right to be concerned
for my own safety. You would be, too, if you were in my shoes. I have no
survival skills. No knowledge of the area. I don't know how to cook or find
food. I don't even know how to build a fire, for heaven's sake. If I had to
strike out on my own I wouldn't have any idea which direction to take."
By the time she finished she was shouting. On some level Lauren
knew that at least part of her anger was a delayed reaction to all that had
happened to her during the last thirty-six hours, but she didn't care. One of
the things she'd learned since the car accident that took away her concert
career was to stand up for herself. And she'd had about all of Agent Rawlins's
rudeness she intended to take.
Lauren had worked up a full head of steam and was braced for a
battle, was half hoping for one, but her outburst seemed to have no effect on
Sam. His expression remained closed. He didn't so much as blink.
"Yeah, well, don't worry about it I'm not going to get
hurt." As though he'd grown bored with the
conversation, he turned away, took two good-size branches from the
dwindling pile of wood and tossed them into the fire, then poked the blaze into
renewed life with the metal rod.
Lauren stared at him. "You can't be certain of that."
"As certain as it's possible to be." He put down the rod
and tamed to her again. This time his face wore a look of mild impatience.
"Look, I was born out here. Since I was a kid I've gone hunting and
fishing in these mountains, camped out for weeks at a time with my dad and with
my mother's people. I know this area and I know how to survive in the
wilderness. Let me worry about getting us out of here, okay? You just do as I
tell you."
The last made Lauren grind her teeth. Arrogant bastard, she
thought. As if she had a choice. Anyway, what did he think she'd been doing?
"Fine," she snapped. She plopped down onto the sleeping
bag, dragged her purse near and dug around inside. "Oh, by the way,"
she ground out. "If you're hungry, I made eggs. The leftovers are in the
skillet by the fire."
Sam glanced down at the yellow mess in the skillet, then back at
her. "You cooked?"
"Yes, I cooked," she replied in an offended tone. Then
she, too, glanced at the mess and grimaced. "At least I tried. I don't
know what went wrong. I followed the instructions exactly."
Picking up the skillet, Sam examined the pale yellow goop without
a word.
"They taste better than they look. Honestly."
He flicked her a look that clearly said they would have to and
picked up the fork.
Sam ate the runny glob without comment, along with the strips of
jerky she'd left in the pan. Lauren watched him, but it was impossible to tell
by his expression what he thought of her efforts. When done, he poured a small
amount of water into the pan. "Next time, don't use quite so much
water," he commented, as he scoured the pan with the twig bundle.
Lauren glared at his back. She'd already figured that out for
herself. Did he think she was stupid? "Thank you. I'll remember
that," she replied, fuming. She hadn't expected any thanks from him, or
praise for trying, but would it have killed him to be pleasant?
Ignoring her, Sam rummaged through the pile of brush. He tested
several slender limbs for strength and pliability and tossed the most limber
into a pile at the end of the hearth, as far away from where she sat as he
could get and still benefit from the fire's warmth.
Lauren's mouth tightened. Who knew? With a hard-nosed male like
this one perhaps it would have killed him to be polite, after all. The previous
morning he had walked into the interrogation room at the Denver Police Station
looking as though his face had been chiseled from granite, and it had yet to
soften.
With quick, angry movements, Lauren pulled a tube of hand lotion
out of her purse and slathered the moisturizer on her face and hands. Casting
Sam resentful looks out of the corner of her eye, she saw him cut two slender
limbs down to about three and a half
for my own safety. You would be, too, if you were in my shoes. I have no
survival skills. No knowledge of the area. I don't know how to cook or find
food. I don't even know how to build a fire, for heaven's sake. If I had to
strike out on my own I wouldn't have any idea which direction to take."
By the time she finished she was shouting. On some level Lauren
knew that at least part of her anger was a delayed reaction to all that had
happened to her during the last thirty-six hours, but she didn't care. One of
the things she'd learned since the car accident that took away her concert
career was to stand up for herself. And she'd had about all of Agent Rawlins's
rudeness she intended to take.
Lauren had worked up a full head of steam and was braced for a
battle, was half hoping for one, but her outburst seemed to have no effect on
Sam. His expression remained closed. He didn't so much as blink.
"Yeah, well, don't worry about it I'm not going to get
hurt." As though he'd grown bored with the
conversation, he turned away, took two good-size branches from the
dwindling pile of wood and tossed them into the fire, then poked the blaze into
renewed life with the metal rod.
Lauren stared at him. "You can't be certain of that."
"As certain as it's possible to be." He put down the rod
and tamed to her again. This time his face wore a look of mild impatience.
"Look, I was born out here. Since I was a kid I've gone hunting and
fishing in these mountains, camped out for weeks at a time with my dad and with
my mother's people. I know this area and I know how to survive in the
wilderness. Let me worry about getting us out of here, okay? You just do as I
tell you."
The last made Lauren grind her teeth. Arrogant bastard, she
thought. As if she had a choice. Anyway, what did he think she'd been doing?
"Fine," she snapped. She plopped down onto the sleeping
bag, dragged her purse near and dug around inside. "Oh, by the way,"
she ground out. "If you're hungry, I made eggs. The leftovers are in the
skillet by the fire."
Sam glanced down at the yellow mess in the skillet, then back at
her. "You cooked?"
"Yes, I cooked," she replied in an offended tone. Then
she, too, glanced at the mess and grimaced. "At least I tried. I don't
know what went wrong. I followed the instructions exactly."
Picking up the skillet, Sam examined the pale yellow goop without
a word.
"They taste better than they look. Honestly."
He flicked her a look that clearly said they would have to and
picked up the fork.
Sam ate the runny glob without comment, along with the strips of
jerky she'd left in the pan. Lauren watched him, but it was impossible to tell
by his expression what he thought of her efforts. When done, he poured a small
amount of water into the pan. "Next time, don't use quite so much
water," he commented, as he scoured the pan with the twig bundle.
Lauren glared at his back. She'd already figured that out for
herself. Did he think she was stupid? "Thank you. I'll remember
that," she replied, fuming. She hadn't expected any thanks from him, or
praise for trying, but would it have killed him to be pleasant?
Ignoring her, Sam rummaged through the pile of brush. He tested
several slender limbs for strength and pliability and tossed the most limber
into a pile at the end of the hearth, as far away from where she sat as he
could get and still benefit from the fire's warmth.
Lauren's mouth tightened. Who knew? With a hard-nosed male like
this one perhaps it would have killed him to be polite, after all. The previous
morning he had walked into the interrogation room at the Denver Police Station
looking as though his face had been chiseled from granite, and it had yet to
soften.
With quick, angry movements, Lauren pulled a tube of hand lotion
out of her purse and slathered the moisturizer on her face and hands. Casting
Sam resentful looks out of the corner of her eye, she saw him cut two slender
limbs down to about three and a half
Similar Books
