Expecting the Boss’s Baby (8 page)

Zoe had a thousand other talents, useful talents. If they made it back, he intended to find ways to keep her working for him for a very long time.

If…

Her heated words of the day before came to him.
We can't afford to get all up in the “if” game, Dax.
She was right about that—as she was about a lot of things.

He put all the nagging doubts as to the likelihood of their survival from his mind and he focused on the moment, as it was, free of expectation, sexual or otherwise. On the pretty woman in the red swimsuit, on the clear pool and the dazzling, roaring waterfall, waiting for him in the sun.

Zoe laughed as she waded in. “Watch out for the crocodiles.”

He thought she was kidding—but then he saw the long, knobby narrow head gliding through the water near the opposite bank. “There's one over there.” He pointed.

She laughed again and started splashing. The crocodile turned and went the other way. “They're shy,” she said. “I remember reading that somewhere. Not like
their Asian relatives at all. And I've discovered since we've been here that it's true—but that doesn't mean I didn't scream bloody murder the first time I saw that big guy over there.”

Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the rock. He took off his shoes and socks and unwound the bandage that supported his ankle. It was still a little puffy, but nowhere near as bad as it had been before.

He pulled his shirt over his head and got out of his khaki shorts. In only his boxer briefs and the bandage on his forehead, he struggled upright again. With the bottle of shampoo in his hand, he limped into the water.

It felt wonderful. Cool, clean. Fresh. And as soon as he got in as far as his waist, his injured ankle stopped hobbling him. Keeping his head above water in order not to get his bandage wet, he swam around a little, just because it felt so good.

And then he moved closer to the bank again, got to where he could stand up, and waded to waist deep. He squirted some shampoo on his palm. It smelled of tropical flowers.
Plumeria
, according to the label, which showed a woman bathing in a tub full of pink blooms.

Not a manly scent, but so what? It had soap in it and it would get him clean.

Zoe swam to him, her hair streaming out behind her, a banner of wet silk, the color of fire. “Here. I'll hold the bottle.”

He handed it over and then used the shampoo to wash himself, ducking down up to his neck to rinse off the lather when he was done.

She said, “Be careful. I don't want you getting that bandage wet.”

“Then you'd better wash my hair for me.” He moved up the bank a couple more steps, until he could get on his knees and still have his shoulders above the water. “Go for it.”

She took a small puddle of the shampoo in her hand and gave him back the bottle. Then she circled around behind him and went to work.

Her hands were careful, firm and knowing. “Tip your head back.”

He did, and he closed his eyes as she shampooed him, working up a lather, massaging his scalp in a thoroughly pleasurable way. It was good, to have her hands on him. Almost as if his flesh had memorized her touch, through the days he was so sick, when she tended him so carefully—and constantly. As if his skin had learned the feel of hers by heart, and now craved the contact it no longer received.

He wondered if she might be feeling anything similar. Proprietary, maybe? She had been all he had for five days, his comfort, his only hope of survival. She had, in a sense, owned him, had done whatever was needed, no matter how intimate or unpleasant, to keep him alive, to help him fight the fever that tried to claim him. She had fed him, cleaned him up as best she could, changed his bandages and his clothes.

His memories of that time were indistinct. Mostly he had lived in a fevered dream. But he remembered her touch, soothing him, comforting him. More than once, when the chills racked him, she had lain down with him, wrapped her own body around him, to soothe him, to keep him warm.

“Feels good,” he said, his tone huskier than he should have allowed it to be.

She washed his ears, her fingers sliding along the
curves and ridges, meticulous and tender. Cradling his head with her fingers, she used her thumbs against his scalp, rubbing in circles. He almost groaned in pleasure when she did that, but swallowed the sound just in time.

“All right,” she said, too soon. “Let your legs float up.”

He did. She cradled his head in the water with one hand and carefully rinsed away the lather with the other.

“Okay. All finished.”

He wanted to stay right where he was, floating face up with his eyes shut to block out the glare of the sun, her hand in his hair, supporting him, for at least another week or so. But obediently, he lowered his feet to the sandy river bottom and backed away from her. “Thanks.”

She sent him a quick smile and moved closer to shore where she could toss the shampoo up onto the rock with the rest of their things.

They swam for a while, laughing, happy as little kids in their own private pool. She led him under the falls and they crouched on a big rock inside and stared through the veil of roaring water at the indistinct, shimmering world beyond.

“You ought to get your camera in here,” he suggested.

She nodded. “I've thought about it. But I didn't bring one that's waterproof.”

“Get any other good shots?”

“A few. I have to be careful, not go shutter crazy. I want to make the battery charge last as long as I can.”

And how long would it be, until she could recharge her cameras? The question—and others like it—was
never far from his mind. Or hers either, judging by the way she looked at him, and then quickly glanced away.

How long until someone found them? How long until his ankle healed and he could lead them out of here?

“Don't,” she whispered gently.

He didn't have to ask,
Don't what?
He only gave her a curt nod and slid back into the water and under the falls.

They got out onto the rocks eventually, and dried themselves in the sun. She stretched out on the blanket she'd brought. He limped along the shoreline, looking for a good walking stick.

Found one, too. He figured with it, he could get back to camp without having to lean on her the whole way.

Before they returned to the clearing, they gathered firewood to take with them and filled the two canteens. She explained that she would boil the water, just to be on the safe side. She'd saved the empty water bottles and she was refilling them with the sterilized river water.

He marveled at her resourcefulness. She'd probably be halfway to San Cristóbal by now, living off the land, if not for his holding her back.

She sent him a look. “I can read your mind, you know.”

“Okay. Now you're scaring me.”

“It's your nature to be fatheaded and overly sure of yourself. Just go with your nature. No dragging around being morose, okay?”

He laughed then, because she was right. There was a bright side and he would look on it. They were both alive and surviving pretty damn effectively, thanks to her.

“It can only get better from here,” he said.

“That's the spirit.” She hooked her canteen on her belt, pulled a couple of lengths of twine from her pocket and handed him one. “Tie up your firewood.”

He did what she told him to do—just as he'd been doing for most of the day. After the wood was bundled, they gathered up the stuff they had left on the rock and headed for the trail.

 

Back at camp, he propped his ankle up to rest it. They ate more of the dwindling supply of freeze-dried food and pored over the maps.

She had marked the location he'd made her write down the night of the crash. It appeared that their own personal jungle was somewhere in the northernmost tip of the state of Chiapas, about a hundred and twenty-five miles from the state capital of Tuxtla Gutiérrez and the airport where they were supposed to have landed. There were any number of tiny villages and towns in northern Chiapas, and deforested farmland and ranches were supposed to cover most of the area where they had gone down.

Actually, he calculated that they shouldn't
be
in rainforest, but they were. And that meant that they must have been blown farther south after he noted the coordinates that final time. And
that
meant who the hell knew where they were? Their best bet remained to follow the river until they found human habitation.

And when would they be doing that?

At least a week, maybe two, depending on how fast his ankle healed.

That evening, as the sun dipped low, they slathered themselves in bug repellent and returned to the river with the fishing pole and a plastic bag containing grubs he had found under rocks at the edge of the clearing.
He assembled his pole and baited his line while she gathered more wood and tied it into twin bundles and then sat down with him to wait with him for the fish to bite.

They didn't have to wait long. He felt the first stirrings of renewed self-respect when he recognized the sharp tug on the line.

“Got one.” He played the line, letting it spin out and then reeling it in. Finally, he hauled the fish free of the water. It was a beautiful sight, the scaly body twisting and turning, gleaming in the fading light, sending jewel-like drops of water flying in a wide arc.

Zoe laughed and clapped her hands and shot her fist in the air. “Way to go, Girard! That baby's big enough to make dinner for both of us.”

He caught the squirming fish in his hand and eased out the hook. “You know how to clean them?”

She groaned. “Unfortunately, yes.” She did the messy job while he baited his hook again.

He landed another one, just because he could. The meat would probably stay fresh enough for their morning meal. They could try smoking them to preserve them, and they would. Tomorrow. For tonight, two was more than enough. He cleaned that second fish himself, found a stick to hang them on and they started back.

Zoe took the lead with the two bundles of firewood and a full canteen. Dax, leaning on his cane, carrying the fish and his pole, followed behind.

They were almost to the clearing when the giant snake dropped out of the trees and landed on Zoe.

I
t was almost fully dark by then. In the trees, it was hard to see your hand in front of your face, so it took Dax a few seconds to make out what was happening.

Zoe let out a blood-curdling shriek and then one word, “Snake!”

He made out the thick, twisting form, the white belly gleaming, coiling itself around her as she sent the firewood flying. Dax dropped the stick with the fish on it, tossed his cane and pole to the trail and whipped out his hunting knife.

By then, she had managed to turn and face him. The snake started hissing, a loud, ugly sound. “Here,” she said, her voice straining as she tried to control the powerful coils. He realized she had a hold of the neck, right below the extremely large head, in both hands. “Cut here…”

He stepped up, grabbed the snake a foot below her
clutching fists and sliced that sucker's head clean off. Blood spurted and the thunderous hissing stopped. He felt the spray on his face. The snake's powerful tail whipped at him, strongly at first and then more slowly.

Zoe held on to the detached head, whimpering, muttering to herself, “Eeuuu, icky, sticky. Yuck!” as he dropped the long, thick scaly body and it gradually went limp.

It shocked the hell out of him, to watch her lose it. Up till then, she'd been a model of determined cool and unbreakable self-control. “Zoe…”

“Oh, God. God help us. Oh, ick. Oh, help….”

He gaped at her, disbelieving. And then he shook himself. She needed talking down and she needed it now. And he was the only one there to do it. He spoke softly, slowly, “It's okay, Zoe. It's okay. It's dead.”

She went on whimpering, muttering nonsense words, clutching the severed head of the reptile, as though she feared if she let it go, it would snap back to life and attack her all over again.

“Zoe. Zoe, come on. Let go.” He caught her wrists in his hands. “It's dead. It can't hurt you anymore. You can let go.”

With a wordless cry, she threw the snake's head down and hurled herself at his chest.

He tottered a little on his bad ankle but recovered, steadied himself and wrapped his arms around her. Gathering her good and close, he stroked her hair, whispering, “Okay, it's okay…”

She buried her face against his shoulder, and huddled against him, trembling. “I was so scared. So damn scared…”

He kissed the top of her head without even stopping
to think that maybe he was crossing the line. Right then, there was no line. Only her need to be held—and his, to hold her. “I know, I know. But it's over now.”

“You're right. Over. It's over, it's okay…” Slowly, she quieted. The shaking stopped. She lifted her head and looked up at him. He saw the gleam of her eyes through the gloom.

He wondered if she'd been bitten. The snake was a boa, he was reasonably sure. Their bites weren't deadly, but they could hurt like hell. He asked, carefully, “Were you bitten?”

She shook her head. “No. Uh-uh. It just, it was so strong, slithering around me, tightening….”

He felt her shudder and hurried to remind her, “But it's dead now.” He spoke firmly, “Dead.”

“Dead. Yes.” She nodded, a frantic bobbing of her head. And then she blinked. “Do you know how many times I walked this path while you were so sick?”

He captured her sweet face between his hands, held her gaze and didn't let his waver. “Don't. No
what-ifs,
remember?”

“But I—”

He tipped her chin higher, made her keep looking at him. “No. Don't go there. You're safe and we won't go to the river, or even into the trees, except together from now on. If one of us is in danger, the other will be there, to help deal with it.”

“Oh, Dax…”

He didn't think, didn't stop to consider that he wasn't supposed to put any moves on her, that she had great value to him and they had certain agreements, the main one being hands off.

It just seemed the most natural thing to do. The right thing.

The only thing.

He lowered his head and she lifted hers.

They met in the middle. He tasted her mouth, so soft, still trembling, so warm and needful—needing
him.
She sighed and her breath was his breath.

He wrapped her closer, slanted his head the other way, deepened the amazing, impossible kiss.

Our first kiss…

A miracle. Of heat and tender, yearning flesh, of wonder.

He pressed her to open. She did and he tasted her, his tongue in her mouth, against her teeth, and her tongue in his, gliding on top, touching the roof of his mouth, as if to taste all of him, to know him, all of him.

In every way.

Our first kiss…

It went on and on. Delicious. Hungry. Beautiful. They stood there, wrapped tight together, in the dark jungle, the big snake limp around their feet, and they kissed and kissed some more.

Finally, with a last, reluctant sigh, she pulled away and lifted her eyes to him. She looked strangely dazed and her lips were shiny, slightly swollen. “We should…the river. Go back. I need to wash away the blood.” They were both breathing hard, as if they'd just run a long race.

He nodded down at her. “Yeah. All right. Of course.”

They stared at each other, shared a look as hungry, as seeking and endless as the kiss had been. And then she stepped back. He let his arms drop away, releasing her.

By some radar between them, some tacit agreement, neither of them mentioned the line they had just
crossed, the forbidden terrain they had let themselves stumble into.

She waited for him to turn, to lead the way back to the water.

He said, “We can leave the wood here. But nothing else.” Any meat could be gone before they returned, carried off by scavengers. “Take the fish.”

She bent down and picked up the stick with the two fish dangling from it. He got his knife from where he'd dropped it, wiped it on his pant leg and returned it to its sheath. He felt around among the twisting roots that crisscrossed the trail until he found the pole and his walking stick.

And then he picked up the snake and wrapped it around his neck.

She gasped. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“It's meat, Zoe. It's protein.” He found the severed head, tossed it into the trees.

“Ugh.”

He arched a brow, suggested hopefully, “Tastes like chicken.”

“Ugh,” she said again. But she didn't argue. “Can we go?”

“After you.” He wobbled upright and moved aside, settling the dead reptile more comfortably around his neck. The damn thing had to be eight feet long.

She slipped around him soundlessly, giving him as wide a berth as possible on the narrow trail, and headed back the way they'd come.

 

He caught her arm when they reached the pool. “Don't go in.”

She turned and looked at him, a watchful look, and then carefully freed herself from his grip. “Because?”

“There could be piranhas.”

She made a scoffing sound. It reassured him, to see her confident, take-charge nature reasserting itself. “If there were, don't you think we would know by now?”

“They attack when there's blood in the water.”

The nearly full moon shone down on them now. He could see her pretty face clearly. The snake's blood on her cheek looked black in the moonlight. “Ah.” And she nodded. “Okay.”

So she set the fish aside and crouched on the rock to scoop water into her palms and scrub at her cheeks, her arms and neck. He washed, too, awkwardly, with only one good ankle to support his crouching weight, the other leg stretched out and aching a little, growing tired from all the activity that day.

They rose without speaking. She took up the fish. He hung the snake around his neck again, grabbed his pole and his walking stick. They headed, once more, into the trees.

 

The fish was good.

The snake meat was better.

They ate their fill. He felt stronger almost instantly, his body grateful for the much-needed protein.

After the meal, she changed the bandage on his forehead. Then, with his bad leg propped and resting, he cut the rest of the snake meat into strips. Since they both agreed he should try and stay off his weak ankle, he had Zoe dig a pit close to the plane and then shovel in hot coals from the campfire. At his instruction, she got a canvas poncho from his suitcase and the spare campfire rack from the bottom of the box in the baggage area.

She slanted him a look when she brought out the
rack. “I can't believe you thought to store these racks in there.”

He shrugged. “If you cook over a campfire, you need something to put the meat on.”

She did the rest, following his instructions, laying out the meat so the smoke would cure it, keeping the fire low. The poncho went on top, positioned with just enough ventilation to make it nice and smoky inside.

He had her find another piece of wing to lean against the fuselage, thus protecting the pit from the afternoon rains. They would have to check the fire in there regularly, keep it going, but not too high.

“How long will it take?” she asked.

“A couple of days. The dried meat will be good for about a week. When the snake is cured, we can smoke fish, too—though with the river nearby, I don't really think we need to.”

She dropped into the chair beside him. “You're very convenient to have around.”

“Back at ya, and then some.” They shared one of those looks that said everything they couldn't quite say aloud.

It was getting late by then. The moon rode high over the clearing and the fire kept the bugs at bay. For a while, neither of them spoke. He was avoiding climbing back into the plane and trying to sleep in the backseat that had been his sickbed. Would she sleep in the tent? He didn't remember where she'd slept those first few nights, but last night she'd left him and taken the tent.

She was looking at him again.

He met her watchful gaze. “What?”

“We might never get back to SA, you know.”

“We will.” As he said the words, he realized he
believed them. “And didn't we agree not to play the
what-if
game?”

She waved a hand. “That was when you were blaming yourself. This is…well, you know, just getting real.”

“We'll get back. That's real.”

“And you know this, how?”

“We might have both been born of money, grown up having it easy, but that doesn't make us any less tough and smart. We're survivors. We have tools, the right clothing, decent footwear. And in terms of abundant food sources, getting stranded in the jungle is not a bad choice. If nobody comes to find us, when my ankle is healed enough, we're going to walk out of here. Our chances are good. Better than good.”

She studied his face. He wondered what she was seeking. “If—
when
we get back, I want my job, Dax.”

He swore low. “Come on. I may be fatheaded and overbearing, but I know quality help when I have it. Did I say something to make you think I wasn't aware of your value to me and to
Great Escapes?
”

“You kissed me.”

So that was it. “A lapse. I apologize.”

“Why apologize? I kissed you back.” She licked her lips, as if the taste of him lingered. “And I liked it when you kissed me. I liked it a lot.”

So much frankness made his breath catch and heat pool in his groin. He said, rough and low, “We have an understanding. I've been trying to abide by it. You're not helping me to keep it, when you talk like this, when you look at me that way.”

She refused to look away. “It's so simple now, here. I see everything through a lens of that simplicity, of the need to survive. I see that there are a thousand ways to die here. I see that we're something else to each other,
here. Something important. We are each other's survival, each other's lifeline. And if you're wrong and I do die here, I don't want to die regretting the fact that I never made love with you.”

He clutched the aluminum arms of the chair to keep from reaching for her and he said, with careful coolness, “I feel the same. But it's okay. You're
not
going to die. I thought I just explained that.”

She smiled. How could a smile be that sad and at the same time that full of primal knowledge? And then she broke the searing gaze they shared and stared into the fire. After a minute, in a voice barely above a whisper, she spoke again, “I used to think you were trying purposely to tempt me.”

“Yeah, well. You thought right. And you never gave in, were never anything but beautiful and charming, quick with the comebacks—and strictly professional.”

“We could make another agreement…for now, while we're here in this wild place and it's just you and me, surviving, taking what joy we can any way we can find it.”

His mouth was dry. He gripped the chair arms all the harder. “What agreement?”

“We change the rules, for now, just for as long as we're here, in the jungle. And when we get home, I get my job back and we become strictly professional with each other again.”

Yes.
The affirmative was there, on the tip of his tongue. It was an urgent need in him to say whatever she wanted him to say, so that he could have her and have her now. He managed, somehow, not to let that
yes
out. “You really think that's possible, to go back? In my experience, it never works.”

“I intend to make it work. I
will
make it work.”

He found that he believed her, as he believed they would get back to San Antonio. She was an extraordinary woman and if she said she could do a thing, who was he, a mere man, to doubt her? “I'm not going to be able to keep arguing about this, Zoe. I don't
want
to argue. I want to get in that tent with you and kiss every inch of you.”

Her mouth trembled. And her eyes were dark right then, dark and as full of secrets as the night itself. “So don't argue.”