by Liz Fielding
Cold, flat. It was a wall.
Once she’d regained her breath, she began to edge her way carefully around the boundary of her underground prison.
She was certain now that she was in one of the temples. They had passed a truly impressive entrance that had been more thoroughly cleared than the rest, but the guide had hurried them past, nervously warning that it was ‘not safe’ when one of the businessmen had stopped, wanting to go inside.
At the time she hadn’t questioned it; she’d just been grateful to be spared yet more of the same. But, before they’d been hurried on, she had glimpsed tools of some kind, a work table.
The tools would be very welcome right now. And if someone was working there, presumably there’d be a lamp, water…
She tried not to think about what would happen if she didn’t find her bag with her water bottle. She’d find it…
Every now and then her fingers encountered sharply cut images carved into the walls. Protected from the elements within the temple walls, they were as clean-edged as the day they had been chiselled into the stone.
She had seen enough of them before she’d abandoned the tour and her brain, deprived of light, eagerly supplied pictures of those strange stylised creatures to fill the void.
In the powerful beam of the guide’s torch they had seemed slightly sinister.
In the blackness her imagination amplified the threat and she began to shiver.
Stupid, stupid…
Concentrate. Breathe…
She counted the steps around the edge of her cell. Two, three, four…Her mind refused to co-operate but took itself off on a diversion to wonder about her companions. Had they survived? Were they, even now, being picked up by some rescue team? Would they realise that she wasn’t with them?
One of the businessmen had been eyeing her with a great deal more interest than the ruins. Maybe he would alert the rescuers to her absence. Assuming there were any rescuers.
Assuming any of them had survived.
That thought brought the fear seeping back and for a moment she leaned against the wall as a great shuddering sigh swept through her and she covered her ears as if to block it out.
There was no point in dwelling on such negative thoughts. She had to keep strong, in control, to survive. But, even as she clung to that thought, the wall began to shake.
‘No!’ She didn’t know whether she screamed it out loud or whether the agonised word was a whisper in her mind as an aftershock flung her away from its illusory protection.
She used her hands to protect herself, landing painfully on palms and knees.
Dust showered down on to her, filling her eyes and, as she gasped for air, her mouth. For a moment she was certain she was about to suffocate and in sheer terror she let rip with a scream.
That was when, out of the darkness, fingers clamped tightly about her arm and a gravelly voice said, ‘For pity’s sake, woman, give it a rest…’
CHAPTER THREE
J AGO appeared to have the hangover from hell, which was odd. Getting drunk would have been an understandable reaction to the discovery that Fliss had been using him and he’d certainly had the means, thanks to Rob. But he was fairly certain that, on reflection, he’d decided he’d taken enough punishment for one day.
Or maybe that was simply wishful thinking because there was no doubt that right now he was lying with his face pressed against the cold stone of the floor. Not a good sign. And he was hurting pretty much everywhere but mostly inside his head, where an incompetent but unbelievably enthusiastic drummer was using his skull for practice.
He would have told him to stop, but it was too much trouble.
That was the problem with drinking to forget. While it might seem like a great idea when you were swallowing the hot local liquor that offered instant oblivion, unfortunately it was a temporary state unless you kept on drinking.
He remembered thinking that as the first mouthful had burned its way down his throat and then…
And then nothing.
Dumber than he’d thought, then, and come morning he’d be sorry he hadn’t made the effort to make it as far as the camp-bed, but what was one more regret? He’d scarcely notice it amongst the pile already waiting to be sifted through.
Right now, what he needed was water and he groped around him, hoping to find a bottle within reach. Aspirin would be good too, but that was going to have to wait until he’d recovered a little.
His fingers encountered rubble.
Rubble?
Where on earth was he?
His forehead creased in a frown which he instantly regretted, swearing silently as the pain drilled through his skull. It didn’t take a genius to work out that if a simple frown caused that kind of grief, anything louder than a thought would be unwise.
He closed his eyes and, for the moment, the pain in his head receded a little. But only for a moment. The ground, it seemed, had other ideas, refusing to leave him in peace, shaking him like a dog at a bone. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, there was some woman having hysterics practically in his ear.
Oblivion was a lot harder to come by than you’d think.
He turned over, reached out and, as his palm connected with smooth, firm flesh he wondered, without too much interest, who she was. Before growling at her to shut up.
There was a startled yelp and then blissful silence. And the earth had finally stopped making a fuss too.
A result.
He let his head fall back against the floor.
It was too good to last.
‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice, now she’d stopped screaming, was low, a little bit husky, with the kind of catch in it that would undoubtedly ensnare any poor sap who hadn’t already learned the hard way that no woman was ever that vulnerable.
It wasn’t that he was immune. Far from it.
He might be feeling awful, but his body still automatically tightened in hopeful response to the enticing warmth of a woman’s voice up close in the dark.
It was over-optimistic.
A grunt was, for the moment, the limit of his ambition but he forced open unwilling eyelids and lifted his head an inch or two to take a look.
Opening his eyes didn’t make much difference, he discovered, but since light would have only added to his pain he decided to be grateful for small mercies. But not that grateful. Women were definitely off the agenda and he said, ‘Clear off.’
Having got that off his chest, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back to the floor.
‘Wh-who are you?’ She might be nervous but she was irritatingly persistent. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Terminally,’ he assured her. ‘Body and soul. Totally beyond saving, so do me a favour. Go away and leave me to die in peace.’
No chance. She was a woman so she did the opposite, moving closer, finding his shoulder, feeling for his neck. She was checking his pulse, he realised. The stupid female had taken him seriously…
Apparently satisfied that he wasn’t, despite his protestations, about to expire on her, she slid her hand up to his cheek, laying long cool fingers against it, soothing his pounding head which, if he were honest, he had to admit felt pretty good.
‘Who are you?’ she persisted, her voice stronger now that she’d satisfied herself that he was in one piece. In fact, she had the crisp enunciation of a woman who expected an answer. Without delay.
Her touch wasn’t that good.
Delete vulnerable and caring, replace with bossy, interfering, typical of a particular type of organising female with whom he was very familiar. The ones he knew all had moustaches and chaired committees that allocated research funding…
He didn’t bother to answer. She didn’t give up but leaned over him so that he was assailed by the musky scent of warm skin before, after a pause, she wiped something damp over his face.
‘Is that better?’ she asked.
He was getting very mixed messages here, but provided she kept the volume down she could carry on with her Flo
rence Nightingale act.
‘Were you on the bus?’ she asked.
Jago sighed.
That was the trouble with women; they couldn’t be content with just doing the ministering angel stuff. They had to talk. Worse, they insisted you answer them.
‘Don’t you understand simple English?’ he growled, swatting away her hand. The price of comfort came too high.
She didn’t take the hint, but laid it over his forehead in a way that suggested she thought he might not be entirely right in it. The head, that was. Definitely one of the moustache brigade, he thought, although her hand had the soft, pampered feel of someone who took rather more care of her appearance. Soft and pampered and her long, caressing fingers were giving his body ideas whether his head was coming along for the ride or not.
Definitely not yet another archaeology student looking for postgrad experience, then. At least that was something in her favour. Not even Fliss, who had lavished cream on every part of her body-generously inviting him to lend a hand-had been able to keep her hands entirely callus-free.
But she was female, so that cancelled out all the plus points. Including that warm female scent that a man, if he was dumb enough, could very easily lose himself in…
‘Read my lips,’ he said, snapping back from temptation. ‘Go away.’
‘I can’t see your damn lips,’ she replied sharply. The mild expletive sounded unexpectedly shocking when spoken in that expensive finishing school accent.
And she didn’t move.
On the contrary, she dropped her head so that her hair brushed against his cheek. He recognised the scent now. Rosemary.
It was rosemary.
His mother had planted a bush by the garden gate. Some superstitious nonsense was involved, he seemed to remember. It had grown over the path so that he’d brushed against it when he wheeled out his bike…
This woman used rosemary-scented shampoo and it took him right back to memories he thought he’d buried too deep to ever be dredged up again and he told her, this time in the most basic of terms, to go away.
‘Can you move?’ she asked, ignoring him. ‘Where does it hurt?’
Woman, thy name is persistence…
‘What I’ve got is a headache,’ he said. ‘You.’ He thought about sitting up but not very seriously. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve come across a bottle around here by any chance?’
Since she insisted on staying, she might as well make herself useful.
‘Bottle?’ She sniffed. Then the soft hand was snatched back from his forehead. ‘You’re drunk!’ she exclaimed.
Unlikely. Headache notwithstanding, he was, unhappily, thinking far too clearly for it to be alcohol-related, but he didn’t argue. If Dame Disapproval thought he was a drunk she might leave him alone.
‘Not nearly drunk enough,’ he replied, casting around him with a broad sweep of his hand until he connected with what he was thinking clearly enough to recognise as a woman’s breast. It was on the small side but it was firm, encased in lace and fitted his palm perfectly.
Alone and in the dark, Manda had thought things couldn’t get any worse until cold fingers had fastened around her arm. That had been the realisation of every childhood nightmare, every creepy movie she had watched from behind half-closed fingers and for a blind second her bogeyman-in-the-dark terror had gone right off the scale.
Then he’d spoken.
The words, admittedly, had not been encouraging, his voice little more than a growl. But the growl had been in English and the knowledge that by some miracle she was not alone, that there was another person in that awful darkness, someone to share the nightmare, dispel the terrible silence, had been so overwhelming that she had almost blubbed with sheer relief.
Thankfully, she had managed to restrain herself, since the overwhelming relief appeared to have been a touch premature.
It was about par for the day that, instead of being incarcerated with a purposeful and valiant knight errant, she had stumbled on some fool who’d been hell-bent on drinking himself to death when the forces of nature had decided to help him out.
‘I think you’ve had quite enough to drink already,’ she said a touch acidly.
‘Wrong answer. At a time like this there isn’t enough alcohol in the world, lady. Unless, of course, you’re prepared to divert me with some more interesting alternative?’
And, in case she hadn’t got the point, he rubbed a thumb, with shocking intimacy, over her nipple. And then, presumably because she didn’t instantly protest, he did it again.
Her lack of protest was not meant as encouragement but, already prominent from the chill of the underground temple, his touch had reverberated through her body, throwing switches, lighting up dark, long undisturbed places, momentarily robbing her of breath.
By the time she’d gasped in sufficient air to make her feelings felt, they had become confused. In the darkness, the intimacy, heat, beating life force of another body had not felt like an intrusion. Far from it. It had felt like a promise of life.
It was no more than instinct, she told herself; the standard human response in the face of death was to cling to someone, anyone. That thought was enough to bring her back to her senses.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, belatedly slapping his hand away.
‘Please yourself. Let me know if you change your mind.’ He rolled away from her and, despite the fact that it was no more than a grope from a drunk, she still missed the human warmth of his touch.
She wanted his hand on her breast. Wanted a whole lot more.
Nothing had changed, it seemed. Beneath the hard protective shell she’d built around her, she was as weak and needy as ever.
She’d quickly slipped the buttons on her shirt so that she could lift up the still damp hem to wipe his face. Now she used it to wipe her own throat. Cool her overheated senses.
‘It would please me,’ she said, ‘if you’d give some thought to getting us out of here.’
She snapped out the words, but it was herself she was angry with.
‘Why would I do that?’ he replied, as she struggled with sore fingers to refasten the small buttons. ‘I like it here.’ Then, ‘But I like it here best when I’m alone.’
‘In that case I suggest you stay exactly where you are and wait for the next shock to bring the rest of the temple down on top of you. Then you’ll be alone until some archaeologist uncovers your bones in another two or three thousand years.’
Jago laughed at the irony of that. A short harsh sound that, even to his own ears, sounded distinctly unpleasant. ‘That’s an interesting idea, lady, but since I’m not the butler you’ll have to see yourself out.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Although if you see that bottle it would be an act of charity…’
‘Forget the damn bottle,’ she retorted angrily. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but you can’t see your hand in front of you in here.’
‘It’s night,’ he muttered, finally making an effort to sit up, ignoring the pains shooting through every cramped joint as he explored the floor about him. ‘And now I really do need a drink.’
‘Only a drunk needs a drink. Is that what you are?’
‘Not yet. That takes practice, but give me time…’
He stopped his fruitless search for a bottle of water and stared in the direction of the voice. She was right; it was dark. On moonless nights the stars silvered the temple with a faint light and even here, in the lower level, they shone down the shaft cut through the hillside that was aligned so that the full moon, at its highest arc in the sky, lit up the altar.
He blinked, rapidly. It made no difference. And as his mind cleared, it began to dawn on him that something was seriously wrong. The dust. The rubble…
He put his hand to his head in an attempt to still the drummer. ‘What day is this?’
‘Monday.’
‘It’s still Monday?’
‘I think so. I don’t know how long I was out and it’s too dark to see my watch, but I don’t think i
t could have been long.’
He propped himself against the nearest wall and tried to remember.
Something about Rob…
‘Out?’ he asked, leaving the jumble to sort itself out. Definitely not alcohol in Miss Bossy’s case. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Work it out for yourself,’ she snapped.
She was halfway to her feet when his hand, sweeping the air in the direction of her voice, connected with her leg and grabbed it. She let out a shriek of alarm.
‘Shut up,’ he said tightly. ‘I’ve got a headache and I can’t think with all that noise.’
‘Poor baby,’ she crooned with crushing insincerity. Then lashed out with her free leg, her toe connecting with his thigh.
He jerked her other leg from beneath her, which was a mistake since she landed on top of him.
He said one word, but since she’d knocked the breath out of him, only he knew for certain what it was.
Manda considered kicking him again but thought better of it. They needed to stop bickering and start working together and, whoever he was, he had an impressively broad shoulder. The kind built for leaning on.
His shirt, beneath her cheek, had the soft feel that heavy-duty cotton got when it had been worn and washed times without number and the bare skin of his neck smelled of soap.
Maybe he wasn’t going to be such a total loss after all…
‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you,’ he said, taking her by the waist and shifting her a little to the right before settling his hands on her backside, at which point she realised that it wasn’t only his shoulders that were impressive and…
And what the heck was she thinking?
She rolled off him, biting back a yelp as she landed on what felt like the Rock of Gibraltar. If he knew, he’d laugh.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he retaliated, definitely not amused. On the contrary, he sounded decidedly irritable. ‘And what are you doing here?’
‘I asked first.’
There was an ominous silence and it occurred to Manda that, no matter what the provocation, further aggravating a man already in a seriously bad mood was not a particularly bright idea.