The demolished wasteland around him went eerily quiet. Sweat and filth plastered his uniform to his body, his heart hammering in his ears. Relief workers stood stock-still as if the world has stopped. But spirals of smoke affirmed the world hadn’t ended, just paused to catch a breath.

He exhaled hard. Adrenaline stung his veins. The tremor hadn’t been an earthquake, just another aftershock. Four so far today. Nerves were ragged, especially with the locals.

His headset blazed to life again with a frenzy of orders, questions, and curses from command center, along with check-ins from others on his team—Rocha, Cuervo, Data, Bubbles—spread out at other potential rescues in the sector. But the most important voice was conspicuously missing.

Hugh Franco.

Dread knotted his gut. Liam had lived through hell on earth before, but it was always worse when his men’s lives were on the line. They were his family, no question. As his three ex-wives would attest, he was married to the job.

“Franco? Franco?” Liam shouted into the mic. “Report in, damn it.”

His headset continued to sputter, some voices coming through piecemeal. None of them Hugh Franco.

Crappy headset… Liam’s hands fisted.

“Shit.” He punched the tractor. Knuckles throbbing, he resisted the urge to pitch the mic to the ground.

Rocha edged around the tractor. “I’m going in after him, boss. I’ll follow the cable, dig through, and—”

Reason filtered through the rage. He needed to level out, stay in command.

“Hold steady. Not yet. I don’t need two of the team missing.” He refused to believe Franco was gone. Only his voice, only the radio connection, had faded. “Let’s check in with the cleanup crew, maybe nab one of the search dogs again to confirm the exact location since things have shifted.”

Scrubbing along his jaw, he scanned the crews returning to business as if nothing had happened. Training kicked into overdrive at times like these. The cold-sweat stage would set in later, once there wasn’t anything to do but sit and think about how very wrong the day could have gone.

How badly it could still go, as they all hung out together in an active seismic zone…

All the same, Liam intended to bring as much help to the table as he could wrangle out of the already-overtasked people scurrying around the buckled piles of concrete and rebar. He scanned the construction crews—a mix from around the world—for a spare soul to help out.

And came up empty.

He scrubbed a gloved hand over his face. God, they were all maxed already, working alongside a rescue task force from Virginia for the past eighteen hours without sleep. He was running on the fumes left over from his catnap on the cargo plane ride over.

More C-17s dotted the sky, a trio landing one after the other in the distance with more supplies and personnel. Much-needed help. Except it would be hours before they were in place here.

But the helicopter hovering closer? The supplies and personnel that chopper contained would be available in minutes. His headset buzzed with news of a relief dog handler being sent from the Virginia USAR—Urban Search and Rescue.

He zeroed in on the cable lowering from the craft. A wiry figure dangled from the end, appeared to be a female in rescue gear with a dog strapped to her chest.

The helicopter was sending in a fresh search pair. A gold mine, when everyone else was running on fumes after over eighteen hours without sleep. They were also closer than whatever troops or supplies might be loaded in the C-17 still circling in the sky.

He clapped Rocha on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Keep talking to Franco.”

Sure-footed, he jogged across the jagged debris toward the chopper, eyes homed in on the duo spinning on the end of the descending cable.

He was a scavenger from way back, and intended to be first in line to claim her…

Liam turned from the rain-slicked window and back to the bed. Rachel had been his from the start. In the field or out. That hadn’t changed.

So what was it that had him reaching for the mutt puppy as if he needed a dose of therapy just because he’d hinted at the M word? Marriage. Even thinking it now made him break out in a cold sweat at the prospect of failure.

But the thought of losing her? Hell, that gave him the shakes too. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. The image of Rachel sleeping in his bed merged with the vision of her descending from that helicopter with her dog. Even in his memories, she damn near took his breath away.

Realization filtered through him without the aid of any therapy session—or hell, maybe the dog had a magic all its own. Because he knew without a doubt, just as he was reaching the point where he had to leave his work in the field, the time had come for Rachel to return to her calling.

And this time, he would be the one out in the cold in a relationship with someone married to the job. It was inevitable. God knew he’d lived through the scenario often enough to see how it would play out. To know the hell that came from trying and failing. He wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone, much less on Rachel.

Now he just had to figure out if he had the courage to back away from the only woman he’d ever truly loved.

***

Catriona curled under the sheet on the bed, hugging a pillow and wishing she had Brandon to hold on to instead. But he was stretched out on the floor on a bedroll with his dog. Either he was being a gentleman or he wasn’t interested.

Regardless, he was definitely restless. Every time thunder shook the ground, he thrashed, then settled again. Good God, how did he ever manage to feel rested, sleeping so sporadically? Sleep deprivation alone could send someone over the edge.

She didn’t know what to do for him. Or if he would even want her help. She was in way over her head here with someone out of her league.

Lightning and thunder flashed and cracked in sync.

Brandon shot upright.

An encore of lightning slashed across his face, revealing a fear and horror that brought tears to her eyes. Before she could stop herself, she’d clambered off the bed and onto the floor beside him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and she held on tight. Rocking back and forth, she mumbled soothing words—she had no idea what, but kept on talking until the tension began to leave his body.

A long sigh racked through him. “You can ask.”

“I’m not even sure where to start and I wouldn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

“How about asking what makes me lose my marbles every time a car backfires? What makes it so I can’t sleep through the night?” His voice picked up speed and ferocity, even if he kept his volume under control. The tension crept up his back again. “What makes it so I can’t even get a hard-on, much less make love to a woman?”

Whoa. Just whoa.

She’d asked herself some of those questions, but the last one had caught her by surprise. “Um, I was going to ask what makes you bite your nails? But since you mentioned the rest of that, I’m all ears if you want to talk.”

He shrugged free of her arms—gently but deliberately. “I’ve talked and talked and talked some more to shrinks.”

She leaned to grab her water bottle off the end table and passed it to him. “Sounds as if you think the talk was wasted.”

“It didn’t work, but I had to try if I wanted to end this purgatory of being on medical leave until I get my head on straight again—or don’t. So far I’ve managed to convince them the therapy’s making progress. We’ll see.”

“And your therapy dog?” She prodded carefully, afraid of doing more harm than good.

“I got a great trained free pet.” His smile was dark and strained. “What’s to argue about?”

“She doesn’t help?”

“Of course she does.” He slumped back against the footboard, his arm looped around Harley’s neck. “In my opinion dogs are God’s Prozac. And God’s blood pressure medicine. They’re pretty much the remedy to a lot of things.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Well, don’t tell the drug companies about your theory. You’ll crush them.”

“I take it you agree with me then?” His eyes turned deeper blue, or maybe it was the dark. Or how close together they sat.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She wanted the water bottle.

She wanted him.

Brandon lowered his head… as if he was going… to kiss her. And ohmigod, he was really kissing her. His mouth brushed hers once, twice, then held with a firmness so there was no mistaking his intention. This wasn’t an accidental connection. He palmed her head, his fingers in her hair. She held on to his arms, his thick muscled biceps.

Desire whooshed through her veins until she could have sworn her blood was sweet syrup. And she wanted more. To plaster herself to him until she went into a freakin’ diabetic coma. She’d never been this attracted to a man, ached this much to have him touch her. She wanted him to lay her back on the quilt.

His mouth slid from hers and he angled back. She bit back a whimper of protest. She would not be that girl—needy or pathetic. She would not be the insecure little girl sitting on the sofa while her mother showed her literature on plastic surgery. What kind of parent offered a daughter a boob job and chin implant for her sixteenth birthday?

“Cat, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to apologize or not.” He scooped up the water bottle again and rolled it between his hands as if wondering what to do with them next. “I only know that for the first time in months, I wanted to connect with a person. If I took advantage of our friendship, then I am sorry for that.”

He was apologizing to her for the kiss? Apologizing for wanting to connect with her? The thought that he wanted a relationship with her absolutely rocked her socks—and scared the hell out of her. How could she trust him? Was he only reaching out to her because of his own vulnerable state right now?

“Brandon,” she blurted before she even formed the thoughts, “would you have even seen me in high school?”

He looked genuinely stunned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not asking if you would have dated me.” Of course he wouldn’t have. “I’m asking if you would have noticed I existed. I’m the kind of person who fades into the woodwork of life. If someone had to describe me to a police sketch artist, they would be hard-pressed. There’s nothing wrong with my features, but there’s nothing unique. I just… am.”

She held up a hand. “I’m not fishing for compliments here, simply stating facts. Essentially, I don’t want to be any man’s pity fuck.”

He choked on a gulp of water.

“Surprised you, did I?” And she took more than a little pleasure in that. She tugged the water bottle from him. “I may look timid, but I can stand up for myself.”

“Are you finished?”

“For now. But I reserve the right to climb up on my soapbox again without warning.” She tipped back the water, thirsty and nervous.

“Fine.” He took the bottle, set it aside and clasped her hands. “First off, I resent the assumptions you made about my character.”

“Your high school character, and was I wrong?” Why did she feel the need to push this?

“We’re not in high school.”

“Cop-out answer. I’ll take that as a yes to your being a part of the popular crowd back then.” The kind of people who’d walked past her as if she didn’t exist. She tugged her hands but he didn’t let go.

“If you want to know the God’s honest truth”—his thumbs worked along the inside of her wrists—“I’m starting to think you’re the one hung up on looks, because you sure do talk about appearances and popularity a lot.”

She stopped tugging and just let herself soak up the sensation of his caressing touch. “I’m just trying to make a point.”