“Whoa, serious?”
“No.”
He flicked his paddle, sprinkling her with water. “It’s not polite to take advantage of the dumb tourist, you know.”
“Oh, I’d take advantage of you any da—”
Her grin died. She looked down at the map and quickly refolded it.Triedto refold it. She didn’t find the right creases. She swore, thrust it into his hands without meeting his eyes and ripped off the lamp. As he put the map to rights, she swept her paddle and pulled away, back straight, focus fixed ahead.
He blew out a long, slow breath. Did she clam up because she hadn’t meant to infer she wanted to jump him, or because she regretted admitting it? And why so flustered? She didn’t strike him as the easily embarrassed type.
Interesting. Was it possible this attraction wasn’t one way?
CHAPTER EIGHT
BYTHETIMEthey hauled their kayaks into the clearing, pulled on warmer layers and began unpacking supplies, thick darkness had fallen and Tia’s belly was flip-flopping. And not because of the madman hunting them. Tonight that threat was distant. No, right now it was Cody who had her nerves strung tight. She’d spent far too much of the evening admiring the way the tightly packed muscle of his arms and shoulders and back shifted as he pulled the paddle through the water and flicked it out again. He had an easy command of the kayak, like he had an easy command of his body.
She’d be such a cliché if she had a fling with a tourist. Not that he was offering.
“Good spot,” he said, unrolling a thin sleeping mat.
“Yeah.” She stretched backward, her spine giving a satisfying crack. The overhanging cliff jutted into a starry sky. It’d be a chilly night.
“Even if he figures out where we are, which I doubt, he can’t... Holy shit!”
She snapped straight, her pulse vaulting. “What is it?”
The slap of palms on skin. Ah. The locals had found Cody. She grabbed the spray from the pile of supplies and limped to him.
“Hold still,” she said, spraying his legs. “You might want to rub it in.”Before I do it myself.
He coughed, swatting the air. “What is that—mace?”
“Lethal, eh?” she said, spraying her own skin, avoiding the wounds. “I’m guessing citronella, peppermint, lemongrass,manuka... Mykoro’s trapper mate makes it, especially for the sandflies around here. He makes a killing at the Wairoimata markets but won’t tell anyone the secret recipe. We call him ‘the Colonel.’”
“You’re really limping now.”
She zipped the little bottle into the pocket of her spray jacket, ready for the morning, and stretched her neck side to side. “Lucky we’re not walking out.”
“We better fix you up.” He picked up a long nylon bag and untied it. “The tent’s bright yellow so we’ll just use it as a groundsheet.” He laid it on the grass, its dark underside facing up, and slapped the mat on top. “We only have one sleeping bag.”
“The climbers are carrying theirs.”
“You can have it.” He shook it out and tossed it onto the mat. “Come sit. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
Her leg throbbed as if it’d heard. She lowered herself onto the sleeping bag, digging her fingers into her aching right shoulder. The reflective white cross on the kit stood out against the dark, bobbing along beside him like it was floating.
“Where did you fly in from?” she said. “America, or...?”
“Started out in Corsica—a mighty long time ago.”
“Is that your base?”
“Yep.”
“Do you normally holiday alone?”
He settled in beside her leg, strapping on his headlamp. “No one is fool enough to join me. Like you say, it takes a special kind of death wish.”
