by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
She turned, marched to a mossy boulder, and sat down. With a display of elaborate unconcern, she slipped her arms from the straps of her backpack and set it at her feet. Then she unlaced one of her boots, took it off, and gently massaged her toes. When she looked up again, Slade had vanished from view.
Her shoulders slumped forward. Wonderful. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere with a man whose motives were suspect, and now he’d decided to play at being a human fly. Was she supposed to pray he made it down and back in one piece—or was she better off hoping she never saw his face again? Sighing, she jammed her foot back into the boot and laced it up. If Slade was right a tribe of head-hunting Indians wanted the emerald she carried in her backpack. If she was right, it was Slade himself who wanted the stone. Either way, she was in trouble.
She leaned forward and ran her hand lightly over the nylon backpack, her fingers finding and tracing the faint outline of the small metal box that held the Eye.
Only one thing was certain. She had the stone, and she intended to keep it. She wasn’t about to lose it, not to a bunch of bloodthirsty savages or to a conniving adventurer.
Professor Ingram had devoted years of his life to finding the Eye. She had been privileged to have been with him when he’d finally achieved his goal. Now it was her responsibility to deliver the emerald safely to the museum, and that was what she would do.
She got to her feet, tucked her hands into the rear pockets of her shorts, and tapped her foot. What was taking so long? McClintoch should have been back by now. She hadn’t heard any yells or shouts of distress, so he couldn’t have fallen. Had he managed to find a way to the bottom? Come morning, would he expect her to sail over the edge the way he had, follow him down, down, down…?
She shuddered. It was best not to think about that, nor about what it would be like to claw her way up the other side. Instead, she’d concentrate on what it would be like once she was out of the jungle. She smiled. The museum officials would be delighted. Her father would be proud. Her doctorate would be guaranteed…
Where in hell was McClintoch? How long could it take to see if there was a way to the bottom of the gorge?
She took a deep breath, then moved forward a few steps, trying not to think of the chasm ahead or of the man who might lie crumpled at the bottom of it. She didn’t like him, but she certainly wouldn’t want him to break his neck.
‘McClintoch?’ she said.
There was no answer. She frowned and took another couple of steps forward. Thickening shadows were beginning to crowd the gorge, turning it from a deep valley into a mysterious slash in the face of the earth.
A chill ran along Brionny’s skin. She thought of the first night she’d spent in the rainforest, how nothing had prepared her for the blackness that had suddenly enclosed the campsite. Professor Ingram had looked across the glowing fire at her and given her one of his rare smiles.
‘Incredible, isn’t it, Miss Stuart?’ he’d said.
It had certainly been that. The night had seemed like a living, breathing creature, one with a somewhat malevolent intent. She’d shifted her camp chair closer to a pool of yellow light thrown by one of the butane lanterns.
But there’d be no lanterns tonight. And if Slade didn’t hurry, he wouldn’t be able to see clearly enough to climb back up.
‘McClintoch?’ she said. The word came out a whisper, and she cleared her throat and tried again. ‘McClintoch? Can you hear me?’
Dammit, where was he?
Something rustled behind her and she looked around, her eyes scanning the perimeter of the jungle. The trees seemed black, almost ominous. The sounds of the night were picking up now, the hiss and hum of insects mingling with the growing chirrup-chirrup of the tree frogs. Soon there’d be other noises too—the growls and grunts of the hunters, the shrill cries of their prey—
Brionny turned a furious face to the gorge. ‘Dammit, McClintoch,’ she yelled, ‘where in hell—?’
A sudden, awful roar burst from the jungle behind her. Brionny screamed and swung around, heart hammering in her breast, then screamed again as a hand fell on her shoulder.
‘Easy,’ Slade said. ‘Easy, Stuart. It’s only me.’
She spun toward him. ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’
His brows lifted. ‘That’s a hell of a greeting.’
‘Do you know how long you have been gone?’
‘No.’ He grinned. ‘I forgot to take along a timer.’
Enraged, she struck out blindly, punching him in the shoulder.
‘You bastard! Is everything always a joke with you?’
‘Hey. Take it easy.’
‘Why?’ She punched him again, harder. Slade caught her wrists in one hand, imprisoning them against his chest. ‘Why should I take it easy?’ she said, her eyes flashing. ‘Do you know what it was like to sit here and wonder if you’d fallen and broken your stupid neck?’
‘Would it have mattered? You weren’t about to come after me if I had. You made that clear, remember?’
‘You’re damned right I did! And—and it would have served you right if you had fallen!’
‘Let me get this straight. Are you ticked off because I could have gotten hurt—or because I didn’t?’
Brionny stared at him. ‘I-I—’
He moved closer to her, still holding her hands in his. She could feel the slow, strong beat of his heart under her fingers.
‘Well?’ His voice was soft. ‘Which is it, Bree?’
‘Stop trying to reduce this to-to—’
‘To logic.’ He smiled. ‘But you’re a scientist. You pride yourself on logic, don’t you?’
His eyes were fixed on hers. How green they were, how deep and smoky.
‘You’re—you’re confusing me, McClintoch.’
‘Am I?’ He smiled, as if the possibility pleased him.
Brionny swallowed. What was happening to her? The heat of his body was becoming her heat; the hardness of it made her want to lean against him. Her eyes closed and she took a breath, inhaling his clean male scent, the faint musk of his sweat.
‘Bree.’ One of his hands slid up her throat, framed her face, tilted it up to his. ‘Were you afraid I’d been hurt?’
She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘I—I’m not inhuman, McClintoch.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded and touched his forefinger to the centre of her lower lip. ‘That’s nice to know.’
‘And—and I didn’t much relish the possibility of being left here alone.’
‘I see.’ The tip of his finger traced the seam of her mouth. ‘In other words, given the choice between tolerating my intolerable presence and tolerating only your own, you’d sooner cast your vote for me.’
‘Yes. No. Dammit, McClintoch, don’t do that!’
‘Don’t do what?’ His finger stroked across her lip again. ‘This, you mean?’
‘Please.’ Was that hesitant voice really hers? Why did it sound that way, as if she was asking for one thing but wanting another?
‘Please, McClintoch—’
‘Slade. My name is Slade. Don’t you think we know each other well enough to be on a first-name basis?’
‘We don’t know each other at all!’ she said, desperately trying to ignore the feel of his finger moving against her flesh. ‘We don’t—’
‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘we’ll just have to remedy that, won’t we?’
He bent his head and kissed her, not as he had that first time at the Florinda, nor even the way he had a while before. This kiss had nothing to do with control nor even with passion. It was a soft, almost gentle kiss, the faintest brush of mouth against mouth, and yet Brionny felt as if she was being turned inside out, as if she might lift off the ground and float into the darkening sky.
Slade’s arms went around her. ‘Bree,’ he whispered, and his mouth dropped to hers again.
‘No,’ she said, but what was the point? She was saying one thing and doing just the opposite, linking her arms around his
neck, letting him gather her close. She whimpered as the tip of his tongue traced the path his finger had followed moments ago. His teeth nipped lightly at her lip and she sighed and opened her mouth to his.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘oh, yes!’
His hands cupped her bottom; he lifted her to her toes, drew her forward, and fitted her hips to his. He moved, rotating gently against her, and the world seemed to stand still.
‘Please,’ she whispered, just as she had a little while ago, only now she knew what she was asking him to do. He did, too. His hand slipped under her shirt. Brionny gasped at the heat of it, at the feeling of his fingers cupping her naked breast. His thumb brushed across her nipple, lightly, lightly—
A deep roar exploded from the jungle again, this time so close that it seemed to shake the ground they stood on.
It was like being doused with a shower of icecold water. Brionny’s eyes flew open. She stared up at Slade, shuddered, then dug her fists into his chest.
‘Let me go,’ she demanded.
‘Bree.’ His voice was thick, the words slurred. ‘Bree, listen—’
‘Don’t “Bree” me, you—you cheap opportunist!’
‘What?’
‘I warned you not to try this kind of thing again.’
His hands fell away from her. ‘The return of the ice princess.’
‘The return of sanity, you mean.’
He smiled tightly. ‘Some day, sweetheart, that little hot and cold act’s going to get you in deep trouble.’
‘Just keep away from me, McClintoch. Can you manage that, do you think?’
‘With pleasure,’ he said coldly.
‘I hope so, because the next time you try anything—’
‘You’re repeating yourself, Stuart, and anyway I haven’t got time to listen.’ He brushed past her and, before she could stop him. snatched up her pack and put his arms through the straps. ‘Well?’ What are you waiting for? Let’s get going.’
‘Get going where? Didn’t you find a path down the cliff?’
‘The cliff wall is absolutely smooth below the ledge.’
‘Then—then what are we going to do?’
‘What do you think we’re going to do?’ he said impatiently. ‘We’re going to retrace our steps, pick up the trail you and Ingram took coming in, and follow it back to the river.’
‘That’s impossible!’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ In the near-darkness, she could just see the look of disgust on his face. ‘The thought of spending the next week with you doesn’t thrill me, either.’
‘Ten days,’ she said, trying to keep her voice under control. ‘Ten days, McClintoch. That’s how long it takes to walk that trail.’
He shrugged. ‘Have you got a better idea?’
Brionny put her hand to her forehead. ‘There’s got to be something else we can do,’ she said, and all at once Slade could hear the desperation in her voice. ‘There’s got to be.’
He looked at her. The haughty, don’t-touch-me look was gone. In its place was not just desperation but fear. She looked, he thought, as she had when he’d first seen her that morning in the lagoon—innocent and scrubbed and younger than her years.
For a moment he thought of taking her in his arms, of telling her that she didn’t have a damn thing to be afraid of. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t the villain she obviously thought he was, that he’d never hurt a woman in his life and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start with her. Most of all, he wanted to tell her that he didn’t give a damn for the emerald he was certain she’d found.
But then he thought of the way she’d looked at him that night at the Florinda, of how she’d looked just moments ago, after she’d realized she’d almost come to life in the arms of a man like him, and his heart hardened.
‘The only thing you can do,’ he said, ‘is make damned sure you keep up the pace—unless you want to stick around and see if that jaguar phones in his dinner reservation again.’
‘Jaguar? Is that what…?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Then—then why are we heading into the jungle? Why don’t we camp here for the night?’
‘What a great idea, Stuart. Why didn’t I think of that? We can stay right here, in the open, with the gorge at our backs so that if the jaguar comes to dine we have nowhere to run. Oh, and we can make things simple for the Mali-Mali, too. I mean, if it turns out I’m right and we’re not on their popularity list, they can dispose of us the same way they disposed of that bridge.’
Brionny’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t mean—you can’t mean—’
‘I noticed a small clearing on the way here. It wasn’t much, but it’s a lot safer than this.’ He gave Brionny a quick, cool smile. ‘Your choice, lady. You can tag along and take your chances with me or you can sit here and wait to see what strolls out of the trees first—the jag or the guys with the arrows.’
He turned without waiting for her answer and strode off into the jungle.
Brionny watched him go. Some choice, she thought bitterly. Slade had her pack. Her pistol. Her supplies.
And her emerald.
Oh, yes. It was one hell of a choice, but it was hers to make. Gritting her teeth, she set off after him.
Chapter Four
THE POSSIBILITY that Slade had lied, that he’d designed an elaborate charade for her benefit, didn’t strike Brionny until they were half an hour into the jungle.
At first, she was too preoccupied with trying to match his stride to think of anything. Then, gradually, her legs found the right rhythm and she fell in behind him, near enough to reach out and touch him had she wished—which, of course, she had no desire to do—but not so near that she would be subject to any more lectures or commands.
‘Don’t fall behind,’ he snapped, when she paused to fix her shoelace.
‘Aye, aye, Captain, sir,’ she said. ‘Any other orders?’
Slade shot her a cold glare. ‘Yes. I don’t like women with smart mouths.’
He turned away and Brionny made a face at his rigid back. What he didn’t like were women who couldn’t be bullied. Or intimidated. Or scared out of their socks with stories about hungry jaguars and tribes of bloodthirsty headhunters.
And, just that quickly, it came to her.
Suppose he was lying? Not about the jaguar—she’d heard the cat’s roar loud and clear, and anyway it was no secret that this stretch of virtually unexplored jungle was home to a considerable number of the big, handsome animals. But that stuff about being pursued by headhunters—what proof did she have that it was true? Yes, the rarely glimpsed Mali-Mali were rumored to have once been headhunters, but that was a long time ago. And it wasn’t as if McClintoch had produced the arrow he claimed had been shot into a tree ahead of him on the trail.
As for the bridge at El Kaia Gorge—someone had cut it, all right. Someone had deliberately hacked the swinging ropes in two, probably with a machete.
Slade had a machete. He could easily have cut the ropes himself.
How long would it have taken to do the job? One minute? Two? He’d had plenty of time; she’d come straggling out of the trees at least three or four minutes after him.
He had asked her about the Eye of God and she had denied having it. Maybe he hadn’t found her denial convincing. Maybe he thought she at least knew where the emerald was. It he wanted the stone badly enough—and she was certain he did—wouldn’t he try almost anything to get information from her? Scaring the wits out of her, then making her totally dependent on him for survival, would be a damned good start.
Brionny stared up the trail. Slade was a dozen yards ahead of her now, his figure vivid in the bright moonlight, marching along as if he owned the world. A knot of rage ballooned in her chest. It was all too neat and tidy: the ravaging band of headhunters supposedly stalking through the jungle, the rope bridge destroyed by vengeance-driven savages…She’d bet everything that none of it was real, that Slade had invented the tale for her benefit.
The only thing she had to f
ear was him!
This morning she’d awakened in a neatly kept camp, the junior member of a prestigious scientific team that had achieved the impossible. Now she was a secondclass citizen, slogging along on the heels of a self-styled Indiana Jones who barked out orders and expected her to jump.
She might have the academic credentials, but Slade McClintoch had all the tricks—and all her resources.
Brionny glared at his steadily retreating figure. Her gun was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Her backpack rode easily across his broad shoulders. He had everything of hers that would ensure survival in the jungle—not just the gun but the supplies in her pack, the bags of dried fruits and nuts, the water-purification tablets, the matches, the maps…
And he had the emerald. It was tucked inside the pack, just waiting for him to find. And when he did—when he did…
What unbelievable stupidity had made her stuff the Eye into a box of tea? A man searching for an emerald would go straight for it, just as she had when she’d sought a place to hide the stone. And then it would all have been for nothing—the professor’s years of research, his death in the steamy jungle, her future—all of it would be wiped out.
Slade would steal the stone and take off. By the time she found her way to civilization—assuming she did—he’d be long gone, and the Eye would be in the hands of some greedy unscrupulous collector, traded for enough money to keep Slade McClintoch in whiskey or women, or whatever it was men like him wanted, for a long, long time.
Anger made her incautious. Marching along blindly, her mind crowded with unpleasant images and her blood pumping with fury, she didn’t see the fallen tree that lay across the narrow trail. Her foot caught in a root and she tumbled to the ground.
Slade stopped and swung towards her as she scrambled to her feet.
‘What’s the problem?’ he snapped.
‘No problem,’ Brionny shot back. ‘Don’t worry about me, McClintoch. I assure you I can take care of myself.’
‘Am I to assume there’s some deep meaning in that remark, Stuart?’
‘I don’t much care what you assume.’
He smiled tightly. ‘You’re pushing your luck, lady.’