Expecting the Boss's Baby / Twins Under His Tree

He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready.

But he knew it wasn’t right, to be so cruel to her. He was going to be a father. He needed to start learning to accept that.

So in the end, he reached for her, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He comforted her. He dried her tears. He said it would be all right.

“All right, Nora. We’ll work it out. It’s all right….”

A cool cloth bathed his face, his neck. “Shh, now. Shh …”

He opened his eyes, half expecting to see his ex-wife gazing down at him. But it wasn’t Nora. “Zoe.”

“I was just going to check your bandage.”

“Is it …?” He reached up to touch his forehead.

She caught his hand, guided it back down. “It’s fine. Healing well.”

He blinked away the last of the dream about Nora. “What day?”

“It’s Friday.”

“The fifth day …”

“Yep.”

“No rescue plane, no search party …”

She slowly shook her head. “By now, it’s safe to assume they have been looking. By now, my father knows. He will have mobilized and when my father mobilizes, things get done. But no sign of anyone looking for us so far. I found the flares from that large, wonderful, lifesaving box of equipment of yours and I haven’t had a chance to use one yet.”

Five days, he thought. And how much longer would they have to last here? Were they going to die here? He said, “It’s a big jungle.”

“But you gave me the coordinates, remember? We know approximately where we are. Eventually, we can try and walk out of here if we have to.”

He said what he was thinking. “But we shouldn’t have to. We should be wrapping up our ‘great escape’ in San Cristóbal de las Casas about now. And we would be, except for the fact that I’m a fatheaded ass who had to show off his pretty little plane.”

“Stop that,” she said sharply. “Don’t you even go there, Dax Girard. This plane was perfectly safe. The weather was the problem.”

“But if I had only listened to you—”

“If, if, if. Please. You want to talk if? Fine. What about if I hadn’t proposed this trip in the first place, what if you hadn’t liked the idea? And we can always go in the other direction. What if you weren’t an excellent pilot? What if you hadn’t had the foresight to install that box full of necessary equipment in the back? What if you hadn’t put together a first aid kit that has everything but an operating table inside? We cannot afford to get all up into the ‘if’ game, Dax. We need to keep our chins up and our minds focused on what needs doing next.”

He stared up at her. “Wow,” he said.

“Wow, what?” She glared down at him.

He didn’t even try to hide the admiration he knew had to be written all over his face. “I don’t think I realized until now just how tough you are.”

“I have seven bossy brothers and a pigheaded dad. You’re damn right I’m tough.”

His stomach chose that moment to growl. He put his hand on it. “I think I’m starving.”

Her sudden grin was like the sun coming up. “And that is a very good sign.”

The next day, which was Saturday, she helped him get up on his feet and out of the plane for the first time since they’d left Nuevo Laredo almost a week before. Every muscle, every bone, every inch of his skin—all of it ached. He was weak as a newborn baby. And he was filthy. He could smell himself and the smell was not a good one.

But his ankle was healing faster than even he could have hoped. He could put weight on it, gingerly, could hobble around if he took his time and was careful. Zoe had a camp set up, with the two collapsible camp chairs from the box in the baggage area, the tent and the few cooking utensils. And a campfire ringed by rocks she had gathered, with a large, jagged piece of the wing nearby. It took him a moment to understand the purpose of the piece of wing.

Then it came to him. When it rained, she could use it to shield the fire a little, to keep at least some of the coals dry. The wood she’d collected waited under another hunk of the ruined plane.

She had water heating for him.

He shaved. In the small mirror from his travel kit, his face looked haggard, pale and drawn. Beneath the fresh dressing she’d put on his head wound, his eyes stared back at him, sunken and haunted.

“I look like hell,” he told her.

She poked at the fire and nodded. “Yes, you do. Hurry up. I have a surprise.”

He wished for the impossible. “A shower would be nice.”

“Close. You’ll see. Finish your shave.”

Something close to a shower. That, he wanted. He wanted it bad and he wanted it now. He shaved faster, nicking himself twice and hardly caring.

When his face was smooth again and he’d put his kit away, she got him some clean clothes. She gave him one of the hunting knives, one of the two canteens and a bottle of shampoo.

“I need a knife to take a shower?” he asked.

“You never know what you might need once you get in the trees,” she warned.

“We’re going into the trees?” It was a stupid question. Of course they were going into the trees. He could see the whole clearing by turning in a circle. There was nothing that would provide anything resembling a shower anywhere in it. But how far would they be going? He couldn’t make it any distance on his weak ankle.

“Not far,” she said, as if she’d read his mind. “And I’ll help you. We’ll take it slow.” One of the travel blankets was strung on a line she’d run between the plane and the camping shovel. She grabbed that and slung it around her neck, stuck the other hunting knife in a loop of her waistband along with the other canteen, and grabbed the hatchet she had found in the equipment box. “Come on, wrap your arm across my shoulders.”

He obeyed. Together, they hobbled toward the forest.

The trail became clear as they approached it. They went in, the trees closing around them, into deep shadow. Without a breeze. Instantly, the insects started biting.

“Ignore them,” she said. “It’s not far.” She led him onward. He focused on hopping along, trying not to trip on the thick ropes of exposed roots that twined across the trail.

Maybe fifty yards in, with the clearing just a memory somewhere behind them, she stopped. “Listen. You hear it?”

He did. A hard, hollow rushing sound. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised. Rivers were everywhere in the jungle. Still, he felt excitement rising. “A river?” Rivers not only meant a place to wash away the filth and maybe even catch some fish to eat, they were the highways of the wilderness. You followed them and eventually, you found people—people who might help you to make your way home.

She nodded. She looked very pleased with herself. “Yes, a river. Come on, it’s not far now.”

And it wasn’t. Another ten yards or so and the trail opened up and there it was, gleaming in the sun that shone down through the gap in the trees. They stood on the bank and he admired the gorgeous sight. There was a waterfall above, a nice inviting pool below, right in front of them. Some distance to his left, the shallows formed rapids that raced away downstream.

“Have you tried fishing yet?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The freeze-dried stuff isn’t going to last forever, though. We need to get out that pole. I would have done it sooner …”

Guilt, ever-present since the crash, pricked him again. “But you were afraid to leave me alone for that long.”

“Well, there’s that. Plus, I’ve always hated fishing. I don’t have the patience for it, which is probably why I never catch anything.”

At last. Something she actually might need him for. “I’ll do it, no problem. Best to try at dusk, though, when the fish are biting.”

“I was really hoping you would volunteer for it—but what about bait?”

“I’m guessing we can find some worms or a grub or two.”

She wrinkled her nose, which was red and peeling a little, but nonetheless as good to look at as the rest of her. “You get to bait the hook and catch the fish.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

They shared a long glance, a glance that said a lot of things neither of them was willing to speak aloud.

“Well?” she demanded at last. “You coming in or not?” She ducked out from under his arm and he steadied himself with his weight on his good foot.

She dropped the hatchet and blanket to the sun-warmed jut of rock they stood on and shoved down her shorts, kicked off her shoes and removed her shirt. Beneath, she wore a red two-piece swimsuit. Her normally pale skin had a ruddy cast now, from the past six days in the clearing, where the sun shone bright between the sudden fierce rainstorms. Her red hair fell past her shoulders, gleaming, and her slim body curved softly in all the right places.

She wasn’t wearing that ridiculous fake diamond. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen it since the crash.

He watched her adjust the straps of the red top and he felt desire rising. To touch her, to hold her, to learn all the secrets of her pretty, slender body. He really must be getting well.

Back off, Dax, the voice of wisdom within advised.

He heeded that voice. He would not touch her. Or hold her. They understood each other. She worked for him and in the end, it was a lot harder to find a top-notch assistant than a bed partner. Any willing woman could give him sex.

Zoe had a thousand other talents, useful talents. If they made it back, he intended to find ways to keep her working for him for a very long time.

If …

Her heated words of the day before came to him. We can’t afford to get all up in the “if” game, Dax. She was right about that—as she was about a lot of things.

He put all the nagging doubts as to 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 and towns in northern Chiapas, and deforested farmland and ranches were supposed to cover most of the area where they had gone down.

Actually, he calculated that they shouldn’t be in rainforest, but they were. And that meant that they must have been blown farther south after he noted the coordinates that final time. And that meant who the hell knew where they were? Their best bet remained to follow the river until they found human habitation.

And when would they be doing that?

At least a week, maybe two, depending on how fast his ankle healed.

That evening, as the sun dipped low, they slathered themselves in bug repellent and returned to the river with the fishing pole and a plastic bag containing grubs he had found under rocks at the edge of the clearing.

He assembled his pole and baited his line while she gathered more wood and tied it into twin bundles and then sat down with him to wait with him for the fish to bite.

They didn’t have to wait long. He felt the first stirrings of renewed self-respect when he recognized the sharp tug on the line.

“Got one.” He played the line, letting it spin out and then reeling it in. Finally, he hauled the fish free of the water. It was a beautiful sight, the scaly body twisting and turning, gleaming in the fading light, sending jewellike drops of water flying in a wide arc.

Zoe laughed and clapped her hands and shot her fist in the air. “Way to go, Girard! That baby’s big enough to make dinner for both of us.”

He caught the squirming fish in his hand and eased out the hook. “You know how to clean them?”

She groaned. “Unfortunately, yes.” She did the messy job while he baited his hook again.

He landed another one, just because he could. The meat would probably stay fresh enough for their morning meal. They could try smoking them to preserve them, and they would. Tomorrow. For tonight, two was more than enough. He cleaned that second fish himself, found a stick to hang them on and they started back.

Zoe took the lead with the two bundles of firewood and a full canteen. Dax, leaning on his cane, carrying the fish and his pole, followed behind.

They were almost to the clearing when the giant snake dropped out of the trees and landed on Zoe.

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