A tear escaped her eye.
Had a kiss ever been so…everything?
The soft touch of his tongue was as intimate as a hand between her legs. Good God, if he continued with this long, slow possession, she’d be done for. No touch needed.
On the ice, in the antarctic cold, in the middle of freaking nowhere, his tongue showed her how dirty sex could be, his body made her take it, and that dark, raspy husk of a voice broke in to turn the whole thing up a million degrees. “I didn’t want to do this, Angel. Didn’t want to open this up.”
Why not?she wanted to ask. And why’d he still sound so unhappy about it?
A wash of cold swept through her, immediately doused by his next words.
“Avoided you for months so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself.” Another kiss, this one just lips, punctuating the secrets he unveiled to her. “Guess I’m making a fool of myself.”
“You’re not alone.”
“No.” He smiled against her lips. Every breath he took pressed into her body, uncomfortable in theory, but in reality perfect. Close, warm, comforting. “But we are.” He sighed, pulling slightly away. “Alone.” Another kiss, sweet and almost chaste. “And we need sleep.”
She nodded, which prompted another of those long, slow inhales against her cheek.
“But, damn, if I didn’t have enough reason to get us to a warm bed before, this…” He kissed her again, but the damage was done.
“Right.” She gave another nod. Survival before making out. It made complete sense.
His body shifted to the side and she tightened her arms convulsively.Don’t go!
He must have read her thoughts, because he scooted and rolled until she lay on top, a blanket for him, while his big, hard slab of a body soaked up the cold from the ground. Her heating pad: warm, firm, perfect. She curled her head into his chest, closed her eyes, and did her best to pretend like this wasn’t some last-ditch battle to feel something before dying.
Chapter 25
Day 4—Harper Research and Testing Facility, East Antarctic Ice Sheet
“As I said, Director, the storm’s kept us from—”
Clive took another sip of disgusting, cold Russian coffee and watched as Sampson reported their progress—or lack thereof—to the director.
Hunting scientists and cooks wasn’t turning out to be quite as easy as the idiot had first assumed. Which, Clive had to admit, was pretty fun to watch, even if it did make it impossible for him to do his job.
Would vodka make the coffee better or worse?
“No, ma’am. Flying’s no longer a possibility with the—” Clive pressed his lips together to hide his smile while Sampson listened, no doubt receiving the type of talking-to he deserved. “The Herc left the continent and the Twin Otter’s grounded. Too windy and cold to fl—Yes, we… Yes, ma’am, either Volkov or the South African station. But there are five different ways they could’ve gone, at least. And given the—” Clive tilted his head, and though he couldn’t hear the director—she was much too cultured to actually yell—he could imagine her directives:No more excuses, Sampson. Get me the virus. Get the results I need. It’s a big continent. You can’t sit around and expect them to just stumble upon you. Go find them now, before they ruin everything.
Fucking ridiculous. He supposed that was what happened when you grew up spoiled and rich. You sat back and watched your minions scurry.
She didn’t give a shit how cold or inhospitable this place was. Frankly, she had zero understanding of the roadblocks Antarctica threw at its inhabitants.
Sampson’s team coming here to collect the virus was one thing, but having Clive perform his vaccine research on this remote continent was absurd.
The director was punishing him, he was certain, though she’d couched it in other terms—a private facility, unlimited access to test subjects, absolute control over the environment, and so on. And, yes, this facility provided all of that and more.
But it was stuck in fucking Antarctica. Not Mexico or Bolivia or some private island where he’d have had all the time and space he needed to work on the Frond virus vaccine. No, the old bitch had sent him to the coldest, most inhospitable place on earth to conduct his trials.
And now, due to this jackass’s absolute ineptitude, Clive didn’t have an actual virus to work with. Over a dozen subjects languished in their perfectly air-tight cells, waiting. For nothing.
Not for the first time, he wondered what that man had done with the original virus. The one with which the director’s father had created the live virus vaccine. How in the hell did one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies on earth let someone just walk away with such an important asset?
“I understand, ma’am. Yes, they’re on foot, but we’ve got no idea which route they’ve taken or… We head out there, we’re going blind… It’s a deadly—”
Half-annoyed, half-entertained, Clive sloshed a shot of vodka into his cup. Until he could get started on his work, he was officially off the clock. And, frankly, everything tasted like shit here, so who cared? As long as it did the trick and made him stop dwelling on how he’d been screwed over and over again, he’d drink it.
