you were just joking about that too, an inducement to get me here.” Marc heard the exhausted slur of her words and kept a steadying hand on her arm.
“There’s a hot
mineral-spring pool about three hundred yards from here.” His own body felt heavy from exertion, and
he was in good shape. But it had been almost three years since he’d been on an op or done anything
quite this physical. For all her protestations of being a coward, she’d done amazingly well. But now her
face was colorless and her lips tinged with blue.
Stopping abruptly, Marc let her sink to the sandy floor. “Rest here for a moment while I go and check
out our room.”
She immediately curled into a ball and closed her eyes. “’K. Call me when room service gets here….”
CHAPTER FOUR
MARC SCOUTEDthe enormous cave for a safe place to bed down. Marezzo hadn’t had many tourists
since becoming the playground of terrorists four or five years ago. Still, he didn’t want to take
unnecessary risks in case some adventurous resident decided to bring guests to see the natural springs
and grandeur of the grotto.
In his job, not taking the extra minute or two could be life or death—and if there was gonna be any
dying, Marc thought it wasn’t going to be him.
There was only one entrance—the one facing the sea in the limestone cliffs. The faint odor of sulfur
assaulted his nose as he came across the small pool of steaming water. The underground spring that fed it
was several hundred feet away, so the water was pleasantly hot and the smell of sulfur not too
overpowering.
That hot water was going to do them both a world of good, once he’d found somewhere to stash their
things.
The small space he was looking for was well hidden by a sixty-foot wall of solid limestone—a natural
room of about a hundred square feet, tucked away and undetectable. Dropping his supplies on the sandy
floor, he began making a rough camp. Setting up a small propane stove, he poured bottled water into a
tin pot and set it to boil before going back for his reluctant partner.
She was exactly as he’d left her—curled into a small ball, wet hair trailing in the sand.
“Room service.”
She was out like a light. Briefly he debated waking her so that she could take a hot bath and change into
dry clothes. But she needed sleep now more than creature comforts. Picking her up, Marc made his way
back to their “room.” She didn’t move so much as an eyelash.
Stripping naked out of his soaked clothes, Marc turned down the flame on the stove and then dried off
with the clean T-shirt he retrieved from his pack.
Digging a depression in the sand, he laid down a foil survival blanket and turned to Victoria. Her mouth
was slightly open. She’d be pissed if she knew she snored. Gathering her hair in both hands, he squeezed
out as much saltwater as he could. Pausing with his fingers in her hair, he took stock of what the hell he
was doing. Suddenly he was coldly furious with himself, realizing that somehow she’d managed to bring
out a new and unfamiliar tenderness in him. In his line of work it was dangerous to be distracted.
She was trouble with a capitalT. He didn’t need to know her to realize that the very correct Miss
Victoria Jones was going to be a pain in the butt. That almost kiss on Angelo’s fishing tub was a surefire
indication that he was slipping.
She wasn’t his type. She was the kind of woman who wore her blouse buttoned to the throat, using her
clothing as armor. He liked to see a woman look like a woman. Slinky clothes and FM
heels. He’d
always preferred women who knew the score and accepted a one-night stand. Quick, satisfying sex with
no commitment. That used to be his style.
Perhaps the fact that he’d been celibate for more than three years had something to do with this
newfound touchy-feely shit. Impatient with the way his thoughts were going, he pulled off her wet jeans.
Her flesh was cool to the touch. And
“There’s a hot
mineral-spring pool about three hundred yards from here.” His own body felt heavy from exertion, and
he was in good shape. But it had been almost three years since he’d been on an op or done anything
quite this physical. For all her protestations of being a coward, she’d done amazingly well. But now her
face was colorless and her lips tinged with blue.
Stopping abruptly, Marc let her sink to the sandy floor. “Rest here for a moment while I go and check
out our room.”
She immediately curled into a ball and closed her eyes. “’K. Call me when room service gets here….”
CHAPTER FOUR
MARC SCOUTEDthe enormous cave for a safe place to bed down. Marezzo hadn’t had many tourists
since becoming the playground of terrorists four or five years ago. Still, he didn’t want to take
unnecessary risks in case some adventurous resident decided to bring guests to see the natural springs
and grandeur of the grotto.
In his job, not taking the extra minute or two could be life or death—and if there was gonna be any
dying, Marc thought it wasn’t going to be him.
There was only one entrance—the one facing the sea in the limestone cliffs. The faint odor of sulfur
assaulted his nose as he came across the small pool of steaming water. The underground spring that fed it
was several hundred feet away, so the water was pleasantly hot and the smell of sulfur not too
overpowering.
That hot water was going to do them both a world of good, once he’d found somewhere to stash their
things.
The small space he was looking for was well hidden by a sixty-foot wall of solid limestone—a natural
room of about a hundred square feet, tucked away and undetectable. Dropping his supplies on the sandy
floor, he began making a rough camp. Setting up a small propane stove, he poured bottled water into a
tin pot and set it to boil before going back for his reluctant partner.
She was exactly as he’d left her—curled into a small ball, wet hair trailing in the sand.
“Room service.”
She was out like a light. Briefly he debated waking her so that she could take a hot bath and change into
dry clothes. But she needed sleep now more than creature comforts. Picking her up, Marc made his way
back to their “room.” She didn’t move so much as an eyelash.
Stripping naked out of his soaked clothes, Marc turned down the flame on the stove and then dried off
with the clean T-shirt he retrieved from his pack.
Digging a depression in the sand, he laid down a foil survival blanket and turned to Victoria. Her mouth
was slightly open. She’d be pissed if she knew she snored. Gathering her hair in both hands, he squeezed
out as much saltwater as he could. Pausing with his fingers in her hair, he took stock of what the hell he
was doing. Suddenly he was coldly furious with himself, realizing that somehow she’d managed to bring
out a new and unfamiliar tenderness in him. In his line of work it was dangerous to be distracted.
She was trouble with a capitalT. He didn’t need to know her to realize that the very correct Miss
Victoria Jones was going to be a pain in the butt. That almost kiss on Angelo’s fishing tub was a surefire
indication that he was slipping.
She wasn’t his type. She was the kind of woman who wore her blouse buttoned to the throat, using her
clothing as armor. He liked to see a woman look like a woman. Slinky clothes and FM
heels. He’d
always preferred women who knew the score and accepted a one-night stand. Quick, satisfying sex with
no commitment. That used to be his style.
Perhaps the fact that he’d been celibate for more than three years had something to do with this
newfound touchy-feely shit. Impatient with the way his thoughts were going, he pulled off her wet jeans.
Her flesh was cool to the touch. And
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