LITMIR.BIZ

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the likelihood of their survival from his mind and he focused on the moment, as it was, free of expectation, sexual or otherwise. On the pretty woman in the red swimsuit, on the clear pool and the dazzling, roaring waterfall, waiting for him in the sun.

      Zoe laughed as she waded in. “Watch out for the crocodiles.”

      He thought she was kidding—but then he saw the long, knobby narrow head gliding through the water near the opposite bank. “There’s one over there.” He pointed.

      She laughed again and started splashing. The crocodile turned and went the other way. “They’re shy,” she said. “I remember reading that somewhere. Not like their Asian relatives at all. And I’ve discovered since we’ve been here that it’s true—but that doesn’t mean I didn’t scream bloody murder the first time I saw that big guy over there.”

      Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the rock. He took off his shoes and socks and unwound the bandage that supported his ankle. It was still a little puffy, but nowhere near as bad as it had been before.

      He pulled his shirt over his head and got out of his khaki shorts. In only his boxer briefs and the bandage on his forehead, he struggled upright again. With the bottle of shampoo in his hand, he limped into the water.

      It felt wonderful. Cool, clean. Fresh. And as soon as he got in as far as his waist, his injured ankle stopped hobbling him. Keeping his head above water in order not to get his bandage wet, he swam around a little, just because it felt so good.

      And then he moved closer to the bank again, got to where he could stand up, and waded to waist deep. He squirted some shampoo on his palm. It smelled of tropical flowers. Plumeria, according to the label, which showed a woman bathing in a tub full of pink blooms.

      Not a manly scent, but so what? It had soap in it and it would get him clean.

      Zoe swam to him, her hair streaming out behind her, a banner of wet silk, the color of fire. “Here. I’ll hold the bottle.”

      He handed it over and then used the shampoo to wash himself, ducking down up to his neck to rinse off the lather when he was done.

      She said, “Be careful. I don’t want you getting that bandage wet.”

      “Then you’d better wash my hair for me.” He moved up the bank a couple more steps, until he could get on his knees and still have his shoulders above the water. “Go for it.”

      She took a small puddle of the shampoo in her hand and gave him back the bottle. Then she circled around behind him and went to work.

      Her hands were careful, firm and knowing. “Tip your head back.”

      He did, and he closed his eyes as she shampooed him, working up a lather, massaging his scalp in a thoroughly pleasurable way. It was good, to have her hands on him. Almost as if his flesh had memorized her touch, through the days he was so sick, when she tended him so carefully—and constantly. As if his skin had learned the feel of hers by heart, and now craved the contact it no longer received.

      He wondered if she might be feeling anything similar. Proprietary, maybe? She had been all he had for five days, his comfort, his only hope of survival. She had, in a sense, owned him, had done whatever was needed, no matter how intimate or unpleasant, to keep him alive, to help him fight the fever that tried to claim him. She had fed him, cleaned him up as best she could, changed his bandages and his clothes.

      His memories of that time were indistinct. Mostly he had lived in a fevered dream. But he remembered her touch, soothing him, comforting him. More than once, when the chills racked him, she had lain down with him, wrapped her own body around him, to soothe him, to keep him warm.

      “Feels good,” he said, his tone huskier than he should have allowed it to be.

      She washed his ears, her fingers sliding along the curves and ridges, meticulous and tender. Cradling his head with her fingers, she used her thumbs against his scalp, rubbing in circles. He almost groaned in pleasure when she did that, but swallowed the sound just in time.

      “All right,” she said, too soon. “Let your legs float up.”

      He did. She cradled his head in the water with one hand and carefully rinsed away the lather with the other.

      “Okay. All finished.”

      He wanted to stay right where he was, floating face up with his eyes shut to block out the glare of the sun, her hand in his hair, supporting him, for at least another week or so. But obediently, he lowered his feet to the sandy river bottom and backed away from her. “Thanks.”

      She sent him a quick smile and moved closer to shore where she could toss the shampoo up onto the rock with the rest of their things.

      They swam for a while, laughing, happy as little kids in their own private pool. She led him under the falls and they crouched on a big rock inside and stared through the veil of roaring water at the indistinct, shimmering world beyond.

      “You ought to get your camera in here,” he suggested.

      She nodded. “I’ve thought about it. But I didn’t bring one that’s waterproof.”

      “Get any other good shots?”

      “A few. I have to be careful, not go shutter crazy. I want to make the battery charge last as long as I can.”

      And how long would it be, until she could recharge her cameras? The question—and others like it—was never far from his mind. Or hers either, judging by the way she looked at him, and then quickly glanced away.

      How long until someone found them? How long until his ankle healed and he could lead them out of here?

      “Don’t,” she whispered gently.

      He didn’t have to ask, Don’t what? He only gave her a curt nod and slid back into the water and under the falls.

      They got out onto the rocks eventually, and dried themselves in the sun. She stretched out on the blanket she’d brought. He limped along the shoreline, looking for a good walking stick.

      Found one, too. He figured with it, he could get back to camp without having to lean on her the whole way.

      Before they returned to the clearing, they gathered firewood to take with them and filled the two canteens. She explained that she would boil the water, just to be on the safe side. She’d saved the empty water bottles and she was refilling them with the sterilized river water.

      He marveled at her resourcefulness. She’d probably be halfway to San Cristóbal by now, living off the land, if not for his holding her back.

      She sent him a look. “I can read your mind, you know.”

      “Okay. Now you’re scaring me.”

      “It’s your nature to be fatheaded and overly sure of yourself. Just go with your nature. No dragging around being morose, okay?”

      He laughed then, because she was right. There was a bright side and he would look on it. They were both alive and surviving pretty damn effectively, thanks to her.

      “It can only get better from here,” he said.

      “That’s the spirit.” She hooked her canteen on her belt, pulled a couple of lengths of twine from her pocket and handed him one. “Tie up your firewood.”

      He did what she told him to do—just as he’d been doing for most of the day. After the wood was bundled, they gathered up the stuff they had left on the rock and headed for the trail.

      Back at camp, he propped his ankle up to rest it. They ate more of the dwindling supply of freeze-dried food and pored over the maps.

      She had marked the location he’d made her write down the night of the crash. It appeared that their own personal jungle was somewhere in the northernmost tip of the state of Chiapas, about a hundred and twenty-five miles from the state capital of Tuxtla Gutiérrez and the airport where they were supposed to have landed. There were any number of tiny villages

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