Expecting the Boss’s Baby (9 page)

“I have one more question.”

“Ask.”

“Johnny?”

She laughed, then, a low, throaty, knowing sound. “There is no Johnny.”

“I knew it.”

“I knew you knew. And now
I
have a question.”

“Name it.”

“Did you bring condoms with you?”

“I always have condoms with me.”

She almost smiled at that—but not quite. “Well, all right, then.” She swept upward, out of the chair, and stood above him, holding down her hand.

He looked up at her and knew he would never forget the sight of her at that moment, of her red hair haloed in firelight, her blue eyes shadowed, full of hot promises that he fully intended to make her keep.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from asking one more time, “You're sure?”

“Take my hand, Dax. Let's go to bed.”

Z
oe didn't doubt herself, didn't second-guess. The course was set. She would follow it.

She would glory in it.

When he reached up his lean hand to her, she took it, grasped it tight, helped pull him up, helped steady him on his good foot. He touched her face with his other hand, traced her brows, followed the curve of her cheek.

And then he kissed her.

It was a slow, tender, exploratory kiss. She lifted her mouth to him and let him take the lead, drinking in the scent of him: clean sweat, insect repellent—and a hint of plumeria from her shampoo. And something else, something heady and manly and totally wonderful. Something that was every good smell in the world, all rolled into one. A one-of-a-kind scent that almost had her believing in those “special” pheromones of his that
Lin was always going on about. He smelled of chocolate and sugar cookies fresh from the oven. Of toasted pecans. Oh, she definitely wanted to eat him right up.

He ran his tongue along the seam where her lips met and she let him in.

That was when he wrapped his big arms around her and pulled her close to his hard, strong chest. The fire bathed them in its red glow, sending up sparks to the velvety night. Off in the darkness, she heard the jungle sounds, the screams of predators, the calls of nightbirds, the endless rustling of creatures that crept close to the ground.

She smiled against his mouth, eased her hands around his tight waist, reveled in the feel of him, pressed so close with passionate intent. At last.

In time, he lifted his head and looked down at her through those glorious, lazy bedroom eyes.

She said, “When you were so sick, when you were shaking with fever, shivering with cold at the same time, I used to lie down with you.”

“I remember. I was so grateful. Comforted.”

“It was a comfort to me, too—and a tight fit on those seats.”

A smile tipped on a corner of his beautiful mouth. “But you made it work.”

“Hmm.” She lifted on tiptoe.

He took the hint and lowered his head to her again.

She claimed his lips eagerly, hungrily. When he held her and kissed her, it all made sense, somehow. That they were here, miles from home, constantly in danger but together.

In every way.

For a long while, they simply stood there by the fire, kissing, whispering to each other, kissing some more.
Yes, she felt an urgency to take the pleasure farther, faster. She sensed that he did, too.

But there was a certain joy, a delicious thrill, in denying the urgency, in taking their time.

His hardness pressed into her belly, making promises that they both knew would be kept, and kept that night. Her body thrummed with excitement, her breasts ached for his caress. And below, she was heavy. Liquid with yearning, with hot expectation.

And they went on kissing even longer.

In time, he released her. They didn't need words. She banked the fire. They each made a final trip into the shadows. They washed their hands and faces, brushed their teeth. He got the condoms from a suitcase and she collected the blanket and pillow that remained in the plane.

And then, at last, they entered the tent.

He undressed her first. Each time she tried to get something of his off, he gently pushed her eager hands away.

And eventually, she surrendered. After days of always having to be in control and on guard, it was a revelation, a sweet and voluptuous relief, to lie back on the pillows. To let him bring pleasure to her.

Like the kissing by the fire, he took his time about it. Starting with her shoes and socks, he worked his way up her body, kissing and caressing as he peeled away her clothing, revealing all her secrets.

She was only too happy to be revealed. It was exactly what she wanted, and just the way she wanted it. His tongue was magic, his fingers knew the perfect way to touch her. To stroke her.

Halfway up her body, he lingered. She still had
on her shirt and bra when he dipped his tongue into the well of her navel, when he kissed every inch of her belly.

And lower.

He touched the chestnut curls and she opened her legs for him. He whispered how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her, how the taste of her was so sweet, even better than he had dreamed in his constant fantasies of her.

“Constant?” That sounded really good.

“Yes. As in continuous. As in you've made me crazy…”

“Crazy. Good. That's very good.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I knew you'd think so.” He lowered his head to her, his fingers gently parting her secret flesh. “So beautiful. So slick and hot and wet…” And then his mouth was there, doing things. Wonderful things.

She groaned and clutched his head and pleaded, “Yes, oh! Right there. Oh, Dax….”

He knew just what to do, to make the ecstasy last. He found the right spot and he played it. She would rise, eager, urgent, reaching for the finish.

And then he would ease off, go slower. The waterfall's edge of her building climax would retreat.

She begged him. She was shameless. She grabbed for his big shoulders, she curved her fingers into his thick, silky hair, digging her heels into the blankets, pushing her hungry body up to him, needing the fulfillment that his skilled mouth was promising, careful only of the bandage on his forehead. “Please. Oh, Dax. Please…”

But he wouldn't give in and give her what she begged for, not until stars danced behind her eyes and her body hummed and quivered and she felt the glow of her own
arousal all through her, in each deep, hungry beat of her heart, across every inch of her heated, sweat-dewed flesh.

Finally, he let it happen. She spun toward the waterfall, her whole body alive, shimmering, supersensitized. She spun toward it—and miracle of miracles—she went over.

In a glorious free fall, she cried out his name as the pleasure rose up and consumed her, in a shimmer of falling jeweled brightness, of pure physical joy.

Of wondrous completion.

He slid up her body as she came. His mouth, wet with her excitement, hot from those endless kisses, pressed a burning, slick trail over her quivering belly, across the white fabric of her T-shirt, along the sweat-damp column of her exposed throat. He took her mouth with a groan.

And he entered her.

Just like that. She let out a sound of surprised fulfillment. She had no clue when he'd freed himself of his pants, of his boxer briefs. But he
was
free. She reached down and took his hard, naked hips between her hands.

It was perfect, just what she needed, his mouth on hers in a never-ending kiss, the feel of him filling her, gliding in so hot and hard and slick as the last sweet pulses of her climax beat around him, easing his way.

“So good. Zoe…” He breathed her name into her mouth.

She took it, took all of him, all the way. And she sucked his tongue into her mouth as she lifted her hips to him, eager and ready for each hard, hungry thrust.

They rolled, moaning, kissing, and she was on top. It felt so good, so right. She reared up above him and rode him, rocking her hips on him, claiming each hot, perfect sensation as it rolled into her and through her, and onward, like a rushing, brilliant burst of light, out her toes, her fingertips, the top of her head.

And then, somehow, the bright light of her pleasure whirled in the close air around them and came back into her, expanding, sliding along each and every nerve ending.

Until another climax approached. She shuddered, crying out, and her body collapsed on top of him.

She came yet again, a swift, searing explosion of sensation, as he claimed the top position once more, braced up on his powerful arms and let his own climax have him.

He gazed down at her, his dark eyes so soft and low and gleaming, the bandage white as snow against his forehead, as he pulsed within her, and her body welcomed him, urging him deeper, harder, faster.

At the very end, he tossed his head back. A low, deep growl rose in his chest. His big arms gave way and he came down to her again, locking his mouth to hers, kissing her so deeply, still expanding and contracting within her.

And for the third time, her body answered, going over the waterfall yet again and then slowly, deliciously drifting down into the pool of contentment below.

Some time passed. She stroked his lean hips, eased her fingers under the shirt he still wore to learn the powerful, slick musculature of his beautiful back.

He kissed her cheeks, her chin, her throat, little wet,
nipping kisses, that made her shiver in the most lovely, delicious way.

But then, ripping through the lazy aftermath of pleasure like the slashing arc of a sharp, sharp knife, the realization hit her. She grabbed his shoulders, pushed him away, made him look at her.

He blinked those bedroom eyes. “What?”

“The condom. We didn't….”

He chuckled.

She stared up at him, appalled. “You're laughing. We forgot the condom and you are laughing about it.”

“Zoe…” He kissed he nose.

She punched him in the shoulder. “Don't you dare kiss my nose. Do you realize—?”

“Zoe, it's okay. I didn't forget.”

She was midway into punching him again. That second punch, she pulled. “You didn't forget.” She blew out a breath of pure relief. “Whew.”

“See?” He lifted up enough that she could look between their bodies.

She saw, marveled, “How did you do that? I had no idea…”

He settled on top of her again and kissed the curve where her shoulder met her neck, whispered against her damp skin, “I'm not going to say years of practice. It wouldn't sound the least romantic.”

She was able to laugh, too, then. She wrapped her arms around him and planted a big, loud smacker of a kiss on his beard-scratchy cheek. “Oh, I cannot tell you how relieved I am.”

He rolled a little, so they were facing each other, but wrapped a muscular, hairy leg across her and somehow managed to stay inside. “That's one thing you don't have to worry about with me, one thing I never forget.”

She stroked the side of his face. “Well, that's good. That's very good.”

He tucked her closer, tighter in his arms. She shut her eyes and drifted, satisfied. Content for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime.

 

Some minutes later, he gently rolled away. “Don't go anywhere.” He kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair.

Half-asleep, she yawned. “Not a problem. I'll be right here.”

He left the tent. She sank back into slumber until he returned, zipping the tent flaps after him. She heard him rustling around next to her, pulling off the rest of his clothes.

And then he came back down to her and gathered her close, spoon-fashion. It was a wonderful sensation, to have him curved around the back of her, touching her everywhere.

She felt his lips against her neck and his hand gliding up under shirt.

He whispered, “This shirt, this bra…they're in my way.”

She could feel him, unfurling, against her back. “You are insatiable.”

“I try.” He had the shirt by the hem and he was pulling it upward. She stretched out her arms and let him take it away. The bra went next and finally, they were both completely naked.

He guided her over onto her back. She opened her eyes lazily and, in the hazy glow from the banked fire outside, they regarded each other.

“Good,” he said.

She nodded. “Very good.”

And then he lowered his dark head to her breast.

They made love again, slowly, less urgently than the first time—but no less passionately.

After that, he pulled her into the circle of his arms and they slept.

 

In the morning before dawn, they added wood to the smoke pit, applied insect repellent and went to the river while the fish were biting. Dax caught two again in no time. She cleaned them and they returned to camp.

They ate breakfast. He shaved and changed the wrap on his forehead, which was healed enough now to take two big bandages rather than the more complicated dressing of gauze and tape.

They were discussing the various possible activities of the day—bathing in the river, making love endlessly, foraging for edible plant life to supplement their diet of fish and dried snake—when Dax put up a hand for silence.

“Shh. Hear that?”

She listened, shook her head—and then froze. Her mouth dropped open. Could it really be? At last? “Oh, Dax. I do hear it. It's a plane!”

T
he sound was coming closer from the south, the steady growl growing louder.

“A small plane,” Dax said. “Single engine. The flares?” He wobbled upright on his good foot and threw more wood on the fire.

She jumped from her chair and sprinted the few steps to the plane. The flares waited on the floor of the front seat where she'd put them when Dax was so sick.

She grabbed two. By then, the plane was directly overhead. She tossed a flare to Dax, lit hers as he caught his and lit it, too.

They waved the flares, yelled as loud as they could.

The plane kept on going.

They stood there, looking up, still holding the sizzling flares, waiting for the sound of it to grow louder again as it circled back. Her heart was beating so hard
and fast, it felt as if it might punch through the wall of her chest.

The drone of the small engine faded away toward the north. Still, they waited. Maybe it would take a few minutes for the pilot to turn around.

More waiting. Awful, agonizing waiting.

And nothing.

They looked at each other then and both said the same really bad word at the same time.

Her heart slowed, dragging now. It found the sad rhythm of disappointment. The adrenaline spike faded, making that sick, dropping feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She stuck her still-fizzing flare in the ground and Dax did the same with his. Then she asked, hopefully, “You think they saw us?”

He shrugged. “The odds are pretty good—the clearing is highly visible from the air. Not to mention the wrecked plane, the fire. The two of us, waving our arms like mad. Plus, the flares— Yeah, I'm thinking they saw us, definitely.”

“So maybe they'll report our location to the authorities at least?”

“I have no idea. But it is a little odd they didn't circle back, just to make sure.”

She nodded, muttered another bad word and said half to herself, “Drug smugglers, maybe…”

He was shaking his head. “You just never know.”

She sank to her camp chair. “All these days…Monday to Sunday. Seven days—and nothing. And finally a plane goes over, and then right on by. I was kind of getting used to our situation, learning to live with it….”

He limped near and stood above her. “Come up
here.” When she rose, he took her in his arms, kissed her hair, caught her face between his hands and kissed the tip of her nose.

She asked morosely, “Are you trying to cheer me up?”

“Is it working?”

“Well, a little…”

He held her gaze. “You're the one who's always reminding me that we can't afford to let our attitudes slip.”

“You're right. You're absolutely right.”

“And it's possible they didn't
need
to come back around, that they have our coordinates and help will be on its way. It's not as if anyone would try and land here unless they were in a helicopter or, like us, they had no other choice. So buck up.”

“Yes, Dax.”

“We're going to have ourselves a great time. Fishing, swimming, having all the sex we want together. Digging for grubs and root vegetables—”

“Dax.”

“What?”

“Just leave it at the endless sex, okay? Quit while you're ahead.”

 

Keeping the fire going a little higher than usual and the flares close at hand, they went about their day.

Zoe got out her cameras and carried them with her—to the river, along the other trails that led off the clearing. She didn't want to miss her chance to get some decent pictures, in case they did get out soon.

She took a lot of photographs that day, including any number of private photos of Dax, just for herself. And she took many more that would be suitable for general
distribution—not only of him, but of the shy crocodile basking in the sun on the far riverbank, of a bright blue macaw perched on a palm leaf, of the waterfall in all its churning, jeweled glory.

But no more planes went over. The rescue helicopter they hoped for never appeared. And no one came out of the jungle to tell them they were saved.

As they ate their dinner of grilled fish, steamed bamboo shoots and baked yams, he said, “It's very possible that the people who live in this area actually know we're here.”

She glanced around at the rim of dark trees and then called, “Hey, if you're out there, take us to your leader! Please!”

He chuckled. “If they haven't shown themselves so far, your shouting at them probably isn't going to do it.”

“But why wouldn't they show themselves?”

“How would I know? Maybe they don't trust us, maybe others like us have made them wary—rich Anglo-Americans, who think they own the world. It's possible they'll decide to come forward eventually.”

“And it's also possible there's simply no one there.”

He shrugged, tipped his head up to the black, star-strewn sky. “Mostly, it seems that way, doesn't? Like we're the only two people left on Earth.”

Not much later, they crawled into the tent together. In the fading light from the fire, she took a few more private pictures of him, pictures just for herself.

And then he told her to put her camera away.

She obeyed without argument. She went into his waiting arms.

And she was set free of the thousand and one fears
that haunted her constantly: that they wouldn't be rescued, that some deadly predator would finish them off first; that some death-dealing illness or injury would befall one or the other of them, leaving only one left.

Alone.

Somehow, that terrified her the most—that something might happen to him. She would lose her only companion. Secretly, since the crash, she had prayed that if one of them had to die, it would be her.

Partly because she found she had begun to care for him way too much. And partly because she was selfish; she didn't think she could bear being left all alone.

Yet in the tent that night, there was only his kiss, only the marvelous terrain of his fine body. Only his passion.

And hers.

After they made love, they talked. He was so easy to talk to. And here, away from SA and the constraints of his role as Dax Girard, über-rich ladies' man and macho adventurer, he was honest with her, revealing himself in ways he might never have done back at home.

He said that his workaholic father had died of a heart attack a month after Dax got his master's from Yale. The death of his distant yet adored dad changed everything, he said.

“All my life, I had waited, to be a grown-up, for him to respect me and pay attention to me. He died without that ever happening.”

When his father died, Dax swore he would never be like the old man, ignoring the important things, never traveling, never really enjoying any of the pleasures of life, working himself into an early grave.

She stroked his shoulder, feeling sad for him. Without
a mother at five, losing his father in his early twenties. “So…who's Nora?”

He pressed a kiss against her hair. “When did I mention Nora?”

“You called out to her, more than once, when you were so sick.”

“Nora was my wife,” he said. “We married when we were both still in school.”

“She's not…?” Zoe hesitated to say the word. He'd lost his mother and his dad so young. Surely his wife hadn't died, too.

“She's alive and well, happily remarried, with the children she always wanted.”

That was a relief. It was too bad that their marriage hadn't lasted. But at least his wife hadn't died on him, too. “What happened—I mean, that you're not still together?”

“She wanted kids. I didn't. And then, when we were married barely a year—this was about four months before my father died—she got pregnant.”

“Whoa. I had no idea you had a child.”

“I don't.”

“Well, then…?”

“The baby's heart didn't develop properly. She was born prematurely and they couldn't save her.”

“Oh, Dax. I'm so sorry…”

Gruffly, he commanded, “Don't be sorry for me. Be sorry for Nora. It was terrible for her. She never forgave me.”

“Wait a minute. It was
your
fault that your daughter died?”

“I didn't want children. I didn't want them ever, I realize now. Being a dad is just not what I'm looking for, not what I'm cut out for. Nora knew it. And we had
agreed to wait a few years, until I thought I was ready. But then she got pregnant. I wasn't happy about it. And I told her so—after which I realized what a complete ass I was being, and apologized. I put a smiling face on it, told her it would all work out. And then I tried to accept that a baby was coming, that I had to settle down and learn to be the father I'd never wanted to be. She knew what was really going on inside me, knew that no matter how hard I tried to accept what was happening, I felt trapped.”

“And so, when she lost the child…”

“She resented me. And I really can't say I blame her. No, I didn't cause the baby's death. But Nora knew damn well I wasn't looking forward to being a dad—plus, she couldn't understand the sudden change in me after my father died. She used to say I had a strange, far-away look in my eyes. As if I wanted to be anywhere but with her, with the baby she was having. And she was right. It wasn't anything she'd done. She was a beautiful, kind, loving woman. It just turned out we wanted completely different things out of life.”

“And after the divorce…that was when you began to travel the world?”

He made a low sound, a thoughtful sort of noise deep in his throat. “At first, I traveled to console myself, to get past the guilt of failing at my marriage, of losing that baby I never really wanted, the little girl who died without drawing breath. I was trying to escape the reality of how completely I had disappointed Nora—and myself. But soon enough, I was traveling because I loved it so much.

“After the pain and loss faded, that was a great time for me. I would live in the finest luxury resorts one week and disappear into the wilds the next.”

“So where does
Great Escapes
come in?”

“Eventually, I realized I did have a need for productive activity, for work that matters to me. Remember that ne'er-do-well uncle of mine?”

“I do.”

“He'd taken me to San Antonio a couple of times during my Texas visits. And I'd loved it there. So I moved to SA, started the magazine. No, it doesn't make me any richer. My investments do that. But it's a job tailored exactly to my talents and my affinities. I travel the world and I write about it in
Great Escapes.
”

Zoe was still certain that if—
when
—they got back home, they would, as agreed, go back to their strictly professional relationship. She needed
not
to get her hopes up that Dax might turn out to be the man for her in any long-term way.

Still, she couldn't stop herself from asking, “So…you ever think you might get married again—say, when you're ninety and too old for anything but rocking in your rocking chair and loving some lucky old lady?”

“Never again,” he said softly. But he meant it.

“Children?”

“Without a wife?”

“Well, it does happen.”

“Not to me. I'm no family man—married or otherwise. I know myself better now, know my limitations, know what I want from life. Marriage and/or a family…it's not going to happen.”

She felt a small twinge and recognized it for what it was: regret. In spite of her determination not to, she
had
been nurturing some small spark of hope, for a possible future with him beyond this, and beyond
Great Escapes.
She could see now that it really wasn't to be.

The small spark flickered and died.

And she told herself she wasn't disappointed. She'd known going in that he wasn't marriage material. And besides, a husband was the last thing she was looking for at this point.

So it was all good. Wicked good.

 

The next day was Monday, their anniversary in the clearing. A whole week and they had survived to celebrate it.

Again, Zoe carried her cameras everywhere. She took at least as many pictures as she had the day before.

After dinner, as darkness claimed the sky, Dax produced a carefully packed bottle of Scotch from one of his suitcases. It was to have been a gift for Ramón Esquevar.

“I think,” Dax said, “that under the circumstances, Ramón will understand if we open it without him.” The label said it was aged fifty years.

It went down hot and smooth and smoky. “Delicious,” Zoe said. “I can't believe I'm sitting here in the jungle with you, drinking Scotch that's almost as old as my mother.”

He laughed and asked her about her family, about what it was like growing up a Bravo. She described each of her brothers, her sister, her half sister, the various spouses and children.

A slow smile curved his tempting mouth. “And now, I want the real dirt. I want to know what makes Zoe Bravo tick.”

It didn't even occur to her to hold back—not here, not now. “I'm the family's ‘free spirit,' the one who never figured out what she wanted to do in her life. I used to be perfectly happy about that, about getting by off the income from my trust fund, about not being tied down
to earning a paycheck, not having that ingrained need to make a so-called ‘success' of my life. I had no issues with simply moving on if something—like school or a job—started getting tiresome.”

He picked up on the operative words. “Used to? Past tense?”

She treated herself to another slow sip of Ramón Esquevar's excellent Scotch. “Yeah, it finally got old. It got so when my dad called me his little free spirit, I wanted to punch his lights out. I knew then—like you, when you created
Great Escapes
—that I needed to find work I could stand doing on a daily basis.”