It Happened In Paradise. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
too late and, stumbling on the uneven, broken floor, she saved herself by grasping a handful of cloth as she fell against him.
He grunted as she went down, collapsing against him, taking him down with her. He flung his arms about her in an attempt to stop her from hurting herself further, but in her panic she began to fight him, threshing about to free herself.
‘Steady now,’ Jago muttered into her hair as he hung on, recognising the mindless fear that had overtaken her. ‘Calm down, for pity’s sake. You’ll only hurt yourself.’
And him. He didn’t bother to mention that just in case it gave her ideas.
It made no difference since she didn’t seem to hear him, but continued to struggle fiercely like a trapped animal and he winced and swore as she broke free, her elbow catching him a glancing blow on the jaw.
‘We’ll be all right,’ he said, keeping his voice low, doing his best to reassure her. ‘I’ll get us out of here.’
She wasn’t listening. Beyond simple reason, she was fighting blindly to escape and, swearing as he took another blow, he pressed his face into her breast to protect himself as he struggled to hold her.
‘Let me go!’ she demanded. ‘I don’t need you to get me out of here. Stick with your bottle…’ And she continued to kick and writhe until she connected solidly with his shin.
It was enough. The girl was slender but she had a kick like a mule and he rolled over, pinning her to the ground.
‘Be still,’ he warned, abandoning reassurance, making it an order. She continued to heave and buck beneath him, uncaring of the dust rising in choking clouds around them, too lost in her own spiralling hysteria to hear him, or to obey him even if she could.
He’d have to let go to slap her and while the temptation was almost overwhelming—he was still feeling that kick—he chose the only other alternative left open to him and kissed her.
It was brutal but effective, cutting off the stream of invective, cutting off her breath and, taken by surprise, she went rigid beneath him. And then, just as swiftly, she was clinging to him, her mouth hot and eager as she pressed against him, desperate for the warmth of a human body. For comfort in the darkness. A no-holds-barred kiss without a hidden agenda. Pure, honest, raw need that tapped into something deep inside him. And for a seemingly endless moment he answered it without question.
As suddenly as it began it was over. Miranda slumped back against the cracked and—now—sloping floor of the temple. Jago, his body flattening her to the ground, was horribly aware of the huge shuddering sob that swept through her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and for a hideous moment he thought she was apologising for kissing him. ‘I thought I had it.’ She shivered again. ‘I thought I had it under control…’
‘Hey, come on. You’re doing fine,’ he said, lifting his hand to her face in a gesture that was meant to offer comfort, reassurance but she flinched away from him.
‘Don’t! Don’t ever do that again!’
‘I could just as easily have slapped you,’ he said.
‘I wish you had.’
‘Fine. I’ll remember you said that the next time you get hysterical.’
‘In your dreams, Mr Jago,’ she declared fervently.
‘In yours, Ms Grenville.’
In truth they were both breathing rather more heavily and her verbal rejection was certainly not being followed up by her body. Or his. Being this close to a stranger, to a woman who was no more than curves that fitted his body like a glove, soft skin, a scent in the darkness, was doing something to his head.
Her hair, a short, sleek bob, was like silk beneath his hand and she smelled so sweet and fresh after the damp, cloying air of the jungle; a primrose after the heavy, drugging scent of the huge trumpet lilies that hung from the trees, drenching the air of the forest.
She was slender but strong, with a firm leggy body that he guessed would be perfectly at home on horseback. He knew the type. Had grown up with girls who sounded—and felt—like this. Haughty girls who knew their worth, girls bred for men who had titles, or with bank balances large enough to cancel out the lack of one. Made for swish hotels and six hundred-thread Egyptian cotton sheets rather than a stone floor and a man who’d walked away from such luxuries, from everything that went with it, a long time ago.
He knew—they both did—that if he kissed her again, it would be slow and hot and she’d be with him every step of the way and the thought of taking a woman like her on the cold stone, amidst the rubble, without any pretence, any of the ritual dance that a man was expected to go through before he could claim such a prize, was a temptation almost beyond measure.
‘Jago?’ Her voice, soft and low, pulled him away from his dark thoughts and he finally moved, putting an inch between them, knowing that it was his damaged ego, pride rather than passion, that was driving his libido. Demanding satisfaction. ‘Who are you?’
He’d asked her the same question. Her reply had been to ask whether it mattered.
Did it?
He’d grown up knowing exactly who he was, what his future held. He’d walked away from all of it, built another life. Now he was just a fool who had allowed a girl with a hot body to take him to the cleaners.
A fool who was about to become a serious embarrassment to a Cordilleran government minister who he suspected might find it very convenient if he never emerged from the ruins of his own excavations.
‘Me?’ he said. ‘I told you. I’m the man who’s going to get us out of here.’
‘Right.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
Oh, she was convinced, Manda thought. If it was possible, he would do it.
She’d briefly glimpsed Jago’s silhouette in the flare of the match; a dark mop of hair, a strong neck, broad shoulders that, as the light had gone out, had remained a ghostly negative imprint in the darkness.
The impression had been of power: not the weakness of a man who’d surrendered to the easy oblivion of drink. His face had been taut, firm to the touch. Beneath her fingers, his body had the sinewy, muscled strength of a man who knew how to work. And his mouth—she felt the weakness return; his mouth had not tasted of stale alcohol, but had the clean, hard, demanding authority of a man who was confident of his power to overwhelm all and any objections.
But what woman would object?
Despite their bad start, every instinct told her that he was the real deal, a true alpha male, and she’d come within a heartbeat of succumbing to an intimacy that she’d denied herself for so long, aware that, if only for a little while, this man had the ability to wipe out the darkness.
She had resisted the temptation, knowing that when the darkness returned it would be even worse.
Realising that she was still pressing herself against him, clinging close for support, warmth, comfort—something darker and more compelling—she pulled away and he didn’t make any move to stop her.
‘Convinced?’ she said, using the words, a disparaging tone to her voice, to put more distance between them, distract herself from the throbbing of lips that hadn’t been kissed that way in a very long time. Actually, had never been kissed that way. No gentleman ever kissed a woman like that. More was the pity… ‘Oh, please! I can tell when it’s the drink talking.’
‘Really?’ There was a long pause and in the darkness Manda fancied he was smiling, if a touch grimly, not fooled for a minute. ‘Well, maybe you’re right, but since I’m the only help you’re going to get, you might be wise to brush up your manners, Miranda Grenville.’
‘Why?’ She just couldn’t stop herself… ‘Will they help us burrow our way out of here?’
‘No.