It Happened In Paradise. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
it survived the fall.’
‘And if we could get a signal up here,’ he replied heavily, brutally crushing the wild surge of hope.
‘There’s no signal?’
She felt, rather than saw him shake his head, heard the muttered oath as, too late, he recalled the blow he’d sustained.
‘Are you okay?’ The chances were that he was suffering from concussion at the very least.
‘I’ll live,’ he replied. ‘Is there anything else that might be useful in this bag of yours?’
She suspected he’d asked more to keep her from falling apart again than for any other reason. She wasn’t fooled into thinking that it was personal, that he’d felt anything beyond lust when he’d kissed her. She mustn’t make that mistake ever again.
He’d protected her from falling masonry because, injured, she’d be even more of a liability. Even a speck of dust in her eye could have caused problems and he needed her fit and strong, not a feeble hysteric.
Heaven forbid he should feel obliged to kiss her again.
Heaven help him if he slapped her.
‘Water,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a bottle of water.’ She thought about it. ‘Make that half a bottle of water.’ Right now she would have given anything to have a mouthful of that. ‘Some mints. Pens. Wipes.’ She could really use one of those right now, too. What else? Her journal—no, forget that. ‘A foot spray—’
‘A foot spray?’
‘To cool your feet. When you’ve been walking in hot weather.’
‘Right. So, apart from the water and mints, that would be a “no” then,’ he said, definitely underwhelmed.
Just as well she hadn’t mentioned the deodorant and waterless antiseptic hand wash.
‘No matches, torch, string?’
‘String?’ She very nearly laughed out loud. ‘We’re talking about a designer bag here. An object of desire for which, I’ll have you know, there is a year-long waiting list. Not the pocket of some grubby little boy.’
‘So you’re the kind of woman who spends telephone numbers on a handbag. I hope I’m not meant to be impressed.’
‘It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me—’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘I’m far more interested in its contents.’
And he was right, damn him…
‘I’ve got one of those little travel sewing kits,’ she offered sarcastically. ‘It has some cotton in it, if you’re looking for an Ariadne solution to finding your way out of this maze of ruins.’ Then, ‘Ruined ruins…’
‘A pick and shovel would be more useful, but I accept that’s too much to expect. I’ll bear the offer of needle and thread in mind, though, in case I’m driven to the point where sewing your mouth shut seems like a good idea.’
‘There are safety pins in the kit for that, always assuming I don’t use them on you first.’
‘Well, now we’ve got all that out of the way, is there anything that might be in the slightest bit of use to us, because I’m not wasting time hunting for it in the unlikely event that my feet get hot.’
‘Wait! There’s a mini-light on my keyring,’ she replied, as she continued to mentally sift through the contents of her bag. ‘It came out of a Christmas cracker, but it’s better than nothing.’
‘A Christmas cracker?’
‘You have a problem with Christmas crackers?’ she demanded.
Last year had been her first ever proper family Christmas. Tinsel, a tree covered with bright ornaments, silly presents stacked beneath it. It had been Daisy’s idea of a good time, but they’d all been seduced by the complete lack of sophistication, the simple joy of a big fat turkey with all the trimmings, the bright red and green crackers for them to pull, the paper hats, silly jokes and plastic gifts.
Her cracker had contained a tiny light for illuminating locks that she’d hung on her silver Tiffany keyring.
‘There’s an attack alarm, too,’ she offered.
‘Did that come out of a cracker, too?’
‘No. That wouldn’t be very festive, would it?’ Then, ‘What about you? I saw some tools in one of the temples when we passed the entrance earlier. Was that this temple?’
‘The upper chamber, yes.’
‘Upper?’ Then they were underground? She didn’t ask. She really didn’t want to think about that. ‘The guide said it was too dangerous to enter.’
‘He was right. I tend to get seriously bad-tempered when heavy-footed tourists tramp all over my work.’
‘Oh. I assumed it was something to do with engineering works.’
‘Engineering?’
‘Making the place safe for people dumb enough to think this was a good way to spend an afternoon?’ Then, when he didn’t bother to answer, ‘Obviously not. So—what? You’re an archaeologist?’
‘Not an archaeologist. The archaeologist. The archaeological director of this site, to be precise.’
‘Oh…’ She frowned. All feminist ideals aside, she had to admit that it sounded rather more likely than that female in the clinging frock raising a sweat wielding a shovel. ‘So who was the woman on the television chat show?’
She felt him stiffen. ‘An opportunist with an agenda,’ he said tightly. Then, ‘I’m sorry. An engineer would undoubtedly be a lot more use to you right now.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Those sinewy arms were clearly used to hard physical work. ‘At least you know your way around, although, since I’m a heavy-footed tourist, maybe I’d better go and hunt for my attack alarm.’
‘Please yourself, but if you think setting it off will bring someone rushing to your rescue—’
‘No.’ And, pressed hard up against him, deprived of sight but with all her other senses working overtime, she said, ‘I seem to be in rather more trouble than I thought.’
‘You have no idea,’ he murmured, his mouth so close to her ear that the stubble on his chin grated against her neck and she could feel his breath against her cheek.
She remembered the feel of his lip against her thumb and it was a struggle to keep from swallowing nervously.
Nerves might be a justifiable reaction under the circumstances, but he’d know it was prompted by her nearness to him, rather than the situation they were in, and that would never do.
Instead, she turned her head so that she was face to face with him in the dark, so close that she could feel the heat of his skin and, lowering her voice to little more than a whisper, she said, ‘Do we have time for this, Jago?’
In the intensity of the silence, she could have sworn she heard the creak of muscle as his face creased into a grin. A grin that she could hear in his voice as he said, ‘Tough little thing, aren’t you?’
And, in spite of everything, she was grinning herself as she said, ‘You have no idea.’
For a moment they knelt in that close circle with every sense intensified by the darkness, aware of each other in ways that only those deprived of sight could ever be.
The slight rise and fall of Jago’s chest, the slow, steady thud of his heartbeat through her palm.
She could almost taste the pulsing heat of his body.
There was an intimacy, an awareness between