Terms Of Their Costa Rican Temptation

‘Stop!’ he commanded in English as he saw her reach for the door. ‘You may have hurt your neck. Just...just stay there.’

Quickly checking himself over me

ntally, aside from the cut on his temple, a sore—but thankfully not broken—nose from the airbag and an ache in his side that didn’t feel like anything worse than bruising, he wasn’t too bad. His blood pressure, though, was a different matter. He was probably going to need statins after this.

He kicked at the door from where it had bent shut in the crash and poured himself out of the Jeep. He opened her door and took in the sight of the dishevelled brunette crumpled in his back seat. Stifling a curse, he ignored the wide stare of startlingly rich brown eyes with a sheen that looked horrifyingly as if it might be tears if given the chance.

‘I just want to make sure you’re okay.’ He leaned in and placed his hands either side of her neck, slender and long, the flutter of her pulse quick but strong beneath his palms. She stiffened but held her tongue as he gently pressed. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘A little, but I’m okay. Really, I am.’ The second statement was stronger and, Benoit noticed, irritated. Casting a glance over the rest of her, not seeing any cuts but a whole lot more clothing than was appropriate for the Costa Rican jungle, the woman seemed to be faring much better than he was.

‘Okay,’ he said, leaning back out of the car. ‘Then would you mind telling me who you are and what the hell you think you’re doing in my car?’ he demanded hotly.

She flinched and the sight caused him to step back. Adrenaline had spiked pinpricks into his skin but as it receded it left an anger he had to get a grip on.

‘I needed to speak to you,’ she said as she finally struggled out of the back of the car and onto the forest floor beside him. The woman wasn’t tiny but she still had to crane her neck to look up at him. ‘It’s a matter of great importance,’ she insisted, her eyes piercing him with a strange sincerity.

Taking her in with one quick glance, he genuinely didn’t know where to start. Usually he wouldn’t have given her a first glance, let alone a second one. She was attempting to smooth her shoulder-length brown hair into submission. Her body was entirely hidden by a pair of jeans that were neither skintight nor baggy, their only saving grace that they were a pleasant dark inky blue, a white shirt buttoned up to the collar, over which sat a grey blazer that did absolutely nothing for her skin tone. Then again, it was possible the pallor of her skin could be due to the accident. Or because she was English; it really could go either way at this point. Which drew him to her shoes. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a pair of Oxford brogues outside of, well, Oxford. Benoit’s lips pressed together against the curse that wanted to be let loose.

‘Are you from Stransen? Is this about the contract?’

Her eyes rocketed up to his face and if her cheeks had been flushed before then the blush that rose to her skin was almost painful to see.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

‘About that...’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s not exactly... There is... Mmm...’

He watched as she stumbled over her words, wondering whether perhaps she had hit her head in the crash.

‘There-is-no-contract,’ she said, the words rushing out together so quickly that it took him a moment to mentally translate them.

‘What do you mean, no contract?’

‘Stransen. There is no unsigned contract. We needed to speak to you.’

Benoit paused for a beat that served only to fan the flames of his ire. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you had nearly thirty members of staff searching through five years of contracts because you fancied a chat?’ For once he didn’t care that his voice had risen to a shout. Only her lips thinned and it was a look that reminded him a lot of Anaïs when she got annoyed at him and he had a sneaking suspicion that he might just have made a grave mistake.

Fire. That was what he saw when she looked at him next, turning her rich, smooth chocolate eyes to molten lava.

‘I will not talk to you like this. You’re in a mood.’

‘Of course I’m in a mood,’ he huffed out through an incredulous laugh. ‘We’re stuck in the middle of the Costa Rican rainforest, a ten-hour walk from civilisation, the sun is setting and the car is a write-off.’

‘And when you’re over your mantrum I will happily discuss what I came here to speak with you about.’

‘Happily discuss? Tu es folle.’

‘Did you just call me crazy?’ she demanded.

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. ‘I thought the English didn’t bother with French past GCSE level.’

‘That’s both a generalisation and offensive,’ she replied, her imperious tone ridiculous given the circumstances.

‘And true,’ he said under his breath, realising quickly that they needed to stop sniping and get moving. Taking a deep breath, he held out his hand. ‘Benoit Chalendar.’