Expecting the Boss’s Baby by Christine Rimmer

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.
    â€œFeels good,” he said, his tone huskier than he should have allowed it to be.
    She washed his ears, her fingers sliding along thecurves 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.
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œOkay. 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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œGet any other good shots?”
    â€œA 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—wasnever 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?
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œOkay. Now you’re