Operation Summer Storm (17 page)

“You want us both to go for a swim?” he threatened.

Summer, winced, realizing he must have felt her sniffing his neck…smooth Summer, real smooth. It did, however, bring to her attention that he wasn’t as completely immune to her as he’d like to be, judging from the tough guy act he’d been hiding behind whenever the situation became too volatile.

They reached the beach and Tate let her slide down the length of him, in a deliberate attempt to turn the tables.

“Thank you,” Summer croaked. “For carrying me,” she added, stumbling as she stepped back.

“My pleasure,” he drawled in his deep, sexy voice.

Yours and mine both, buddy, she thought, feeling hot all over and knowing it had nothing to do with the early morning sun beating down on them.

* * * *

The stillness was broken by the fisherman-hillbilly-pilot, wielding a gun and demanding to know, “Who’s there?” as they approached the hanger. Del called out and identified them. At once, the gun lowered and he broke out in a broad, toothless grin.

They emerged from the shadows and followed the man into his precious hanger. Inside, cups of steaming coffee were distributed along with a generous helping of hot chili, that had been steaming in a big pot on the stove in his makeshift kitchen at the rear of the hanger.

Summer inhaled the fragrant scent of coffee and almost wept with relief as she took her first sip.
Oh coffee how I’ve missed you, my old friend.

With her caffeine fix sated for a moment, her stomach growled loudly as she caught a whiff of Sparkie’s Chili. The smell of
onion, garlic, tomato and spices floating through the air had her mouth watering. Summer wolfed down the contents of her bowl quickly and got a refill while the men filled the pilot in on their predicament, and their need of a quick getaway. If he seemed fazed at all by the late hour request, he gave no outward sign of it, instead went about preparing his plane for their immediate departure.

In between dipping pieces of bread in her chili, Summer watched the unusual little man as he went about his business, Catching Tate watching her, she paused, her bread in mid-air—dripping sauce into her bowl.

“What?” she asked, wondering if she had something on her chin.

“Just watching you try to figure out old Sparkie,” he grinned.

“Sparkie?” she repeated dubiously. “Okay—I’ll bite. How does he fit in?”

“He’s a Vietnam vet; we met him one time on leave in some run down bar in Guam. We were able to extract him from a…situation and he’s been an unofficial part of the team ever since.

“He seems an odd, little man,” she murmured, keeping her voice low as she followed the man’s movements.

“Kinda eccentric,” he said dryly and watched as he saw the meaning light up her eyes.

“He’s the millionaire business associate who owns the island?”

Tate nodded, chewing his mouthful of chili, thoughtfully.

“Wow, you’d never know he was rich; how strange,” she said shaking her head in disbelief.

“What did I tell you about making assumptions? You shouldn’t go judging a book by its cover…”

“It’s a bit hard to judge by anything else, when the book won’t turn past the cover page,” she said, turning her bright gaze onto his dark one.

He let her pointed remark sit between them, but didn’t comment. “He kinda grows on you after a while,” he said, nodding at Sparkie.

Like a fungus, was what flashed to mind, but she didn’t say it out loud—the guy had saved their backsides more than once already. “How does a man living here all alone, have this much food on hand?” she asked as an afterthought.

“Spoken like a true chili novice,” he smirked. “Chili is never made in small batches; you always make enough to feed an army…so to speak, besides the left-overs always taste better on the second day,” he explained with a shrug.

“Well I’m sorry to say, I’m not a chili connoisseur. Forgive my ignorance. Do you cook?” she asked with a sudden curiosity.

“I do have to eat occasionally,” he answered dryly.

“I just never pictured you standing in a kitchen.”

“I can cook chili,” he finally admitted. “Not much else.”

“We don’t eat a lot of that back home. Now a baked dinner—roast lamb and veggies. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, hot, baked Sunday lunch,” she said wistfully. “Maybe we could trade—you cook me chili and I’ll cook you a baked dinner,” she said, then realized what she’d just said. Her smile faded quickly, “All this talk about food got me carried away,” she fumbled, as her sentence hung uncomfortably between them.

After a few moments of silence Tate gave a self-reproaching grin. “If I were any other man, I’d take you up on that offer in an instant,” he said quietly.

“If you were any other man—I wouldn’t have offered,” she returned sadly, standing to carry her bowl to the sink, and began to wash up for the scurrying Sparkie. She kept busy washing all their dishes and a few more she’d discovered along the way, and tidying up the cluttered kitchen area that screamed ‘single man living here’. She didn’t think much about what she was doing, she just needed to do something to keep from sitting and staring dopily at Tate and wishing for the impossible.

“What are you doin?” she jumped when a rusty old voice spoke from behind.

Summer spun around, saw Sparkie, and wondered if she’d overstepped the boundary. She hadn’t done much, just dried all the dishes he’d left drip drying and wiped down the sink area and bench top. From the way the old pilot was staring at her, she suddenly questioned the wisdom of her actions.

“I was cleaning up our mess,” she stammered.

He gave a grunt. “Cleaning up other people’s messes. Maybe you fit in around here better than I thought.” He looked at the bare sink and bench top, then frowned. “Long time since I’ve had a woman’s touch around my kitchen,” he growled before ambling off once more.

She stared after him then turned back to replace the cloth she’d been cleaning with.

“Sparkie must like you. He shot the last person who messed around in his kitchen,” Del said helpfully as he passed by.

“Well, thanks very much for pointing that out earlier,” she called after him, shaking her head at his chuckle.

* * * *

Willow slept, if not peacefully, then at least frequently enough to catch up on some of the sleep she’d lost during her captivity. Summer fussed over her, making sure she ate, and kept a careful watch over her. The two days since her release had been spent recuperating, mostly sitting on the beach and filling her lungs with the salty tang of ocean and sun.

Towel drying her hair after a quick swim in the ocean, Summer rounded the corner to come face to face with Tate and her sister. The smile faded from her face as she caught the strange body language between the two. Willow’s back was straight—her chin jutting out in defiance—a gesture Summer had witnessed growing up many a time. Shifting her gaze toward Tate confirmed her suspicions that he was
not
a happy camper. Something had obviously happened.

“Willow, what’s going on?” she asked, her gaze switching between the two uncertainly.

“Your sister wants to leave,” Tate announced, lifting his gaze to meet hers squarely.

She took a few steps closer. “It’s not going to be too much longer before we can leave is it?” she asked Tate.

“I don’t have time to wait around, Sum, I’ve got to finish this…for Michael,” Willow added.

“Finish what? It’s over; you’re safe.”

“It’s not over, Tréago’s still out there and I have things to do. I can’t just sit around here and let someone else jump on this story.”

“Willow, you were almost killed; you can’t be seriously thinking you’re ready to go out and start working?”

“I have to. I’m sorry Sum. I know you want what’s best for me, but, don’t you see this is what’s best. I need to finish this, especially now.”

Summer turned her gaze to Tate, who’d been standing nearby, arms folded across his wide chest, listening to the exchange with an impassive expression. He sent Summer a slight shrug, that told her, he wasn’t about to get in the middle of it.

“You just said it yourself, he’s still out there…he thinks the file…” Summer stopped, leaving the sentence unfinished, and saw Tate send her a swift glance.

“I’ll be okay. I can take care of myself.” Willow cut in.

“Really? It didn’t seem that way, when you were kidnapped in Cambodia…”

Willow clenched her jaw and straightened her shoulders, “I didn’t ask you to come here. I certainly didn’t expect you to
come
here, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you make me feel obligated to stop living my life just because you did. All I wanted was for you to take care of that file; that’s all I asked you to do.”

Tears pricked the back of Summer’s eyes. She didn’t want to fight with her sister now, not when she’d come so close to losing her just a few short days before. “I wish I’d never even heard about the damn file,” she snapped, “Fine, go…do what you do best Willow—chase someone else’s misery because it’s easier than facing your own.”

“Summer—” Willow sighed wearily.

Summer shook her head as she walked away, “Do what you want Willow. You will anyway.”

Her vision blurred as she went down to the beach; everywhere else on the island seemed too confined. The beach gave her room to breathe—space, and privacy to just sit and stare out over the water.

She heard footsteps in the sand behind her and knew they belonged to her sister without turning around. For a few minutes, the women sat and listened to the wind in the trees behind them, and the cry of the sea birds dipping and fishing for their dinner, out past the waves.

“I had a lot of time to think while I was in Cambodia,” Willow said. “Not just about the story, but about us, the way it’s been since Mum and Dad died. I should have stuck around and made sure, you were okay and I didn’t—all I wanted to do was get as far away as I could and forget about how much it hurt to lose them. I got so used to running away from everything that I forgot how to stop. I see that now.”

“Everyone deals with grief in their own way,” Summer said with a shrug. Truth was, there were times when she’d felt as though she’d lost not only her parents that day but also her sister. Although she lived, within half an hour of Summer’s house, Willow was rarely home for more than a few days before she was back out travelling the globe in search of the next big story.

“That’s the problem—I don’t deal with it. I haven’t dealt with loosing Michael at all, and I’ve done nothing but push you away every time you’ve tried to get close.”

“As for getting me into this, I made the choice to come and find you—you have nothing to feel guilty for and you don’t owe me anything,” Summer said.

“I do owe you. I appreciate everything you did. I still can’t believe you managed to pull it off…but I have to do this Sum. I can’t move on if I don’t finish this. I need closure.”

Summer’s throat tightened; she heard the pain in her sister’s voice, the heartache—and knew she had no right to feel hurt and betrayed. She wanted her sister to be happy again, and if this was the way she thought she needed to go to get there, then Summer wasn’t going to make her feel guilty over it.

The next morning, they waited by the hanger for Sparkie to pull off a bulky tarpaulin, revealing a small plane, with only two seats.

“Is that thing safe,” Summer, whispered to Tate, as they watched the old pilot open the engine cover and begin twisting and pulling at various pipes and hoses.

“Course it’s safe girly. I rebuilt it with my own two hands,” Sparkie barked, sending an insulted glance over his shoulder.

“Rebuilt it…great,” Summer said, sending an anxious look at her sister, silently pleading with her to wait and take a different form of transport, which Willow pointedly ignored.

Eventually he was satisfied, and slammed the cover down, wiping his greasy hands on his filthy overalls. “Ready to fly?”

Apparently Sparkie would be taking Willow off the island. The two women hugged and Summer forced a brave smile to her face. “Be careful.”

“I’ll be fine, you just make sure you take care of yourself…and Sum, I think you better tell him about the file…sooner rather than later,” she said, drawing back to search her sister’s eyes.

Summer gave a small nod, she was just waiting for the right time.

Chapter Twelve

Tate hadn’t seen Summer since early that morning and headed down to the beach to check on her. Ever since her sister had left the island the day before, she’d been quiet and withdrawn. As his shadow fell across her Summer jumped, looking up and shading her eyes against the bright afternoon sun.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” she told him as she recovered from the start he’d given her.

“Sorry. You looked like you were a thousand miles away,” he told her, sitting down slowly beside her. He’d meant to leave her alone but once he saw her sitting down on that long, lonely beach with the setting sun glowing all around her, he couldn’t help himself.

She was beautiful. Her long hair that she always wore pulled back in a cute ponytail, or twisted up on the back of her head until now caught the sun and shimmered in various shades of cinnamon and honey. It floated around her shoulders in a soft veil, making him itch to reach out and run his fingers through it slowly.