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Authors: Pepper O'Neal
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sick with hunger. When the little store closed its doors for siesta—and there had been no sign of Nick’s men for over an hour—she moved on.
She was worried about Max. Her trip to the market had taken much longer than she’d planned, and she could only hope he’d stay asleep until she got home. But at least she wasn’t leading any assassins back to him. She hoped.
She detoured past the local poultry farm, catching the elderly farmer at slaughtering time. As she approached, he tossed a headless bird to the ground where it jerked and wiggled, spewing blood and feathers. The old man ignored the chicken’s bizarre dance and set his hatchet down on a blood-soaked block of wood. Wiping his hands on a bloody rag, he greeted her with a warm smile. If he noticed her strange attire, he didn’t comment. She tore her gaze away from the dead chicken and asked the farmer about getting a ride to La Paz later on that afternoon.
No problem. Asking only for a few pesos in gas money, he promised to take her whenever she needed. Today, tomorrow, next week, it didn’t matter. He’d be around.
His simple kindness touched her. The people in the village had been good to her and had asked very little in return. Grateful, she kissed his cheek and watched a sheepish grin spread across his face.
Heartbroken at the thought of moving on again, she headed down the road toward home, throwing frequent glances over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed.
At the last bend before the cottage, she abandoned the road and headed across the desert, working her way over the rough terrain to the palm trees that bordered the cove. Careful not to make a sound, she crept through the vegetation to a spot where she could see her house.
She crouched behind a large prickly pear cactus and watched her front door for several minutes. No one came out, and she heard no voices.
Deciding she had no unwelcome visitors, she ran to the back door, slipped inside, and listened. Nothing. She dropped her backpack on the kitchen table, pulled off her costume, and went to check on Max. He was still sleeping. Relieved, she hurried outside to retrieve his pants and shirt from the line.
With his clothes over her arm, she tipped-toed back into the bedroom, folded the garments, and piled them on the end of the bed on top of his shoes and life vest.
Griffin opened his eyes and blinked at her. He got up, stretched, yawned, and sniffed the clothes. He must have decided the pile would be more comfortable because he crawled on top and went back to his nap.
Tess stroked the cat and watched the man sleep, struggling against the urge to run her fingers through the soft hairs on his chest.
God, she missed being held. Not sex so much as affection—to have someone be there for her, to give her companionship and comfort. Things she hadn’t experienced in far too long. That’s no reason to take it out on him . Poor man’s injured . He doesn’t need me pawing at him . Disgusted with herself, she started to leave the room.
Max gave a soft gasp. She stopped and walked back to the bed. Thinking she should wake him and tell him she was leaving within the hour, she put her hand on his arm. God, he’s awfully warm .
“Max? Max, wake up.”
She shook his shoulder. He gasped again, took one long, shuddering breath, and stopped breathing altogether.
CHAPTER 4
“Max?” Tess shook him again. Hard. “Come on now, breathe.”
Nothing.
“Damn it, Max, don’t do this to me.”
She put her fingers against his neck. His pulse was weak. And fading.
“This can’t be happening! You were okay just a minute ago.” Panicked, she yanked the sheet down to his waist and slugged his chest. “Breathe, goddamn you!”
No response.
She couldn’t call 9-1-1, even if she’d had a phone. Emergency services didn’t exist out here. If she wanted Max resuscitated, she’d have to do it herself. But she only had a limited knowledge of CPR—just what she’d
She was worried about Max. Her trip to the market had taken much longer than she’d planned, and she could only hope he’d stay asleep until she got home. But at least she wasn’t leading any assassins back to him. She hoped.
She detoured past the local poultry farm, catching the elderly farmer at slaughtering time. As she approached, he tossed a headless bird to the ground where it jerked and wiggled, spewing blood and feathers. The old man ignored the chicken’s bizarre dance and set his hatchet down on a blood-soaked block of wood. Wiping his hands on a bloody rag, he greeted her with a warm smile. If he noticed her strange attire, he didn’t comment. She tore her gaze away from the dead chicken and asked the farmer about getting a ride to La Paz later on that afternoon.
No problem. Asking only for a few pesos in gas money, he promised to take her whenever she needed. Today, tomorrow, next week, it didn’t matter. He’d be around.
His simple kindness touched her. The people in the village had been good to her and had asked very little in return. Grateful, she kissed his cheek and watched a sheepish grin spread across his face.
Heartbroken at the thought of moving on again, she headed down the road toward home, throwing frequent glances over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed.
At the last bend before the cottage, she abandoned the road and headed across the desert, working her way over the rough terrain to the palm trees that bordered the cove. Careful not to make a sound, she crept through the vegetation to a spot where she could see her house.
She crouched behind a large prickly pear cactus and watched her front door for several minutes. No one came out, and she heard no voices.
Deciding she had no unwelcome visitors, she ran to the back door, slipped inside, and listened. Nothing. She dropped her backpack on the kitchen table, pulled off her costume, and went to check on Max. He was still sleeping. Relieved, she hurried outside to retrieve his pants and shirt from the line.
With his clothes over her arm, she tipped-toed back into the bedroom, folded the garments, and piled them on the end of the bed on top of his shoes and life vest.
Griffin opened his eyes and blinked at her. He got up, stretched, yawned, and sniffed the clothes. He must have decided the pile would be more comfortable because he crawled on top and went back to his nap.
Tess stroked the cat and watched the man sleep, struggling against the urge to run her fingers through the soft hairs on his chest.
God, she missed being held. Not sex so much as affection—to have someone be there for her, to give her companionship and comfort. Things she hadn’t experienced in far too long. That’s no reason to take it out on him . Poor man’s injured . He doesn’t need me pawing at him . Disgusted with herself, she started to leave the room.
Max gave a soft gasp. She stopped and walked back to the bed. Thinking she should wake him and tell him she was leaving within the hour, she put her hand on his arm. God, he’s awfully warm .
“Max? Max, wake up.”
She shook his shoulder. He gasped again, took one long, shuddering breath, and stopped breathing altogether.
CHAPTER 4
“Max?” Tess shook him again. Hard. “Come on now, breathe.”
Nothing.
“Damn it, Max, don’t do this to me.”
She put her fingers against his neck. His pulse was weak. And fading.
“This can’t be happening! You were okay just a minute ago.” Panicked, she yanked the sheet down to his waist and slugged his chest. “Breathe, goddamn you!”
No response.
She couldn’t call 9-1-1, even if she’d had a phone. Emergency services didn’t exist out here. If she wanted Max resuscitated, she’d have to do it herself. But she only had a limited knowledge of CPR—just what she’d
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