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Then why not give him the chance to look?
The thought popped into my head unbidden, but not at all unwelcome. I waited for my inner feminist to screech in protest, to start waving her ‘No men allowed!’ sign - but nothing happened.
Why protest? Why hesitate? You know he wants you. Besides, with the exception of a few exceptionally hairy specimens dangling from trees somewhere above us, you are the only female within a hundred miles. That’s bound to be a point in your favour.
Good God! What was happening to me? Had my inner feminist gone nuts in the heat? Well, I certainly felt hot enough. Even the cold stare drilling into my back didn’t cool me down anymore. On the contrary - somehow, incredibly, it seemed to heat me up.
I suddenly realised, with a clarity that had evaded me before, that all that was between me and Mr Rikkard Ambrose was a shirt, a corset and a very, very thin chemise. The hand that held my vest clenched involuntarily, and for a moment, just a moment, I was tempted to pull it back on. But then I remembered the noise Mr Ambrose had made when I had popped that one button, and the dark gaze he had swept over me earlier, and another, much stronger temptation swelled up inside me.
Once again, I smiled.
*~*~**~*~*
When Mr Rikkard Ambrose awoke in his hammock the next morning and opened his eyes, he found a wet white linen shirt several sizes too small to be his dangling above his head, teasing the tip of his straight, sculpted nose. I watched from where I sat against a tree as he went stiff (well, stiffer than usual), staring up at the offending object above him.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Remove this item at once!’
‘Item? What item, Sir?’
‘You know exactly what item I am referring to, Mr Linton. Remove it, and get dressed. We’re leaving.’
‘Certainly, Sir. There’s just one tiny little problem with that…’
‘Yes?’
‘I am already dressed.’
‘What?’
Ripping the shirt from the branch above him, Mr Ambrose sat up abruptly and slid out of the hammock. His feet landed on the ground with a resounding thud. But he didn’t turn towards me - probably because he knew what he would see if he did.
‘Do you mean to tell me,’ Mr Ambrose said in a very cold, very controlled voice, his magnificent back still towards me, ‘that you intend to skip through the jungle with nothing more to cover you than a piece of skimpy lingerie?’
‘Oh no, Sir. I still have my corset on.’
‘What a tremendous comfort to us all!’
Without turning, Mr Ambrose hurled the shirt at me, and somehow managed to hit me right in the head. I sputtered, pulling wet linen from my face.
‘Where’s Karim?’ my dear employer enquired in a voice so sharp one could have cut stones with it. ‘Has he gone to dance tango with the monkeys, or is there at least one person in this group besides me who has not lost their mind yet?’
‘He’s gone scouting ahead.’
‘This early? Why?’
‘I, um…’ I didn’t often manage to blush. But in this heat, and this moment, my cheeks did turn a little redder than their usual tanned colour. ‘He woke up just as I was pulling my shirt off. Gave the poor man quite a shock.’
Mr Ambrose, who had just been about to open his knapsack, froze in mid-motion.
‘Yes.’ His voice was unusually soft. Soft as a panther’s fur. Soft as a snake’s kiss. ‘I would imagine so.’
‘I, err…don’t think he saw very much.’
‘Is that so?’
