An unexpected wave of relief swept over her and it was all she could do to stop herself from tightening her grip, holding him close.
‘What do you say, Miranda? Shall we suspend hostilities, save the battle of the sexes for the duration?’
She wanted to ask why he insisted on calling her Miranda. A compromise between Ms Grenville and the ‘friendly’ diminutive, perhaps. Couldn’t he bring himself to be that familiar?
Instead, she said, ‘Sure. Consider it a date.’
‘It’s in my diary,’ he assured her, ‘but right now we need to move.’
‘Yes. Move.’
Having let go once, put on the independent act, Manda found it much harder to prise herself free a second time. That was how it had always been. Pretending once was easy…
He made no attempt to rush her or, impatient, pull away as she slowly prised her fingers free, one at a time. Amazingly, he remained rocklike as she forced herself to peel herself away from the warmth of his body. While she fought the desperate need to throw herself at him as a cold space filled the vacuum where, a moment before, there had been warmth.
Fighting a slide back into the dark sink of desperation, the clinging neediness.
She’d been there and knew how far down it could take her, but it was a tough call. The darkness amplified everything. Not just the tiny sounds, the movements of another person, but the emotion. The fear. And, as she finally let go, mentally casting herself adrift, she sat perfectly still for a moment, taking time to gather herself as Jago moved away from her.
Holding in the scream.
She needed no one. No one…
‘Any time in the next ten seconds will do.’
Jago’s voice came out of the darkness as astringent as the bitter aloes that one especially hated nanny had painted on her fingernails to stop her biting them. She’d chewed them anyway, refusing to submit, suffering the bitterness to spite the woman. Five years old and even then using her body to take control of her world.
The memory was just the wake-up call she needed and, using the wall as her starting point, she began to edge carefully forward on her hands and knees, casting about in wide sweeps, seeking her bag. Distracting herself from the pain in her knees as she shuffled along the broken floor by thinking about Jago.
So he found her response about trusting a man worthy of derision, did he? It had to mean that some woman had done the dirty on him in the past. The sexy creature selling her dumbed-down book on the ancient Cordilleran civilisation? He’d sounded bitter enough when she’d raised the subject.
She stopped herself from leaping to such obvious conclusions.
To the outside world she had no doubt that her trust problems would have looked that simple, too. Dismissed as the result of a couple of disastrous relationships with men who had commitment problems. She’d seen the grow-up-and-get-over-it looks from people who hadn’t a clue.
Nothing was ever that simple.
It wasn’t the men. They were no more than a symptom…
She jumped as loose stones fell in a clatter.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked nervously. What would she do if he wasn’t?
‘Just peachy,’ he replied sarcastically.
Cute. ‘You don’t actually live down here, do you?’ she asked in an effort to keep him talking.
‘No. I’ve gota house down in the village,’ he admitted, ‘but I keep a camp-bed here. I can get a lot more writing done without the constant interruptions.’ His voice seemed to come from miles away. And above her. ‘It’s about fifteen miles back.’
‘Yes, we drove through it.’
She hadn’t given a thought to the villagers. She’d seen them working in their tiny fields as they’d driven by. Small children, staring at the bus. Skinny dogs, chickens, goats…
‘I hope they’re okay down there,’ she said.
‘Me too, even though they’re probably blaming all this on me. Stirring up the old gods. Making them angry.’
‘Is that what you’ve been doing?’
‘Not intentionally. They’ll have to look further afield for those who’ve been taking their name in vain.’
Definitely the blonde, then…
‘They’re not getting excited about the possibility of getting rich off tourism?’ she asked.
‘The younger ones, maybe. The older people don’t want to know.’
‘Oh.’
Manda’s fingers brushed against something on the floor. A bottle. Glass and, amazingly, intact. She opened it, hoping it was water. She sniffed, blinked. ‘I’ve found your hooch,’ she said. ‘The bottle wasn’t broken.’
‘Good. Take care of it.’ His voice came from above her. ‘We’re going to need it.’
She didn’t ask why, afraid that she already knew the answer.
JAGO’S foot slipped, dislodging more loose rubble that rattled down to the temple floor, eliciting a small, if quickly contained, cry of alarm from his companion.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked. The pause was a fraction too long. ‘Miranda!’
‘Y-yes… Sorry. I thought it was another aftershock.’ Then, ‘Can you see anything?’
By ‘anything’ she undoubtedly meant a way out.
‘Not a lot,’ he replied, relief driving his sarcasm.
He was prodding gently, hoping to find a way through, but having to be careful that he didn’t bring the rock ceiling down on top of them. As far as he could tell, however, the far end of the temple where his working supplies were stored was completely blocked off.
Their only escape route appeared to be up through the shaft, always assuming that it hadn’t collapsed. He couldn’t see the sky. And just for a moment he considered what it would have been like to come round, alone in the darkness, not knowing what had happened.
‘I could really do with that light,’ he said. Then, ‘Any chance in the near future, do you think?’ No reply. ‘Miranda?’
‘I’ve found my bag.’
She didn’t sound happy.
‘What’s up?’
‘Everything is soaking.’
‘You can’t expect me to
