She narrows her eyes and then reaches out with her good hand and pokes my waistline. “What about that?”
“My pants? I don’t think that they’d fit you or they’d be a good weapon. Besides, I’d rather my legs didn’t get eaten by mosquitos.”
“Look, if you just plan on leaving me behind, then do it now. Don’t string me along.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Just my luck to perv on a crazy woman.
“That!” she spits out, and this time her finger jabs lower, right into the meat of my dick. I flinch back. “I can tell you’re packing something. What’s that thing in your pocket?”
“None of your fucking business,” I growl out, my happy feeling sucked away. I can feel the heat rising in my face that has nothing to do with the humidity. I will my erection to subside but as she stares at it, it does nothing but grow.
“Oh my god. Is that a . . . that’s not a gun, is it?” Her lips part in shock.
“No.” The erection isn’t going to go down anytime soon. Not with her eyes wide with wonder. She raises her gaze to me and then drops back down again, and hell if she doesn’t lick her fucking lips. I turn away, unzip, and then pull the shaft straight up behind the waistband of my cargo pants. I fasten the zipper, carefully, and then pull my T-shirt down over the top. It hides most of the problem. “Let’s go.”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles.
I surge to my feet, catching her off guard. She stumbles back and thankfully stops staring at my junk. “Enough,” I growl more roughly than I intend. “We have important things to concentrate on, like where are we going to sleep for the night.”
She looks stricken and nods in agreement. “Sorry, I just was taken by surprise. You don’t have to tell me what’s in your pocket if you don’t want to. But I need to remind you that we’re in this together.”
I feel like an ass. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry that she thinks my dick is fake. That’s a new one. Most chicks scream in terror. Time for a change in subject, because even her laughing mention of the man downstairs is making it excited. My loose-fitting pants are never loose enough when the beast is roused, and since I laid eyes on Ava, I’ve been thinking about little else but her, a flat surface, and mind-blowing orgasms.
I change topics. “If we find water, we’ll follow it downstream until we find a village. Problem solved. We’re saved.” Why that makes me disappointed, I don’t think I should examine.
But before we reach civilization, I need an explanation from Ava about the stuff she was carrying in the purse. It’s important enough that Afonso tried to take it, but it’d be nice to know exactly what I’m dealing with.
I survey the scene. The seats that saved us are sitting in the canopy above. Around us are bits of metal and plastic, but the foliage is like a dense wall. We’ll need to go into the foliage to see if there’s anything we can salvage.
“How do you know my name?” she repeats.
“Because I’ve been watching you for several days. You’re passing out information to potential buyers for Louis Duval. His brother Redoine Fouquet is your keeper, and although he didn’t rape you, he did hit you.” I reach up and lightly trace over the bruise on her upper cheek. Ironically, that was the result of Fouquet’s fist, not the plane crash.
She jerks her face away from my touch and I fist my fingers into my hand. Of course she doesn’t want me to touch her. Why would she? A pretty woman like Ava has men at her feet constantly. It is her beauty combined with her unusual eyes that made Fouquet fear her. The devil wears many faces, including my own.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to know what was in the purse. What were you selling?”
“I don’t know,” she cries. “And if we don’t find it and get it back to Duval, my best friend is going to get killed!”
“Who’s that? Rose Waverly? She’s a model like you, right?”
“Not like me. Rose Waverly is a runway model—a famous one.”
I shrug at this meaningless factoid. “But you’re a model, too, right?” At least that’s what we concluded based on Bennito’s research.
“A hand model!” She shoves her injured hand toward me. “That’s all I’ve ever done, but I may not be able to get another job now.”
“Huh, I guess that’s why we never found pictures of your face.” It also explains why her hands feel petal soft.
“Who’s we? And how much did you investigate? Who are you working for? Who are you?” She places a hand on her hips and looks like she’s not moving until I give a full debriefing.
“I’m a mercenary. I take jobs from different people for different things, and one of those things happens to deal with Duval.”
“That answers nothing.”