Her Last Line of Defense Read Online Free PDF

underside of the yellow canopy.
    He muttered another curse and pulled the bag off her chest. “You okay?”
    She nodded as she tried to catch her breath. Before she knew it, he was kneeling next to her on the bed and running his hands expertly over her shoulders and arms. He hesitated briefly as his fingers brushed the sides of her unbound breasts, but continued his checkup. “Take a deep breath.”
    Claire did, her robe falling open to reveal her sheer cotton nightgown. His gaze fell to the rise and fall of her breasts, and she realized the dark circles of her nipples were visible.
    Boudreaux swallowed. “Does it hurt?” His voice was thick and sweet as cane syrup.
    “Does what hurt?” Her nipples were starting to hurt from being so hard. Despite his rough exterior, his hands had been gentle.
    “Your chest. I mean, when you breathe.” His own breath was coming faster.
    “You mean, here?” Some little devil made Claire massage the tops of her breasts and breastbone between.
    His hands clearly gripped his jeans-clad knees. “Yeah. There. Do I need to call you an ambulance?”
    She stopped, disappointed. “No. Are you trying to break my ribs so I don’t go?”
    He leaped off the bed so smoothly the only evidence he’d ever been there was his imprint on the duvet. “Back to the duffel.” He crouched and unzipped it while she sat up. “Camping gear?” He lifted a sarcastic eyebrow. “What did you do, clean out the Bass Pro Shop?”
    “No, of course not!” It had been the L.L. Bean catalog.
    He pulled out each item, giving a running tally. “Sleeping bag, sleeping bag pillow , mess kit, ground sheet—okay, that might be useful…biodegradable dish soap?” He shook his head. “Planning on doing any dishes? A GPS unit—do you even know how to use this? Got any extra batteries? They go bad quickly in hot, damp climates. Oh, look, how useful. An unsharpened pocketknife. Got a whetstone?”
    Claire shrugged. She wasn’t sure.
    Boudreaux continued, “No compass, no whetstone, no machete—”
    “Machete? What’s that for?”
    “A machete, or ma-chay-tay, as our Spanish-speaking friends would call it, is the golden ticket to survival. You wanna make friends in the Amazon, you bring the natives high-quality machetes, and lots of them. If you’ve never seen the gardener on your family estate use one, they look like a really big knife curved on the sharp side.”
    Claire curled her lip at the crack about her “family estate.” “Where do I get a machete?”
    “I have several. You can borrow one for now.”
    She was already bringing medical supplies for the hospital and educational supplies for the school, but she’d have to talk to Dr. Schmidt about how to bring machetes. She didn’t suppose she could throw several foot-long knives into her airline carry-on.
    “And your other bag?” He lifted the smaller duffel bag. “Don’t worry. Now that I know you have no upper-body strength I won’t throw this at you.”
    “It’s a bit late for developing upper-body strength, don’t you think?”
    He gave her an evil grin. “It’s never too late for push-ups. And no girl push-ups, either, where your butt’s sticking up in the air.”
    “You want me to drop and give you twenty? That way you can check how my butt is.” She challenged him with her hands on her hips, knowing her loose nightgown would gape all the way down to her toes.
    He noticed the same thing and backpedaled. “Maybe later.” He crouched and unzipped the smaller bag. “Ah, clothes from the discount rank-amateur-survivalist collection.”
    “I did not shop discount,” she informed him. He held up a khaki shirt.
    “Not bad—quick drying. But four of them? And one’s pink? No way I am going into the swamp with you wearing pink. Never hear the end of it.” He dug around further. “Six t-shirts, three pairs shorts, three pairs hiking pants. A packable poncho—good for making shelter. What looks like seventeen pairs of