Flirting with Disaster Read Online Free PDF Page B

screamed and tried to pull away, only to stumble and fall. In the struggle, he lost his footing and fell beside her. She flipped over and came up swinging, but he’d already risen to his knees. He caught her wrists and dragged her close to him. She twisted left and right, struggling in his grasp, desperate to pull away.
    “Lisa! Stop it! Stop it! ”
    She froze, breathing hard. English. It suddenly dawned on her that he was speaking English. She focused on his face, blinking with disbelief. It couldn’t be.
    She had to have been shot after all. That was the only explanation. She was lying on the forest floor, drawing her last breath, her weak and fevered mind throwing her a bone in her last moments of life, making her believe something that couldn’t possibly be. But she couldn’t mistake those warm dark eyes she remembered from so long ago, eyes full of kindness and compassion and quiet strength that could soothe over even the most desperate of situations.
    “You came,” she whispered.
    Dave’s grip on her wrists relaxed at the same time his brows drew together with intense concern. Suddenly her head felt light, and she started to weave.
    “Lisa? Are you all right?”
    All the tension and fear and pain of the past two days overtook her, and she lurched to one side, her muscles going limp. He caught her as she fell and swept her into his arms, and she was aware of nothing but the absolute assurance that because he was there, everything was going to be okay.
    He carried her out of the woods and into the bunkhouse, lowering her to one of the beds. The mattress was brittle and cracked with age, but it was far softer than the ground where she’d spent the past several hours, and she sank into it as if it were a featherbed in a five-star hotel. He sat down beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight, then brushed the hair away from her forehead with his fingertips.
    “Lisa? I need to know what’s going on here. Can you talk to me?”
    She blinked her eyes open. He’d rested the flashlight on the floor on its end, its beam reflecting off the ceiling, casting a dim glow around the room. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat felt dry as dust.
    “Do you have any water?” he asked.
    “Had some in my backpack,” she croaked. “When my plane went down. It’s gone.”
    “When’s the last time you ate something?”
    She slid her hand to her stomach. “I don’t remember.”
    “I’m going to go to the car. Get some food and water. Okay?”
    She nodded. He slipped out the door, returning a moment later carrying a large canvas bag. He sat down beside her again, unzipped the bag, and pulled out a bottle of water. He helped her sit up, then cradled her in his arms as he put the bottle to her lips. She took several swallows, then turned away.
    “More,” he said.
    He brought the bottle to her lips again, encouraging her to drink until her stomach felt sloshy. Then, with a steadying arm around her shoulders, he lowered her gently back down to the bed.
    “Are you hungry?” he asked.
    She put her hand to her stomach. “Don’t . . . Don’t think I could eat.”
    “Does anything else hurt besides your head?”
    She felt so weak and sleepy she could barely speak. “Pretty much everything.”
    He wrapped his hands around her thigh, squeezing gently. She flinched with surprise at his touch.
    “Just checking to see if anything’s sprained or broken,” he said.
    He ran his hands all the way down to her ankle, squeezing softly as he went, then did the same to her other leg, bypassing a place at her calf where her jeans were ripped, with a cut beneath.
    “Any pain?” he asked.
    Pain? God, no. His touch felt like heaven, so warm and gentle and protective, relaxing her muscles when they’d been wound so tightly for the past two days that she’d barely been able to breathe. It was all so unbelievable. Never in her wildest dreams could she fathom a scenario like this, a situation that would bring Dave DeMarco