her anger and distrust festered. She wanted so much to believe Jonathon and the producers weren’t in on some grand plan to make her look like a fool. And that’s what they’d done, made her a fool. After all, she’d already given in to temptation once. Actually twice, if she were to count long ago.
Jonathon appeared from the trees while she poked at the fire. She cringed when he held up his hand.
“Ran across this and thought it was as good of a meal as any,” he said, smiling proudly while holding up a dead nonpoisonous wolf snake.
Phoebe swallowed, fighting down revulsion. “Cleaning it is up to you,” she replied.
She wasn’t a fan of snakes, and had never eaten one. Though her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her since the sea gull their meals had consisted of a few clams, crabs, coconuts, and one lobster. Barely enough to carry them forward on the two mile hike.
He was kind enough not to argue and took it out of sight to do the dirty work. She stared at the bag lying next to the fire. The bag that had held the condom box. Maybe the producers were playing games with them. After all, Jonathon Breck’s notoriety preceded him wherever he went. What better TV hook than showcasing their torrid affair on a reality series? Her, the awkward daughter of popstar fandom, and him, a rich bachelor.
Her anger turned in the show’s direction—most notably Shawna’s. She’d certainly give the seedy producer a piece of her mind when she got back home. And enjoy rubbing it in their faces that their master plan had failed them spectacularly. The most they’d get from Jonathon and her would be the hard efforts of survival, not a grope fest to splash all over the US. Phoebe snorted.
Jonathon took a seat opposite her, the snake meat dangling from sharpened stakes. He whistled a tune as he held them over the fire. She eyed the pale white meat, trying to picture it as strips of fish to keep down a queasy feeling. She’d eaten far worse in survival trials. Far, far worse. Bugs, scavenged meat from questionable deer carcasses…
Still, her stomach roiled, and when the smell of it cooking filled her nose, she nearly gagged. The meat crackled and hissed in the flames. Phoebe took deep breaths. Maybe she should forage for sugar apples?
“What’s your last name?” Jonathon asked.
She looked up, surprised at his question. He trapped her eyes.
“Why?” she returned, though not meaning it to sound so defensive.
He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Seeing as how we’re stranded here together, it might be nice to at least know your last name.”
She toyed with the idea of telling him Smith, but she was being silly. So what if he recognized her famous surname? She blinked and wrenched her eyes away from his, staring up at the sky where white wispy clouds had collected together into a gray mass. Was the damn weather plotting against them like the producers? Another night cuddled against Jonathon for warmth seemed unbearable.
“Looks like more rain is headed in, but hopefully we won’t get a storm like last time,” she commented. Weather seemed a safer topic than another getting-to-know-you session.
“Is there a reason you’re avoiding the question?”
His smile had vanished, his face as dark as the collecting clouds. Sweat trickled between her breasts, and she swiped more off her brow. The sticky humidity grew denser until it felt like she was trying to breathe underwater. And as if on cue, a rumble of thunder filled her ears...far off, though her heart rate still spiked. She eyed their shelter of sticks and leaves, crossing her fingers it would keep them warm and dry.
“Heart,” she finally said, digging her fingers into the sandy soil. “Phoebe Heart.”
He looked her over. “Rings a bell. How do you spell it?”
“H-e-a-r-t.”
Jonathon remained silent, then blew out a breath. “Then that’s it,” he said low, more to himself than her. He met her gaze again. “Heart, like Cybil Heart. Are you
Jonathon appeared from the trees while she poked at the fire. She cringed when he held up his hand.
“Ran across this and thought it was as good of a meal as any,” he said, smiling proudly while holding up a dead nonpoisonous wolf snake.
Phoebe swallowed, fighting down revulsion. “Cleaning it is up to you,” she replied.
She wasn’t a fan of snakes, and had never eaten one. Though her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding her since the sea gull their meals had consisted of a few clams, crabs, coconuts, and one lobster. Barely enough to carry them forward on the two mile hike.
He was kind enough not to argue and took it out of sight to do the dirty work. She stared at the bag lying next to the fire. The bag that had held the condom box. Maybe the producers were playing games with them. After all, Jonathon Breck’s notoriety preceded him wherever he went. What better TV hook than showcasing their torrid affair on a reality series? Her, the awkward daughter of popstar fandom, and him, a rich bachelor.
Her anger turned in the show’s direction—most notably Shawna’s. She’d certainly give the seedy producer a piece of her mind when she got back home. And enjoy rubbing it in their faces that their master plan had failed them spectacularly. The most they’d get from Jonathon and her would be the hard efforts of survival, not a grope fest to splash all over the US. Phoebe snorted.
Jonathon took a seat opposite her, the snake meat dangling from sharpened stakes. He whistled a tune as he held them over the fire. She eyed the pale white meat, trying to picture it as strips of fish to keep down a queasy feeling. She’d eaten far worse in survival trials. Far, far worse. Bugs, scavenged meat from questionable deer carcasses…
Still, her stomach roiled, and when the smell of it cooking filled her nose, she nearly gagged. The meat crackled and hissed in the flames. Phoebe took deep breaths. Maybe she should forage for sugar apples?
“What’s your last name?” Jonathon asked.
She looked up, surprised at his question. He trapped her eyes.
“Why?” she returned, though not meaning it to sound so defensive.
He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Seeing as how we’re stranded here together, it might be nice to at least know your last name.”
She toyed with the idea of telling him Smith, but she was being silly. So what if he recognized her famous surname? She blinked and wrenched her eyes away from his, staring up at the sky where white wispy clouds had collected together into a gray mass. Was the damn weather plotting against them like the producers? Another night cuddled against Jonathon for warmth seemed unbearable.
“Looks like more rain is headed in, but hopefully we won’t get a storm like last time,” she commented. Weather seemed a safer topic than another getting-to-know-you session.
“Is there a reason you’re avoiding the question?”
His smile had vanished, his face as dark as the collecting clouds. Sweat trickled between her breasts, and she swiped more off her brow. The sticky humidity grew denser until it felt like she was trying to breathe underwater. And as if on cue, a rumble of thunder filled her ears...far off, though her heart rate still spiked. She eyed their shelter of sticks and leaves, crossing her fingers it would keep them warm and dry.
“Heart,” she finally said, digging her fingers into the sandy soil. “Phoebe Heart.”
He looked her over. “Rings a bell. How do you spell it?”
“H-e-a-r-t.”
Jonathon remained silent, then blew out a breath. “Then that’s it,” he said low, more to himself than her. He met her gaze again. “Heart, like Cybil Heart. Are you
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