into your car? Rest quietly. The ambulance should be here soon.”
She did a double take. “What ambulance?” Her voice, which had been vibrant and musical, turned sharp and dismayed.
He stared down at her, raising his eyebrows. “The one that’s going to take you into town. I know you’re a defensive driver at the highest level, but you’ve had one hairy ride. Shock will set in. Believe me.”
She laughed, although her temples were beaded with sweat and her skin was whiter than white. “Get on your mobile. Tell them not to come.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I’m quite rational.”
“Hold out your hands,” he ordered gently.
She did so without an instant’s hesitation.
“They’re trembling.” They were, too. Beautiful hands, long-fingered, elegant, the nails unpainted, but a nice length.
“I’m a bit shaken up, that’s all.” She shrugged, more easily able to size him up now. Her first impression was of someone larger than life, a man of mythic proportions. Hercules, Apollo, a bit of both. “Listen, I don’t want any fuss. You can drive me back to town, can’t you?”
Frowning, he studied her face. “If that’s what you want, but I have my doubts I’d be doing the right thing.”
“I’ve been in worse situations.”
“Yeah? When?” he asked skeptically.
“Try East Timor. Or dodging bullets in Afghanistan when you’re trying to talk on camera.”
He gave a devastating smile of approval, looking good enough to play the hero in a big adventure movie.
“Well, that doesn’t leave me with much else to say. Hang on a second and I’ll see if I can stop the ambulance. I’m Chase Banfield. And you’re…?”
One quirky eyebrow shot up. He probably knew exactly who she was, but she identified herself, anyway.
“Roslyn Sum-m-mers.” She’d briskly put her hand in his, then dragged out her name as a jolt of electricity flared through her body. Chase Banfield. Who else? She watched him as he half turned away, punching numbers into his mobile. He was wearing jeans and a bush shirt, and James Bond couldn’t look as good in a tuxedo. Tall. A lot taller than she. About six-three. Wide-shouldered, lean-hipped. A mane of deeply waving bronze hair. A wonderful gold tone to his skin. Beautiful topaz eyes, resembling a tiger’s. A strong distinctive face, sculpted, not chiseled like her own. High cheekbones, brackets around a handsomely cut mouth. Thirty, thirty-two. A man in full possession of his space. A man on his own territory. A fighter. A cattleman with the polished speaking voice of the elite. After Porter she wasn’t prepared for his maleness, his virility and splendor.
Chase Banfield. What else was there to say? The fates had thrown them together.
“So that’s okay,” he said, pushing the mobile back into the pouch on his belt. “No ambulance. Chipper is going to take a run out, though, and see what you’ve done.”
“Whoever Chipper is.” She could feel her heartbeat gradually returning to normal.
“Chipper Murray is our local police constable,” he explained. “A good man. He sees that nothing much goes wrong around here.”
“What’s he going to do? Arrest me for creating this mess?”
“Arresting people is part of the job, but no, you have nothing to fear. He’ll have enough on his hands trying to retrieve the car. Hire car, isn’t it?”
Rosie turned her head, kicked a tire lightly. “This is going to cost a pretty penny.”
“At least it didn’t kill you. So, Roslyn, what do we do now?”
Enterprising though she was, she didn’t think she could handle Chase Banfield. He was dynamite. Rosie took a long look up the slope. “I saw the way you got down. Piece of cake.”
He groaned. “Are you serious? A piece of cake for me. I don’t know about you.”
“Watch me.”
He was beginning to wonder if he could ever stop watching her. She was dressed like him in jeans and a shirt, only, he was never so entrancingly violently colorful. Her cotton shirt was a bright saffron. She had a couple of strings of multicolored glass beads around her neck and an ornate beaten-silver belt around her narrow waist. She reminded him of a field of wild poppies waving in the sun.
“Hang on,” he said, grasping her arm. “I can’t let you go just like that.”
“Of course you can. You wouldn’t believe some of the places I’ve been and the things I’ve done.”
“It’s my rope, girl.” He spoke softly, yet she listened.
“I’m sure I can make it up that slope.” She changed tack, smiled at him appealingly.
“There’s bougainvillea at the top.” He spoke almost with disgust. “It could rip you to shreds.”
“Then you’ll just have to go up first and cut it off. I’ll bet you’ve got something to do it with.”
He nodded grimly. “That’s right.”
“I would’ve put a thousand bucks on it. Anyway, if you can get up there so can I. All I need is a hand.”
He stroked his lean bronzed cheek, taking a moment to verbalize his thoughts. “The problem is, what do we do if you faint?”
“I never faint.” She had once, but he didn’t have to know that.
“Tough girl.”
She put her hands on her slim hips. “Believe it.”
In fact, her color was coming back. Bone china as opposed to snow. “I guess I can haul you up.” He continued to stand over her. “You know anything about knots?”
Her face brightened. “Do I ever! I used to sail with my dad around Sydney Harbour.”
“Perfect!” He could see her in a T-shirt and white shorts. A tomboy with a woman’s body.
“You want me to knot the rope around my waist?”
“Uh-huh,” he drawled laconically. “Don’t rush. We’ve got time.”
Actually, they had very little time. Soon the brilliant sunset would fade to a brief mauve twilight, then total darkness would set in.
Rosie watched as he made short work of hauling himself up the slope, hand over hand, obviously a man who spent his life outdoors, rain or shine. She could never hope to emulate his prowess, but she sure as hell was going to try.
Moments later, he’d reached the top, walking to a big powerful-looking four-wheel drive with a really scary bull bar just in view. She laughed
