Already, she was talking.
"They're birds with brains the size of a pea. They don't know me."
Without looking at him, she dipped the wand in the soap. "They know you because you feed them."
His hand fell back to his flight bag where a loaf of stale French bread waited to be crumbled. How did she know? "They make good company. They don't talk."
"My, you are so charming." Rolling her eyes, she batted his arm. "How did you ever land a diplomatic job?"
The simple brush of her fingers against his bicep shot a bolt of desire straight south. Why was it again that he should stay away from her?
Looking into her wide brown eyes, a bubble resting on her head like the crown this princess-type no doubt earned, he couldn't think of a single reason to haul his sorry butt off the bench. "I don't talk much so there's less chance of shoving my boot in my mouth."
She extended her leg—damn, the sun overhead was cranking hot—and pointed her toes inside high-heeled strappy sandals. "I chew on my foot quite regularly."
A laugh rasped free. Talking wasn't so bad when she amused him. "It's a pretty foot."
"That's the oddest compliment I've ever received."
"Any woman looking for fawning Romeo crap should probably bypass a guy like me." As close as he would come to warning her off.
Her slow sexy smile said she wasn't walking anywhere except right over his resolve to stay clear. "So you have a—what's the phrase?— a foot fetish? "
"Not particularly." He swept aside the bubble clinging to her hair, then let his fingers glide down the strand. "But for you, I could see my way clear to cultivating one...."
Chapter 5
Splashing her face in the jungle stream, Sara blinked against the bright morning sun blasting spikes of light through the leafy canopy.
Rustling sounded behind her as Lucas erased signs they'd slept under the cover of palm branches. Or rather she had slept against his chest. She somehow doubted he'd let down his guard long enough.
Guilt pinched, reminding her how easy it would be to slide back into her old dependent ways. She needed to carry her own load, for everyone's sake, especially for her daughter still sleeping curled on her side.
Which meant taking care of herself.
Sara rifled through her knapsack, careful to shield her hands from Lucas's sight, and unearthed the small black insulin pouch from the side. Thank God she'd decided to pack an extra case.
Another quick glance reassured her Lucas couldn't see her. She considered telling him. Certainly it was nothing to be ashamed of, but she feared he wouldn't let her pull her own weight. He'd lost so much blood from a stab wound she had inflicted. He was leading the way, working harder in setting up camp and carrying Lucia.
No.
If she told him, he would snatch the backpack from her hands and carry it, as well. She pulled out the glucose monitor, pricked her thumb, watched for the results. . .sixty milligrams per deciliter. Low. But not as bad as she would have expected given her erratic diet. She would keep her peppermints within easy reach today.
Hitching up her shirt, she inched her waistband down and swabbed an alcohol patch along her stomach. With a speed born of practice, she drew the insulin into the syringe and pierced her skin with barely a wince.
Done.
She cleared up the supplies, zipped the case closed again and stuffed it down into the backpack. As long as the temperature stayed constant, her insulin did not need refrigeration.
A twig snapped behind her.
Clutching the bag to her chest, she jerked around — eyes drawn to the opened front of their lean-to. Lucia stretched with a jaw-cracking yawn, grubby fists scrubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Sara stifled the urge to dunk her daughter in the stream. Lucas had already warned her about leeches. Cup the water and check it first, as much bathing as they could risk.
"Morning, chica." Sara smoothed a hand over her daughter's smudged brow. "Are you all rested for more walking?"
"Yep." She rolled up to sit. "But it's just us today, right?"