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 heâd expected. Heâd 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. Sheâd 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 heâd had a few distracting moments crawling behind her, seeing those pants molded to her shapely bottom. He hadnât 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 sheâd been George Persallâs mistress, yet he couldnât detect any signs of hard living in her face. If anything, her face was as open and innocent as a childâs, with a childâs 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 mouthwas 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 heâd known suddenly seem bland.
Certainly heâd never been as intimate with any other womanâs knee.
Even now, the thought of it made him angry. Part of it was chagrin that heâd left himself open to the blow; heâd been bested by a lightweight! But another part of it was an instinctive, purely male anger, sexually based. Heâd watch her knee now whenever she was within striking distance. Still, the fact that sheâd defended herself, and the moves sheâd made, told him that sheâd had professional training, and that was another contradiction. She wasnât an expert, but she knew what to do. Why would a wild, spoiled playgirl know anything about self-defense? Some of the pieces didnât fit, and Grant was always uneasy when he sensed details that didnât 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 wasnât the only issue now. Turego had been operating without the sanction of the government, and if Pris made it back and filed a complaint against him, the repercussions would cost him his position, and possibly his freedom.
It was Grantâs responsibility to get her out, but it was no longer the simple in-and-out situation heâd planned. From the moment heâd seen Pablo leaning so negligently against the helicopter, waiting for them, heâd known that the deal had gone sour. Pablo wasnât the type to be waiting for them so casually; in all the time Grant had know him, Pablo hadbeen tense, ready to move, always staying in the helicopter with the rotors turning. The elaborate pose of relaxation had tipped Grant off as
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 heâd expected. Heâd 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. Sheâd 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 heâd had a few distracting moments crawling behind her, seeing those pants molded to her shapely bottom. He hadnât 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 sheâd been George Persallâs mistress, yet he couldnât detect any signs of hard living in her face. If anything, her face was as open and innocent as a childâs, with a childâs 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 mouthwas 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 heâd known suddenly seem bland.
Certainly heâd never been as intimate with any other womanâs knee.
Even now, the thought of it made him angry. Part of it was chagrin that heâd left himself open to the blow; heâd been bested by a lightweight! But another part of it was an instinctive, purely male anger, sexually based. Heâd watch her knee now whenever she was within striking distance. Still, the fact that sheâd defended herself, and the moves sheâd made, told him that sheâd had professional training, and that was another contradiction. She wasnât an expert, but she knew what to do. Why would a wild, spoiled playgirl know anything about self-defense? Some of the pieces didnât fit, and Grant was always uneasy when he sensed details that didnât 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 wasnât the only issue now. Turego had been operating without the sanction of the government, and if Pris made it back and filed a complaint against him, the repercussions would cost him his position, and possibly his freedom.
It was Grantâs responsibility to get her out, but it was no longer the simple in-and-out situation heâd planned. From the moment heâd seen Pablo leaning so negligently against the helicopter, waiting for them, heâd known that the deal had gone sour. Pablo wasnât the type to be waiting for them so casually; in all the time Grant had know him, Pablo hadbeen tense, ready to move, always staying in the helicopter with the rotors turning. The elaborate pose of relaxation had tipped Grant off as
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