Freefall. Jill Sorenson
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didn’t remove his hands from her ass, but he stopped grinding against her, which helped her think. She braced her palms on his chest and gave him a light push. He released her at once, stepping back.
Her brain wasn’t functioning on all cylinders yet. He was damned near irresistible, standing there in the moonlight, an erection straining the front of his jeans, his dark eyes locked on her mouth.
“That was hot,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I have to go to bed now.”
“Okay.”
He walked her to the girls’ tent, not seeming displeased or frustrated in the least. She liked that. Some guys thought every make-out led to sex, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. After a traumatic experience with an aggressive date, Faith had vowed never to let a man overpower her again.
When they arrived at the entrance, she stood up on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his. She wanted to smooth her palm down his body to test his size, but she restrained herself. Teasing him would be cruel.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, sinking to her knees to unzip the tent.
He murmured something under his breath that sounded oddly like a foreign language. Then he said good-night and disappeared into the dark.
* * *
HOPE AND SAM hiked until sunset.
Her legs were shaky from overexertion, and she felt light-headed, but she soldiered on, determined to keep moving. Although she was accustomed to strenuous exercise, twelve hours of it tested her physical limits.
When she stumbled and almost fell down a ravine, Sam suggested a break. She sat down on a flat rock, her thigh muscles quivering. While he disappeared into the trees to relieve himself, she radioed Dispatch, getting a detailed update. Then she checked in with Ron Laramie. To her relief, the rafting group was fine.
Sam didn’t say anything when he got back. His body language was closed, his mouth set in a hard line.
She took a sip of water to ease her parched throat before sharing the latest news. “The attendant at Kaweah hasn’t seen any suspicious characters, but one of the campers reported a stolen backpack, and a sheriff’s deputy found a strange set of clothes in the men’s room trash can.”
“Strange how?”
“Business attire, soaked in bleach. They cordoned off the bathroom in hopes that evidence can be collected.” Tomorrow, investigators would retrieve the illegal cargo, process the crash site and launch a park-wide manhunt.
“You think he’s still in the area?”
She shrugged. They hadn’t seen any sign of him. He might have reentered the wilderness to hide, but there was no way he could have caught up with Faith’s rafting group on foot. She breathed a little easier, knowing that.
“What about his friends?”
“They’ll be looking for the cargo. They might not know where it is, or even where the plane crashed.”
“They’ll know if he tells them.”
Hope wasn’t sure he would. There’d obviously been a conflict between the suspect and the pilot. It was possible that he wasn’t on good terms with the rest of his crew. Someone had been trying to contact him on the plane’s radio. He must have fled the scene in haste, without relaying any information.
“Let’s make camp under that tree, away from the trail,” he said, pointing to a more secure location.
“If we push, we could reach Kaweah by midnight.”
“You’re exhausted.”
She couldn’t deny it. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be unconscious in another mile.”
“Okay, He-Man,” she shot back. “Clearly you never get tired, so you can go on ahead without me if my company offends you so much. I’ll catch up tomorrow.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. The stress and muscle strain had really done a number on her. All of the hurt she’d bottled up inside had risen to the surface.
She was usually more upbeat.
“I’m tired,” he said, walking away from the trail and removing the tent from his backpack. He didn’t bother to deny that he found her company offensive. She followed him, finding another rock to sit on. With a heavy sigh, she stared into the distance, determined to enjoy the play of light in the clouds as the sun dipped below the horizon.
The next thing she knew, it was full dark, and he was shoving a tin cup into her hands. She must have dozed off.
“Drink,” he said.
It was chicken noodle soup from a freeze-dried packet. He molded his hands over hers as she took a tentative sip. The liquid was hot and tasty, reviving her senses. She drank half the cup before he moved away, trusting her to finish it herself.
“Thank you,” she said.
He grunted a dismissal and made another cup of soup. While she was sleeping, he’d set up the tent under a tree and built a small fire.
“How long was I out?”
“Ten minutes.”
She drained her cup, suddenly ravenous.
“You should drink some water, too.”
Hope did as she was told, because dehydration was no joke, and she was showing signs of serious fatigue. When she’d stopped moving, her body had shut down. Her core temperature had also dropped considerably. She was cold.
They shared several packets of soup, a powdered drink that tasted like hot Tang and a bag of roasted almonds.
Once her hunger was satisfied, she became very sleepy again. She yawned behind her hand, catching his watchful gaze from across the campfire. He looked ready to point to the tent and order her to go to bed, like a dog.
“Are you going to stay out here all night?” she asked.
He poked a stick at the fire, contemplative. “No.”
“I only brought one sleeping bag.”
“You can have it.”
“I’ll use my blanket.”
He didn’t argue, so she took that as an agreement. She removed her shoes and crawled inside the tent, bringing the space blanket with her. It was a shallow, narrow space, designed to hold in heat. Once he joined her, they’d be like two sardines in a can. She zipped up the door and scooted to one side, leaving room for him. Then she wrapped her body in the crinkly, aluminum-sided blanket, rested her head on the crook of her arm and closed her eyes.
Sleep was elusive because her mind wouldn’t rest. She couldn’t stop second-guessing her interactions with Sam. She’d replayed their night together a thousand times, wondering what had gone wrong. He didn’t seem like the type of man to discard a woman after one use. Well, three uses, but who was counting?
He seemed even less like that type now. He was irritable and short-tempered, not deliberately cruel. A man without a heart wouldn’t follow her down the mountain or feel responsible for her safety. She knew why her presence made him uncomfortable: guilt. She reminded him of his worst behavior.
She rolled onto her side, frustrated. He hadn’t planned to throw her out. She’d bet her Patagonia backpack on it. The action was too bizarre, too abrupt.
Another ugly suspicion reared its head. Obviously, he liked her looks, or he wouldn’t have taken her home with him. Her personality wasn’t a major consideration—they hadn’t done much talking. And she’d never been more responsive or uninhibited, so he couldn’t fault her sexual performance.
What did that leave? Her body.
Hope had a nice enough