I really would be grateful.’ There was a long pause. ‘Please.’
That belated ‘please’ bothered Jago.
His uninvited guest had not, so far, displayed any real inclination to politeness. On the contrary, she’d been full of spit and fire, swiftly recovering from that momentary wobble a few moments ago.
‘Miranda?’
‘Yes?’
About to suggest that under the circumstances they could probably both do with a drink, he changed his mind. In the unlikely event that he managed to find the bottle of brandy in one piece, it might be wiser to hang on to it. Maybe later she would be grateful for the possibility of at least temporary oblivion. Maybe they both would.
Instead he said, ‘Most people just call me Jago.’
There was a small silence. ‘And what does everyone else call you?’ she asked, still fighting a rearguard action against the fear, keeping the edge going.
Soft, sweet words, he thought. All of them lies. ‘Nothing fit for the ears of a lady.’ Then, eager to change the subject, ‘Were you hurt when you fell?’
‘Just a few bruises,’ she said, with a carelessness that suggested she was being economical with the truth. ‘What about you?’
‘Not bad, apart from a pain in my leg where someone kicked me.’ Keeping it sharp was good. She was keeping up a great front so far; kindness might just have her in pieces, which was something he could do without. ‘And a headache which probably has more to do with the large lump on my forehead and less to do with alcohol than I originally supposed. But I’ll probably live.’
‘If we get out of here.’
‘We’ll get out. I just need to get my bearings.’
‘Maybe you should light another match.’
‘I would,’ he replied. Then, since there was no way to save her from reality, ‘Unfortunately that was the last one.’
‘What?’
It took a moment for the disaster to sink in. Despite the devastation revealed in those few moments as the match flame had burned away the darkness, the very promise of light had driven back a little of Manda’s fear. But no more matches meant no more light and all at once the blackness, thick enough to touch, seemed to be pressing against her face, smothering her.
She scrambled to her feet, brushing frantically at her face with her hands as if somehow she could rid herself of it, rid herself of the sense of being suffocated.
‘Don’t stand up!’
Jago’s urgent warning came too late and, stumbling on the uneven, broken floor, she saved herself by grasping a handful of cloth as she fell against him.
He grunted as she went down, collapsing against him, taking him down with her. He flung his arms about her in an attempt to stop her from hurting herself further, but in her panic she began to fight him, threshing about to free herself.
‘Steady now,’ Jago muttered into her hair as he hung on, recognising the mindless fear that had overtaken her. ‘Calm down, for pity’s sake. You’ll only hurt yourself.’
And him. He didn’t bother to mention that just in case it gave her ideas.
It made no difference since she didn’t seem to hear him, but continued to struggle fiercely like a trapped animal and he winced and swore as she broke free, her elbow catching him a glancing blow on the jaw.
‘We’ll be all right,’ he said, keeping his voice low, doing his best to reassure her. ‘I’ll get us out of here.’
She wasn’t listening. Beyond simple reason, she was fighting blindly to escape and, swearing as he took another blow, he pressed his face into her breast to protect himself as he struggled to hold her.
‘Let me go!’ she demanded. ‘I don’t need you to get me out of here. Stick with your bottle…’ And she continued to kick and writhe until she connected solidly with his shin.
It was enough. The girl was slender but she had a kick like a mule and he rolled over, pinning her to the ground.
‘Be still,’ he warned, abandoning reassurance, making it an order. She continued to heave and buck beneath him, uncaring of the dust rising in choking clouds around them, too lost in her own spiralling hysteria to hear him, or to obey him even if she could.
He’d have to let go to slap her and while the temptation was almost overwhelming—he was still feeling that kick—he chose the only other alternative left open to him and kissed her.
It was brutal but effective, cutting off the stream of invective, cutting off her breath and, taken by surprise, she went rigid beneath him. And then, just as swiftly, she was clinging to him, her mouth hot and eager as she pressed against him, desperate for the warmth of a human body. For comfort in the darkness. A no-holds-barred kiss without a hidden agenda. Pure, honest, raw need that tapped into something deep inside him. And for a seemingly endless moment he answered it without question.
As suddenly as it began it was over. Miranda slumped back against the cracked and—now—sloping floor of the temple. Jago, his body flattening her to the ground, was horribly aware of the huge shuddering sob that swept through her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and for a hideous moment he thought she was apologising for kissing him. ‘I thought I had it.’ She shivered again. ‘I thought I had it under control…’
‘Hey, come on. You’re doing fine,’ he said, lifting his hand to her face in a gesture that was meant to offer comfort, reassurance but she flinched away from him.
‘Don’t! Don’t ever do that again!’
‘I could just as easily have slapped you,’ he said.
‘I wish you had.’
‘Fine. I’ll remember you said that the next time you get hysterical.’
‘In your dreams, Mr Jago,’ she declared fervently.
‘In yours, Ms Grenville.’
In truth they were both breathing rather more heavily and her verbal rejection was certainly not being followed up by her body. Or his. Being this close to a stranger, to a woman who was no more than curves that fitted his body like a glove, soft skin, a scent in the darkness, was doing something to his head.
Her hair, a short, sleek bob, was like silk beneath his hand and she smelled so sweet and fresh after the damp, cloying air of the jungle; a primrose after the heavy, drugging scent of the huge trumpet lilies that hung from the trees, drenching the air of the forest.
She was slender but strong, with a firm leggy body that he guessed would be perfectly at home on horseback. He knew the type. Had grown up with girls who sounded—and felt—like this. Haughty girls who knew their worth, girls bred for men who had titles, or with bank balances large enough to cancel out the lack of one. Made for swish hotels and six hundred-thread Egyptian cotton sheets rather than a stone floor and a man who’d walked away from such luxuries, from everything that went with it, a long time ago.
