leaving.”
She didn’t object as he ushered her away, pressing into his side when a handful of people began jogging to catch them, still making adamant requests in broken French. Gripping her more tightly, he marveled at how small she was, how slight and delicate. Her petite frame didn’t seem capable of producing the authority with which she’d addressed the community. Her presence was so strong, he’d practically forgotten her diminutive stature.
Their pursuers fell back as they neared the entrance to the settlement, their expressions transforming from urgent to dejected to resigned as they slowed, then stopped altogether.
He held open the door of the Land Cruiser so Nicola could climb in. He took his own seat behind the wheel, put the old four-by-four into gear, and soon they were hustling back down the rutted road toward town.
He glanced into the rearview mirror. The same children who had stared at them on arrival were still crouched by the entrance, their game of marbles unaffected by all this uproar over a couple of visitors from Garraway Gold.
They were halfway down the looping road back to Hambani when Nicola spoke.
“Thanks for your help back there. I felt like Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard . Except you’re much better-looking than Kevin Costner.”
He shot her a sidelong glance. “Thanks?”
“Any time.”
“I saw that man again,” he announced, ending his internal debate on whether or not to tell her. “With the green eyes.”
“From the site of the explosion?”
“That’s him. He said we shouldn’t be in Latadi. That this had nothing to do with us.”
She frowned. “That what has nothing do with us?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied grimly, mentally replaying the encounter. “And I can’t say I’m all that keen to find out.”
Chapter Eight
“Dammit.” Nicola swore under her breath as she opened the door to the canteen, which was pitch-black and deserted this late in the evening. She’d been too preoccupied by her trip to the informal settlement to manage more than a few bites of dinner, and by midnight her growling stomach wasn’t helping her restless insomnia. Her flashlight died ten minutes into her walk to the office, at which point she realized wandering around the mine at night probably wasn’t the brightest idea. Calculating that she was closer to the canteen—and a fresh flashlight battery—than she was to her cabin, hyper-alertness hurried her steps the rest of the way.
Now she hesitated in the doorway, unable to make out even the hulking white refrigerator in the total darkness. The light switch was on the opposite side of the room.
“Too stupid to live,” she muttered, plunging into the canteen with her hands extended in front of her, praying that a shin-bruising chair was the worst threat she faced.
She’d managed three steps inside when she sensed movement ahead of her. She froze, every nerve on high alert as she stood absolutely still, listening intently.
A shoe squeaked on the linoleum, closer than she expected, but before she could scream a hand clamped over her mouth, strong arms twisted her hands behind her back and she was shoved face-first against the wall, breathing in the irremovable stink of fried onions buried deep beneath the scent of cleaning products.
“Oh, shit.” All at once the pressure eased, and she was free. She spun to face the figure behind her, and as her eyes adjusted she could just make out Warren’s upheld palms.
“Sorry, I heard someone come in and instinct took over. Are you okay?”
She nodded, then realized that was a useless gesture. “Can you turn on a light?”
His steps were so quiet, if it wasn’t for the faint rush of air she wouldn’t have known he moved. With a click the overhead lights flickered, then shone. She blinked at Warren, then registered the whiskey bottle and half-full glass on the table.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Having a drink.”
“In the dark?”
He shrugged, dropping
She didn’t object as he ushered her away, pressing into his side when a handful of people began jogging to catch them, still making adamant requests in broken French. Gripping her more tightly, he marveled at how small she was, how slight and delicate. Her petite frame didn’t seem capable of producing the authority with which she’d addressed the community. Her presence was so strong, he’d practically forgotten her diminutive stature.
Their pursuers fell back as they neared the entrance to the settlement, their expressions transforming from urgent to dejected to resigned as they slowed, then stopped altogether.
He held open the door of the Land Cruiser so Nicola could climb in. He took his own seat behind the wheel, put the old four-by-four into gear, and soon they were hustling back down the rutted road toward town.
He glanced into the rearview mirror. The same children who had stared at them on arrival were still crouched by the entrance, their game of marbles unaffected by all this uproar over a couple of visitors from Garraway Gold.
They were halfway down the looping road back to Hambani when Nicola spoke.
“Thanks for your help back there. I felt like Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard . Except you’re much better-looking than Kevin Costner.”
He shot her a sidelong glance. “Thanks?”
“Any time.”
“I saw that man again,” he announced, ending his internal debate on whether or not to tell her. “With the green eyes.”
“From the site of the explosion?”
“That’s him. He said we shouldn’t be in Latadi. That this had nothing to do with us.”
She frowned. “That what has nothing do with us?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied grimly, mentally replaying the encounter. “And I can’t say I’m all that keen to find out.”
Chapter Eight
“Dammit.” Nicola swore under her breath as she opened the door to the canteen, which was pitch-black and deserted this late in the evening. She’d been too preoccupied by her trip to the informal settlement to manage more than a few bites of dinner, and by midnight her growling stomach wasn’t helping her restless insomnia. Her flashlight died ten minutes into her walk to the office, at which point she realized wandering around the mine at night probably wasn’t the brightest idea. Calculating that she was closer to the canteen—and a fresh flashlight battery—than she was to her cabin, hyper-alertness hurried her steps the rest of the way.
Now she hesitated in the doorway, unable to make out even the hulking white refrigerator in the total darkness. The light switch was on the opposite side of the room.
“Too stupid to live,” she muttered, plunging into the canteen with her hands extended in front of her, praying that a shin-bruising chair was the worst threat she faced.
She’d managed three steps inside when she sensed movement ahead of her. She froze, every nerve on high alert as she stood absolutely still, listening intently.
A shoe squeaked on the linoleum, closer than she expected, but before she could scream a hand clamped over her mouth, strong arms twisted her hands behind her back and she was shoved face-first against the wall, breathing in the irremovable stink of fried onions buried deep beneath the scent of cleaning products.
“Oh, shit.” All at once the pressure eased, and she was free. She spun to face the figure behind her, and as her eyes adjusted she could just make out Warren’s upheld palms.
“Sorry, I heard someone come in and instinct took over. Are you okay?”
She nodded, then realized that was a useless gesture. “Can you turn on a light?”
His steps were so quiet, if it wasn’t for the faint rush of air she wouldn’t have known he moved. With a click the overhead lights flickered, then shone. She blinked at Warren, then registered the whiskey bottle and half-full glass on the table.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Having a drink.”
“In the dark?”
He shrugged, dropping
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