mama has always had this thing for

books and movies about pirates. Actually, I think she did her dissertation on

Blackbeard.”

“Huh,” he commented, and laid his head back on the seat, closed his eyes.

“The island is like an old-time pirate stronghold complete with cannon ramparts in

the mountains. It’s got security you wouldn’t believe. The harbor is as tight as an old

maid’s ass.” She laughed. “As much as my mother loves all things pirates, she has no

use for the real thing and there are plenty of them down in the Caribbean.”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed. His bad leg was stretched out in front of him but his left leg

was jumping briskly.

“The entire perimeter of the island is wired for sound and movement, and she has a

small army of men who patrol it vigilantly. No one gets on the island or off without

Mama being told. I imagine the Exchange’s Island is the same way.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Although she doesn’t keep the island’s whereabouts a secret as the Exchange

does,” she commented.

“Security measure,” he mumbled, his words slurred.

She knew the tenerse was taking effect and said nothing else, hoping he’d go to

sleep. When she noticed his leg had stopped bouncing and his breathing had become

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slower and more even, she relaxed. Quietly, she got up and moved away so as not to

disturb him.

Half an hour later she heard him moan and set aside the book she’d been reading,

taking a seat beside Fallon on the couch. He flinched and a low whimper came from

somewhere deep inside his chest. His hands were clenched tight into fists—so tight the

knuckles had bled of color.

Very softly she laid her hand atop one of his and he jerked, his eyes snapping open

as he sucked in a hard gasp.

“It’s all right,” she said, her voice gentle and reassuring.

He wouldn’t look at her. He was staring straight ahead as he drew in great gulps of

air.

“Damn,” he finally said, and lifted his free hand to wipe at the sweat peppering his

face. He pressed his hand over his mouth then squeezed his eyes closed.

“Tell me what to do, lineman,” Keenan said. She stroked his hand. “Let me help.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” he grated, his words muffled through the fence of his

fingers.

Then he surprised her by twisting around and lying down, putting his head in her

lap. Awkwardly—grunting from the effort—he drew his injured leg onto the seat,

crooked at the knee over his leg left. He thrust his clasped hands between his thighs.

Keenan smoothed the hair back from his forehead, frowning at the dampness of his

scalp. She could feel waves of intense heat from his cheek and temple coming through

the fabric of her lightweight slacks.

“I do love you,” he said.

“I know you do.”

“I hated every minute I was with Bolivar.”

“I know, sweetie,” she said.

“It will always be you.”

She was looking down at his profile and watched him close his eyes.

“Always you,” he repeated.

Keenan ran the backs of her fingers down the side of his face. “There’s no one but

you for me either,” she told him. “I love you more than life itself.”

She saw his eyes open and squint as though he had felt a sudden pain lancing

through him.

“I’ll protect you,
lhiannan
,” he whispered. “I swear I will.” He turned his head so he

could look into her eyes. “Whatever it takes, I will protect you.”

“I know you will, baby,” she said, smiling.

He looked away from her.

“Whatever it takes,” he said again.

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She tried to psychically send a thought to him but either his powers had yet to

return or he was too distracted to intercept the transmission. He just closed his eyes

again and seemed to relax, although beneath her arm his body felt taut with tension.

Continuing to stroke his hair and cheek, not saying anything so he could rest, she

stared across the aisle to the porthole, wishing the shields were up so she could at least

see the fleecy clouds.

He mumbled something she didn’t catch then began to snore lightly. The sound did

her heart good to hear.

* * * * *

“He’s going to be in there most of the afternoon, ma’am,” the receptionist said. “If

you’re hungry, the cafeteria is in the south wing and its open twenty-four hours a day.

Go out those doors, turn right and follow the dark yellow line on the floor.”

Keenan thanked her, remembering there were different colored lines leading to and

from all four wings of the large facility. The red line led to the clinic in the west wing.

The green line ushered visitors to the living quarters in the north wing and the blue line

led to the east wing where the shops, gym and entertainment facilities were located,

including a huge indoor-outdoor pool.

“When they’re through with him, would you page me?” Keenan asked, giving her

the pager number that had been assigned her when they’d signed in at the main

building.

“Certainly, Agent McCullough.”

By the time her pager went off, she was finished with her late lunch and was ready

to do a bit of sightseeing on the private island. Heading back to the clinic, she passed a

few agents she knew, spoke briefly to them then continued on. As soon as she saw

Fallon glaring at her, she knew she’d dawdled a bit too long in his estimation.

“Where the hell were you?” he asked.

“Flirting with every Peter, Dick and Harry Roderick I came into contact with,” she

replied sweetly. “And how was your day, dear?”

“Fuck you,” he growled, but it was said with a mock grin.

“Promises, promises,” she said. “Ready to go?”

“I was born ready to go,” he replied.

“Have him here by six tomorrow morning, Agent McCullough,” the receptionist

said.

“Shit, I haven’t even turned over by six in the morning,” Fallon snarled.

“We’ll be here,” Keenan said, rolling him away before he could say something to

embarrass her.

Following the green line on the floor, she headed for the living quarters, knowing

he’d more than likely want to shower since both the back and front of his black T-shirt

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was soaked with sweat. She knew their luggage would have been unpacked, put in the

drawers and everything they needed taken care of. The Exchange took care of their

own.

“So how was old Harry Rod?” he asked as they neared the receptionist kiosk to get

their room numbers.

“A little stiff,” she said, deadpan.

“Good afternoon, Agents McCullough and Fallon,” the receptionist said. “Agent

Fallon, you are in your usual room and, Agent McCullough, you are in…”

“She’ll bunk with me,” Fallon said.

Keenan saw the receptionist’s eyelids flicker just a fraction but the young woman’s

smile never wavered. After all, Fallon was the Alpha operative at the Exchange and

what he wanted, he usually got.

“Of course, sir,” she said without missing a beat. “I’ll have her things moved

immediately.”

“Wait an hour or so,” Fallon instructed. “I need a shower and I don’t want people

traipsing through the suite until I’m done.”

“Yes sir,” the receptionist said, handing the keycard to the room to Keenan. “Enjoy

your stay on the Island.”

“Thank you,” Keenan replied.

The room into which Keenan wheeled Fallon was simply gorgeous. Done in tropical

shades of deep butterscotch gold, dark green, vibrant burgundy and azure, the fabric on

the seating arrangement, the draperies, and through the opened bedroom door, the

comforter, drew the eye like a magnet. The furniture was pristine white wicker and the

great room of the suite was so large it required four slowly revolving ceiling fans.

Underfoot, the carpeting was sand-colored, making the room appear gardenlike.

Everywhere was a profusion of live plants that added to the lush, tropical theme.

“This is scrumptious!” she said as she gently kicked the door shut behind her and

pushed Fallon into the center of the room.

“Wait ’til you see the bathroom,” he told her. “It’s a bit like your mother’s.”

“Really?” she said. “Through that door?”

“Uh-huh.”

She wheeled him into the bathing suite and whistled when she got a look at the

whirlpool bathtub and huge walk-in shower—both set in a light blue tile with a

midnight blue border. The entire room looked as though it were under water.

“The shower has twelve shower jets on the three walls, four in the floor and four in

the ceiling. The ones on the wall come on automatically, but you have to manually turn

on the other two,” he said.

“Right now I could use all twenty jets,” she said as she stooped down to lock the

wheels in place. “Need help undressing?”

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“Uh-huh,” he said, leaning away from the chair back to pull off his T-shirt. He was

wearing jeans and loafers without socks so as he unbuttoned his jeans, she hunkered

down to take off his shoes.

“How’s your ankle?” she asked, carefully removing his right shoe.

He shrugged. “Hurts worse than the goddamned kneecap does actually, but it’s

getting there.”

“Can you put your weight on it?” she queried. “Maybe the bathtub would be better

than the shower.”

“I want the shower,” he said like a petulant child. He unzipped his fly. “There are

support bars in there and a seat if I need it.”

“Okay,” she said, drawing the word out. She stepped over to the shower and

opened the large tempered glass door. She whistled again. “Seat, hell, Fallon! That’s a

bench big enough to lie down on.”

He was struggling to push himself out of the chair, but it was obvious to her his left

arm was bothering him and he had little strength after going through rehab earlier. She

went to him and slipped an arm around him to lever him to his feet. With him holding

on to a safety bar beside the shower, she tugged his jeans and underwear off, tossing

them aside. When she looked up at him, she realized he was sweating profusely again.

“You’re hurting, lineman. Maybe you should…”

“You wanna help, McCullough?” he cut her off.

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Then help me into the fucking shower, okay?” he asked.

“Have you screwed somebody in there?” she demanded, eyes narrowed.

“Hell no!”

“Then it isn’t a fucking shower,” she stated then grinned. “Yet.”

He snorted. “I just want a shower, McCullough. I don’t want to be mauled.”

“So you say,” she mumbled.

Knowing he was going to get his way no matter what she said, she gave in and once

more looped her arm around him to assist him into the shower. He hopped on his left

foot with his right leg crooked behind him, but with every bounce, she saw a muscle

flex in his cheek and knew it caused him a lot of unnecessary pain.

“Stubborn man,” she said, trying not to giggle at the way his cock flapped against

his thigh as he hopped.

“Bench,” he said through clenched teeth, “and stop gaping at my whingding.”

“Yeppers,” she agreed with a grin, and helped him to sit down. Once he was

slumped against the cool tile, she glanced at the shower controls. “You want them all

on?”

“I want you to take off your clothes and stay in here with me,” he said, looking up

at her.

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Keenan put her hands on her hips. “You want me to bathe you, Fallon?”

“That too, but mostly I just want to see you naked,” he said, and gave her one of his

patented reckless grins that she had missed so dearly.