Total Exposure. Tori Carrington

Now the road she had taken to drive up to film producer Dylan Deeb’s house was indistinguishable from the rest of the oozing mud eating the highway.

      Fine? Had she really just used the word fine to describe what had happened in Dylan Deeb’s house only sixty minutes ago?

      “Miss, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step back.”

      She blinked unseeingly into the face of a young firefighter in yellow waterproof overalls and black boots. “What…How…” The words came out of her mouth but she couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence as she desperately sought out the producer’s house. Her heart beat an uneven rhythm in her chest.

      It’s gone.

      Along with any chance of her ever becoming a working actress.

      Remorse, shame and fear rose up in her throat, choking her.

      “Whoa, easy there,” she heard the firefighter say right before her legs went out from under her.

      When she became aware of the world around her again, what could have been minutes or hours later, she was blinking into the face of a pretty woman who reminded her of her mother.

      “Can you hear me?” the woman asked, waving a penlight in front of her eyes.

      Brittney squeezed them shut against the intrusive light. “I can hear you.”

      “How many fingers am I holding up?”

      Brittney squinted. “Three.”

      She realized then that she was lying across the front seat of her own car.

      “Do you live here? Is there someone I can call? When’s the last time you had anything to eat?”

      Eat?

      Brittney struggled to a sitting position. “I’m fine. Really, I am.” She pulled her shaking legs inside the car and reached to close the door. “Thank you. I’ve…I’ve really got to go.”

      The woman stepped back and Brittney finally managed to get the door closed. She hit the automatic lock, discovered her car was still running, then put the engine into reverse, her only intention to get as far as she could, as fast as she could, away from Deeb’s nonexistent house….

      CHAPTER THREE

      NATALIE HAD IMMEDIATELY responded to the firefighter’s call for help, but was forced to step back as the young woman—who had been all but unconscious a moment before—sped off in reverse. Twenty or so feet down the highway, she spun the rusted vehicle around, then raced off into the rain.

      “What do you make of that?” the firefighter asked.

      Natalie frowned. “I don’t know. Low blood sugar, maybe. Shock.” She looked at him. “Did you recognize her?”

      “No.”

      At any rate, there was nothing she could do about the woman now. You could only help those who wanted to be helped.

      She found her gaze pulled to Dan Egan’s powerful back, the thought ringing even truer.

      A plaintive call echoed through the rain. Natalie was pretty sure someone was yelling for help, but given her position at the foot of the mountain, with the waves of the bay crashing against the shore behind her, she couldn’t be sure from which direction the cry was coming.

      She realized she was still staring at Dan’s wide back when she saw another firefighter rush up to his side, pointing out something near the top of the shifting mountain. She squinted against the rain. A man stood on his roof, alternately shouting at the people below and rubbing his chest and left arm. Natalie slowly advanced toward Dan, her umbrella falling back even as she gripped it. Mindless of the rain soaking her hair and face, she watched the stranded man drop to his knees, silent now as he desperately clutched his left arm.

      “That’s not good,” she murmured, coming to stand next to Dan.

      “What is it?” he asked.

      “He’s demonstrating the classic symptoms of cardiac arrest.”

      Dan’s head whipped around, just as a burst of static sounded on the radio he held in his left hand. He lifted it to his ear and fiddled with the knobs before speaking into the mouthpiece. “Come again, HQ.”

      “Call on the 911 line, Egan. A man says he’s trapped on the roof of his house at 432 Truesdale. The mud’s rising fast and he’s suffering from severe chest pains.”

      Dan caught and held Natalie’s gaze. “Tell him we’ll get to him as soon as we can. Out.”

      Natalie closed her umbrella and headed toward the Jeep for her bag.

      “Where do you think you’re going?” Dan asked, grasping her arm.

      She blinked at him and then at his hand on her arm. “I’ve got to help him.”

      Dan’s face was drawn into hard lines. “To do that you’d have to get to him first.” He pointed to a spot just south of the house the man stood on. “See that? The bridge has been completely washed out. There’s no way my team can reach him anytime soon.”

      Natalie swallowed. This was one of the hardest parts about being a physician—knowing you were trained to help people but not being able to do it. “There’s got to be some way. What about air rescue?” She looked up into the glowering sky. “Where’s the helicopter?”

      “Unfortunately, the pilot’s off sick today and it’ll take too long to arrange backup.”

      She stared at Dan, wanting him to do something, anything, to try to remedy the situation.

      He seemed to realize he still held her arm. Cursing quietly, he released her and strode away.

      Natalie followed on his heels. “What are you going to do?” she asked, fighting to keep up.

      “Fly up there myself.”

      “Then I’m coming with you.”

      “I’m well trained in handling cardiac arrest cases, Nat.”

      Nat. He’d called her Nat. No one but her brothers ever referred to her that way. Not even Charles. The familiarity sent warmth skittering over her chilled skin. “Your men have their hands full here. What are you proposing to do? Fly in there alone to take care of the situation?”

      He stared at her long and hard, then finally said, “Grab your bag and let’s go.”

      FIFTEEN MINUTES, a slick drive to the airport and a choppy flight later, Dan carefully navigated the medevac helicopter over the mountain. His experience as a helicopter pilot was extensive—he’d flown many emergency missions in the military throughout troubled areas of the world—but it had been awhile since he’d been at the controls.

      He glanced at Natalie in the seat next to him, attempting to tune out how white she was. He’d tried to warn her against coming. These types of rescues weren’t for the faint of heart. Add in the rain that was coming down in heavy sheets again, and he was surprised the doc was able to keep her lunch down. He spared her slender body a glance. If she’d even eaten lunch.

      “Over there!” Natalie shouted at him through the headphones, clearly not used to talking into the pencil-thin black microphone she’d pushed away from her cheek.

      Dan spotted the house in question. Mud was rising at a fast rate around the two-story structure, which now looked like a one-story house. The man who had called 911 lay completely still on one side of the flat, Mediterranean-style roof, seemingly unaware of their approach.

      “Where are you going?” Natalie asked.

      “I have to circle back around and try to land in the clearing just behind the house.” Dan tapped the mike in front of his mouth, gesturing for her to move hers so he could hear her. “Let’s just pray the ground is solid enough to hold us.”

      Natalie