Читать книгу Running Wild - Susan Andersen, Susan Andersen - Страница 13

CHAPTER SIX

MAGS HADN’T BEEN camping since she was a kid. Well, strictly speaking she’d made camps with friends but had never actually gone camping with tents and sleeping bags and stuff. Mostly she’d run wild with the kids of the families her folks ministered to. And although the gritty urban streets of Tacna, where they’d lived until she was six or seven years old, were about as far from the wilderness as things got, during the years that she and her parents had lived in the village of Onoato, the lush northern Amazon had been her playground. She and the village children had spent long carefree hours exploring and playacting. And building camps.

She sneaked a peek at Finn while he set up their camp with economical proficiency. As he moved in and out of the shadows cast by a small battery-powered lantern, she watched his features change back and forth between the spare, angular beauty and hatchet-carved cheekbones of an old-time saint to a hollow-eyed, shadow-misted visage that she entertained herself by assigning more demonic labels to.

She tried to picture him as part of those old simplistic childhood games, but she couldn’t quite manage it. She could, however, easily see him swinging on vines through the rain forest the way the older boys had done, and had a sneaking suspicion that if he had been part of her childhood gang, he’d have thought he was the boss of them.

She muttered, “As if” under her breath.

“You say something there, Goldilocks?”

She started. Then, slapping back the bump of guilt over...darned if she knew what, she said, “Nooooo?”

As if it were a question, for pity’s sake. Holy crappacino. She was so tired she was rummy.

Finn strode up to her and, as if he’d read her thoughts, waved a hand at the small tent he’d set up. “It might be close quarters, but it’s out of the elements.” He gave her a wry smile, no doubt thinking the same thing she did: that it was dry and still amazingly warm given it was the middle of the night. He shrugged. “Such as they are.”

Looking at the minuscule tent, she felt a moment’s qualm about those close quarters. But, lord, she’d give a bundle to lie down. So in the spirit of getting some rest, she sloughed off her misgivings.

“I thought about setting up just the fly instead of the whole tent,” Finn said. “It’d be cooler and we’d definitely have more ventilation. But I don’t know what kind of critters are around here so I decided to err on the side of keeping them the hell out.” The night was alive with the sound of small rustling, chirping things. The crickets had gone dead silent when she and Finn first climbed out of the car, but it hadn’t taken long for them to grow accustomed to the humans in their midst and they were now back to their full nightly chorale.

“That works for me.” She headed for the shelter, but then stopped halfway there. “But first I’ve gotta pee.”

He offered her the lantern. “Take this and wait here a sec. I’ll grab you some TP from my pack.” He unzipped the entry flap and tossed it back. The tent’s opening was larger than she expected and he bent in half but entered it easily enough.

He was back in seconds and tossed her a plastic bag with a flattened roll of toilet paper inside. “You want me to go with you?”

She was half-tempted, but if she could handle wildlife when she was a little girl, she could darn well handle it now. “No, I’m good. I’ll just be a minute.”

She was back not a whole lot longer than she’d predicted and found him still standing next to the tent.

“Let me take that.” He reached for the battery-operated lantern. “I put your purse thing in the vestibule.” He indicated the fly that stretched out beyond the boundaries of the tent, then made an after-you gesture. “Pick whichever side you’re most comfortable on. I only have the one mat and sleeping bag, but it’s so warm I doubt we’ll need to cover up so you can sleep on whichever you think will work best. There’s a door and vestibule on both sides so we won’t have to crawl over each other.”

“Fancy.” She bent to peer inside and eased out a small breath of relief when she saw it looked reasonably roomy. She let herself in the way she’d seen him do. Then, turning, she saw he’d bent over to peer in at her.

“Which side appeals to you?” he asked.

“I like sleeping on the left.” She was also more drawn to the puffy sleeping bag than to the not particularly comfortable-looking thin mat.

“Left, it is,” he said. “If you want to do up the zipper on the door I’ll go around and let myself in on the other side.”

She did so and looked around as she unhooked her bra and removed it through the sleeve of her top. This wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t nearly as cramped as she’d expected.

Which made her wonder what kind of conditions her folks had to contend with on Munoz’s coca farm. They were accustomed to living rough, but what if the cartel goons had just tossed them in a closet or set them to working the fields for twelve hours a day? They were in their sixties, for pity’s sake, and likely weren’t as strong as they once were.

The zzzip of the zipper unfastening on the other side of the tent interrupted her thoughts and she turned to watch Finn climb inside. He was around the six-foot mark and his shoulders were wide. And suddenly what she’d thought was a generous hunk of space shrank.

She eased off her sandals and set them aside, then flopped down atop the sleeping bag. “Good night,” she murmured and turned away from him onto her side. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep but she had an awful feeling the much-needed slumber might be elusive. Things rustled as he did whatever he did to get ready for bed and a hint of his scent wafted in her direction.

As she breathed in the bouquet of some no-nonsense guy-type soap, laundry detergent and the faint underlying aroma of man, she was surprised to find it curiously comforting. And perhaps that was why, between one breath and the next, she did exactly what she feared she’d not be able to do.

She tumbled headfirst into the deep, dark abyss of oblivion.

* * *

FINN AWOKE FROM a great dream of having a woman sprawled over him to discover that a woman was, in fact, half-sprawled over him.

For a second, he didn’t know where the hell he was. Cracking an eye open, he tipped his chin to look. Magdalene was in his arms and memories of yesterday started filtering back into his brain. Unless those were part of an elaborate dream as well.

She slept on her side, partially plastered against him. Her head rested on his chest as if he were her personal pillow, her breasts nestled against a section of his rib cage and one shapely arm draped across him diagonally. Her right leg was slung across his thighs and bent at the knee, her kneecap dangerously close to brushing his morning wood.

But if she’d been drawn to him in her sleep, clearly he’d been equally magnetized. Hard to say otherwise, considering his own arm wrapped around her in return. More damning, that hand cupped the lower curve of her breast. He gazed at it blurrily through slitted eyes.

Okay, this didn’t appear to be a dream. A soft guffaw escaped him. No shit, Sherlock. If he were dreaming she’d be buck-naked and crawling all over him, performing epic pornographic acts.

He shifted the hand cupping her breast and stroked his thumb down the warm curve to her nipple. The weight in his palm jiggled slightly and her nipple hardened beneath the barely there layer of the thin T-shirt separating their bare skin.

Nope. Definitely not a dream.

Yet still he floated in a half world, caught between sleep and full consciousness as he lazily gave the nipple caught between his thumb and the side of his index finger a gentle tug. And oh, yeah. She liked that. Watching with sleepy satisfaction, he repeated the process, loving the drowsy, appreciative sounds she made in her sleep and the way she rocked her hips with restive sexuality against the side of his.

Then she suddenly went still—and he was abruptly wide-awake with the knowledge that she likely was as well.

Not to mention the realization that he’d been caught feeling her up with all the finesse of a fourteen-year-old achieving second base for the very first time. His hand on her breast went slack and he slid it surreptitiously to her lower rib cage. Then had to swallow a snort.

Because, really? Like if you’re stealthy enough she won’t notice you’ve been getting all handsy with her tit?

Without raising her head from his chest, she slowly tilted it back to look up at him. Her sleepy blue eyes were still heavy lidded. “Well, this is awkward,” she murmured. But, yawning, she didn’t look the least bit discomfited as she pushed back to sit on the rumpled sleeping bag next to his mat. “Sorry about that. Nancy always said I was a bed hog.” She yawned again, long and luxuriously, stretching with feline voluptuousness.

He had to drag his gaze away and clear his throat. “Yeah, and I apologize for copping a feel. My only defense is I was mostly asleep.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Well, that and I’m a man.”