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She gave him a look he figured might not be friendly but she got up on her knees and peered into the back of the Hummer.

It was an unfortunate move. It put her derrière within easy reach. Cam locked his eyes on the windshield. Her hip brushed his shoulder. A couple of the gold ribbons trailed across his thigh and he had a sudden image of how those ribbons would drape over his lap as he pulled her down onto him.

He kept this up, he was going to drive the freaking Hummer straight into a sand dune.

“I found something!”

So had he, but what good would it do him in a moving car? “What?”

“A rucksack. There’s stuff in it. Water. A shirt. A T-shirt. And—”

“And what?”

“And, uh, and nothing. I thought there was something but… Nope. That’s it.”

The hell it was. She was lying, but why?

“Great. Keep the shirt, toss me the T.”

She climbed back over the seat. Her thigh brushed him again. He thought of how he’d put his hand between her legs, felt the silky heat of her skin…

The Humvee swerved.

“Did you see something?”

Damned right, he’d seen something. His inability to get this all in perspective. But he understood the problem. Sexual frustration. He’d been moments from taking what he wanted, what Salome was so good at promising but not delivering, and he’d been interrupted.

What he needed, he thought coldly, was completion. That all too famous, twenty-first century word. Closure. And he’d have it—assuming he could lose the vehicles on their trail. He’d take Salome in his arms, lay her down in the sand, tear aside that damned thong and ride her until they were both exhausted.

Then he could concentrate on saving his skin and, by coincidence, hers.

“Hang on to the steering wheel.”

She leaned across him. Her hair brushed his cheek and he drew the clean scent of it deep into his lungs. Quickly he pulled the T-shirt over his head.

“Okay,” he said brusquely. “You can sit back.”

“You didn’t answer me, Cameron. Did you see something? Because I think—”

“It’s Cam,” he said sharply. “And do me a favor, okay? Don’t think. I don’t want you to tax yourself. Just put that damned shirt on and dump the rest of the stuff you found into the pack.”

Leanna glared at Cameron. At Cam. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

She pulled on the shirt, gave a little shudder and burrowed into the soft cotton. Much, much better. Not only was she warmer, she didn’t have to watch him give her looks that said she was some kind of X-rated video queen.

This man, she thought coldly, was the meanest-tempered SOB she’d ever met. Okay, maybe she’d pushed things a little, made him take off without his gun, but without her help, he might be dead.

Or they might still be in bed, she on her back and he—and he—

Leanna drew the pack closer. The feel of it was pure comfort.

Last time she’d carried a pack, she was a twelve-year-old Girl Scout. It had held a canteen, a bag of Trail Mix and a peanut butter sandwich.

Now, the pack in her arms held water and halvah and matches and a GPS…

And a gun.

An automatic. Anybody who went to the movies or watched TV would know that much. It was all she knew, but it was enough. She wasn’t defenseless anymore.