attention, something he realized was a man's naked black buttocks, liberally smeared with mud and moving stealthily in her direction.
Chapter Seven
Bad eyesight was a severe handicap to a travel writer, particularly to one without the fortitude to venture too close to a volcano's edge. Or rather, the fool-hardiness; India told herself it would definitely be foolhardy to risk sliding to such a terrifyingly hideous end.
Standing well back from the steaming rim, she balanced the edge of her notebook against her midriff and squinted at the rock ledge that jutted out precariously over the bubbling, rumbling inferno. It must be from this very rock, she thought with a thrill of illicit excitement, that the natives used to hurl sacrifices to the fiery god below. Was the ledge a natural formation, or not? Impossible to tell from here, yet impossible to get any closer to make certain. She thought wistfully of Jack Ryder's spyglass, and decided in future to add one to the collection of necessities she carried in her knapsack.
Ever mindful of the oppressive, ticktocking passage of time, India set to work capturing the image before her in quick, bold pencil strokes. One more minute. All she needed was one more minute—
"What the bloody hell are you doing up there?"
The harsh, colonially accented voice, so unexpected and so near, broke her concentration. With a startled gasp, she swung about so quickly her boots slid on the scattering of small stones at her feet and she had to throw out her arms in a panicked and rather undignified maneuver to preserve her balance. Her fingers tightened on the edge of her notebook just in time to keep it from flying into the glowing red oblivion below. Her gaze fell on Jack Ryder, clothed, for once, in the attire considered suitable for his culture. True, his shirt hung unbuttoned halfway down his dark chest, and the sleeves had been rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms. But he was wearing rugged canvas trousers and—wonder of all wonders—boots. She watched him climbing purposefully toward her up the blighted crest of bare rock that rimmed the volcano's edge, and a surge of indignation swelled within her. "Of all the inconsiderate, unthinking—"
"Shut up and get down here, fast, or I swear to God, lady, I'll let them eat you."
"Them?" she repeated in a squeaky voice that was not at all like her, for what she saw in his face took her breath away.
"So far, I've seen three natives, all watching you." He paused just below her, one hand on the machete at his side, his sweat-streaked features lifting into an odd, chilling smile. "And you can bet your bustle there's more."
All her senses brought to instant, quivering attention, India stood perfectly still, only her eyeballs moving as her gaze searched the edges of the dark tangle of rain forest surrounding the open summit.
"No, don't look. Just get down here, now."
Hastily stowing the notebook in her knapsack, India plunged down the rocky slope, sliding the last few feet to his side. As she reached him, his hand closed over her upper arm, his fingers digging in hard. "We're going to walk fast, but not too fast," he said in a low, calm voice. "We don't want them to think we're scared."
Scared? She was so scared, her fingers were tingling, but she forced herself to walk beside him with calm dignity. "The death grip on my arm is unnecessary," she said after a moment when he continued to hold on to her as they crossed the bare stretch of poisoned rocks that yawned between them and the path back down to the beach. "I understand the gravity of the situation. If you had explained yourself more clearly at the outset, then I—"
"Save your breath. We might need to run."
India saved her breath. Her long legs in their split skirt easily matched his man's stride, but the pace he set was brutal.
Leaving the sun-blasted bare rock face of the summit behind, they plunged again into the dark thickness of the rain forest, the tall, creeper-hung mass of
Chapter Seven
Bad eyesight was a severe handicap to a travel writer, particularly to one without the fortitude to venture too close to a volcano's edge. Or rather, the fool-hardiness; India told herself it would definitely be foolhardy to risk sliding to such a terrifyingly hideous end.
Standing well back from the steaming rim, she balanced the edge of her notebook against her midriff and squinted at the rock ledge that jutted out precariously over the bubbling, rumbling inferno. It must be from this very rock, she thought with a thrill of illicit excitement, that the natives used to hurl sacrifices to the fiery god below. Was the ledge a natural formation, or not? Impossible to tell from here, yet impossible to get any closer to make certain. She thought wistfully of Jack Ryder's spyglass, and decided in future to add one to the collection of necessities she carried in her knapsack.
Ever mindful of the oppressive, ticktocking passage of time, India set to work capturing the image before her in quick, bold pencil strokes. One more minute. All she needed was one more minute—
"What the bloody hell are you doing up there?"
The harsh, colonially accented voice, so unexpected and so near, broke her concentration. With a startled gasp, she swung about so quickly her boots slid on the scattering of small stones at her feet and she had to throw out her arms in a panicked and rather undignified maneuver to preserve her balance. Her fingers tightened on the edge of her notebook just in time to keep it from flying into the glowing red oblivion below. Her gaze fell on Jack Ryder, clothed, for once, in the attire considered suitable for his culture. True, his shirt hung unbuttoned halfway down his dark chest, and the sleeves had been rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms. But he was wearing rugged canvas trousers and—wonder of all wonders—boots. She watched him climbing purposefully toward her up the blighted crest of bare rock that rimmed the volcano's edge, and a surge of indignation swelled within her. "Of all the inconsiderate, unthinking—"
"Shut up and get down here, fast, or I swear to God, lady, I'll let them eat you."
"Them?" she repeated in a squeaky voice that was not at all like her, for what she saw in his face took her breath away.
"So far, I've seen three natives, all watching you." He paused just below her, one hand on the machete at his side, his sweat-streaked features lifting into an odd, chilling smile. "And you can bet your bustle there's more."
All her senses brought to instant, quivering attention, India stood perfectly still, only her eyeballs moving as her gaze searched the edges of the dark tangle of rain forest surrounding the open summit.
"No, don't look. Just get down here, now."
Hastily stowing the notebook in her knapsack, India plunged down the rocky slope, sliding the last few feet to his side. As she reached him, his hand closed over her upper arm, his fingers digging in hard. "We're going to walk fast, but not too fast," he said in a low, calm voice. "We don't want them to think we're scared."
Scared? She was so scared, her fingers were tingling, but she forced herself to walk beside him with calm dignity. "The death grip on my arm is unnecessary," she said after a moment when he continued to hold on to her as they crossed the bare stretch of poisoned rocks that yawned between them and the path back down to the beach. "I understand the gravity of the situation. If you had explained yourself more clearly at the outset, then I—"
"Save your breath. We might need to run."
India saved her breath. Her long legs in their split skirt easily matched his man's stride, but the pace he set was brutal.
Leaving the sun-blasted bare rock face of the summit behind, they plunged again into the dark thickness of the rain forest, the tall, creeper-hung mass of
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