She’d been thinking about Brody and suddenly she was seeing him.

And hearing him.

It wasn’t possible. She was in shock. And pain. Her shoulder hurt like the devil. That was it.

She flashed the light again, being careful to keep it away from his eyes. The man’s body was long and lanky, with narrow hips and a flat stomach. Nice wide shoulders. Strong chin.

Oh, no. She knew that chin.

“Brody?” she said, her voice squeaking.

Said chin jerked up and she caught the full impact of his hazel eyes. He looked her up and down and, even knowing that it was so dark that he couldn’t be seeing much, it had her wanting to run and hide. Thirteen years. And it felt as if it were yesterday.

“Evening, Elle,” he said, his voice sounding strained. “I guess this just proves that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.”

Trapped
Beverly Long

www.millsandboon.co.uk

As a child, BEVERLY LONG used to take a flashlight to bed so that she could hide under the covers and read. Once a teenager, more often than not, the books she chose were romance novels. Now she gets to keep the light on as long as she wants, and there’s always a romance novel on her nightstand. With both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in business and more than twenty years of experience as a human resources director, she now enjoys the opportunity to write her own stories. She considers her books to be a great success if they compel the reader to stay up way past their bedtime.

Beverly loves to hear from readers. Visit www.beverlylong.com, or like her at www.facebook.com/beverlylong.romance.

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CAST OF CHARACTERS

Elle Vollman—When her small plane crashes in the Amazon jungle, Elle must team up with Brody Donovan, the fiancé she ran away from thirteen years earlier. It would be too much to expect his forgiveness, but can she count on his help when it becomes apparent that a madman is determined that she’s never going to make it out of the jungle alive?

Dr. Brody Donovan—When the plane crashes, Brody is able to render medical aid. But he can’t stop his own blood pressure from rising when he realizes that he’s stranded in the Amazon jungle with Elle Vollman, the only woman he’s ever loved. Is he willing to risk his heart one more time?

Leo Arroul—He’s been Elle’s friend for years and she trusts him. Will he cross Jamas by helping Elle and Brody escape? Or is he already on Jamas’s payroll?

Captain Ramano—He does a masterful job landing the plane in the jungle, but does he know more about the engine trouble than he’s willing to share? Would he have deliberately crashed his own plane?

T. K. Jamas—He’s a predator of young girls, luring them into the world of human trafficking. He will stop at nothing to ensure that Elle never testifies against him. But is the love he has for his mother his one vulnerability?

Felipe—He’s T. K. Jamas’s right-hand man but he has his own reasons for capturing Elle and Brody. To what lengths will he go to ensure that they cooperate with his plans?

Maria—She’s a nurse and appears loyal to Jamas. Have Brody and Elle underestimated her ability to help or harm them?

For my father, who was sent to Colorado before he shipped out for WWII.

He learned to ski and fell in love!

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Cast of Characters

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Brody Donovan moved in his seat, trying to discreetly stretch his long legs. The pretty young woman across the aisle smiled at him.

“Long flight, huh?” she said.

Long, late and the last twenty minutes, bumpy as hell. He glanced at his watch, judging the amount of time he’d have between connecting flights. “Yes,” he said politely, and promptly closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to engage in any conversation. He wanted solitude. For the next ten days, he planned to enjoy the quiet and forget about the bang of roadside bombs, the sting of metal fragments and the despair of the damaged bodies that he’d been patching up for years. He intended to forget about war and to pretend that everybody could just get along.

His destination of choice involved a little backtracking, but he was okay with that. A direct flight out of Miami into Brasília, the capital of Brazil, then a smaller plane to take him an hour north to a place where the sand was white, the water blue and the rum cold.

He had a place to stay, courtesy of his friend Mack McCann. Payback, his friend had said for Brody’s assistance in saving Hope Minnow’s life. After hearing that Brody had a trip to South America in mind with no particular destination, Mack had been quick to call in a few favors and suddenly Brody had a beach house in Brazil waiting for him.

Peace. A brief interlude before the real world and its real-world responsibilities pressed down upon him. It wasn’t as if he was dreading the next step. San Diego, with its three hundred days a year of sunshine and mild temperatures, wasn’t something to bitch about. And he was joining one of the leading orthopedic practices in the country. It was just that...

Well, it was just that with both of his good friends finding love, it was hard not to feel a little alone. In just a few weeks, they would both be married. Ethan to Chandler, Mack’s younger sister. And Mack to Hope Minnow, who he’d been hired to protect and in the process, had lost his heart.

He should just be happy for both Ethan and Mack and stop the damn pity party. It wasn’t his style. Marriage simply wasn’t in the cards. He’d come close, but Elle... Well, she’d walked away without a backward glance.

Those had been dark days. But he’d managed to go on even though some days he’d barely had the strength to get out of bed.

He would forget the bad stuff about war, too. Given enough time.

And plenty of rum.

Brody woke up when he felt the wheels touch down. The big plane taxied to a gate and the passengers shuffled restlessly, waiting for the doors to open. Once they did, it was straight to Customs. The fine folks there were moving at the pace of a comatose snail, and he checked his watch repeatedly. If he missed his next flight, it would mean a night in the airport.

Once past the Customs agent, he moved fast, looking for signs that would lead him in the right direction. Fortunately, everything was in both Spanish and English. He started running, being careful to dodge around the elderly and the very young. When he got to his gate, he wasn’t surprised to see the waiting room was empty. There was a clerk behind the counter, fiddling with his computer. When the young, dark-skinned man saw him, he immediately glanced toward the big windows.

Brody followed his gaze. The small plane was still there, but they were starting to pull the temporary steps back. The propeller on the nose was turning.

The young man spoke into a microphone on his shirt collar. “One more,” he said. Then he looked at Brody. “You just made it.”

Brody held out his ticket and his passport. The young man hit a few keys. “Thank you, Señor Donovan. There are no assigned seats.”

He knew that. It was a small chartered flight. The plane only held a max of eight.

“I’ll hang on to the wing if I have to,” he said. Warm sand, blue water and cold rum were a hell of an inducement.

The young man smiled. “I do not think that will be necessary.” He opened a door and motioned for Brody to pass through. “Have a good trip,” he said.

Brody moved quickly through the short hallway and took the steps down to the tarmac fast. He pushed open a big door and was outside. The air felt sticky even though there was a good breeze. It was darker than it should have been, given that it was still an hour shy of sundown.

Everything was gray. Gray cement. Gray plane. Gray sky.

He was pretty confident that the rain was not far off. That didn’t worry him. In this part of the country, they had to be used to flying in it.

They didn’t call it the rain forest for nothing.

He ran up the metal steps and ducked to enter the plane. Seated in the cockpit was a pilot, a man close to sixty with dark skin and still-thick dark hair, who didn’t look up. The copilot, blond, blue-eyed and freckled, probably not yet twenty-five, reached back over his shoulder, grabbed Brody’s ticket and then pointed a thumb to a seat in the empty front row. With the same arm, he pulled shut a curtain, separating the cockpit from the rest of the cabin.

Brody swung into the spot, silently celebrating his good luck, not caring that the pilot seemed a little irritated with his late arrival. In another hour, he’d be at his final destination. Mack had gone so far as to hire somebody to stock the house with groceries. All Brody had to do was show up.

The plane taxied out to a runway and within minutes was gathering speed. The nose of the plane lifted and suddenly they were airborne. The small aircraft rocked back and forth, causing Brody, who had been on some pretty rough flights during his years in the air force, to brace one hand on the wall and the other on the plastic armrest between his seat and the empty one next to it.

“I told you it would be bad,” a woman said from somewhere behind him. “You never listen to me.”

There was a response. From a man. Too low for Brody to distinguish the words.

“This is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” she added, evidently not letting it go.

Brody wished he’d remembered earplugs. The plane continued to gain altitude. And the flight didn’t get any smoother. He understood. Planes like this flew at lower altitudes where the air was denser and rougher. They probably wouldn’t go much higher than three or four thousand feet.

He closed his eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, the plane started to really rock and roll. He opened his eyes just as a bolt of lightning split the darkening sky off to his left.

More lightning followed.

He leaned into the aisle and looked toward the front. The curtain separating the pilots from the rest of the plane had slid partially open, allowing him to see. The older pilot was gesturing to the young copilot, his hands moving fast. It appeared that nerves up front were stretched thin.

He hoped the woman in back didn’t have a good view. The man with her would never hear the end of it.

It probably wouldn’t do any good to tell her that lightning wasn’t going to bring down a plane. Hadn’t happened for more than forty years. The skin of a plane was hyper conductive, causing any electrical charges to skate along the exterior of the plane and then to discharge back into the atmosphere.

Nope. Probably wouldn’t make her any happier to know that.

He closed his eyes again, hoping they got out of the storm soon. But his eyes opened fast when he felt the plane start to lose altitude. What the hell? They were descending fast. Way too fast.

The young copilot stumbled out of the front. His face was pale and he was sweating. “Captain Ramano says to prepare for a crash landing.”

* * *

ELLE VOLLMAN WASN’T prone to regrets, but when she realized the plane was going down, a few thoughts flashed through her terrified mind. Mia, sweet Mia. How could the little girl endure another loss? Elle had wanted so desperately to give her the life she deserved.

She would miss Father Taquero, too. He’d first become her friend, then her employer and, most recently, her confidant. Then he’d taken on his most important role—Mia’s protector.

And then, of course, there was her biggest regret. Brody Donovan. The only man she’d ever loved. She wished she’d had the chance to tell him. Not that he’d probably have been interested in listening. He had to hate her for what she’d done.

She leaned forward in her seat, crossed her arms in front of her, bent her head and prepared to die. Her ears were roaring, her head was pounding and when the plane skimmed the first tree, she heard branches crack and bust and then the scream of metal tearing. The plane tossed from side to side, then rolled and rolled again.

Something hit her in the head, right above her left eye. She felt her seat belt give and she pitched sideways. Blindly, she reached out and grabbed air. Suddenly the plane came to a bone-jarring stop. She fell forward, catching her shoulder on the seat across from her. She felt it give and a searing pain stab at her.

She lifted her head. She felt sick and disoriented, and where the hell was the emergency lighting that every airline promised in the event of emergency? It wasn’t pitch-black but pretty dark. She couldn’t see much of anything.

A horrifying thought struck her. Maybe she was blind. Maybe the knock on her head had taken her sight. She was seconds away from full-blown panic when she remembered that she had a flashlight in her backpack. Keeping her injured arm anchored to her side, she used her other to claw around on the floor, feeling her way, until finally her outstretched fingers snagged a backpack strap. She pulled the heavy bag toward her and unzipped it. She reached in, past the extra clothes and the books that she carried with her.

There it was. She pulled out the light, turned it on and very quickly realized that sight wasn’t always a gift.

It was a gruesome scene. The inside of the plane had been torn apart and strips of metal and chunks of glass were everywhere. There was a gaping hole in the roof at the very rear of the plane, less than three feet behind where she’d been sitting.

The elderly woman across the aisle was leaning back in her seat, her eyes closed, and blood was running down her face. Her husband was still bent over, in the crash position, with a section from the roof of the plane, probably four feet long and at least a foot wide, pressing on his back.

They were holding hands. And the man’s thumb was stroking the woman’s palm and her index finger was gently tapping on his gnarled knuckle.

It was witnessing that small connection that gave Elle the strength to move forward. She was alive. Others were alive. All was not lost.

She fished inside her backpack again and pulled out her cell phone. She turned it on, knowing it was a long shot. Still, when there was no service, she experienced a sharp pang of disappointment. She dropped it back into her backpack.

It felt surreal. Like one of those dumb movies where the world has ended and there’s only a few mopes to carry on.

Get a grip, she lectured herself. The world hadn’t ended, and she wasn’t the only one left alive. She’d been in a plane crash. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And she needed to figure out what to do next.

The elderly couple was likely injured, but before she assisted them, she needed to determine how the rest of the passengers had fared. She flashed her light into the seats directly ahead of her. There had been a woman there. She’d had her face buried in a thick book when Elle boarded.

She was still there, her arms wrapped around her middle, silently rocking back and forth. Her eyes were wide-open. Blank.

“Are you all right?” Elle asked.

The woman slowly nodded. She did not make eye contact with Elle.

“What’s your name?” Elle asked.

“Pamela,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

“Okay, Pamela, I’m going to check on the pilots. I’ll be right back.” Elle flashed the light forward to the front of the plane. In the aisle was someone’s overnight bag, several magazines and other papers, a coat and more pieces of the plane’s interior wall.

Elle stepped over the debris. When she stopped to yank back the partially closed curtain that separated the cockpit from the cabin, Pamela almost rammed into her back.

Elle understood. The need for human contact, to know that she wasn’t alone, was almost overwhelming.

Elle could see that the pilot was still in his seat, slumped over the controls. The copilot had been thrown out of his seat and was awkwardly sprawled in the small space between the two seats. He was moving, thank God, picking himself up. Half-up, he suddenly crumpled on his right side. Arms flailing, he grabbed for his chair and sank down. “Oh, damn, that hurts,” he said, reaching for his lower leg.

His hand came away with blood and Elle thought she might be sick. She forced herself to step closer.

The man had pulled up his loose pants, and sticking out of his lower leg was the sharp, ugly end of a bone. There was blood. It wasn’t spurting out, like when Father Taquero had cut his hand at the church a month ago, but to her inexperienced eye, there did seem to be a rather lot of it.

“Don’t move,” she said instinctively.

“Not much chance of that,” he said, his jaw tight. He turned his pale face to the man at his side. “Captain Ramano.” His voice was a plea.

The older man groaned but didn’t push his body back or lift his head.

They were both alive but certainly hurt.

“Can you call for help?” Pamela asked, over her shoulder, evidently not caring about their injuries.

To his credit, the young copilot fiddled with several switches. “No power,” he said, his young voice showing the strain. “There’s no radio.” He pulled a cell phone from his back pocket and pressed a couple keys. “No signal.”

“That’s okay,” Elle said, attempting to stay calm.

“It’s not okay,” Pamela said, her voice too loud for the small space. “I smell fuel. We’re going to blow up. We have to get out. Now!”

Elle turned. She spoke with the authority that had always successfully quieted a room of preteen girls. “We will. Now, you need to stay calm and help me. We have to help the others.”

Pamela pressed her lips together. Then she whirled suddenly, her arm flailing to the side. “What about him?” she asked, pointing to the front row. “Can he help?”

Elle had forgotten about the man who had boarded late. She’d been writing in her journal and had looked up just as he swung his body into the seat. She’d caught a glimpse of broad shoulders in a pale green shirt.

She turned back to the young copilot and swallowed hard. “I am going to help you.” She wasn’t sure how, but she would do something. “But first, I need to see how badly the rest of the passengers are injured. Can you hang on?”

He nodded and closed his eyes.

Elle turned and stepped past Pamela, to the point where she could shine the light on the remaining passenger’s seat. Because the man had been in the front row, there hadn’t been any seat for him to use to brace himself. It appeared as if his belt had failed, as hers had, and he’d been pitched out of his seat onto the floor. He was under debris from the wall and ceiling. She could see an arm, a leg, a portion of his back.

She let the light rest there. He was breathing.

Alive. He moved his legs, then his arms.

“Be careful,” she said. “You’ve got stuff on your back.”

The man stilled.

“We’ll try to lift it off,” she said. She motioned for Pamela to help her. “I can only use one arm,” she said to Pamela. “But between the two of us, we should be able to do it.”

But she wasn’t going to be able to hang on to her flashlight, and they couldn’t work in the dark. She stepped toward the elderly woman. Now her eyes were open. Alert.

“My name is Elle,” she said.

“I’m Mrs. Hardy,” she said. “Beatrice Hardy. You need to help my husband.”

“Go on, Bea,” the elderly man said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sort of what the copilot had said. “I’ll help him,” Elle promised. “But first we’re going to help the man up front. I need you to hold the flashlight for us. Can you do that?”

The woman unbuckled her seat belt, got up and reached for the flashlight. They returned to the front of the plane. Working together, Elle and Pamela dug the man out, tossing the heavy pieces aside. It was wood or fiberglass or some other combination of materials, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that it was heavy and, while she kept her right arm tucked next to her side, it was impossible to keep the right side of her body from moving. Piercing pain traveling through her neck, shoulder and arm was the result. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

Finally, the man was free. She could hear him moving in his seat, but the light was not quite in the right spot. She retrieved the flashlight from Mrs. Hardy, who immediately returned to her husband’s side, and aimed it toward the man.

Evidently right in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said, protesting, holding his hand in front of his eyes.

She lowered the light fast.

And wondered if she’d been too quick to dismiss her own head injury. She’d been thinking about Brody and, suddenly, she was seeing him.

And hearing him.

It wasn’t possible. She was in shock. And pain. Her shoulder hurt like the devil. That was it.

She flashed the light again, being careful to keep it away from his eyes. The man’s body was long and lanky, with narrow hips and a flat stomach. Nice wide shoulders. Strong chin.

Oh, no. She knew that chin.

“Brody?” she said, her voice squeaking.

Said chin jerked up and she caught the full impact of his hazel eyes. He looked her up and down and even knowing that it was so dark that he couldn’t be seeing much, she wanted to run and hide. Thirteen years. And it felt as if it were yesterday.

“Evening, Elle,” he said, his voice sounding strained. “I guess this just proves that no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse.”

Chapter Two

The minute he said it, he was sorry. Over the years, Brody had thought of a thousand things that he might say to Elle if their paths ever happened to cross. That had not been one of them.

He felt worse when he heard her quick intake of breath. And he was just about to apologize when she stepped toward him. “This is Pamela. Mr. and Mrs. Hardy, mid-seventies, are in the back row. Total of five passengers. Two crew. Copilot has a bone sticking out of his lower leg and the pilot is barely conscious and bleeding from the head. No working radio.”

It was a nice, concise report but did nothing to explain why she was on this plane.

Damn, the side of his head hurt. When the plane was rolling, everything became a projectile and something had knocked into him pretty hard. He was pretty sure he’d lost consciousness briefly. When he was coming to, he’d heard Elle’s voice, like so many times in his dreams. Then, when she moved closer to lift the weight off his back, and he’d smelled orange blossoms, he’d been shocked. Never before had Elle’s sweet scent been part of his dreams.

Then she’d said his name and he about jumped out of his own skin.

How many times over the years had he heard her say Brody? Her tone rich, a little lower than the average woman’s. In friendship—that had come first. In passion—it had followed pretty quickly. In joy—he liked to think so. Maybe he’d have heard it in sorrow when she left, but he’d never know. All he’d gotten was a note.

And now didn’t exactly seem like the right time to ask for more information. Now was the time to do what he did best.

“Either of you injured?” he asked.

The woman next to Elle stepped forward. “We have to get out. You have to help us.”

“Are you injured?” Brody repeated.

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. We have to go now. The plane might explode.”

Elle had introduced her. What was her name? “Pamela, right?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to sit tight for just a minute.” He turned his attention to Elle. “I heard you say something about your arm.”

“It’s fine,” she said, dismissing the inquiry. “What about you?”

He rolled his shoulders back and considered his own injuries. He’d been lucky. He was going to have a hell of a lump on his head, but he could get past that. Something from above had hit his back and it was definitely going to be bruised and sore tomorrow, but if the angle of the hit had been a little sharper and a couple inches higher, it likely would have fractured his spine and he would never have walked again.

He stood up, careful not to hit his head on parts of the hanging interior. “I’m good to go. I’ll check the crew first,” he said.

She moved, shrinking far enough back in the small space to let him pass without touching her. He was grateful for that. His nerves felt pretty raw. When the copilot announced that they should prepare to crash, he’d prepared to die. Had said a quick prayer, said a mental goodbye to his parents and to both Ethan and Mack, the best friends a man could have had. And he’d thought about Elle, whom he’d loved and lost and never known why.

“I’ll need some light,” he said. She handed him the flashlight. He took it, careful not to brush up against her fingers.

He saw the young copilot sitting in his chair and moved toward him. “My name is Brody Donovan. I’m a doctor,” he said.

“Thank God, a doctor,” the young man said, his jaw clenched tight. “I hope you don’t deliver babies for a living.”

“Orthopedic surgeon,” Brody said.

“My lucky day,” the copilot said.

Brody wasn’t so sure of that. He’d seen enough to know that the young man had a compound fracture of the tibia.

“What’s your name?” Brody asked.

“Angus Bayfield.”

“Angus, I’m going to be able to help you, but for now, I need you to not move that leg.” When a bone broke and one end protruded through the skin, that meant that there was another sharp end still inside the leg, able to do all kinds of damage to veins and arteries. The blood loss wasn’t bad and he wanted to keep it that way.

“I’m going to quickly assess the others,” Brody said. He’d been in a combat zone for a long time. Triage was the name of the game. Assess everyone, identify the wounded, identify those most critically wounded that would benefit from treatment, and proceed from there. “Are there any other flashlights on board and what about a first-aid kit?”

The man pointed over his shoulder toward a big flashlight that was still miraculously hanging on the wall. Brody reached over and unsnapped the straps that kept it in place and flipped it on. It lit up the whole space, much better than the small flashlight that Elle had given him.

There were sections of the roof of the plane hanging down and exposed wires. The front windshield was shattered, making it difficult to see anything outside.

He heard movement behind him and turned. It was Elle. He handed her back her flashlight.

“I’m going to sit with the Hardys,” Elle said.

“Tell them I’ll be there in just a minute.”

“Sir,” Angus said, “there’s a first-aid kit under the captain’s seat.”

Brody fished around and pulled out the rectangular aluminum box. Holding the flashlight in one hand, he used his other to flip open the lid. He made a quick assessment. Basic stuff. Bandages. Gauze. Alcohol sponges. Ibuprofen. Antiseptic wipes. Antibiotic ointment. Adhesive tape. Scissors. Several pairs of gloves.

He turned toward the pilot. The man was still strapped in and he was regaining consciousness. He pushed himself back from the controls, almost to the point where he was sitting up. He looked stunned. There was blood running down the side of his face from a hell of a gash on the side of his head where something had obviously hit him.

“I’m a doctor,” Brody said, his voice gentle. “I can help you.”

He lifted the man’s wrist and took his pulse. Steady. Maybe a little slow but not alarmingly. He needed to get the bleeding stopped. “You’ve got a head injury. Are you in pain anywhere else?” he asked.

The man shook his head, very slowly. Brody didn’t believe him. He wasn’t confident the man even realized that he was a pilot and that his plane had just crashed in the Amazon jungle.

“What the hell happened?” Brody asked, turning towards the copilot.

“I’m not sure. There was some kind of malfunction with the electrical system. We lost power. Captain Ramano did a hell of a job keeping us out of a spin.”

Captain Ramano didn’t add anything to the conversation, confirming for Brody that he was definitely injured.

“The lightning?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve flown through storms before with Captain Ramano and we’ve never had any trouble.”

First time for everything. “Did you get a distress call through?”

“We did. Although I’m not sure how much good it will do. Even using satellite imaging, it’s hard to find a plane in the rain forest.”

He was probably right. Rain forests were known for their dense canopy of trees, and that would complicate an air search. But he couldn’t focus on that right now.

“I’ll be back,” Brody said.

Pamela was sitting in the first row, staring at the door, looking as if she intended to make a break for it. He did not relish the idea of chasing after someone in the dark jungle. “Pamela, I need your help,” he said.

She didn’t answer but she did stand up. He led her back to the cockpit, where he opened the first-aid kit again, removed a wrapped gauze pad and opened it.

He motioned for her to get as close to the pilot as she could. “I need you to press this hard against that cut. Can you do that, Pamela?”

“I’m not touching blood.”

He’d been just about to get to that. He pulled a pair of gloves out of the first-aid kit and handed them to Pamela. She hesitated and then put them on.

“Okay,” he said. “Put pressure on and don’t stop until I come back.”

He shone his flashlight ahead of him. At the back of the small plane, Elle was kneeling next to the elderly couple. Her hair was still dark, cut shorter than it had been in college when she’d worn it past her shoulders. He could see her slender neck, her collarbone.

Elle had always been slim and in good shape. She’d been a good athlete, too. The bar where she’d worked had fielded a volleyball team that played on Sunday afternoons, and he’d loved watching her. So graceful yet she could jam the ball down an opponent’s throat.

Now she had one arm out, patting the shoulder of Mrs. Hardy, who was talking a mile a minute. She had her other arm tucked into her side.

When she heard him moving down the aisle, she stepped aside.

The elderly woman stared at him. “My husband says it doesn’t hurt, but he can’t move. Please help him. You have to help him. We’re on our fiftieth anniversary trip. He’s—”

“I’m going to do everything I can,” Brody said. He looked at the woman’s cheek. She had a cut that was bleeding, but it didn’t look deep. “But here’s what I need from you. I want you to stand up and move to the other side of the plane. I’m going to need your spot.”

The woman shut up now that she had some direction. She got out of her seat and stood next to Elle. That’s when he realized that Elle also had blood on her face. And her eyes held the look of someone in pain.

He reached for her.

She jerked back.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“It’s nothing. Help the others first.”

He gave the cut on her forehead another look. Head wounds always bled a lot, and this one was no exception. But it appeared to have stopped bleeding. Still, there could be glass in it. He took a quick glance at her very brown eyes. Pupils were the same size.

“Him first,” she said.

“Okay. But I’m going to look at that arm, too.”

She nodded.

He stepped into the seat that Mrs. Hardy had vacated. It was awkward, but he got a good hold of the debris and shoved it away from her husband. He put a hand on the man’s back, assuring him. “Don’t move just yet,” Brody said. He ran his hand down the man’s spine. “Are you in pain?”

“No. Damn thing didn’t hit me hard, thank goodness.”

“Okay. Then try to sit back.” The man had been very lucky. He was at an age when it became difficult to recover from severe injuries. When the man was upright, Brody took his pulse and used the flashlight to check his pupils. Both okay.

Brody stepped back. It was quite frankly amazing that everyone on board had survived the crash. He’d seen enough aircraft-crash-scene victims over the years to know that there were common injuries caused by the pressure of rapid descent. Vertebrae compression. Or a ring fracture at the base of the skull caused by force traveling through the spinal column. Sometimes even internal injuries caused by the jerk of the lap belt. Lower-limb injuries were common as legs flailed around and struck things, so Angus’s fractured tibia didn’t surprise him.

He’d set the leg as best he could. Unfortunately, however, what might be a relatively minor injury in a fully equipped operating room became potentially life threatening when there were nonsterile conditions and delayed treatment. And the humidity in this part of the world was a virtual breeding ground of bacteria.

He turned, only to realize that Elle had returned to the cockpit. She was talking to Angus, obviously trying to comfort him.

It was difficult to tell how badly the captain was hurt. Angus definitely needed the most immediate treatment, and there wasn’t any room in the cockpit area to do that.

Elle saw him start back down the aisle and met him halfway. “What do you think?” she asked.

“On the plus side, I think Mr. and Mrs. Hardy are fine. They’re probably going to be stiff and sore as the night wears on. The biggest risk for Pamela is to keep her from running off into the rain forest. You, I’d like to see that shoulder.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

He shook his head. When she’d moved out of the way earlier so that he could get to Mr. Hardy, he’d seen enough to realize that it wasn’t her arm that was injured, but rather her shoulder. “Elle, please don’t be stubborn about this. It’s just wasting time. I’m going to need help with Angus and you’re the only logical person to do it. I need you to have two arms and hands that are working.”

It was the right approach. She clearly didn’t want to impede the others receiving medical care.

She put her flashlight down and moved so that she stood in front of him. They were just inches apart and he was reminded of how nicely her head used to fit under his chin. He took a deep breath, put his hand on her shoulder joint and probed gently. “You dislocated your shoulder,” he said.

“My seat belt broke,” she said. “I got tossed out and hit the back of another seat with my shoulder.”

“When you hit it, your humerus popped out of the shoulder socket. I can pop it back into place, but it’s going to hurt. Maybe a lot.”

She nodded. “Just get it over with.”

Chapter Three

He stretched out her arm, raised it above her head and, at exactly the right spot, used the heel of his hand to pop the joint back into place.

She let out a hiss of air. He’d seen big, tough guys yelp when they experienced the same thing. “Okay?” he asked.

“Lovely,” she managed.

He almost smiled. “I think it’s possible that the captain has some internal injuries that we’ll have to watch for. He probably hit the dash pretty hard. I’ll bandage his head after I set the copilot’s leg. Unfortunately for Angus, we don’t have any ice and it’s going to be difficult to keep the swelling down. His leg really needs stitches, but I didn’t see any needles or thread in the first-aid kit. Same issue with Captain Ramano. I’d like to stitch up his head wound.”

“I have a sewing kit,” Elle said. “It’s just a small one. I think it was a giveaway at a conference I attended a couple years ago and I toss it in my carry-on when I travel, just in case.”

It was better than nothing. The needles wouldn’t be nearly as sharp as what he was used to, but he could make them work. He could sterilize the needle and the thread with one of the antiseptic wipes in the first-aid kit. Not great but better than leaving a gaping wound. “Please get it,” he said.

She found her bag in the rubble and dug through it, pulling out a tiny plastic box with three needles and six small coils of thread in it. She handed it to him.

“What else do you need me to do?” she asked.

The Elle he remembered had turned a little green when he discussed the surgeries he was observing in medical school. “There’s going to be blood,” he said.

“I’ll be okay,” she said, swallowing hard.

He studied her. So familiar. Yet so different. It was hard to get his head around it, so he did what was simple. He pushed it to the back of his mind. There were wounded. That’s where his energies needed to be.

“Okay. Clear some space in the aisles. It’s the only place where there will be room to work. I really need something to...” He let his voice trail off. He saw something that would work. In Mr. Hardy’s seat pocket, there were several newspapers. Brody grabbed one and handed it to Elle. “Once the space is clear, lay this down on the floor.”

He was going to need something to sop up the blood, especially if he got unlucky and the sharp edges of bone cut a vein or an artery.

“If I only had a scalpel, I’d be in good shape,” he said, under his breath.

Mrs. Hardy pointed to one of the large suitcases that had spilled out of the cabinet. “I’ve got a knife in with my makeup. Never gets caught by airline security.”

Brody figured security had seen it but just decided they didn’t want to have the twenty-minute conversation with Mrs. Hardy about why she had to fly with a knife. He opened the suitcase. Mrs. Hardy’s makeup was in the zipper pocket. He was surprised when he saw the lovely pearl-handled instrument, tucked in beside lipsticks and powders. He’d expected something like a butter knife or at best a little pocketknife. No. Mrs. Hardy was packin’. Fully unfolded, the knife had at least a three-inch blade. The woman could have done some serious damage with it.

Brody looked from the knife to Mrs. Hardy and then back again. “And I had to give up my four ounces of shaving cream,” he said.

Mrs. Hardy smiled. “There are advantages to being an old woman.”

Brody tested the point against the palm of his hand. It was very sharp and would make a difference. “Thank you,” he said, and started for the cockpit.

When Brody got there, Angus had his head back and his eyes were closed. Captain Ramano also had his eyes shut. Pamela was wide-awake and looking pretty agitated.

She was still dutifully pressing down on the pilot’s head wound. “How is he?” Brody asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not the doctor,” she said crossly.

“You’re doing fine,” Brody assured her. “The bleeding looks as if it has stopped. You can go back to your seat.”

He’d assist Captain Ramano once he finished with Angus. He tapped the young man on the shoulder. Angus opened his eyes.

“So it wasn’t a dream?” Angus said.

Brody shook his head. “Wish it was, my friend. Once we get that leg set, you’ll feel better. I promise.”

He helped Angus up out of his seat. There was so little room that as careful as they were, at one point Angus brushed his injured leg against something and let out a yelp as if he were an injured dog.

The young man leaned heavily on Brody as they carefully maneuvered back to the main cabin area, where Brody helped him lie down. Angus wasn’t a big guy, but he filled the small center aisle, and right now he looked as if he was about ready to pass out. His pant leg was still rolled up and Brody got his first really good look at the leg. It was already starting to swell. Brody untied the man’s shoe and took it off.

It was going to get worse before it got better. This was frontier medicine and he didn’t even have any rotgut whiskey to give to Angus.

Elle took a spot on one side, Brody on the other, each of them shoehorned in the seating area. Both were on their knees.

She could see the pain on Angus’s face and she looked up at Brody. “He’s lucky you were on this plane,” she said.

He didn’t answer her.

When Brody didn’t answer, Elle realized that the young man she’d loved was gone. Instead, there was a stranger, who didn’t feel the need to be particularly polite to her.

The Brody Donovan she remembered was always polite. She’d met him during his first year of med school. Had known he was supersmart after an hour of conversation, not because he told her he was—he just was. She’d enjoyed it when he and his friends came into the little bar where she’d been cocktailing. And when he asked her out, it had been flattering.

She’d declined. Men like Brody Donovan were out of her league. But he hadn’t given up. Finally, she’d agreed, thinking it might be a nice holiday romance, and to her great surprise, and great joy, it had worked. They had clicked.

Loved the same movies, enjoyed the same food, laughed at the same things. She hadn’t been a bit surprised when she learned that he’d been an Eagle Scout in middle school and the senior class president in high school. When he casually mentioned that his father was a novelist, she’d rather belatedly put together that Larry Donovan, hottest thriller writer around, was Brody’s dad. Learning that his mother was a scientist who worked off and on for NASA didn’t even make her blink an eye.

Brody was special.

When he graduated from med school with honors and had been accepted into his first choice for a residency program, everybody had assumed that he was rightfully on his way.

Everybody loved Brody. And she had, too. Which had made leaving him the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.

Brody opened the sewing kit, threaded a needle with a piece of dark blue thread and set it down on the spread newspaper.

He opened a couple packages of antiseptic wipes, then handed her a pair of gloves and slipped a pair onto his own hands. “Angus, I’m going to move your bone back into position. To do that, I’m going to make a very small incision, but given that I don’t have anything to numb the pain, it’s going to hurt. I need you to keep the leg as still as you possibly can. Can you do that for me?”

Brody’s voice was calm, reassuring.

Angus nodded.

“Elle, wipe that blood away,” Brody said, his voice still calm.

She took the antiseptic wipe and as gently as possible, tried to clean around the wound so that Brody could see what he was doing. Her stomach was jumping.

“After that, I’ll be ready to stitch up the wound and bandage it. You’ll be on the road to recovery. How’s that sound, Angus?” Brody asked.

He got a nod from the man.

“Okay,” Brody said, his voice soft. He wiped the knife off, using two more antiseptic pads.

With confidence that she could only imagine, he made a small incision on Angus’s leg. The young copilot jerked and moaned but kept his leg fairly still.

Then, using his hands, Brody pressed on the protruding bone and eased it back inside the leg. He was concentrating fiercely and she knew that he was trying to align the two sections of snapped bone so that healing could begin.

“It’s going fine,” he said, smiling at Angus.

The young man nodded and closed his eyes.

She’d always assumed that Dr. Donovan would have a good bedside manner. So confident, so smart. So calm.

Once Brody seemed satisfied with the position of the bone, he looked up at her. “Wipe off the needle and the thread with the antiseptic wipes.”

She did as instructed and then handed him the needle.

“Thank you,” he said automatically. “I need you to gently press the edges of the wound together while I stitch it up.” That part seemed to go relatively well. The stitches closing up the incision were a nice straight line. When he got to the torn jagged edges of skin where the bone had poked through, they weren’t quite as pretty.

Still, Brody looked satisfied when he put the needle back down on the newspaper. The wound was closed and the bleeding had stopped. He opened the tube of antibacterial cream and spread a liberal amount over the whole area. Then it was a bandage and some tightly wrapped gauze.

Brody took off his gloves and dropped them on the newspaper, then patted Angus’s shoulder. “All done.”

“Thank you,” the young man whispered.

Elle didn’t need a medical degree to know that she’d just witnessed something amazing.

“Now what?” she asked.

“I need to find something to immobilize the leg, to give the bones a chance to knit together.”

His gaze settled on Mrs. Hardy’s dark suitcase. It was still open from when he’d gone looking for the knife. The suitcase was a roller, with a nice sturdy handle. He ran a hand down the back of the suitcase before he looked up at Mrs. Hardy, who had been watching the entire process with Angus. “I might be able to use this,” he said.

“Take what you need out of it,” Mrs. Hardy said.

“It’s not quite that easy,” he said. “I hate to do this, but I’m going to need to tear the bag apart. I can use the two rods that connect to the handle.”

Mrs. Hardy shrugged as if to say that she and her husband had survived a plane crash and she didn’t intend to sweat the small stuff.

Brody used Mrs. Hardy’s knife to cut through the fabric, exposing the rods. Elle wasn’t an expert, but they looked perfect. At least twenty inches long with a plate that attached them at the bottom. There were screws that connected the plate to the wheel assembly and another set of screws that fixed the rods to the handle.

Elle leaned toward the young pilot. “Angus,” she said softly, “do you have any tools on board, like a screwdriver?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Brody was already using the end of the knife to turn the screws. It was slow going, but he was making progress. Finally, the rods were loose. He looked up. “I need some strips of cloth.”

“I’ve got T-shirts in my bag, young man,” Mr. Hardy said. He pointed to a small bag that matched Mrs. Hardy’s. It had somehow ended up near the front of the plane.

Brody opened the suitcase and pulled out several white T-shirts. He cut one into strips and used two more to wrap around the metal rods.

Then he put the padded rods in place, one of each side of Angus’s leg. The metal plate at the end of the rods fit underneath Angus’s foot.

Then Brody efficiently used the strips of T-shirt to tie everything tight. When he finally sat back to inspect his work, Elle could tell that he was pleased. He patted Angus’s shoulder. “We’re going to help you get up. You can take a seat in that last row so that you can keep your leg extended straight.”

It was awkward, but between the two of them, they managed to get Angus up from the floor and onto a seat. There were beads of sweat running down the young man’s face by the time they were finished.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Brody said, smiling.

“I’m worried about Captain Ramano,” Angus said. “I don’t think he’s doing so good.”

“Don’t worry,” Brody assured him. “I’m going to check him next. First I’m going to elevate your leg a little. Just stay still.” He grabbed several magazines that were lying around, stacked them and slid them under Angus’s foot. Then he pulled a small foil-wrapped package of ibuprofen out of the first-aid kit. “Take a couple of these. It will help with the discomfort.”

Elle reached for her backpack and pulled out a bottle of water that she’d bought at the airport after she got through security. She handed it to Angus.

Angus braced himself up on one elbow and took a big drink.

“Better save some of that for later,” Brody cautioned.

The passengers all looked at each other. They heard the unspoken warning. We may be here awhile and we don’t want to run out of water.

Pamela stepped forward. “Someone needs to be in charge of supplies. I’ll do it.”

Everyone was looking at Brody. He’d become the leader of the group, whether he wanted the post or not. “That’s a good idea, Pamela,” he said. “I suggest everybody throw in what you’ve got in your bags and we’ll take an inventory. Just in case,” he added.

Rather optimistically, Elle thought. She’d been living in this part of the world for several years. Planes didn’t frequently crash in the jungle, but when they did, sometimes it took weeks to find the wreckage.

“I’m going to stitch up Captain Ramano’s head wound,” Brody said.

Elle swallowed hard. She’d gotten a look at that cut. “Do you need help?” she forced herself to ask.

Brody shook his head. “I’ll manage,” he said. “Do you think you could clean up Mrs. Hardy’s cut on her face?”

She was getting the better end of the deal. “Of course.”

“If there’s any glass, leave it and I’ll remove it,” he said.

Elle didn’t see any glass or anything else in Mrs. Hardy’s cut. She cleaned it with an antiseptic wipe, smeared antibiotic cream on it and covered it with a small bandage. She could handle this kind of first aid. There was always some kid at the school getting a scraped knee or a skinned elbow.

She was almost done when Mrs. Hardy turned her head to look at her. “Do you and Dr. Donovan know each other?”

“Uh...why do you ask?”

“Well, I don’t mean to be a meddling old lady, but I heard what he said. He didn’t sound very happy to see you. And you looked very surprised to see him.”

“We knew each other a long time ago. It’s been thirteen years since we saw each other.”

“Did you work together?”

“No. We were...” Friends. Lovers. For a minute, she considered lying about it. But she’d stopped running from the truth some time ago. “We were engaged,” she said. “And I broke off the engagement.”

“Gracious.”

Indeed. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep that information to yourself,” Elle said. “We’ve got our hands full here and I don’t want it to be a distraction.”

Mrs. Hardy nodded. “It’s not easy to be young,” she said.

She had been young and probably immature. But she’d made the right decision. For Brody.

Who was returning from the cockpit. “How’s Captain Ramano?” she asked.

“Conscious. I got his head wound cleaned up and stitched. I suspect he has a concussion and I’m still worried that there may be some internal injuries.”

She looked around. The others were huddled around Angus, quietly conversing. “If you’re right and he has internal injuries, he might not survive the night,” she said.

“I’ll watch him,” Brody said. “These just aren’t great conditions to have to cut someone open and try to stop internal bleeding.”

“You would do that?” she asked.

“I’ll do what I have to do,” Brody said simply. “Right now I think we need to concentrate on that,” he said, pointing to a hole in the roof of the plane. It was almost as if the hard impact had ripped apart a seam.

But it hadn’t ripped neatly—the area around the hole was a jagged mess of metal. “We need to get that covered, but first, I’d like to use the hole to take a look around outside. I need something to stand on.”

“There are some boxes in the closet at the front, the one where the flight crew hangs their jackets,” Elle said.

“An empty box won’t work,” he said.

“They’re not empty,” Elle said.

He walked toward the closet, kicking additional debris out of his way as he went. He opened the closet door and, sure enough, there were two boxes. He picked one up. It was heavy. “What the heck is in here? Cement?”

“Books,” Elle said.

He carried a box and set it down under the hole. The floor was wet and more water was dripping in. He got the second box. “I hope you don’t mind if they get wet,” he muttered.

“Under the circumstances, I think I can get past it,” she said, her tone dry.

“People can get past a lot,” he said to no one in particular. He stood on the boxes and carefully stuck his head outside. Rain pelted his face and shoulders. It was very dark and the moist smell of wet foliage was almost overwhelming. He raised his arm and shone his flashlight out into the distance.

Trees. And more trees. He pivoted, carefully moving his feet so as to not lose his balance on the stacked boxes. Every direction was the same. When he brought the light in closer, he could see where the plane had knocked through some trees, breaking off branches before it had come to rest on the floor of the jungle. The trees, big and leafy, towered over the plane, probably some seventy to eighty feet in the air.

Angus had been right. It was going to be very difficult for rescuers to find the plane.

* * *

ELLE REALIZED SHE’D been holding her breath while Brody was surveying the outside. When he pulled his torso and head back inside, she gulped in a big lungful of air.

“Well?” she asked.

For a minute, she thought he was going to tell her to look for herself. Then he let out a soft sigh, as if in acceptance that he was going to have to talk to her, regardless of how distasteful it might be.

“I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger,” he said. “The plane appears to be on a flat surface. It’s hard to see much, but I’m fairly confident of that. I think we need to sit tight tonight. I suspect they’ll suspend any search until daylight.”

She looked at her watch. Daylight was ten hours away. “We should probably cover this hole,” she said. “No need to advertise that there’s fresh meat in the jungle,” she said, attempting to insert a hint of levity into her tone.

He didn’t smile. “I agree. If nothing else, we need to keep the mosquitoes out as best we can.”

He was right. She’d had a malaria vaccine, but there wasn’t one for dengue fever or several of the other diseases that mosquitoes carried. “There are some blankets in the front cabinet.”

“I saw that, but let’s see if we can find something else. We should reserve the blankets for warmth.”

She started looking around. The plane was small with few hidden cracks or crannies. Behind the last row of seats was a built-in cupboard for passenger luggage with a double door. Both doors had come open during the crash and the few pieces of luggage inside had spilled out. On the shelf above the open space was...something. Whatever it was, it was covered in dust. Rather gingerly, she reached for a corner and pulled it toward her. With it halfway out, she realized what it was. She held it up for Brody and the others to see. “Look. A parachute.”

“I think it’s a little too late for that, dear,” Mrs. Hardy said, humor in her tone.

Elle smiled at the woman. She didn’t miss the odd look in Brody’s eye. He was probably thinking that she was pretty good at bailing out.

“This makes no sense,” Elle said. “This is not the kind of plane you’d jump from.”

Brody nodded. “You’re right. It looks as if it got stuffed in here and somebody forgot about it. Regardless, it’s a good find and quite frankly, we’re due some luck.”

Elle pulled the parachute out, spreading the nylon canopy as best she could in the small space. “I think this is a job for Mrs. Hardy’s knife.”

It took Elle several minutes to slice a section of the fabric that would cover the hole. When she was done, she looked up. That had been the easy part. Now she was going to have to go outside, climb on top of the plane and place it over the hole. She was worried about the jagged pieces of metal piercing the nylon, but she couldn’t do much about that right now. Also, she’d have to find something heavy enough to lay over it to keep it in place. Maybe a few branches from some trees or even some heavy palm leaves. She could use Mrs. Hardy’s knife to cut them off. “I’ll go outside and put it over the hole.”

“You’re not going outside and climbing on top of this plane,” Brody said, his tone adamant, as if it were the dumbest thing he’d heard today.

“Getting the hole covered is important,” she reminded him.

“Cover it from the inside.”

“I need tape and nails for that,” she said. “I haven’t come across any of that.”

“There’s some bandage tape in the first-aid kit. That should be strong enough to hold it.”

“Shouldn’t we save that, just in case?”

“It was a new roll,” he said. “If you use some, we should still be okay.” He walked toward her, first-aid kit in hand.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked.

“Fine. Good as new,” she said.

“Okay. I want to clean up your head wound.”

She let out a huff of air. “Fine.”

He opened the first-aid kit and motioned for her to have a seat. Holding a flashlight in one hand and alcohol sponges in the other, he quickly cleaned and disinfected the wound. She tried to hold very still.

Brody Donovan had always had nice hands. Gentle. Yet strong.

There were no rings on any fingers. Was it even possible that he’d never married? Married and divorced? She doubted that. Once Brody made a promise, he’d keep it.

Unlike her.

“The cut is about an inch long but not too deep. I’m going to cover it. If you can keep it from getting infected, it will heal and probably won’t even leave a scar.”

She wasn’t worried about a scar. She knew that small imperfections like that hardly mattered. “It will give me character,” she said, trying to make light of the situation.

“You have a tan,” Brody said, surprise in his voice.

She felt her whole body heat up. He used to tease her that her fair skin would never tan. On the other hand, she’d called him Goldenboy. He’d always been perpetually tanned from all his outdoor activities. That, combined with his light brown hair, which was naturally streaked with some lighter blond, and he looked as if he’d stepped out of a California tourism advertisement.

And while his hair was shorter than it had been in med school, he still looked very much the same. What had he been doing for the past thirteen years? And what had led him to be on a small charter plane in Brazil?

She had a thousand questions and no right to ask any of them.

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