Expecting the Boss's Baby / Twins Under His Tree: Expecting the Boss's Baby

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She took a small puddle of the shampoo in her hand and gave him back the bottle. Then she circled around behind him and went to work.

Her hands were careful, firm and knowing. “Tip your head back.”

He did, and he closed his eyes as she shampooed him, working up a lather, massaging his scalp in a thoroughly pleasurable way. It was good, to have her hands on him. Almost as if his flesh had memorized her touch, through the days he was so sick, when she tended him so carefully—and constantly. As if his skin had learned the feel of hers by heart, and now craved the contact it no longer received.

He wondered if she might be feeling anything similar. Proprietary, maybe? She had been all he had for five days, his comfort, his only hope of survival. She had, in a sense, owned him, had done whatever was needed, no matter how intimate or unpleasant, to keep him alive, to help him fight the fever that tried to claim him. She had fed him, cleaned him up as best she could, changed his bandages and his clothes.

His memories of that time were indistinct. Mostly he had lived in a fevered dream. But he remembered her touch, soothing him, comforting him. More than once, when the chills racked him, she had lain down with him, wrapped her own body around him, to soothe him, to keep him warm.

“Feels good,” he said, his tone huskier than he should have allowed it to be.

She washed his ears, her fingers sliding along the curves and ridges, meticulous and tender. Cradling his head with her fingers, she used her thumbs against his scalp, rubbing in circles. He almost groaned in pleasure when she did that, but swallowed the sound just in time.

“All right,” she said, too soon. “Let your legs float up.”

He did. She cradled his head in the water with one hand and carefully rinsed away the lather with the other.

“Okay. All finished.”

He wanted to stay right where he was, floating face up with his eyes shut to block out the glare of the sun, her hand in his hair, supporting him, for at least another week or so. But obediently, he lowered his feet to the sandy river bottom and backed away from her. “Thanks.”

She sent him a quick smile and moved closer to shore where she could toss the shampoo up onto the rock with the rest of their things.

They swam for a while, laughing, happy as little kids in their own private pool. She led him under the falls and they crouched on a big rock inside and stared through the veil of roaring water at the indistinct, shimmering world beyond.

“You ought to get your camera in here,” he suggested.

She nodded. “I’ve thought about it. But I didn’t bring one that’s waterproof.”

“Get any other good shots?”

“A few. I have to be careful, not go shutter crazy. I want to make the battery charge last as long as I can.”

And how long would it be, until she could recharge her cameras? The question—and others like it—was never far from his mind. Or hers either, judging by the way she looked at him, and then quickly glanced away.

How long until someone found them? How long until his ankle healed and he could lead them out of here?

“Don’t,” she whispered gently.

He didn’t have to ask, Don’t what? He only gave her a curt nod and slid back into the water and under the falls.

They got out onto the rocks eventually, and dried themselves in the sun. She stretched out on the blanket she’d brought. He limped along the shoreline, looking for a good walking stick.

Found one, too. He figured with it, he could get back to camp without having to lean on her the whole way.

Before they returned to the clearing, they gathered firewood to take with them and filled the two canteens. She explained that she would boil the water, just to be on the safe side. She’d saved the empty water bottles and she was refilling them with the sterilized river water.

He marveled at her resourcefulness. She’d probably be halfway to San Cristóbal by now, living off the land, if not for his holding her back.

She sent him a look. “I can read your mind, you know.”

“Okay. Now you’re scaring me.”

“It’s your nature to be fatheaded and overly sure of yourself. Just go with your nature. No dragging around being morose, okay?”

He laughed then, because she was right. There was a bright side and he would look on it. They were both alive and surviving pretty damn effectively, thanks to her.

“It can only get better from here,” he said.

“That’s the spirit.” She hooked her canteen on her belt, pulled a couple of lengths of twine from her pocket and handed him one. “Tie up your firewood.”

He did what she told him to do—just as he’d been doing for most of the day. After the wood was bundled, they gathered up the stuff they had left on the rock and headed for the trail.

Back at camp, he propped his ankle up to rest it. They ate more of the dwindling supply of freeze-dried food and pored over the maps.

She had marked the location he’d made her write down the night of the crash. It appeared that their own personal jungle was somewhere in the northernmost tip of the state of Chiapas, about a hundred and twenty-five miles from the state capital of Tuxtla Gutiérrez and the airport where they were supposed to have landed. There were any number of tiny villages and towns in northern Chiapas, and deforested farmland and ranches were supposed to cover most of the area where they had gone down.

Actually, he calculated that they shouldn’t be in rainforest, but they were. And that meant that they must have been blown farther south after he noted the coordinates that final time. And that meant who the hell knew where they were? Their best bet remained to follow the river until they found human habitation.

And when would they be doing that?

At least a week, maybe two, depending on how fast his ankle healed.

That evening, as the sun dipped low, they slathered themselves in bug repellent and returned to the river with the fishing pole and a plastic bag containing grubs he had found under rocks at the edge of the clearing.

He assembled his pole and baited his line while she gathered more wood and tied it into twin bundles and then sat down with him to wait with him for the fish to bite.

They didn’t have to wait long. He felt the first stirrings of renewed self-respect when he recognized the sharp tug on the line.

“Got one.” He played the line, letting it spin out and then reeling it in. Finally, he hauled the fish free of the water. It was a beautiful sight, the scaly body twisting and turning, gleaming in the fading light, sending jewellike drops of water flying in a wide arc.

Zoe laughed and clapped her hands and shot her fist in the air. “Way to go, Girard! That baby’s big enough to make dinner for both of us.”

He caught the squirming fish in his hand and eased out the hook. “You know how to clean them?”

She groaned. “Unfortunately, yes.” She did the messy job while he baited his hook again.

He landed another one, just because he could. The meat would probably stay fresh enough for their morning meal. They could try smoking them to preserve them, and they would. Tomorrow. For tonight, two was more than enough. He cleaned that second fish himself, found a stick to hang them on and they started back.

Zoe took the lead with the two bundles of firewood and a full canteen. Dax, leaning on his cane, carrying the fish and his pole, followed behind.

They were almost to the clearing when the giant snake dropped out of the trees and landed on Zoe.

Chapter Seven

It was almost fully dark by then. In the trees, it was hard to see your hand in front of your face, so it took Dax a few seconds to make out what was happening.

Zoe let out a blood-curdling shriek and then one word, “Snake!”

He made out the thick, twisting form, the white belly gleaming, coiling itself around her as she sent the firewood flying. Dax dropped the stick with the fish on it, tossed his cane and pole to the trail and whipped out his hunting knife.

By then, she had managed to turn and face him. The snake started hissing, a loud, ugly sound. “Here,” she said, her voice straining as she tried to control the powerful coils. He realized she had a hold of the neck, right below the extremely large head, in both hands. “Cut here …”

He stepped up, grabbed the snake a foot below her clutching fists and sliced that sucker’s head clean off. Blood spurted and the thunderous hissing stopped. He felt the spray on his face. The snake’s powerful tail whipped at him, strongly at first and then more slowly.

Zoe held on to the detached head, whimpering, muttering to herself, “Eeuuu, icky, sticky. Yuck!” as he dropped the long, thick scaly body and it gradually went limp.

It shocked the hell out of him, to watch her lose it. Up till then, she’d been a model of determined cool and unbreakable self-control. “Zoe …”

“Oh, God. God help us. Oh, ick. Oh, help….”

He gaped at her, disbelieving. And then he shook himself. She needed talking down and she needed it now. And he was the only one there to do it. He spoke softly, slowly, “It’s okay, Zoe. It’s okay. It’s dead.”

She went on whimpering, muttering nonsense words, clutching the severed head of the reptile, as though she feared if she let it go, it would snap back to life and attack her all over again.

“Zoe. Zoe, come on. Let go.” He caught her wrists in his hands. “It’s dead. It can’t hurt you anymore. You can let go.”

With a wordless cry, she threw the snake’s head down and hurled herself at his chest.

He tottered a little on his bad ankle but recovered, steadied himself and wrapped his arms around her. Gathering her good and close, he stroked her hair, whispering, “Okay, it’s okay.”

She buried her face against his shoulder, and huddled against him, trembling. “I was so scared. So damn scared.”

He kissed the top of her head without even stopping to think that maybe he was crossing the line. Right then, there was no line. Only her need to be held—and his, to hold her. “I know, I know. But it’s over now.”

“You’re right. Over. It’s over, it’s okay …” Slowly, she quieted. The shaking stopped. She lifted her head and looked up at him. He saw the gleam of her eyes through the gloom.

He wondered if she’d been bitten. The snake was a boa, he was reasonably sure. Their bites weren’t deadly, but they could hurt like hell. He asked, carefully, “Were you bitten?”

She shook her head. “No. Uh-uh. It just, it was so strong, slithering around me, tightening….”

He felt her shudder and hurried to remind her, “But it’s dead now.” He spoke firmly, “Dead.”

“Dead. Yes.” She nodded, a frantic bobbing of her head. And then she blinked. “Do you know how many times I walked this path while you were so sick?”

He captured her sweet face between his hands, held her gaze and didn’t let his waver. “Don’t. No what-ifs, remember?”

“But I—”

He tipped her chin higher, made her keep looking at him. “No. Don’t go there. You’re safe and we won’t go to the river, or even into the trees, except together from now on. If one of us is in danger, the other will be there, to help deal with it.”

“Oh, Dax …”

He didn’t think, didn’t stop to consider that he wasn’t supposed to put any moves on her, that she had great value to him and they had certain agreements, the main one being hands off.

It just seemed the most natural thing to do. The right thing.

The only thing.

He lowered his head and she lifted hers.

They met in the middle. He tasted her mouth, so soft, still trembling, so warm and needful—needing him. She sighed and her breath was his breath.

He wrapped her closer, slanted his head the other way, deepened the amazing, impossible kiss.