The Passionate G-Man. Dixie Browning
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on!”
She held on. It was the kind of voice that commanded obedience. Clutching the straps of her shoulder bag, she held on as if her life depended on it, thinking that in a pinch, she might use it as a weapon.
“I’ve, um...I’ll send somebody if you need help, all right?”
“Need—help!”
He sounded as if he were in pain. Tom between curiosity, concern and a healthy respect for hidden danger—she’d been at an impressionable age when she’d seen Deliverance—Jasmine hesitated just a moment too long.
“Can’t move. Need—a hand. Please.”
That last word was uttered too reluctantly to be anything but sincere. Whoever he was—whatever fix he was in—one thing was clear. He hated like the very devil having to beg for help.
“Sorry, but I’m on the other side of the creek.” That prompted more cursing, and then another, “Please?”
“It looks awfully deep. I can’t swim.” Even if it was only up to her knees, she wasn’t particularly eager to step off the bank into that dark, sluggish stream. She couldn’t see a glimmer of bottom. Even if she didn’t drown, she might get eaten alive. Maybe not by piranhas, but there might be leeches. She’d seen African Queen three times.
“Follow bank—south—forty yards. Fallen tree.” Fallen tree. Uh-huh. “Which way is south?”
She peered through hanging branches, hanging vines and swags of gray-green Spanish moss, trying to catch a glimpse of the man behind the voice. If she was going to take the risk, she’d just as soon know what she was getting involved in.
“Toward sun.”
Well, that was easy. As dense as the trees were, there weren’t enough leaves to block out the pale, low-riding sun. “Well...all right, I’ll try.”
Her mind raced ahead as she picked her way along the narrow, winding creek. It could be a heart attack, snakebite—anything. He might even have tripped on one of his own traps and now he was lying there in agony, his lifeblood seeping into the muck while hyenas sniffed at his carcass.
There weren’t any hyenas in North America, even she knew that much. That didn’t mean there weren’t scavengers. Predators.
“Where the devil are you?”
“I’m coming!”
Forty yards. How was she supposed to measure forty yards when every few steps she had to circle around a root or a fallen tree or a tangle of vines—none of them hairy, thank goodness, but some with wicked briars.
There was the tree he’d promised. It had fallen across the creek, blocking two-thirds of its width. Barely enough room to squeak past in a boat, if he’d come from this direction.
And he must have come from this direction, because he’d known about the tree.
Scratching her cheek—not actually scratching, but pressing into the itch with her fingernaıls—Jasmine surveyed the situation. If she could keep her balance, keep from falling in, she might be able to walk out far enough to jump the rest of the way. That’s if she didn’t lose her nerve first.
She lost her nerve, but it was too late. Teetering on the lower edge of the huge trunk, she faced two choices. Turn around on the mossy rounded slope and go back...or jump.
She jumped.
“Ow! Oh, shoot!”
“What happened?” His voice held an edge that could have come from pain, or it could have come from anger. She’d like to think it came from pain.
Well, that didn’t sound very nice, either: She certainly didn’t wish the man any more pain. All the same, an angry man—an angry strange man. all alone here in the wilds of the jungle...
Not jungle—swamp. There was a subtle difference, although she wasn’t certain just what it was.
No lions or tigers, only alligators and poisonous snakes?
Oh, God, why didn’t I stay home? Being a bridesmaid couldn’t be much worse than this.
At least this place was on the map. It had a name.
Dismal. Oh, great. She slapped at a mosquito and swore a mild oath. This probably wasn’t the dumbest thing she’d ever done, but it was right up there near the top of the list.
“What happened?” he called again.
“Nothing happened! I landed on my knees in the mud,” she yelled back.
She was filthy. No more scratching, at least not until she’d scrubbed her fingernails with soap and water. Unless she used a stick. A twig. Natural things were naturally sanitary, weren’t they? Hadn’t she read that somewhere?
Sure they were. Like natural poison ivy.
Lyon had plenty of time for second thoughts while he lay there waiting for deliverance, his face set in a grimace of pain. He’d tried ignoring the agonizing spasms in his back. He’d tried forcing himself to relax, muscle by muscle. He’d tried mind over matter, but pain was pain, and his mind wasn’t up to the task.
Here she came. It would have to be a female. With his luck, she’d be one of those environmentalists, ready to land on him with both feet for disturbing the pristine wilderness with his beer bottle and his Vienna sausage can and his crass human intrusion.
He could have told her the possums would eat the grease. The can would eventually rust away. They did still make ’em out of tin, didn’t they? As for the bottle, he’d take the damned thing with him if she could just help him get on his feet and back in his boat. Eventually, he’d drıft back to the campsite.
Eventually Like maybe, in a couple of weeks.
Either she was wearing snowshoes or she was leading a troop of cub scouts. He heard her thrashing through the underbrush long before she came into sight.
Long. That was his first thought. That she was long all over, especially her legs, which were pink and white and muddy. That she was wearing a fright wig the color of raw venison that stood out around her face like a halo, only he’d never seen a halo in that shade of red, nor one decorated with leaves, cypress needles and twigs.
She smiled. It was a surprisingly sweet smile in what would have been a pretty face except that there was something wrong with it. He wanted to tell her she shouldn’t go around smiling at strange men that way. For all she knew, he could be dangerous, only she could probably tell by the way he was lying here flat on his back sweating bullets that he was no threat to anyone.
“Did you fall?” She had a nice voice when she wasn’t yelling; low, husky—no discernible accent. Even half dead, his brain automatically noted and filed away such details.
“Not recently.” At her look of puzzlement, he added, “Bad back. Took off brace, rowed too far in one stretch.” He sort of grunted the words, trying to keep from breathing too deeply because every breath he took was sheer agony.
She sat on her haunches beside him, her knees projecting over his chest. God, didn’t the woman have a grain of sense under that fright wig?
A man would have to be dead not to react to all that satiny white skin, even when it was daubed with mud and laced with red scratches.
He drew a cautious breath, inhaling the scent of perfume, calamine and feminine sweat.
“Never wear perfume in a swamp,” he grunted.
“I know. I only wore it to, um—boost my morale, but it draws mosquitoes. Is it sort of like a Charly horse?”
“Your perfume?”
“Your back.”
He kept staring at her. Jasmine was used to being stared at; she was a minor celebrity, after all. A very, very minor one.
Somehow,