A crunch of footsteps sent a wave of relieve through her. Sam appeared around the bend, each arm laden with a white plastic trash bag heavy enough to make the muscles in his bulge under his skin.
Carla motioned him inside and he dropped the bags on the floor. Without thinking, Carla flung herself against him and buried her face in the bare, damp skin of his chest.
He gave a startled laugh and hugged her back, and bent to plant a kiss on the top of her head. “Now that's a greeting I could get used to.”
Embarrassed at how happy she was to see him, Carla pushed free of his arms and stepped farther into the villa's great room. “That was completely stupid of you to go out there.”
Sam picked up the plastic bags and brought them into the kitchenette. He opened one and started placing the contents on the counters. “Based on how fast the storm was traveling, I knew I had at least a twenty-five minute window before the other side of the storm hit.” He looked down at the large complicated-looking watch strapped to his wrist. “I could have taken another ten minutes and been in the clear.”
Carla started to unpack the other bag. “The last data we got was hours old,” she said as she thumped a jar onto the table. “The storm could have easily picked up speed as the eye passed over.” She grabbed blindly at a smaller bag tucked inside and would have tossed it onto the table had Sam not stopped her with his hand on her wrist.
“Careful. You don't want to squash the raspberries.” He set the bag carefully down.
Carla snatched her arm from his grasp. “You had no way of knowing for sure how much time you had.” She continued emptying the bags, unearthing what looked like a week's supply of food.
Sam finished unpacking the other bag. “I kind of like having you worry about me,” he said, and there was no mistaking the smug undertone in his voice.
If only he'd known how many years, how many sleepless nights she'd spent worrying about him, wondering every time she heard about a soldier being killed somewhere if she would get a call from Chris that Sam O'Connell had been killed in battle or a training exercise. Not that she would ever in a million years admit it to his face.
“Don't take it personally. I'd worry about anyone mentally deficient enough to go out into the eye of a hurricane when he has no way of knowing how fast the storm is moving.”
As if to prove her point, at that moment there was violent snapping sound, followed by a crash which Carla guessed was the sound of a palm tree being denuded of several giant fronds.
Sam's eyes darted to the windows, though he couldn't see anything through the sturdy wooden storm shutters. When he looked back at her, the chagrin on his face was unmistakable. “I'm sorry. You're right, it wasn't safe. I just wanted to make sure you had something to eat.”
Carla felt the tension in her shoulders ease as the fear-fueled anger evaporated at the contrite, almost sweet expression in his electric blue eyes. “I'd rather miss a week of meals than risk you getting hurt or killed,” she said before she could consider the wisdom of such an admission.
He crossed to her and gave her a quick, fierce hug. “Since that won't be necessary, why don't we go ahead and dig in.”
“How bad was it out there?” Carla asked as she did a quick inventory of the supplies Sam had brought as he rummaged through the cabinets for utensils and plates.
He found two plates, a couple of forks and spoons, and a paring knife. “Flooding from the pool into the fitness center, and the restaurant took a hit from the beach, but other than some minor roof damage the main structures are holding up.”
Carla let out the breath she hadn't even realized she was holding. Sure, flooding, even seemingly minor, could cause a lot of damage but for the moment―they wouldn't know the extent of the damage until the storm had fully passed―it sounded like repairs would be finished well in time for the holiday high season.
As the knot in her stomach eased her hunger once again came to the forefront. She moved next to Sam, squinting a little in the flickering lantern light as she took inventory. Piles of fruit and vegetables, loaves of bread, an assortment of cheeses and cold cuts. Bags of chips, a six pack of beer, a bottle each of red and white wine.
He'd certainly taken her hunger seriously.
Sam grabbed a baguette and went to work on it with the paring knife, slicing it in half and down the middle for sandwiches. “There's turkey in there somewhere and a block of Swiss over there.” He indicated the pile of cheeses on the far end of the corner. “I grabbed some pickles too―I think you put them on the table. I couldn't find that sweet mustard that you like, but there's some mayo and Dijon next to the pickles.”