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Her face softened and she placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt her touch burn through his body, raising his temperature in an environment where it was already perilously high. For the first time in his life, he almost understood why his mother had lost herself to crack cocaine, because the woman in front of him could easily become his addiction. As soon as he was within reaching distance of her, he wanted to forget all about their circumstances and the danger they were in, and spend his time with her beneath him. When he was around her, he became someone else. Someone who could only think of Belinda Collins and his need for her. It was a disturbing realisation.
“I’m sorry you know that stuff,” she said. “No kid should know how to go through bins for food.”
He shrugged the comment off. He knew a whole lot worse than that. Dumpster-diving was the least of his down-and-dirty skills. The year he’d spent on the streets as a teen taught him all sorts of things that would freak the life out of a Hollywood princess.
She took a deep breath and her hand dropped to her side, making him itch to snatch it back up and return it to his shoulder. “I think fish is the way to go. You can’t really get poisoned from eating well-cooked fish, and I hear piranha is tasty.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You want me to catch fish that eat people? You want to eat them?”
She rolled her eyes, like he was somehow being overly dramatic. “Piranha don’t eat people. That’s been blown all out of proportion. They’re attracted to blood. There are lots of them in the river. Just don’t bleed and it will be fine.”
She said it like she was telling him to walk to the grocery store and pick up some milk.
“Okay, assuming we even find a river, which”—he made a pointed show of looking around—“doesn’t look like it’s gonna happen soon, what do we do when we catch this man-eating fish?”
“You cook it, John.” Her voice softened on his name, and she licked her lips as though waiting for him to lose it again.
The funny thing was that he had no desire to tell her not to call him John. On her lips, in that sexy English accent of hers, it sounded like nothing he’d ever heard before. It was as though she made it new, somehow. The memories he associated with his name were gone. But only for her. Only from her lips.
Damn, he was losing his mind when it came to this woman.
“Hollywood, I don’t know how to cook.”
“You’ve never barbecued? You’ve never slapped some steaks on a grill?”
“No. I eat out.”
“I thought grilling was genetic. I thought men were born knowing how to set fire to food.”
“Why don’t you cook this mythical fish?”
Her eyelashes lowered. “I can’t cook either. I have a chef.”
And there it was. The ever-present proof that they lived in completely different worlds. “Of course you have a chef. You probably only drink water out of gold-plated goblets as well.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I save the gold-plated goblets for wine. And here I was, thinking I was talking to the man, but I’m right back talking to that chip on your shoulder. Yes, I was born wealthy. Yes, I make a lot of money and I’m wealthy in my own right now. Yes, I employ people. I’m a business.” She waved a hand down her body. “The brand is Belinda Collins. I have employees. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t employ household staff if you had money. There isn’t a sane person in the world who wants to do their own cleaning.”
“Listen to yourself.” Beast felt his ire rise. “Who says stuff like ‘household staff’?”
“Normal people who can afford to employ them.” She glared up at him.
“You really need to deal with that chip, John, or you’re going to end up a sad and lonely old man.”
“Just the way I want it, baby.” He turned and stalked away.
The parting shot would have been more effective if a piece of mystery fruit hadn’t flown out of the canopy and hit him square in the back. He stilled as the monkeys overhead hollered. Beast just knew they were laughing at him.
He glared back at Belinda, who was looking suspiciously innocent. “I’m sure they didn’t mean to do that.”
He grumbled and turned back to the direction they were heading. And another piece of fruit hit his head. The monkeys went wild, and he could hear Belinda smother a laugh. Beast hated the damn jungle. There was no end to his humiliation. Insects, spiders, monkeys—they were all out to get him. He squared his shoulders, gritted his teeth and charged forward. The sooner he got out of the Amazon, the better.
He hoped to hell the monkeys would get fed up and leave him alone. He didn’t need to deal with any more wildlife. He already had his hands full with Belinda. Nobody on the planet made him madder, with her superior, entitled, privileged world-view. She didn’t have a clue how the other half lived. None. Household staff! He smacked a large palm leaf out of the way and strode past it.
And the world disappeared from under him.
One second John was stomping along in front of her grumbling to himself, shrugging off monkey fruit attacks and nurturing the black mood he’d been in ever since he’d fallen through the hammock. The next, he was gone. With a startled yelp, Belinda rushed forward to see what’d happened—and screeched to a halt at the edge of a ravine.
She stared down the steep incline in utter shock as John slid on his back, over plants and bushes. He bounced off trees, like a pinball in a machine, all the way down to the edge of the lake beneath them. Belinda covered her mouth and winced every time he hit something hard. That had to hurt.
