Carmen Olivera had never been so cold. Even during that February job in Moscow, she hadn’t lost gross motor control like this. She thought she was moving her feet the correct way, but she kept falling down. If she ever figured out what she was doing wrong, the guy who’d screwed with their helicopter was going to be one sorry bastard.
Speaking of sorry bastards, why the hell was Gallagher running and yelling at her? Maybe she should duck.
Instead, she fell. Again. Then he started dragging her, and Carmen wanted to protest, but even her mouth was starting to act up on her now.
He dumped her on the ground next to a flickering-out engine fire and she blinked slowly. When he started ripping up seats like a madman, she got concerned. Maybe he’d hit his head.
Ooh, he was making a fire. That was nice. Maybe they could roast marshmallows later and sing “Kumbaya”. If she could remember the words.
What a lot of trees there were. She should be able to find a nice marshmallow stick. When she woke up from her nap, maybe. Since her arms and legs didn’t work so well anymore, she closed her eyes.
But Gallagher was yelling at her again. He really was a pain in the ass sometimes.
Such a fine-looking pain in the ass, though. All tall and muscled. Shaggy gold hair she always wanted to run her fingers through. But she didn’t because…why didn’t she?
And those blue eyes and that naughty grin. They always made her want to take her clothes off, so she tried not to look at him.
When he started tearing her shirt off her body, Carmen thought about protesting again. So very caveman of him. But her head lolled back and she was looking at the trees again.
The fire was really big now, and Gallagher’s hands were warm.
Oooh, she was naked.
Had his grin finally made her clothes fall off? No. He had on his big, bad warrior look.
There was blood on his face.
Where were the marshmallows?