Page 3 of Fighting for Lucy

Trying to open his eyes turned out to be a big mistake.

Sunlight shot through them, and he promptly turned his head and threw up.

Great.

A concussion.

That was the last thing he needed right now.

It had been a big risk to take on this flight, but his entire future was riding on this job going smoothly. He’d been hopingthat given what had just happened to his sister, he wouldn’t have to make contact with her because while he could fool anybody else there was no way his twin wouldn’t recognize him the second she laid eyes on him no matter the changes he’d made to his appearance.

Damn his twin for ruining this.

If everything he had worked so hard for fell apart because of Scarlett, he was going to be furious. Notwithhis sister, Scarlett was the only person in the world who loved him—well, sheusedto love him, but there was every chance she now hated him—but with the world in general.

This wasn’t how he’d wanted things to turn out, but in life you had no choice but to play the hand you were dealt.

That was all he was doing here, but it still sucked.

However, looking on the bright side, hehadsurvived the crash.

Shockingly.

Despite the fact he’d played it cool when they were up in the air—he had no choice, it was the only thing that gave them a chance at living—inside he’d been panicking. He didn't want to die for real.

He hadn't wanted to fake his death either.

But again, it was the whole playing the hand you were dealt thing.

This time, he inched his eyes open more slowly. One eye was harder to open than the other, and when he lifted a hand to brush at it, he found that blood had dribbled down over it, sticking to his eyelashes. An impressive set, the kind that made girls jealous, his sister had always told him.

The set of eyelashes on his gorgeous passenger was also pretty impressive.

Actually, everything about Lucy Elrod was impressive. Zander was a sucker for a beautiful blonde, throw in a set of babyblues, and he was a goner. She was everything he usually looked for in a woman, pretty, intelligent, and down to earth. He’d been attracted to her from the first time he met her, but since you didn't date your sister’s friends, he’d never done anything about it. For the last several years he’d merely admired her from afar. Respected the hell out of the fact that she never once allowed her epilepsy to hold her back from doing anything. Sure, there were times when her condition prohibited her from doing something she wanted to, but instead of complaining or moping about it, she just looked for a workaround, an alternative.

In the plane, she’d been afraid when his sister spilled the beans on who he was, but she hadn't backed down, hadn't cowered, she’d still sassed him right up until the end when he’d yelled at her to brace for the inevitable crash.

Had Lucy survived as well?

Honestly, his life would be a whole lot easier if she’d died on impact. Awful as that made him sound, it was the truth.

Prying open his other eye, Zander did a quick inventory of his body. There were aches and pains all over, but there was nothing that screamed at him that it was a life-threatening injury. The head injury was probably going to be his biggest concern. Concussions sucked, he’d had a few in his years in Delta Force, and he knew the nausea, headaches, and dizziness were going to make traipsing through the Mexican jungle that much more unpleasant.

At least the plane had landed right side up, that was a small plus. Unsnapping his seatbelt, Zander shoved to his feet, barely sparing Lucy a glance. It was better for her if she was dead, and if he was going to sell her death then he didn't want to risk slipping up by checking to see if she had survived.

So he bypassed her and headed to the back of the plane to grab his survival pack. Always be prepared. The Boy Scout’s motto. An acceptable extracurricular activity as far as hisparents and grandparents were concerned, and the only one he’d been allowed to do as a kid. While he certainly hadn't expected to crash, he’d done what he always did and packed everything he would need to survive if the situation arose.

Just as he was hefting the pack onto his back, needing to keep one hand on the warped metal of the plane to keep his balance, he heard it.

About the worst sound he could have heard in this moment.

Not the sound of gunfire, or an explosion, or the sound of approaching footsteps, which out here were likely to belong to one of the cartels.

A moan.

A small one.

A pained one.