Книга - Expecting the Boss’s Baby / Twins Under His Tree: Expecting the Boss’s Baby

Expecting the Boss's Baby / Twins Under His Tree: Expecting the Boss's Baby
Christine Rimmer

Karen Smith Rose


Expecting the Boss’s BabyAll Zoe wanted was a job. So she calmly agreed to mogul Dax’s terms. A strictly hands-off policy was fine with her. But was it fine with him? Because the more no-strings-attached Dax swore he was immune to Zoe’s charm, the more he started envisioning a future – and a family – with her. Twins Under His TreeShe’d just gone into labour seven weeks early! Now Lily was the proud mother of twin baby girls. But she couldn’t have done it without Mitch Cortega. The combat surgeon was with her every step of the way. And the young widow was finding it awfully hard to resist Mitch’s overpowering masculinity…












Expecting the Boss’s Baby

Christine Rimmer

Twins Under

his Tree

Karen Rose Smith







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)



Expecting the Boss’s Baby


Dear Reader,

Zoe Bravo is beyond tired of being called the ‘free spirit’ of the family. She wants a job that holds herinterest and she wants to gain her family’s respect. Working as billionaire bachelor Dax Girard’s assistant seems perfect. Constant variety, travel to exotic locations and a chance to get a start in magazine publishing. What’s not to love?

Well, the boss first of all—yes, he’s dreamy and all the women are after him. But when it comes to his assistant, he wants to keep things strictly professional. That’s fine with Zoe. The last thing she’s after is a hot date with Dax. If only she could convince everyone else in the office that there is no way she’ll be like all his other assistants. She will not be falling for the boss. But then again, Dax is a very exciting man. And when he looks at her with those bedroom eyes of his, well, sometimes it’s hard to remember that it’s the job that matters. Sometimes it’s hard not to yearn for one long, tender kiss. Sometimes it’s hard not to wonder if Dax might be trying to tempt her into breaking the rules he made in the first place …

Happy reading everyone,

Christine Rimmer




About the Author


CHRISTINE RIMMER came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a sales clerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining ‘life experience’ for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.


For you, the reader.

May your holiday season be filled with love and light

and the joy of family togetherness.




Chapter One


“Can I lay it right out for you?” Dax Girard asked.

Sitting across his wide black desk from him, Zoe Bravo answered earnestly, “Yes, of course. Please do.” She did want this job. She wanted it bad. She had things to prove—to herself and to her family.

He arched a straight dark eyebrow. “You’re really pretty.”

Oh, please. Was he going to hit on her? Right here, during the interview? Euuu.

He wasn’t finished. “And if I were to meet you under other circumstances, I would be only too happy to have sex with you. But I need good staff, above all. So I have a house rule. You work for me, that’s all you do with me.”

Zoe stifled a burst of inappropriate laugher and sat up straighter in the chair. Somehow, she managed to reply with a straight face, “Seriously, it’s not a problem. I’ve known you for what, two minutes?”

Had that sounded sarcastic? Maybe a little.

But he had just told her he wouldn’t sleep with her—when she hadn’t even asked him to. He deserved a dose of attitude.

If he noticed the edge to her tone, he let it pass. “I think your mother is a wonderful woman.”

“She certainly is.” Zoe’s mom, Aleta Randall Bravo, was from an old San Antonio family. Aleta knew everyone, including the great adventurer and magazine publisher Dax Girard. It was her mom who had recommended her to Dax for this job, which meant Dax would most likely want to give Zoe a chance. People generally tried to please her mom. And not only because of the social connection thing either. There was something about Aleta that made you like her—and want her to like you.

He said, “And you seem … bright. I have a good feeling about you. I want to make this work.”

“Great,” Zoe answered, trying to sound positive and upbeat. “I do, too.”

“But I just need to have this clear with you, straight from the gate. Sex is absolutely off the table.”

She didn’t groan—but she really, really wanted to. Enough about sex already. How many times did she have to promise not to put a move on him?

Okay, yeah. He was hot—in that rich-guy, lean, preppy way. He looked like he played a lot of tennis. He probably jogged with his shirt off and gave all the women he wasn’t going to have sex with a thrill.

And she’d heard the stories about him, about how women found him irresistible. But not Zoe. She wanted a job, not a hot date. “I promise you, Dax. I’ll manage to control myself. Somehow.”

A long pause ensued. Zoe tried to look calm and competent and unconcerned while he stared at her steadily, his sexy, deep brown eyes narrowed. Probing. Apparently, he found it impossible to believe that she wouldn’t try and jump his bones at the earliest opportunity.

But then, at last, he dipped his handsome head of thick, wavy sable hair to study her résumé again. “Let’s see here. You were on the campus papers at two colleges. You type ninety words a minute, you know Microsoft Office.”

“Backward and forward, yes.”

“You’ve been to UT, Stanford and Brandeis, I see, majoring in Journalism and English.”

“So I know how magazine publishing works. Also, my spelling and punctuation skills are solid. I know my grammar.” What else could she say? Not too much about college. Yes, she’d attended the best schools. Too bad she’d never actually graduated from any of them. She was bright and she learned fast. But she’d always been … easily distracted, eager for the next life experience. And impatient with mundane activities like regularly attending classes and plodding through her assignments. She threw in, “I thrive in a fast-paced environment and I’m very much at home with multitasking.”

“All good.” He glanced up at her. “I understand you’re also an excellent amateur photographer, right?” His gaze was probing again. Was this a trick question?

She met his eyes levelly. “I enjoy photography, yes. It’s a hobby of mine.”

“I believe I saw some of your work at the Texas State Endowment Ball and Auction last month, didn’t I?”

“I suppose you did. I shot the pictures and the short film presentation for the chopper you won.” He’d bid six figures on the custom motorcycle, which had made the Texas State Endowment people, including Zoe’s mother, who chaired the event, very happy.

Dax smiled then. It was a stunningly gorgeous smile that created manly crinkles at the corners of his fine, dark eyes. “I love that bike. Your brother is a genius.”

“Yes, he is.” Jericho, sixth-born of the nine children in her family, designed and built custom motorcycles. He’d donated the chopper for the auction.

Dax was looking severe again. “Great Escapes is a travel magazine. And we do hire photographers. It’s even possible that eventually some of your work might be used in a story….” He let the sentence trail off.

She gave him a cool smile. “I thought we were discussing a job as your assistant.”

“You’re right. We are. And that’s why it’s important that we understand each other.”

So then they had a problem. A big one. She didn’t understand this guy at all.

He was still talking. “You would have your hands full fielding my calls, dealing with catering for meetings, handling my correspondence and any other of a thousand and one tasks I’ll be assigning to you. It’s doubtful you’d be getting your big break as a photographer.”

Zoe had to be honest with herself. This was not looking very promising. In spite of how much he admired her mother, he’d decided not to hire her. And by now, she was less than sure she wanted this job anyway. She crossed her legs, smoothed her slim skirt over her knees and said drily, “No sex, no pictures. Got it.”

He slanted her a look of purely male appreciation—and wasn’t there a hint of humor in that dark glance, as well? “Sorry.” All at once he looked kind of boyish and awkward. That surprised her. Until then, she’d never thought of Dax Girard as anything but all grown-up, a little too sophisticated—and way too concerned about not having sex with her. “I’m trying to cover all the bases here,” he said. “The truth is I haven’t had such great luck choosing my assistants in the past.”

Judging by the way he’d managed this interview, she wasn’t surprised.

He added, “Twice, I tried just letting HR handle it.” His mouth formed a grim line. “That didn’t work out either.”

It was none of her business, but she asked anyway. “Why not?”

He looked slightly pained. “I want someone efficient and professional. But not scary. Not … intimidating. I like a little personality in my assistant. Someone easy on the eyes. And a sense of humor is a must. HR couldn’t seem to strike the right balance on that.”

She realized that all his talk of sex and photography had not only annoyed her and made her wonder if she really wanted this job after all, but it had also somehow served to ease her nervousness. She spoke frankly, “I don’t know what else to tell you, Dax. I do have a personality. A pretty strong one, to be honest. I want an interesting job that doesn’t require the college degree I don’t have. Working for you just might be perfect. I subscribe to your magazine. I like the layout. The articles are fun and informative and make me want to visit the places I’m reading about. And I enjoy your editorials. And being your assistant would probably offer me a lot of variety, of varying kinds of responsibilities, which means I wouldn’t be bored.”

He stared out toward the big windows that provided a prime view of San Antonio real estate. “Well, yes. Variety, you’ll get. Beyond the usual, you’ll have some minor editorial responsibilities, probably assist on things like the calendar shoot.” The Great Escapes calendar featured gorgeous women wearing skimpy clothing in a wide range of beautiful settings. “You would have to expect to travel—not in the first few months, but certainly after I have time to learn to count on you.”

She brightened at the thought. “The monthly Spotlight?” Seven or eight months a year, when he didn’t use a contributing editor for the Spotlight, Dax personally traveled to some exotic locale for his feature story.

“Yes,” he said. “The Spotlight.”

She told him candidly, “I’m not looking for an office romance or a chance to break out my Nikon and start shooting. Just a job, Dax. Just this job.”

He frowned some more. And then he stood up. “All right. Let’s give it a try.”

She couldn’t believe it. He was hiring her after all. She bounced to her feet and took his offered hand.

He said, “There’s a two-week trial period, starting Monday. At the end of the two weeks, we talk again. We evaluate and make a decision on whether or not you stay on. Welcome to Great Escapes.”

She smiled then, a wide smile. If she liked working here, she would definitely be staying on—because she intended to make herself irreplaceable. “Thank you, Dax.”

“Monday. Check in with HR at eight-thirty.”

“I will. See you then.”



Dax sank back into his chair and watched Zoe Bravo go. She had a great walk, smooth, with just a hint of a sway to her softly curving hips. He liked her smile and those beautiful blue eyes.

But would she make a good assistant?

He had no clue. As he’d openly confessed to her, hiring editorial assistants was not his strong suit. In fact, he was lousy at it.

But he had liked her instantly, had wished he could ask her out instead of giving her a job. However, he’d felt a certain obligation to carry through with the offer he had made to her mother. Aleta Bravo was a charming woman. And he was pleased to be able to help her daughter get a start in publishing.

At the very least, he had a feeling Aleta’s daughter would be amusing. She would keep things lively around the office. He liked things lively.

And miracles did happen, didn’t they, now and then? Zoe just might turn out to be efficient, organized and hardworking, to have a talent for the magazine business.

Then he would get over his attraction to her and be grateful to have found her.

If not, well, it wasn’t as though he’d made a lifetime commitment to her. For once, he’d had the good sense to give himself an easy out. After fourteen days, he could simply let her go.

And he would. If she wasn’t a good fit, he would fire her two weeks from Monday with no hesitation.

And then he would ask her to have dinner with him.



Zoe’s cell started ringing when she got off the elevator on the ground floor: her mother. She smiled at the cute guy behind the security desk and tucked the BlackBerry back in her purse without answering it.

But then it rang again as she got in her car. Her mom must be wondering—and getting impatient about it.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Well?”

“He hired me.”

“Oh, I knew it. I think you’ll love this job, sweetheart.”

“I think so, too.” Or at least, she would if her new boss would only realize that the job was all she was after. “But I’m not locked in yet. It’s a two-week trial and then we’ll discuss a permanent position.”

“A trial? Is that usual?”

Zoe almost let herself get defensive. But not quite. It was a reasonable question after all. “I gather he hasn’t had good luck with his assistants. He’s a little trigger-shy. But that’s okay. I am going to be terrific.”

“I know you are.” Her mom was smiling. Zoe could hear it in her voice.

“Thanks for the heads-up on this, Mom.”

“I want to help. You know that.”

“I do know.” She stuck her key in the ignition. “Okay, then. I’m on my way to the salon next.” She blew a long strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. “I seriously need a cut. Gotta look good for my first day on the job. Love you and see you soon.”

“Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“We haven’t seen you for Sunday dinner at the ranch in a while….”

Zoe made a grim face at herself as she adjusted the rearview mirror. Bravo Ridge, the family ranch, was a short drive from San Antonio. Zoe’s mom and dad lived in SA, but most weekends they went to the ranch. Sunday dinner was kind of a family tradition. Not all the Bravo siblings made it every time, but they each made an effort to show up at least every month or two.

Zoe hadn’t gone in a while, not since early spring. She knew she was past due to put in an appearance.

“Zoe, honey, you still there?”

“Right here, Mom.”

“Say you’ll come.”

Zoe imagined her dad, Davis, getting all up in her face, calling her his little free spirit, teasing her in that totally annoying way he had, wondering aloud how long this job would last. “I don’t know, Mom. I have so much I need to do this weekend.”

“Please, honey. It really has been way too long.” Like most mothers, Aleta knew when to whip out the guilt card.

Zoe turned the key. Her cute little BMW’s precision engine purred to life. “All right. I’ll be there.”

“Great.” The pleasure in her mom’s voice was almost worth the potential headache of dealing with her dad. “Dinner’s at three or so, but come anytime.”



Sunday, she got to the ranch at quarter of three just as everyone was sitting down in the dining room.

Her dad was aggravatingly hearty. “Zoe. How’s my little girl?”

“Great, Dad. Doing well.” She put on a big smile and reminded herself that when he said “little girl,” he meant it with love. And she was his youngest child—well, if you didn’t count Elena, her half sister, who was a year younger. She went to him and he grabbed her in a hug.

When she tried to slip free, he put his big hands on her shoulders and held her in place. “What in the hell did you do to your hair?”

I am not going to let him get to me. She eased free of his grip and smoothed the thick curls that fell below her shoulders. “I always wanted to be a redhead. Now I am.” Like most of her decisions, she’d made it on the fly Thursday, after her interview with Dax Girard, when she went in for a cut. She’d stared at her reflection in her hairdresser’s mirror and decided she was beyond tired of having brown hair. It had to go.

And no matter what her father said, she knew the vibrant red looked good on her. It set off her fair skin and blue eyes.

“Ahem, well,” said her dad. “It’s very—”

“You look so hot.” Marnie, her brother Jericho’s bride of a little over a month now, came to her rescue.

Zoe turned gratefully into new sister-in-law’s embrace. “Hey. How’s married life?”

Marnie released her and slanted a happy glance toward her groom. Jericho slowly smiled. It was hard to believe he’d always been the family’s troubled loner. He didn’t seem the least troubled now. For the first time, he was really happy. With his life. And his new wife.

“It’s good,” said Marnie. “It’s very, very good.”

“You look beautiful, honey,” Aleta declared, already in her chair. Zoe went over and kissed her mom’s cheek and then sat down.

They began passing the platters of juicy T-bones, corn on the cob and baked potatoes.

It was a big turnout for a family Sunday. Everyone had shown up this time except for Travis, youngest of the boys. Travis was always off on some oil rig somewhere.

Matt and Corrine’s six-year-old, Kira, told them all about her new puppy, Rosie. “Rosie loves Kathleen,” she announced. Kathleen was Matt and Corrine’s second child, born the previous September. “Rosie wants to lick Kathleen all over. That’s what a dog does when she wants to give you a kiss. She licks you. It’s kind of icky and they slobber, you know? But Mommy says it’s only from love, so it’s all right.”

It was nice, Zoe thought, to have a few little kids around now for family gatherings. Her brother Luke and his wife, Mercy, had a boy, Lucas. Gabe’s wife, Mary, had a girl from her first marriage; Ginny was two now. Gabe doted on her. And Tessa, Ash’s wife and Marnie’s older sister, was four and a half months pregnant, so another niece or nephew was on the way.

After the meal, Zoe played pool in the game room, doubles, Marnie and Jericho versus Zoe and Abilene, who was Zoe’s older sister by a year. As she bent over the table to set up a bank shot, Zoe realized she was having a great time. Really, she had to remember how much she enjoyed her family. She needed to show up at these things more often, not let her dad’s careless remarks keep her away.

Around seven, she thanked Luke, who lived at the ranch full-time. She hugged Jericho and Marnie and headed for the door.

Her dad caught her as she was making her escape. “Zoe, hold on.” She felt the knot of tension gather at the back of her neck as he strode toward her. He was sixty now, but he still carried himself as if he owned the world—and everyone in it.

She braced herself for more criticism. But he only grabbed her in a last hug and told her not to be a stranger.

She looked at up at him and smiled. “I won’t, Dad. I love you.”

Gruffly, he gave the words back to her. “And I love you, too. Very much.”

Her car waited in the circular drive at the foot of the wide front steps. She slid in behind the wheel, turned the engine on and rolled down the windows. The hot June wind blew in and ruffled her newly red hair. For a moment, she just sat there, staring at the ranch house, which was big and white and modeled after the governor’s mansion, complete with giant Doric columns marching impressively along the wide front verandah.

Then she laughed and gunned the engine and took off around the circle and down the long front driveway, headed back to SA and her own cute, cozy condo. Life, right then, seemed very good, indeed. She was young and strong and ready, at last, to be more focused, more mature, less … easily distracted.

Her new job at Great Escapes magazine began tomorrow. She couldn’t wait to get started.

“What in the hell did you do to your hair?”

Those were Dax’s first words to her Monday morning, when he got off the elevator and saw her sitting at her new desk where the HR person had left her.

Zoe pressed her lips together to stifle a cutting reply. She really didn’t want to start right off trading insults with the boss.

But on the other hand, she needed to be herself or this job wouldn’t last any longer than any of the others had. Being herself would have to include fighting back when Dax pissed her off.

And anyway, hadn’t he said he wanted someone with personality?

She yanked open the pencil drawer, grabbed the dagger-shaped letter opener from the tray within, raised it high and stabbed the air with it. “Do you realize that is exactly what my father said to me yesterday at Sunday dinner?”

He moved back a step and eyed the letter opener sideways.

She pressed her point—both literally and figuratively. “You don’t need to know all the issues I’ve got with my dad. You just need to know there are issues and you would do well not to turn out to be too much like him.”

With gratifying caution, Dax inquired, “Are you really planning to stab me with that thing?”

“Oh, I guess not.” She dropped it back in the pencil tray and shoved the drawer shut again. “I have to face facts. If I kill you, who will sign my paychecks?”

He was still staring at her hair. “Okay. Now that I’m over the shock, I admit it suits you,” he grumbled.

She gave him her sweetest smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And we can move on.”

“Coffee first,” he commanded low.

She peered at him more closely. Killer handsome, of course. But tired, too. There were dark circles under those wonderful bedroom eyes. “Long night?”

“Aren’t they all?” He named a place around the corner where the lattes were excellent. “Petty cash in the bottom drawer.”

She pulled out the drawer in question. There was a little safe mounted inside, with a combination lock. He rattled off the combination. She grabbed a pencil and jotted the numbers on a sticky note.

He said, “Get me the strongest coffee they’ve got, black, extra-large. When you bring it in to me, come armed with a notebook or your laptop and we’ll get down to what I want from you today. After that, you get with Lin Dietrich.” He turned and gazed over the large open workspace of desks, tables, machines and semi-cubicles. “Lin!”

A slim, beautiful Asian woman with a streak of cobalt blue in her thick, straight black bangs popped up from behind a glass partition. “What now?”

Dax signaled her over. When she reached his side, he announced proudly, “Lin’s the best editorial assistant I ever had, which means I had to promote her. My loss. Your gain. Lin is features editor now. But today, she’ll be with you, showing you everything you need to know.”

Lin gave Dax a narrow look, and then sent a wry smile in Zoe’s direction. “Because there’s nothing I need more than a little extra work to do.”

“I learn fast,” Zoe promised.

“Best news I’ve heard so far today.” Lin’s expression said she’d believe it when she saw it.

“Coffee,” Dax said one more time, in a pained voice. He turned and went into his office without waiting for a reply, swinging the door firmly shut behind him.

Lin laughed. “He’s always at his most charming on Monday mornings. Better get that coffee. I’m here when you’re ready for me.”



Dax finished telling Zoe what he wanted from her at a little after ten. She found Lin, who took a few minutes to introduce her around the office. More than one of her new colleagues teased her about falling for the boss. Wearily, Zoe reassured each one that it wasn’t going to be a problem.

Once the introductions were made, Lin then began guiding her through the mile-long list of high-priority duties Dax had given her.

At noon, she and Lin went to a coffee shop down the street for a quick lunch.

“I feel it’s only right that I say something,” Lin warned. “I can’t stress it strongly enough. If you fall for him, he will have to let you go.”

Zoe made the sign of the cross. “Lin. Please. Not you, too.”

“Did Dax warn you about the problem?”

“Repeatedly. And you heard the others back at the office. The subject is getting seriously old.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s an issue. You don’t have to take my word for it. Just wait. You’ll see. He loves women. Women love him. They can’t seem to help it. He can’t seem to say no.”

Zoe sipped her iced tea. “What about you? You were his assistant once. Did you fall in love with him?”

“Uh-uh. I had my secret weapon.” Lin held up her left hand. She wore a thick platinum wedding band.

“A husband.”

Lin beamed. “Roger.” She sighed in a dreamy way. “He’s an aerospace engineer.” She pulled her wallet from her giant black tote and took out a picture. Roger had blond hair, an angular face and thick-rimmed black glasses. “Hot, huh?”

“Very handsome.”

“He’s the only man for me.” Lin pressed the picture to her heart before tucking it away in her wallet again. “So I’m immune.”

“But what about every other woman in the office? I haven’t heard any predictions that they’re doomed to fall for Dax. What makes me so special?”

Lin shrugged. “It’s the constant proximity, I think.

The daily close exposure to him when you work directly for him. I don’t know what it is about him. He must have some genetic anomaly. An excess of sex pheromones maybe.”

“Oh, come on. You’re not serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” Lin tipped her head, studying Zoe. “And you’re exactly his type.” The blue streak in her hair caught the light, gleaming. “It’s sad, really. I tend to think of it as Dax’s fatal flaw. He hires the pretty ones with personality. And then they fall head-over-heels for him.”

“Not me. Can we be done talking about this?”

Lin picked up her fork and stuck it in her Cobb salad. “Too bad you’re not already in love with someone else.”

… in love with someone else….

The words bounced around in Zoe’s brain.

Lin was right. Zoe needed a man. Her man. A man she adored, who adored her in return. Such a man would be the perfect way to get everyone at Great Escapes to stop predicting her inevitable, job-destroying, hopeless passion for the boss.

Too bad her man didn’t exist—or if he did, Zoe had failed, so far, to meet him.

She pushed her coleslaw around on her plate, considering. Not that she was in any way ready for her own personal hero, not yet. She had things to prove, a success to make in the business world, before she found the man for her and settled down.

Besides, right now she didn’t need an actual guy. No way. She didn’t have the time for a flesh-and-blood Mr. Wonderful who would drag along love and commitment and a shared mortgage. Uh-uh. It was the idea of the guy that mattered. It was that everyone believed she had a guy who was the only guy for her.

She slanted Lin a glance. “Maybe I am in love already.”

Sharp black eyes widening, Lin looked up from her plate. “There is someone special, then?”

“I … don’t want to say anything right now. It’s, um, well, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated is fine. Whatever. As long as there’s someone and you’re in love with him.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so. If you’re serious about getting a start at Great Escapes, a special guy would be the best thing for you. And for Dax. And for the poor, overworked ladies down in HR.”




Chapter Two


Zoe took that whole week to make up her mind.

Really, it was a wild idea. Not to mention a total lie. She didn’t want to get involved in an elaborate fiction if she could avoid it. It could be dangerous. There was always the possibility she would get caught, and not only by tripping herself up. What if Dax ran into her mother or father or someone in the family and happened to mention that Zoe had a fiancé?

That could be embarrassing.

But, then, as far as tripping up, she could make notes, create her own personal hero from the ground up, so that he became the next thing to real for her. Then she would be unlikely to contradict herself when she spoke of him.

And as far as her family, well, how much chance was there that they would blow the whistle on her? It wasn’t as though Dax knew her family well, or hung around with them or anything. Even if he ran into her mother somewhere, it would only be Hello, how are you? And have a nice day.

True, her mom might ask how Zoe was doing on the job. He would say how great she was—well, he’d better say how great she was, because she intended to be even better at the job than Lin had been—and that would be that.

No reason a fiancé even had to come up.

And she wouldn’t have to tell the lie forever. Eventually, when she was certain that Dax had stopped worrying she might try to seduce him, when everyone in the office quit waiting for her to drag him into the supply closet and ravish him, she could end it with her imaginary groom-to-be. Because, well, sadly, sometimes even the most perfect relationships don’t last.

Yeah. It was workable. Totally workable.

Still, she hesitated. Maybe if she just held tight, the issue would resolve itself. Dax and everyone else at the office would see she wasn’t the least interested in him and that would be that.

She wished.

Unfortunately, as that first week went by, it was becoming painfully clear that the issue was not resolving itself, that she had to do something.

Because Dax really was very attractive. He was so smart and funny. So yummy to look at. And he always smelled wonderful—fresh and clean, a little minty. And way too manly.

And now and then, she’d catch him watching her in a speculative way. As though he was attracted to her, too. As if he saw the inevitable approaching and wasn’t dreading it all that much, that she was bound to make a pass at him and he was bound to take her up on it.

And then he would have to tell her that she wasn’t working out. She’d be out of a job and her father would give her a hard time about it, once more making Sunday dinner at the ranch an experience she only wanted to avoid.

Thursday, as she was trying to make some headway organizing Dax’s bottomless pile of slush submissions, the elevator doors rolled wide and a tall brunette in four-inch cage heels and satin cargoes stepped off. She smoothed her Grecian-style chiffon top, which had a plunging neckline that lovingly revealed a lot of ripe, tanned cleavage.

“Dax, please.” She ordered him up like a cocktail, in a husky voice, batting her big Bambi eyes.

“Have a seat. I’ll just buzz him and see if he’s—”

“Oh, he’ll see me.” The woman breezed right on by.

“Wait. You can’t …”

But apparently, she could. She already had his door open and was lounging seductively against the door frame. “Dax.”

“Faye,” he said from within. “What a surprise.”

Zoe jumped up. “Uh, Faye, if you’ll only wait a minute, I’ll just—”

Dax cut her off. “It’s all right, Zoe.” Did he sound annoyed—with her, for not stopping the woman in time? Or with Faye, for popping up out of nowhere to lounge against his office door? Zoe couldn’t tell. And she couldn’t read his expression, as Faye was blocking her view. “Hold my calls,” he instructed.

“Uh. Sure.”

Faye sent a triumphant smile over her shoulder as she went in and shoved the door shut with the tall heel of her cage shoe.

When she came out twenty-eight minutes later, there was no mistaking the glow to her cheeks and the swollen, red, very-much-kissed look about her full lips. The dark brown hair was a bit mussed. And the Grecian-inspired top draped a little differently than when she’d gone in.

She blew a tender kiss in through the open doorway. “Tomorrow night?”

“I can’t wait,” came Dax’s deep, smooth voice from inside the office.

With one last knowing glance in Zoe’s general direction, Faye strutted into the elevator. The doors slowly closed. Zoe shifted her gaze back to her computer screen. She stared blindly at a proposal titled, “Pack It Lite: Never Check a Bag Again,” and tried to figure out exactly what she was feeling.

It couldn’t be jealousy, could it?

It couldn’t be that she could actually picture herself coming out of Dax’s office with her shirt on crooked and her hair all wild?

No. Absolutely not. She wanted this job. She liked this job. And nothing—especially not a burning desire to get down with the boss—was going to mess this up for her.

Friday, when she came in after lunch, Dax called her in for an afternoon huddle.

They had a lot to do and a short time to do it in. He would be gone from the office after next Wednesday. Thursday morning, he and a photographer and Lulu Grimes, one of the associate editors, were off to Melbourne for the December Spotlight, “Aussie Holiday.”

He would be gone a full week. He wanted to be sure she had his travel arrangements under control. Also, he needed to make the most of the time he had in the office next week. Scheduling had to be flawless. And he had to have everything that would need doing while he was in Australia effectively delegated.

Twice during that meeting, she caught him looking at her legs. This was not good—especially since she found she liked to have him looking at her legs.

Something definitely had to be done.

Saturday morning, she took action. She found a dingy little shop in a part of SA where she would never run into anyone she knew. The brawny, heavily tattooed guy behind the desk offered a nice range of cubic zirconia engagement and wedding rings. She chose a fat emerald-cut solitaire in a faux-platinum setting. It looked impressive—and real—on her finger, the price was right and the fake stone was really, really big and sparkly.

She took the ring home. Monday, before she went to the office, she slipped it onto her ring finger.

An hour and ten minutes later, when the elevator doors slid wide and Dax stepped off, the art assistant, two associate editors and Lin were gathered in an admiring circle around Zoe’s desk.

Dax wore dark glasses. And even though Zoe couldn’t see his eyes, he looked at least as tired and cranky as he had the Monday before. Had he been with Faye all weekend? If so, the woman must be insatiable. He looked drained of energy—and probably bodily fluids, as well.

“What’s going on?” he groused. “Why aren’t you people working? There’s a planning meeting at ten in the conference room downstairs.”

“Dax.” Lin answered for all of them. “We know. We actually do get your memos. And after we get them, we read them.”

He made a growly sort of sound low in his throat. “I’ll expect at least five solid ideas from each of you. And Zoe, where’s my coffee?”

Lin gave her a big smile. “Zoe, it’s so beautiful. Seriously, I’m beyond happy for you.” She winked so fast that only Zoe could have seen it and added archly, “On more than one level.” She turned to go. The others dispersed with her.

Zoe grabbed the coffee she’d picked up on the way in and held it out to him. “Venti, bold and black. Good morning, Dax.”

He took the coffee. “What’s beautiful? Why is Lin happy for you?”

She held up her other hand and wiggled her fingers. The fake diamond glittered in a satisfyingly blinding fashion. “Johnny proposed,” she announced on a happy sigh. “And I told him yes.”

He took the lid off his coffee and stared down into it. Even though the sunglasses obscured his eyes, she assumed he was checking to make sure she hadn’t slipped a little half and half in there or something. He sniffed at the contents and then demanded darkly, “Who’s Johnny?”

She arranged her expression into a thoughtful frown. “Didn’t I tell you about Johnny?”

“Not one word.”

“Oh, I can’t believe I never mentioned Johnny.” She released another gusty sigh. “What can I say about Johnny?” She waved the hand with the ring on it. Flashes of refracted light bounced off the acoustical tile ceiling. “I met him at Stanford. Years ago. He’s from a really old and important California family. He moved to San Antonio last fall. We’ve been dating— both seriously and exclusively. Saturday, he asked me to be his wife.”

Dax winced as he took off the sunglasses. “Well, give Johnny my congratulations. He’s a fortunate man.” He squinted at her. She couldn’t tell if he was disappointed that they weren’t ever having sex after all. Or if he just had a really bad hangover.

She beamed. “Yes, he’s a lucky man. And I’m a happy, happy woman.” She tried to look deeply in love as well as sexually sated.

His brow crinkled. “So does this mean you’ll be giving me notice?”

She blinked. “Notice? Of course not. I intend to work for you for years and years.”

He reminded her drily, “That is, if you pass your two-week review.”

She brushed a curl of red hair back over her shoulder. “You know I will. Already, after one week, you can’t function without me. And Johnny knows I love my new job. He would never ask me to quit.”

“Johnny sounds like a real prize,” he remarked with absolutely no inflection.

“Oh, he is, he is.”

“In fact, he almost sounds too good to be true.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “He does, doesn’t he? But he is very real. A man of flesh and blood, of—”

“Zoe?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t overplay it.” He gave her one of those looks, both patient and all-knowing. Was he on to her little deception—already, when she’d barely begun it?

Surely not.

She smiled at him, a sweet smile. Angelic, even.

“All right, Dax. I’ll do my best to keep my unbounded, ecstatic happiness to myself.”

“Excellent. We need to prep for the meeting.”

“The caterers from the bakery should be here by nine-thirty.”

“Good. Give me ten minutes to pull myself together. We’ll do a quick once-over of what has to be covered before we go down.”

“I’m ready.”

He shook his head. “Are you always so eager on a Monday morning?”

She beamed. “I’m young, I’m in love and I’ve got a great job.”

“Ugh.” He put his dark glasses back on. “That does it. I absolutely forbid you to smile again until at least 11 a.m.”

“I live to serve.” She mugged an exaggerated frown.

“There. That’s more like it.”



During the first three days of that week, Zoe made up a lot of stuff about Johnny—most of it on the spot when someone would ask her a question about him and she would have to produce an answer. Later, at home alone in the evening, she would open her “Johnny” file and add in whatever new information she’d fabricated about the new love of her life. It worked out well. She made up stuff and then she made sure she remembered what she’d said.

Johnny, as it turned out, was allergic to strawberries. His last name was Schofield—of the Mendocino Scho-fields. He traveled a lot, taking care of various “family interests.” He loved long walks on the beach and quiet nights at home and he was an accomplished horseman.

He had moss-green eyes and dark gold hair that Zoe loved to run her fingers through. He was tender and loving, a good listener. He truly was the perfect man.

Well, except for the fact that he didn’t exist.

Wednesday afternoon, as they were going over Dax’s travel checklist for the last time, Zoe caught him yet again looking at her legs. She went right on with her rundown of his itinerary. There was no law that said he couldn’t look.

She felt much more relaxed around him now. More confident in her ability to resist his considerable charm and powerful sex appeal. Johnny, as it turned out, had been just what she needed to help her keep her priorities in order.

Her big fake engagement diamond glittered at her, reminding her that she knew what she wanted and she would not be distracted from what mattered in her life. She smiled a soft, contented smile. She was keeping this job and she was going to be the best editorial assistant there was. Eventually, she might move on to become an editor in her own right.

Or, if Dax was willing to pay her enough to continue as his assistant, she would consider a new title of Executive Secretary to the Editor-in-Chief. And the fat paycheck that went with it.

She was going to go far at Great Escapes. But all in good time.

Thursday, with Dax on his way to Australia, she dug into the slush pile. She wanted to get caught up on the unagented submissions, get them logged and categorized by the time he returned.

She liked reading slush. She found she could pick out the stories with potential. Those she flagged so Dax would be sure to give them a more careful look.

Reading slush also helped her to get ideas of her own. It inspired her to think in terms of what kinds of stories and features she might contribute to Great Escapes. It never hurt to plan ahead, to start preparing for the day when coming up with a story might become part of her job.

Sunday, the Fourth of July, she went out to the ranch again. She got there at eleven in the morning and stayed for the fireworks after dark. She had a great time, enjoyed the meal and the family conversation, and didn’t once want to burst into tears because of some thoughtless remark her dad had made.

Monday at noon, she slipped off the fake diamond she’d put on that morning and met her sister Abilene for lunch at the Riverwalk. They split a turkey and mozzarella panini and Zoe talked about how much she loved her new job, while Abilene tried hard to stay upbeat.

Back in January, Abilene had won an important fellowship to co-design a children’s center in collaboration with a certain world-famous architect. Now, months later, the project was on hold for some reason that was unclear to Abilene.

At least she’d managed to get some temporary work, thanks to Javier Cabrera. Javier owned Cabrera Construction and had been kind enough to take Abilene under his wing, hiring her to do some drafting for him and also to help him out at the construction sites of a couple of houses he was building.

Javier’s relationship to the Bravo family was complicated, to say the least. But Abilene didn’t seem to care about the family issues. She really liked Javier and appreciated that he’d put her on his payroll until the fellowship came through.

“If it ever does,” Abilene said with a heavy sigh. “By now, I’m beginning to wonder. And I am beyond frustrated with the whole situation.”

They agreed it was pretty ironic, actually. Always in the past, Abilene was the one who knew what she wanted from life and stayed happy and focused, working toward her goals. Now, Zoe was the one doing work that she loved. And Abilene was feeling powerless, trying to decide what she ought to do now: start looking for fulltime work. Or keep waiting in hopes that the fellowship would finally come through.

Dax returned Thursday morning. He called Zoe in first thing and they had a two-hour huddle, catching up, organizing priorities for the next couple of days.

When she stood to return to her desk, he said, “It’s good to be back, Zoe. I missed you. Lulu doesn’t read my mind anywhere near as well as you do.”

It was a huge compliment. She clutched her laptop to her chest and tried not to look as dewy-eyed and thrilled as she felt. “Good. It was always my plan to become indispensable.”

“And I’m beginning to believe your plan is working.” They shared a long look—too long. He blinked first. “So, how’s it going with Johnny?”

She almost asked, Who? But by some minor miracle, she caught herself in time. “He’s … wonderful. In, uh, New York for a couple days. Left this morning, as a matter of fact. Some Wall Street deal, I think.”

“Ah.”

They looked at each other some more.

Get a grip, Zoe. Get it firm and get it now. “Well, okay, then. I’ll just … go on back to my desk.”

He nodded and reached for the phone. Twenty minutes later, he was on his way to a meeting. And another after that. The meetings went on until two.

At two-thirty, he went to work finishing the Spotlight on the Australian trip, locking himself in his office, only accepting calls if something absolutely couldn’t wait. He stayed until after seven, and she stayed, too, just in case he might need anything while he pushed through to his deadline.

When he left, he asked her to look over what he’d written, just for grammar and punctuation. She said she would be happy to and tried not to let him see how ridiculously pleased and honored she felt.

She took the piece home with her and read it eagerly over take-out pot stickers and fried rice, red pencil within reach. It was really good. But then, his Spotlights always were. He had a master’s in Journalism from Yale. More than that, though, he was a fine writer. He wrote with authority, but in an easy conversational style. He made you feel like you were there, with him, no matter how distant or exotic the locale.

In the morning, she emailed him back the manuscript. As she was leaving him after the usual huddle, she told him the Aussie holiday Spotlight was excellent.

He arched a brow. “No changes?”

She gave him a slow smile. They both knew the question was a test. He hadn’t asked her to do an edit. “Three or four typos. I corrected them.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

“Do you realize that it’s been over two weeks since you started and we’ve yet to get to that review?”

She shrugged. “It’s been a busy time.”

He agreed. “It’s always busy around here.”

She suggested, “Maybe … next week?”

“How about right now?”

Her stomach lurched, which was absurd. He was happy with her work. He’d made that abundantly clear. She had nothing to worry about.

“All right.” She settled back down into the club chair. Her palms were actually sweating. She had to resist the need to rub them on her skirt. What was her problem? They both knew he was going to offer her a permanent job.

Didn’t they?

He said, dark eyes knowing, “Zoe, are you nervous?”

She considered lying. She’d made up a fiancé, for heaven’s sake. To lie about being anxious should be nothing next to that. But then, in the end, she told the truth. “Yeah.” She let out a careful breath. “Whew. It’s crazy, because I know I’m doing a terrific job for you. But I am nervous.”

“Why?” He was looking at her so steadily. With real interest. Maybe more interest than he ought to have in his assistant—his engaged assistant. She wished he would stop looking at her that way.

But he didn’t.

And perversely, she loved that he didn’t.

Her nervousness turned to something else. Something a lot like excitement.

She told the truth again. “I love this job. I’ve finally found something that suits me. There’s never a dull moment. I can handle this job, but it doesn’t bore me.

There’s always something new, something to challenge me. I wake up in the morning and I look forward to going to work. Until Great Escapes, I never felt that way about anything—at least not for more than ten minutes or so.”

“You want to stay.”

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“You did. And I’m glad you did.” He stared at her some more. Her cheeks felt warm. She had this … glowing sensation, kind of fizzy and happy and so very lovely. “Now is the time I should tell you where your work falls short.”

She wanted to be the best, which meant she had to be open to criticism, to ways she could improve. “Yes. Good idea.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“Uh.” Alarm jangled through her. What was he trying to say? “You are?”

“Because your work doesn’t fall short.”

Her alarm turned to satisfaction. Was she grinning like an idiot? Probably. But so what? She worked damned hard and it was good to hear how he appreciated that.

He said, “You’re a self-starter, but you have no problem asking for help when you need it. You take criticism well, and you make use of it. So far, I only have to tell you once when I want you to change something you’re doing.”

The fizzy, bright feeling was back. And getting stronger. He kept on looking at her. Admiringly. Almost hopefully. She stared at his mouth and wondered what his lips would feel like touching hers. She thought about how she really would like, someday, to find out.

And then the phone rang.

Dax didn’t answer it. In fact, he had the thoroughly unreasonable urge to pick the damn thing up, rip the cord free of the jack and throw it hard against the wall.

For a minute there, he’d almost thought Zoe was about to make a move on him. And being human and male, he’d wanted her to. A lot.

Which made him pretty damn stupid now, didn’t it? If the phone hadn’t rung, if she had made a move on him, he would very likely have taken her up on it.

And then, one way or another, he would have ended up losing the best assistant he’d ever had—even better than Lin.

The phone rang a second time. And a third.

When Zoe started to rise, he said low, “Don’t. The front desk can take a message.”

She sank back into the chair, a slightly stunned look on her face, those very kissable lips of hers parted, breathless. She knew exactly what had almost happened.

Did she regret that it hadn’t? He couldn’t help but hope so.

The phone jangled once more. And then it was quiet.

Neither of them said a word. He was aware that the tension between them was dissipating, that the dangerous moment had passed. They would not become lovers. And he would not have to try to find someone to replace her.

He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved.

Or furious.



Zoe started to lick her lips, caught herself doing it and made herself stop. Her heart was suddenly going a hundred miles an hour, just galloping away in her chest, like wild mustangs on steroids.

That had been close.

Too close. Lucky for her, the phone had rung. If not, she might have …

She cut that thought dead.

No. She wouldn’t have. She had her priorities in order. The job was what counted. Yes, she had a thing for the boss. A minor thing, a totally get-overable thing, just like every other woman on the planet.

She would get past it. Over time, the attraction would fade by itself. And when it did, she would still be working at Great Escapes.

Dax started discussing her salary.

She had the sense of having passed some important test, of having chosen the job she loved over the man everybody loved. She knew she had made the best choice.

And yet, she still couldn’t completely deny a certain sadness, a touch of tender melancholy. She caught her left hand with her right and turned the big, fake diamond idly back and forth as she and Dax discussed his expectations of her—and hers, of the job.

She knew what she wanted and she had it in her grasp: her dream career. And it—this, now—was only the beginning. She was going to go far. She knew it. She was absolutely certain of it. She could go to Sunday dinner at Bravo Ridge for the rest of her life and not care what thoughtless remarks her dad might toss off at her. The free spirit of the family was all grown up now, taking on a professional woman’s responsibilities and loving every minute of it.

Uh-uh. She was not sad. Not sad in the least. She would never know what it would feel like to kiss Dax Girard. And that was fine. It was right.

She had made her choice and she was at peace with it.




Chapter Three


The next week, on Thursday, Faye showed up again.

That time, Zoe acted fast. She jumped up and blocked the way to Dax’s door. “Let me just check.”

A slow sigh and then the sexy, husky voice. “If you insist.”

“Have a seat. This won’t take a minute.”

Faye made an impatient sound low in her throat, but then she did go over and drop into one of the chairs by the enormous potted snake plant in the corner. Zoe turned and tapped on Dax’s shut door.

“What?”

She opened it and stuck her head through. “Faye is here.”

“Faye,” he repeated blankly. Then he blinked. “Oh. Where?”

Zoe tipped her head toward the chair by the snake plant. “I’ll show her in.”

“No.” He rose and came around the desk. “I’ll come out there.” Zoe moved aside and he emerged from his office. He aimed a practiced smile at the brunette. “Faye, I wasn’t expecting you.”

Faye stood up. “You ought to check your voice mail now and then.”

He went to her. She reached to embrace him. He smoothly slid from her grasp, simultaneously taking one of her hands and tucking it around his forearm. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

The Bambi eyes shone with tears. “Oh, Dax …”

He led her to the elevator. They got in and the doors slid shut. Zoe heard the faint whoosh and lurch as the car started down.

Was he dumping Faye? It sure looked like it.

Zoe didn’t know what she felt about that. A little sorry for Faye, maybe, which surprised her. A little annoyed with Dax.

How old was he anyway, thirty-five or thirty-six? Old enough to stop jumping from one woman’s bed to the next. If he didn’t watch it, he’d end up ancient and wrinkled, wearing a satin bathrobe, with a blonde young enough to be his granddaughter on his arm.

That image made her wince. And then she couldn’t help but laugh. Dax was Dax. A woman was only begging for trouble if she started expecting him to change his ways.



Dax really hated it when a woman cried.

When a woman cried, it made him feel crappy and powerless. Tears were the one thing a man had no idea how to fight. You couldn’t win an argument with tears. You couldn’t punch a tear’s lights out.

You just had to sit there and try to think of the right thing to say, try not to make promises you had no intention of keeping.

He took Faye to a bar not far from the office. A nice, dark, quiet place where few of his associates ever went. He guided her toward a booth in the back.

Business was pretty slow. The bartender came over and took their drink order. Faye wanted a Cosmopolitan; Dax just had club soda. He had work to do back at the office and he couldn’t afford to be fuzzy-headed when he returned.

The drinks arrived. The bartender went off to mind his own business.

Faye sipped her pretty pink drink and sobbed. She told him she loved him.

He felt like a jerk.

He probably was a jerk, but that wasn’t the issue right now. The issue was Faye and how it was over with her and how he had to get her to see that, to look on the bright side, to remember what a good time they’d had and realize she was ready to move on.

Faye kept on sobbing. He didn’t have any tissues handy, so he passed her a cocktail napkin.

She delicately dabbed her wet eyes with it. “You’re such a jerk.”

He wasn’t offended. It was only what he’d just been thinking himself. He spoke gently, “Come on, Faye. Don’t. It’s going to be all right.”

She sniffled and delicately dabbed at her eyes some more, trying to mop up the tears without smearing her makeup. “I knew. From the beginning. It’s not as if I wasn’t warned. Love never lasts with you.”

Love. He hadn’t mentioned love. Not once. He kept love strictly out of his vocabulary when he dated a woman. It was ingrained in him, a nonnegotiable rule. And he never broke a nonnegotiable rule.

He said, “I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together.”

She sniffed, sobbed, swallowed. “Enjoyed. Past tense. Oh, Dax …”

“You’re young and so beautiful …”

“Is that supposed to make everything all right? Well, it doesn’t, okay? It just doesn’t.”

He tried to think of the next thing to say. He was usually reasonably glib when it got to this point. But he didn’t feel glib today. He only felt … sorry. Really, really sorry. “I’m sorry, Faye. Truly.”

She dabbed at her mascara some more. “Sorry doesn’t do me any good.”

“I know.”

“They say that you end up friends with most of your ex-girlfriends.”

“I like to think that’s true.”

“Well, I don’t want to be friends, Dax. I really don’t.” She picked up her Cosmo and downed it in one long swallow. Then she set the stemmed glass down hard. “I guess that’s it. Goodbye, Dax.” She slid out of the booth and headed for the door.

After Faye was gone, Dax stayed in the booth alone for a while, sipping his club soda, thinking about how he hated ending it with a woman. Endings were depressing. He liked beginnings a lot better.

Too bad beginnings never lasted. Too bad the nature of a beginning was to move along toward another ending. And the only way to stop the endings was to stop enjoying the beginnings.

Unless a man decided to settle down, to find someone he could share a lifetime of middles with, so their story had no end. But a lifetime of middles wasn’t on his horizon. He was never getting married again.

For no particular reason, he thought of Zoe. Of her too-good-to-be-true fiancé who had yet to show his face around the office. Of what a great assistant she was. Of how he would never have to end it with her—well, except when she moved up the next rung of the editorial ladder, which was bound to happen, and probably sooner than later.

That would be a pain in the ass, trying to find another assistant.

But he would manage it somehow. There was going to be no holding Zoe back, he knew that.

At least when he lost her there wouldn’t be any crying, no groping for the right words and coming up with only hollow clichés. She would be happy when he lost her. He would be resigned, would do his best to keep her at the magazine. If he couldn’t have her guarding his office door forever, at least Great Escapes could get the benefit of her talent and drive.

And that was as good as it got.

In the end, a guy had to be grateful for small favors.



“So I have this idea …” Zoe said the following Tuesday, as they were winding down the morning huddle.

He’d been expecting this. Of course, she had an idea. She’d been working for him for just four weeks and already organized his slush pile. She knew the plan for the next seven issues backward and forward, had a great instinct for what would work for the magazine and what wouldn’t. When she flagged a piece for him, he knew it was something he had to make time to take a look at.

She was on her feet by then, clutching her laptop, the absurdly large diamond on her engagement ring twinkling at him. “It’s … for a Spotlight.” She actually sounded hesitant, which rather charmed him. Zoe rarely sounded nervous about anything. Even when she wasn’t sure what she was doing, she took care to project confidence. “I was thinking we could discuss it—I mean, when you’ve got a spare moment or two.”

“I’m listening. Tell me about it now.”

“Well, all right.” She dropped back into her chair again, set the laptop on her knees. “I’m thinking ‘Spotlight on a Shoestring’—because of the economy, you know? That people are looking for value in everything they do, including when they travel. I’m thinking Mexico—and no, do not give me that look. Not Cancún or Puerto Vallarta. I’m thinking of something a little more out of the way.”

“Like?”

“Southern Mexico, the state of Chiapas near the Guatemalan border. San Cristóbal de las Casas, to be specific.”

“You’re kidding.”

She sat straighter and got that pugnacious look. He really liked that look. “I am one-hundred-percent serious. It’s a great value. Four-star hotels at a hundred bucks a night. Wonderful food at really low prices and a fabulous central market where you can get amazing deals on local arts and crafts. Biking, birdwatching. Rainforest all around, filled with thousands of exotic plants and animals. Spectacular Mayan ruins …”

He put up a finger. “Two words.”

“What?”

“Armed insurgents.”

She wrinkled her adorable nose at him. “I had a feeling you would say that.”

He knew a lot about Mexico. But then, he knew a lot about many places. “They’re called the Zapatistas, Zoe. And they’re nothing to fool with.”

“Most of the trouble was back in the nineties. Things are better now.”

“But is better good enough?”

“It is, yes. I’m sure it’s safe. Yes, the Zapatistas are in a war against the Mexican state, against globalization. But it’s mostly a nonviolent conflict. My research tells me that travelers are safer in and around San Cristóbal than in just about any major American city. As long as they behave respectfully and don’t take pictures without asking first.” She produced a memory stick. “Here’s what I have. I’ve tried to cover everything—what to pack, what to see, where to stay, how to get there.”

“A spreadsheet for projected costs?”

“That, too.”

He held out his hand. “I’ll give it a look.”

Her sleek brows drew together. He knew she was considering working on him a little more before she turned him loose with what she’d worked up. But apparently she decided against that, decided to let the work she’d done speak for itself. He very much approved of that.

She rose and passed him the stick. “Can’t ask for more.”

That evening, he read her proposal. And the next morning, when they went over his calendar, he told her what he thought.

“I like it. We’re going to do it.”

She gasped and those blue eyes lit up, bright as stars. “You mean it?”

He nodded.

“Yes!” In her excitement, she almost dropped her laptop. It slid off her knees. She lurched to rescue it and whacked her hand hard against the side of his desk. The enormous diamond made a loud cracking sound. Something plopped to the floor.

They stared at each other.

She let out a wild little laugh. “Oops.” She had her laptop stabilized on her knees and she was clutching her left hand with her right. She pressed her lips together as a scarlet flush rushed up her creamy cheeks. “Uh, sorry.”

Was she hurt? “Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Fine. Perfect.” She pulled the ring off her finger—but carefully, keeping it out of his sight. “I think I, um, bent the setting on my ring a little.”

“Sounded to me like you broke the damn thing.”

The flush on her pretty face intensified. Her cheeks were now cherry-red. “No, no. Of course not.” Trying not to be obvious about it, she scanned the floor around her chair.

He pushed back his own chair and looked under his desk.

Near his left shoe, half of her engagement diamond sparkled at him. He bent and picked it up.

When he straightened, she was staring at him. The look on her face was absolutely priceless. He leaned across the desk and held the broken stone out to her.

She took it from him. “Uh, thanks.”

“It appears that Johnny will be buying you another ring. Tell him not to be such a cheap bastard this time.”

She looked as if she wished she could sink right through the floor. But Zoe was not one to be cowed by a little thing like abject humiliation. She pulled herself together and jumped to Johnny’s defense. “I’ll have you know that Johnny is not cheap—and this …” She looked down at the two halves of her supposed engagement diamond. “It’s nothing.”

He arched a brow but kept his mouth shut. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Hadn’t had this much fun in a very long time.

She backpedaled madly, that quick brain of hers firing on all cylinders. “A … duplicate, a fake. I had it made.”

“Made?”

“Yes. Made—you know, because I was nervous. Muggings are … simply rampant these days.”

Simply rampant, huh? “No kidding?”

She fisted the broken ring in her palm and sat up straighter, flicking a thick swatch of that gorgeous red hair back over her shoulder. “Yes, well. Ahem … where were we?”

He debated whether to torture her some more or move on. In the end, he took pity on her. “The San Cristóbal Spotlight.”

She swallowed, nodded, eager to talk more about her proposal—and to put the embarrassing incident with the ring behind her. “I’m so pleased, Dax. I can’t tell you how much this means.”

“I’ve been thinking about what month we should use it.” With relish, he delivered the bombshell. “I’m thinking January.”

Her mouth dropped open again. He really did enjoy catching her off-guard. “B-but January is already locked in.”

Yes, it was. Spotlights, along with the rest of the magazine, were planned and scheduled nine months to a year in advance.

“I run this magazine. And if I say we go to Chiapas and not Greece for January, then that’s where we go.”

“But you’re leaving for Greece in a week and a half. I have the travel arrangements all set up.”

“Then you will change them. A little spontaneity is good now and then.”

“But … what if I can’t get that fabulous hotel?”

“You’ll find another fabulous hotel. I have faith in your ingenuity and resourcefulness.” He sat back in his chair and waited for her to confess what was really bothering her.

“But I …” She had her free hand folded over the one with the broken ring in it and both of them resting on her shut laptop. She stared down—at her hands, at the laptop? He couldn’t tell which. Her slim shoulders were slumped. She almost might have been praying.

“Zoe.” He spoke softly. “You what?”

The red head lifted, the shoulders went back and the blue eyes gleamed. “I was hoping, well, that it would be a little later. At least not for a few months. Not until, um, after the rainy season ends.”

“I don’t see a little rain as that much of a problem.”

“Daily, Dax. It comes down in buckets.”

“I know my weather patterns. It rains hard, but mostly just in the afternoon.”

So much for the rainy season. She let that go and cast about for another excuse to postpone the trip. “But I, well, if you could only wait until I’ve been working for you longer, until …” Words deserted her.

He didn’t let her off the hook. “What? Tell me.”

“Oh, please.” Her heated gaze accused him. “You know. I know you know.”

“You still have to say it. That’s how it works. You have to speak up and say what you want. Come on. Look at it this way, if you don’t get what you ask for, at least you’ll know you put yourself out there, that you did everything you could to make it happen.”

She sat up even straighter. “Fine. All right. I want you to wait to do the Spotlight on San Cristóbal until you’re ready to take me along as your assistant, instead of one of the associates. That’s what I want, okay? I want to go.”

He rested his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers. Yeah, he was playing this, stringing it along to enjoy her honest excitement, her clear desire to be directly involved in the feature she had just proposed. Most of the time, she was careful around him, she guarded that light in her eyes from him. She tried to keep things all business.

And he respected that, he really did. Still, it was gratifying for him, to listen to her speak with heat, with passion. To see her eagerness, her enthusiasm, her willingness to push for what she wanted, to try to get him to give her a chance, to let her take the next step.

She glared at him. “Just tell me. Just give me an answer. Will you wait for a few months to do my Spotlight?”

“No.”

Her sweet, soft mouth trembled as she pressed her lips together to keep herself from calling him a thoroughly inappropriate name. He liked that about her, too. She had passion, but she also kept herself in hand. She took care not to step over the line.

“Well.” A slow, deep breath. A toss of that flame-colored hair. “Fine, then. You were right, I needed to ask. At least I’ll never kick myself because I didn’t even try.”

“I don’t think you’ll kick yourself at all.”

She blinked. And then she gasped. She got what he was hinting at. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. It’s early, I know. But you learn fast. I think you’re ready. You’ll get to prove yourself.”

“I’m going with you?” Breathless, heartbreakingly hopeful.

“Yes, Zoe. I’m doing your Chiapas trip instead of the one to Mykonos. I’m leaving Monday, August second. And you are going with me.”




Chapter Four


“Have you made the reservations for Mexico yet?” Dax asked the next morning as he stepped out of the elevator.

Of course she had. She’d worked late the day before, getting everything set up. She handed him his coffee. “Yes. Mexicana Airlines. One stopover in Mexico City and then on to the international airport at Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the capital city of the state of Chiapas. We can get a taxi from there to …” She let the words trail off as she saw that he was shaking his head. “Is there a problem?”

He took the lid off his coffee, sniffed it the way he always did and then enjoyed a careful sip. “Cancel the flight.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“How are you in small planes?”

“With enough Dramamine, anything is possible, but—”

“Good. I’m going to fly us.”

Not in her plan. Not in the least. “Dax …”

“Don’t argue. Just do it.”

“If I could only make one little point …”

“You’re boring me, Zoe.”

“Too bad. I intend to make my point and my point is that readers like to know how you got there—on a commercial flight, just the way that they will. Especially since this is supposed to be a budget destination.”

His smile was annoyingly smug. “Now you know more than I do about what readers want in a Spotlight?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you sure as hell are thinking it. Cancel the reservation. We’re going to have some fun.”

The way he said that kind of scared her. “I, um, didn’t know you were a pilot.”

He gave her a look of endless patience. “I may be in magazine publishing now, but I spent years adventuring in the wilds, from Borneo to the South Pole.”

As if she didn’t know that. “Yes, but—”

“I’ve been flying small planes since I was too young to drive a car. Cancel the flights.”

She ground her teeth together and reminded herself that he was the boss, that she was very grateful to him for giving her this chance when she’d been his assistant for only a month. “Yes, Dax. All right.”

“I love it when you’re obsequious. It happens so seldom. And guess what?”

“I have no idea.”

“I’ve already found our photographer.” He paused, sipped more coffee.

“I’m listening.” No, she had no illusions it was going to be her.

And it wasn’t. “I called Ramón Esquevar. He’ll be in Guatemala next week and he’s promised to meet us in San Cristóbal.”

Okay, she was totally impressed. She sighed. She couldn’t help it. Esquevar was world-class. His photographs appeared in Time and National Geographic. She’d always hoped someday she might meet him. Now she would get to watch him work.

Dax was grinning at her. “You’re speechless.”

She let her smile bloom wide. “Esquevar. I can hardly believe it. That’s fabulous.”

“We got lucky. The timing just happened to be right for him.” He spotted her ring finger, where a ring that looked exactly like the one she had broken the day before glittered, big and bright. “That was fast.”

She kept on smiling. Let him think what he wanted. She’d gone back to the same shop last night, got there just before it closed. The tattooed shopkeeper had dug up another ring for her—even given her a discount after she gave him a hard time for selling shoddy goods.

Dax sipped his coffee and watched her for a minute, no doubt waiting for her to confess that there was no Johnny and there never had been.

She did no such thing. The deception might be a little frayed around the edges. But it still did the job, still made it clear to Dax—to both of them—that she was off-limits to him as a potential bed partner.

Finally, he growled at her, “What are you grinning about? Why aren’t you working?” and turned and disappeared into his office.

The rest of that week and the one that followed were hectic. There were a thousand and one things to do before they could be ready to go. And the time line to get everything in order was scarily short. Preparations for the Spotlight trips usually took months of careful planning. But not this time. Dax had decided they were changing everything up. And Dax, after all, was the boss.

Over a stolen hour for lunch the Friday before they left, Lin said it was his nature. “Things go too smoothly for too long, he can’t stand it. He needs challenge, a little crisis theater, some spice in his life.”

Zoe sipped her iced tea. “You know he’s flying us?”

“Why not? He owns three or four planes. Might as well use one of them.”

“A small plane, he said. A single-engine plane. Ugh.”

“Look on the bright side. Commercial flights are a zoo these days, planes breaking down, the nightmare of security checkpoints. With an airline, you could land in Mexico City and never leave.”

“We have to stop just over the border at Nuevo Laredo anyway, and deal with customs. The checklist of papers we have to carry and file is endless. We even had to get third-party liability insurance from a Mexican company.”

Lin waved a hand. “Travel’s a pain, it’s true.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I love to travel, under any circumstances. I love luxury destinations. And I don’t mind roughing it.”

“But you hate small planes, is that it?”

“No, I can take a small plane. I get a little motion sickness, but I have the pills to handle that.”

Lin shrugged. “Then what is it? Is Johnny upset that you’ll be gone for a week?”

“No. Of course not. Johnny … supports me. Completely.”

“Then what is the problem?”

Zoe thought about Dax. His honed razor of a mind, his hot body. His gorgeous bedroom eyes that could look so low-lidded and sensual, but somehow always saw way too much. She loved her job. She would not lose it. And she had this feeling lately that Dax had set out to purposely tempt her.

Just the two of them, in a small plane. It seemed … dangerous—though, really, how could it be? He would be flying the damn thing. No way would he have a chance to try convincing her of the benefits of joining the mile-high club.

And even if he did break his own rule and make a pass, well, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her. She had her priorities in order. Ending up in bed with Dax was at the very top of her list—her never-to-do list.

“Zoe. Yoo-hoo. You’re zoning out on me here….”

Zoe blinked away her worries and pasted on a bright smile. “Sorry. You’re right. The small plane thing is fine. It’s perfect. The whole trip is perfect. I don’t know why I’m complaining. I’m going to meet Ramón Esquevar. It’s my first Spotlight, one I came up with myself, and I’m thrilled to be going. There is no problem. No problem at all.”



They were in the air at eight in the morning on Monday, the second of August. The four-seater Cessna 400 Corvalis TT—for Twin Turbocharged—was top-of-the-line among single-engine aircraft, Dax explained. Zoe thought it was rather like sitting in a big, comfortable luxury sedan—a sedan that sailed the clear blue sky and had an instrument panel instead of a dashboard.

There was plenty of room in back for the clothing and equipment they would need, and then some. Zoe had taken her Dramamine and was feeling pleasant and relaxed as she looked down on the San Antonio sprawl below them. She watched as it faded away behind them.

“This baby has a cruising speed of two-hundred thirty-five knots,” Dax told her with the pride men always seem to have in their big, expensive toys. “We’ll be in Nuevo Laredo in no time.”

And they were. They checked in with customs and were cleared for takeoff again an hour later. Because the Cessna 400 had a ginormous gas tank, they could now go all the way to their destination airport at Tuxtla Gutiérrez. That would take another five or six hours.

“I can’t wait,” Zoe said drily. But she would have to. She’d been careful not to go overboard on the morning coffee and to visit the ladies room at Nuevo Laredo. But even with that, she had a feeling she was going to be very grateful to touch down and race for the nearest el baño.

For a while, Zoe watched the land flow away from them below and snapped a few random pictures of the starkly beautiful desert rock formations with her lightweight Nikon D90, which she considered the best possible all-around camera there was.

Yes, she had more expensive cameras. She had a nice trust fund and could afford to indulge herself. But for most situations, the D90 and a couple of good lenses were all she ever needed.

Dax seemed happy as a kid in a big candy store. He extolled yet more of the virtues of the Cessna 400.

“Safety is a top priority with Cessna. Every exterior surface—fuselage and wings and the flight controls—is embedded with lightning mesh. You never have to worry about a lightning strike. Also, they install static wicks on the back edge of the wings and elevator, which means static buildup is discharged safely without affecting function or disrupting other electrical systems.”

“That really puts my mind at rest,” she told him drily.

“I knew it would. I love to fly. My uncle Devon, the family ne’er-do-well, taught me. He had a ranch near Amarillo.”

“Being a rancher makes a guy a ne’er-do-well?”

“To my father, it did. He and my uncle were the last of the Girard line. My father expected my uncle Devon to do what all Girards have done. Because a Girard comes from money—and is fully expected to do his part making more money. My uncle refused to follow the plan.”

She knew that Great Escapes was not a huge moneymaker. “So you’re kind of like your uncle, huh?”

The dig didn’t even faze him. “Yeah, guess I am. But I do understand money and I know whom to hire to make me more of it, so I can afford to indulge myself in my passion for travel and in my magazine.”

“And in your airplanes and expensive cars and designer motorcycles.”

“Yes, exactly. And still my fortune just keeps on growing.”

“Not that you’re bragging about that or anything.”

He slanted her a glance. “You really should be more impressed with me, you know.”

“Sorry, I’ll work on that.”

“And where was I?”

“Your ne’er-do-well rancher uncle who taught you to fly.”

“That’s it. Now and then, I got to go visit Uncle Devon. He started teaching me to fly when I was eight.”

She rested her camera in her lap. “Eight, yikes! That shouldn’t be legal.”

“But it is. You can start to learn at any age. You just have to be tall enough to reach the controls.”

“But you grew up on the East Coast, right?”

“We had homes all over the world. But we lived in an apartment on Park Avenue. And we had a house upstate—not that we ever visited there after my mother died. The house had been hers. My dad couldn’t bear to part with it, but he couldn’t stand to be there either. He never admitted it, but I knew it brought back too many memories of her.”

“You have brothers and sisters?”

He shook his head. “I was an only child.”

It seemed strange, thinking of Dax as a child—with a mom and a dad and a ne’er-do-well uncle. She chuckled. “You know, Dax, I can’t picture you with a mom—or a dad, for that matter. Then again, everybody has one of each, right?”

He shrugged. “I hardly remember my mom. I was five when she died.”

She thought of her own mom, of Aleta’s innate goodness, her fierce love for each and every one of her nine children. “How sad for you,” she told him softly.

He sent her another glance and a faint smile in response, then turned his gaze back to the wide sky ahead.

The weather was perfect. Zoe put her camera away and settled back in the comfy leather seat. Through the windscreen, the sky was endless, not a cloud in sight, a gorgeous expanse of baby blue. The steady drone of the engine lulled her and the Dramamine made her sleepy. She let her eyes drift shut.

For a long time, she drifted, dreaming in snatches, coming slightly awake to the smooth, steady drone of the Cessna’s engine, to awareness that she was on her way to the jungles of Mexico with her hot-guy boss, Dax Girard, that she was going to meet Ramón Esquevar, taste some of the best coffee in the world, visit the ancient Mayan villages of San Juan Chamula and Zinacantán. She would tell herself she really ought to wake up, act like a decent assistant, make a little conversation, at least.

But Dax didn’t seem to mind if she slept. He flew the plane and left her alone and she felt so peaceful. Inevitably, after a few moments of wakefulness, she would fade back into her own pleasant oblivion again.

What woke her, finally, was the turbulence. All of a sudden, they were dipping and dropping, literally lurching through the sky.

Her eyes popped open as a volley of hail beat at the windscreen.

It was dark. When had that happened?

She glanced over at Dax. “Is it nighttime?”

He shook his head. “Just a squall. But a wild one. I’ve been trying to get above it, but it’s not working. And we seem to be in a dead space. I’m getting no response on the radio. Check your restraint. In a minute, I’m going to see if I can get below this.”

Check your restraint? She was not reassured. Still, she tugged on the belt to make sure it was fastened securely.

More hail pelted the plane and the wind screamed like the end of the world. They kept rising and dropping—hard—as if they’d actually hit some physical object, though she knew they hadn’t, that it was only the racing wind currents.

They would bottom out, the small plane shaking as if grabbed and pummeled by the hand of an angry god. And then they would rise again, only to fall once more.

Rain came—buckets of it. Beyond the cabin, she saw nothing but darkness and horizontal walls of water coming at them, racing by. The wind wailed and they lurched and bounced. The restraint held her in the seat, but in back, she could hear the strapped-in equipment. Even tied down with a cargo net, it was banging around, hitting the fuselage, battering the backs of the rear seats.

And the stomach-churning drops continued. The plane bounced like a ball, a toy tossed between the cruel hands of a madman.

Still, she refused to believe that they wouldn’t get through this. She was twenty-five years old. She had a wonderful family, a father who drove her nuts but who she knew adored her. A mother who had never wavered in her devotion, her loving support.

She’d finally found work she could do for years and only get better at it, never get bored. She didn’t have to be the slacker of the family anymore. Her whole life lay ahead of her, beckoning. It was all coming together, and it was going to be so good.

Surely, it couldn’t be snatched away now.

Dax kept trying to raise a response on the radio. Nothing. He spoke to her once. “Next time, I swear, we’ll fly commercial.”

He mouthed their coordinates into the unresponsive radio and yet again gave the distress signal.

The plane started down. At the last second, she saw that he had found a bare space in the wall of black and green below them. A very small clearing in the dense, never-ending forest—surely, that tiny cleared space was much too small for a landing.

She said what she was thinking, “Oh, God, Dax. Too small, too small.”

He didn’t answer. He was kind of busy. They hurtled toward the minuscule clearing as the wind and the rain tried to rip them apart.

Her last thought before they reached the ground was, I guess I won’t be meeting Ramón Esquevar, after all.

With a teeth-cracking bounce, they hit the ground. Dax couldn’t keep the nose up. The propeller dug into the soggy, black earth. It dug and held, the engine screaming. Huge clods of dirt were flying everywhere.

And the plane was spinning, spinning, the jungle that rimmed the clearing whizzing by in a circle, so fast she thought she might throw up. She heard cracking, shattering sounds. Something hit the back of her seat hard enough to force all the breath from her lungs. And then something bopped her on the back of the head.

She cried out. And then she sighed.

As blackness rolled over her, she knew it was the end.




Chapter Five


“Zoe? Zoe, wake up.” A hand slapped her cheek lightly. A delicate sting.

And her head hurt like crazy. She groaned, reached back, felt wetness. She opened her eyes, brought her hand in front of her face. Blood, but not much. She reached back a second time, probed the injury carefully. Already a goose egg was rising.

Goose eggs were good, she’d read somewhere, hadn’t she? If the swelling was on the outside, you were less likely to end up with a subdural hematoma, which could be bad. Very, very bad.

“Zoe?”

She blinked. Dax was craning toward her from the other seat. He’d taken off his headphones and his chest was bare. He held his shirt to his forehead, on the left side. The shirt was soaked through with blood.

“Thank God,” he said. “Zoe.”

“We’re not dead.” She spoke in awe. It was a miracle. Impossible. And yet, somehow, true.

Dax retreated to his seat, tipped his head back and shut his eyes. He still held the bloody shirt to his head. Really, he didn’t look so good. She realized he needed help. And she was just sitting there …

Blinking away the last of her dizziness, she went for the latch on her seat restraint. For a moment, she thought it was jammed, that somehow, in the landing, which had turned out to be something of a crash, it had been broken and stuck shut.

Panic tried to rise. She bit the inside of her cheek, focused on the sharp little pain, and worked at the latch some more.

A second later, it popped open.

She was out of the seat and ripping off her white shirt without even stopping to think about it. She wadded the cotton fabric into a ball and crouched over his seat. “Dax.” She caught his chin with one hand. “Let me see …”

He lowered his hand and she saw the deep gash at his temple—the really deep gash. Beneath all that blood, she could see the ivory luster of bone.

And the blood? It was still flowing, lots of it, pulsing from the wound in great gouts. It ran down the side of his face, into his eyes.

“Here. Use this.” She gave him her own shirt.

He dropped the blood-soaked one and put hers over the wound. Through the blood in his eyes, he looked at her in her bra and shorts. A corner of his mouth twitched in the faint hope of a smile. “I’ve got you with your shirt off, and I’m bleeding too hard to do a damn thing about it.”

“I need a first aid kit.”

“In the floor compartment behind your seat.” He held her shirt to his head, but it was already soaking through, turning a bold, bright crimson.

“Keep the pressure on that. Good and firm.”

“Right.” He did as she instructed without a word of complaint, without giving her any argument. It was so unlike him to be docile. And that terrified her, brought the reality of their situation too sharply home.

The fuselage, amazingly, remained intact. They were reasonably safe inside. But outside the battered plane, the rain kept on coming, in buckets. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. The windscreen was a thick, pearly spiderweb of cracks, obscuring the world beyond. And the window in Dax’s door was the same, but with a small jagged hole punched clean through it—just possibly caused by whatever had sliced his forehead open.

However, she could see well enough out the window in her door. Too bad visibility past the window was poor. Nothing but sheets of rain and, indistinctly, a wall of green where the jungle started.

Not now. Don’t think about what’s out there now….

She squeezed between the seats and had to spend several precious seconds tossing supplies, suitcases and equipment back toward the baggage area. Water bottles were scattered everywhere, broken loose from the case of them they’d brought along, rolling around on the floor. But finally, she got the area cleared. She was able to get the compartment open and take out a large, black canvas-covered bag with a white cross printed on the front.

“How you doing back there?” Dax asked. “Need help?”

“I’m on it. Just stay in your seat and keep the pressure on that wound.” She cleared a space on one of the backseats and zipped the bag open. It was a really good kit—way beyond the basics. More like something a paramedic might carry. It even contained the necessary tools for sewing up a man’s head.

I can do this. I took first aid. And then there was that survivalist training weekend she’d gone on once in her ongoing effort to prove to her dad that she was as good as any of the boys. They’d taught her how to stitch up a wound over that weekend. She remembered thinking at the time that she would never need to use that particular skill …

She sucked in a breath—and shook her head, hard. No. No negative thoughts could be allowed to creep in. She knew what she needed to do. And she knew how to do it.

Grabbing the kit, she scrambled between the front seats again. When she got up there, she set the kit, open, on the passenger side.

“Zoe?” He sounded worried.

“I’m right here. Keep the pressure against the wound. I know what I’m doing.”

He made a low sound. A chuckle—or a groan? “Of course you do.”

She smiled at that. Even now, with a gash the size of Texas on his forehead, he could manage to both tease and reassure her at the same time. She found the butterfly bandages and gazed at them longingly. If only they would do the trick.

But the wound was too deep. Maybe they could help to hold the edges together while she stitched him up.

She still wore her fake engagement ring. During the crash, the stone had scratched up the fingers to either side of it. She was clearly the lucky one. A few bruises, some scratches. A goose egg on the back of her head. No gash so deep the bone showed—and really, they were both lucky.

Lucky simply to be alive and in one piece. She had to remember that.

She yanked off the silly ring and shoved it into a pocket of her shorts. Then she rubbed disinfectant on her hands and laid out what she was going to need: the butterfly strips, tweezers, more disinfectant, sterile gloves, absorbable thread, scissors, the creepy little curved needle, the dressing she would use after, along with a tube of antibiotic ointment—and extra gauze. There was nothing to dull the pain of what she was about to do to him. Nothing stronger than acetaminophen—wait.

There was codeine. She almost kissed the little bottle of pills before she screwed off the cap.

“Dax, did you get knocked out, even for a few seconds during the crash?”

“Huh?”

“I’m afraid to give you a serious pain killer if you’ve been unconscious.”

“No,” he said. “Something sharp flew by and sliced my head open, that’s all.”

“Excellent.” She took his free hand, dropped two of the pills into his palm, and closed his lean fingers around them. “Here.”

“What are they?”

“Codeine.”

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt that much. Head wounds usually don’t.”

If it didn’t hurt now, it would when she went to work on it. “Dax. Take the pills.”

He blew out a breath, opened his mouth and tossed them in.

“Perfect. Thank you.” She grabbed for one of the water bottles that had escaped the baggage area, and gave him a sip.

“More,” he said low. She let him have the bottle. He drank half of it, then handed it back. He was eyeing the other seat: the scissors, the needle, the pile of white gauze, all so carefully laid out. “You’re actually going to try and sew me up, huh?”

“That is the plan—and I’m going to do much more than try.” She cleaned her hands again, then put on the gloves. “Okay, let’s take another look …”

The console between the seats was in her way, but she lifted one knee and braced it on his seat to get in close. He tried to scoot over a little, to give her room to work—and gasped.

She frowned. “What? Your leg, too?”

“My ankle …” He hissed through his teeth, panting, getting through the pain. He reached toward it but got nowhere, with her practically on top of him. “I think it’s just a sprain.” He let his head drop to the seat rest again and swore low. “What a screwup. Bleeding all over the place—and I don’t think I can walk.”

“It’s okay,” she told him, not because it was true, but because there was nothing else to say. “The codeine will help with the pain and we’ll deal with the ankle once we take care of your head.”

He grunted, tried a grin but didn’t quite make it. “Nurse Bravo, I’m at your mercy.”

“Hmm. Could this be the right moment to hit you up for a raise?”

“Always working the angles.”

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Now, let me see what I’m dealing with here….”

He lowered the bloody shirt from his forehead.

The blood flow had slowed, which was good. But then she had to clean and disinfect the injury thoroughly and that got the bleeding going again. She dabbed and poked and pressed at the gash and the surrounding tissue until she had it clear enough to work on.

The sewing-up took way too long. Each stitch had to be separate, so the whole thing wouldn’t come apart if one happened to break. At least she found she did know what she was doing. During that delightful survivalist weekend, they’d made her practice doing stitches on a round steak, which she’d found thoroughly gross at the time. Who knew that someday she would be grateful for the experience?

Dax sat still beneath her hands. She knew it had to hurt, but he didn’t make a sound.

She was sweating bullets by the end of it—from the stress, from the concentration, from the increasing sticky heat in the cabin. It was a great moment, when she finally set the scissors and needle aside. The dressing came next and that took no time at all.

“There,” she said, snapping off the disposable gloves. “Done at last.”

He tried to smile. “How do I look?”

“Rakish. All the girls will be after you. The scar is going to really wow them.”

He grunted. He was probably thinking that he didn’t need any more girls after him. But he didn’t say it. He only whispered, “Thank you, Zoe.”

She handed him the water bottle. “Drink.” She grabbed one for herself, too, and took a big gulp.

He screwed the lid back on his slowly. “Don’t know why I’m so exhausted.”

She was repacking the first aid kit by then. “Maybe the crash landing. Maybe the loss of blood. Maybe the twelve stitches in your forehead.”

“Maybe the codeine.”

“Hmm. Could be that, too—I need to look at your ankle now.”

His lower lip had a mutinous curl. “It’s okay for now. I think the codeine is kicking in. I can hardly feel anything.”

“Still, we can wrap it, for support, and you should get it elevated. Too bad we don’t have any ice …”

“You’re a pain in the ass, Zoe, you know that?”

“Flattering me will get you nowhere.”

He grunted. “There should be a six-pack of instant ice pouches in the first aid kit—good for a whole twenty minutes each.”

“Twenty minutes is better than nothing—and times six, that’s a couple of hours. Every little bit helps.” She dug out the box of cold packs, put the unzipped first aid kit on the cabin floor at her feet and sat in her seat again.

“Just shake one,” he said, “and it gets cold.”

For the moment, she set the box aside. “Okay. Can you hoist that foot up here?” She patted her lap.

He bit back a hard groan as he lifted his right foot and cleared the console. Very slowly, he stretched out his leg and gently laid his foot in her lap. He wore lightweight, low-cut hiking shoes.

She pushed up his pant leg. “It’s swollen.”

“No kidding.” He winced as she gently probed at it.

She untied the lace and eased the shoe off and the low-rise sock as well, dropping them both to the floor beside the first aid kit. “Yep. Swollen. But probably not broken.”

“And you know this, how?”

“I don’t. But let’s think positive, okay? Can you wiggle your toes?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Don’t they always ask if you can do that when you hurt your foot?”

He laughed—a laugh that got caught on a moan. “Some nurse you are.” He wiggled his toes. All five of them. “There. What do you think?”

They were very handsome toes, actually, long and well-formed. No weird bumps or bunions.

And what was she thinking? They’d just crashed in the jungle. How good-looking his feet were ought to be the last thing on her mind.

“Zoe?”

“Um, I think I should wrap it and then use the cold packs. And you should keep it elevated.”

“Good a suggestion as any.”

So she got an ACE bandage from the kit at her feet. She started wrapping at the base of his toes. “Tell me if it’s too tight …” She wrapped halfway up his calf and then used the little hooks to secure it. “How’s that?”

“Seems fine.”

She shook one of the cold packs and it grew icy. Then she used another section of ACE bandage to hold it in place over the swelling. “There. Now we should get you in the back where you can stretch out, get this ankle higher than your heart.”

He shook his head. “First, we should see if we can call for help, don’t you think?”

“Like … try our cell phones?” That seemed hopeless.

“Let me see about the radio first.”

That took about half a minute. The engine—and the radio—were deader than a hammer. They got out their PDAs.

No signal.

He slumped back in his seat, against the door, his leg still canted over to her side, his calf across her knees. “Now it’s taped, I might be able to hobble around on it at least. We should try and get to higher ground, somewhere we can build a signal fire.” His eyes were drooping as he struggled to stay awake. Maybe she shouldn’t have given him two codeines. But at the time, easing his pain had seemed the priority.

“You need to keep that ankle up,” she said. “And you’re exhausted. You’ve lost more blood than can possibly be good for you. And you might recall I just sewed up your head? Not right now, Dax. I say we stay in the plane, for the time being anyway. Until the weather clears …” Her words trailed off. The rain had already stopped. And right then, far above their tiny clearing, the sun appeared. Through the water droplets that clung to the side window, everything looked brighter out there.

Well, except for the jungle. It was still a wall of darkest, deepest, scariest green.

Dax said, “Get a pencil. Now.” He really was struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Okay, okay …” Her travel purse was on the pilot-side backseat where she’d thrown it while clearing the floor. She reached back and grabbed it, took the pen from the little slot on the side, got the small spiral notebook she always carried from another side pocket. “All right. I’m ready.”

He groaned. And then he muttered a latitude and a longitude. “Those were our coordinates as of right before I brought us down.”

She wrote them in her notebook. “You do think of everything.”

He didn’t answer her. She looked over at him. His eyes were closed, his fine mouth slack.

Good. He needed to rest. And he wasn’t going to be doing much of anything when he woke up, not with that ankle. For him, for the next several days, hiking to higher ground was not in the cards. And the signal fire? If she couldn’t find a hill very close, she would build it in the clearing.

But not right this minute. For now, they had shelter and a case of bottled water and other clothing when it came to that—and she thought there were blankets in back, too, travel blankets.

She glanced over at Dax again. He was slumped against the other door, his head at a really uncomfortable-looking angle.

Slowly, trying not to hurt his poor ankle any worse, she lifted his foot off her knees. He groaned and tossed his head. She froze. A moment later, with a heavy sigh, he settled down again.

It was a tight fit, but she lowered her seat back and managed to slip out from under him and over the console through the space between the seats. Carefully, she lowered his poor foot to the seat cushion.

Then she put her pen and notebook away and turned for the tangle of suitcases and boxes in the baggage area.

She found a couple of small pillows, the expected travel blankets—and, in a large box bolted to the bulkhead, she found a miracle.

There was toilet paper, paper towels, matches, a collapsible camping shovel, a couple of dismantled camp chairs she could assemble when the time came. There were two heavy-duty flashlights, a big battery-operated lantern, two oil-burning lanterns with fuel canisters, a small tent, a hatchet … and more. Two cups, two plates. Basic flatware. Two pans for carrying and heating water. There were field glasses and a compass, fishing gear and even a pair of mean-looking hunting knives.

If she could find a stream, she might try fishing. Or maybe she could just jump some jungle creature and stab it with one of the knives. The options, she thought drily, were endless, if somewhat unpleasant.

Right after that, she found several bags of freeze-dried food underneath all the other stuff. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go hunting anytime soon after all.

She carried the pillows up in front, eased them under Dax’s head and then shook him awake long enough to get him to put his other leg up on her empty seat. She braced the zipped first aid kit, a folded blanket on top, under his bad ankle.

He didn’t need a blanket over him. It was plenty warm in the cabin.

For a minute or two, she watched him sleep. He look so good with his shirt off, just as she’d imagined him, with great muscle definition, gorgeous six-pack abs and quite the cute silky-looking happy trail. She didn’t begrudge herself a nice, long look. Hey, at this point, anything that took her mind off their desperate situation was a good thing to be doing.

But she couldn’t stare at him forever. Reality insisted on intruding. She sat in one of the rear seats, checked her D90, the lenses and the spare camera she’d stored in a suitcase. All had been protected by the padding in their carry cases and were good as new.

That her cameras were okay cheered her somehow. Things could definitely be worse, right?

She started wondering where, exactly, they might have gone down, and considered getting out the paper maps they carried. But later for that. For now, she knew as much as she needed to know: that they were south of the Tropic of Cancer somewhere, in the Mexican jungle. Still in Mexico, because the storm hadn’t lasted long enough to blow them too far off-course. And even the big fuel capacity of the Cessna 400 wasn’t that big, not big enough to carry them all the way to Guatemala or Belize.

How long would it be before someone got worried and sent out searchers? They were due to meet Ramón Esquevar for dinner in their beautiful hotel at eight. When they weren’t there to meet him maybe? Or even earlier, when they didn’t show up at the Tuxtla Gutiérrez airport per their filed flight plan?

She shook her head. Probably not that soon.

Who knew how such things worked?

A small, absurd whimper tried to squeeze out of her throat. She didn’t let it. She was strong and whole and smart and she could deal with this. She would deal with this.

When Dax woke up, he would help her deal with this. Yes, there was the sprained ankle, the gash on his head. But he knew how to survive in a hostile environment. He’d been to a lot of wild places in the world, roughing it, and lived to tell the tale.

What time was it now? Her watch, which seemed to be working fine, said almost four. They didn’t do daylight savings in Chiapas, and she’d reset it to San Cristóbal time when they left Nuevo Laredo. When would dark come? She said a little prayer of thanks for Dax’s preparedness. For the box bolted in the bulkhead, with the lanterns and the flashlights and everything else.

When Dax woke up, they would figure out what to do next. Until then, she would simply sit here, safe in the battered plane, and wait.

Except that, all of a sudden, she really, really had to pee.

Which meant she would have to go outside while Dax slept after all.

Hey, at least she had toilet paper.

And a little foray into the clearing wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t go far. She’d take care of business, have a quick look around and duck back inside.

She got the shovel and a roll of paper and set about getting out of the plane, which entailed pushing the back of the passenger seat forward—but not far enough to disturb Dax’s propped-up ankle. She held the seat out of the way with one hand and turned the latch to the door with the other.

Wonder of wonders, with only slight resistance, the door went up.

A wall of sticky air came in and wrapped around her—not to mention all the weird jungle sounds: insects buzzing and whirring, birds whose calls she didn’t recognize crying in the distance. Rustling noises that instantly brought mental images of scary creatures slithering through the underbrush. She stuck her head out and made the mistake of looking down first.

Only a jagged stump remained where the wing should have been. It must have broken off when the propeller dug in and spun them around like a carnival ride.

Well, all right, then. Even if somehow Dax could manage to get the engine going, they would not be flying out of here in this plane. Yet one more faint hope shattered.

Not that she was going to let negativity take over. She straightened her shoulders and looked around.

Bits of the lost wing littered the area. And without the barrier of the window glass, the jungle only looked darker, denser. If someone was out there, watching from the trees, she would never see them unless they wanted her to.

An image of a group of Zapatista types, in berets and military clothing, armed to the teeth, with great chains of ammo wrapped crossways around their chests, popped into her mind.

But it was only an image. No one emerged to wave an AK-47 at her.

Some small insect buzzed near her ear and she gave it a slap.

Maybe she should put on a shirt.

Another tiny bug attacked. She felt a sting on the side of her neck. She smacked it and then ducked back into the cabin, shutting the door behind her, hauling out her suitcase from the baggage area and grabbing a lightweight shirt with long sleeves and pulling it on. Her legs, in the shorts, would still be vulnerable to bites. But she couldn’t cover everything.

There was bug repellent in the back, but her bladder wouldn’t wait for that.

Again, she eased the seat forward, swung the door up and tossed the shovel out. Gripping the roll of toilet paper, she dropped down after it, being careful to clear the jagged stub of the wing. The landing gear was gone, too, snapped clean off during the spinning that had ripped away the wing. The belly of the plane rested on the ground. She could easily reach the open door to swing it shut.

For a few seconds, she stood there, swatting at insects, looking around at the small, flat, clear space in the middle of who-knew-where. The tall trees were way, way up there, their wide, thick crowns swaying in a wind that didn’t reach the ground. She gazed up, watched a bird sail across the clear blue. It let out a long, fading cry as it went by, a prehistoric sound, the kind the pterodactyls made in Jurassic Park. When the ancient cry bled off into nothing, the pressure in her bladder reminded her why she’d come out here in the first place.

No time like the present. She grabbed the shovel and figured out how to extend the handle. There were pegs that popped out along the sides. She stuck the shovel head into the wet ground and hung the paper on a peg.

And then quickly, she took care of business. When that was done, she buried the paper she’d used and then decided on one quick look around before going back inside.

The clearing was a little smaller and narrower than a football field and the plane lay approximately in the center of it. She walked straight out from the passenger door to the edge of the trees, counting off the steps: sixty-five of them. The jungle really was like a wall of living green. She wouldn’t try to go in there—not without at least a compass, a knife and the hatchet from that box in the plane.

Instead, she walked the perimeter of the clear space. She found five narrow trails leading off into the undergrowth at various, random-seeming places along the clearing’s rim. Made by animals or humans? She had no idea which. All five trails looked well-worn, the thick roots of the trees snaking across them, ready to trip the unwary hiker.

She shivered at the thought that she would probably be going in there, most likely by herself—not yet, though. She would wait until tomorrow morning, when Dax was awake and could advise her on jungle safety. And maybe, if they were very lucky and rescue came quickly, she would never have to go in there at all.

Another of those prehistoric-sounding birds went by overhead. And the cries and rustlings continued from deep in the trees. She went back to the plane and felt only relief to hoist the door and climb to safety within.

Dax was still out cold. And a few of those tiny biting fly-like creatures had joined them inside. She got bug repellent from her suitcase and rubbed it on herself and then on him.

Did he seem too warm? She laid her palm against the side of his face. Maybe a little. But surely not more than a degree or two above normal.

“Water?” he muttered, coming half-awake.

She gave him some. He drank and sank right back into oblivion.

Oh, how she wished she could go there with him. She remembered the bottle of codeine tucked into the first aid kit and thought of taking one herself, of the blessed relief of surrendering to drugged slumber.

She did no such thing. But just the fact that she thought of it brought home, yet again, the deep trouble they were in. She tried to look on the bright side, go over all the things that had actually gone right, beginning with how they weren’t dead or critically injured.

How Dax had remembered their location as recently as a minute or two before he tried to land.

The bright side somehow, didn’t seem all that bright.

She changed the cold pack on Dax’s ankle and then busied herself straightening up the cabin as best she could, gathering the two bloody shirts, stuffing them in an old canvas tote she’d brought along. Maybe later she could wash them, if she could find a stream. They would never be white again, but in the jungle, who was going to care? If nothing else, they would do as cloths for washing, for drying their few dishes and cups.

In the box with the camping gear, she found flares. They would be at least as good as a signal fire, should a plane go by overhead. She took them out and put them on the floor of the rear seat, close at hand.

It had been hours since she’d eaten—since her early breakfast of a protein drink and toast. Her stomach seemed to have shut down, probably some natural reaction to the shock of what had happened.

But she knew that she needed to eat to keep up her strength. So she got a bag of freeze-dried beef stew and poured some water in it. It was not delicious. She gagged it down anyway and found she felt marginally better afterward, stronger.

Dax should probably try to eat something, too. She found a bag of maple sugar oatmeal, added water and tried to feed it to him. He woke up, ate a few bites, and then mumbled, “No. No more … water?”

She gave him some. He went back to sleep and she ate the rest of the oatmeal so it wouldn’t go to waste.

Outside, it was still daylight, would be for at least a couple of hours. She had some books on her laptop, but it seemed somehow foolish to start wearing down the battery. So she got out the paper maps that were required for small-plane travel, and her pen and notebook and marked the coordinates Dax had given her.

She learned that they were in the Chiapan wilderness, miles and miles north of San Cristóbal. She stared at the small dot she’d made on the map for a long time, as if just by looking at it, she could figure out how to get them out of here.

No magic realization as to escape came to her. She yawned and leaned her head against the seat and thought wearily that at last the adrenaline from all this excitement was wearing off. Even shaky, scared crash victims get tired eventually.

She got up and changed the cold pack on Dax’s ankle again. He didn’t stir and seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Then, since she could think of nothing else that needed doing right that instant, she put the rear seat as far back as it would go and closed her eyes.

Her sleep was fitful. She dreamed of a party in a big, rambling house. She roamed from room to room. Everyone was having a great time and she didn’t know anyone there.

And then she started dreaming that she was at work, at Great Escapes. No one was there. The place was empty. But then she heard Dax. He was moaning, calling out, saying strange, garbled, things. Words she didn’t understand, nonsense syllables.

In her dream, she looked for him. She called to him, but couldn’t find him.

Slowly, she woke and realized where she was, lost in the Chiapan jungle somewhere, in a wrecked plane. And Dax was in the front seat, tossing around, moaning.

It was dark out. She got the battery-run lantern from the box in back. Switching it on, she craned over the seats and Dax’s agitated form. She set the lantern on the floor in front. The powerful beam, focused on the ceiling, gave plenty of weirdly slanted, glaring light.

She bent over Dax. He was moaning, tossing his head, scrunched down at a neck-breaking angle against the pilot-side door.

He mumbled to himself, “No … tired … cold … hot …” And then a flood of nonsense words. He shivered, violently.

And he was sweating—his face and chest were shiny wet. She was glad she’d wrapped the bandage around his head. If she’d settled for taping it on, so much sweat would likely have loosened it. She reached over the seat to try to ease him back up onto the pillows.

The heat of his skin shocked her. He was burning up.




Chapter Six


Dax was a little boy again. His mother was gone. She had been gone for a whole year now.

She had “passed on,” his Nanny Ellen said. Jesus had taken her to be with the angels.

Dax thought that was very mean of Jesus. The angels didn’t need a mother. Not like a little boy did. The angels were beautiful and they could fly. They wore white dresses and had long, gold hair.

His father got angry when he heard what Nanny Ellen said about his mother going to the angels. His dad said Nanny shouldn’t fill the boy’s head with silly superstition—and then he got his briefcase and went to work.

Dax’s dad was always working. Always gone. Dax had Nanny Ellen and he liked the stories Nanny told, about the angels, about the loaves and fish that were always enough to feed the hungry people, no matter how many of them there were. He liked Nanny Ellen.

But he liked his dad more. He loved his dad. Someday he would be all grown-up. He would go to work like his dad and his dad would talk to him because he would be a man, a man who worked, not a little boy who wanted his dad with him and missed his mother.

There was a hand on his cheek, a gentle hand. The hand slipped around and cradled his head. A woman’s voice said, “Shh, now. It’s okay. You’re going to get better, Dax. Drink this …”

He opened his eyes. Slowly, a woman’s face came into focus, a tired face, but a beautiful one. The woman had red hair and the bluest eyes.

He thought that he wanted to kiss her, to touch the soft skin of her cheek. If only he weren’t so worn out.

So weak.

He remembered, then. He was a man now. And his dad was dead, too, as dead as his mom. And there had been something … something that had happened.

Something that was all his fault.

Wait.

Now he remembered. He knew what he’d done. They were supposed to fly commercial. She’d had it all set up. But he had insisted that he would fly them.

And he had. Right into the jungle. Right into the ground.

He drank from the cup she put to his lips. It was warm, what she gave him. A warm broth. And that surprised him. They were somewhere deep in the jungle, after all, with no stove or microwave in sight. He said the word, “Warm …”

She smiled at him, a smile as beautiful as those of any of Nanny Ellen’s angels. “I built a fire, in the clearing. I’ve managed to keep it going.”

He sipped a little more, swallowed, “How long …?” His voice trailed off. Words were hard to come by. His throat felt dust-bowl dry.

She finished for him. “….have we been here?”

At his nod, she told him, “This is the fourth day.”

The fourth day? How could that be possible? He whispered, wonderingly, “So much time …”

“You’ve been very sick. Drink a little more.”

He obeyed her. It felt good, the warmth, going down. He realized he was stretched across the backseat. Hadn’t he been in the front before? He asked, “Back … seat?”

She nodded. “I managed to get you back here the second day. You don’t remember?”

“No. Nothing …”

“It’s better for you back here, without that big console between the seats.”

Outside, lightning flashed. The answering clap of thunder seemed very close. Hard rain pounded the plane.

“Rescue?” he asked.

Her smile was tender. “Not yet.”

His eyes were so heavy. He wanted to stay awake, to talk to her, to find out all that had happened, to make sure she was okay, that nothing had hurt her because of his foolish need to buy big toys and then take risks with them. But his eyes would not obey the commands of his brain.

He couldn’t keep them open any longer. “Zoe. Thank you, Zoe …”

“Shh. Sleep now. Your fever’s broken and you are going to get better. Just rest. Just sleep.”

He dreamed of Nora—Nora, crying. Nora begging him to understand.

“Please, Dax. I know when we got married I said I was willing to wait. But I’m pregnant now and we are going to have to make the best of it.”

“Liar,” he said to her, low and deadly. He said all the rotten things, the cruel things he had said all those years ago. He accused her. He’d always known how much she wanted a baby. And he didn’t believe in accidents.

“I’m so sorry.” The words were a plea for his acceptance, his forgiveness. She swore to him that it had been an accident, her big brown eyes flooded with guilty tears, her soft red mouth trembling.

He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready.

But he knew it wasn’t right, to be so cruel to her. He was going to be a father. He needed to start learning to accept that.

So in the end, he reached for her, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He comforted her. He dried her tears. He said it would be all right.

“All right, Nora. We’ll work it out. It’s all right….”

A cool cloth bathed his face, his neck. “Shh, now. Shh …”

He opened his eyes, half expecting to see his ex-wife gazing down at him. But it wasn’t Nora. “Zoe.”

“I was just going to check your bandage.”

“Is it …?” He reached up to touch his forehead.

She caught his hand, guided it back down. “It’s fine. Healing well.”

He blinked away the last of the dream about Nora. “What day?”

“It’s Friday.”

“The fifth day …”

“Yep.”

“No rescue plane, no search party …”

She slowly shook her head. “By now, it’s safe to assume they have been looking. By now, my father knows. He will have mobilized and when my father mobilizes, things get done. But no sign of anyone looking for us so far. I found the flares from that large, wonderful, lifesaving box of equipment of yours and I haven’t had a chance to use one yet.”

Five days, he thought. And how much longer would they have to last here? Were they going to die here? He said, “It’s a big jungle.”

“But you gave me the coordinates, remember? We know approximately where we are. Eventually, we can try and walk out of here if we have to.”

He said what he was thinking. “But we shouldn’t have to. We should be wrapping up our ‘great escape’ in San Cristóbal de las Casas about now. And we would be, except for the fact that I’m a fatheaded ass who had to show off his pretty little plane.”

“Stop that,” she said sharply. “Don’t you even go there, Dax Girard. This plane was perfectly safe. The weather was the problem.”

“But if I had only listened to you—”

“If, if, if. Please. You want to talk if? Fine. What about if I hadn’t proposed this trip in the first place, what if you hadn’t liked the idea? And we can always go in the other direction. What if you weren’t an excellent pilot? What if you hadn’t had the foresight to install that box full of necessary equipment in the back? What if you hadn’t put together a first aid kit that has everything but an operating table inside? We cannot afford to get all up into the ‘if’ game, Dax. We need to keep our chins up and our minds focused on what needs doing next.”

He stared up at her. “Wow,” he said.

“Wow, what?” She glared down at him.

He didn’t even try to hide the admiration he knew had to be written all over his face. “I don’t think I realized until now just how tough you are.”

“I have seven bossy brothers and a pigheaded dad. You’re damn right I’m tough.”

His stomach chose that moment to growl. He put his hand on it. “I think I’m starving.”

Her sudden grin was like the sun coming up. “And that is a very good sign.”



The next day, which was Saturday, she helped him get up on his feet and out of the plane for the first time since they’d left Nuevo Laredo almost a week before. Every muscle, every bone, every inch of his skin—all of it ached. He was weak as a newborn baby. And he was filthy. He could smell himself and the smell was not a good one.

But his ankle was healing faster than even he could have hoped. He could put weight on it, gingerly, could hobble around if he took his time and was careful. Zoe had a camp set up, with the two collapsible camp chairs from the box in the baggage area, the tent and the few cooking utensils. And a campfire ringed by rocks she had gathered, with a large, jagged piece of the wing nearby. It took him a moment to understand the purpose of the piece of wing.

Then it came to him. When it rained, she could use it to shield the fire a little, to keep at least some of the coals dry. The wood she’d collected waited under another hunk of the ruined plane.

She had water heating for him.

He shaved. In the small mirror from his travel kit, his face looked haggard, pale and drawn. Beneath the fresh dressing she’d put on his head wound, his eyes stared back at him, sunken and haunted.

“I look like hell,” he told her.

She poked at the fire and nodded. “Yes, you do. Hurry up. I have a surprise.”

He wished for the impossible. “A shower would be nice.”

“Close. You’ll see. Finish your shave.”

Something close to a shower. That, he wanted. He wanted it bad and he wanted it now. He shaved faster, nicking himself twice and hardly caring.

When his face was smooth again and he’d put his kit away, she got him some clean clothes. She gave him one of the hunting knives, one of the two canteens and a bottle of shampoo.

“I need a knife to take a shower?” he asked.

“You never know what you might need once you get in the trees,” she warned.

“We’re going into the trees?” It was a stupid question. Of course they were going into the trees. He could see the whole clearing by turning in a circle. There was nothing that would provide anything resembling a shower anywhere in it. But how far would they be going? He couldn’t make it any distance on his weak ankle.

“Not far,” she said, as if she’d read his mind. “And I’ll help you. We’ll take it slow.” One of the travel blankets was strung on a line she’d run between the plane and the camping shovel. She grabbed that and slung it around her neck, stuck the other hunting knife in a loop of her waistband along with the other canteen, and grabbed the hatchet she had found in the equipment box. “Come on, wrap your arm across my shoulders.”

He obeyed. Together, they hobbled toward the forest.

The trail became clear as they approached it. They went in, the trees closing around them, into deep shadow. Without a breeze. Instantly, the insects started biting.

“Ignore them,” she said. “It’s not far.” She led him onward. He focused on hopping along, trying not to trip on the thick ropes of exposed roots that twined across the trail.

Maybe fifty yards in, with the clearing just a memory somewhere behind them, she stopped. “Listen. You hear it?”

He did. A hard, hollow rushing sound. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised. Rivers were everywhere in the jungle. Still, he felt excitement rising. “A river?” Rivers not only meant a place to wash away the filth and maybe even catch some fish to eat, they were the highways of the wilderness. You followed them and eventually, you found people—people who might help you to make your way home.

She nodded. She looked very pleased with herself. “Yes, a river. Come on, it’s not far now.”

And it wasn’t. Another ten yards or so and the trail opened up and there it was, gleaming in the sun that shone down through the gap in the trees. They stood on the bank and he admired the gorgeous sight. There was a waterfall above, a nice inviting pool below, right in front of them. Some distance to his left, the shallows formed rapids that raced away downstream.

“Have you tried fishing yet?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The freeze-dried stuff isn’t going to last forever, though. We need to get out that pole. I would have done it sooner …”

Guilt, ever-present since the crash, pricked him again. “But you were afraid to leave me alone for that long.”

“Well, there’s that. Plus, I’ve always hated fishing. I don’t have the patience for it, which is probably why I never catch anything.”

At last. Something she actually might need him for. “I’ll do it, no problem. Best to try at dusk, though, when the fish are biting.”

“I was really hoping you would volunteer for it—but what about bait?”

“I’m guessing we can find some worms or a grub or two.”

She wrinkled her nose, which was red and peeling a little, but nonetheless as good to look at as the rest of her. “You get to bait the hook and catch the fish.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

They shared a long glance, a glance that said a lot of things neither of them was willing to speak aloud.

“Well?” she demanded at last. “You coming in or not?” She ducked out from under his arm and he steadied himself with his weight on his good foot.

She dropped the hatchet and blanket to the sun-warmed jut of rock they stood on and shoved down her shorts, kicked off her shoes and removed her shirt. Beneath, she wore a red two-piece swimsuit. Her normally pale skin had a ruddy cast now, from the past six days in the clearing, where the sun shone bright between the sudden fierce rainstorms. Her red hair fell past her shoulders, gleaming, and her slim body curved softly in all the right places.

She wasn’t wearing that ridiculous fake diamond. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen it since the crash.

He watched her adjust the straps of the red top and he felt desire rising. To touch her, to hold her, to learn all the secrets of her pretty, slender body. He really must be getting well.

Back off, Dax, the voice of wisdom within advised.

He heeded that voice. He would not touch her. Or hold her. They understood each other. She worked for him and in the end, it was a lot harder to find a top-notch assistant than a bed partner. Any willing woman could give him sex.

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 jewellike 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.




Chapter Seven


It 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.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/christine-rimmer/expecting-the-boss-s-baby-twins-under-his-tree-expecting/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.