LITMIR.BIZ

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a man’s heart hostage if she chose to.

      Not that she looked cold-hearted. Far from it. Nor did she look as if she needed his help. Quite the opposite, in fact.

      Her heart-shaped faced was a picture of crystalized concentration. Her cheeks were pinked up with exertion. Her richly colored auburn hair looked as though it was made out of a millions strands of coiled silk. Wild and untameable. When he met her bright blue eyes, sparking with life, he thought the exact same thing. Here was a woman who did things her way.

      “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to use those long legs of yours to walk over here and help me?”

      He absorbed the Scottish accent and connected the dots. Doug MacLeay’s daughter. She had to be. Where the Professor had a Let’s all calm down and talk about this approach, his daughter looked as though she were ready to spit fire.

      Her eyes lasered across the collection of men who had now finally dropped their weapons. “No one here seems to have a polite bone in their body. I hope you’re planning on breaking the mold. A medical kit and a fourteen or sixteen-gauge needle wouldn’t go awry either.”

      He smiled. He liked being right. She was feisty. Just as quickly he sobered. Axl Cruz didn’t give a flying monkey if the most beautiful woman on the island was tending to his son. She’d seen too much. Knew too much. Cruzito’s wouldn’t be the only life he’d have to save today. Just by being here this woman had started a clock to her inevitable assassination.

      The tumble of curls masked her eyes as she tipped her head toward the shoreline. “Tell me that boat of yours goes to the hospital.”

      “No.” He shook his head. “But I’m here to help. Diego Vasquez,” he said, by way of introduction.

      She rolled her eyes. “Well, get on with it, then. This flimsy jumper of mine’s hardly going to save the lad’s life, is it?”

      The corners of his mouth twitched. Not the usual response he got. Usually it was more fawning. Sycophantic, even. More the swinging of a hip and the heave of a bosom if it was one of the island’s few socialites. A batting of the eyes if it was that petite curvy nurse in Pediatrics.

      He kind of liked being huffed at. But he liked saving lives more.

      He rattled through a swift set of instructions in Spanish that set the men running.

      In under a minute a stretcher was pulled out of the back of the boat, along with a wound-packing kit, a catheter and a chest tube.

      He switched to English. “You’re a doctor?”

      She nodded. “Dr. MacLeay. Doug MacLeay’s daughter. Isla.”

      Isla. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

      They both cringed at the cheesy line, but he wasn’t about to take it back. In just a handful of seconds she’d lit fires inside his gut he’d long thought dormant. Dead, even. Dead for a very precise reason. Relationships meant caring. And caring meant loss.

      He didn’t do loss. Not anymore.

      “I hope you’ve got a wound pack in there. I can’t tell if the bullet’s hit anything. Increased blood pressure and respiratory rate indicate the lung’s taken a nick, or perhaps a bit of bone from the rib cage is lodged in there.” She gave her shoulders a little shrug up to her ears.

      He knew the drill. All too well, unfortunately.

      He pulled out a handful of gauze packs. His hands covered hers as they swiftly packed the wound together.

      He ignored the fireworks shooting up his arms and arrowing south as he spoke. “I’ve got a couple of IV bags preloaded with antibiotics in my run-bag. Looks like he’ll need them. Now.”

      She dropped her lids to half-mast over those bright blue eyes of hers, sucked in a sharp breath and pulled her hands away from his, dousing them in the approaching surf. Neither of them watched the blood travel back into the sea as the wave withdrew into the ocean.

      “First...”

      She pulled an IV bag from his medical tote, squinted at the writing on it, nodded, then expertly inserted a needle into Cruzito’s arm. She connected it to the removable plug, then filled the drip chamber as she held the IV bag pinched between her shoulder and chin while he continued to compress the wound. Once she’d purged the air from the line she opened the catheter port so the solution could begin to flow.

      “I hope you have a supply of O-positive blood in that bag somewhere. And second—I’m not going anywhere without my father.”

      “It’s probably best if you leave him out of it.”

      “My only living relative?” Outrage radiated from her every pore. “I don’t bloody think so!”

      Diego lowered his voice. “If he’s hiding, just leave him there. It’s safest.”

      Giving the family land to the sanctuary had seemed like such a good idea. Now it seemed like his worst.

       Life is complicated. Peace takes time. Peace takes perseverance.

      “Too late for that,” Isla bit back. “Two of your mates strong-armed him out of here. I want to see him before I do anything else.” She held up the IV bag. “An air embolism is a dangerous thing for a man already teetering between life and death.”

      Something told him there wasn’t a chance on earth she would really compromise Cruzito’s welfare. If she really would take a life for a life she wouldn’t have been compressing his wound with five gun barrels pointing at her head. Only a doctor who took her vow of care seriously would be kneeling in the blood-stained surf, prepared to give life to a man who was responsible for her father being dragged away by armed gang members.

      Diego knew he wielded enough power with the thugs that all he had to do was say the word and they would pull her away. Disappear her. But he couldn’t load Cruzito into his boat and get on with things without his conscience bashing him in the head every five seconds. She was fighting for her family. And that spoke to him louder than anything else could.

      He turned to El Loco. “Donde esta el Profesor?”

      El Loco, the largest of the group replied. They had him “in custody.” El Jefe had rung when he’d heard about Cruzito and wanted “a word”.

      Diego’s eyebrows shot up. A “word” could easily be accompanied by a bullet, followed by a mysterious disappearance.

      This was his fault. He should be the one having a word. He hadn’t told anyone he was the one who had donated the land. Most people thought it was government property and, as such, would remain unfunded. Noche Blanca hadn’t realized until he’d got here that Doug MacLeay had come with more than his heart on his sleeve. He’d come with money. And the means to change the power structure on the island.

      “Hello? Excuse me?” Isla MacLeay was waving a hand in front of his face. “I don’t suppose you have any oxygen in that magic bag of yours? His respiratory distress is increasing.”

      Diego produced a small tank and deftly slipped the mask over Cruzito’s mouth and nose.

      “And can I get that fourteen-gauge? I don’t think the chest tube can wait.”

      “I don’t have any one-way valves on me. Just the catheter hub.” He opened his case, his hand automatically going to it.

      “Do you have a pair of gloves?”

      “Yes,” he said, passing them to her.

      He watched as she deftly slipped the needle into the second intercostal space, then asked for a scalpel, surprising him when she cut the finger off one of the gloves, inserted it on top of the catheter hub and heaved a sigh of relief when it began to flutter as the air released and Cruzito’s gasping eased.

      Impressive. The woman knew how to improvise. It was one of his specialties and he hadn’t

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