Page 1 of A Spark of Luck (The Defenders #2)

Lieutenant Travis Hunter, Hunt to his friends, lay on the exam table in the emergency room of Craig Joint Theater Hospital at Bagram Airfield.

He cursed himself silently for not being fast enough in the latest confrontation with the Taliban to avoid the knife that sliced through his ass and down his leg.

He was good at what he did. That wasn’t conceit or ego.

Years of training as a U.S. Navy SEAL had ensured he stayed good.

At least the perpetrator was dead, but his luck blew up in his face.

He’d drawn the gorgeous trauma surgeon to work her magic on him.

If rumors were true, her top-notch status as a combat trauma surgeon benefited his current injury.

Chief Warrant Officer Two Warren “Doogie” Dugan, his best friend, had already had an injury this month and had been treated by the Doc.

Doog’s hadn’t been his ass, though. Hunt’s lower half was currently naked, and he stood no chance controlling an iron erection caused by an excessive amount of adrenaline and the feel of her hands on his skin.

She had some kind of magnifying headset and studied every inch of the foot-long gash from his gluteus maximus into his left hamstring. Gentle fingers probed the wound. Even though the area was deadened, his imagination filled in the blanks. Soft hands shifting to touch the right place…

He forced air out his nose in a silent quest to keep his situation contained.

He looked over his shoulder at Doogie and Petty Officer First Class John Evans, better known as “Carter,” the team medic. They both were smirking at him, his problem no secret to them. Bastards. Their knowing scraped against his unbreakable need for privacy formed since childhood.

“Eureka,” Dr. Michaels whispered, finally rising from blessing his skin with her warm breath.

“Well, Lieutenant, you have a piece of the knife at the top of the wound. We’ll need to take that out before stitching you.

Muscle injuries can cause functional impairment, so we want to manage this wound with care. ”

“You can call him LT or Hunt, Doc.” Doogie’s tone had lightened from the original dark sternness when he thought Hunt was gonna die.

“Hey, not dead here,” Hunt answered, ready to bloody punch the teasing tone right out of his friend. “How deep, Doc?” He struggled to achieve calm and neutral to mirror the doctor’s professional smile. He struggled mightily against the irritation riding him on a level he couldn’t figure.

“You’re lucky this isn’t as deep as I expected.

We’re not looking at needing to use invasive surgery or any type of patch to tie the muscles along this rip together.

I’m going to coax the tip out instead. I don’t want to mess with the tendon.

It’s what keeps your entire hip and leg moving.

I can slip in a couple stitches to shore it up, and the rest is a simple stitching process.

Your recovery time will be less then. Give me a sec, and we’ll get x-rays to make sure there isn’t any more metal inside of you. ”

Coax it out? She could coax something out, but it wasn’t the tip of a knife. His way was more personal, messier, and involved a hard piece of his anatomy. He squirmed surreptitiously, pulling air quietly through his nose for control.

She touched his hip with a small pat then jerked unobtrusively.

Yeah sweetheart, I felt that, too.

Mother fucker, he’d been in Afghanistan too long and on a celibate track even longer. Women. He succumbed periodically to the lure of sex but hated the empty feeling left behind, and he didn’t have the profession, social skills, or the trust level to develop a relationship that lasted.

She left the room, rubbing her hand against the leg of her surgical scrubs. He stifled a grin and focused on not having her scent right there.

“You need to settle down, Big Hunt.” Doog snickered quietly, careful to cover his mouth.

“You need to shut up, or I’ll beat you to death,” Hunt growled the words, desperate to turn over and take the pressure off his groin. “Why don’t you two beat it? I’m fine.”

“We can’t leave you in your hour of need,” Carter insisted. Sometimes their talented medic was too Nebraska na?ve and too patient-dedicated, considering he blew up things and killed people for a living.

“I need stitches, Carter. Not major surgery. That will probably take a couple of hours. I don’t need you both leaning over me. Go back to headquarters.”

“You want her all to yourself.” Doog was one of his oldest friends, but he was about to have his bald black head used as a billiard ball.

“Out, you motherfuckers. Now,” he ordered in his tough, no-nonsense command tone. Let him be in sexual overload in peace.

“You play nice with Doc.” Doog grinned and stepped over to pat his hip, showing Hunt that he’d seen the electricity pass between them. The man never missed anything.

“Out.”

“You need us, sir, you call.” Carter gave him one last wishful look, like he wanted to stitch him up, which he could have except for the tendon thing.

Dammit. He didn’t need a long recovery. They’d send him stateside, and there wasn’t anything there for him.

He’d left Montana at eighteen, leaving behind abusive parents with a penchant for anti-government activities.

With his team here in Afghanistan, there would be nothing to do in his empty apartment in San Diego.

Minutes passed; the equipment in the room hummed, the noise in the other areas high but contained. Finally, his body settled down, but his mind refused to be wrangled.

The orderly shoved a mid-size machine into the room, making him jump. Him. The elite, cool professional who never lost his focus. He scowled, mood shifting deeper into grumpy territory.

“Gonna take a picture of your backside and hip, sir.”

“Right.” He stayed silent while the man did his job and left again.

Quiet descended for a few minutes. He tuned out and shifted his thoughts to what had happened up in the hillside. He went over every detail, analyzing what they could have done differently. All the teams had been running into more and more violent resistance, keeping all of them on their toes.

He thought he had his thoughts mastered. A simple redirection with appropriate breathing practice could center him. When he heard her footsteps, he was in a calm place with a semblance of control.

The curtain pulled back. Dr. Apple Blossom’s scent obliterated his tranquility and hit him in the solar plexus. She slid onto her rolling chair, pushed toward him with a tablet, and pointed at his X-rays. He bent to look. The light spot in a sea of dark outlined the metal.

She started talking immediately. “Doesn’t look too bad.

It is only a tip. Let me get set up, and I’ll get this out.

I’m more worried about where that knife has been and how much we’re going to have to do to fight infection.

We’re going to give you maximum doses of antibiotics and hope it’s enough. Are you allergic to anything?”

“No.”

Not making eye contact with him, she rose, set the device on the counter, and turned to the sink. She flicked on the water in a move that said she’d done it hundreds of times and proceeded to take several long minutes rewashing her hands .

To his disgust, his gaze wouldn’t shift off her ass.

Rounded, firm, and graspable. His fingers itched to lift her, to test the fit of her legs around his waist. Some men would have made a move, but not him.

He had strong boundaries against harassment and a code for respecting women.

They were sweeter, tougher, and plainly smarter in most situations, and he lived by a vow that he wouldn’t be one of those men.

Pressing his lips together, he forced his mind to math problems. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why his body was running amok.

Her strawberry blonde hair was in a high ponytail with fine tendrils loose around her neck.

The deep green scrubs should have made her appear to be a shapeless sack, but they caressed curves that were not disguisable.

Her breasts were enough to make him sweat, and he hadn’t even seen or touched them yet!

His legendary concentration and control, the product of years of dedicated practice, wavered. He closed his eyes.

The rubber snapped to her hands. The tray squeaked as it rolled toward him. The metal clinked on the stand. He tensed, anticipating her touch, then opened his eyes. He forced his body to relax – a trick he’d learned during Hell Week and used frequently to keep flexible in the field .

“Still feeling numb, LT?” Her quiet voice soothed and rioted simultaneously.

“Yeah, Doc. It’s dead still.”

“Good. You let me know if you start to feel anything, and we’ll shoot you up with some more local anesthetic. Let’s get started, shall we?”

He knew she meant the work on his leg, but his brain flashed to naked skin and deep thrusting…kisses.

§§§§

Hands shaky, breasts achy, Cait quietly searched for her composure.

God, she’d touched his hip without thinking.

It’s what she did with most patients to give them comfort, but that electric zing ricocheted through her system and wouldn’t dissipate.

Christ. She had a Berkley Medical Degree and an Army residency, plus years of Army service with two tours here in Afghanistan.

It wasn’t her first time in theater. She’d treated hundreds of men, and she’d never been zapped by one before.

God, she wanted to touch him …in a ton of places that weren’t even professional for her to be thinking about.