Piranha Assignment (18 page)

When he came within reach, Felicity pulled Barton's floating body to her. He was breathing, but unconscious, his skin now cold as death. She had to get him to someplace warm and dry. She could see one small island, but out in open water she could not guess how far away. If only Morgan was there. He would know how far, and what to do for Barton and probably how to signal for help. Her partner was a living encyclopedia of survival tactics, but that didn't help when he was miles away.

Well, she had done it all herself all those years before Morgan Stark came into her life, and she would just have to do it again. She pulled Barton's right arm over the board and held his hand underneath it.

“Just hang in there, pal,” she told Barton's blank face. “I'll get you to land just as fast as my little legs can carry us.” Then she blanked her mind and narrowed it to pinpoint focus on the island in front of her. It looked too small to support trees, but she thought she saw grass beyond the beach. A private beach for the two of them. A few minutes ago it seemed so romantic.

Felicity got her legs kicking in a strong, steady rhythm. Once the rhythm was set, she forgot them. She locked her hand on Barton's and forgot it too. She centered her mind on her breathing and ignoring the cold setting in. The swim was not her enemy, she knew. Nor was the explosion behind her or the thirst ahead. Hypothermia was the villain that would claim them both if she failed to make landfall soon enough.

Though still high in the sky, the sun tilted a bit to her right. Enough to maintain direction for her drive. A shiver shot through her making her regret her haste in abandoning her shirt, although its weight might have dragged her down earlier. Thank goodness she wore a bra that day. The support would reduce fatigue. Her jeans were cutting into her waist, so she unsnapped them and let the zipper down to give herself more freedom of movement. Poor Barton's clothes were torn from him in the blast, except for his trousers, and they were shredded from the knees down. Unconscious, he could not fight the cold. Well, she would just have to reach the island fast.

After fifteen minutes, Felicity felt the burn of a long run in her legs. She would lose feeling in her feet soon, and Barton's skin felt the same temperature as the ocean. Her eyes had glazed over as she concentrated on filling her lungs. Then her left foot hit something and that brought her out of her reverie. Were sharks, or barracuda following them?

With a sigh, she realized her foot had hit the sea floor. She stood straight, and found herself in hip deep water. It still seemed like a long walk to dryness, but by floating Barton on the board she managed to get his body mostly onto land. He lay with the slight surf just reaching his knees. His hands felt clammy when Felicity grasped them to haul him further onto shore. He looked so helpless there, his big muscular body as limp as week-old lettuce.

Only because she was staring at his chest did she notice the movement stop. He wasn't breathing. Now what? She was no first aid expert. She had to keep him alive, but she was scared out of her wits having his life in her hands.

She searched her mind for snippets of knowledge. Aren't you supposed to loosen restrictive clothing? She dropped to her knees and opened Barton's pants. What else? Is his
heart beating? She rested her ear on his chest. Thick, coarse hair scratched her face but she detected a regular thumping inside him. What next? Artificial respiration. How do you do that? She pushed her mouth down on his and blew out. Nothing got through. Instinct drove her to put her hand under his neck and lift. His mouth opened and she blew into him as hard as she could.

How many times do you do this? She did not know. She figured she would just keep going as long as she could, but she was tiring fast. After a minute she stopped to catch her breath. He still was not breathing. She fell to her task again, blowing even more heavily into his hard salty mouth.

Another minute passed before she rocked back on her heels, holding tears back. He was dead. She had failed to warn him in time and failed to save him. God, she felt so worthless, so useless. She smashed her fists down onto her thighs, her eyes clamped shut. And then he coughed.

“You're alive!” Felicity said out loud. But would it continue? Maybe he needed more. She dropped to him again, blowing her life's breath into him, afraid he would stop breathing on his own. She could feel his body responding to her, but the reaction seemed sluggish. Could she hold him here with her?

As if in response to her unspoken question, Barton's hand slid up her leg to cup one round globe of her buttocks. His other hand captured her support arm, and his tongue drove into her mouth. Startled, she snapped back.

“Chuck!” Felicity was too disconcerted to think straight. “What are you doing?”

In his eyes she could read the thrill of coming back from the dead, his joy at finding her alive, the singularity of the setting, and the sharp memory of what he was feeling just before she pushed him off the boat. He packed all this into a one word response: “Now!”

Chuck Barton pulled Felicity down to him again, and when their lips met electricity ripped through her body. She felt all the same emotions she sensed in him, with the excitement of the danger just past putting a special edge on her passion. In an instant she was as excited as he was, wanting nothing more than to appease his hunger.

He was pulling her jeans down over her hips and she moved to ease their movement. His kiss made her dizzy and she slumped against him. His right hand ripped her bra strap away, then moved from her arm to one hanging breast and she thought for a moment he might rip it off too. His mouth soon replaced his course palm and now she felt she would melt into him.

He started pushing to roll her over, but she pushed back. In freeing her left leg from her jeans, she stretched that leg to straddle him. While one hand held his head to her chest, the other slipped behind her, to find him hard and ready. Then she released his neck, gently pushing against his shoulder. She began to whimper, and sensed his reluctance when he released the capture breast.

With a moan of release, Felicity slid back, over and onto him. Her entire body shuddered with the movement. The sun had dried her body, yet its brilliant rays felt cool beside the heat inside her. She sat slowly erect, engulfing him, drawing him up into her. Her eyes clamped shut when she reached bottom, resting on him, enjoying the pulsing within
her. Her breathing was slowly speeding up, her hips starting to move in a wavelike manner. She was moving on him gently and, with clenched teeth, he did his best to keep to her easy pace.

Then the surf rolled in a few inches, cold water moving up far enough to splash into their combined crotch. Barton bucked in one powerful, uncontrolled thrust, sending Felicity to the tip of his shaft, then thudding down to the hilt. She gasped and opened her eyes, to see him staring at her, biting his lower lip. She bent forward just far enough to spread her hands on his wide chest. Her eyes sparkled like green fire and Barton could feel the pressure building.

“Now!” she said, and began sliding up and down him in long quick strokes. He must have known it would not be long for either of them, and grasped her hips to make sure it did not get away. Felicity threw her head backward and arched her back. She was straining for the magic.

When the final rush came, she looked down to see her fists tangled in his chest hair. She had used it to hold herself in place, but he did not seem to mind. That was her last image before he bucked up into her and exploded. She announced her orgasm to the empty beach in a long sobbing scream that only ended when they could no longer move and she collapsed on him in a heap and his arms enfolded her in a rough, hairy embrace.

Total exhaustion overtook Felicity at the same second that she was struck with the absurdity of their actions. She smiled a childlike smile, turned her head to kiss his cheek and said, “I hope you're happy Mister Chuck Barton. I'm going to take a little nap now.”

When his small boat slid onto the beach, Morgan sat in
it for a moment, puzzled. The danger warning had faded, and he was sure Felicity was alive, but he remained confused. He sensed no misery, no suffering, but things were certainly not back to normal. What could these mixed feelings mean? Was she a prisoner of some group of Central American rebels? Maybe an injury controlled by drugs would give him this feeling. Whatever the case, he figured he had better continue with caution.

He walked low, booted feet barely disturbing the sand. He drew his automatic, senses alert for any target that might reveal itself. Felicity was on the other side of this atoll, he could feel it. From a distance he had seen that the whole thing was not much more than two hundred yards across. The risk of detection was greatest on the beach.

Someone else had visited this island not long ago. He knew because of the military type ration packages he found under the loose sand. Plus, he saw evidence of a small fire. Whoever had been there before, they might return.

He planned to take the direct route through the heart of the island. The ground was rolling hills, easy to get through undetected if a man stayed low. Morgan had low crawled farther than this dragging an assault rifle. With just a pistol it was no big thing.

A rough kind of scrub grass covered the sandy soil, except for the first ten meters in from the water's edge. When Morgan approached the northern shore, he could see there was a drop off leading to the beach. It was maybe a six foot drop, enough for him creep almost to the edge without anyone below seeing him. He was already close enough to see no one was standing there. They must be sitting or lying on the sand. With consummate stealth he pulled himself along the ground to the edge of the grassy area. Slowly he raised his head, until he could just peer over the rim.

If Morgan had listed every sight he might expect to greet him, what he actually saw would have been dead at the bottom of that list. He holstered his pistol, a broad smile lighting his face. There lay Felicity, stark naked, stretched face down on the beach.

No, not on the beach, but on agent Barton, straddling his hips. Both were alive, but unconscious. From their breathing he knew they were asleep, not knocked out. Whatever danger they may have been in, he could see that they overcame it without any serious injury. What had threatened them, he wondered. What had happened to their boat? What had happened to their clothes?

Morgan sat up, just watching for a moment. Felicity was not shy about her body, and it held no secrets for him. He could admire her beautiful form as another man could a Cellini sculpture, without a sexual twinge. Still, as close as they were, this could be an embarrassing situation and he felt no urge to embarrass them. He wasn't surprised that it happened between Barton and Felicity, but their timing, he thought, could have been better.

After a little thought, he decided on a small stone. It was no more than a pebble, really, with just enough mass to toss with precision. Standing, he backed away from the beach until he could just see his target. Once he fixed the objective in his mind, he tossed his tiny missile and scrambled back toward the island's center. No need to watch the shot. He could not miss at this distance.

Something bounced off Felicity's head, and she awoke at once. No danger was present, so she raised her head and looked around. A warm feeling came over her, and a smile spread across her face. It's Morgan, she thought. He's here.

He's here, she thought again, looking down at herself. Her nipples scraped across Barton's chest, the pain bringing reality into sharp focus. What a way to be found. With slow and gentle movement she removed her weight from her lover's body. He stirred, but did not awaken. Let him sleep, she thought. He needed some rest after all that had happened, and it might give her a chance to confer with Morgan.

Felicity stepped into the surf to remove the sand. After absorbing the sun's rays for a while, the water was bracing. There was no way around being wet now, and being underdressed. She had no options that allowed for modesty, so she would have to face the world as she was. After some struggling, she managed to pull her damp jeans back on. The sea had claimed both their shirts, and her bra was in no condition to ever be used again. What had they been thinking? Oh, well. She squared her shoulders, flipped her hair back, and walked proudly off in the direction her head told her Morgan waited.