unimportant.
He leaned back and propped himself against his backpack, stretching his long
legs out before him. The first drops of rain began to patter against the upper
canopy. It would be impossible for anyone to track them through the downpour
that was coming, even if those guerrillas had an Indian tracker with them,
which he doubted. For the first time since he'd seen the helicopter that
morning, he relaxed, his highly developed sense of danger no longer nagging
him.
He finished the sandwich and poured the rest
of the orange juice down his throat, then glanced over at Jane to see her daintily
licking the last bit of jelly from her fingers. She looked up, caught his gaze,
and gave him a cheerful smile that made her dimples flash, then returned to the task of cleaning her fingers. Against his will, Grant felt his
body tighten with a surge of lust that surprised him with its strength. She was
a charmer, all right, but not at all what he'd expected. He'd expected a
spoiled, helpless, petulant debutante, and instead she had had the spirit, the
pure guts, to hurl herself into the jungle with two peanut butter sandwiches
and some orange juice as provisions. She'd also dressed in common-sense
clothing, with good sturdy boots and green khaki pants, and a short-sleeved
black blouse. Not right out of the fashion pages, but he'd had a few
distracting moments crawling behind her, seeing those pants molded to her
shapely bottom. He hadn't been able to prevent a deep masculine appreciation
for the soft roundness of her buttocks.
She was a mass of contradictions. She was a
jet-setter, so wild that her father had disinherited her, and she'd been George Persall's mistress, yet he couldn't detect any signs
of hard living in her face. If anything, her face was as open and innocent as a
child's, with a child's enthusiasm for life shining out of her dark brown eyes.
She had a look of perpetual mischievousness on her face, yet it was a face of
honest sensuality. Her long hair was so dark a brown that it was almost black,
and it hung around her shoulders in snarls and tangles. She had pushed it away
from her face with total unconcern. Her dark brown eyes were long and a little
narrow, slanting in her high- cheekboned face in a way
that made him think she might have a little Indian blood. A smattering of small
freckles danced across those elegant cheekbones and the dainty bridge of her
nose. Her mouth was soft and full, with the upper lip fuller than the lower
one, which gave her an astonishingly sensual look. All in all, she was far from
beautiful, but there was a freshness and zest about her that made all the other
women he'd known suddenly seem bland.
Certainly he'd never been as intimate with any
other woman's knee. Even now, the thought of it made him angry. Part of it was
chagrin that he'd left himself open to the blow; he'd been bested by a
lightweight! But another part of it was an instinctive, purely male anger,
sexually based. He'd watch her knee now whenever she was within striking
distance. Still, the fact that she'd defended herself, and the moves she'd
made, told him that she'd had professional training, and that was another
contradiction. She wasn't an expert, but she knew what to do. Why would a wild,
spoiled playgirl know anything about self-defense? Some of the pieces didn't
fit, and Grant was always uneasy when he sensed details that didn't jibe.
He felt pretty grim about the entire
operation. Their situation right now was little short of desperate, regardless
of the fact that they were, for the moment, rather secure. They had probably
managed to shake the soldiers, whoever they worked for, but Turego was a different story. The microfilm wasn't the only issue now. Turego had been operating without the sanction of the
government, and if Jane made it back and filed a complaint against him, the
repercussions would cost him his
He leaned back and propped himself against his backpack, stretching his long
legs out before him. The first drops of rain began to patter against the upper
canopy. It would be impossible for anyone to track them through the downpour
that was coming, even if those guerrillas had an Indian tracker with them,
which he doubted. For the first time since he'd seen the helicopter that
morning, he relaxed, his highly developed sense of danger no longer nagging
him.
He finished the sandwich and poured the rest
of the orange juice down his throat, then glanced over at Jane to see her daintily
licking the last bit of jelly from her fingers. She looked up, caught his gaze,
and gave him a cheerful smile that made her dimples flash, then returned to the task of cleaning her fingers. Against his will, Grant felt his
body tighten with a surge of lust that surprised him with its strength. She was
a charmer, all right, but not at all what he'd expected. He'd expected a
spoiled, helpless, petulant debutante, and instead she had had the spirit, the
pure guts, to hurl herself into the jungle with two peanut butter sandwiches
and some orange juice as provisions. She'd also dressed in common-sense
clothing, with good sturdy boots and green khaki pants, and a short-sleeved
black blouse. Not right out of the fashion pages, but he'd had a few
distracting moments crawling behind her, seeing those pants molded to her
shapely bottom. He hadn't been able to prevent a deep masculine appreciation
for the soft roundness of her buttocks.
She was a mass of contradictions. She was a
jet-setter, so wild that her father had disinherited her, and she'd been George Persall's mistress, yet he couldn't detect any signs
of hard living in her face. If anything, her face was as open and innocent as a
child's, with a child's enthusiasm for life shining out of her dark brown eyes.
She had a look of perpetual mischievousness on her face, yet it was a face of
honest sensuality. Her long hair was so dark a brown that it was almost black,
and it hung around her shoulders in snarls and tangles. She had pushed it away
from her face with total unconcern. Her dark brown eyes were long and a little
narrow, slanting in her high- cheekboned face in a way
that made him think she might have a little Indian blood. A smattering of small
freckles danced across those elegant cheekbones and the dainty bridge of her
nose. Her mouth was soft and full, with the upper lip fuller than the lower
one, which gave her an astonishingly sensual look. All in all, she was far from
beautiful, but there was a freshness and zest about her that made all the other
women he'd known suddenly seem bland.
Certainly he'd never been as intimate with any
other woman's knee. Even now, the thought of it made him angry. Part of it was
chagrin that he'd left himself open to the blow; he'd been bested by a
lightweight! But another part of it was an instinctive, purely male anger,
sexually based. He'd watch her knee now whenever she was within striking
distance. Still, the fact that she'd defended herself, and the moves she'd
made, told him that she'd had professional training, and that was another
contradiction. She wasn't an expert, but she knew what to do. Why would a wild,
spoiled playgirl know anything about self-defense? Some of the pieces didn't
fit, and Grant was always uneasy when he sensed details that didn't jibe.
He felt pretty grim about the entire
operation. Their situation right now was little short of desperate, regardless
of the fact that they were, for the moment, rather secure. They had probably
managed to shake the soldiers, whoever they worked for, but Turego was a different story. The microfilm wasn't the only issue now. Turego had been operating without the sanction of the
government, and if Jane made it back and filed a complaint against him, the
repercussions would cost him his
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