Fortune's Secret Daughter. Barbara McCauley

Douglas stared hard over the tops of the spruce trees, searching for the plane that she could hear, but couldn’t see. The storm had rolled in expectedly, one of those summer occurrences that were frequent enough to keep the land green and lush and the lake high, but not so frequent as to slow down anyone who lived here. Of all the things that the twelve hundred residents of Twin Pines didn’t need, it was to slow down. Life here moved at its own calm, steady pace.

      At the sound of the approaching plane, Holly frowned. The rain had started to come down harder, pelting her slicker and sliding down the shiny yellow fabric. She winced at the flash of lightning from the south, then frowned. Definitely not a day to be out flying. Special order supplies came in on seaplanes every two weeks via Pelican Pilots, a Seattle-based company Holly had been using since she’d bought the general store three years ago. She even knew all the pilots by name.

      Suddenly the plane shot out of the clouds in a downward spiral, engine sputtering and tail end smoking. It rose, then swept down again, heading straight for the lake. Horrified, Holly watched as the pilot managed to lift the nose at the last moment, but not enough to avoid a collision. The scream of ripping metal split the air as the plane bounced once off the water, then again before coming to a stop twenty feet from shore.

      Heart pounding, Holly had her slicker off in two seconds, then her boots. She dived into the lake, gasped at the slap of frigid water and was at the plane in ten strong strokes. She yanked open the pilot’s door as the plane tipped dangerously on its side, threatening to suck man and machine under.

      His hair was coal-black, one thick shock on his forehead matted with blood that streamed from a cut on his temple. Dazed, he grappled with his seat belt, but couldn’t seem to unbuckle himself.

      “I’ve got it,” Holly yelled over the still sputtering engine and the boom of rolling thunder.

      As she pulled herself up, he glanced at her with eyes as gray as the storm overhead. In one fluid movement, she brushed the man’s hands out of the way and had him unbuckled. None too gently, she grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him out of the smoking plane. He fell with a limp splash into the cold water, sputtered, then flung his arms weakly.

      “Be still,” she yelled again and took off for shore, one hand tightly clutching the collar of his navy-blue shirt while she kicked her way back to land. He was tall and lean, built solid as a lumberjack, but in the water he floated behind her like a piece of thick driftwood.

      She stumbled onto shore a few seconds later and dragged the pilot up onto the grassy bank. Out of the water he was a good two hundred pounds plus wet clothes and boots and she had to strain to pull him free of the lake. Gasping for breath, Holly fell to her knees beside the man. Rain pelted them, and she knew she had to get him out of the elements and into her Land Rover.

      “Are you hurt?” she shouted over the storm.

      His eyes were open, but glazed over and she wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. Blood still oozed from the gash on his temple, mixing with the rain as it ran down his face. She quickly ran her hands over his body, checking for broken bones or serious injuries. Lightning ripped through the thick clouds and struck not fifty feet away.

      “We’ve got to get you into my car,” she yelled. “Can you walk?”

      He nodded weakly, then rose on an elbow and nearly fell back again, but she caught him under the arm and braced her body against his. He stumbled to his knees, then stood on wobbly legs. Looping his arm around her shoulders, they staggered the few feet to the car and she yanked open the back seat door, then eased him onto the seat. They were both shivering from the wet and cold, and she reached for a wool blanket from behind the seat and tossed it over him.

      “Hang on.” She tucked the edges of the blanket under him. “I’ll get you to Doc right away.”

      “My plane,” he muttered faintly as he struggled to rise.

      “Later.” She placed a hand on his arm to ease him back down. “Let’s just worry about you right now.”

      He mumbled something unintelligible, then fell back onto the seat. His head rolled to one side and his eyes closed.

      Teeth chattering, Holly jumped in the driver’s seat. She prayed the man’s injuries didn’t require a hospital. The closest one was fifty miles away. In this storm, it would take an hour and a half to get there. When the engine roared to life, she gunned it, spraying dirt and mud as she headed for the road back to town.

      His first thought when he woke was that he’d kissed one too many shots of Quervo Gold at Manny’s Cantina the night before: the pounding in his skull, the searing pulse in his eyeballs, the lack of cooperation from his arms and legs when he struggled to sit. All indications that he’d had one hell of an evening at the bar where he spent most Friday nights. A fresh bolt of pain sliced his brain in half when he moved his head, and he gritted his teeth on a groan.

      He really needed to find something else to do with his Friday nights, Guy thought. Something that didn’t require a bottle of extra-strength aspirin and three pots of coffee when he woke up the next morning.

      “Hey—” Guy froze at the sound of the distinctly feminine whisper close to his ear “—you awake?”

      Uh-oh. He never mixed Friday night drinking with women. It was important to be clearheaded around the female gender at all times, Guy believed. Words could be misconstrued and twisted, and a night of pleasure could suddenly become extremely complicated. He was always careful when he spent the night with a woman. At least, he had always been careful.

      Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.

      It took a moment for his vision to clear and make out the woman’s features. Delicate brows arched high over eyes the color of wild honey, the irises rimmed with a circle of dark brown. Her lashes were thick and long, the same deep shade of fire-brown as her wavy, shoulder-length hair. His gaze settled on her mouth and in spite of the pounding in his head, he couldn’t help but admire the wide, soft lips only inches from his own. Her skin was smooth and pale, the narrow bridge of her straight nose sprinkled with freckles.

      She smelled like…disinfectant?

      Disinfectant? He frowned. Strange, but who was he to argue with a woman who liked to clean? If he’d really gotten lucky, maybe she liked to cook, too.

      He had no idea who she was or where she’d come from, but he certainly could have done worse. What the hell. He’d always believed in making the best of a situation, hadn’t he? Now all he had to do was make his arm obey his brain and reach for her…

      “Mr. Blackwolf,” she said softly, those beautiful eyes of hers narrowing with concern. “How are you feeling?”

      Mr. Blackwolf? Somehow he doubted that she’d be so formal if he’d…if they’d…

      He glanced around the room. Not his bedroom, he realized. Or anyone’s bedroom for that matter. He wasn’t even in a bed. He was lying on some kind of vinyl-cushioned table. In an office. A doctor’s office.

      That’s when he remembered.

      His fantasy shattered, he slammed his eyes shut and groaned.

      “I’ll get the doctor.”

      “No.” He managed the single word through desert-dry lips. “Wait.”

      He opened his eyes again, watched her hesitate.

      “My plane,” he said hoarsely.

      “Quincy towed it out of the lake.” She stepped closer, frowned at him. “Let’s just worry about you right now, shall we?”

      “Well, since I seem to be alive and in one piece, there’s not much to worry about, is there?” He rose on one elbow, winced at the movement, then swung his legs around and sat. When the room started to spin, he grabbed the edge of the table.

      “Spoken like a real man.” She shook her head at him and smiled. “Just be careful if you beat that chest of yours, Tarzan. With two bruised ribs, it might smart a little.”