Part of her breathed a sigh of relief that they knew what they were doing and appeared more than capable of handling it.
“Hep, rig up the climbing gear to get into that other treetop,” Sullivan ordered one of the men.
“On it, Captain,” he drawled out in a voice thickened with Southern roots.
When he started to reach for some equipment, Jenna automatically threw out an arm to stop him. He paused and stared down at her. “What is it?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t we find the person holding the remote to detonate the bomb? If you go into the tree, you could be killed.”
He offered her a grin that lit up his eyes and caused small creases to form around each corner—the first smile she’d seen from any of them, and she immediately warmed to him.
“Don’t worry—we know what we’re doing.”
She stepped back out of their way. Within moments, she realized the man with the Southern drawl called Hepburn wasn’t the voice that calmed her fears and put all of her trust into these men.
It was Lipton’s.
Chapter Two
The cabin where the guys had set Lipton up with enough equipment to run a smaller division of Homeland Security was cold as hell.
Built in a copse of pines, the cabin faced the wind from the east, and here in the mountains—even in June—it was far from summer temperatures.
Again, he wondered what made him choose to hike in the park instead of head for the sun, sand and surf of California. He could be lying on the beach right now with a beautiful bikini-clad woman at his side and a margarita in hand.
He could be doing more than directing his teammates to disarm a bomb. Damn, this entire situation grated on his nerves.
Hours had passed since he talked the team through each and every step. Why someone didn’t come get him and take him to the site irritated him more than anything. It was as if they knew if he got within a half mile of anything with four wheels and a battery, he’d be driving to meet them, which was why they’d stranded him here.
In this damn cold cabin.
Earlier Lipton had a fire going in the fireplace, but when he threw a glance at the grate, he saw only cold ashes.
Sighing, he pushed his chair back. His cast struck the leg of the desk, causing a vibration up through his leg bone. He ground his teeth. Damn this thing. Being stuck in a cast was bad enough, but he’d begun to feel like one of those dogs in videos that forgot how to walk when their owners put socks on them.
He stood and forgot to grab his crutches. Hopping a bit on his good foot, he floundered for the set and pulled them under his arms. The hardwood floors at least provided enough grip for the rubber bottoms and nobody would find him flat on his back after wiping out a second time.
That brought his brain around to the set of green eyes again. Useless to think about the woman who’d rescued him. He had no need of women besides occasionally getting funky in a hotel room with one, and he’d never touch a woman like the park ranger.
She wore one braid twined at the bottom with gold thread, for hell’s sake. He never did have time for hippie granola-crunchin’ types, even if they had pretty green eyes.
Eyes that were two pools into her soul.
“Shit.” He crouched before the fireplace and stacked some logs, added kindling, and some smart person had left behind old newspaper to make for easier lighting. After crumpling a sheet and stuffing it in between logs, he lit a match. He started to sit back on his heels to watch the smoke curls and the first flicker of flames, but realized he didn’t have full range of motion with his right leg.
He caught himself short of falling on his ass again.
“Son of a bitch.” He got up and stumped around the cabin, looking out windows. He threw open the door and peered at the vast forest.
Slamming the door shut didn’t give him the relief from his frustrations he needed.
After he inwardly raged another few minutes, he sank to the desk and sat before the computer once more. He needed to get a grip. He might be out of commission for a few weeks, but things could have ended much worse. That treetop was meant to kill a person, and he’d been the next victim.
Now he—and the Xtreme Ops team—had to find out who was pulling the trigger.
As he walked the team through disarming the unit, he’d screen recorded the footage they transmitted to him. And he learned the bomb was a damn primitive setup—not at all high tech enough to be a professional skilled in bomb-making.
The big question weighing on them all was who climbed the trees to place the bombs and why? Serial killers typically didn’t profile hikers—they found much easier prey.
A knock stopped his flow of thoughts. “Come in!” he called, turning in his chair and half rising.
When a dark head of curls popped around the door, he dropped to his seat again. The fairy nymph.
“Am I interrupting anything?” she asked, hesitating to step inside.
Just his solo temper tantrum.
“No. Come in and close the door.”
She did, her gaze shooting from him to the fireplace and back again. Attention centered on his face, she offered a smile. “We didn’t get much time for a proper introduction.” She stepped forward, hand out. “I’m Jenna Underwood.”
He stared at her hand. Small, soft but capable, he knew from watching her fashion a crutch from a branch. As he took her hand in his and closed his fingers around it, he felt a small pang of connection.
Quickly, he withdrew his hand. He didn’t connect with women unless it was to drill his dick into them for one night only. Afterward, he climbed off them and walked away. Hell, if asked to name all the women he’d slept with, he couldn’t bring their names to mind, and not because there were too many to count—because he didn’t give enough of a damn to remember.
Jenna laced her fingers in front of her, bringing his attention to her attire. The same green thermal underneath a stiff tan button-up shirt, green pants and a tie that made him want to rip the ugly thing off her and throw it in the fire.
By his guess, she had a few curves beneath that ugly uniform. But it was really her face that captured his notice.
A round face with a complexion he guessed would turn pink in the heat of passion. Her lips were full but small, and red on the bottom lip as if she’d chewed it a lot before stepping into the cabin. Or eaten a lollipop. Fuck—don’t think of that.
He passed over her pert nose with a spattering of freckles he recalled from the close-up of her hovering over him. And then those eyes, flecked with gold. He stared into them for a moment, wondering if she knew they matched the green of her uniform.
She seemed to be sizing him up too. A long heartbeat passed where he wished he knew what the hell was going on in her mind.
She shifted her feet, breaking the moment.
“I stopped by to see how you are.” Her voice had a calming lilt that reminded him of a pastor he’d once heard when a foster family dragged him to church. While he didn’t get much from the lessons he was told there, he did come away with a feeling of peace.
“I’m…as well as can be expected when I’m stuck here instead of out there with my team.” His gaze shot behind her to the door and back again.
“Captain Sullivan said you were a little…disgruntled.” She bit off a smile but didn’t quite succeed.